Today we, as a society, resolve to improve ourselves. We promise to lose weight, quit smoking, travel more, write that novel, master that skill, become a better us. And on December 31, 2016, most of us will have failed. Because we will not be selfish.
For all but the first two weeks of a given year, we are conditioned to think of others. Put the needs of the many ahead of the needs of the few. Parents tend to be more prone to this than the childfree, women moreso than men. Selfishness is wrong, it's bad for families, friendships, the very fabric of the modern world.
It's your best friend's birthday, so you should go out to the restaurant even though they don't serve anything on your new diet. Your son needs help with his math homework, put away your laptop and stop worrying about your characters. Put yourself and your desires at the bottom of every list, you'll get around to it when you have the time.
Except you will never have the time. It isn't money, that can be earned in exchange for effort, it is a finite source that diminishes every time we tuck ourselves into bed. Slowly we become less ourselves, we fit into the roles that we have filled so long that we have no identity outside our ability to fill them. Small wonder that adulthood is defined by exhaustion and the need for a drink.
If someone we loved were constantly putting aside their own health and happiness. There'd be interventions, loving advice, attempts to guide them towards a better lifestyle. But when it's ourselves, we degrade our own needs to the point of neglect if not outright abuse.
Our world is a fascinating place, and every time we seek out to make ourselves more a part of it, our lives become richer, deeper. We also enrich the lives of those around us, and inspire others to delve more into the world. Like the classic airplane safety demonstration, we have to put our own masks on first. Someone deadened to life's disappointments can only breed that same resignation in others. So this year, as you focus on what you want is the dawn of 2016, focus less on what you want and more on how to get it. Be selfish.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Thursday, December 31, 2015
How Jessica Knoll Wrote a Powerfully Subversive Feminist Work
Spoilers abound for The Luckiest Girl Alive
As 2015 winds down I'm taking a look back on the great media I was able to consume. Fierce, powerful, provocative stuff--feminism had a good year. Yet despite the powerful blogs, books, comics, music, and film/tv that showcased a plethora of intersectional women creating iconic moments, the one that my mind keeps wandering to was a fast-paced summer page turner that delved much deeper than the genre usually allows.
TifAni FaNelli, protagonist of The Luckiest Girl Alive (why, Ms. Knoll, why with that horrible spelling?) has drawn comparisons to the heroine of the runaway lit hit Gone Girl, and on the surface, the two would have a grudging respect that would approximate friendship if Amy Dunne were capable of such, but TifAni (or Ani, as she prefers to go by in adulthood) is a powerfully feminist figure in a world that doesn't want her to be.
On the surface Ani is the worst example of "White Feminism", a well-educated white woman with a powerful job and a self serving streak larger than her family-in-law's Nantucket property. She ruthlessly decimates anyone she perceives to be lower in status than she, while simultaneously flaunting her privilege and demanding the appropriate veneration of such.
Through flashbacks to her high school days in rarefied Main Line Philadelphia, the brittle shells of Ani's personality are peeled back. We learn she's a rape survivor, one who has the audacity to maintain contact with her attackers, drink like a fish, and most importantly, be a total bitch. In short, she's aggressively unlikable--as far a cry from the perfect victim as pop culture has. But the flashbacks climax in an even more traumatizing event--Ani survives a Columbine-esque school shooting perpetrated by her former friend. Further, she is instrumental in halting his attack in a breathlessly brutal scene.
Ani cleaves to her superficial displays of power, wealth, and status as her ultimate plan to wall herself off from the victimhood of her early years. More importantly, she is without any other resources. Left and right her family, faculty, and friends who should be supporting and guiding her to dealing with her trauma don't simply drop the ball--they hurl it with ferocity and aplomb. Ani deals with victim-blaming and patriarchal power structure every time she turns around, and Knoll shows without telling us how her selfishness and status seeking are the only tools she has to protect herself (although several scenes in the book had me wanting to tell her to join a BDSM community and find a Dom who could help her process some of the feelings that inevitably haunt her)
Throughout the novel we see signs that Ani is a better person than she wants to be. She shows greater compassion to her friends and classmates than the frigid bitch she's trying to be is capable of, she rightfully lambasts her Ken doll fiance for supporting the conservative right to protect his assets at the cost of women's health and rights, she even risks her carefully crafted image in a public dressing down of her in-laws' blatant homophobia. She even maintains her career against the pressure to become a corporate wife and is ferociously against the idea of motherhood, even against the desires of her blue blood family. Ultimately, she makes the choices she needs, even when she's pressured to conform.
More figures like Ani are needed in fiction as mainstream as Luckiest Girl. She's a truly strong female character in the hands of an equally strong female writer. Ani is a victim who refuses to be defined by what happens to her, even as her past haunts her. We don't like her, but we're fascinated. Her agenda isn't preachy, it's intrinsic to who she is. Hopefully more queer and poc characters get her level of exposure in 2016, but as the New Year approaches, it's time to salute Ani FaNelli, and toast to the sisters to come.
As 2015 winds down I'm taking a look back on the great media I was able to consume. Fierce, powerful, provocative stuff--feminism had a good year. Yet despite the powerful blogs, books, comics, music, and film/tv that showcased a plethora of intersectional women creating iconic moments, the one that my mind keeps wandering to was a fast-paced summer page turner that delved much deeper than the genre usually allows.
TifAni FaNelli, protagonist of The Luckiest Girl Alive (why, Ms. Knoll, why with that horrible spelling?) has drawn comparisons to the heroine of the runaway lit hit Gone Girl, and on the surface, the two would have a grudging respect that would approximate friendship if Amy Dunne were capable of such, but TifAni (or Ani, as she prefers to go by in adulthood) is a powerfully feminist figure in a world that doesn't want her to be.
On the surface Ani is the worst example of "White Feminism", a well-educated white woman with a powerful job and a self serving streak larger than her family-in-law's Nantucket property. She ruthlessly decimates anyone she perceives to be lower in status than she, while simultaneously flaunting her privilege and demanding the appropriate veneration of such.
Through flashbacks to her high school days in rarefied Main Line Philadelphia, the brittle shells of Ani's personality are peeled back. We learn she's a rape survivor, one who has the audacity to maintain contact with her attackers, drink like a fish, and most importantly, be a total bitch. In short, she's aggressively unlikable--as far a cry from the perfect victim as pop culture has. But the flashbacks climax in an even more traumatizing event--Ani survives a Columbine-esque school shooting perpetrated by her former friend. Further, she is instrumental in halting his attack in a breathlessly brutal scene.
Ani cleaves to her superficial displays of power, wealth, and status as her ultimate plan to wall herself off from the victimhood of her early years. More importantly, she is without any other resources. Left and right her family, faculty, and friends who should be supporting and guiding her to dealing with her trauma don't simply drop the ball--they hurl it with ferocity and aplomb. Ani deals with victim-blaming and patriarchal power structure every time she turns around, and Knoll shows without telling us how her selfishness and status seeking are the only tools she has to protect herself (although several scenes in the book had me wanting to tell her to join a BDSM community and find a Dom who could help her process some of the feelings that inevitably haunt her)
Throughout the novel we see signs that Ani is a better person than she wants to be. She shows greater compassion to her friends and classmates than the frigid bitch she's trying to be is capable of, she rightfully lambasts her Ken doll fiance for supporting the conservative right to protect his assets at the cost of women's health and rights, she even risks her carefully crafted image in a public dressing down of her in-laws' blatant homophobia. She even maintains her career against the pressure to become a corporate wife and is ferociously against the idea of motherhood, even against the desires of her blue blood family. Ultimately, she makes the choices she needs, even when she's pressured to conform.
More figures like Ani are needed in fiction as mainstream as Luckiest Girl. She's a truly strong female character in the hands of an equally strong female writer. Ani is a victim who refuses to be defined by what happens to her, even as her past haunts her. We don't like her, but we're fascinated. Her agenda isn't preachy, it's intrinsic to who she is. Hopefully more queer and poc characters get her level of exposure in 2016, but as the New Year approaches, it's time to salute Ani FaNelli, and toast to the sisters to come.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Rape of Thrones
Last night, Game of Thrones ended its most recent episode with Sansa Stark, oldest surviving child of the Stark family, reinstated in her family home by virtue of her marriage to Ramsey Bolton, the newly legitimized bastard son of Roose Bolton, the man who annihilated her family. Ramsey celebrated his marriage by raping his new wife (as you do), for no other reason than this is how he gets his jollies. He compounds the rape by forcing his manservant Reek to watch. Reek, for those who don't follow the show, is the alias bestowed by Ramsey on Theon Greyjoy, former ward turned traitor of the Stark family, who murders peasant children and passes them off as noble children in his spare time. This is just the latest in torture and mind games that Reek experiences at the hands of Ramsey, who is generally sadistic to all whose unlucky fate it is to cross paths with him.
Problematically, Game of Thrones frames Ramsey's rape of Sansa (tellingly not the most horrific thing Ramsey has done) as further evidence of how far Ramsey's mental assault of Reek extends. Sansa's horrified expression as she experiences assault from the man she was already loathe to marry pans out to a similar countenance of Reek's before the episode fades to black. Apparently the director/writer felt that the viewers would identify more with Reek's horror as he watches his former foster-sister's violation, than we would with Sansa herself, who has survived being a pawn in the political machinations of powerful men and women for her whole adolescence, only to have her agency stripped away again, in the deepest, most personal way. Notably, the writers and director for this episode were all men.
Rape as narrative device is deplorably overused in popular culture. Want to show a female character is strong? Rape her. Want to show she can be vulnerable? Rape her. Want to make sure she's not so above it all? Rape her. Want an innocent girl to take a level in badass? Rape her. What do Olivia Benson, Lisbeth Salander, Lucrezia Borgia and Veronica Mars have in common? Rape. Even self-declared feminist Joss Whedon proposed raping Inara Serra in his iconic space Western Firefly had the show gone beyond one season, as a way to consummate the unresolved sexual tension between her and main character Mal Reynolds.
Far from being a problem in culture as a whole, Game of Thrones is gregariously fond of this trope. The first season showed Daenaerys Targaryen brutally taken on her wedding night by her warlord husband Khal Drogo, and the penultimate season so far shows Cersei Lannister raped by her brother next to the corpse of their murdered son (no, you didn't read that wrong). Even more glaringly, in A Song of Ice and Fire, the book series that serves as the show's source material, both scenes were consensual (although still disgusting, in Cersei's case). Despite being one of the most popular and dynamically written shows on television, it's a sad commentary that as early as the first season, Game of Thrones' writers felt they couldn't maintain compelling drama based off a best-selling fantasy series without resorting to rape.
Even worse, it appears this most recent character rape will not be used to further Sansa's story, but rather the sordid saga of Reek, who, prior to Ramsey's introduction and with the exception of Joffrey, was the most despicable character on a show filled with them. If the writers are going to go back to the dried-up well of rape, it would behoove them to make Sansa's rape actually about Sansa.
The concept of horrible things happening to women in fiction to further the story of male characters is so ubiquitous it's spawned not only a website, but it's own entry on TV Tropes. Mary Jane Watson from the Spiderman franchise exists simply for her misfortunes to carry Peter Parker's story arc. Yet she is somehow less problematic than Sansa's rape informing Reek's narrative. Game of Thrones has featured an array of main and supporting female characters who boast an array of flaws, strengths, quirks, and adventures. Some are loved characters, some are hated, most fall in a spectrum between, leaving room for those one loves to hate. They are as young as nine, as old as 80 plus, butch, femme, smart, stupid, and beautifully diverse (although they are mostly white, but that's a rant for another time). In short, viewers can appreciate in Game of Thrones the same range in female characters that has been default for male characters since the concept of modern storytelling.
Game of Thrones has the potential to be a masterpiece of feminist storytelling, and has come tantalizingly close, so using the ever-lazy conceit of the rape narrative is comparable to Monet nearing the completion of Water Lilies, and deciding to enhance the beauty of the flowers by painting in a dog turd.
Using a woman's rape to further the arc of a male character is the equivalent of painting the turd with actual shit.
Problematically, Game of Thrones frames Ramsey's rape of Sansa (tellingly not the most horrific thing Ramsey has done) as further evidence of how far Ramsey's mental assault of Reek extends. Sansa's horrified expression as she experiences assault from the man she was already loathe to marry pans out to a similar countenance of Reek's before the episode fades to black. Apparently the director/writer felt that the viewers would identify more with Reek's horror as he watches his former foster-sister's violation, than we would with Sansa herself, who has survived being a pawn in the political machinations of powerful men and women for her whole adolescence, only to have her agency stripped away again, in the deepest, most personal way. Notably, the writers and director for this episode were all men.
Rape as narrative device is deplorably overused in popular culture. Want to show a female character is strong? Rape her. Want to show she can be vulnerable? Rape her. Want to make sure she's not so above it all? Rape her. Want an innocent girl to take a level in badass? Rape her. What do Olivia Benson, Lisbeth Salander, Lucrezia Borgia and Veronica Mars have in common? Rape. Even self-declared feminist Joss Whedon proposed raping Inara Serra in his iconic space Western Firefly had the show gone beyond one season, as a way to consummate the unresolved sexual tension between her and main character Mal Reynolds.
Far from being a problem in culture as a whole, Game of Thrones is gregariously fond of this trope. The first season showed Daenaerys Targaryen brutally taken on her wedding night by her warlord husband Khal Drogo, and the penultimate season so far shows Cersei Lannister raped by her brother next to the corpse of their murdered son (no, you didn't read that wrong). Even more glaringly, in A Song of Ice and Fire, the book series that serves as the show's source material, both scenes were consensual (although still disgusting, in Cersei's case). Despite being one of the most popular and dynamically written shows on television, it's a sad commentary that as early as the first season, Game of Thrones' writers felt they couldn't maintain compelling drama based off a best-selling fantasy series without resorting to rape.
Even worse, it appears this most recent character rape will not be used to further Sansa's story, but rather the sordid saga of Reek, who, prior to Ramsey's introduction and with the exception of Joffrey, was the most despicable character on a show filled with them. If the writers are going to go back to the dried-up well of rape, it would behoove them to make Sansa's rape actually about Sansa.
The concept of horrible things happening to women in fiction to further the story of male characters is so ubiquitous it's spawned not only a website, but it's own entry on TV Tropes. Mary Jane Watson from the Spiderman franchise exists simply for her misfortunes to carry Peter Parker's story arc. Yet she is somehow less problematic than Sansa's rape informing Reek's narrative. Game of Thrones has featured an array of main and supporting female characters who boast an array of flaws, strengths, quirks, and adventures. Some are loved characters, some are hated, most fall in a spectrum between, leaving room for those one loves to hate. They are as young as nine, as old as 80 plus, butch, femme, smart, stupid, and beautifully diverse (although they are mostly white, but that's a rant for another time). In short, viewers can appreciate in Game of Thrones the same range in female characters that has been default for male characters since the concept of modern storytelling.
Game of Thrones has the potential to be a masterpiece of feminist storytelling, and has come tantalizingly close, so using the ever-lazy conceit of the rape narrative is comparable to Monet nearing the completion of Water Lilies, and deciding to enhance the beauty of the flowers by painting in a dog turd.
Using a woman's rape to further the arc of a male character is the equivalent of painting the turd with actual shit.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Loving is Losing
Yesterday I wrote a post about how good things are in my future because I am accomplished and hard working in the present, even though that mindset is hard to maintain when good things happen to the people close to you. It can be difficult to be happy for someone when their good opportunities show up while yours are still on the way.
But it can be even harder to be happy for someone when their good opportunity costs you their presence.
I am not someone who makes friends easily. I can like a person, but rarely do I love them. If relationships can be compared to sex, I keep most of my friends and loved ones stalled at emotional second base. It's not intentional--opening myself up to another person just takes a lot of time for me to feel comfortable with it. I have always been the type to have one or two close friends instead of a tier of besties.
Everything changed when I started working in mental health. For those of you who want to experience moments of pure pride and satisfaction in your life's work, I suggest working on an acute mental health unit at some point in your life. When it's good, it's the highest high you can achieve.
However, the lows are just as dramatic, and every high costs about twenty lows. That level of intensity, combined with the implicit trust you place in your co-workers (and they in you) for both personal and patient safety, yields a deep and dramatic connection that it usually takes years of friendship to forge. There are days when my co-workers are the singular reason I push through the exhaustion and stress long enough to show up and work a shift.
I'm not saying the entire place is hearts and handholding, but the friends I've made there, I love like family.
Yet time, odiously, insidiously, marches on, and when opportunities arise, smart people (like my friends) take them. And while I know that a friendship that's involved literal blood, sweat, and tears cannot be torn asunder by anything as mere as occupation, the knowledge that I won't be seeing some of these people every day breaks my heart.
There's no conclusion, no panacea for loss or grief to offer. Moving on sucks, and this is merely an acknowledgement of such. As a child, I thought only death was worth mourning, but in reality anything that can be lost is cause for grief, and it's impossible to tell which experiences will end up being the most cherished once they're memories. I merely know that love is worth the pain.
But it can be even harder to be happy for someone when their good opportunity costs you their presence.
I am not someone who makes friends easily. I can like a person, but rarely do I love them. If relationships can be compared to sex, I keep most of my friends and loved ones stalled at emotional second base. It's not intentional--opening myself up to another person just takes a lot of time for me to feel comfortable with it. I have always been the type to have one or two close friends instead of a tier of besties.
Everything changed when I started working in mental health. For those of you who want to experience moments of pure pride and satisfaction in your life's work, I suggest working on an acute mental health unit at some point in your life. When it's good, it's the highest high you can achieve.
However, the lows are just as dramatic, and every high costs about twenty lows. That level of intensity, combined with the implicit trust you place in your co-workers (and they in you) for both personal and patient safety, yields a deep and dramatic connection that it usually takes years of friendship to forge. There are days when my co-workers are the singular reason I push through the exhaustion and stress long enough to show up and work a shift.
I'm not saying the entire place is hearts and handholding, but the friends I've made there, I love like family.
Yet time, odiously, insidiously, marches on, and when opportunities arise, smart people (like my friends) take them. And while I know that a friendship that's involved literal blood, sweat, and tears cannot be torn asunder by anything as mere as occupation, the knowledge that I won't be seeing some of these people every day breaks my heart.
There's no conclusion, no panacea for loss or grief to offer. Moving on sucks, and this is merely an acknowledgement of such. As a child, I thought only death was worth mourning, but in reality anything that can be lost is cause for grief, and it's impossible to tell which experiences will end up being the most cherished once they're memories. I merely know that love is worth the pain.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
I Am a Success--Sometimes
Last week a close friend left our shared job to be a full-time EMT, tomorrow another will leave to join a clinical research team, and today a third returned from a leave of absence to announce that he will leave for an internship in two months. It's a pretty bitter pill to swallow, not only because we have a high intensity job made easier by both each others' competence and camaraderie, but also because great things are happening in their lives, while mine feels like it's at a standstill.
For the record, over the summer, my remaining two good work friends initiated a romantic relationship. So, here I am, working at the same place I was at two years ago, single, staring down the barrel of another year and a half of nursing school, and not feeling the forward momentum that seems to be gracing the lives of my friends. If I were the person I aspire to be, I'd see great inspiration in their hard work and great opportunities. But instead I'm the person I am, and I wonder why I bother buying into the routine at all, while great things happen around, but never to, me.
It's in these instances that I'm forced to remind myself that a negative attitude is self-perpetuating, that if I expect nothing to change, I won't do anything to propel myself toward it, and so a cycle of misery is initiated.
I am also the only person on earth who has achieved what I've achieved with the resources and hurdles I've had throughout my life--and my friends are similarly unique. I have some insight into the effort they put in to getting their opportunities and I can assure anyone who asks that what they've accomplished was hard-won. It's easy to feel unaccomplished next to them, especially in an industry where we get so few external tokens of achievement, but I'm not. I excel at lesson plans, I've taught kids to grow on academic and social levels, I'm a great baker, highly intelligent, creative, a good writer, I give good advice, and I can connect with troubled kids and relate to them on their level without being condescending, and I'm rocking my nursing pre-reqs. None of this is small or un-noteworthy. Sometimes I need to enumerate what I've already done in order to push myself to do more. In the words of Martha Jones, I am good.
It's so easy to feel unaccomplished in a society that accentuates the negative, so when something good happens to others, we almost automatically contrast their positive with our negatives, and we disregard the bigger picture. It's important to remember what we've achieved, but the most essential thing to remember is that it's not a competition. Good things happening to one of us don't take away from the rest, and we are interdependent creatures. We can choose to be a part of each others' successes, and we can draw inspiration from others to fuel our own. Support creates a success of all of us.
For the record, over the summer, my remaining two good work friends initiated a romantic relationship. So, here I am, working at the same place I was at two years ago, single, staring down the barrel of another year and a half of nursing school, and not feeling the forward momentum that seems to be gracing the lives of my friends. If I were the person I aspire to be, I'd see great inspiration in their hard work and great opportunities. But instead I'm the person I am, and I wonder why I bother buying into the routine at all, while great things happen around, but never to, me.
It's in these instances that I'm forced to remind myself that a negative attitude is self-perpetuating, that if I expect nothing to change, I won't do anything to propel myself toward it, and so a cycle of misery is initiated.
I am also the only person on earth who has achieved what I've achieved with the resources and hurdles I've had throughout my life--and my friends are similarly unique. I have some insight into the effort they put in to getting their opportunities and I can assure anyone who asks that what they've accomplished was hard-won. It's easy to feel unaccomplished next to them, especially in an industry where we get so few external tokens of achievement, but I'm not. I excel at lesson plans, I've taught kids to grow on academic and social levels, I'm a great baker, highly intelligent, creative, a good writer, I give good advice, and I can connect with troubled kids and relate to them on their level without being condescending, and I'm rocking my nursing pre-reqs. None of this is small or un-noteworthy. Sometimes I need to enumerate what I've already done in order to push myself to do more. In the words of Martha Jones, I am good.
It's so easy to feel unaccomplished in a society that accentuates the negative, so when something good happens to others, we almost automatically contrast their positive with our negatives, and we disregard the bigger picture. It's important to remember what we've achieved, but the most essential thing to remember is that it's not a competition. Good things happening to one of us don't take away from the rest, and we are interdependent creatures. We can choose to be a part of each others' successes, and we can draw inspiration from others to fuel our own. Support creates a success of all of us.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Gender Bending on the Spectrum
I've worked with kids on the autism spectrum for closing in on a decade. Autism is a spectrum of conditions with an abundance of misinformation, so for brevity's sake I'll only state that it can affect cognitive development, social perception, sensory processing, and motor control to varying degrees in each affected individual. As a disclaimer, it should also be noted that autism is not caused by vaccinations nor can it be cured by abstinence from gluten.
Part of autism education is assisting kids in learning social cues. Most people on the spectrum cannot easily understand nonverbal social cues, which can lead to gaffes in etiquette that make initiating friendships difficult and even hold them back professionally. Among other things, we teach them what certain facial expressions and body motions indicate, what is and isn't appropriate to discuss with someone based on your relationship to them, how to dress in given situations, and the basics of hygiene and grooming.
What I've witnessed and find myself having to debate with other professionals over, are practices that teach conformation to gender heteronormativity. While girls are told that they are expected to remove leg and armpit hair, boys are explicitly told that they may not wear dresses, high heels, makeup, or nail polish. Social stories contain stock phrases such as "Girls do __________." "Boys like _____________." and we are educating a slew of young people that these norms are mandatory in order to be successful in society.
I won't discuss the inherent logical flaw in pushing the idea that gender norms, which are as capricious as fashion trends, are absolute and unchanging (blue and pink signifying the opposite genders they currently do less than a century ago, for example), when there is a far greater ethical dilemma at stake.
What neurotypical people comprehend and autistic people are struggling to understand, is that there are repercussions in society for not subscribing to the mores of one's prescribed gender. What we are teaching however, is that there are no repercussions because there is no choice. Whether someone chooses to disavow certain aspects of gender normativity, like eschewing a razor or adopting Rimmel's London Look, should be entirely their prerogative.
There's also the idea fixed in the minds of the general public that autism is sole defining characteristic of anyone who has the condition, when it is, like any other trait, merely one facet of a whole, complex human being. Autistic people are as likely as neurotypical people to be transgender, and in enforcing the ideal that their gender identity must conform to their biological sex, we're not only robbing them of choice, for trans autistic kids, we are denying an essential aspect of their selfhood.
Morally, we are obligated to impress upon these kids the possible repercussions of how they choose to express themselves in society. When neurotypical kids choose the extent to which they will or will not conform to social mores, whether they are cis or transgender, queer or straight, they do so making an informed choice, and their autistic peers deserve no less. But education is all about choice, forming ideas and plans from the most accurate information available, and educators have an ethical, moral impetus to encourage their students to make the best choices for themselves.
Prescribing their choices based on our own mores and prejudices is not only unfair, but blatantly wrong.
Part of autism education is assisting kids in learning social cues. Most people on the spectrum cannot easily understand nonverbal social cues, which can lead to gaffes in etiquette that make initiating friendships difficult and even hold them back professionally. Among other things, we teach them what certain facial expressions and body motions indicate, what is and isn't appropriate to discuss with someone based on your relationship to them, how to dress in given situations, and the basics of hygiene and grooming.
What I've witnessed and find myself having to debate with other professionals over, are practices that teach conformation to gender heteronormativity. While girls are told that they are expected to remove leg and armpit hair, boys are explicitly told that they may not wear dresses, high heels, makeup, or nail polish. Social stories contain stock phrases such as "Girls do __________." "Boys like _____________." and we are educating a slew of young people that these norms are mandatory in order to be successful in society.
I won't discuss the inherent logical flaw in pushing the idea that gender norms, which are as capricious as fashion trends, are absolute and unchanging (blue and pink signifying the opposite genders they currently do less than a century ago, for example), when there is a far greater ethical dilemma at stake.
What neurotypical people comprehend and autistic people are struggling to understand, is that there are repercussions in society for not subscribing to the mores of one's prescribed gender. What we are teaching however, is that there are no repercussions because there is no choice. Whether someone chooses to disavow certain aspects of gender normativity, like eschewing a razor or adopting Rimmel's London Look, should be entirely their prerogative.
There's also the idea fixed in the minds of the general public that autism is sole defining characteristic of anyone who has the condition, when it is, like any other trait, merely one facet of a whole, complex human being. Autistic people are as likely as neurotypical people to be transgender, and in enforcing the ideal that their gender identity must conform to their biological sex, we're not only robbing them of choice, for trans autistic kids, we are denying an essential aspect of their selfhood.
Morally, we are obligated to impress upon these kids the possible repercussions of how they choose to express themselves in society. When neurotypical kids choose the extent to which they will or will not conform to social mores, whether they are cis or transgender, queer or straight, they do so making an informed choice, and their autistic peers deserve no less. But education is all about choice, forming ideas and plans from the most accurate information available, and educators have an ethical, moral impetus to encourage their students to make the best choices for themselves.
Prescribing their choices based on our own mores and prejudices is not only unfair, but blatantly wrong.
Monday, October 20, 2014
My Failures as a Feminist
Yesterday, after reading my piece on Gerard Way, a dear friend of mine congratulated me on it and told me he tried to live his life by those guidelines ever since he met me. Since his equality-minded nature is one of the reasons we became friends, I asked him why not before. He said that he's always been a feminist, but not always gone about it the right way.
Who among us has?
Ever since I knew the basic definition I've considered myself a feminist. Ask my father's permission to date/marry/whatever me? Fuck off. Equal pay? Damn right I want it. Try to tell me when and how I'll become a mother? Them's fighting words.
Yet, I haven't always been a "good" feminist. I've made mistakes and I believe that anyone who's part of any movement has unknowingly worked against it at some point. So here are the most unfeminist things I've ever done or said, in hopes that I can learn from my mistakes, and perhaps so can others.
1. I mocked the girly girls
Somehow I got it into my head that women who enjoyed that which was pink, sparkly, or flowery were "stupid" and "fueling the fire of the enemy" (I went through a dramatic stage. It isn't over yet).
That somehow being themselves while simultaneously not being like me, those women were somehow undervaluing our whole gender because they liked "girly" things like romance novels and unicorns. I credited myself with (undue) depth and substance because I was above such tired tropes of femininity. I was important and they were stupid.
2. I undervalued the housewifely arts
Along with criticizing pink, I also felt that, due in no small part to an overconsumption of pop culture and mainstream Hollywood tripe, a truly successful woman cannot cook, clean up after herself, or mend her clothing. After all, the patriarchy had pigeonholed women into the housewifely role, and its abandonment was our salvation. Somehow I failed to take into consideration that the ability to feed myself, clean up after myself, and maintain a respectable appearance--especially when I realized that only 1% of the world gets to disavow such niceties because they have staff to take care of it for them--were essential to success.
3. I placed greater value on the feminist issues that affected me
Feminism can be deeply personal, and the passion that feminists bring to their activism comes from their own experiences, but at its core the movement is about everyone, especially those that are marginalized by the patriarchy. We should have a solidarity about us--what happens to my sister happens to me, even if she's trans and I'm cis, even if she's queer and I'm straight, even when her skin color brought her a different experience than mine did me, even if the she in question is my brother, a man who's been just as marginalized by the way things work as I have.
4. I've been guilty of slut-shaming
I've never judged a woman for how much sex she's had, but I've definitely been guilty of judging a woman for how much sex she looks like she's having. If you were showing what I deemed to be too much skin, talking too much about blow jobs, or just advocating a sexual more that I didn't agree with, I judged you for it, and I'm sorry. And while I'm at it, I prude-shamed too, allowing myself to think that women who chose abstinence or advocated prudence were enemies of sexual freedom that has been so hard won, when in truth they were expressing themselves within that freedom.
5. I conflated "men" with "patriarchy"
The patriarchal construct has rigid views of masculinity, femininity, sexuality, race, and nearly every other intrinsic part of personhood that makes each of our experiences unique. Only those who are at the top in this system will stay at the top, and at the cost to those beneath them. Only straight, white, cisgender men get to be fully represented and even they must adhere to the structure laid out for them, to the detriment of their health and happiness. Despite the gendered nouns that the movements have, patriarchy is not for men, nor feminism for women. Patriarchy is simply a way to maintain the status quo, while feminism is a way to lift us up.
The ultimate point is, the only real mistake I made as a young feminist is that I turned feminism into a competition. Everything that I did was done under the guise that I was in competition with those around me, but feminism is a means to an end, and the end is equality--not sameness, not homogeny, but the basic idea that everyone has the right to be themselves without suffering a loss of opportunity or safety. In equality, there is no competition, and the belief that there is is just a myth perpetuated to sidetrack us from what's really important--slowly, surely, confidently changing the world.
Who among us has?
Ever since I knew the basic definition I've considered myself a feminist. Ask my father's permission to date/marry/whatever me? Fuck off. Equal pay? Damn right I want it. Try to tell me when and how I'll become a mother? Them's fighting words.
Yet, I haven't always been a "good" feminist. I've made mistakes and I believe that anyone who's part of any movement has unknowingly worked against it at some point. So here are the most unfeminist things I've ever done or said, in hopes that I can learn from my mistakes, and perhaps so can others.
1. I mocked the girly girls
Somehow I got it into my head that women who enjoyed that which was pink, sparkly, or flowery were "stupid" and "fueling the fire of the enemy" (I went through a dramatic stage. It isn't over yet).
That somehow being themselves while simultaneously not being like me, those women were somehow undervaluing our whole gender because they liked "girly" things like romance novels and unicorns. I credited myself with (undue) depth and substance because I was above such tired tropes of femininity. I was important and they were stupid.
2. I undervalued the housewifely arts
Along with criticizing pink, I also felt that, due in no small part to an overconsumption of pop culture and mainstream Hollywood tripe, a truly successful woman cannot cook, clean up after herself, or mend her clothing. After all, the patriarchy had pigeonholed women into the housewifely role, and its abandonment was our salvation. Somehow I failed to take into consideration that the ability to feed myself, clean up after myself, and maintain a respectable appearance--especially when I realized that only 1% of the world gets to disavow such niceties because they have staff to take care of it for them--were essential to success.
3. I placed greater value on the feminist issues that affected me
Feminism can be deeply personal, and the passion that feminists bring to their activism comes from their own experiences, but at its core the movement is about everyone, especially those that are marginalized by the patriarchy. We should have a solidarity about us--what happens to my sister happens to me, even if she's trans and I'm cis, even if she's queer and I'm straight, even when her skin color brought her a different experience than mine did me, even if the she in question is my brother, a man who's been just as marginalized by the way things work as I have.
4. I've been guilty of slut-shaming
I've never judged a woman for how much sex she's had, but I've definitely been guilty of judging a woman for how much sex she looks like she's having. If you were showing what I deemed to be too much skin, talking too much about blow jobs, or just advocating a sexual more that I didn't agree with, I judged you for it, and I'm sorry. And while I'm at it, I prude-shamed too, allowing myself to think that women who chose abstinence or advocated prudence were enemies of sexual freedom that has been so hard won, when in truth they were expressing themselves within that freedom.
5. I conflated "men" with "patriarchy"
The patriarchal construct has rigid views of masculinity, femininity, sexuality, race, and nearly every other intrinsic part of personhood that makes each of our experiences unique. Only those who are at the top in this system will stay at the top, and at the cost to those beneath them. Only straight, white, cisgender men get to be fully represented and even they must adhere to the structure laid out for them, to the detriment of their health and happiness. Despite the gendered nouns that the movements have, patriarchy is not for men, nor feminism for women. Patriarchy is simply a way to maintain the status quo, while feminism is a way to lift us up.
The ultimate point is, the only real mistake I made as a young feminist is that I turned feminism into a competition. Everything that I did was done under the guise that I was in competition with those around me, but feminism is a means to an end, and the end is equality--not sameness, not homogeny, but the basic idea that everyone has the right to be themselves without suffering a loss of opportunity or safety. In equality, there is no competition, and the belief that there is is just a myth perpetuated to sidetrack us from what's really important--slowly, surely, confidently changing the world.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Feminist Men Rock
WARNING: THERE WILL BE SHAMELESS SHILLING AND FANGIRLING IN THIS POST. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. PROCEED WITH WHATEVER CAUTION YOU DEEM NECESSARY.
I don't often take the time to discuss celebrities I like, but Friday night at the Trocadero theater in Philadelphia convinced me to make an exception. I was there to see Gerard Way, a fantastic solo musician who was the founder and lead singer of My Chemical Romance as well as the brilliant mind behind some truly great comics like The Umbrella Academy and The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. It was a fantastic show and if you have the chance to check him out on this or any future tours, I highly recommend you do.
But this is not a review or a critique of his artistry. However much I enjoy criticizing art in private, I don't feel like it's my place to do so on a public forum, as well as the fact that whatever flaws Gerard Way may have, I'm blind to, because I've adored him since I was 19.
However, the ways he uses his power as a public figure, that's worth discussing. It should be noted that at the tender age of 28, I skew significantly older than most of Gerard Way's fanbase. He had a captive audience of teenagers, mostly young women, who adore him, follow him on social media, and would respond to whatever he chose to say, and it was this: (paraphrasing)
"I've been on the internet and seen a lot of the shit that women, young women, get thrown at them, and I just wanna say ladies, it's coming from old, white dudes with power who are afraid of you!"
"Never, ever, ever give up control for free!"
"Things are changing and I'm loving it. I'm not scared of this generation being in charge at all. Stay strong, ladies!"
In a world where the Millennial generation is constantly under attack from the previous generations (i.e. the ones who raised them) for their perceived laziness, their lack of ambition, their addiction to their phones and their general crappiness, having a Gen X'er who's also a major pop culture figure tell them not only that he's not afraid of them, but that they're awesome, is incalculably huge. People respond to how they're treated, but being treated well by adults when you're a teen is so rare it could qualify as a superpower, and we consistently wonder why teenagers are so sullen. Maybe it's because we tell them almost constantly that we implicitly hate everything they think, like, do, are?
In true patriarchal fashion, women seem to bear a stronger brunt of this than men. Not only in pop culture, but politics, women are told that they are nothing more than the sum total of their sex organs, and that those body parts are public property. For every amazing woman who stands up for herself and her sisters, there's an oppressive body of men--and even more disheartening, other women--who want to shout her down. And yet, here's Gerard Way, pushing 40 (I know you don't believe me, so here), white, and a guy, benefitting from the current power structure no matter which way you spin it, and he's encouraging young women to change the world, showing he's not afraid because their power and strength is something to be celebrated instead of loathed.
They say young women need role models, and it's fucking true, but feminism is about celebrating everyone, and in the changing world young men need to see that better opportunities for women =/= worsening or fewer opportunities for them. Too often, young men are told that feminism is not for them, that it wants to take from them, and that's why men like Gerard Way are so important as public figures. He's married, has a child, beat the odds in overcoming alcoholism and in earning his living making the art he wants to make. He's surrounded by adoring fans and is successful in every measurable way. And he's a feminist.
The only real problem with Gerard Way is his singularity. For every him, for every Wil Wheaton, for every Joss Whedon, for every George R. R. Martin, for every man with a public audience who steps up for equality and improvement, who shares instead of hordes, popular culture will respond with a thousand different ways to shut them up, to put us all back in our boxes, keep us chugging along in a system where the current winners are the only winners, and everyone else suffers through. So take some inspiration. Learn by example.
Say something.
I don't often take the time to discuss celebrities I like, but Friday night at the Trocadero theater in Philadelphia convinced me to make an exception. I was there to see Gerard Way, a fantastic solo musician who was the founder and lead singer of My Chemical Romance as well as the brilliant mind behind some truly great comics like The Umbrella Academy and The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. It was a fantastic show and if you have the chance to check him out on this or any future tours, I highly recommend you do.
But this is not a review or a critique of his artistry. However much I enjoy criticizing art in private, I don't feel like it's my place to do so on a public forum, as well as the fact that whatever flaws Gerard Way may have, I'm blind to, because I've adored him since I was 19.
However, the ways he uses his power as a public figure, that's worth discussing. It should be noted that at the tender age of 28, I skew significantly older than most of Gerard Way's fanbase. He had a captive audience of teenagers, mostly young women, who adore him, follow him on social media, and would respond to whatever he chose to say, and it was this: (paraphrasing)
"I've been on the internet and seen a lot of the shit that women, young women, get thrown at them, and I just wanna say ladies, it's coming from old, white dudes with power who are afraid of you!"
"Never, ever, ever give up control for free!"
"Things are changing and I'm loving it. I'm not scared of this generation being in charge at all. Stay strong, ladies!"
In a world where the Millennial generation is constantly under attack from the previous generations (i.e. the ones who raised them) for their perceived laziness, their lack of ambition, their addiction to their phones and their general crappiness, having a Gen X'er who's also a major pop culture figure tell them not only that he's not afraid of them, but that they're awesome, is incalculably huge. People respond to how they're treated, but being treated well by adults when you're a teen is so rare it could qualify as a superpower, and we consistently wonder why teenagers are so sullen. Maybe it's because we tell them almost constantly that we implicitly hate everything they think, like, do, are?
In true patriarchal fashion, women seem to bear a stronger brunt of this than men. Not only in pop culture, but politics, women are told that they are nothing more than the sum total of their sex organs, and that those body parts are public property. For every amazing woman who stands up for herself and her sisters, there's an oppressive body of men--and even more disheartening, other women--who want to shout her down. And yet, here's Gerard Way, pushing 40 (I know you don't believe me, so here), white, and a guy, benefitting from the current power structure no matter which way you spin it, and he's encouraging young women to change the world, showing he's not afraid because their power and strength is something to be celebrated instead of loathed.
They say young women need role models, and it's fucking true, but feminism is about celebrating everyone, and in the changing world young men need to see that better opportunities for women =/= worsening or fewer opportunities for them. Too often, young men are told that feminism is not for them, that it wants to take from them, and that's why men like Gerard Way are so important as public figures. He's married, has a child, beat the odds in overcoming alcoholism and in earning his living making the art he wants to make. He's surrounded by adoring fans and is successful in every measurable way. And he's a feminist.
The only real problem with Gerard Way is his singularity. For every him, for every Wil Wheaton, for every Joss Whedon, for every George R. R. Martin, for every man with a public audience who steps up for equality and improvement, who shares instead of hordes, popular culture will respond with a thousand different ways to shut them up, to put us all back in our boxes, keep us chugging along in a system where the current winners are the only winners, and everyone else suffers through. So take some inspiration. Learn by example.
Say something.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
The Tragedy of Maleficent
Spoilers abound for anyone who has yet to bear witness to the festering bed sore that is Disney's latest abomination,
Once upon a time, humans lived among the fair folk. They were allowed to live as they liked, so long as they paid the fey their due respect. Some fairies responded with obeisance, others with reward, and still others with disinterest, so long as the humans observed the appropriate rights.
As it happened, one king and queen allowed the power they had over their fellow humans to go to their heads, and upon the birth of their daughter, publicly spurned an unpopular but vastly powerful fey named Maleficent by expressly not inviting her to the christening. In equal parts retribution to the royal upstarts as well as a reminder to those to follow of the foolishness of incurring her wrath, Maleficent cursed the newborn princess. She bore the babe no ill will, the child was merely collateral damage in the political chess game that the royal family had instigated. Sadly, Maleficent's quest for justice was thwarted by lesser fairies and the entitled entourage of the human royals, and she died a martyr to her own brand of retribution.
Sadly, this is not the story that Disney chose to tell with their re-imagining of one of their most beloved villains. In the trio of films that would go on to anchor the Disney princess franchise, Maleficent was a larger than life powerhouse among the vain, aging queen and the social-climbing, sycophantic stepmother. While Snow White, Cinderella, and Aurora are all equally innocent victims, Sleeping Beauty was the first film to depict a villain who was provoked before lashing out. Aurora, the titular beauty, is merely the catalyst for the events of the film, but it has always been Maleficent's story.
The live-action adaptation starring Angelina Jolie is, at best, a subpar Lifetime movie about a good woman done wrong by a bad man, and oh look, sparkles.
Maleficent starts out as a sunshine-vomiting fairy who epitomizes the Dark is Not Evil trope, and right away that's a major flaw in the film. Maleficent IS evil, deliciously evil, her very name is a portmanteau of mal (French: bad) and magnificent. Her malevolence is just a manifestation of her nature, and nothing, nothing that happens from here on out will convince any moviegoer that the 2014 Maleficent is capable of becoming the 1959 Maleficent.
As the film progresses, with a helping of trite and redundant narration, Maleficent falls in love with a sweet but ambitious boy named Stefan, whose human kingdom fears and loathes the neighboring fairies. In a quest to prove himself worthy of the throne, Stefan cuts off Maleficent's wings to prove to his warmongering king that he has slain the fairy, and so marries the milquetoast princess and becomes king.
Heartbroken and stung by betrayal, Maleficent uses her magic to curse her former lover's newborn in an almost word for word recitation of the animated film's iconic scene. She mentions the lack of invitation, but she's merely mocking the king--make no mistake, this is a classic example of woman scorned. Three fairies take Aurora off to raise her as a commoner, but while this is a cunning plan in the original, the fairies are so bafflingly stupid that Maleficent herself is forced to keep watch over the child so she can live long enough to enact the curse. Over the next sixteen years, in various sickeningly sweet scenes, Maleficent predictably falls in love with the child and seeks to undo her own curse, which, failing to do so, she unwittingly breaks it with True Love's kiss in a "twist" that Disney property Once Upon A Time has done much better. Twice.
No one fears the bite of a de-fanged cobra, and no one will find anything to fear in the vacillating cream puff that purports to be one of animation's most terrifying villains. Maleficent was introduced as a badass, and the creators of this latest film should be ashamed for what they've done to her.
It's hard not to see Maleficent's stolen wings as a huge and disturbing rape metaphor. The first king makes war on her lands because he fears her power. Stefan drugs her, and then takes what is rightfully hers without her permission. Notable at this point is that Maleficent is the guardian of her moor, friend to all fairies, with long brown hair and a dress to match, the virtuous embodiment of "good" womanhood. Following her "rape", the film justifies Stefan's victimization of Maleficent by turning her into a "bad" woman who kills babies while the crowning glory of her femininity is bound under tight, uncomfortable looking black leather. She finds her way back to "goodness" by forming a maternal bond (the pinnacle of womanhood) to the child she swore vengeance upon. You can tell her redemption is complete by the end of the film because she once again has long hair flowing around her face, and the moor sparkles in her presence.
Following the USCB shootings, this is an especially disturbing parallel to our view of rape victims. Rape turns victims into "bad" people, continuously accused of lying, of asking for it, as being damaged goods. Stefan, for most of the film, gets away with his actions, even achieving his ambitions as a direct result of what he did to Maleficent. Even as he spends the majority of the film in a downward spiral of insanity, it's due to his fear of retribution, not guilt.
Maleficent started out as one of the greatest characters in film canon. She was conceived as evil, she died evil, and from beginning to end she terrified the audience with a drama and flair that female characters 55 years after her debut would kill to possess. The tragedy is we've used this strongly defined villain to paint an ugly portrait of how our society sees women, and splattered it across screens to show girls everywhere what we do to those who don't fit our molds.
Once upon a time, humans lived among the fair folk. They were allowed to live as they liked, so long as they paid the fey their due respect. Some fairies responded with obeisance, others with reward, and still others with disinterest, so long as the humans observed the appropriate rights.
As it happened, one king and queen allowed the power they had over their fellow humans to go to their heads, and upon the birth of their daughter, publicly spurned an unpopular but vastly powerful fey named Maleficent by expressly not inviting her to the christening. In equal parts retribution to the royal upstarts as well as a reminder to those to follow of the foolishness of incurring her wrath, Maleficent cursed the newborn princess. She bore the babe no ill will, the child was merely collateral damage in the political chess game that the royal family had instigated. Sadly, Maleficent's quest for justice was thwarted by lesser fairies and the entitled entourage of the human royals, and she died a martyr to her own brand of retribution.
Sadly, this is not the story that Disney chose to tell with their re-imagining of one of their most beloved villains. In the trio of films that would go on to anchor the Disney princess franchise, Maleficent was a larger than life powerhouse among the vain, aging queen and the social-climbing, sycophantic stepmother. While Snow White, Cinderella, and Aurora are all equally innocent victims, Sleeping Beauty was the first film to depict a villain who was provoked before lashing out. Aurora, the titular beauty, is merely the catalyst for the events of the film, but it has always been Maleficent's story.
The live-action adaptation starring Angelina Jolie is, at best, a subpar Lifetime movie about a good woman done wrong by a bad man, and oh look, sparkles.
Maleficent starts out as a sunshine-vomiting fairy who epitomizes the Dark is Not Evil trope, and right away that's a major flaw in the film. Maleficent IS evil, deliciously evil, her very name is a portmanteau of mal (French: bad) and magnificent. Her malevolence is just a manifestation of her nature, and nothing, nothing that happens from here on out will convince any moviegoer that the 2014 Maleficent is capable of becoming the 1959 Maleficent.
As the film progresses, with a helping of trite and redundant narration, Maleficent falls in love with a sweet but ambitious boy named Stefan, whose human kingdom fears and loathes the neighboring fairies. In a quest to prove himself worthy of the throne, Stefan cuts off Maleficent's wings to prove to his warmongering king that he has slain the fairy, and so marries the milquetoast princess and becomes king.
Heartbroken and stung by betrayal, Maleficent uses her magic to curse her former lover's newborn in an almost word for word recitation of the animated film's iconic scene. She mentions the lack of invitation, but she's merely mocking the king--make no mistake, this is a classic example of woman scorned. Three fairies take Aurora off to raise her as a commoner, but while this is a cunning plan in the original, the fairies are so bafflingly stupid that Maleficent herself is forced to keep watch over the child so she can live long enough to enact the curse. Over the next sixteen years, in various sickeningly sweet scenes, Maleficent predictably falls in love with the child and seeks to undo her own curse, which, failing to do so, she unwittingly breaks it with True Love's kiss in a "twist" that Disney property Once Upon A Time has done much better. Twice.
No one fears the bite of a de-fanged cobra, and no one will find anything to fear in the vacillating cream puff that purports to be one of animation's most terrifying villains. Maleficent was introduced as a badass, and the creators of this latest film should be ashamed for what they've done to her.
It's hard not to see Maleficent's stolen wings as a huge and disturbing rape metaphor. The first king makes war on her lands because he fears her power. Stefan drugs her, and then takes what is rightfully hers without her permission. Notable at this point is that Maleficent is the guardian of her moor, friend to all fairies, with long brown hair and a dress to match, the virtuous embodiment of "good" womanhood. Following her "rape", the film justifies Stefan's victimization of Maleficent by turning her into a "bad" woman who kills babies while the crowning glory of her femininity is bound under tight, uncomfortable looking black leather. She finds her way back to "goodness" by forming a maternal bond (the pinnacle of womanhood) to the child she swore vengeance upon. You can tell her redemption is complete by the end of the film because she once again has long hair flowing around her face, and the moor sparkles in her presence.
Following the USCB shootings, this is an especially disturbing parallel to our view of rape victims. Rape turns victims into "bad" people, continuously accused of lying, of asking for it, as being damaged goods. Stefan, for most of the film, gets away with his actions, even achieving his ambitions as a direct result of what he did to Maleficent. Even as he spends the majority of the film in a downward spiral of insanity, it's due to his fear of retribution, not guilt.
Maleficent started out as one of the greatest characters in film canon. She was conceived as evil, she died evil, and from beginning to end she terrified the audience with a drama and flair that female characters 55 years after her debut would kill to possess. The tragedy is we've used this strongly defined villain to paint an ugly portrait of how our society sees women, and splattered it across screens to show girls everywhere what we do to those who don't fit our molds.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
White Disney World
Recently, I've been substituting all the things I used to do--spending time with friends, reading, concerts, movies, dating, gym, exercise--with Pinterest. I blame the fact that the app runs better on my iPhone than it did on my droid, and therefore, I cannot be held responsible for the fact that my traitorous thumb swipes over to it every time I get an email or a text. Due to the massive amount of time I spend on there, I've run across this gem at least five times:
First of all, Brave is set in Scotland, not Ireland. I have relatives that would murder you for failing that distinction.
But with thatminor quibble very serious infraction of cultural sensitivity addressed, let's examine the underlying argument being stated: namely, that because Rapunzel, Anna, and Elsa are from traditional European fairy tales/folklore, and Merida is a medieval Scot, Disney is not guilty of whitewashing.
While it's true that it makes the most sense for the three protagonists and deuteragonist to be white for these three films, and also, for the bit and supporting players to be white in the contexts of the story, in the past four years Disney has failed to release a feature film in its princess pantheon with a non-white lead or a diverse cast. While the films are most definitely based on traditional fairy tales, every culture has a rich tradition of storytelling that Disney could've mined and adapted, but in four years, they've chosen from a strictly European formula. Also, stories such as "The Frog Prince" are from the same cultural landscape as "Rapunzel", but Disney storytellers set it in the Jazz age of New Orleans with a black protagonist, black villain, black mentor, white foil, and ethnically ambiguous love interest--more diversity in 2009 than 2014.
Additionally, while one could argue that old school Disney princess films such as "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs", "Cinderella", and "Sleeping Beauty" skewed pretty closely to the original tales, "Frozen", Disney's latest offering, is set in the fictional land of Arendelle, with clothing, technology, and inheritance rights all suggesting an anachronism stew of time periods and locations with no real world counterpart. Kai and Gerda, the main characters of "The Snow Queen", upon which the movie is loosely based, are not even in the film, so loyalty to the source material is moot. Yet, all the characters were so white I barely noticed when SPOILER! the land was engulfed in an eternal blizzard. Clearly, while not actively whitewashing by refusing to update the racial makeup of Arendelle, Disney certainly isn't being progressive either.
As for the assertion that there are "plenty of ethnic Disney ladies", I invite the reader to check out the list of official Disney princesses here. If you'd like confirmation from the Mouse, there is a link here, that hasn't yet been updated to include Anna and Elsa. If you'd rather not distract from the brilliant wit that is this post, there are thirteen official Disney princesses, in order: Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora (Sleeping Beauty), Ariel (The Little Mermaid), Belle (Beauty and the Beast), Jasmine (Aladdin), Pocahontas, Mulan, Tiana (The Princess and the Frog), Rapunzel (Tangled), Merida (Brave), and Anna and Elsa (Frozen). Esmerelda doesn't count as a princess, being the love interest of her film instead of the protagonist (like Jasmine), and not being royal by either birth or marriage (like Mulan) and also because basically Disney says so. Note that out of 13 princesses, two are Asian, one is American Indian, and one is black, bringing the total to a whopping four. Let everyone be aware that 4/13 qualifies as plenty. Try arguing that point should you get that grade on a test--which would be a 31%, for anyone keeping track. And the fact that Tiana has no black friends to hang out with at the Disney princess parties, that Pocahontas is the only American Indian, and South Asian Jasmine and East Asian Mulan don't know any princesses who look like them, we've added up to that ugly little t-word: tokenism. If you break through the glass ceiling, but you're standing alone on the rubble with no one following behind, you haven't really accomplished much.
I don't want to live in a PC world, filled with stories and characters that have been flexed and molded to appease everyone and so please no one. I loved "Tangled", I adored "Brave", and "Frozen" warmed the cockles of my fairy tale loving but feminist heart. I wouldn't change a thing about any of them. I would want to see movies--and I mean feature films that are added to the official princess list--that feature characters as flawed, interesting, diverse, and heroic as Rapunzel, Merida, Anna, and Elsa with a plethora of skin tones and ethnic backgrounds. I want the rich tapestry of folktales and legends from Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and the Americas updated, adapted, and given a Disney ending. I want an upgrade from tokenism to diversity. I want Disney, the stamp upon my childhood, to stop whitewashing. And I want them to mean it.
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| This image is originally from http://themetapicture.com/brilliant-comeback/ All credit due the creators and other such indemnification. |
First of all, Brave is set in Scotland, not Ireland. I have relatives that would murder you for failing that distinction.
But with that
While it's true that it makes the most sense for the three protagonists and deuteragonist to be white for these three films, and also, for the bit and supporting players to be white in the contexts of the story, in the past four years Disney has failed to release a feature film in its princess pantheon with a non-white lead or a diverse cast. While the films are most definitely based on traditional fairy tales, every culture has a rich tradition of storytelling that Disney could've mined and adapted, but in four years, they've chosen from a strictly European formula. Also, stories such as "The Frog Prince" are from the same cultural landscape as "Rapunzel", but Disney storytellers set it in the Jazz age of New Orleans with a black protagonist, black villain, black mentor, white foil, and ethnically ambiguous love interest--more diversity in 2009 than 2014.
Additionally, while one could argue that old school Disney princess films such as "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs", "Cinderella", and "Sleeping Beauty" skewed pretty closely to the original tales, "Frozen", Disney's latest offering, is set in the fictional land of Arendelle, with clothing, technology, and inheritance rights all suggesting an anachronism stew of time periods and locations with no real world counterpart. Kai and Gerda, the main characters of "The Snow Queen", upon which the movie is loosely based, are not even in the film, so loyalty to the source material is moot. Yet, all the characters were so white I barely noticed when SPOILER! the land was engulfed in an eternal blizzard. Clearly, while not actively whitewashing by refusing to update the racial makeup of Arendelle, Disney certainly isn't being progressive either.
As for the assertion that there are "plenty of ethnic Disney ladies", I invite the reader to check out the list of official Disney princesses here. If you'd like confirmation from the Mouse, there is a link here, that hasn't yet been updated to include Anna and Elsa. If you'd rather not distract from the brilliant wit that is this post, there are thirteen official Disney princesses, in order: Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora (Sleeping Beauty), Ariel (The Little Mermaid), Belle (Beauty and the Beast), Jasmine (Aladdin), Pocahontas, Mulan, Tiana (The Princess and the Frog), Rapunzel (Tangled), Merida (Brave), and Anna and Elsa (Frozen). Esmerelda doesn't count as a princess, being the love interest of her film instead of the protagonist (like Jasmine), and not being royal by either birth or marriage (like Mulan) and also because basically Disney says so. Note that out of 13 princesses, two are Asian, one is American Indian, and one is black, bringing the total to a whopping four. Let everyone be aware that 4/13 qualifies as plenty. Try arguing that point should you get that grade on a test--which would be a 31%, for anyone keeping track. And the fact that Tiana has no black friends to hang out with at the Disney princess parties, that Pocahontas is the only American Indian, and South Asian Jasmine and East Asian Mulan don't know any princesses who look like them, we've added up to that ugly little t-word: tokenism. If you break through the glass ceiling, but you're standing alone on the rubble with no one following behind, you haven't really accomplished much.
I don't want to live in a PC world, filled with stories and characters that have been flexed and molded to appease everyone and so please no one. I loved "Tangled", I adored "Brave", and "Frozen" warmed the cockles of my fairy tale loving but feminist heart. I wouldn't change a thing about any of them. I would want to see movies--and I mean feature films that are added to the official princess list--that feature characters as flawed, interesting, diverse, and heroic as Rapunzel, Merida, Anna, and Elsa with a plethora of skin tones and ethnic backgrounds. I want the rich tapestry of folktales and legends from Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and the Americas updated, adapted, and given a Disney ending. I want an upgrade from tokenism to diversity. I want Disney, the stamp upon my childhood, to stop whitewashing. And I want them to mean it.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Perks and Pitfalls of Bringing Non-Nerds to See a Geek God
Meeting the creators of my favorite art is one of the best experiences I've ever had and meeting them after they've just made new art is even better.
Sometimes, life gets in the way. Wil Wheaton was in Philadelphia on Friday night, but due to the fact that I'm poor and the holidays are looming and my car decided now would be a good time to shit out its transmission, I instead signed up to work a double shift. Now, for clarity's sake, I should note that my love for Wil Wheaton began in earnest when I read this post. I never was a big fan of Star Trek (and before anyone spams the shit out of me, I'll get around to watching all the Trekkie goodness eventually. It's just never been my thing). The point is, I love Wil Wheaton the writer/comedian/professional awesome dude/Sheldon nemesis, and I am unabashedly nerdy in professing such love. I am, in fact proud to call myself a nerd in all respects. And undaunted, I wanted to see me some Wil Wheaton, and no time and a half with a $.50 pay differential second shift was going to get in my way.
Hence a 60-minute car drive followed by a 90-minute train ride and a 20-minute cab ride from Philly to New York so I could catch his show the following night.
And it was glorious.
However, 170 minutes is a long time for a solitary journey, so I enlisted reinforcements in the form of my three good co-worker friends, among whom there are a total of zero nerds. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Want to head up to New York on Saturday?
Friends: Why?
Me: Wil Wheaton is doing a show.
Friends: *crickets*
Me: He was on Star Trek: The Next Generation
Friends: *slightly louder crickets*
Me: He was the main kid in Stand By Me.
Friends: *hooting of an owl over the sound of crickets*
Me: He's Sheldon's arch-nemesis on The Big Bang Theory
Friends: Oh, right, that guy. What kind of show?
Me: Stand up
Friends: Is he funny?
If we were allowed access to YouTube at work, I would've pulled up a few vids of his past stand-up and let that do the talking. But since we're not, the better part of the next hour was spent convincing my friends that Wil Wheaton was funny and ultimately, they decided that I rarely steer them wrong and plans were made to visit the home of the Yankees (who suck harder than a Hoover, for the record).
At this juncture, just so you know what a magical night it was, I bring you "Kitty Corliss", first brought to me by co-headliners Paul and Storm.
To be fair and honest, you do not need to be a nerd to appreciate either the hilarity of Paul and Storm, whose song "My Favorite Band" perfectly encapsulates how I feel about My Chemical Romance, or Wil Wheaton's story about spicy dick milk (the name of my Michael Jackson cover band). The non-nerds I brought into the fray were cracking up over Wil's hysterical stories and the awesome Paul and Storm songs. And after we left, each of them declared themselves brand new but very enthusiastic fans of both.
However...
In a room full of geeks, I was sitting next to the people quietly, politely smiling during the references to Han shooting first, aiming to misbehave, and why his shirt was confusing to normal people. While I love converting the uninitiated, it's hard to explain the shorthand of nerd culture when you're rolling on the floor in glee. And the end of the evening is somewhat decimated when you recount the evening to your buddies and the explanation leaves them more baffled than the initial joke. There's a reason nerds gather amongst each other. We have the gene, and those who don't are confounded by our ways.
Since Wil Wheaton's name appears in this post a whopping nine times, I owe him one. He and his wife, the lovely and sweet Anne Wheaton, are raising money for the Pasadena Humane Society and you can help them out with that here.
Sometimes, life gets in the way. Wil Wheaton was in Philadelphia on Friday night, but due to the fact that I'm poor and the holidays are looming and my car decided now would be a good time to shit out its transmission, I instead signed up to work a double shift. Now, for clarity's sake, I should note that my love for Wil Wheaton began in earnest when I read this post. I never was a big fan of Star Trek (and before anyone spams the shit out of me, I'll get around to watching all the Trekkie goodness eventually. It's just never been my thing). The point is, I love Wil Wheaton the writer/comedian/professional awesome dude/Sheldon nemesis, and I am unabashedly nerdy in professing such love. I am, in fact proud to call myself a nerd in all respects. And undaunted, I wanted to see me some Wil Wheaton, and no time and a half with a $.50 pay differential second shift was going to get in my way.
Hence a 60-minute car drive followed by a 90-minute train ride and a 20-minute cab ride from Philly to New York so I could catch his show the following night.
And it was glorious.
However, 170 minutes is a long time for a solitary journey, so I enlisted reinforcements in the form of my three good co-worker friends, among whom there are a total of zero nerds. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Want to head up to New York on Saturday?
Friends: Why?
Me: Wil Wheaton is doing a show.
Friends: *crickets*
Me: He was on Star Trek: The Next Generation
Friends: *slightly louder crickets*
Me: He was the main kid in Stand By Me.
Friends: *hooting of an owl over the sound of crickets*
Me: He's Sheldon's arch-nemesis on The Big Bang Theory
Friends: Oh, right, that guy. What kind of show?
Me: Stand up
Friends: Is he funny?
If we were allowed access to YouTube at work, I would've pulled up a few vids of his past stand-up and let that do the talking. But since we're not, the better part of the next hour was spent convincing my friends that Wil Wheaton was funny and ultimately, they decided that I rarely steer them wrong and plans were made to visit the home of the Yankees (who suck harder than a Hoover, for the record).
At this juncture, just so you know what a magical night it was, I bring you "Kitty Corliss", first brought to me by co-headliners Paul and Storm.
To be fair and honest, you do not need to be a nerd to appreciate either the hilarity of Paul and Storm, whose song "My Favorite Band" perfectly encapsulates how I feel about My Chemical Romance, or Wil Wheaton's story about spicy dick milk (the name of my Michael Jackson cover band). The non-nerds I brought into the fray were cracking up over Wil's hysterical stories and the awesome Paul and Storm songs. And after we left, each of them declared themselves brand new but very enthusiastic fans of both.
However...
In a room full of geeks, I was sitting next to the people quietly, politely smiling during the references to Han shooting first, aiming to misbehave, and why his shirt was confusing to normal people. While I love converting the uninitiated, it's hard to explain the shorthand of nerd culture when you're rolling on the floor in glee. And the end of the evening is somewhat decimated when you recount the evening to your buddies and the explanation leaves them more baffled than the initial joke. There's a reason nerds gather amongst each other. We have the gene, and those who don't are confounded by our ways.
Since Wil Wheaton's name appears in this post a whopping nine times, I owe him one. He and his wife, the lovely and sweet Anne Wheaton, are raising money for the Pasadena Humane Society and you can help them out with that here.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Expiration Gaying: The Boy Scouts of America Permit Homosexuality for 18 Whole Years!
If you ask the Boy Scouts of America, being gay is the sexual identity equivalent of pooping your pants. It's fine for a child, but when a boy becomes a man, a man cannot be having that shit anymore. A boy can love a boy, but a man can't love a man.
Bypassing the pissing and moaning of parents who want to yank their children from the BSA (soon to be renamed The Great All-American Gay Porn Hub), the leaders of one of the largest youth organizations in one of the greatest countries in the world, in 2013 I might add, are squatting on their hopelessly dated policy of banning openly gay adults from serving as leaders, and they are not budging their tight, white, wrinkled, Conservative-cash-loving asses on that one.
Gay youth are being double-damned on this policy, because while their inclusion gives lip-service to a spirit of acceptance and progress, the gaping hole where their gay role models within the organization should be are empty. And that void is not silent. It's filled with the omnipresent threats of anti-gay organizations to pull funding because the very acknowledgment of gay individuals is an affront. It is filled with the constant shitstorm of media controversy that gay people find themselves at the center of simply by being open about who they are. The void is tacit compliance on the part of BSA's leaders to invite gay youth into the organization to be isolated, marginalized, and bullied on a public stage.
And yet, the BSA's historic vote today, the marginal good, the extensive bad, the exceedingly ugly, is progress. Those who advocate an end to the ban against gay people in it's entirety point out that gay boys grow up to become gay men--and they are entirely right. It's easy for the BSA to turn away leaders who are TEH GAY, that massive, faceless entity that they've conditioned themselves to believe impugn the masculinity and morality that the BSA strives to uphold. In ten years, when the openly gay youth who are admitted to the scouts next year apply for leadership positions, they will be Brian, and Andrew, and Steve, the highly decorated and able scouts looked up to by their younger troop mates. And it will be much harder to turn them away after a decade of service to the organization.
The BSA ban on gay leaders is still discrimination in all its ugly, ignorant glory, but the number of people being discriminated against is dwindling. We pause to acknowledge that victory, and then we fight on until that number is a fat, happy zero. The gay youth (and adults) of America are counting on it. The straight youth are, as well. When gay men and women are held up as leaders, based on their intelligence, compassion, and general decency, all kids learn that sexuality is a baseless reason to eschew anyone. It's a lesson worth learning, and a goal worth pursuing.
And today, we are one step closer.
Bypassing the pissing and moaning of parents who want to yank their children from the BSA (soon to be renamed The Great All-American Gay Porn Hub), the leaders of one of the largest youth organizations in one of the greatest countries in the world, in 2013 I might add, are squatting on their hopelessly dated policy of banning openly gay adults from serving as leaders, and they are not budging their tight, white, wrinkled, Conservative-cash-loving asses on that one.
Gay youth are being double-damned on this policy, because while their inclusion gives lip-service to a spirit of acceptance and progress, the gaping hole where their gay role models within the organization should be are empty. And that void is not silent. It's filled with the omnipresent threats of anti-gay organizations to pull funding because the very acknowledgment of gay individuals is an affront. It is filled with the constant shitstorm of media controversy that gay people find themselves at the center of simply by being open about who they are. The void is tacit compliance on the part of BSA's leaders to invite gay youth into the organization to be isolated, marginalized, and bullied on a public stage.
And yet, the BSA's historic vote today, the marginal good, the extensive bad, the exceedingly ugly, is progress. Those who advocate an end to the ban against gay people in it's entirety point out that gay boys grow up to become gay men--and they are entirely right. It's easy for the BSA to turn away leaders who are TEH GAY, that massive, faceless entity that they've conditioned themselves to believe impugn the masculinity and morality that the BSA strives to uphold. In ten years, when the openly gay youth who are admitted to the scouts next year apply for leadership positions, they will be Brian, and Andrew, and Steve, the highly decorated and able scouts looked up to by their younger troop mates. And it will be much harder to turn them away after a decade of service to the organization.
The BSA ban on gay leaders is still discrimination in all its ugly, ignorant glory, but the number of people being discriminated against is dwindling. We pause to acknowledge that victory, and then we fight on until that number is a fat, happy zero. The gay youth (and adults) of America are counting on it. The straight youth are, as well. When gay men and women are held up as leaders, based on their intelligence, compassion, and general decency, all kids learn that sexuality is a baseless reason to eschew anyone. It's a lesson worth learning, and a goal worth pursuing.
And today, we are one step closer.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Dude Days Are (Never) Over
If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you are very familiar with the furry face pictured above. My dog Dude took up about 90% of my pictures because My God, look at that cute wittle face! Sadly that face is only in pictures now, because my precious little boy died on February 16th at the age of twelve, because one of the cruel realities of the universe is that pets don't live as long as their people. One of the few blessings in all this is that he died both suddenly and peacefully, with no pain, in his home with the family he loved, that loved him with all their hearts.
I was fifteen when we got Dude, Christmas Eve of 2000. LittleSis was twelve and BabySis was eight. If you have sisters, or daughters for that matter, you'll know that three girls of those ages under one roof are generally hellbent on each others' destruction at the exclusion of all else. But it was very fairly agreed that Dude could unite us, make us playful, fun, and kind to each other, because he wanted to play with all his sisters at once, dammit, and His Royal Furriness always got his way! (The baby of the family always does).
He was actually a giant pain in the ass.
From puppyhood on up, he never learned the difference between outside barking and inside barking. He could show off his "inside voice", sure, but only if he had absolute certainty that there was a treat in it for him. Otherwise, doorbells, conversations between people in two different rooms, construction work going on in the neighborhood, fireworks, the flutter of a butterfly's wings in China, all were met with a healthy (loud) dose of barking, courtesy of The Dude (His full first name. Not inspired by The Big Lebowski. Just want to make that clear.)
He also chewed shoes when he got pissed off at whomever owned whatever pair he was chomping on. He had a particular and uncanny habit of always choosing the left of any pair, because the vindictive little fur face wasn't content to just ruin a pair of shoes altogether when he could taunt us with a right shoe that was both perfectly serviceable yet utterly useless.
Finally, Dude was, and I say this with utter gravitas and no hint of hyperbole, the biggest chickenshit alive. Hiccups, sneezes, burps, thunder, other dogs, small woodland creatures (yes, even bunnies)? All terrifying to our little boy, and he would bolt from wherever they were with a speed that athletes shrink their testicles to achieve. Once, I got the hiccups while taking him on one of his beloved walks and he wrestled himself out of his collar to get away from the horror of it all.
Somehow, none of this takes away from the fact that he was the best dog in the world. There's nothing quite like coming home after a long, painful day of work to a flurry of jumping, puppy kisses, and barking that translates to ohwowi'msohappytoseeyouyou'remyfavoritepersoninthewholebigworldiloveyouyousmellexcitingletmesniffyoupetmelookmytail'swaggingaren'ticuteyou'rethebestpersoneverdidimentioniloveyou (The translation is accurate, I spoke fluent Dude).
Despite being all of thirty pounds when soaking wet, and, as previously mentioned, a total chickenshit, Dude possessed total assurance that the house was not safe until he'd done a thorough patrol and personally seen to it that everyone was safely tucked into their beds. When LittleSis moved out, he would stalk the upstairs hallway all night, every night, until he visited her apartment and understood that his human lived here now and all was once again right with the world. He would still be awake if BabySis or I went out until the early hours of the morning, and greet us with a thumping tail and sleepy kisses, bearing no grudge that we'd kept him up all night.
He instinctively knew when we were grieving or stressed. He sought out my parents, my sisters, and myself when we cried and curled up next to us, laying a silent head on our laps and gazing up at us with his loving brown eyes until we felt better. He even tolerated our cuddles when we needed some puppy time, a big sacrifice on his part. Dude usually took a very catlike attitude towards physical affection, only acceptable on his terms, although petting was always welcomed--sometimes encouraged by a sleek head burrowing under a stationary hand for a stroke between the ears.
He was completely in love with a live audience, prancing out in the middle of the room to chase his own tail whenever people had the temerity to be in his house without paying attention to him. He also pawed at our legs if we weren't giving him a baby talk speech about how cute he was and what a special, wonderful, perfect little boy he was. Luckily for us, the one regret none of us could ever possibly have is the idea that we took him for granted. No day was complete without playing with, petting, and gushing over our sweet, beloved, admittedly spoiled little boy.
Anyone who has never loved a pet might be completely unaware how incredibly human they can be, full of distinct personalities and quirks. Although Dude might be the only dog in history who wasn't a dog person, he was also one of the only dogs to capture the hearts of people who flat out do not like dogs, or even animals in general. He made our family complete, and now we are missing my parents' son and our baby brother.
So here's to Dude. We had him for twelve years, we will love him for all our lifetimes.
The Dude
October 16, 2000-February 16, 2013
Perfect love, wrapped in fur
Monday, December 24, 2012
Merry Christmas!
Bad things happened this year. Most recently, 27 families lost Christmases and birthdays for now and the rest of their lives with loved ones who were far too young, and died in a manner far too violent. Tomorrow, which is already today for some of my readers, I will spend eight hours at work with people who can't spend Christmas with their families this year.
And then I'll go home, and spend the day with my family, eating my dad's amazing Beef Stroganoff and laughing together. I'll hear the voices of my friends on the other end of the phone when I call to wish them a Merry Christmas. Sunday night was the first of several mini-celebrations I'll share with various loved ones. And that is no small thing. Good things happened this year, to me, and to the world, and the existence of bad things cannot change that.
Christmas comes at the end of the year. This time next week we'll be wrapped in the excitement of New Year's, which will soon segue into the romance of Valentine's Day, the bawdy cheer of St. Patrick's Day, Easter and the awakening of spring, the hot, sticky, beach and barbecue days of summer, the excitement of fall, the thrills of Halloween, the warmth of Thanksgiving, and back again to Christmas. It's a constant in a world of unreliables. This year it even conquered the apocalypse.
So this year, and every year, to one and all, honor your losses, embrace your memories, kiss your loved ones, and revel in the good cheer of the season.
Merry Christmas.
And then I'll go home, and spend the day with my family, eating my dad's amazing Beef Stroganoff and laughing together. I'll hear the voices of my friends on the other end of the phone when I call to wish them a Merry Christmas. Sunday night was the first of several mini-celebrations I'll share with various loved ones. And that is no small thing. Good things happened this year, to me, and to the world, and the existence of bad things cannot change that.
Christmas comes at the end of the year. This time next week we'll be wrapped in the excitement of New Year's, which will soon segue into the romance of Valentine's Day, the bawdy cheer of St. Patrick's Day, Easter and the awakening of spring, the hot, sticky, beach and barbecue days of summer, the excitement of fall, the thrills of Halloween, the warmth of Thanksgiving, and back again to Christmas. It's a constant in a world of unreliables. This year it even conquered the apocalypse.
So this year, and every year, to one and all, honor your losses, embrace your memories, kiss your loved ones, and revel in the good cheer of the season.
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Gilmore Girls > Philadelphia Football
Today I was folding laundry while watching a trifecta of Gilmore Girls reruns, because I'm glamourous like that, when my dad happened upon me in between the innings/quarters/periods/eras of the Eagles vs. Whoever Beat the Eagles This Time game. I don't know from sports, but I do know that Andy Reid has done the same thing to the team this season as he's done to his cardiovascular system over his lifetime. In fact, I'm fairly certain that there's a secret city statute that forces my parents to watch the game week after frustrating week during the season upon penalty of giving our dog away to Michael Vick. It's the only reason I can ascertain as to why they would force themselves through such miserable disappointment from September (probably?) to January (I think?).
We wouldn't risk Dude for anything.
In any case, my dad wanted to know why I was watching an episode (or three), that I'd already seen, in his estimation, eighty four thousand times before.
He suffers from a mild case of exaggeration.
And the reason I was watching Gilmore Girls for the eighty four thousandth time was that, in addition to the fact that there's precious little available on a Sunday afternoon in December that is both new to me and at all interesting to watch, and isn't the Eagles, is that Gilmore Girls starts when it says it will, ends when it says it will, and reliably, Lorelai will be snarky, Rory will make oblique pop culture references, the boys will be cute if somewhat milquetoast, Sookie will knock something over, and the coffee will be consumed in greater quantities than Starbucks does annually. I get exactly what I want, and I won't be screaming or throwing pillows at the tv at the end of it all.
Suck it, Reid.
We wouldn't risk Dude for anything.
In any case, my dad wanted to know why I was watching an episode (or three), that I'd already seen, in his estimation, eighty four thousand times before.
He suffers from a mild case of exaggeration.
And the reason I was watching Gilmore Girls for the eighty four thousandth time was that, in addition to the fact that there's precious little available on a Sunday afternoon in December that is both new to me and at all interesting to watch, and isn't the Eagles, is that Gilmore Girls starts when it says it will, ends when it says it will, and reliably, Lorelai will be snarky, Rory will make oblique pop culture references, the boys will be cute if somewhat milquetoast, Sookie will knock something over, and the coffee will be consumed in greater quantities than Starbucks does annually. I get exactly what I want, and I won't be screaming or throwing pillows at the tv at the end of it all.
Suck it, Reid.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
It's Today
I live in fear of the phrase "Back in my day,". Not because I have a secret terror of hearing a nostalgia laced story that I've almost certainly heard before, but because of what the phrase represents. Unlike its cousins "When I was a kid," "When I was in college," "Back when my kids were little," the phrase is some amorphous indicator of a bygone time when the speaker felt relevant--and a sure sign that they no longer feel so.
At some point, people seem to feel that they are guests in a world that no longer belongs to them. Some feel it after some random age that they've ascribed for themselves--30 used to be the popular choice, although it's been recently taken over by 40. Others feel it when they have kids or grandkids. Still others walk past the display of People and US Weekly, fail to recognize anyone on the cover, and decide that they've passed the point of the target audience, and therefore, have seceded their "day".
When you relegate your "day" to the past, you're letting go of the world. If the "day" belongs to someone else, it means you know longer are an active participant in the world. You're as much a relic as the giant statue of Ben in the Franklin Institute, nothing more than a slightly chattier testament to history.
Here's the true story though: Today is your day. If you are alive to read this, then you are as relevant as you choose to be. Deciding to cut ties with the events and technologies of the world is relegating yourself to a supporting role at best. Human beings get a measly amount of time for a "day" before we go into that good night, so there's no point on embracing the sunset before we have to. Fight to be a part of the world today.
Because it's yours.
At some point, people seem to feel that they are guests in a world that no longer belongs to them. Some feel it after some random age that they've ascribed for themselves--30 used to be the popular choice, although it's been recently taken over by 40. Others feel it when they have kids or grandkids. Still others walk past the display of People and US Weekly, fail to recognize anyone on the cover, and decide that they've passed the point of the target audience, and therefore, have seceded their "day".
When you relegate your "day" to the past, you're letting go of the world. If the "day" belongs to someone else, it means you know longer are an active participant in the world. You're as much a relic as the giant statue of Ben in the Franklin Institute, nothing more than a slightly chattier testament to history.
Here's the true story though: Today is your day. If you are alive to read this, then you are as relevant as you choose to be. Deciding to cut ties with the events and technologies of the world is relegating yourself to a supporting role at best. Human beings get a measly amount of time for a "day" before we go into that good night, so there's no point on embracing the sunset before we have to. Fight to be a part of the world today.
Because it's yours.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Pants and Masculinity
Today, I was innocently wasting several hours of my time on Pinterest as a reward for not out and out murdering my family, when I had the misfortune of beholding this:
Once Upon a Time, Men Wore Pants
There is so much wrong with this ad that I've decided to address it in four points:
1. I don't believe in a feminist fairy tale where the world would be a utopia if women had been in charge. The closest humanity will ever come to the best version of ourselves is when there is an equal distribution of opportunity, and people contribute to society in the way that suits their individual talents and desires, heavy emphasis on the INDIVIDUAL. That said, this mystical time has not ever happened, and despite the sorry state of current affairs, this is as close as we, the human race, has ever been. Whoever created this ad, nostalgic for days when men were in charge, must also admit that the worst of humanity: the invention of the atomic bomb, pollution, slavery, the Holocaust, witch hunts, et al, all happened when everyone sitting in the hot seat was also sporting wood. So whomever created/agrees with this ad can have all the credit of chivalry and progress if and only if they're willing to take the blame for all the bad stuff.
2. If eating a salad or drinking a latte is corrupting your masculinity, you don't have enough masculinity to bother mentioning it at all. A real man is not threatened by the equality of women, a real man does not dwell in the fictional past, and a real man is not impugned by his beverage.
3. Opening the damn door does not make you a hero. It cures no disease, eases no worry, halts no war. Let go of the idea that a polite gesture should net you a medal and a parade. Women have always been able to open their own damn doors. It's not that hard. Aim higher if you want the title of hero. The men AND women of our armed forces are heroes. Our police, our firefighters, our EMTs are heroes. Our nurses and doctors are heroes. Teachers and librarians are heroes. Parents who make the tough calls and actually discipline their kids are heroes. The world is not in short supply for heroes.
This is the most important point of all, which is why I've saved it for last:
4. NO ONE TOOK YOUR FUCKING PANTS! We simply noticed that your pants were nice, and allowed for greater freedom of movement, and thought, Hey! We want some. Women are wearing our own pants (which are cuter, and have a greater variety of styles, for the record). Nobody took men's pants away. Nobody left them locked in the kitchen shivering and naked from the waist down. Pants have not gone anywhere. Men have not gone anywhere. Real men have been here all along, eating steak and salad, drinking beer and lattes, being partners and friends to each other and to women. While the milquetoast and mundane men have been ballyhooing that the era that truly appreciated them is long past and baying for its return, real men have been growing and learning the whole time.
And they kept their pants.
Once Upon a Time, Men Wore Pants
There is so much wrong with this ad that I've decided to address it in four points:
1. I don't believe in a feminist fairy tale where the world would be a utopia if women had been in charge. The closest humanity will ever come to the best version of ourselves is when there is an equal distribution of opportunity, and people contribute to society in the way that suits their individual talents and desires, heavy emphasis on the INDIVIDUAL. That said, this mystical time has not ever happened, and despite the sorry state of current affairs, this is as close as we, the human race, has ever been. Whoever created this ad, nostalgic for days when men were in charge, must also admit that the worst of humanity: the invention of the atomic bomb, pollution, slavery, the Holocaust, witch hunts, et al, all happened when everyone sitting in the hot seat was also sporting wood. So whomever created/agrees with this ad can have all the credit of chivalry and progress if and only if they're willing to take the blame for all the bad stuff.
2. If eating a salad or drinking a latte is corrupting your masculinity, you don't have enough masculinity to bother mentioning it at all. A real man is not threatened by the equality of women, a real man does not dwell in the fictional past, and a real man is not impugned by his beverage.
3. Opening the damn door does not make you a hero. It cures no disease, eases no worry, halts no war. Let go of the idea that a polite gesture should net you a medal and a parade. Women have always been able to open their own damn doors. It's not that hard. Aim higher if you want the title of hero. The men AND women of our armed forces are heroes. Our police, our firefighters, our EMTs are heroes. Our nurses and doctors are heroes. Teachers and librarians are heroes. Parents who make the tough calls and actually discipline their kids are heroes. The world is not in short supply for heroes.
This is the most important point of all, which is why I've saved it for last:
4. NO ONE TOOK YOUR FUCKING PANTS! We simply noticed that your pants were nice, and allowed for greater freedom of movement, and thought, Hey! We want some. Women are wearing our own pants (which are cuter, and have a greater variety of styles, for the record). Nobody took men's pants away. Nobody left them locked in the kitchen shivering and naked from the waist down. Pants have not gone anywhere. Men have not gone anywhere. Real men have been here all along, eating steak and salad, drinking beer and lattes, being partners and friends to each other and to women. While the milquetoast and mundane men have been ballyhooing that the era that truly appreciated them is long past and baying for its return, real men have been growing and learning the whole time.
And they kept their pants.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Four Anti-Feminist Disney Princesses....and Why They Deserve a Break
Modern audiences have advocated feisty, role-model worthy female protagonists for films directed at little girls, citing
the Disney Classic Princess canon as examples of female passivity on film, exacerbating being pretty, getting married,
and waiting for a prince to rescue them from their admittedly crappy lives as worthy female goals. Starting with Beauty and the Beast in 1991, the female heroines of Disney films became more proactive, with Belle assisting in her own
rescue, followed by Jasmine doing the same in 1992's Aladdin, Pocahontas (1995) and Mulan (1998), where the
heroines serve as the actual action girls, rounding out with Tianna (The Princess and the Frog, 2009), Rapunzel
(Tangled, 2010), and Pixar's Merida (Brave, 2012) being the most active, fully-rounded characters in the pantheon of
Disney heroines. However, the trend starters for Disney's Princess films were stronger and more vivacious characters
than modern audiences give them credit for, and deserve some recognition for their more admirable qualities:
1. Aurora (Sleeping Beauty, 1959)
Sleeping Beauty is criticized most often for "First Guy Wins", in that, having been rescued from the evil sorceress/ dragon Maleficent by Prince Phillipe, Princess Aurora marries him, despite the fact that he's a total stranger and perpetuates the idea that women are prizes earned for acts of bravery.
Why She Deserves a Break
Phillip isn't a total stranger to Aurora. Back when she was still known as Briar Rose, he showed up in the forest while she was waxing poetic about the prospect of meeting a prince and falling in love, and the two of them had a brief flirtation:
Once Upon A Dream
Granted, it's no leading an army or single-handedly defeating the Big Bad, but at least Aurora was in puppy love for the guy, which is a sight better than the original fairy tale, wherein the prince wins the princess just for the kiss, her feelings be damned. Aurora and Phillip are also betrothed to marry anyway, to unite their kingdoms, which again seems way too close to the idea of "Free Princess with Purchase" before acknowledging that Phillip is also being used as a political pawn, and has to marry her regardless of his feelings on the subject. He has to work for it too, as Sleeping Beauty apparently doesn't deem a kiss as sufficiently heroic and requires that Phillip be imprisoned, fight through a thorn maze, and slay a dragon, which at least has him do more to earn his happy ending than his spiritual predecessor Prince NoName from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Speaking of...
2. Snow White (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, 1937)
Poor Snow White. It really is a curse to be so beautiful. Her stepmother is all set to kill her over her delicate, unwrinkled features, leaving her running for her life in the harsh wilderness of an untamed forest in an imminently impractical ball gown. The huntsman does spare her life because she's so pretty, which must be why she's so cheerfully singing with woodland creatures while she does free menial labor for a house full of strange men, because women, if they're not making babies, are only good for cooking and cleaning.
Why She Deserves a Break
First of all, it's not free menial labor. She's paying for room and board using her specific skill set, which given that she's royalty, it's amazing she has even basic cleaning skills. Plus, take a look at the dwarves' cottage:
Whistle While You Work
That place is NASTY! She's not rearranging a stack of books and putting away laundry, she's making a sticky, unhygienic hole into a livable, healthy home. That's a basic survival skill, finding or creating a serviceable shelter when you're lost. And, she's assembled a workforce, dictating tasks according to each animal's abilities and showcasing impressive managerial skills, which is more than can be said for another princess who talks to animals...
3. Cinderella (Cinderella, 1950)
1. Aurora (Sleeping Beauty, 1959)
Sleeping Beauty is criticized most often for "First Guy Wins", in that, having been rescued from the evil sorceress/ dragon Maleficent by Prince Phillipe, Princess Aurora marries him, despite the fact that he's a total stranger and perpetuates the idea that women are prizes earned for acts of bravery.
Why She Deserves a Break
Phillip isn't a total stranger to Aurora. Back when she was still known as Briar Rose, he showed up in the forest while she was waxing poetic about the prospect of meeting a prince and falling in love, and the two of them had a brief flirtation:
Once Upon A Dream
Granted, it's no leading an army or single-handedly defeating the Big Bad, but at least Aurora was in puppy love for the guy, which is a sight better than the original fairy tale, wherein the prince wins the princess just for the kiss, her feelings be damned. Aurora and Phillip are also betrothed to marry anyway, to unite their kingdoms, which again seems way too close to the idea of "Free Princess with Purchase" before acknowledging that Phillip is also being used as a political pawn, and has to marry her regardless of his feelings on the subject. He has to work for it too, as Sleeping Beauty apparently doesn't deem a kiss as sufficiently heroic and requires that Phillip be imprisoned, fight through a thorn maze, and slay a dragon, which at least has him do more to earn his happy ending than his spiritual predecessor Prince NoName from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Speaking of...
2. Snow White (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, 1937)
Poor Snow White. It really is a curse to be so beautiful. Her stepmother is all set to kill her over her delicate, unwrinkled features, leaving her running for her life in the harsh wilderness of an untamed forest in an imminently impractical ball gown. The huntsman does spare her life because she's so pretty, which must be why she's so cheerfully singing with woodland creatures while she does free menial labor for a house full of strange men, because women, if they're not making babies, are only good for cooking and cleaning.
Why She Deserves a Break
First of all, it's not free menial labor. She's paying for room and board using her specific skill set, which given that she's royalty, it's amazing she has even basic cleaning skills. Plus, take a look at the dwarves' cottage:
Whistle While You Work
That place is NASTY! She's not rearranging a stack of books and putting away laundry, she's making a sticky, unhygienic hole into a livable, healthy home. That's a basic survival skill, finding or creating a serviceable shelter when you're lost. And, she's assembled a workforce, dictating tasks according to each animal's abilities and showcasing impressive managerial skills, which is more than can be said for another princess who talks to animals...
3. Cinderella (Cinderella, 1950)
Cinderella has no ambitions except one night of fancy fun at the prince's ball. It's the only thing she looks forward to in
her life, and she will gladly work as a slave in her own home without benefit of a decent bed or food just for the
possibility of attending. Yank away that one shining dream, and be prepared for her to....accept defeat tearfully but
quietly. Cinderella does literally nothing for herself. Without the intervention of her fairy godmother and her animal
friends, she wouldn't have even had the chance at the ball she so desperately wants to attend, and only the prince getting
smitten over her rescues her from a life of drudgery, which apart from that one night, she never even aspired to escape.
Why She Deserves a Break
Cinderella is basically a victim of psychological abuse. She's completely at the mercy of her stepmother, and has been since the death of her father when she was very young. She works as a slave in her own household (watch Downton Abbey sometime to get a scope of how many people are needed to clean and maintain a house that size. The movie makes it clear that, with the exception of mice and birds, Cinderella is taking on that load herself), and has no ambition for freedom and escape because it's the only life she knows. And despite outward appearances, Cinderella is no candy- coated personification of sugar-sweetness:
A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes
Pay attention to the lyrics. She's clearly miserable about her lot in life, but so dejected and beaten down that the fight has gone out of her, and her dreams are all she has to keep her on the healthy side of sane. Having a fanciful dream to fantasize about is her coping mechanism, a device employed by abuse victims the world over. It's hard to aspire to great things when getting through the day is a monumental physical and mental chore. She should be applauded for getting out of bed every day in her position, unlike other heroines who have a stronger foundation for ambition...
4. Ariel (The Little Mermaid, 1989)
The youngest daughter of the Sea King has all the powers and privileges of the ruling family of the ocean, giving up her culture, power, exploratory freedom, and species to join an alien world to be with a man who loves her so much he can't tell the difference between her and a nominally similar looking sorceress who doesn't even have the same hair color. In the ocean, she's even free to pursue research on a foreign creature, with the caveat that she not directly fraternize with the seemingly dangerous subject of her study, a privilege that is rescinded when she breaks that rule. On land, she can't talk and she brushes her hair with a fork, showing once again that having a man is paramount.
Why She Deserves a Break
Ariel is truthfully the bravest princess in the Disney pantheon. The movie makes it clear that her fascination with human culture predates the events of the film, and she is the most knowledgable merperson on the subject of humanity's qualities, for good and ill. She has the bravery to defy her father specifically because she knows better what the dangers of being near humans are. She wanted to join the human world before she even met Prince Eric:
Part of Your World
She's intellectually and scientifically curious about events and ephemera that she simply cannot experience under water. Further, she doesn't actually attempt to join humanity until her father destroys all of her artifacts, research, and laboratory, giving her the option to "go native", or forever give up her dream to understand the human world. Given the opportunity to do hands on research, she was willing to physically maim herself to achieve her goal. Jane Goodall would consider her a badass, without even factoring in the idea that her pioneering mission to join humanity was a radical step towards eradicating racism between merfolk and people, and broadening the horizons of both groups. Ariel is not a fantasy princess, but a political one.
Why She Deserves a Break
Cinderella is basically a victim of psychological abuse. She's completely at the mercy of her stepmother, and has been since the death of her father when she was very young. She works as a slave in her own household (watch Downton Abbey sometime to get a scope of how many people are needed to clean and maintain a house that size. The movie makes it clear that, with the exception of mice and birds, Cinderella is taking on that load herself), and has no ambition for freedom and escape because it's the only life she knows. And despite outward appearances, Cinderella is no candy- coated personification of sugar-sweetness:
A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes
Pay attention to the lyrics. She's clearly miserable about her lot in life, but so dejected and beaten down that the fight has gone out of her, and her dreams are all she has to keep her on the healthy side of sane. Having a fanciful dream to fantasize about is her coping mechanism, a device employed by abuse victims the world over. It's hard to aspire to great things when getting through the day is a monumental physical and mental chore. She should be applauded for getting out of bed every day in her position, unlike other heroines who have a stronger foundation for ambition...
4. Ariel (The Little Mermaid, 1989)
The youngest daughter of the Sea King has all the powers and privileges of the ruling family of the ocean, giving up her culture, power, exploratory freedom, and species to join an alien world to be with a man who loves her so much he can't tell the difference between her and a nominally similar looking sorceress who doesn't even have the same hair color. In the ocean, she's even free to pursue research on a foreign creature, with the caveat that she not directly fraternize with the seemingly dangerous subject of her study, a privilege that is rescinded when she breaks that rule. On land, she can't talk and she brushes her hair with a fork, showing once again that having a man is paramount.
Why She Deserves a Break
Ariel is truthfully the bravest princess in the Disney pantheon. The movie makes it clear that her fascination with human culture predates the events of the film, and she is the most knowledgable merperson on the subject of humanity's qualities, for good and ill. She has the bravery to defy her father specifically because she knows better what the dangers of being near humans are. She wanted to join the human world before she even met Prince Eric:
Part of Your World
She's intellectually and scientifically curious about events and ephemera that she simply cannot experience under water. Further, she doesn't actually attempt to join humanity until her father destroys all of her artifacts, research, and laboratory, giving her the option to "go native", or forever give up her dream to understand the human world. Given the opportunity to do hands on research, she was willing to physically maim herself to achieve her goal. Jane Goodall would consider her a badass, without even factoring in the idea that her pioneering mission to join humanity was a radical step towards eradicating racism between merfolk and people, and broadening the horizons of both groups. Ariel is not a fantasy princess, but a political one.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Defending Geekiness
I was recently the subject of some (friendly--at least I hope so) ribbing by some family members for my alleged "geekiness", which I put in quotation marks because their definition of being a geek is the fact that I was incredibly excited for the latest episode of The Walking Dead, which if you have to read that link to know what it is, I'm sorry, but I am just baffled as to how you even found this blog, but I digress. In any case, the plebeians don't know just how deep the geek goes, but in any case, one of the words thrown around was "pathetic", which just for context you should know that this family event took place during the Eagles' bi-week, which means our home team wasn't playing that day, and it was specifically set up that way, and also the cousin who called me pathetic didn't know that Italy was shaped like a boot.
I internalize damn near everything I hear, which yes, I know I shouldn't, but it stuck in my craw, this allegation of being "pathetic". Sometimes I think the only things that stick are the ones I suspect, or fear, are true. Society has long regarded the attendees of Comic-Con as geeks who live in their mothers' basements and lost their virginity somewhere around never. Even though superhero movies, comic books, sci-fi, fantasy, and other media and genres of that ilk are enjoying a mainstream run right now, and a non-too-shabby take at the box office, there's a definite line in the sand between the regular audiences, who are enjoying what's being presented to them, and the geeks, who seek out the new, the cool, the weird, and who take to message boards to pick apart the lastest episode or installment of whatever it is that they love best. Geekdom is enjoying a heyday, and heydays, as they are wont to do, end. Don't know when or why, but being a geek will fall out of fashion as swiftly as it fell in. Most people will move on to whatever the next cool thing is, and the geeks will still be blogging about who would win in a fight between Batman and Iron Man. It's what we do.
So, is the fact that we still mourn Firefly a testament to our tenacity or evidence that we can't move on from something as inconsequential as a tv show? Are we above the mainstream who follow trends like sheep, or are we stubbornly refusing to evolve? Are geeks pathetic?
I've thought long and hard over that question and the answer I came up with is a resounding maybe. Maybe the fact that I took a day off work to meet my favorite author and drove all the way to the great back ass of nowhere because God forbid he do a reading in an easily accessible place in a major city does smack of sadness, even if I don't regret doing it for one second and I got his autograph TWICE, so that makes the harrowing drive on a highway that terrifies me totally worth it. Maybe the fact that a new album, or a new movie, or hell, even a new episode of something I love gets me excited to the point that my squealing hurts my dog's ears makes me a sad sack.
But I don't care. Maybe a new book or upcoming concert is a stupid reason to get myself excited, but I have something to look forward to almost every day. There is always something to be excited about, and even after I've seen/heard/experienced it, I can go over and over the nuances ad infinitum. I'm proud that I can keep the entire cast of Game of Thrones straight without double checking or referring to the complicated addenda in the books (which I did read anyway). While everyone in my house is half-watching the latest episodes, I'm fully engaged in a medieval world that has fucking dragons. While my cousins roll their eyes and tell me I'm pathetic, they're bored out of their skulls and I'm gleefully anticipating how Daryl and Merle are going to reunite, and I'm loving every minute of it. And unlike the Eagles, who are frankly a source of near-constant disappointment, nothing in my geek menagerie topples my good mood, even when favorite characters die or story lines bulldoze through previously established plots.
Maybe I'm weird and maybe I have a distorted sense of reality, but I'm also damn happy, and I think I speak for all geeks, whether they love movies, comics, TV, books, social media, music, tech, or some combination thereof, when I say I feel sorry for anyone who doesn't get wildly enthusiastic as regularly as we do.
Life's too short to be disaffected.
I internalize damn near everything I hear, which yes, I know I shouldn't, but it stuck in my craw, this allegation of being "pathetic". Sometimes I think the only things that stick are the ones I suspect, or fear, are true. Society has long regarded the attendees of Comic-Con as geeks who live in their mothers' basements and lost their virginity somewhere around never. Even though superhero movies, comic books, sci-fi, fantasy, and other media and genres of that ilk are enjoying a mainstream run right now, and a non-too-shabby take at the box office, there's a definite line in the sand between the regular audiences, who are enjoying what's being presented to them, and the geeks, who seek out the new, the cool, the weird, and who take to message boards to pick apart the lastest episode or installment of whatever it is that they love best. Geekdom is enjoying a heyday, and heydays, as they are wont to do, end. Don't know when or why, but being a geek will fall out of fashion as swiftly as it fell in. Most people will move on to whatever the next cool thing is, and the geeks will still be blogging about who would win in a fight between Batman and Iron Man. It's what we do.
So, is the fact that we still mourn Firefly a testament to our tenacity or evidence that we can't move on from something as inconsequential as a tv show? Are we above the mainstream who follow trends like sheep, or are we stubbornly refusing to evolve? Are geeks pathetic?
I've thought long and hard over that question and the answer I came up with is a resounding maybe. Maybe the fact that I took a day off work to meet my favorite author and drove all the way to the great back ass of nowhere because God forbid he do a reading in an easily accessible place in a major city does smack of sadness, even if I don't regret doing it for one second and I got his autograph TWICE, so that makes the harrowing drive on a highway that terrifies me totally worth it. Maybe the fact that a new album, or a new movie, or hell, even a new episode of something I love gets me excited to the point that my squealing hurts my dog's ears makes me a sad sack.
But I don't care. Maybe a new book or upcoming concert is a stupid reason to get myself excited, but I have something to look forward to almost every day. There is always something to be excited about, and even after I've seen/heard/experienced it, I can go over and over the nuances ad infinitum. I'm proud that I can keep the entire cast of Game of Thrones straight without double checking or referring to the complicated addenda in the books (which I did read anyway). While everyone in my house is half-watching the latest episodes, I'm fully engaged in a medieval world that has fucking dragons. While my cousins roll their eyes and tell me I'm pathetic, they're bored out of their skulls and I'm gleefully anticipating how Daryl and Merle are going to reunite, and I'm loving every minute of it. And unlike the Eagles, who are frankly a source of near-constant disappointment, nothing in my geek menagerie topples my good mood, even when favorite characters die or story lines bulldoze through previously established plots.
Maybe I'm weird and maybe I have a distorted sense of reality, but I'm also damn happy, and I think I speak for all geeks, whether they love movies, comics, TV, books, social media, music, tech, or some combination thereof, when I say I feel sorry for anyone who doesn't get wildly enthusiastic as regularly as we do.
Life's too short to be disaffected.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Seeking Myself
I like to pride myself on being highly self-aware, and if I actually were, that would be a hell of a thing to take pride in. But, I'm not. The only way I know of to gauge how I'm feeling is open an extra tab on my laptop while I'm working and search for songs. I don't know what kind of mood I'm in until I hear what I've selected for myself.
Something Corporate or New Found Glory: nostalgic for my teen years
My Chemical Romance or Green Day: either melancholy or exuberant--they have a wide range
The Beatles or Queen: nostalgic for my childhood
Beyonce/Lady Gaga/P!nk/Katy Perry: amped up and vaguely pissed at the male gender. Tends to occur once a month.
Broadway tunes: highly energetic. Often involves dancing. It's rarely, if ever, pretty
Avenged Sevenfold: angry
Celtic Woman: Irish (yes, Irish is a mood)
As special as I like to believe I am, I wonder if I'm the only one who gauges their own mood by the choices they subconsciously make. Feel free to comment if you do the same, and with what.
Something Corporate or New Found Glory: nostalgic for my teen years
My Chemical Romance or Green Day: either melancholy or exuberant--they have a wide range
The Beatles or Queen: nostalgic for my childhood
Beyonce/Lady Gaga/P!nk/Katy Perry: amped up and vaguely pissed at the male gender. Tends to occur once a month.
Broadway tunes: highly energetic. Often involves dancing. It's rarely, if ever, pretty
Avenged Sevenfold: angry
Celtic Woman: Irish (yes, Irish is a mood)
As special as I like to believe I am, I wonder if I'm the only one who gauges their own mood by the choices they subconsciously make. Feel free to comment if you do the same, and with what.
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