What a different year this one is from last. That's all I'll say right now. Enjoy the annual rerun of one of my favorite columns: Launching the Warship.
Happy Easter.
Last Friday I hosted my Gratitude and Abundance coffee klatch. Karen and I got together just before the party to discuss a homily she’s writing. When Birth Pie arrived it was clear we had been discussing church business.
“What is this committee you two are on?” asked Birth Pie suspiciously.
“It’s the Worship Committee” Karen told her.
“What do you do?”
“Well, it used to be called the Religious Services Committee, but that seemed too non-profity and administrative, so we changed the name,” my honey-haired Buddhist friend earnestly explained. “We are responsible for creating the experience of worship.”
“Oh, ‘worship’!” exclaimed Birth Pie. (Her father is a UCC minister, after all.) “I thought you said ‘War Ship.’”
Considering the gruesome torture aspects of the Easter myth perhaps War Ship isn’t too far off. And sometimes I do think our progressive, intellectual faith could benefit from a little more military discipline and a little less kumbaya. I feel certain the pot lucks at West Point are better organized than ours.
Our family’s Easter tradition is to host Dusty and Hyacinth for a mid-day egg hunt and festive repast. As it is also our tradition to attend Easter Sunday worship, the morning is fairly full. Recent Easters have been enhanced by Small projectile-vomiting and Sweetiebabyhoneylicious being confined to bed by her Rheumatoid Arthritis. So I had high hopes this year when it looked like no one would be ill or incapacitated.
The three of us bounded out of bed at 6am in full-on attack mode. Our mission, and we were going to accept it: to prepare a complete Easter brunch and beat the downstairs of the house into some semblance of clean in time to get Small to choir practice by 9:15 am.
I took on the roles of Commander, Chef and Cheerleader. “We’re going to cook! We’re going to clean! Let’s go Team Easter!”
“What’s the name of the other team?” asked Small, eyeing her Spider magazine longingly.
“There is no other team!” I intoned in the voice of authority.
A bleary-eyed Sweetiebabyhoneylicious settled herself in front of the computer.
“She’s not on Team Easter,” noted Small. “She’s on Team Facebook.”
Somehow we pulled it together. We made hash. We made sticky buns. We made Bloody Marys, and I didn’t even drink any. We tidied, we decorated, we washed dishes, we ate breakfast. And then suddenly it was fifteen-minutes-to-go time and we were all still dirty and in our pajamas.
Which is how we ended up in the bathroom enjoying one another’s company through our morning ablutions.
Having Small join me for my bathroom rituals is not my favorite thing. The previous morning she had this to say about my makeup routine:
“What is that stuff? It’s smeary.”
I told her it was to cover the circles under my eyes.
“It makes it less purple under your eyes,” she agreed. “Not a lot less purple, but a little less purple.”
Despite the 40 degree weather and horrifically cold wind, I was determined to wear a spring dress to church. Unfortunately that necessitated shaving my legs in the company of my family. As I pushed the shower curtain aside to lather up my right leg, Small lost all focus on oral hygiene.
“What are you doing?”
Sweetiebabyhoneylicious attempted to maintain protocol: “Don’t worry about what Mama’s doing, worry about what you’re doing.”
A dismal thought occurred to me. It is entirely possible that I have not shaved my legs in over six years. Time gets away from you when you have a small child.
“Mama’s shaving her legs” explained Sweetiebabyhoneylicious, trying to get back to the task at hand.
“What is shaving?” asked Small.
“Removing the hair on her legs.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Good question,” said Sweetiebabyhoneylicious, waving the neglected toothbrush.
“Fashion,” said Mama with grim determination.
With seven minutes to go the whole family stumbled out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. Small has taken lessons from the cat to employ when we’re running late. Like the VISA card, she’s every where I want to be. She weaves in front of me as I walk. She intuits telepathically where I’m about to head next and gets there first. With brilliant athletic instincts she’s able to step into my path wherever I turn.
As closely guarded as any WNBA champion, I dug in the bottom of the closet for the pantyhose collection last accessed in 2001. With her breath hot upon me I tunneled through the laundry to locate clean panties. As I charged for the mirror like Lisa Leslie, my three-foot nemesis drew the foul. When she made her move I straight-armed her back across the room.
“You pushed me!” came the indignant cry.
My denial was shameless, if undermined by giggles. “No I didn’t. Pushing is rude. Mamas don’t push their kids.”
“You’ve pushed me before!” Small countered, although she was already falling into my laughter. “You’ve even pushed me today!”
The ref, aka Sweetiebabyhoneylicious, broke up the scuffle. Sweaters, earrings and mary janes were found. Dress coats were donned and dress up purses were filled. We fell into the car with time to spare. War Ship indeed.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
mind body mama: Victim Blaming for Four Year Olds
Friends, do you remember the scene in the movie Philadelphia when the lawyer Joe Miller says, “Explain it to me—like I’m a four year old”?
Recently I wrote about victim blaming on the pages of our local newspaper. I received an outstanding response to this article from many quarters. My favorite were from fellow moms (oddly enough, both high school classmates); the one who said “I’m going to share this with my teenage daughters,” and the other, “You made it so clear, I can explain it to my five year old.”
But I’ve had pushback as well. Subtle, as in the colleague who pondered, “But what about personal accountability?” And less subtle, as in this comment that appears on the newpaper’s blog:
“I don't get the metaphor--If I leave my car unlocked, it will be easier to steal. It's fine to say it's all the car thief's fault, but I'm the one who suffers the consequences of not taking care of myself.”
And so, gentle reader, here’s my attempt to take up Joe Miller’s challenge.
Let’s imagine four scenerios between various perpetrators and an omnipresent authority figure. (For lack of a better name, let’s call the authority All That Is Right And Holy, or ATIRAH for short.)
Scenerio #1--Perpetrator: A four year old
ATIRAH: Stop hitting your brother.
Perp: But he stole my truck and called me a stupid head!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter what he did, we don’t hit people.
Scenerio #2--Perpetrator: A thief
ATIRAH: Stop, thief!
Perp: But she left her car unlocked! She has to suffer the consequences!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter if the car was unlocked, we don’t steal things.
Scenerio #3--Perpetrator: A bully
ATIRAH: Stop threatening and harassing that kid with that homophobic and gender-biased hate speech.
Perp: But he painted his toenails pink!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter what he did, we don’t bully people.
Scenerio #4--Perpetrator: A rapist
ATIRAH: You have committed sexual assault. Off to jail.
Perp: But she was drunk and wearing a promiscuous outfit!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter what she did, we don’t rape people.
People, I know it’s not a perfect world. I have hidden the fact that I am a lesbian, locked my car, asked a male friend to walk me to my car on a dark night. In short, I have limited my access to the public sphere and policed my own behavior in the service of my own security. I have also learned how to break bones and puncture windpipes and block my head and scream bloody murder.
But this does not make the violence that threatens me my responsibility. If anything, the level of energy I have to commit to my own safety underscores the injustice of the world I live in.
Let’s compare my situation with that of a large, upper class heterosexual white male. (Just for fun, let’s call him Bill Dwight.) Bill has never felt that his gender put him at risk of sexual violence. He’s never felt that his size and shape put him at risk of physical assault. He’s never had to hide his loving relationship for fear of discrimination or injury. Bill has never felt that breaking bones and puncturing windpipes and blocking his head and screaming bloody murder were baseline competencies necessary for his survival.
There is a word that describes, not how Bill lives, but the discrepancy between how he lives and how I live. The word is privilege. Does it mean Bill is a bad person? No, it does not. (Bill is, in fact, a very good person, and if you live in Northampton you should vote for him for City Councilor at Large.) It means that there is something bad about the world that we live in, something that “personal accountability” and punching people in the throat alone will not cure.
That’s why self defense is about more than the tactics any one of us uses to stay safe and sane in a world set up for our destruction. That’s why self defense is not about saving myself, but about saving the world.
Recently I wrote about victim blaming on the pages of our local newspaper. I received an outstanding response to this article from many quarters. My favorite were from fellow moms (oddly enough, both high school classmates); the one who said “I’m going to share this with my teenage daughters,” and the other, “You made it so clear, I can explain it to my five year old.”
But I’ve had pushback as well. Subtle, as in the colleague who pondered, “But what about personal accountability?” And less subtle, as in this comment that appears on the newpaper’s blog:
“I don't get the metaphor--If I leave my car unlocked, it will be easier to steal. It's fine to say it's all the car thief's fault, but I'm the one who suffers the consequences of not taking care of myself.”
And so, gentle reader, here’s my attempt to take up Joe Miller’s challenge.
Let’s imagine four scenerios between various perpetrators and an omnipresent authority figure. (For lack of a better name, let’s call the authority All That Is Right And Holy, or ATIRAH for short.)
Scenerio #1--Perpetrator: A four year old
ATIRAH: Stop hitting your brother.
Perp: But he stole my truck and called me a stupid head!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter what he did, we don’t hit people.
Scenerio #2--Perpetrator: A thief
ATIRAH: Stop, thief!
Perp: But she left her car unlocked! She has to suffer the consequences!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter if the car was unlocked, we don’t steal things.
Scenerio #3--Perpetrator: A bully
ATIRAH: Stop threatening and harassing that kid with that homophobic and gender-biased hate speech.
Perp: But he painted his toenails pink!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter what he did, we don’t bully people.
Scenerio #4--Perpetrator: A rapist
ATIRAH: You have committed sexual assault. Off to jail.
Perp: But she was drunk and wearing a promiscuous outfit!
ATIRAH: It doesn’t matter what she did, we don’t rape people.
People, I know it’s not a perfect world. I have hidden the fact that I am a lesbian, locked my car, asked a male friend to walk me to my car on a dark night. In short, I have limited my access to the public sphere and policed my own behavior in the service of my own security. I have also learned how to break bones and puncture windpipes and block my head and scream bloody murder.
But this does not make the violence that threatens me my responsibility. If anything, the level of energy I have to commit to my own safety underscores the injustice of the world I live in.
Let’s compare my situation with that of a large, upper class heterosexual white male. (Just for fun, let’s call him Bill Dwight.) Bill has never felt that his gender put him at risk of sexual violence. He’s never felt that his size and shape put him at risk of physical assault. He’s never had to hide his loving relationship for fear of discrimination or injury. Bill has never felt that breaking bones and puncturing windpipes and blocking his head and screaming bloody murder were baseline competencies necessary for his survival.
There is a word that describes, not how Bill lives, but the discrepancy between how he lives and how I live. The word is privilege. Does it mean Bill is a bad person? No, it does not. (Bill is, in fact, a very good person, and if you live in Northampton you should vote for him for City Councilor at Large.) It means that there is something bad about the world that we live in, something that “personal accountability” and punching people in the throat alone will not cure.
That’s why self defense is about more than the tactics any one of us uses to stay safe and sane in a world set up for our destruction. That’s why self defense is not about saving myself, but about saving the world.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Icebreaker
To my great joy, I’ve been teaching a lot of self defense lately. In the past month alone I’ve taught suburban teens through a religious organization and teen moms in a GED program; professionals in an urban public sector workplace and pre-school educators. I love carrying the message of social justice empowerment self defense far and wide, and feeling myself a conduit for the practice I’ve lived within my whole adult life.
When I work with adults, I might use an icebreaker I adapted from colleagues over a decade ago. Any group of people I meet will have a vast unspoken acquaintance with violence, from personal expereince and by way of witness. Without invading anyone’s privacy, I want to name these experiences. For one thing, they are going to be with us anyway, and better to establish a solid self-care plan if we acknowledge that fact before launching into potentially triggering activities. Also, it lends credence to my assertion that I am not the only expert in the room—nearly every student will have a story of self defense practice and success.
Most sobering and sad: it demonstrates indisputably that we live in a violent society. We lie to ourselves about this all the time, but when we actually take the survey, we realize that each one of us has absorbed countless acts of violence.
So I say, “Raise your hand if this is true:”
I’d never call anyone out for not raising their hand, would never say, for example, “Really? You don’t know six women? Because one in six American women has been sexually assaulted, and I find it statisticaly improbable that you don’t know any of them. For goodness sake, there are six women in the room with us right now. You are probably sitting next to someone who has been sexually assaulted!”
Because that’s not friendly. It’s sure as hell not good teaching. That’s just an anti-violence educator’s silent snark. It’s the rhythmic pounding of my head against the wall of silence and shame and secrecy that protects us from the reality of the rape culture we live in. Doesn’t protect us from the rape, mind you—just from the acknowledgment that it’s happening. All around us, to one in six of us, every two minutes.
There is one I’m just dying to correct, though. I sneak the information into my class plan six ways to Sunday, so that maybe the folks who don’t raise their hand on this one walk away with a shift in perspective.
But also, I have this blog. So I don’t have to resign myself to the forehead against the bricks. I can lay it out here for anyone who played along with the survey up top.
If you know a person of color— you know someone who’s been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something about their identity.
If you know someone queer or gender non-conforming— you know someone who’s been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something about their identity.
If you know a woman— you know someone who’s been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something about their identity.
If you’ve ever heard a racial epithet, a homophobic slur, a catcall, you’ve been witness to the verbal and microagression that soaks our culture. It’s not even as secret as rape: it’s right there in front of us, every time someone’s called a bitch or a fag or a wetback. People say those words out loud every day. Some people even say them in public or in the news.
I beg you, don’t shelter those haters with your disbelief. Don’t minimize their violence. Instead, open your heart to those of us to whom those words are attacks on something intrinsic and beautiful about ourselves. Imagine walking the world in a skin perceived by some as an invitation to attack. And then, help us change that world. Because it’s going to take every one of us.
When I work with adults, I might use an icebreaker I adapted from colleagues over a decade ago. Any group of people I meet will have a vast unspoken acquaintance with violence, from personal expereince and by way of witness. Without invading anyone’s privacy, I want to name these experiences. For one thing, they are going to be with us anyway, and better to establish a solid self-care plan if we acknowledge that fact before launching into potentially triggering activities. Also, it lends credence to my assertion that I am not the only expert in the room—nearly every student will have a story of self defense practice and success.
Most sobering and sad: it demonstrates indisputably that we live in a violent society. We lie to ourselves about this all the time, but when we actually take the survey, we realize that each one of us has absorbed countless acts of violence.
So I say, “Raise your hand if this is true:”
“You, or someone you know, has ever been mugged.”This is a subjective exercise. The point is that most people will raise their hands for most of the scenerios, so that the overall effect proves the point: “As a group, we’ve experienced, witnessed or heard about many kinds of violence and self defense.”
“You, or someone you know, has ever been physically or sexually assaulted.”
“You, or someone you know, has ever had to stand up for yourself in a confrontation with a superior, like a boss or a teacher.”
“You, or someone you know, has ever had an intimate partner who tried to control their behavior or finances, or who hit them.”
“You, or someone you know, has ever been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something (real or perceived) about their identity, ie: race, sexual orientation.”
I’d never call anyone out for not raising their hand, would never say, for example, “Really? You don’t know six women? Because one in six American women has been sexually assaulted, and I find it statisticaly improbable that you don’t know any of them. For goodness sake, there are six women in the room with us right now. You are probably sitting next to someone who has been sexually assaulted!”
Because that’s not friendly. It’s sure as hell not good teaching. That’s just an anti-violence educator’s silent snark. It’s the rhythmic pounding of my head against the wall of silence and shame and secrecy that protects us from the reality of the rape culture we live in. Doesn’t protect us from the rape, mind you—just from the acknowledgment that it’s happening. All around us, to one in six of us, every two minutes.
There is one I’m just dying to correct, though. I sneak the information into my class plan six ways to Sunday, so that maybe the folks who don’t raise their hand on this one walk away with a shift in perspective.
But also, I have this blog. So I don’t have to resign myself to the forehead against the bricks. I can lay it out here for anyone who played along with the survey up top.
If you know a person of color— you know someone who’s been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something about their identity.
If you know someone queer or gender non-conforming— you know someone who’s been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something about their identity.
If you know a woman— you know someone who’s been bullied or verbally assaulted in response to something about their identity.
If you’ve ever heard a racial epithet, a homophobic slur, a catcall, you’ve been witness to the verbal and microagression that soaks our culture. It’s not even as secret as rape: it’s right there in front of us, every time someone’s called a bitch or a fag or a wetback. People say those words out loud every day. Some people even say them in public or in the news.
I beg you, don’t shelter those haters with your disbelief. Don’t minimize their violence. Instead, open your heart to those of us to whom those words are attacks on something intrinsic and beautiful about ourselves. Imagine walking the world in a skin perceived by some as an invitation to attack. And then, help us change that world. Because it’s going to take every one of us.
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