Another post that won't make me popular, yet that I feel compelled to write. I can't keep my mouth shut. It's a thing. Okay - here goes.
I'm all for some gentle parenting, wherever possible. I'm all for loving and nurturing and raising small people through the least violent means possible. I am. I AM! But sometimes, when I read attachment parenting-esque articles and blogs, I feel.... what is it I feel? Oh yeah - I feel some rage. Yup. I get rage-y. Mostly I try to avoid them. But it's like reading the comments after a particularly good online article - you *know* you probably shouldn't but you do anyways. And then, yup, a little bit of rage.
It's not, for the most part, that I have a problem with what attachment parenting is. I wore a sling with my babes, I snuggled and let them sleep with me, I refused cry-it-out sleep training, and I breast fed. I don't believe in corporal punishment. I try not to yell - though often fail at this attempt. I talk to the kids about feelings and how important it is to use our words to express how we feel (even when they feel like their mama is being an arse). I don't have a problem with sharing parenting techniques and tricks. I don't have a problem with reading up to better myself as a parent and as a person. But I do have a problem with the over-zealousness with which some parenting writers express their thoughts. I *do* have a problem with the idea that parents must live only for their children. (I recently stumbled upon a blog titled something like "Does sudden change negatively impact your kids?" I didn't read it. The answer is, of course it does. We all have a hard time with sudden life shifts. That shit is hard. Does that mean we must avoid sudden change at all costs so as not to ruin our littles? Sometimes - this stuff is unavoidable. Sometimes, life throws us right round the bend. Sometimes, it blows, for grown-ups and for kids. And sometimes, the things we'd like to avoid (for ourselves and for our small fry) are unavoidable.) I probably should actually read the blog. It's probably great. But I couldn't bring myself to get past the title. (Which is my bad...)
I also have a problem with judge-y.
My recent foray into the world of attachment-y writing was by Dr. Laura Markham. She has a site on parenting, for those who are not similarly affected by such writing, and who'd like to read more. And the article I glanced at was titled: What's Wrong with Timeouts?. What indeed? The article described how time-outs are punishment, make our children "feel worse about [themselves]", create worse behaviours, and trigger their abandonment issues. Time-outs are, according to this author, akin to forcing a child to stand in a corner. "You confirm what she suspected -- she is a bad person. Not only does this lower self esteem, it creates bad behavior, because people who feel bad about themselves behave badly." So, parents who use time-outs - you are assholes. Markham refers to time-outs as a "destructive" practice that will trigger "your child's abandonment panic". Sweet baby jesus. It's true - you *are* an asshole. You really, really are. Time to start saving up for therapy now.
Markham also treats parents who use time-outs as basically akin to corporal punishment, and intimates that parents who use both practices are kinda, well, stupid: "Parents who use timeouts are often shocked to learn that there are families who never hit, never use timeouts, and rarely raise their voices to their children. But you shouldn’t need to use these methods of discipline, and if you're using them now, you'll probably be quite relieved to hear that you can wean yourself away from them."
Mkay. I don't hit my kids. Okay - that isn't entirely true. Once, after being really beat up by one of my kids during a particularly lengthy and bad episode (I won't even call it a tantrum because it was much, much more serious than that word implies), after being repeatedly slapped in the face (amoung other places), I swatted my kid on the ass. It was enough to shock them out of the three hour long episode. I felt horrible. I cried. We cried together. And then we held each other and both fell asleep from the exhaustion of the afternoon. When we woke up, we talked about it. I apologized and told my child that I fucked up. We tried to debrief what was going on for my child. In short, we did the best we could.
And I *do* use time-outs. They are for everyone's health and safety. My kids both know the bottom-line rules in our house. And if there is violence - throwing objects or physical violence - a time-out is what occurs. Perhaps this results in abandonment anxiety. Perhaps I am, in fact, leading my children to a path of ruination. (Though this may be for all kinds of reasons beyond my use of time-outs). Time-outs (which we call chill-outs) enable us all to remove from a given situation and breathe. Then, a few minutes later, we regroup and talk about it. When we are *all* much calmer. If this is a practice of violent parenting - then so be it.
Another article on the same website similarly pissed me off, with Markham pronouncing that the only healthy way to get kids to behave well is to make them want to please their parents. Now, on the one hand, I agree. I'd like my kids to do things because those are the expectations of citizens of this household, not because they fear punishment or because they are bribed to do so. But something in this is kind of gross and creepy, too. Markham posits that once we change the attitudes of our smalls, they will suddenly become type A smalls - you know - the ones with good grades and loads of friends: "Eventually, of course, kids reap the rewards of good behavior – good grades, self-esteem, approval from peers – and it begins to come naturally. It becomes part of their self image, and they automatically act to preserve that self-image. But this positive way of being always starts with their desire to please us."
Now I'm creeped out by this. I'm creeped out because first of all, good grades and approval from peers does not a healthy child make. Many, many kids struggle with school and struggle socially. This doesn't make them mal-adjusted. Moreover, while I want my kids to generally do what I ask of them, I do *not* want to train them to act out of a desire to please. Me, or anyone else. I want to teach them to act with their hearts, in the best way they can. I want them to be true to themselves, not people-pleasers. Of course, my role as a parent is to teach them appropriate behaviours, in the best and most positive ways I can. Of course it is. But I also want them to disagree with me. I want them to be able to tell me, or any other grown-up, that their ideas are bunk if that's how they feel. I want them to be able to be people, with feelings and ideas. And I'm down with that. My kidlets call me on shit sometimes. And fair enough. Sometimes, I just might be a jackass.
The point I'm trying to make here, is that I think we've all gone a little over the top in trying to keep our small people from the hurts of the world. Sometimes, we have to make sudden changes. It's hard. And we'll all come back from it as best we can. Sometimes, we need to separate ourselves and our kids from a heated situation. They might feel shitty about that. True. But sometimes, when you are dealing with intense situations and intense kidlets and intense parents - it's the lesser of all evils.
How about a parenting article that says this: Do the best you can. Love your little people. Respect them. Teach them love and respect. Use all the tools at your disposal. Talk to them. Hear their words if your expect them to hear yours.
I'd be able to hear that a whole lot better than: HEY YOU! YES, YOU! You're an idiot parent who's gonna sentence your children to a lifetime of abandonment complex and therapy. (Because you know what? Attachment parents or not, we're all likely sentencing our kids to a lifetime of therapy. Because we're people dealing with our own effed up shit while trying our best to parent. Which is a hard gig, as I am overly fond of pointing out.)
So parents - I say this. Keep on keeping on. Try your best to be loving and gentle. And when you fuck up, say you're sorry. Ask for help when you need to. Sometimes you *will* need to. And tell your kids that you love them. Often. Try to remember to tell them everyday.
And beyond that - do the best you can with what you've got.
The end.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
whewf - the girl's getting old
The day of my birth x 38 is fast approaching. I can own it. I'm turning 38. Thirty-eight. I don't have a problem with aging, per se, which is probably good because I don't seem to have a choice in the matter. Those numbers keep on getting bigger, whether I like it or not.
I mean, there are the attendant anxieties about being an aging femme. I have a shit-ton to say about this but it is probably best left for another day. The femme-i-liscious Amber Hollibough has written some fine work on this subject, if you feel like reading about it in the meantime. For now, suffice it to say that I spend more money than I should on anti-wrinkle creams that I know probably do nothing but ameliorate my anxieties somewhat.
The part of aging that is the hardest is the whole 'where I am of it', of course. And where *am* I, exactly? Well, let's see. I own nothing. Actually, that's not true. I own a car. Which keeps breaking. I have no job. (And, after having spent many years as a stay-at-home mama, I'm fairly unemployable in a way that actually uses my previous rad work experience and actual skills). I'm a graduate student who is the same age (or older?) than many of the professors around me. This bit is weird. It's weird because it makes me constantly feel like an under-achiever. And infant trying to hang with the grown-ups. Big-time. I know it's silly. It isn't like I've been doing nothing all these past years. But the things I've been busy with are not the things that build a resume. They aren't the sort of things that generally get recognized as important. Or look good on a SSHRC application. So - I *do* rather emphatically feel funny (read: yucky) about being what I jokingly (read: not so jokingly) refer to as being the worlds' oldest graduate student.
I'm not, of course, where I thought I'd be at the age of thirty-eight. I'm not actually sure I ever thought I'd *be* as old as 38. I fancied, when I was younger, that I'd be a writer or a professor. Or you know, just generally employed. I'd be partnered (of course - 'cause that's just what grown-ups do, right?). I'd have a home. I'd be *someone*. But I'm quite certain my imaginings didn't involve pushing forty and single. Jobless. Still a student. Owning nothing. Flat fucking capital B Broke. I'm not destitute, by any frame of imagination, but certainly not what the world tends to define as "successful" either.
Of course I've done all kinds of things in my life that I am immensely proud of. I am raising these amazing little people. They are amazing. Really. Beautiful small beings with enormous hearts. Smart-as-whips. And total wee bad-asses. And I am trying my damndest to raise them in a way to shows them all the hard in the world without letting that hard squash them. It's a delicate balance and not easy. Kid-wrangling and raising is without a doubt the most difficult thing I have ever, and likely will ever, do. I know it is no small feat, even if the world would tell me otherwise. And I hang onto that. I've done some pretty great community work in my time, and some half-decent research. With an eye to more half-decent research and community work...
But in a bigger (and maybe more important) sense, I've also adventured and loved and learned and taken all kinds of risks. I'm fucking bold-assed brave. It's true. I really am. I've fucked up and learned. A whole bunch. I've worked on myself. A lot. I've tried to take great care of the people that I love. I've tried to learn to love better. To make myself stronger. I've tried to grow. I love who I am now, at nearly 38 much more than I did at 18 or 28, or even at this same time last year. I know my heart (and between you, me and the lamppost, she's prettyfreaking beautiful). Beyond that - I have absolutely nothing figured out. Nada. Zilch. Zip. I think I kinda like it that way. That's part of the fun of it. If I had it all figured out and settled, I'd likely be horrendously bored. And I don't exactly do bored well. More than this, I'm not sure having it all figured out is actually the point.
As Ferron would say (well, sing actually) I'm a girl on a road. (And if you don't know who Ferron is, then it's safe to guess you weren't raised by lesbians in the 80s and 90s).
So 38, hiya. It'll be nice to make your acquaintance soon.
Let's see what we can do together...
I mean, there are the attendant anxieties about being an aging femme. I have a shit-ton to say about this but it is probably best left for another day. The femme-i-liscious Amber Hollibough has written some fine work on this subject, if you feel like reading about it in the meantime. For now, suffice it to say that I spend more money than I should on anti-wrinkle creams that I know probably do nothing but ameliorate my anxieties somewhat.
The part of aging that is the hardest is the whole 'where I am of it', of course. And where *am* I, exactly? Well, let's see. I own nothing. Actually, that's not true. I own a car. Which keeps breaking. I have no job. (And, after having spent many years as a stay-at-home mama, I'm fairly unemployable in a way that actually uses my previous rad work experience and actual skills). I'm a graduate student who is the same age (or older?) than many of the professors around me. This bit is weird. It's weird because it makes me constantly feel like an under-achiever. And infant trying to hang with the grown-ups. Big-time. I know it's silly. It isn't like I've been doing nothing all these past years. But the things I've been busy with are not the things that build a resume. They aren't the sort of things that generally get recognized as important. Or look good on a SSHRC application. So - I *do* rather emphatically feel funny (read: yucky) about being what I jokingly (read: not so jokingly) refer to as being the worlds' oldest graduate student.
I'm not, of course, where I thought I'd be at the age of thirty-eight. I'm not actually sure I ever thought I'd *be* as old as 38. I fancied, when I was younger, that I'd be a writer or a professor. Or you know, just generally employed. I'd be partnered (of course - 'cause that's just what grown-ups do, right?). I'd have a home. I'd be *someone*. But I'm quite certain my imaginings didn't involve pushing forty and single. Jobless. Still a student. Owning nothing. Flat fucking capital B Broke. I'm not destitute, by any frame of imagination, but certainly not what the world tends to define as "successful" either.
Of course I've done all kinds of things in my life that I am immensely proud of. I am raising these amazing little people. They are amazing. Really. Beautiful small beings with enormous hearts. Smart-as-whips. And total wee bad-asses. And I am trying my damndest to raise them in a way to shows them all the hard in the world without letting that hard squash them. It's a delicate balance and not easy. Kid-wrangling and raising is without a doubt the most difficult thing I have ever, and likely will ever, do. I know it is no small feat, even if the world would tell me otherwise. And I hang onto that. I've done some pretty great community work in my time, and some half-decent research. With an eye to more half-decent research and community work...
But in a bigger (and maybe more important) sense, I've also adventured and loved and learned and taken all kinds of risks. I'm fucking bold-assed brave. It's true. I really am. I've fucked up and learned. A whole bunch. I've worked on myself. A lot. I've tried to take great care of the people that I love. I've tried to learn to love better. To make myself stronger. I've tried to grow. I love who I am now, at nearly 38 much more than I did at 18 or 28, or even at this same time last year. I know my heart (and between you, me and the lamppost, she's prettyfreaking beautiful). Beyond that - I have absolutely nothing figured out. Nada. Zilch. Zip. I think I kinda like it that way. That's part of the fun of it. If I had it all figured out and settled, I'd likely be horrendously bored. And I don't exactly do bored well. More than this, I'm not sure having it all figured out is actually the point.
As Ferron would say (well, sing actually) I'm a girl on a road. (And if you don't know who Ferron is, then it's safe to guess you weren't raised by lesbians in the 80s and 90s).
So 38, hiya. It'll be nice to make your acquaintance soon.
Let's see what we can do together...
Saturday, April 27, 2013
parenting challenging babes - a note or two...
I've read loads of little article-type thingys of late (no really, they are popping up everywhere) on things you should know about parents of kids with special needs. I say thingys, because they are mostly trite and annoying and on the saccharine side. (They just **love** their kids so much more, they are so selfless and attentive and self-denying and super-hero-y, blahdy blahdy blah). Now, I'm sure that many parents of tots with high needs are, in fact, super hero-y. I am not one of them. I"m about as far from a super-hero parent as one could get, I'd imagine. And I don't do saccharine so well. It's mostly irritating, and more than this, I find it disingenuous. And even more than all of those things put together, I find it not helpful.
Parents of kids with more intensive needs than most don't appreciate the love of their kids more than anyone else, but it may be true that they may hear those expressions less than other parents. Parents of special needs kids don't love their kids more than other parents, (or likely any less either, but the article thingys would never suggest such a mercenary thought anyways). And we shouldn't be congratulating any parent (or any person, for that matter) for being self-denying. Self-denial is a one-way trip to crazy-town, and it does neither parents nor kids any good in the long run. (It would be nice, instead of putting parents of tots with high needs on a pedestal, to instead perhaps critique the social structures that require these parents to deny themselves in order to just get by on a daily basis. Not good. And utterly preventable. Just sayin').
Parents of kids with special needs *are* probably more tired, more guilt-ridden, and definitely more isolated than other parents. The tiredness bit - well - obvious, yes? It is also the easiest of the three to deal with. Tiredness we know, can count on, can learn how it contours and shapes our world and our reactions, and then in turn, we do our best to mitigate and counterbalance these things. Sometimes the tired is from lack of sleep, and this will of course differ from person to person, but for me emotional drain is the bigger part of this equation.
Guilt, of course, ties into the emotional drain bit (must bloody everything in the world be cyclical, I ask plaintively?). I feel guilty all of the time. ALL of the time. For not doing enough. For not reacting as well as I could have, should have, want to. For passing on my crap genes full of anxiety - the sad and anxious memories that seem to live in my blood. For writing this down. For sharing it. For fucking up the semblance of stability and normalcy(whatever that means) my bubs had. For following my heart when it makes their world busier, more complicated, wonkier. For not managing to balance the very differing needs of my very different children. For all of it. Now I'm not saying that I'm a crap parent. I am in fact, emphatically *not* a crap parent (though to be sure, I have my days). I am saying that when you have a child, or children, that can really struggle with the world (sometimes or all of the time and for myriad reasons), who feels things more intensely, who reacts to change more intensely, who are - in a nutshell - more intense - the feelings of parental guilt are likewise - more intense. For all kinds of reasons that make all kinds of good sense (even though 'sense' is not a currency we always get to function in from day to day).
But really - it's the isolation that's a killer to deal with. And it comes from a variety of sources.
You feel isolated from other parents (which blows because parents tend to comprise the support network of other parent-folk) because as much as you want to commiserate about their parentings trials and tribulations, you also catch yourself swallowing responses like:
"I'm sorry, but, YOU ACTUALLY CALL THAT A FUCKING TANTRUM?!" Ahem. I have, on occassion, experienced some serious rage induced by another parent saying "Yeah - I totally know what you mean" when I know damn well they don't. Can't. It's nobody's fault (and it's meant in the spirit of commiserating in the 'yeah this shit is hard' way) but there are times when people might as well be saying, "Hey! Red and green are totally the same thing. They're both colours!"
Of course parenting is hard. It's a difficult gig, no matter what. And of course, we *want* to have empathy. But sometimes, when your experiences of parenting are so far apart, it's kind of hard to feel like you have memberships to the same club. Because in some ways, ya don't.
It's also a titch on the difficult side because when other parents don't experience the same intensity of experience as you might, folks tend to think your small person is reacting so, um, strenuously, because you must be doing something wrong. You might be a BP (Yup. A Bad Parent.) This is especially true when your child's challenges may not be as visible or immediately outwardly discernable.
AND enter the advice. Advice like - use time-outs. (Um - should I also padlock the bedroom door? Cause that's the only way that particular tactic would work). OR try earlier bedtime/later bedtime/more exercise/less tv/less sugar, gluten, food colouring/more alone time/more together time/try a firmer hand/be gentler/read non-verbal cues better/try Montessori, Waldorf, meditation, yoga/try drugs/don't try drugs/maybe it's this/maybe it's that..... and so on and so forth. Meant to be helpful. Of course, meant to be helpful. Meant with love and kindness and compassion (and sometimes a little tiny bit of 'I know how to do this better than you' cause we parents like to feel that way sometimes). But ultimately - they might as well be telling me to try standing on my head and bleating like a goat and weaving on a loom. This will be a process. Possibly lifelong. There is no magical 'thing' to do - other than what we are doing - learning what works and what doesn't and doing the best we can. (Though if I thought standing on my head and bleating like a goat while I got busy loom-weavin' would help - I'd give it a whirl).
Possibly the worst part of the isolation though, is the trying very hard not to talk about it. I know you're all ha-ha-ha'ing here, because I talk about everything, right? But the truth is, I don't. I really don't. Not even close. And I'm guessing most other parents in similar situations don't either. Why? Because you feel misunderstood. Because you feel guilty. Because you know people think it's because you're just doing it wrong. Because you know other people don't or can't understand and you seem like a big fucking whiner (BFW). (Complicating this last bit further, is that sometimes you feel like you might actually be a crazy BFW, because you have days, even weeks that are miraculously and beautifully calm and still and free and easy. But then, you always come back to it. Something triggers and the rough patch starts or something big has been happening at school without you knowing, and then you remember that you are not crazy. It is so hard to speak about it in ways that people can hear, in ways that do not make you feel you like you are bad-mouthing your own child, whom you love more than any being on this planet and for whom you would move mountains to make this planet a kinder and gentler place, in ways that do not make you sound like a BFW, and a BP to boot. And because we generally already feel like BFWers who are BPs, my guess is most parents in these sorts of situations err to the side of keeping their mouths shut.
And I guess those are the things I'd put in an article, you know, if I were to write one, about what you should know about parents who have high needs littles.
Parents of kids with more intensive needs than most don't appreciate the love of their kids more than anyone else, but it may be true that they may hear those expressions less than other parents. Parents of special needs kids don't love their kids more than other parents, (or likely any less either, but the article thingys would never suggest such a mercenary thought anyways). And we shouldn't be congratulating any parent (or any person, for that matter) for being self-denying. Self-denial is a one-way trip to crazy-town, and it does neither parents nor kids any good in the long run. (It would be nice, instead of putting parents of tots with high needs on a pedestal, to instead perhaps critique the social structures that require these parents to deny themselves in order to just get by on a daily basis. Not good. And utterly preventable. Just sayin').
Parents of kids with special needs *are* probably more tired, more guilt-ridden, and definitely more isolated than other parents. The tiredness bit - well - obvious, yes? It is also the easiest of the three to deal with. Tiredness we know, can count on, can learn how it contours and shapes our world and our reactions, and then in turn, we do our best to mitigate and counterbalance these things. Sometimes the tired is from lack of sleep, and this will of course differ from person to person, but for me emotional drain is the bigger part of this equation.
Guilt, of course, ties into the emotional drain bit (must bloody everything in the world be cyclical, I ask plaintively?). I feel guilty all of the time. ALL of the time. For not doing enough. For not reacting as well as I could have, should have, want to. For passing on my crap genes full of anxiety - the sad and anxious memories that seem to live in my blood. For writing this down. For sharing it. For fucking up the semblance of stability and normalcy(whatever that means) my bubs had. For following my heart when it makes their world busier, more complicated, wonkier. For not managing to balance the very differing needs of my very different children. For all of it. Now I'm not saying that I'm a crap parent. I am in fact, emphatically *not* a crap parent (though to be sure, I have my days). I am saying that when you have a child, or children, that can really struggle with the world (sometimes or all of the time and for myriad reasons), who feels things more intensely, who reacts to change more intensely, who are - in a nutshell - more intense - the feelings of parental guilt are likewise - more intense. For all kinds of reasons that make all kinds of good sense (even though 'sense' is not a currency we always get to function in from day to day).
But really - it's the isolation that's a killer to deal with. And it comes from a variety of sources.
You feel isolated from other parents (which blows because parents tend to comprise the support network of other parent-folk) because as much as you want to commiserate about their parentings trials and tribulations, you also catch yourself swallowing responses like:
"I'm sorry, but, YOU ACTUALLY CALL THAT A FUCKING TANTRUM?!" Ahem. I have, on occassion, experienced some serious rage induced by another parent saying "Yeah - I totally know what you mean" when I know damn well they don't. Can't. It's nobody's fault (and it's meant in the spirit of commiserating in the 'yeah this shit is hard' way) but there are times when people might as well be saying, "Hey! Red and green are totally the same thing. They're both colours!"
Of course parenting is hard. It's a difficult gig, no matter what. And of course, we *want* to have empathy. But sometimes, when your experiences of parenting are so far apart, it's kind of hard to feel like you have memberships to the same club. Because in some ways, ya don't.
It's also a titch on the difficult side because when other parents don't experience the same intensity of experience as you might, folks tend to think your small person is reacting so, um, strenuously, because you must be doing something wrong. You might be a BP (Yup. A Bad Parent.) This is especially true when your child's challenges may not be as visible or immediately outwardly discernable.
AND enter the advice. Advice like - use time-outs. (Um - should I also padlock the bedroom door? Cause that's the only way that particular tactic would work). OR try earlier bedtime/later bedtime/more exercise/less tv/less sugar, gluten, food colouring/more alone time/more together time/try a firmer hand/be gentler/read non-verbal cues better/try Montessori, Waldorf, meditation, yoga/try drugs/don't try drugs/maybe it's this/maybe it's that..... and so on and so forth. Meant to be helpful. Of course, meant to be helpful. Meant with love and kindness and compassion (and sometimes a little tiny bit of 'I know how to do this better than you' cause we parents like to feel that way sometimes). But ultimately - they might as well be telling me to try standing on my head and bleating like a goat and weaving on a loom. This will be a process. Possibly lifelong. There is no magical 'thing' to do - other than what we are doing - learning what works and what doesn't and doing the best we can. (Though if I thought standing on my head and bleating like a goat while I got busy loom-weavin' would help - I'd give it a whirl).
Possibly the worst part of the isolation though, is the trying very hard not to talk about it. I know you're all ha-ha-ha'ing here, because I talk about everything, right? But the truth is, I don't. I really don't. Not even close. And I'm guessing most other parents in similar situations don't either. Why? Because you feel misunderstood. Because you feel guilty. Because you know people think it's because you're just doing it wrong. Because you know other people don't or can't understand and you seem like a big fucking whiner (BFW). (Complicating this last bit further, is that sometimes you feel like you might actually be a crazy BFW, because you have days, even weeks that are miraculously and beautifully calm and still and free and easy. But then, you always come back to it. Something triggers and the rough patch starts or something big has been happening at school without you knowing, and then you remember that you are not crazy. It is so hard to speak about it in ways that people can hear, in ways that do not make you feel you like you are bad-mouthing your own child, whom you love more than any being on this planet and for whom you would move mountains to make this planet a kinder and gentler place, in ways that do not make you sound like a BFW, and a BP to boot. And because we generally already feel like BFWers who are BPs, my guess is most parents in these sorts of situations err to the side of keeping their mouths shut.
And I guess those are the things I'd put in an article, you know, if I were to write one, about what you should know about parents who have high needs littles.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
8 a.m. blues
It's 8 a.m.
I've been up for just under 2 hours. (A sleep in!)
Boy-o is having a tough time today.
And so far this morning -
I've been yelled at. Called stupid. Dumb. Hit in the knee with a hockey stick. Dodged two miscellaneous objects hurled through the air in the general direction of my head. And told I am hated.
Amazing how sometimes just under two hours is already almost too much day to bear.
I've been up for just under 2 hours. (A sleep in!)
Boy-o is having a tough time today.
And so far this morning -
I've been yelled at. Called stupid. Dumb. Hit in the knee with a hockey stick. Dodged two miscellaneous objects hurled through the air in the general direction of my head. And told I am hated.
Amazing how sometimes just under two hours is already almost too much day to bear.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Wednesday Poem + Rumination
In honour of her being here (and me not being there) today's Wednesday poem is "How To be Alone" by the lovely and talented Tanya Davis of Halifax.
I have always loved this poem. But I used to love it because I thought that she was way braver than I could ever be. And because my biggest fear in the world was being alone.
But I love it even more now, for obvious reasons.
I love the serendipity of seeing the poetry festival announcement, which reminded me of this beautiful poem and video. I love that it reminds me of the ways in which we can use romance and sex or just romance or just sex in ways that are to our own detriment - as a barrier against aloneness - and it reminds me of how much I really do not want to do that. (Not that there is anything wrong about either/both of these things for their own sake, but that when we use them as a means of distraction, and repeat patterns that ought not to be repeated, they aren't as lovely as they might otherwise be is all. And this happens all of the time... which... is a bummer). I especially love this video after a rotten by-myself sick day, which was spent in a prone, fairly comatose state, held captive by romantic comedies - god those things are horrible! (The only people who like romantic comedies are those who are still in the happy phase of a relationship, or total masochists. It likely doesn't take a genius to figure out where I fit in this scenario... Jeez - no wonder I never watch TV).
So today, I'll watch Tanya's video a few (hundred times) after I put the babies to bed, and think of my lovely friends who are out and able to see and enjoy her.(Lucky friends - whoop extra loud for me!). Yay for Tanya Davis, and for "How to be Alone." She is a breath of fresh air in a rom-com obsessed world...
And yay for my current preoccupation with living as authentically as I can, even (or especially?) if that means alone-ness, and no matter how scary said commitment is.
Play it. I promise you won't be sorry you did.
xo T
I have always loved this poem. But I used to love it because I thought that she was way braver than I could ever be. And because my biggest fear in the world was being alone.
But I love it even more now, for obvious reasons.
I love the serendipity of seeing the poetry festival announcement, which reminded me of this beautiful poem and video. I love that it reminds me of the ways in which we can use romance and sex or just romance or just sex in ways that are to our own detriment - as a barrier against aloneness - and it reminds me of how much I really do not want to do that. (Not that there is anything wrong about either/both of these things for their own sake, but that when we use them as a means of distraction, and repeat patterns that ought not to be repeated, they aren't as lovely as they might otherwise be is all. And this happens all of the time... which... is a bummer). I especially love this video after a rotten by-myself sick day, which was spent in a prone, fairly comatose state, held captive by romantic comedies - god those things are horrible! (The only people who like romantic comedies are those who are still in the happy phase of a relationship, or total masochists. It likely doesn't take a genius to figure out where I fit in this scenario... Jeez - no wonder I never watch TV).
So today, I'll watch Tanya's video a few (hundred times) after I put the babies to bed, and think of my lovely friends who are out and able to see and enjoy her.(Lucky friends - whoop extra loud for me!). Yay for Tanya Davis, and for "How to be Alone." She is a breath of fresh air in a rom-com obsessed world...
And yay for my current preoccupation with living as authentically as I can, even (or especially?) if that means alone-ness, and no matter how scary said commitment is.
Play it. I promise you won't be sorry you did.
xo T
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Sarah Bareilles makes sick mama cry... true story
Screw you Sarah Bareilles for writing the sweet song "Brave" and making a video full of beautiful, empowered, brave girls rocking out. And screw you George Takei for posting said video on Facebook so that I would see it and watch it and cry like a baby, after having watched two back-to-back romcoms (sweet jesus - no wonder I never watch tv - that shit is BAD for your mental health people - seriously!).
You know - I'm generally a pretty stone femme (at least that's the running, and likely untrue, joke) - but I hardly ever cry, even when I really want to. (I'm actually way tougher in real life than I seem to write myself on here, btw). But apparently, the combination of being sick, watching happy-happy romcoms and a sweet video that makes me think of my fiesty, fierce, brave Girlio - that shit knocks me right out.
Repost of Brilliance from HuffPost: Why 'Can you have it all?' is this century's dumbest question (by Clementine Ford)
Why 'Can you have it all?' is this century's dumbest question
Clementine Ford, HuffPost Writer
Without a doubt, one of the most intellectually bereft concerns of modern society has been the question of whether or not women can have it all. Posed repetitively and endlessly, in mawkish op eds and hand wringing television segments, it involves middle-class and mostly white women (a demographic in which I sit firmly) attempting to tease out the threads of an entirely useless concept with the regularity of a studiously high fibre diet.
As a query, 'having it all — can even we?' is perpetuated as the most pressing and central concern of feminists today. So vital is it to the Woman Question that I was surprised it didn't come up on Q and A's special lady fest earlier this week (although that may be because the panellists were forced to address the age old quandary of whether or not the sinister motivations of feminism have resulted in men no longer being able to open doors for women — binders and lobbies, full of women just trying to get out!)
Drew Barrymore, a woman of strength and vitality who overcame childhood trauma to succeed in a culture with far fewer happy endings for girls with tales similar to hers, weighed in on the topic earlier this month in an interview for People.
It's abundantly clear that women — particularly the middle class, pretty white ones — aren't considered to have ascended to the status of accomplished human being until they shuck off that amateur mantle of 'woman' and become mothers. And it's here in this meaningless vacuum where the principal pursuits of feminism have become warped, degraded and made reprehensible in their navel-gazing glory.
A hierarchy of oppression needn't discount the validity of less threatening concerns. But the pernicious fixation on whether or not women can maintain professional careers rather than simply jobs (because the woman working out of necessity and not career ambition lacks that privilege of choice which has become the bugbear of women with greater means) while also wringing every last drop of the supposed joy that comes from rearing children is almost startling in its circular self indulgence and privilege. The question of whether or not women can 'have it all' steadfastly ignores the fact that many women can't and don't even have anything, let alone enough capital to begin staking their claim on the rest of the pie. To therefore witness the endless debate of this ridiculous question, as if it's the final frontier in the pursuit for women's liberation, is an exercise in mind-numbing stupidity and one that I'd argue actually reinforces regressive and limited stereotypes of women.
I'm not even really sure what 'having it all' is supposed to look like. Is it being enabled to have a meaningful, satisfying career and a family to go home to at the end of the day? Because that seems to take a rather limited and stultifying view of the complexities of human existence. For a supposedly feminist preoccupation, it ignores the diverse interests and realities of large proportions of women and those for whom children and/or career were either undesirable or an impossibility. According to this definition, as a child-free, unmarried woman in her early 30s, I would appear to fall rather short of having much of anything at all. But as someone rapidly coming to terms with the idea that the children I've been taught to want may not actually form part of my desires at all, I feel so much closer to having the kind of life I want without them — having 'it all' on my terms — than I surely would with them.
Similarly, I know many women of means, age and opportunity who are also child-free (I'm a feminist, after all — my phone book is filled with the numbers of witches and sorceresses) and have not suffered for it. For them, the question of 'having it all' never included the fundamental pursuit of work/life/family balance that is assumed to be innate to our gender. I also know single mothers for whom the idea of balancing career and family is less an aim than a pipedream. And speaking of single mothers, there are more women still who would view the concept of 'career' as a middle-class luxury — who are caught now in the grips of poverty due to a lack of options and a lack of government support. For these women, the daily concerns of their autonomy and dignity have rather less to do with whether or not they can continue to work as CEOs, senior account executives or small-business owners and rather more to do with whether or not they can put food on the table.
Cast your mind further to women in the developing world. The ones for whom 'choice' when it comes to family extends to which child gets to wear clothes or go to school (usually the boys), and who are denied the opportunities to control their fertility and therefore family sizes because of a lack of institutional support, medical options or funding. Or the women who travel from the Philippines to work as domestic labourers for the wealthy families who more often than not pay them a pittance, are denied labour rights and who may see the children, parents and extended families they're working tirelessly to support only once a year. Spending any more than a few seconds trifling over whether or not an uneven distribution of housework prevents women from achieving true liberation seems like an insult.
Gendered oppression shouldn't be a system of competitive comparison — being able to identify greater atrocities committed against women in certain sectors of the community or the wider world shouldn't negate other instances of oppression, even if they're less immediately threatening. And there's absolutely no doubt that women everywhere, from Karachi to Kew, are expected to shoulder the burden of the domestic load. But positioning this argument of 'having it all' as the last bastion of equality neglects to understand exactly how few women in the world have close to anything at all.
Under our current model of supposedly post-feminist society, can women have it all? No. Why not? Because a) we're not living in a post-feminist society and the systems of patriarchal oppression that have historically exploited women as resources are still very much in operation across much of the world; and b) the matter of women's liberation is still thought to be a concern for them alone, with the demands that any efforts to secure it be done not just independently of men but with the absence of impact on them entirely. The question therefore isn't 'can women have it all?' but 'how are women systemically denied equality and who's benefiting?' Gender inequality wasn't created by women and their unreasonable ambitions. It's vital that we shift the focus of women's oppression back to its beneficiaries rather than perpetuate the kinds of meaningless conversations that imagine these things are perplexing problems for women alone to solve.
Capitalism and poverty are two of the greatest contributors to the oppression of women in the world today. Focusing precious time and energy on examining whether or not a small proportion of those women are enabled to participate freely in the system that expressly shackles the rest of them seems to me to be entirely missing the point.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Poles and Sex and Kidlets, Part II
In yesterday's edition Poles and Sex and Kidlets, Part I, our heroine disclosed, yet again, her unabashed love for the sex-fiendish world of pole-dancing!!!
She admitted to letting her children pole-dance!
Ack!!!! Eeeeep!!!!
Right then. Moving along.
So yesterday, I ended off with a lead-in about kids and sex and sex and kids. This strain of thinking has been sitting with me since my pole-conversation last week with another parent who isn't sure she should get a pole, lest it turn her children weird. (Granted, there is a rather signifiant difference in world views here, as I actually will be disappointed if my children don't turn out weird. I quite enjoy weird).
After this conversation, my memory was jogged to a radio discussion about the fact that there are, in some places, pole-dance classes being offered for the kid set. At the time, I reacted with what one might surmise is the 'appropriate' horror and outrage. GASP! WHAT?! Pole-dancing children? This is clearly wrong! Why are we sexualizing children? Outrage, outrage, outrage. But my feelings about this are a bit more complex now than they were at the time.
My son, as previously mentioned, freaking rocks that pole. He would be be thrilled down to his boots if he could take a class in which he learned more spins, twirls and upside-down-i-ess. And if such a thing existed, I would be thrilled to my boots to sign him up straight-away. But of course, there's more to it than that. Though I can conceive of a pole-dancing class that would be utterly fabulous for youngsters of all ages and genders, one hazzards a guess that the classes currently being offered to kids are directed at the girl population. And one also hazzards a guess that the classes may be just as much about sex and booty shaking as my grown-up classes are. Which makes the conversation slightly more complicated. The outrage, both mine and that of other callers-in to the radio show about kid pole class, makes sense. We sexualize young girls in problemtic cultural ways, and certainly this is all kinds of bad and wrong. Bad and wrong. I'll say it one more time just for emphasis. Bad. And. Wrong. (If you're sensing a but, you're bang on, but I'm not quite ready to get there yet... hang on).
Let me also briefly address my feelings about girls clothes and boys clothes (both problematic for the same and difference reasons.) The girls t-shirts that are revoltingly sweet with messages like 'cutie-pie' and 'smile' and 'love'. And the boys shirts that say things like 'hero' and other bullshit-y things that aren't quite coming to mind at the moment. It's yuck. It's bunk. It's all that and more. And then there are the protests about sexualized girl clothes. G-string undies at La Senza Girl. Short shorts and nmiddriff tops and spaghetti straps and bikinis, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum. I'm not particularly a fan.
But - and here's the but which will likely make me unpopular - something in the outrage at pole-class for kids and sexualized girl clothes - is also really off-putting and unsettling for me. Because the outrage seems intrinsically linked to two things - the first, that there is something inherently (sexually) deviant about pole-dancing (or short shorts, g-strings, mini-skirts etc.). And the second, that this deviance (sexual) should not be marketed to young girls (for the preservation of their desexualized childhood).
And I get that this is tricky shit. I struggle with it. I wrestle with it. I'll wrestle with it more before my babes are grown. And as I've already said, I certainly agree with some of this outrage, while balking at some of what lies beneath it. Namely, the idea that only certain kinds of girls undertake certain kinds of activities. (And note here, it ain't the 'nice' girls we're talking about). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways send particular kinds of messages (no matter their age). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways are targets of and participants in certain kinds of innapropriate sexual behaviour. The idea that activity or clothing can be, in and of itself, indicative of something beyond that activity or clothing.
To be sure - we live in a culture which accepts these ideas as true. That pole-dancers are strippers and strippers are bad. That spaghetti straps are more risque than short sleeves. That visible skin is a sign of female sexuality or more properly, sexual availability. These ideas are, of course, ridiculous. troubling. Bad and wrong. But I wonder too, if, in our indignant need to 'protect' the children from the evils of a culture of sexualization, we are also propogating these really destructive cultural normatives? When we say to our daughters "oh hell no you can't wear those spaghetti straps on this hot summer day because they aren't 'appropriate' for children" what message are we actually sending? While we are telling our daughters that the way they are being marketed to is troubling, are we also telling them that their skin is shameful? That spaghetti straps or mini-skirts or bikini tops indicate sex? And so on and so forth? Is this not also related to the recent gross trend of banning tights in schools because they are 'too distracting' to the boys??
I have a girl who only wears dresses except under much duress. She has announced on several occassions to me that she both hates pants and shirts. And she is very, very clear about what she will and will not wear. I don't imagine that this particular trend is going to go anywhere anytime soon. Like her mama, she is fashion-focussed. And like her mama, she is stubborn. Stubborn as fuck. I don't fight with her about fashion choices, (nor do I with my son, though he is far less picky). She wears spaghetti straps when it's hot outside. (She also has a princess obsession. I don't love it. In fact, I will go so far as to say I think her princess obsession is as harmful in the long run as all the sexualization bullshit. But it is her obsession to have. I try to temper it, gently, with messages of self-sufficiency and the beauty of strength). I let also let my kids play with my make-up. And paint their nails. And they both covet my heels and endless varieties of fishnet stockings. And here's the thing. I can't see myself arguing with either of them about their fashion choices in the future, any more than I do now. (I like to quip pithily to myself that perhaps if they were to experience a day of wearing undies that feel like having dental floss up your ass, it might be the first and only day they wear them, though of course *because this business is complicated* I'm hoping that *if* this happens, it is later rather than sooner).
I want, as I was discussing with a brilliant friend of mine awhile ago, my littles to feel happy and confident in and with themselves. If Girlio decides what makes her feel happy in the world is rocking tummy-tops and short-shorts, ok. Wearing tummy-tops and short-shorts do not define who she is as a person, they do not represent her level or experience of sexual activity, and they *should not* define how others treat her or assess her worth as a human being. Anymore than Boy-o wearing a dress and make-up should define how he is treated or his worth as a human being. For me here, the issue becomes less about how old they are, and more about whether they are able to understand how these things might impact their worlds. In both scenarios, I would sit them down and have a frank talk with them about the fact that we live in a world full of enormous assholes who will make all kinds of assumptions and/or judgements based on this dress. I will tell them that this is wrong and shitty, but true nevertheless. I will also tell them that they have to go with what they feel good and right about, and that when this is the case, I will always, always have their backs.
Yes. We live in a world that limits and controls some of how we express ourselves in all kinds of icky ways. But that ultimtely doesn't change the fact that we still need to express ourselves. Sometimes that self-expression ends up being out of the box, and sometimes more inside of the box, I guess.
As I said earlier (probably multiple times over) - this stuff isn't easy. I don't have all of the answers. Hell - I don't have any of the answers. Is there a part of me that feels queasy about the idea of my pre-teen rocking a g-string? Yes. Yes, there absolutely is.
But I'm also not convinced I'm queasy for all of the right reasons. And I think that those reasons are definitely something worth examining....
She admitted to letting her children pole-dance!
Ack!!!! Eeeeep!!!!
Right then. Moving along.
So yesterday, I ended off with a lead-in about kids and sex and sex and kids. This strain of thinking has been sitting with me since my pole-conversation last week with another parent who isn't sure she should get a pole, lest it turn her children weird. (Granted, there is a rather signifiant difference in world views here, as I actually will be disappointed if my children don't turn out weird. I quite enjoy weird).
After this conversation, my memory was jogged to a radio discussion about the fact that there are, in some places, pole-dance classes being offered for the kid set. At the time, I reacted with what one might surmise is the 'appropriate' horror and outrage. GASP! WHAT?! Pole-dancing children? This is clearly wrong! Why are we sexualizing children? Outrage, outrage, outrage. But my feelings about this are a bit more complex now than they were at the time.
My son, as previously mentioned, freaking rocks that pole. He would be be thrilled down to his boots if he could take a class in which he learned more spins, twirls and upside-down-i-ess. And if such a thing existed, I would be thrilled to my boots to sign him up straight-away. But of course, there's more to it than that. Though I can conceive of a pole-dancing class that would be utterly fabulous for youngsters of all ages and genders, one hazzards a guess that the classes currently being offered to kids are directed at the girl population. And one also hazzards a guess that the classes may be just as much about sex and booty shaking as my grown-up classes are. Which makes the conversation slightly more complicated. The outrage, both mine and that of other callers-in to the radio show about kid pole class, makes sense. We sexualize young girls in problemtic cultural ways, and certainly this is all kinds of bad and wrong. Bad and wrong. I'll say it one more time just for emphasis. Bad. And. Wrong. (If you're sensing a but, you're bang on, but I'm not quite ready to get there yet... hang on).
Let me also briefly address my feelings about girls clothes and boys clothes (both problematic for the same and difference reasons.) The girls t-shirts that are revoltingly sweet with messages like 'cutie-pie' and 'smile' and 'love'. And the boys shirts that say things like 'hero' and other bullshit-y things that aren't quite coming to mind at the moment. It's yuck. It's bunk. It's all that and more. And then there are the protests about sexualized girl clothes. G-string undies at La Senza Girl. Short shorts and nmiddriff tops and spaghetti straps and bikinis, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum. I'm not particularly a fan.
But - and here's the but which will likely make me unpopular - something in the outrage at pole-class for kids and sexualized girl clothes - is also really off-putting and unsettling for me. Because the outrage seems intrinsically linked to two things - the first, that there is something inherently (sexually) deviant about pole-dancing (or short shorts, g-strings, mini-skirts etc.). And the second, that this deviance (sexual) should not be marketed to young girls (for the preservation of their desexualized childhood).
And I get that this is tricky shit. I struggle with it. I wrestle with it. I'll wrestle with it more before my babes are grown. And as I've already said, I certainly agree with some of this outrage, while balking at some of what lies beneath it. Namely, the idea that only certain kinds of girls undertake certain kinds of activities. (And note here, it ain't the 'nice' girls we're talking about). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways send particular kinds of messages (no matter their age). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways are targets of and participants in certain kinds of innapropriate sexual behaviour. The idea that activity or clothing can be, in and of itself, indicative of something beyond that activity or clothing.
To be sure - we live in a culture which accepts these ideas as true. That pole-dancers are strippers and strippers are bad. That spaghetti straps are more risque than short sleeves. That visible skin is a sign of female sexuality or more properly, sexual availability. These ideas are, of course, ridiculous. troubling. Bad and wrong. But I wonder too, if, in our indignant need to 'protect' the children from the evils of a culture of sexualization, we are also propogating these really destructive cultural normatives? When we say to our daughters "oh hell no you can't wear those spaghetti straps on this hot summer day because they aren't 'appropriate' for children" what message are we actually sending? While we are telling our daughters that the way they are being marketed to is troubling, are we also telling them that their skin is shameful? That spaghetti straps or mini-skirts or bikini tops indicate sex? And so on and so forth? Is this not also related to the recent gross trend of banning tights in schools because they are 'too distracting' to the boys??
I have a girl who only wears dresses except under much duress. She has announced on several occassions to me that she both hates pants and shirts. And she is very, very clear about what she will and will not wear. I don't imagine that this particular trend is going to go anywhere anytime soon. Like her mama, she is fashion-focussed. And like her mama, she is stubborn. Stubborn as fuck. I don't fight with her about fashion choices, (nor do I with my son, though he is far less picky). She wears spaghetti straps when it's hot outside. (She also has a princess obsession. I don't love it. In fact, I will go so far as to say I think her princess obsession is as harmful in the long run as all the sexualization bullshit. But it is her obsession to have. I try to temper it, gently, with messages of self-sufficiency and the beauty of strength). I let also let my kids play with my make-up. And paint their nails. And they both covet my heels and endless varieties of fishnet stockings. And here's the thing. I can't see myself arguing with either of them about their fashion choices in the future, any more than I do now. (I like to quip pithily to myself that perhaps if they were to experience a day of wearing undies that feel like having dental floss up your ass, it might be the first and only day they wear them, though of course *because this business is complicated* I'm hoping that *if* this happens, it is later rather than sooner).
I want, as I was discussing with a brilliant friend of mine awhile ago, my littles to feel happy and confident in and with themselves. If Girlio decides what makes her feel happy in the world is rocking tummy-tops and short-shorts, ok. Wearing tummy-tops and short-shorts do not define who she is as a person, they do not represent her level or experience of sexual activity, and they *should not* define how others treat her or assess her worth as a human being. Anymore than Boy-o wearing a dress and make-up should define how he is treated or his worth as a human being. For me here, the issue becomes less about how old they are, and more about whether they are able to understand how these things might impact their worlds. In both scenarios, I would sit them down and have a frank talk with them about the fact that we live in a world full of enormous assholes who will make all kinds of assumptions and/or judgements based on this dress. I will tell them that this is wrong and shitty, but true nevertheless. I will also tell them that they have to go with what they feel good and right about, and that when this is the case, I will always, always have their backs.
Yes. We live in a world that limits and controls some of how we express ourselves in all kinds of icky ways. But that ultimtely doesn't change the fact that we still need to express ourselves. Sometimes that self-expression ends up being out of the box, and sometimes more inside of the box, I guess.
As I said earlier (probably multiple times over) - this stuff isn't easy. I don't have all of the answers. Hell - I don't have any of the answers. Is there a part of me that feels queasy about the idea of my pre-teen rocking a g-string? Yes. Yes, there absolutely is.
But I'm also not convinced I'm queasy for all of the right reasons. And I think that those reasons are definitely something worth examining....
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Poles and Sex and Kidlets
The other night at pole class, some of the women were asking me about my pole. How much, where I put it, etc etc etc.
Then one woman, who seriously looks like she's about twelve, said "I asked my husband if I could get a pole and he was all like, "I don't know".... [and here I would note aside from the obvious creepy beginning of the sentence, who in their right mind wouldn't want their lover to do hot pole practice?!] "and then I think I sort of convinced him, but I don't know where to put it so the kids won't see it and get at it and my husband is really worried they'll turn into weird sex fiends"... [Does this mean that *she* is a weird sex fiend?. . . . AND SHIT! Am *I* a weird sex fiend?!]
To which I replied that my kids bleeping *love* my pole. And that my son is already a better pole dancer than me. Which is completely true - he is amazing and has out-of-this-world upper body strength.
To which she looked at me utterly aghast. And said nothing else.
Since getting my pole, and announcing it to the world (hey, I'm really fucking happy about my pole, what can I say?), and posting pics of my Boy-o on said pole, I've been aware that people *may* have some issues with this. Because pole-dancing is not your everyday hobby, and there are a lot of preconceived notions about what pole-dancing is like, and correspondingly, what pole-dancers are like. (In my case, some of the latter pre-conceived notions may be true, but that is besides the point at this particular juncture...).
So here's the first thing: Pole-dancing class is all about sex. It is sexy as hell, and that is a big part of why I love it. It's hot. Totally. But it's also really, really fucking challenging. Body-busting-muscle-building-break-your-ass-legs-covered-in-bruises-thighs-covered-in-pole-burn-sweat-your-face-off-not-for-the-wussy kinda hard. And that is also why I love it. The blend of those two things are completely and utterly *me* and completely and utterly happy-making. I get to combine big parts of me into one activity. I get to work out in four inch studded heels. It's a good life. (On this note, I would say that I feel pretty meh about the recent call by polers to de-sexualize pole, and make into in an Olympic sport. I mean, I feel conflicted about the Olympics to begin with, and I also think that if you take the sex out of pole, it loses something in my world. Anyhoo...).
And here's the other thing: when my kid pole-dances, it isn't at all about sex. I show them them spins I know. I don't show them the booty moves (though, they have seen me dance in general, which is pretty booty-licious). Anyways, Boy-o rocks it. He climbs, he spins, he kicks up his heels, he shakes his booty and he is totally, completely and utterly blissed out. He is happiest when in his body like that, and when I watch him rock it, I often find myself wishing I'd have gotten a pole years ago. Bloody amazing, that kid. Girlio tends, thus far, to use it as a ballet-dancing sort of prop - and here I confess that the thought of her idolizing the fat-shaming world that is ballet horrifies me a good deal more than the thought of her idolizing the 'sex fiendish' world of pole-dancing. Yes - that's right. I'd rather she strive to love her body enough to slut it up with panache and strut her stuff than strive to be light as a feather (and here I would note that -yes, the ballet is beautiful and artsy goodness. I even like some ballet. But my daughter is not body shaped now, nor will she ever be body shaped to become a prima ballerina. With or without the requisite eating disorder(s). Like her mama, she is solidly, well, solid. Ballet would mean a world of body-loathing dissapointment, and it's not something I will ever encourage in her world. Contemporary dance... that I would encourage wholeheartedly. Or pole. You know, what evs).
Which brings me to the second strain of thought-processing that was brought up when ruminating about this discussion... kids and sex. Sex and kids. Kids! Sex! (insert appropriate horror-flick soundtrack of your choice).
Which.... I will blog about tomorrow. Because this is already getting too long. Because I have been, as usual, too wordy.
... to be continued
Then one woman, who seriously looks like she's about twelve, said "I asked my husband if I could get a pole and he was all like, "I don't know".... [and here I would note aside from the obvious creepy beginning of the sentence, who in their right mind wouldn't want their lover to do hot pole practice?!] "and then I think I sort of convinced him, but I don't know where to put it so the kids won't see it and get at it and my husband is really worried they'll turn into weird sex fiends"... [Does this mean that *she* is a weird sex fiend?. . . . AND SHIT! Am *I* a weird sex fiend?!]
To which I replied that my kids bleeping *love* my pole. And that my son is already a better pole dancer than me. Which is completely true - he is amazing and has out-of-this-world upper body strength.
To which she looked at me utterly aghast. And said nothing else.
Since getting my pole, and announcing it to the world (hey, I'm really fucking happy about my pole, what can I say?), and posting pics of my Boy-o on said pole, I've been aware that people *may* have some issues with this. Because pole-dancing is not your everyday hobby, and there are a lot of preconceived notions about what pole-dancing is like, and correspondingly, what pole-dancers are like. (In my case, some of the latter pre-conceived notions may be true, but that is besides the point at this particular juncture...).
So here's the first thing: Pole-dancing class is all about sex. It is sexy as hell, and that is a big part of why I love it. It's hot. Totally. But it's also really, really fucking challenging. Body-busting-muscle-building-break-your-ass-legs-covered-in-bruises-thighs-covered-in-pole-burn-sweat-your-face-off-not-for-the-wussy kinda hard. And that is also why I love it. The blend of those two things are completely and utterly *me* and completely and utterly happy-making. I get to combine big parts of me into one activity. I get to work out in four inch studded heels. It's a good life. (On this note, I would say that I feel pretty meh about the recent call by polers to de-sexualize pole, and make into in an Olympic sport. I mean, I feel conflicted about the Olympics to begin with, and I also think that if you take the sex out of pole, it loses something in my world. Anyhoo...).
And here's the other thing: when my kid pole-dances, it isn't at all about sex. I show them them spins I know. I don't show them the booty moves (though, they have seen me dance in general, which is pretty booty-licious). Anyways, Boy-o rocks it. He climbs, he spins, he kicks up his heels, he shakes his booty and he is totally, completely and utterly blissed out. He is happiest when in his body like that, and when I watch him rock it, I often find myself wishing I'd have gotten a pole years ago. Bloody amazing, that kid. Girlio tends, thus far, to use it as a ballet-dancing sort of prop - and here I confess that the thought of her idolizing the fat-shaming world that is ballet horrifies me a good deal more than the thought of her idolizing the 'sex fiendish' world of pole-dancing. Yes - that's right. I'd rather she strive to love her body enough to slut it up with panache and strut her stuff than strive to be light as a feather (and here I would note that -yes, the ballet is beautiful and artsy goodness. I even like some ballet. But my daughter is not body shaped now, nor will she ever be body shaped to become a prima ballerina. With or without the requisite eating disorder(s). Like her mama, she is solidly, well, solid. Ballet would mean a world of body-loathing dissapointment, and it's not something I will ever encourage in her world. Contemporary dance... that I would encourage wholeheartedly. Or pole. You know, what evs).
Which brings me to the second strain of thought-processing that was brought up when ruminating about this discussion... kids and sex. Sex and kids. Kids! Sex! (insert appropriate horror-flick soundtrack of your choice).
Which.... I will blog about tomorrow. Because this is already getting too long. Because I have been, as usual, too wordy.
... to be continued
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
What makes bravery? (aka fuck blog-xiety, I'm writing anyways)
When you live life as Piglet from Winnie The Pooh, sometimes everything is scary. Not just a little scary. A lotta scary. Shit scary. And on the bad days, immobilizing. (I'd so much rather be a different WTP character. Oh well, you get what you get! And it could be worse, right? I could be Eeyore. Or Rabbit (shudder) NOBODY wants to be Rabbit. Because he's a smug, smug little jerk).
At the beginning of this term, I dropped a class because I literally couldn't make myself go. I wanted to. I really really wanted to. But there were too too many people in this super crowded room and the two times I did go, I spent the entire three hours feeling like I couldn't breathe. So instead, I shot myself in the foot and took a course I wasn't particularly interested in, and, as it turns out, wasn't particularly good at either. I felt *horrible* about it. Because usually, I do a pretty damn good job of managing life in the anxiety lane. Usually I do a pretty good of doing the things that are shit scary to me. But this term, oh man, this term kicked my ass. Kicked my ass with wholly irrational thoughts that I believed to be wildly and irrevocably true. Because that's what anxiety does. It takes your worst thoughts and fears, the ones that you hold deep down and don't dare tell anyone about, and it amplifies them and then it engulfs you.
I spent a few days convinced that everyone in the world despised me. (And though to be sure, I am sure there are a few, the whole world might be a mild exaggeration. But that's anxiety for you. The irrational becomes the very, very real).
I spent a few nights awake with the stabbing feeling in my chest, unable to stop the whirring of my brain, that flitted between agonizing over assignments and stupid things I've said/done and wondering how I'm going to afford this new free life of mine and about my kids, sure that I am ruining them forever. Thank goodness, these days and nights pass. And things even out again. Thank fucking goodness.
(Now, as a wee aside, I *do* think that anxiety makes sense in this world - because if you aren't scared of (and saddened by) this messed up world, then you probably aren't paying very good attention. That said, some of us have been bestowed with a bit more anxiety-making tendencies than others.)
Anyways, reflecting back on those crap-assed days over the past little bit, I got to thinking a lot about the idea of bravery. How brave am I, really? What makes bravery? How do we hold onto it, in these really slippery and uncertain and frankly scary times?
And so I made a list. Of the things I feel are really, really brave. Some of them I can do. Some of them I want to be able to do. All of them are brave.
1. Getting out of bed every single morning and trying to look for some good in your life, and in the world. Seriously. Harder than it sounds.
2. Listening to someone tell you how you've hurt them with an open heart and mind. This is so brave. So very brave. Because it requires really trying to understand your less savoury parts. We all have them. But we'd all rather believe we don't.
3. Admitting you fucked up. Trying to do better next time.
4. Admitting the parts of you that aren't pretty, while holding onto the parts that are. See #2. Some pretty tricky shit.
5. Doing something you've never done before. (Like, say, going to pole dance class with teensy weensy 20 year olds... It still freaks me out. And I'm still doing it.)
6. Believing that feeling ugly doesn't make you ugly. Mmmmm. Hard, hard, hard. But also brave.
7. Saying no to a child who's about to blow their stack. In public. (This is bravery to the enth degree friends, oh yes it is! And rarely ends well.)
8. Trusting someone with your secrets. (Oh, man!).
9. Trusting that your secrets aren't as bad as you believe. (Oh man! Oh man!)
10. Going with your gut and your heart when logic tells you otherwise. This is my favourite. Possibly because I frequently do it. But I steadfastly believe it's brave.
11. Risking real openness and vulnerability even when you know you might get squashed. (Yes.)
12. Admitting defeat. Yep. Sometimes I think this is the bravest thing possible.
13. Refusing to admit defeat. (Oh bravery, you are one tricky bastard).
14. Asking for help. (Oh god - I really suck at this one. Like, super suck. But I wonder sometimes, if admitting that you can't do it all on your own is a sign of strength rather than weakness?)
15. Honesty. This is the bravest, I think. Because it means first taking stock of that really hard stuff inside yourself - being honest and real with yourself about the good and bad and ugly- and then sharing that with someone else. WHEWF! Brave, brave, brave.
16. Skydiving. Okay - I don't get it. Not at all. But I think allowing yourself to plummet through the air with a parachute that may, or may not work, is very brave. Possibly also stupid. But very brave. Though, for the record, you will *never* catch me doing it. (But I have told my sky-dive-crazy child that I will sign a consent for him if he is still obsessed with the idea in his late teens. This will require all kinds of mad mama bravery on my part.
So yeah. Those are some of the things that I currently think are brave.
What is bravery to you? (I really want to know!)
At the beginning of this term, I dropped a class because I literally couldn't make myself go. I wanted to. I really really wanted to. But there were too too many people in this super crowded room and the two times I did go, I spent the entire three hours feeling like I couldn't breathe. So instead, I shot myself in the foot and took a course I wasn't particularly interested in, and, as it turns out, wasn't particularly good at either. I felt *horrible* about it. Because usually, I do a pretty damn good job of managing life in the anxiety lane. Usually I do a pretty good of doing the things that are shit scary to me. But this term, oh man, this term kicked my ass. Kicked my ass with wholly irrational thoughts that I believed to be wildly and irrevocably true. Because that's what anxiety does. It takes your worst thoughts and fears, the ones that you hold deep down and don't dare tell anyone about, and it amplifies them and then it engulfs you.
I spent a few days convinced that everyone in the world despised me. (And though to be sure, I am sure there are a few, the whole world might be a mild exaggeration. But that's anxiety for you. The irrational becomes the very, very real).
I spent a few nights awake with the stabbing feeling in my chest, unable to stop the whirring of my brain, that flitted between agonizing over assignments and stupid things I've said/done and wondering how I'm going to afford this new free life of mine and about my kids, sure that I am ruining them forever. Thank goodness, these days and nights pass. And things even out again. Thank fucking goodness.
(Now, as a wee aside, I *do* think that anxiety makes sense in this world - because if you aren't scared of (and saddened by) this messed up world, then you probably aren't paying very good attention. That said, some of us have been bestowed with a bit more anxiety-making tendencies than others.)
Anyways, reflecting back on those crap-assed days over the past little bit, I got to thinking a lot about the idea of bravery. How brave am I, really? What makes bravery? How do we hold onto it, in these really slippery and uncertain and frankly scary times?
And so I made a list. Of the things I feel are really, really brave. Some of them I can do. Some of them I want to be able to do. All of them are brave.
1. Getting out of bed every single morning and trying to look for some good in your life, and in the world. Seriously. Harder than it sounds.
2. Listening to someone tell you how you've hurt them with an open heart and mind. This is so brave. So very brave. Because it requires really trying to understand your less savoury parts. We all have them. But we'd all rather believe we don't.
3. Admitting you fucked up. Trying to do better next time.
4. Admitting the parts of you that aren't pretty, while holding onto the parts that are. See #2. Some pretty tricky shit.
5. Doing something you've never done before. (Like, say, going to pole dance class with teensy weensy 20 year olds... It still freaks me out. And I'm still doing it.)
6. Believing that feeling ugly doesn't make you ugly. Mmmmm. Hard, hard, hard. But also brave.
7. Saying no to a child who's about to blow their stack. In public. (This is bravery to the enth degree friends, oh yes it is! And rarely ends well.)
8. Trusting someone with your secrets. (Oh, man!).
9. Trusting that your secrets aren't as bad as you believe. (Oh man! Oh man!)
10. Going with your gut and your heart when logic tells you otherwise. This is my favourite. Possibly because I frequently do it. But I steadfastly believe it's brave.
11. Risking real openness and vulnerability even when you know you might get squashed. (Yes.)
12. Admitting defeat. Yep. Sometimes I think this is the bravest thing possible.
13. Refusing to admit defeat. (Oh bravery, you are one tricky bastard).
14. Asking for help. (Oh god - I really suck at this one. Like, super suck. But I wonder sometimes, if admitting that you can't do it all on your own is a sign of strength rather than weakness?)
15. Honesty. This is the bravest, I think. Because it means first taking stock of that really hard stuff inside yourself - being honest and real with yourself about the good and bad and ugly- and then sharing that with someone else. WHEWF! Brave, brave, brave.
16. Skydiving. Okay - I don't get it. Not at all. But I think allowing yourself to plummet through the air with a parachute that may, or may not work, is very brave. Possibly also stupid. But very brave. Though, for the record, you will *never* catch me doing it. (But I have told my sky-dive-crazy child that I will sign a consent for him if he is still obsessed with the idea in his late teens. This will require all kinds of mad mama bravery on my part.
So yeah. Those are some of the things that I currently think are brave.
What is bravery to you? (I really want to know!)
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Wednesday Poem - On The Edge (Audre Lorde)
Hey y'all. Experiencing some technical difficulties in the form of some blog-xiety (it's a word in my world). So am gonna take a wee breather and I'll be back in a bit. :)
Anyhoo - here's a Wednesday poem of gorgeousness. On a Tuesday night, as per usual.
On The Edge
A blade in the bed of a child
will slice up nightmares
into simpler hungers.
But a knife is a dangerous gift
girl brave enough to be crazy
you may never read this poem again
so commit it like sin
or a promise to the place
where poetry arms your beauty
with a hundred knives
some mined in the hills above Whydah
for a good-looking Creek
on the run.
The rhythms of your long body
do not yet move in my blood
but the first full moon of this year
is a void of course moon
I dream I am precious rock
touching the edge of you
that needs
the moon's loving.
Lorde, Audre. Our Dead Behind Us: Poems. London: Norton, 1986.
Anyhoo - here's a Wednesday poem of gorgeousness. On a Tuesday night, as per usual.
On The Edge
A blade in the bed of a child
will slice up nightmares
into simpler hungers.
But a knife is a dangerous gift
girl brave enough to be crazy
you may never read this poem again
so commit it like sin
or a promise to the place
where poetry arms your beauty
with a hundred knives
some mined in the hills above Whydah
for a good-looking Creek
on the run.
The rhythms of your long body
do not yet move in my blood
but the first full moon of this year
is a void of course moon
I dream I am precious rock
touching the edge of you
that needs
the moon's loving.
Lorde, Audre. Our Dead Behind Us: Poems. London: Norton, 1986.
Monday, April 15, 2013
My Brief Stint as a Feminist Commando, Or Alternatively, No One Was Injured in the Writing of This Blog
As I sat there listening to my hockey loving neighbour, yet again, shout at the television (which I would like to point out -will not answer back) I heard words that knocked me into an alternate and inappropriately wonderful universe. He shouted 'C'mon you n-word faggot pussy!' (Wow buddy - don't leave anybody out there...make sure you've assaulted everyone possible with your Big Hockey Feelings.)
And in my alternate universe, I got up, knocked on his door and punched him in the face. I cannot describe for you how wonderful this felt. So, so good, friends. So good, that Bam! In fact, it felt so good that I wanted to do it again.
So ensued an even more elaborate fantasy in which I repeatedly (I told you this was inappropriate) committed wonderful acts of violence on really senseless people.
What's that you say? Reverse sexism? Reverse racism? BAM!
Oh really? She dressed slutty and deserved it? KAPOW!
Dude who profoundly lacks a uterus protesting in front on an abortion clinic? You're a special case, buddy. You get a left hook AND a jab. SHAZAAAAM!
ohsweetbabyjesusthatwassatisfying.
Now granted, I was tired. It was a long day of paper writing and stress. It was a long week full of bad news in the news, and rapists and teen suicides and dumb boys protesting for the rights of rapists and people talking all kinds of shit. You know, shit about shit.
Of course, no one was injured in the writing of this blog. No punches were thrown. In reality, I did an hour of power yoga, had a bath and gave myself a yummy smelling mint facial while editing the final draft of a paper (and might I say, I should edit more papers in this manner. So lovely!)
And like I tell the babies, violence is never ok (except in self defense).
*In the future, though, I may be adding a silent addendum to this particular lecture.*
And in my alternate universe, I got up, knocked on his door and punched him in the face. I cannot describe for you how wonderful this felt. So, so good, friends. So good, that Bam! In fact, it felt so good that I wanted to do it again.
So ensued an even more elaborate fantasy in which I repeatedly (I told you this was inappropriate) committed wonderful acts of violence on really senseless people.
What's that you say? Reverse sexism? Reverse racism? BAM!
Oh really? She dressed slutty and deserved it? KAPOW!
Dude who profoundly lacks a uterus protesting in front on an abortion clinic? You're a special case, buddy. You get a left hook AND a jab. SHAZAAAAM!
ohsweetbabyjesusthatwassatisfying.
Now granted, I was tired. It was a long day of paper writing and stress. It was a long week full of bad news in the news, and rapists and teen suicides and dumb boys protesting for the rights of rapists and people talking all kinds of shit. You know, shit about shit.
Of course, no one was injured in the writing of this blog. No punches were thrown. In reality, I did an hour of power yoga, had a bath and gave myself a yummy smelling mint facial while editing the final draft of a paper (and might I say, I should edit more papers in this manner. So lovely!)
And like I tell the babies, violence is never ok (except in self defense).
*In the future, though, I may be adding a silent addendum to this particular lecture.*
Saturday, April 13, 2013
bull in a china shop
I have, for some of the year (when not thrilled to death to be there, and also in a tired-haze-of-learning-+-babies-stupor) walked around in my current academic home with a vague sense of unease. I wasn't really sure what it was about, just sort of one of those things at the back of your mind or the tip of your tongue that you can't quite.... get at. And then, the other day, it crept off the tip of my tongue and out through my Barbie band-aided fingertips onto my keyboard (man, that way of coming to cognition is so *me* in terms of life stuff. I wish it was so *me* in terms of school stuff!). But here it is, then. I often, when in my current workplace of academia, feel outclassed. Not an imposter in terms of intellect necessarily, although sometimes that too. But more like, I'm not classy enough. (Enough being, you know, at all). Academia feels like a pretty upper-middle class hangout. (Or maybe it's just all that middle-upper class angst by Carol Shields that I've been reading about all term long that has skewed my sense of the world surrounding me.) It's *not* the people. It's the place. It's in the walls and in the bones of Academia. Which feels proper. Reserved. Quiet. The home of the Well-Thought and the Articulate and the Distinguished.
And because my response to feeling inadequate in any way is *always* to confess, here are some of my non-classy confessions:
I'm the child of a middle class mama who married first generation immigrant/refugee papa. I'm the child of activist parents who both went back to school when their kids were young. Yup. We were broke. Then I later lived with my single-social-service-working-mama, supporting her two kids. And then with my mom and her partner, two formerly-single mama's raising four kids.
I know how many bills they're gonna send before they cut me off. And I know that the last notice never comes to you in an innocuous looking envelope. There's some red on that envelope, y'all. And some big-assed bold text. I am well versed in the art of generally scraping by and of getting through when the scraping isn't possible. These are the skills you get to learn when you don't grow up with money, and they're good skills to have.
I got to go to private school for my last two years of high school because my house burnt down when I was fifteen, and my dad used insurance money to pay myschool tuition. There, I learned the art of passing but not necessarily the art of comfort. I can pretend to be comfortable in environments that don't come naturally to me, but they still make me really nervous. Though I reflect that passing, too, is a good skill to have.
I don't throw dinner parties or go to fancy restaurants. I don't know how to throw a dinner party. And I probably can't afford to throw one, either. And besides that, they make me nervous. I can't casual-chat. Like, I suck at it. If I'm gonna talk to someone I want to get inside of them. Not, you know, like a virus. More like, I don't know, an inquisitive heart or a rainbow-loving-unicorn, or something all disgustingly earnest like that. (I do like to play up the sarcasm, but underneath I'm really abhorrently earnest. Which is probably why I have such little patience for the earnest...). I've got nothing against dinner parties. I'm sure, if one is good at them, they are all kinds of fun. I'm just deeply suspecting that I'm not good at them. Moreover, I'm pretty sure I'm not the kinda girl who gets invited to dinner parties. I'm more like the kinda girl you want to get drunk with and dance your ass off. And maybe make a pass at later. (Though this last bit could just be wishful thinking). Or alternatively, pour your soul out to. I'm kinda good like that. (Also - I think I might secretly aspire to be good at throwing dinner parties.)
I blurt shit out. Yep. I'm a blurter. (Though by the by, one of my favourite Carol Shields moments this year is in her book Unless, when the properly restrained Reta Winters comes to realize that "blurting is a form of bravery" (270). I rather enjoyed that bit. Properly restrained is not something I am, um, generally speaking, good at. Anyhoo...
I flirt. Like a lot. And sometimes totally by accident. That shit just comes out. And I swear like a motherfucker. Erm, I mean trucker. (That shit just comes out, too).
I'm far more comfortable in high-high heels and fishnets than I am in a pithily-worded tee and jeans with a scarf wrapped around my neck.
I'm a pretty hardcore femme. I'm also a broke-ass femme and I've perfected the art (oh yes, it's an art people) of spying barely worn shoes and hot dresses amidst racks 'o crap at second hand stores. Though I *do* love vintage and have a pretty darn good eye for it and have been known to rock the shit out of it; I never, never fool myself into thinking that sometimes 'vintage' is just a code word for Can'tAffordAnythingElse.
And my biggest fear about heading to a conference in June is not that I'll sound like a total moron (though this is also a distinct possibility), but that I will somehow be inappropriate in dress and decorum (which is an even more distinct possibility). Well - maybe not the dress part, cause I'm a good faker and I'll leave the fishnets at home. But decorum? Whole 'nother ballroom. And yes, that's my femme version of ball game ;)
Somebody once asked me how I managed to live in Edmonton with my combined love of pretty shoes and the presence of Gravity Pope. The fact of the matter is that I rarely set foot in Gravity Pope. Gravity Pope ain't for people like me. And what's more - the people who work at Gravity Pope, or Corso 32 or other classy and expensive (and I'm sure, wonderful) places - they know I'm an imposter. They can read me from the front door. I don't walk the walk. I pick up a pair of shoes and try not to gasp when I look at the price. And then wait for whomever I happen to be with without picking up another pair (because why the hell would I torture myself like that?). Or I look at the menu and try not to gasp at a 20$ glass of wine. I stifle discomfort when the server makes me taste that sip of wine before they pour the whole glass. But inside, my brain is shouting,
JesusChristJustPourTheWine!
AndPleaseStopLookingAtMe!
AndDoesAnyoneReallyEverSendItBack?
REALLY?
I try to think all of those things with my inner *quiet voice* while looking like my sweet, smiling self. But I know that they know. Imposter, me.
I think wine tasters are idiots because they spit out perfectly good wine. It's true. I do. Idiots. Perfectly good wine, people. That's all I have to say on this matter.
Currently, I am waiting to find out if I got a government scholarship for the next few years. I'm trying to remain positive but deeply suspect that I lost this particular coin toss. But if I do get it, I might actually cry in the happy-crying way. Because it would mean much, much less scraping. It would mean some breathing room. Or maybe an exciting conference (where I could worry some more about my lack of decorum)? But I also know that I'll be fine either way. I'm super scrappy that way.
I know I'm more class privileged than lots of people. Lots. (Note my use of italics, underline AND bold there, folks). But right now, I also feel like I'm taking some cultural notes. I'm trying to do like the Romans, as they say. I've just been hyper aware of late that I may not, you know, be a Roman (yet, or possibly ever).
I'm a bull in the proverbial china shop.
I guess it's part of my blurty, scrappy, vintage charm.
And because my response to feeling inadequate in any way is *always* to confess, here are some of my non-classy confessions:
I'm the child of a middle class mama who married first generation immigrant/refugee papa. I'm the child of activist parents who both went back to school when their kids were young. Yup. We were broke. Then I later lived with my single-social-service-working-mama, supporting her two kids. And then with my mom and her partner, two formerly-single mama's raising four kids.
I know how many bills they're gonna send before they cut me off. And I know that the last notice never comes to you in an innocuous looking envelope. There's some red on that envelope, y'all. And some big-assed bold text. I am well versed in the art of generally scraping by and of getting through when the scraping isn't possible. These are the skills you get to learn when you don't grow up with money, and they're good skills to have.
I got to go to private school for my last two years of high school because my house burnt down when I was fifteen, and my dad used insurance money to pay myschool tuition. There, I learned the art of passing but not necessarily the art of comfort. I can pretend to be comfortable in environments that don't come naturally to me, but they still make me really nervous. Though I reflect that passing, too, is a good skill to have.
I don't throw dinner parties or go to fancy restaurants. I don't know how to throw a dinner party. And I probably can't afford to throw one, either. And besides that, they make me nervous. I can't casual-chat. Like, I suck at it. If I'm gonna talk to someone I want to get inside of them. Not, you know, like a virus. More like, I don't know, an inquisitive heart or a rainbow-loving-unicorn, or something all disgustingly earnest like that. (I do like to play up the sarcasm, but underneath I'm really abhorrently earnest. Which is probably why I have such little patience for the earnest...). I've got nothing against dinner parties. I'm sure, if one is good at them, they are all kinds of fun. I'm just deeply suspecting that I'm not good at them. Moreover, I'm pretty sure I'm not the kinda girl who gets invited to dinner parties. I'm more like the kinda girl you want to get drunk with and dance your ass off. And maybe make a pass at later. (Though this last bit could just be wishful thinking). Or alternatively, pour your soul out to. I'm kinda good like that. (Also - I think I might secretly aspire to be good at throwing dinner parties.)
I blurt shit out. Yep. I'm a blurter. (Though by the by, one of my favourite Carol Shields moments this year is in her book Unless, when the properly restrained Reta Winters comes to realize that "blurting is a form of bravery" (270). I rather enjoyed that bit. Properly restrained is not something I am, um, generally speaking, good at. Anyhoo...
I flirt. Like a lot. And sometimes totally by accident. That shit just comes out. And I swear like a motherfucker. Erm, I mean trucker. (That shit just comes out, too).
I'm far more comfortable in high-high heels and fishnets than I am in a pithily-worded tee and jeans with a scarf wrapped around my neck.
I'm a pretty hardcore femme. I'm also a broke-ass femme and I've perfected the art (oh yes, it's an art people) of spying barely worn shoes and hot dresses amidst racks 'o crap at second hand stores. Though I *do* love vintage and have a pretty darn good eye for it and have been known to rock the shit out of it; I never, never fool myself into thinking that sometimes 'vintage' is just a code word for Can'tAffordAnythingElse.
And my biggest fear about heading to a conference in June is not that I'll sound like a total moron (though this is also a distinct possibility), but that I will somehow be inappropriate in dress and decorum (which is an even more distinct possibility). Well - maybe not the dress part, cause I'm a good faker and I'll leave the fishnets at home. But decorum? Whole 'nother ballroom. And yes, that's my femme version of ball game ;)
Somebody once asked me how I managed to live in Edmonton with my combined love of pretty shoes and the presence of Gravity Pope. The fact of the matter is that I rarely set foot in Gravity Pope. Gravity Pope ain't for people like me. And what's more - the people who work at Gravity Pope, or Corso 32 or other classy and expensive (and I'm sure, wonderful) places - they know I'm an imposter. They can read me from the front door. I don't walk the walk. I pick up a pair of shoes and try not to gasp when I look at the price. And then wait for whomever I happen to be with without picking up another pair (because why the hell would I torture myself like that?). Or I look at the menu and try not to gasp at a 20$ glass of wine. I stifle discomfort when the server makes me taste that sip of wine before they pour the whole glass. But inside, my brain is shouting,
JesusChristJustPourTheWine!
AndPleaseStopLookingAtMe!
AndDoesAnyoneReallyEverSendItBack?
REALLY?
I try to think all of those things with my inner *quiet voice* while looking like my sweet, smiling self. But I know that they know. Imposter, me.
I think wine tasters are idiots because they spit out perfectly good wine. It's true. I do. Idiots. Perfectly good wine, people. That's all I have to say on this matter.
Currently, I am waiting to find out if I got a government scholarship for the next few years. I'm trying to remain positive but deeply suspect that I lost this particular coin toss. But if I do get it, I might actually cry in the happy-crying way. Because it would mean much, much less scraping. It would mean some breathing room. Or maybe an exciting conference (where I could worry some more about my lack of decorum)? But I also know that I'll be fine either way. I'm super scrappy that way.
I know I'm more class privileged than lots of people. Lots. (Note my use of italics, underline AND bold there, folks). But right now, I also feel like I'm taking some cultural notes. I'm trying to do like the Romans, as they say. I've just been hyper aware of late that I may not, you know, be a Roman (yet, or possibly ever).
I'm a bull in the proverbial china shop.
I guess it's part of my blurty, scrappy, vintage charm.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
What the heck do you do all day, Mama?
I'm both writing papers (or madly attempting to), and percolating a blog - so today just a kid story. This morning, as I am driving the babes to daycare and they are both protesting at having to go to daycare and school when I get to "stay home all day." So, I try to explain that I have writing to do, and can't do that when they are home. The following conversation ensues:
Boy-o: What do you write about, Mama?
Me: Well, I write about all kinds of things. For school, I write about the things I am studying in my classes. And I also write about the things I experience, about life and the things that I see in the world around me.
Boy-o: Oh. I see...
Long and thoughtful pause....
Boy-o: I saw a dead bird yesterday. It had no head.
Boy-o: What do you write about, Mama?
Me: Well, I write about all kinds of things. For school, I write about the things I am studying in my classes. And I also write about the things I experience, about life and the things that I see in the world around me.
Boy-o: Oh. I see...
Long and thoughtful pause....
Boy-o: I saw a dead bird yesterday. It had no head.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Wednesday Poem - From Thirsty (Dionne Brand)
Now, I love poems as much as the next girl. Okay, I might love poems a little more than the next girl. I don't really know how the next girl feels. But this poem - this one - it made me hold my breath a little. And sigh involuntarily. Dionne Brand is magical.
From thirsty
This city is beauty
unbreakable and amorous as eyelids,
in the streets, pressed with fierce departures,
submerged landings,
I am innocent as thresholds
and smashed night birds, lovesick,
as empty elevators
let me declare doorways,
corners, pursuit, let me say
standing here in eyelashes, in
invisible breasts, in the shrinking lake
in the tiny shops of untrue recollections,
the brittle, gnawed life we live,
I am held, and held
the touch of everything blushes me,
pigeons and wrecked boys,
half-dead hours, blind musicians,
inconclusive women in bruised dresses
even the habitual grey-suited men with terrible
briefcases, how come, how come
I anticipate nothing as intimate as history
would I have had a different life
failing this embrace with broken things,
iridescent veins, ecstatic bullets, small cracks
in the brain, would I know these particular facts,
how a phrase scars a cheek, how water
dries love out, this, a thought as casual
as any second eviscerates a breath
and this, we meet in careless intervals,
in coffee bars, gas stations, in prosthetic
conversations, lotteries, untranslatable
mouths, in versions of what we may be,
a tremor of the hand in the realization
of endings, a glancing blow of tears
on skin, the keen dismissal in speed
From thirsty, by Dionne Brand
Copyright © Dionne Brand, 2002
From thirsty
This city is beauty
unbreakable and amorous as eyelids,
in the streets, pressed with fierce departures,
submerged landings,
I am innocent as thresholds
and smashed night birds, lovesick,
as empty elevators
let me declare doorways,
corners, pursuit, let me say
standing here in eyelashes, in
invisible breasts, in the shrinking lake
in the tiny shops of untrue recollections,
the brittle, gnawed life we live,
I am held, and held
the touch of everything blushes me,
pigeons and wrecked boys,
half-dead hours, blind musicians,
inconclusive women in bruised dresses
even the habitual grey-suited men with terrible
briefcases, how come, how come
I anticipate nothing as intimate as history
would I have had a different life
failing this embrace with broken things,
iridescent veins, ecstatic bullets, small cracks
in the brain, would I know these particular facts,
how a phrase scars a cheek, how water
dries love out, this, a thought as casual
as any second eviscerates a breath
and this, we meet in careless intervals,
in coffee bars, gas stations, in prosthetic
conversations, lotteries, untranslatable
mouths, in versions of what we may be,
a tremor of the hand in the realization
of endings, a glancing blow of tears
on skin, the keen dismissal in speed
From thirsty, by Dionne Brand
Copyright © Dionne Brand, 2002
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Celebrity Soundbytes Make me CRANKY (repost from 2010, that not surprisingly STILL makes me cranky)
I recently read this little article about Julia Roberts on MSNBC, who has been named People Mag's most beautiful person of the year (or whatever that bullshit accolade is properly titled). It said:
In an interview with the New York Times, the 44-year-old Pretty Woman star – who is married to cameraman Danny Moder with whom she has twins Hazel and Phinnaeus, five, and son Henry, two-and-a-half – revealed that she loves her home life.
She said: "We are happy as clams. I am fulfilled by my own life on an hourly basis.”
She added: "Every little moment is amazing if you let yourself access it. I learn that all the time from my kids; children are so filled with wonder. My youngest son woke up at 5am the other morning and said to me, 'It's a beautiful day, Mamma!' What's more precious than that?"
I know that this little fluff article is meant to make us love Julia even more. I mean, sheloves her homelife, right? But it kinda just makes me want to punch her in the face. Every moment is amazing if you let yourself access it? You are fulfilled by your own life on an hourly basis? Really? Hourly? It must be nice to have time to reflect on your own life on a hourly basis. It must be especially nice to have time to reflect on your own life on an hourly basis and then have the added bonus of pleasantly discovering that you are, in fact, as happy as a clam.
Family soundbytes from celebrity moms tend to drive me mad. Why? Because they make it sound all beautiful and effortless and charming and delightful. Except of course, they neglect to mention the aid of their nannies and housekeepers and personal trainers and drivers and poolboys. When you have these things, I suppose it's a little bit easier to feel chill and reflective and fulfilled by one's own life on an hourly basis, given that most of their hours aren't actually filled with the shit-work of parenting and house-hold maintenance. I, too, would love to focus constantly on the beauty and magic and child-like wonder displayed by my children at 5 a.m. (and 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m. because there's a lotta kiddie wonder at my house in the night). But unlike Julia Roberts, I don't have anyone to hand them off to so that I can take a sweet-ass nap later (or go to a private yoga class to meditate, say perhaps on the hourly delights offered up by my life).
J-Lo, after the birth of twins Max and Emme, wanted us all to know she gets up to do her babies nighttime feedings herself. As if we are supposed to connect with this sentiment by thinking: Hey J-Lo - ME TOO! Gee, maybe you are just 'Jenny from the Block!'.
Christina Aguilera would like us all to know that motherhood has, in fact, made her sexier. I cannot even muster up the energy to respond to this wee tidbit of information.
And another article in this month's People Magazine about the lovely (and yes, I'm sure she is actually lovely) Julia has Ocean's Eleven (etc.) producer Jerry Weintrub waxing poetic about Roberts' mothering prowess: "She's not a diva. She's not afraid to get into an SUV and drive with the kids in the backseat." I have two things to say about this. First of all - anyone who has ever driven with screaming children in the backseat of their car will tell you that you should be afraid of getting into a moving vehicle with children, particularly one's own (and by this I mean one's own children, not car). Texting while driving has got nothing on driving with kids in the danger department. Second of all - do we really need to congratulate celebrities for, like, driving their own children places? Is this the standard of "good" mothering that they're being held up to? If so - I'm here to tell ya that I am a fucking amazing parent! The best. I drive my kids places and get up with them in the night myself ALL THE TIME!
These are only a tiny sampling of the crap about mothering spewed by celebs and churned out by every magazine and media outlet under the sun. I'm also sure much of these soundbytes are largely taken out of context. But they still make me hella cranky (as you may have already ascertained). And the, "golly gosh, I'm just a regular (but extremely zen-like and fulfilled) person with millions of dollars and a butler" routine just doesn't fly with me. Just once I'd like to hear one of them say... "you know - this parenting gig is great but it's bloody bleeping hard. I cry a lot. I don't know how people who have to cook their own food/do their own dishes/drive their own car/clean their own pool/etc. etc. do it." Or something along those lines. Then maybe I'd be a bit more willing to be forgiving of their soundbytes, contextual or not.
And Julia - if you're out there, still wondering what could be more precious than being awoken at 5 a.m. by a wonder-struck child, I'm here to tell ya: It would be even more precious if the little bugger waited until 6 a.m to tell you it was a beautiful day. Really. It would. And if he waited until 7 a.m., it would be sweeter still. But at 8 a.m. - it would be fucking profound.
In an interview with the New York Times, the 44-year-old Pretty Woman star – who is married to cameraman Danny Moder with whom she has twins Hazel and Phinnaeus, five, and son Henry, two-and-a-half – revealed that she loves her home life.
She said: "We are happy as clams. I am fulfilled by my own life on an hourly basis.”
She added: "Every little moment is amazing if you let yourself access it. I learn that all the time from my kids; children are so filled with wonder. My youngest son woke up at 5am the other morning and said to me, 'It's a beautiful day, Mamma!' What's more precious than that?"
I know that this little fluff article is meant to make us love Julia even more. I mean, sheloves her homelife, right? But it kinda just makes me want to punch her in the face. Every moment is amazing if you let yourself access it? You are fulfilled by your own life on an hourly basis? Really? Hourly? It must be nice to have time to reflect on your own life on a hourly basis. It must be especially nice to have time to reflect on your own life on an hourly basis and then have the added bonus of pleasantly discovering that you are, in fact, as happy as a clam.
Family soundbytes from celebrity moms tend to drive me mad. Why? Because they make it sound all beautiful and effortless and charming and delightful. Except of course, they neglect to mention the aid of their nannies and housekeepers and personal trainers and drivers and poolboys. When you have these things, I suppose it's a little bit easier to feel chill and reflective and fulfilled by one's own life on an hourly basis, given that most of their hours aren't actually filled with the shit-work of parenting and house-hold maintenance. I, too, would love to focus constantly on the beauty and magic and child-like wonder displayed by my children at 5 a.m. (and 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m. because there's a lotta kiddie wonder at my house in the night). But unlike Julia Roberts, I don't have anyone to hand them off to so that I can take a sweet-ass nap later (or go to a private yoga class to meditate, say perhaps on the hourly delights offered up by my life).
J-Lo, after the birth of twins Max and Emme, wanted us all to know she gets up to do her babies nighttime feedings herself. As if we are supposed to connect with this sentiment by thinking: Hey J-Lo - ME TOO! Gee, maybe you are just 'Jenny from the Block!'.
Christina Aguilera would like us all to know that motherhood has, in fact, made her sexier. I cannot even muster up the energy to respond to this wee tidbit of information.
And another article in this month's People Magazine about the lovely (and yes, I'm sure she is actually lovely) Julia has Ocean's Eleven (etc.) producer Jerry Weintrub waxing poetic about Roberts' mothering prowess: "She's not a diva. She's not afraid to get into an SUV and drive with the kids in the backseat." I have two things to say about this. First of all - anyone who has ever driven with screaming children in the backseat of their car will tell you that you should be afraid of getting into a moving vehicle with children, particularly one's own (and by this I mean one's own children, not car). Texting while driving has got nothing on driving with kids in the danger department. Second of all - do we really need to congratulate celebrities for, like, driving their own children places? Is this the standard of "good" mothering that they're being held up to? If so - I'm here to tell ya that I am a fucking amazing parent! The best. I drive my kids places and get up with them in the night myself ALL THE TIME!
These are only a tiny sampling of the crap about mothering spewed by celebs and churned out by every magazine and media outlet under the sun. I'm also sure much of these soundbytes are largely taken out of context. But they still make me hella cranky (as you may have already ascertained). And the, "golly gosh, I'm just a regular (but extremely zen-like and fulfilled) person with millions of dollars and a butler" routine just doesn't fly with me. Just once I'd like to hear one of them say... "you know - this parenting gig is great but it's bloody bleeping hard. I cry a lot. I don't know how people who have to cook their own food/do their own dishes/drive their own car/clean their own pool/etc. etc. do it." Or something along those lines. Then maybe I'd be a bit more willing to be forgiving of their soundbytes, contextual or not.
And Julia - if you're out there, still wondering what could be more precious than being awoken at 5 a.m. by a wonder-struck child, I'm here to tell ya: It would be even more precious if the little bugger waited until 6 a.m to tell you it was a beautiful day. Really. It would. And if he waited until 7 a.m., it would be sweeter still. But at 8 a.m. - it would be fucking profound.
Monday, April 8, 2013
random bits of beauty
Sometimes, the world is a bit argh. And blech. And just generally, meh. Sometimes it feels incredibly overwhelming. Sometimes, it seems as if you will feel this way (this way being, you know, generally crappy) forever. Sometimes you are sure that nothing will ever change. Sometimes, you are certain that those ghosts will always be the same sticky beasts hanging over your shoulder. When I get mired in these sorts of sometimes, I find that trying to access, remember, and possibly-cling-to-like-a-drowning-person, those things in your life that are incredible, wonderful and in all ways lovely, is a helpful endeavour. Thus, below, I've attempted to channel some inner and outer loveliness.
My random bits of beauty...
1. The dawning realization that I have *almost* completed my first year of school. (Holy effing f-bomb!)
2. The blue sky and puddly sidewalks that might just be announcing spring (for real this time).
3. Getting sweet, kiss-filled photo messages from my vacationing babies and seeing the joy in their faces as they get all loved up by their mommy and their grandparents.
4. Being able to look forward instead of backward.
5. Creating and recreating that tattoo I will get someday, when I find my money-tree.
6. The feeling of euphoria when my body finally learns how to do that elusive spin.
7. Time alone and the hum of silence.
8. Recognizing that getting a B+ in Scholarly Editing *might* not actually kill me. And *might* not mean I'm a (total) idiot. And *might* not ruin me for life.
9. Writing the final line of a particularly vexing paper. Or, you know, finding the energy to start that particularly vexing paper.
10. The running, flying leap-into-the-arms, accompanied by a yell of "MAMMMMAAA!" and followed by a full-bodied hug that I get from Girlio every single time I pick her up from daycare.
11. That rare moment when Boy-o slows down long enough to nestle in for a coveted snuggle.
12. Remembering that I still know how to belly-laugh. And how utterly delicious that feels.
13. Writing a blog that scares the living shit out of me, and getting the most amazingly wonderful feedback.
14. A message from a friend with just the right words at just the right time.
Loveliness. It exists everywhere. Now, to keep remembering...
My random bits of beauty...
1. The dawning realization that I have *almost* completed my first year of school. (Holy effing f-bomb!)
2. The blue sky and puddly sidewalks that might just be announcing spring (for real this time).
3. Getting sweet, kiss-filled photo messages from my vacationing babies and seeing the joy in their faces as they get all loved up by their mommy and their grandparents.
4. Being able to look forward instead of backward.
5. Creating and recreating that tattoo I will get someday, when I find my money-tree.
6. The feeling of euphoria when my body finally learns how to do that elusive spin.
7. Time alone and the hum of silence.
8. Recognizing that getting a B+ in Scholarly Editing *might* not actually kill me. And *might* not mean I'm a (total) idiot. And *might* not ruin me for life.
9. Writing the final line of a particularly vexing paper. Or, you know, finding the energy to start that particularly vexing paper.
10. The running, flying leap-into-the-arms, accompanied by a yell of "MAMMMMAAA!" and followed by a full-bodied hug that I get from Girlio every single time I pick her up from daycare.
11. That rare moment when Boy-o slows down long enough to nestle in for a coveted snuggle.
12. Remembering that I still know how to belly-laugh. And how utterly delicious that feels.
13. Writing a blog that scares the living shit out of me, and getting the most amazingly wonderful feedback.
14. A message from a friend with just the right words at just the right time.
Loveliness. It exists everywhere. Now, to keep remembering...
Friday, April 5, 2013
chewing the fat/giving the skinny: a short rant on POF
So I'm on POF. You know. Plenty of Fish. It's a ridiculous place (especially since I have vowed to never ever date again, you know, like, ever, or at least until someone is convincing enough to make me change my damn mind. So like, probably never), and I could write several, several rants about it. Like, for instance, what makes you straight couples think that this particular queer girl want to be the bologna in your sandwich? I am *not* your bologna! And you really, and I do mean really in the most profound way possible, are *not* my kinda bread. (If you really wanna know, you're kinda like wonder bread, and I'm more into 12 grain. Stoneground). And though apparently I *look* like a straight girl, I'm not. You know, like it says right there on the profile. Those sentences I wrote? That did not contain a single 'U R' in them? Those ones? Is it the lipstick that's throwing you off? The dress?
Inhale. Exhale. Digress. (Sorry. I get a lot of these ones. Like, a lot a lot. It's gone way past the point of kinda flattering and headed straight into irritating).
Anyhoo - I have a brand new POF irritant.
And it's actually in the messages I get from queer girls (which is so disappointing. Queer girls, I expect better). The last few queer girls have included the following line (or a reasonable facsimile) in their messages and/or profile.
"I'm looking for a girly/femme/whathaveyou girl that 'takes care of herself.'"
Now - what does this mean exactly? (Given the fact that you're a social drinker and/or smoker and/or cite partying as a hobby, I'm gonna take a wild guess that you aren't looking to find a teetotaller). So I gotta say, this makes my fat phobia radar go off hard. And having been a fat chick for most of my life and now (probably temporarily) residing in a much skinnier version of myself, my fat phobia radar is pretty freaking finely attuned. And it sounds like you might actually mean to say is: "No fat chicks need apply." And I know you're all looking at my profile pics and thinking that maybe you can say this kind of shit to me... but ha! Haha! Ha. Fooled ya. I'm not your ally in this shit and you just made me really and profoundly pissy.
And now all I want to do is chat you up all coy-like so that I meet you for coffee, or lunch (perhaps bologna sandwiches?), flip you the bird and tell you "take care of this, girlfriend!"
POF - making girls like me think the words 'all by myself' are the sexiest, hottest freaking words on the planet.
Inhale. Exhale. Digress. (Sorry. I get a lot of these ones. Like, a lot a lot. It's gone way past the point of kinda flattering and headed straight into irritating).
Anyhoo - I have a brand new POF irritant.
And it's actually in the messages I get from queer girls (which is so disappointing. Queer girls, I expect better). The last few queer girls have included the following line (or a reasonable facsimile) in their messages and/or profile.
"I'm looking for a girly/femme/whathaveyou girl that 'takes care of herself.'"
Now - what does this mean exactly? (Given the fact that you're a social drinker and/or smoker and/or cite partying as a hobby, I'm gonna take a wild guess that you aren't looking to find a teetotaller). So I gotta say, this makes my fat phobia radar go off hard. And having been a fat chick for most of my life and now (probably temporarily) residing in a much skinnier version of myself, my fat phobia radar is pretty freaking finely attuned. And it sounds like you might actually mean to say is: "No fat chicks need apply." And I know you're all looking at my profile pics and thinking that maybe you can say this kind of shit to me... but ha! Haha! Ha. Fooled ya. I'm not your ally in this shit and you just made me really and profoundly pissy.
And now all I want to do is chat you up all coy-like so that I meet you for coffee, or lunch (perhaps bologna sandwiches?), flip you the bird and tell you "take care of this, girlfriend!"
POF - making girls like me think the words 'all by myself' are the sexiest, hottest freaking words on the planet.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
writing selves
I've been thinking a lot lately (ha! I start a lot of posts that way, don't I? But I *DO* have a busy, busy brain, so I guess it's apropos) about this business of life writing. Partially because it seems that I do it. And also because it seems to be what I study as well. So - life and writing and life writing on the brain.
When I was taking what has been, thus far, my favourite grad school course to date, on Canadian life writing - I had the good, great, awesome fortune to be introduced to a Quebec artist/cartoonist/serial memoirist Julie Doucet. We read one of her many, many comic book/graphic art memoirs, My New York Diary, which documents a short period of her life in entrancing and uncomfortable detail. It is, in a word, sublime. She has many others - like MANY - she was bloody awesomely prolific (I use the past tense here not because she is dead - she is most certainly not - but because she has since switched mediums and now produced autobiographical art). Anyhow - I mention Doucet because in the course of studying her, I came across an interview in which she said that autobiographical practice, for her, was like a disease. She wasn't capable of *not* doing it. And this struck a bit o' a chord with me. Now to be clear, I'm not not NOT saying I'm a Julie Doucet. I don't have even an iota of her complete and utter shazaam! I can't imagine anyone publishing anything that gets written down here - but I do also get that feeling about my sometimes inexorable need to write it all down.
I have to write. I don't know why. I just do. (Maybe I'm a narcissistic exhibitionist. Maybe it's just a big part of how I learn myself. Maybe I'm just an autobiographer at heart, if that is, in fact, what this business is). But I have to write something resembling a self of mine. A self of mine some of the time anyways. But it isn't all of myself or more properly, my selves. It's a version, one that changes with impulse, feeling(s), circumstance, time and place; a flick of a keyboard key or two. Sometimes I read back old posts and wonder what the fracking hell I was thinking. But I know that I was there at the time. It was me, or a reasonable facsimile of a sort of me, a version in that moment. In that way, as uncomfortable or awkward or even embarrassing as this writing business is, it's nice to have a record or a way to map back where I've been in a semi-tangible way. And I like having a roadmap, even if it is in reverse (I'm utter shite at reading regular roadmaps anyways).
A friend of mine told me today, while we were out for a long overdue sushi date, that she thought I was brave for writing the things I do. It was a lovely thing to say. But I wonder if that's what this is? Is it bravery? Is it silliness? Self-indulgence? Or maybe brave and silly self-indulgence? Or maybe, all writing and/or writers is/are slightly brave and silly and self-indulgent. She, my friend is a fiction writer. I can't write fiction. I've tried. And failed. Multiple times. The stuff of my creative juices, as it were, comes straight from the stuff of my life and try as I might, I cannot make it otherwise.
I'm reading Carol Shields for a class right now. A lot of Carol Shields. A schwack of it, in fact. And though she isn't my favourite, (I find her emotionally distant or removed from her writing somehow, though much of her prose is lovely. It's just not a way of looking at the world that I process particularly well). At any rate, one of her character descriptions (a teensy weensy part of a rather long read) in her book Unless (2002) really resonated for me: "She always claimed she had little imagination, that she wrote out of the material of her own life, but that she was forever on the lookout for what she called putty. By this she meant the arbitrary, the odd, the ordinary, the mucilage of daily life that cements our genuine moments of being" (95). And I think that might be it, in a nutshell.
I may lack imagination - but hot damn, I have a whole lot of putty - and apparently, putty is what really makes me tick...
When I was taking what has been, thus far, my favourite grad school course to date, on Canadian life writing - I had the good, great, awesome fortune to be introduced to a Quebec artist/cartoonist/serial memoirist Julie Doucet. We read one of her many, many comic book/graphic art memoirs, My New York Diary, which documents a short period of her life in entrancing and uncomfortable detail. It is, in a word, sublime. She has many others - like MANY - she was bloody awesomely prolific (I use the past tense here not because she is dead - she is most certainly not - but because she has since switched mediums and now produced autobiographical art). Anyhow - I mention Doucet because in the course of studying her, I came across an interview in which she said that autobiographical practice, for her, was like a disease. She wasn't capable of *not* doing it. And this struck a bit o' a chord with me. Now to be clear, I'm not not NOT saying I'm a Julie Doucet. I don't have even an iota of her complete and utter shazaam! I can't imagine anyone publishing anything that gets written down here - but I do also get that feeling about my sometimes inexorable need to write it all down.
I have to write. I don't know why. I just do. (Maybe I'm a narcissistic exhibitionist. Maybe it's just a big part of how I learn myself. Maybe I'm just an autobiographer at heart, if that is, in fact, what this business is). But I have to write something resembling a self of mine. A self of mine some of the time anyways. But it isn't all of myself or more properly, my selves. It's a version, one that changes with impulse, feeling(s), circumstance, time and place; a flick of a keyboard key or two. Sometimes I read back old posts and wonder what the fracking hell I was thinking. But I know that I was there at the time. It was me, or a reasonable facsimile of a sort of me, a version in that moment. In that way, as uncomfortable or awkward or even embarrassing as this writing business is, it's nice to have a record or a way to map back where I've been in a semi-tangible way. And I like having a roadmap, even if it is in reverse (I'm utter shite at reading regular roadmaps anyways).
A friend of mine told me today, while we were out for a long overdue sushi date, that she thought I was brave for writing the things I do. It was a lovely thing to say. But I wonder if that's what this is? Is it bravery? Is it silliness? Self-indulgence? Or maybe brave and silly self-indulgence? Or maybe, all writing and/or writers is/are slightly brave and silly and self-indulgent. She, my friend is a fiction writer. I can't write fiction. I've tried. And failed. Multiple times. The stuff of my creative juices, as it were, comes straight from the stuff of my life and try as I might, I cannot make it otherwise.
I'm reading Carol Shields for a class right now. A lot of Carol Shields. A schwack of it, in fact. And though she isn't my favourite, (I find her emotionally distant or removed from her writing somehow, though much of her prose is lovely. It's just not a way of looking at the world that I process particularly well). At any rate, one of her character descriptions (a teensy weensy part of a rather long read) in her book Unless (2002) really resonated for me: "She always claimed she had little imagination, that she wrote out of the material of her own life, but that she was forever on the lookout for what she called putty. By this she meant the arbitrary, the odd, the ordinary, the mucilage of daily life that cements our genuine moments of being" (95). And I think that might be it, in a nutshell.
I may lack imagination - but hot damn, I have a whole lot of putty - and apparently, putty is what really makes me tick...
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Wednesday Poem - A recitation of "Litany" by Billy Collins
Oh, child! You are most certainly the sound of rain on the roof. And you also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table. You are also as c-u-t-e as all hell. And maybe a little bit divine.
Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Billy Collins
Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Billy Collins
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
throwing off the blankets *trigger warning here peeps*
I'm gonna tell you again before you read on that this may be triggering. I'm also going to tell you before you read on that this may tell you more than you want to know about me. You've been told. Carry on if you like. Or don't, if you don't like. I’m good either way. I'm an informed consent kinda girl.
Ok. Here goes…and deep breath...
I never wanted to tell this story. It's not the sort of story one wants to tell. It's not the only story I have of this sort to tell, either, but it is certainly the one I feel the most conflicted about, the one that is most amorphous, slippery - the one that has given me the most grief. I have been inspired lately, by blog accounts of brave, brave women telling their stories in the wake of Steubenville. I was particularly touched by this brave post by Kim Simon at HuffPost. And I think, now might be the time to add my voice into the world.
This month has the dubious distinction of being Sexual Assault Awareness Month (at least in the U.S. – thanks to President Obama), which has the dubious distinction of falling on the heels of the Steubenville case (and so many others), which many survivors have been triggered by. I know, from my time working on the Sexual Assault Crisis Line that these are the times crisis line-volumes pick up. And for good reason. No one wants to go backwards. Not even me. I've written this piece in fits and starts over an extended period of time. And thought about it a lot. And worried about it a bit. Will it change the way you look at me? I know it had a profound impact on how I saw myself for a long time. It feels risky. It feels vulnerable. It feels scary. It feels, well, it feels shameful.
So why am I sharing this? Why do I feel the need, the compulsion really, to tell this story publicly, for the first time?
Because that girl, that young woman, Jane Doe from Steubenville, she should not have to bear her shame alone. She had no choice in the sharing of her story. That choice was taken from her, along with the choice she should have had to pass out safely, and untouched. And the young woman from BC, whose gang rape was recorded onto phones, she should have had that choice too.
I think, in their honour and the honour of so, so, so many people, it behooves us to stand up and tell our stories (caveat: in an appropriate place, which does *not* mean standing up and blurting it out in one's Intro to WS class, mkay?). Hang out our shame, right alongside theirs. Maybe... just maybe.... if we all started to speak, to share, to stand up and stand out with each other; maybe if we refused to hold onto it, the shame wouldn't belong to us anymore. And because maybe if I share this story, if we all start to share our stories, something will shift, and it will be one that my daughter will never have to tell.
I was raised by a feminist. I was taught all about good/bad touch and knew I had a right to do what I wanted with my own body. I knew about party safety and walking in groups and all of the stuff we tell girls to 'keep themselves safe.' I took Wen-Do for Christ's sake! I was a feminist kid, and then a feminist teen, and in high school, I hung out with a reasonably feminist-y, pensive, Neil-Young-loving, philosophically existential crowd of boys (ok, so we had a few arguments over whether "Down by the River I Shot My Baby" was misogynist or not, *and it is, oh yes, it is* but for the most part, feminist-y boys). I was in love with one of them. Natch. I was also horribly insecure. And an uber people-pleaser. And these two things, I would surmise, made me a pretty easy target.
At any rate... there was this party. (Isn't that always how these stories start? So... there was this party... anyways...). It was at my house. My moms were away. So 'my boys' came over for some drinking and some drugs. Yep. Drinking and drugs and my boys and Neil Young. Just another Saturday night. It was a really nice night. Hanging. I was high as a kite (party girl, me) and really, really drunk. It got late, and eventually, around 2 a.m., it was down to three of us. A good friend, the boy I loved, and me. I was really tired and starting to pass out. I sort of came in and out as they chatted, and as I struggled to stay awake and wondered when the hell they were going to leave.
Around 4 a.m. or shortly thereafter, the boy I loved got up to leave. Not so, my friend. Not two seconds after my ‘love’ (who wasn’t actually my love) left, my friend started wheedling for sex. I remember quite clearly saying no. That I was too tired. That I needed to pass out. That I had the spins. All of which was true and clearly evident whether I'd said anything or not. But there was begging and wheedling and 'c'mon-ing' and touching my hair and more wheedling. There was edging closer and closer. I could barely keep my eyes open. In fact, they weren't open when the kissing started. I'm not sure when exactly it occurred to me, but I realized at some point soon after that he wasn't going to leave until I stopped protesting and deflecting. Like, really wasn't going to leave. And I was so tired and drunk and high and spinny. And I lost the energy to stick up for myself. I didn't have it in me. I just... gave up.
A few hours later, he left. The sun had come up. As I was lying awake on that hot summer morning, shivering under a mountain of blankets, staring into the space between the cracks on my bedroom ceiling and my self-loathing, I heard the phone ring. It was, of course, the boy I loved. "You SLEPT with him, didn't you?!" he demanded, his voice full of indignation, and maybe, some disgust. Before ‘hello.’ Before ‘good morning.’ I didn't have words. Silence hung crisply suspended between us. I was a whore. And he knew it. And I knew then, in that moment of silence, that not only would he never love me, he would probably also never respect me again, either.
The story I would tell about myself, later, throughout my twenties, was that I had once slept with a boy just to get him to leave my house. Hahaha. Ha! It's funny, right? Tough girl who doesn't care... yep - that's me. (The internal voices were differently tough. What kind of person would do this? What kind of woman? What kind of feminist? What kind of slut?)
But I think I always knew, even then, and even though I couldn't admit it to myself, that this was only part of the story. The part of the story that doesn't include my protestations of being too drunk, too high, too exhausted, too barfy. The part of the story that doesn't include coming in and out of various states of consciousness. The part of the story when I woke up part way through and realized that it was taking so long because he, my friend, was trying to be 'gentlemanly', and I had not been showing enough enthusiasm. When I realized that in order to make it be done and over, I needed to show... enthusiasm. The part of the story that could not possibly happen to a Wen-Do taking, feminist daughter of a feminist mother. A Wen-Do taking feminist daughter of a feminist mother would most certainly have done a better job of asserting herself, of protecting herself. Wouldn't she?
He left somewhere around 6 a.m.
He politely thanked the girl for a nice night.
A nice night.
A gentleman.
And the girl, that girl who slept with a boy just so he would leave her house, she collapsed into her bed. Into her bed that was in her home. And pulled every blanket she could find over her body. It was so hot outside. And she couldn't get warm.
It took that feminist girl, now a feminist woman, over ten years to recognize and to call this what it was. It wasn't violent. It wasn't some stranger jumping out of the bushes and holding a knife to my throat. It was my own friend, in my own home, on what might have been a beautiful summer night.
I know I'm not alone.
I know there are millions of us. Each having been covered with our own blankets of shame. Some luckier than others, if there can be such a thing in such a circumstance.
I know that if we spread those blankets out, they would cover the hugest of geographies . . . a map of the blankets that didn’t keep us warm afterwards; it would zigzag a mishmash of paisley, stripe-y, polkadot, super-heroed, patterned, fluffy, ribbon-edged shame across our country, and across many others.
We have to keep this dialogue going. We have to keep talking about it. We have to hold on to the momentum of awareness and media of Steubenville. We have to talk about consent. More. Lots more. And keep talking. Pass it on. And then we have to explain consent and respect for boundaries. We have to raise our voices for realistic sex education in schools. We have to stop talking about the horrors of rape in South Africa and India as if they are the only places these things happen ('cause aside from being, you know, wrong - it's also racist - folks), while we continue to look the other way when it happens in our own backyards. We have to admit we see it. We have to admit it's there. And these are just starting points.
We have to do more than just talk about consent and non consent. That is not nearly enough and doesn't do much to solve the underlying problems of rape culture. We have to teach our littles about sexuality and how amazing and wonderful it can be and it should be and is. We have to role-model sex positivity, that is - that sex and body lovin' are unequivocally beautiful things in all of their myriad forms and expressions. That sexual pleasure is a gift, however we choose to, or not to, express it. That shame should never be a part of sex. Because the sex-shaming culture we live in is an intrinsic part of rape culture. I'm not sure that one can exist without the other. We hear in it the dialogue about Jane Doe in Steubenville. "What kind of slut would make herself available to the football team?" And here's the thing - in a sex positive culture, it doesn't matter if I choose to fuck the whole damn football team. If, that is, I choose it because it makes my body and heart happy and full of desire. I want a world where my daughter can choose to fuck whomever she wants, without shame and without gendered moralizing, because it makes her body and her heart feel happy and full of desire. I want this for my son, too (and recognize that while this currently plays out differently for men and women in our culture, that men's sexuality, too, is held-hostage by cultural bullshit around sex). (And yes - I did write that. And I do mean that. I want my children to grow up to have freaking fantastic sex. In the manner(s) of their choosing). I want a world where desire is not problematized when shared in truly positive and consensual ways. A world where our authentic sexual expression is actually celebrated -- football team or no football team, monogamously or polyamourously, by ourselves or with one other or with multiple others, 'vanilla' or 'kinky' and so on and so forth. Maybe I'm oversimplifying, and I certainly don't mean to. There is a whole lot of patriarchy to unpack here. A whole lot. But I truly believe that our shame (which is of course a part of that unpacking), our down-deep-closely-held-shame, is what fuels rape culture. That a world without sex-shame is one in which rape-culture will cease to exist.
We aren't there yet. Not nearly. Not even close.
Right here and right now, there aren't enough blankets in the world to keep all of us warm.
But I'm still hopeful...
**with thanks and love to my pre-readers/editrixes, who assured me that I sounded somewhat literate. And that this was, in fact, something that needed writing about.
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