I blog. I read blogs. I think blogging is an important and amazingly personal way to connect with incredibly smart people around the world that one would otherwise have not been exposed to.
Every great intellectual movement of the past has involved a relatively small, diverse group of individuals putting together ideas and collaborating with one another. Consider in America the transcendentalists; Emmerson, Thoreau, etc., who knew and spoke with one another. Or in Paris, the philosophical circles of existentialism headed by Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. We have always relied on one another for support-- for other heads on which to bounce our ideas. I personally view blogging and reading blogs as the modernist equivalent (at least in capacity) to such collaborations. Blogs are, when they are at their best, discussions about concepts and ideas. They are a way to pass on news, to report from one's window the world outside that may not be available to others elsewhere.
Thanks to blogging, I have a better understanding of history and it's implications in modernity. Thanks to blogging, I am able to access some of the smartest and most informative political and legal opinions in the nation. Thanks to blogging, I am able to learn about international issues in Africa and elsewhere. Thanks to blogging, I get tough grammatical questions answered. Blogging is a support system for feminism. And sometimes, it's just plain fun.
I don't think it's a waste of time. I don't think it's frivolous.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Love Obama today
So much has been said lately about the arrest of Professor Gates in his own home. I don't and haven't felt like I've had much to contribute on the subject. I read the police report, listened to Sgt. Crowley, and read many responses on my favorite race blogs, such as Racialicious and Racism Review, and basically came to the conclusion that while I think both parties escalated the conflict, Sgt. Crowley, who I do not think is a racist, clearly demonstrated that just because you may think that you're not racist, doesn't mean that you don't act in ways that reinforce racism in America.
If anything, for me, Sgt. Crowley is a good example of how all of us, especially those who are in the business of helping others (police, social workers, politicians, healthcare workers), need to actively seek out our own deep-seated unquestioned biases. Whether it's latent racism, xenophobia, homophobia, etc., we all have deep ugly parts that, if unquestioned, can and will hurt the very people we are trying to help. I think this is an example where a pretty good man (Sgt. Crowley) was put in a situation where some of his unquestioned biases surfaced to bad effect.
Anyway, last week, I was both heartened and annoyed at Obama for his comments on the issue. Heartened because he commented, stood up for Gates, and bravely asserted that race relations are still a sensitive issue within our supposedly "Obama post-racial era." Annoyed because he so blatantly did NOT have all the facts on the situation and yet made a judgment call which then escalated the entire conflict.
Today he apologized. Said he was sorry he'd spoken without the full amount of information needed to comment on the subject. Talked to both Gates and Crowley and tried to smooth over things on both sides. Defended his decision to comment on the situation and still stuck with his original defense of Gates, which I thought was commendable. He is the world's most powerful man and he is a black man. I'm glad he's involved in conversations about race. His is a needed voice.
He said sorry. Why do I love politicians that know how to say sorry? And not just over big, youcaughtme sorts of things, but over something seemingly small that he didn't have to take on? Because it means that he is still listening. And a president who is still listening to anyone outside his advisers is a better president BY FAR than any we've had in recent years.
He didn't lie when he said he was big on communication. And I love him for it, even if I don't always agree with him.
*Update: This is a crucial blog for anyone who has any interest in the concept of implicit racism.
If anything, for me, Sgt. Crowley is a good example of how all of us, especially those who are in the business of helping others (police, social workers, politicians, healthcare workers), need to actively seek out our own deep-seated unquestioned biases. Whether it's latent racism, xenophobia, homophobia, etc., we all have deep ugly parts that, if unquestioned, can and will hurt the very people we are trying to help. I think this is an example where a pretty good man (Sgt. Crowley) was put in a situation where some of his unquestioned biases surfaced to bad effect.
Anyway, last week, I was both heartened and annoyed at Obama for his comments on the issue. Heartened because he commented, stood up for Gates, and bravely asserted that race relations are still a sensitive issue within our supposedly "Obama post-racial era." Annoyed because he so blatantly did NOT have all the facts on the situation and yet made a judgment call which then escalated the entire conflict.
Today he apologized. Said he was sorry he'd spoken without the full amount of information needed to comment on the subject. Talked to both Gates and Crowley and tried to smooth over things on both sides. Defended his decision to comment on the situation and still stuck with his original defense of Gates, which I thought was commendable. He is the world's most powerful man and he is a black man. I'm glad he's involved in conversations about race. His is a needed voice.
He said sorry. Why do I love politicians that know how to say sorry? And not just over big, youcaughtme sorts of things, but over something seemingly small that he didn't have to take on? Because it means that he is still listening. And a president who is still listening to anyone outside his advisers is a better president BY FAR than any we've had in recent years.
He didn't lie when he said he was big on communication. And I love him for it, even if I don't always agree with him.
*Update: This is a crucial blog for anyone who has any interest in the concept of implicit racism.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
On Snobbery.
I am slightly pretentious. Or-- let me start that again-- I have been known to be slightly pretentious when it comes to reading books.
I didn't begin that way. Growing up as the oldest child in an almost Victorianly strict household, reading provided some of my deepest joy and wonder. I devoured everything I could get my hands on. Books were consumed two, three, four times a piece and puzzled over- even the ones I didn't like or understand, such as "Are You There God, It's Me Margaret" which, to my 9-year old Mormon mind, seemed completely incomprehensible.
I don't know where the sudden snobbery in reading came from. I think it started in college somewhere. I began undergrad as an English major and was thereby subjected to literary snobbery at its epicenter, where one could not be considered a true appreciator of the art if one preferred say, Barbara Kingsolver, over a compilation of literary analyses on King Lear. We took Emily Dickinson, (up until that point one of my favorite poets) and picked apart her spindly little poems until they were so many letters of the alphabet lying on the ground. My professors were big into postmodernist constructions. Somewhere along the line, reading became less of a pleasure and more of a goal.
This is not to say that my post-collegiate years have been spent soley slogging through ridiculous "works of literature"- which is always what you call a book you hate. I've read some really great books in my quest for literary snob of the year.
Robert Bolano, however, broke me of snobbery, I hope, forever.
If you are not familiar with Robert Bolano, he is a Spanish author whose post post-modernist novels have caused critics the world over to rave about his "genius." His novel, 2666, was published post-humously and in unfinished form, yet was hailed as one of the books to read in 2008. So, I picked it up.
The novel is ginormous. Probably 1200 pages. I'd like to say that there's a plot, but there really is not. It is better seen as a compilation of stories that may or may not bleed into one another and then abruptly end. It's monolithic. It's dry. It's post postmodernism.
I didn't finish it. Around page 400 I thought it was going to turn around and get good. At page 857, I gave up. Slogging through 200 pages in which Bolano details the murders and rapes of the women of Sonora, I began to get indignant. Seriously. THIS is what we consider good literature these days?
N+1 has a good op-ed piece about Bolano that pretty accurately characterizes his style:
Why indeed? As I started reading about yet another Sonoran woman, 5 feet 7 inches, anally and vaginally raped, throat slit, found out a trash heap, I recollected back on a piece of advice Stephen King doled out in his marvelous little book, "On Writing." Life's too short to read crap. With the millions of great books in the world, reading something you don't like is a waste of time.
And so I put it down. Since then, I've read a ton of great books and a couple really terribly written junk-food novels- pretty much nothing that would qualify to be on the world's list of 100-Most Influential books of our time and I've pretty much enjoyed all of it. Influential is overrated. I want a good story, beautiful writing, and characters I can get into.
Robert Bolano, you can kiss my ass. Thank you.
I didn't begin that way. Growing up as the oldest child in an almost Victorianly strict household, reading provided some of my deepest joy and wonder. I devoured everything I could get my hands on. Books were consumed two, three, four times a piece and puzzled over- even the ones I didn't like or understand, such as "Are You There God, It's Me Margaret" which, to my 9-year old Mormon mind, seemed completely incomprehensible.
I don't know where the sudden snobbery in reading came from. I think it started in college somewhere. I began undergrad as an English major and was thereby subjected to literary snobbery at its epicenter, where one could not be considered a true appreciator of the art if one preferred say, Barbara Kingsolver, over a compilation of literary analyses on King Lear. We took Emily Dickinson, (up until that point one of my favorite poets) and picked apart her spindly little poems until they were so many letters of the alphabet lying on the ground. My professors were big into postmodernist constructions. Somewhere along the line, reading became less of a pleasure and more of a goal.
This is not to say that my post-collegiate years have been spent soley slogging through ridiculous "works of literature"- which is always what you call a book you hate. I've read some really great books in my quest for literary snob of the year.
Robert Bolano, however, broke me of snobbery, I hope, forever.
If you are not familiar with Robert Bolano, he is a Spanish author whose post post-modernist novels have caused critics the world over to rave about his "genius." His novel, 2666, was published post-humously and in unfinished form, yet was hailed as one of the books to read in 2008. So, I picked it up.
The novel is ginormous. Probably 1200 pages. I'd like to say that there's a plot, but there really is not. It is better seen as a compilation of stories that may or may not bleed into one another and then abruptly end. It's monolithic. It's dry. It's post postmodernism.
I didn't finish it. Around page 400 I thought it was going to turn around and get good. At page 857, I gave up. Slogging through 200 pages in which Bolano details the murders and rapes of the women of Sonora, I began to get indignant. Seriously. THIS is what we consider good literature these days?
N+1 has a good op-ed piece about Bolano that pretty accurately characterizes his style:
Why then, you begin to wonder, are you reading these books? What for, if they are each going to eschew psychology, characterization, pretty language, and neat conclusions, and if the narratives are all to devolve into shaggy-dog Iditarods mushing after some fugitive poet or novelist about whom—even if he ever turns up—we learn next to nothing? Why read and write at all if these empty Chinese boxes constitute the only goods ultimately in receipt?
In Bolaño, literature is a helpless, undignified, and not especially pleasant compulsion, like smoking. At one point you started and now you can't stop; it's become a habit and an identity. Nothing is so consistent across Bolaño's work as the suspicion that literature is chiefly bullshit, rationalizing the misery, delusions, and/or narcissism of various careerists, flakes, and losers.Why indeed? As I started reading about yet another Sonoran woman, 5 feet 7 inches, anally and vaginally raped, throat slit, found out a trash heap, I recollected back on a piece of advice Stephen King doled out in his marvelous little book, "On Writing." Life's too short to read crap. With the millions of great books in the world, reading something you don't like is a waste of time.
And so I put it down. Since then, I've read a ton of great books and a couple really terribly written junk-food novels- pretty much nothing that would qualify to be on the world's list of 100-Most Influential books of our time and I've pretty much enjoyed all of it. Influential is overrated. I want a good story, beautiful writing, and characters I can get into.
Robert Bolano, you can kiss my ass. Thank you.
Nylons at 96 degrees
itch.
chafe.
stick, slick with sweat, like some oppressive second skin refusing to shed.
the urge to peel
or rip
tear
-anything! to remove that silken suffocation-
best intentions (the careful, shimmied application; nightstand corners and jumping dogs successfully avoided)
are quickly shot to hell
in hot pursuit
of relief.
god,
the relief.
itch.
chafe.
stick, slick with sweat, like some oppressive second skin refusing to shed.
the urge to peel
or rip
tear
-anything! to remove that silken suffocation-
best intentions (the careful, shimmied application; nightstand corners and jumping dogs successfully avoided)
are quickly shot to hell
in hot pursuit
of relief.
god,
the relief.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Response
Shapely Prose-- a blog that I absolutely adore for its commitment to changing the way we view weight, fat people, and weight-loss-- has the following post up today:
I’m talking to a reporter who’s doing a story about what “messages” celebrities send with their weight-loss/weight-gain narratives. In her own words, she wants to know: “What was your reaction to Kirstie Alley’s and Oprah’s latest revelations? Did their descriptions of the shame and humiliation they felt about it make you feel normalized? Hopeless? Angry? Other?”
I wanted to include my response here:
I think the first response I had to both Oprah and Kirstie Alley was simply questioning why they continually choose to share their "pain" and "humiliation" with the rest of us. Do they think that their bodies are some type of report-card grade that has to be authorized by the general public? These women, especially Oprah, are pretty private about many areas of their personal lives- why do they feel their bodies are public property? Kirstie Alley's fame for the last decade or so has been based solely on her weight loss and weight gain, so it's not surprising to see another tabloid cover confession, I guess I just wonder why she allows that to be marketed to the degree that it is when she is a talented actress and undoubtedly has other things going on in her life aside from her weight.
Society has an ongoing conversation about younger celebrities who market themselves with their bodies (e.g., Paris Hilton/Kim Kardashian's fame spawning from sex tapes), but I think that Oprah and Kirstie exemplify the same cultural pressure to submit their bodies to scrutiny in the name of fame that the younger generations do; except, rather than being directly tied to their sexuality, it's to their weight (which is then connected to sexuality, but also a whole host of other "ills" such as laziness, selfishness, and stupidity). It's like they're Weight Sluts. We can envy Oprah for her billions, her fame, her success, her life, as long as at the end of the day we feel like we're better than her- that lazy, stupid bitch who can't keep the weight off.
Update: Was interviewed by the New York Times for my commentary. We'll see if I am actually quoted in the article that they post. Either way, I'll be posting a link to the article to this website as a way to further this interesting conversation. :)
I’m talking to a reporter who’s doing a story about what “messages” celebrities send with their weight-loss/weight-gain narratives. In her own words, she wants to know: “What was your reaction to Kirstie Alley’s and Oprah’s latest revelations? Did their descriptions of the shame and humiliation they felt about it make you feel normalized? Hopeless? Angry? Other?”
I wanted to include my response here:
I think the first response I had to both Oprah and Kirstie Alley was simply questioning why they continually choose to share their "pain" and "humiliation" with the rest of us. Do they think that their bodies are some type of report-card grade that has to be authorized by the general public? These women, especially Oprah, are pretty private about many areas of their personal lives- why do they feel their bodies are public property? Kirstie Alley's fame for the last decade or so has been based solely on her weight loss and weight gain, so it's not surprising to see another tabloid cover confession, I guess I just wonder why she allows that to be marketed to the degree that it is when she is a talented actress and undoubtedly has other things going on in her life aside from her weight.
Society has an ongoing conversation about younger celebrities who market themselves with their bodies (e.g., Paris Hilton/Kim Kardashian's fame spawning from sex tapes), but I think that Oprah and Kirstie exemplify the same cultural pressure to submit their bodies to scrutiny in the name of fame that the younger generations do; except, rather than being directly tied to their sexuality, it's to their weight (which is then connected to sexuality, but also a whole host of other "ills" such as laziness, selfishness, and stupidity). It's like they're Weight Sluts. We can envy Oprah for her billions, her fame, her success, her life, as long as at the end of the day we feel like we're better than her- that lazy, stupid bitch who can't keep the weight off.
Update: Was interviewed by the New York Times for my commentary. We'll see if I am actually quoted in the article that they post. Either way, I'll be posting a link to the article to this website as a way to further this interesting conversation. :)
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Love
My ex-boyfriend is getting married.
To a very nice girl. A girl that is head-over-heels crazy about him. A girl who wants more than anything in the world to marry him. And, I should mention, a girl that I am friends with. And this is the part where we all say congratulations! and clap our hands for love, once again, conquering all and bringing people together.
Except lately, I've felt slightly behind in that cheer. Like that person always a measure behind in the song, or a beat too late when everyone is clapping in time.
A friend explained to me once that each year of her life feels as if it simply builds on the other years; builds, but doesn't replace the people we were before. So, in her mind, her 21-year old self still exists, her 5-year old self still exists, her 14-year old self still exists. And they all take up space and crowd for emotions. And, to me, it makes a lot of sense. The times I want to throw a huge fit and fling myself to the ground kicking and screaming and yelling "No! NO! NO!!!"? 3-year old self. Random road trip to California? Definitely 17-year old self.
I think this concept of selves explains a lot of my feelings about this marriage. The 26-year old self is super happy for them and wants nothing but the best. The 15-year old girl that was hopelessly, madly, achingly in love with him? Yeah, not so happy.
I realize this makes me sound slightly schizophrenic, but I think everyone has conflicting emotions from time to time. Times when you've been happy and sad. Times when you've been simultaneously angry and relieved. Dueling emotions, I think, are pretty common and I think they're usually the mind's response to sudden, unanticipated changes. They're what happens before we've had time to sort things out emotionally.
So I've felt slightly conflicted about it. I confess to avoiding Facebook for the past few days in an attempt to not get daily updates about the plans, or pictures of the ring, or whatever. Not because I've wanted anything to be different (I most certainly do NOT), but simply because every time I go to it, I have felt this swell of differing feelings and it's been disconcerting.
Last night my ex called me to give me updates about the wedding plans. He and the fiancee are making a trip out to Utah to hold a celebration with the friends and family here who will probably not make it to the actual ceremony. He wanted to know if they could use my house for the festivities. I have a good house for parties. A huge, flat yard with enough space for a good volleyball game. A beautiful living room with floor to ceiling windows that lend a gorgeous view of the mountains and the valley below. It makes sense to have it at my house. And so I agreed. And in a month and a half, we'll have a party for them here and it will be great, I am certain.
For some reason, this conversation was what I needed to get my emotions straightened out. I think it's because, in some strange way, this party is a way to satisfy all selves. It's a way to prove to myself that I kept my promise to him all those years ago- that I would love him for forever. It was more than a boyfriend thing- during that time period those people (the five of us) were my family and I still consider them thus. It's a way to spread that love over to her and solidify to the world that, in my life, they are now one and the same and, in a sort of Godfather sense, any person of his is a person of mine. It's a gift I can give. It's an affirmation of my long-standing belief that if you love someone, you love them for life. Without fail, that love changes and morphs and becomes something entirely different than you ever thought it would be, but at the end of the day, it's still love. And that's something worth celebrating.
So, with hands clapping synchronously to the beat, I say congratulations! I love you both.
To a very nice girl. A girl that is head-over-heels crazy about him. A girl who wants more than anything in the world to marry him. And, I should mention, a girl that I am friends with. And this is the part where we all say congratulations! and clap our hands for love, once again, conquering all and bringing people together.
Except lately, I've felt slightly behind in that cheer. Like that person always a measure behind in the song, or a beat too late when everyone is clapping in time.
A friend explained to me once that each year of her life feels as if it simply builds on the other years; builds, but doesn't replace the people we were before. So, in her mind, her 21-year old self still exists, her 5-year old self still exists, her 14-year old self still exists. And they all take up space and crowd for emotions. And, to me, it makes a lot of sense. The times I want to throw a huge fit and fling myself to the ground kicking and screaming and yelling "No! NO! NO!!!"? 3-year old self. Random road trip to California? Definitely 17-year old self.
I think this concept of selves explains a lot of my feelings about this marriage. The 26-year old self is super happy for them and wants nothing but the best. The 15-year old girl that was hopelessly, madly, achingly in love with him? Yeah, not so happy.
I realize this makes me sound slightly schizophrenic, but I think everyone has conflicting emotions from time to time. Times when you've been happy and sad. Times when you've been simultaneously angry and relieved. Dueling emotions, I think, are pretty common and I think they're usually the mind's response to sudden, unanticipated changes. They're what happens before we've had time to sort things out emotionally.
So I've felt slightly conflicted about it. I confess to avoiding Facebook for the past few days in an attempt to not get daily updates about the plans, or pictures of the ring, or whatever. Not because I've wanted anything to be different (I most certainly do NOT), but simply because every time I go to it, I have felt this swell of differing feelings and it's been disconcerting.
Last night my ex called me to give me updates about the wedding plans. He and the fiancee are making a trip out to Utah to hold a celebration with the friends and family here who will probably not make it to the actual ceremony. He wanted to know if they could use my house for the festivities. I have a good house for parties. A huge, flat yard with enough space for a good volleyball game. A beautiful living room with floor to ceiling windows that lend a gorgeous view of the mountains and the valley below. It makes sense to have it at my house. And so I agreed. And in a month and a half, we'll have a party for them here and it will be great, I am certain.
For some reason, this conversation was what I needed to get my emotions straightened out. I think it's because, in some strange way, this party is a way to satisfy all selves. It's a way to prove to myself that I kept my promise to him all those years ago- that I would love him for forever. It was more than a boyfriend thing- during that time period those people (the five of us) were my family and I still consider them thus. It's a way to spread that love over to her and solidify to the world that, in my life, they are now one and the same and, in a sort of Godfather sense, any person of his is a person of mine. It's a gift I can give. It's an affirmation of my long-standing belief that if you love someone, you love them for life. Without fail, that love changes and morphs and becomes something entirely different than you ever thought it would be, but at the end of the day, it's still love. And that's something worth celebrating.
So, with hands clapping synchronously to the beat, I say congratulations! I love you both.
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