Tagged with cultural yawn-inducers …

Mar 23 2011
culture, family, feminism

breastfeeding: not just ladybusiness

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mamiscl/4968830387/This piece is featured in Squat! Birth Journal‘s Spring Issue. I encourage an exploration and/or support of this lovely zine (available in paper or digital form); certainly a great gift for an expecting family-to-be! It’s a wonderful publication.

Over my twitterstream my friend Wendy links to a piece of, once again, sex discrimination against a woman feeding her child1). We’ve all heard it before. A woman is feeding her baby in a shop or a library or wherever, when an employee approaches and tells the woman she must leave, often invoking (their fallacious understanding of) the law and – at least in North America – usually in violation of protected rights. And certainly counter to common sense, compassion, and an understanding of public health.

It’s too bad more people don’t seem to see it that way.

Breastfeeding discussion is continually ignored and/or marginalized by the mainstream, made into a fringe issue although it concerns us all – our progress toward an egalitarian society, our support of families, our stewardship of the environment, and our county’s medical costs and spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being. Even movements self-identified as pro-woman often pick and choose which reproductive rights they support and advocate for, ignoring the societal edifices concerning birth, babies, and fulltime care of children – which necessarily ignores the women involved. If you Google “breastfeeding and feminism” you will see communities concerning the former subject discussing the latter, but rarely the reciprocal; mainstream pro-feminist discussions in general do not concern themselves with breastfeeding even though something like eighty percent of USian women do become parents at some point.

Keeping breastfeeding peripheral to social justice discussion contributes to extremely low breastfeeding rates in the so-called developed world (which are lower still in marginalized groups such as black mothers, teen mothers, and native or indigenous mothers, etc.). After all, anyone remedially-versed in the experiences of infant care and feeding understand that support, or lack thereof, is a major if not the major factor in aggregate breastfeeding success rates.

While some without children, or some with older children, or some men believe they can continue to ignore the health and well-being implications of poor breastfeeding rates and the compounded lack of choice afforded to already-stressed marginalized populations, such a luxury is not experienced for the child nor the child’s carer. These peoples’ daily realities are put under additional stressors. Thus when an individual receives repeated shaming messages or policing language and repressive strategies against her, she is most likely to experience discouragement, uncertainty, and isolation; she is at a very real disadvantage. Or as the author of “A tired hungry baby” writes:

I knew the law. I knew my rights. But I was still upset. And not the angry, self-important, righteous kind of upset. The teary, scared, “they”‘re going to kick me out of the store”, “I”‘m here with my kids” type of upset. It was clear I was about to be thrown out, and I was pretty sure that if I was going to be forced to justify feeding my baby, I was going to cry. And I felt truly alone.

This experience and this sentiment could have been written by so many of my friends – and many of these are “educated” women with class, hetero-, cis-, and racial privilege. Which puts the question: at what point does our mainstream dithering about “public decency” get real, and admit the costs we are requiring so many others to pay? “Gross, I shouldn’t have to see that!” seems incredibly trite and inhumane when considering our socioeconomically-classist culture, to put it frankly, requires black, brown, poor and working-class mamas and families pay multifaceted costs – and by heaping on body-shaming and gender-policing we’re just making it harder. “Gross, I shouldn’t have to see that!” tweeted by a white Portland hipster without children is such a disheartening and ignorant response when I consider, for instance, the lived reality of a child up all night screaming from a painful ear infection (and the work/sleep missed by carers and the stress for all involved). To get a little 101, ear infections, which account for thirty million trips to the doctor each year and are experienced by an estimated 75% of babies, is a risk decimated by a factor of at least two for a breastfed child2. And that’s just one real-life health issue and one potential pragmatism for parents, and it makes me irritated enough to knock that Stumptown out of said urbanite’s hand.

“Gross, I shouldn’t have to see that!” hurts real-life families, real-life people.

“Gross, I shouldn’t have to see that!” is something that should have been eliminated from our public discourse a long, long time ago.

This is why it is key that those who are not at this moment stuffing a nipple into a baby’s face – including men, including formula-feeders, and including those without children – support breastfeeding and stand up for families’ rights and for mothers to young children. When the mainstream frames breastfeeding an issue that the individual mothers should be fighting, all on their own, it throws the game (especially considering the corporate power and cultural reach held by formula producers: phdinparenting.com has some great information on this). Concomitantly, framing infant feeding as solely individualistic and “choice”-based is also at heart of those who shame individual formula feeding families (moms) for “not trying/caring hard enough”, too (sadly, there are many of these voices, although for the purposes of this piece I should note bottle feeding mothers are generally not asked to leave public spaces based only on their method of feeding).

So while there are many breastfeeding mothers who stand up to pressure and have a generally positive feeding career, the vast majority of breastfeeding mothers have been pressured to stop feeding and most have been shamed explicitly or implicitly while others stand silently by or dismiss the topic as a “women’s issue” (because, you know, those aren’t important).

This means often, as in the above-cited author’s case, at the point an episode of discrimination is most acute and immediate, she is likely extremely disadvantaged in her response. Consider also that mothers who breastfeed:

* are expending 300 – 500 extra calories a day per breastfeeding child (yes, some women are breastfeeding more than one child), and those are just the calories required to produce milk, not those needed to care for, comfort and nurture, clean for, etc. anyone else in the family.

* are often severely sleep-deprived (personally, I cannot overstate this effect on my life when I had infants).

* are usually dealing with hormonal and physical changes while they:

* are also under endemic body-policing and -shaming pressures including scrutiny of their weight, the state of their skin or hair, and their changed or changing body shape.

* are often under cultural policing as well; this is levied at mothers of color, those without class privilege, those outside the heteronormative spectrum, those with multiple children, etc.

* are usually constantly segregated and policed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways by virtue of having children, by our adultist and child-unfriendly cultural norms.

* are often under-supported by their family, friends, neighbors – and, too-often, their partners (even well-intentioned ones), if they have one.

* are in the throes of what many would identify as one of the most life-changing experiences they’ve had - the twentyfour-seven care and responsibility for another human being, and an incredibly vulnerable one at that.

It is my position that any restriction of breastfeeding should be taken as sex discrimination - whether legally promoted or de facto by policy, societal attitudes, etc. As such, I haven’t yet heard a compelling argument to support it. A disdain for a function of women’s bodies doesn’t seem meritorious enough to warrant prescriptive measures.

It’s time for others to adopt that standard as well.

Because in North America, fighting for the unrecognized humanity of these women, babies, and families, often seems a never-ending job against a seemingly bottomless pit of ignorance and oppression. Today, as I finish this piece, a blogreader sends me an article from The Root, in which a woman nursing in the Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden in Washington, D.C. was hounded twice by security and told she must enter the bathroom and sit on the toilet to feed her child3.

So, yeah. “Gross, I shouldn’t have to see that!” needs to go.

* Photo credit: 3º Lugar – 2º Concurso Fotogra¡fico Regional “Fotografiando la Lactancia”. Released under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

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Jun 29 2010
culture, family

quick hit: parenting, television, & the culture of moral imperative

parenting, television, & the culture of moral imperative

Parents: Rotting children's minds - because we can!

In a post on Free Range Kids today, Lenore put up a two-author set of observations regarding children’s television programs vs. adult versions. Even today, kid fare typically involves heroes and heroines engaging in awesome adventures, out in the world battling villains or running a business or tromping through the woods in their group of friends. In contrast, switch over to the grownup news and one is inundated with a series of condescending and scaremongering fables regarding the deadly threats to our helpless/profoundly inept/continuously threatened children such as Lightning-Fast Ninja Pedophiles That Lurk In Every Corner,  swim goggles, third-hand smoke, and those family sticker decals on the back of cars (oh hai, BTW I’m totally not making these up). Lenore goes on to add it kind of irks her because here the kids’ TV programs are showing kids adventuring while actually actively encouraging them to stay inside and sit.

And you know what? These are good points and fair ones. I feel a little sad for kids today, because they are disempowered and their grownups are being misinformed, scared, and hounded (I should know: letting them go out and about is something a lot of people aren’t too keen on and it’s actually (often) swimming upstream if you advocate for their freedom to do so).

But perhaps inevitably the post of Lenore’s is soon followed by a bunch of television-apologism. You know, TV is actually quite good sometimes, parents need to watch with kids and not use it as a “babysitter” (what a load of crap, the Evil-Lazy-Parent-and-their-Terrible-Henchman-TV construct; more later), etc. etc.

And then: people who don’t watch TV are head-in-the-sand ostriches raising Special Snowflake jerks (“hi!”).

Ah yes, television. Much like our cars and guns so many USians cling fervently and blindly to this holy institution at all costs. Commentor Donna had this to say about parents who ban television:

I actually find banning TV [...] this need of parents to provide this perfect sanitized world for the sensitive little snowflakes living in their houses. Nothing remotely negative should enter their lives. Can”‘t go outside because you might get kidnapped. Can”‘t keep score because Snowflake might get her feelings hurt. Mom and dad can”‘t drink wine because Snowflake will see them. Can”‘t watch tv because you may see a commercial and not achieve your fullest potential seems to fit in there just fine.

Here’s the thing. We don’t have a television. But you’re never going to hear me dissing parents and carers who do.

I have sympathy for television-owning families, because – basically – they’re often being told they’re Assholes if they so much put their fingers on the dial (yes, I know most TVs these days don’t have dials).  Like so many messages in our mediastream, parents and carers are told unless they Do It Perfectly they are completely Ruining Everything (kids and country).  So I choose to be charitable; I believe these feelings of externally-implanted guilt are primarily responsible for the ire and defensiveness leveled against the non-television crew (“hi again!”), thus creating another village casualty where there could be useful dialogue. So thanks, media, and your many ZOMG AMERCIANS WATCH FOUR THOUSAND HOURS OF TELEVISION A DAY AND THAT’S TURNING THEM ALL INTO HEADLESS FATTIES!!11! “human interest” stories.  Because even though plenty of us know plenty of perfectly fine people who watch (sometimes plenty of) television, it’s pretty hard to not feel pressured and second-guessed we’re (once again) letting our kids down (and, Earth to Brent, most parents DO worry, it’s part of the whole Responsibility gig). Our parenting culture consistently makes sure to kick us in the gonads regarding any vulnerability, even creating vulnerabilities where there otherwise would not be (makes ratings! sells ads!).

We don’t want a television set in our house for about five or six decent reasons that make up enough of a Good Reason to decline (and seriously, do I need to defend our choice at all?). The concept this makes us “unaware of American culture” (as another commentator puts it) falls pretty dern flat. As anyone who knows me knows, my family is just about the last family one could accuse of an isolationist lifestyle –  yes, despite our choices to homeschool and eschew the boob tube (or is it “bube toob”?). My children, Special Snowflakes? Doesn’t ring a bell, Butchie.

Another thing that immediately occurs to me is what a double-edged blade this parenting-judgment stuff is. As a family without a television set, we nevertheless do in fact watch pixels move around a screen for personal entertainment – either through rented DVDs or Netflix Instant on our rugged multi-purpose home computer. And you know what?  I let my kids watch plenty of grown-up fare I am all-too-aware other grownups would think me heinous for allowing. In fact my daughter now and then sits with me to watch one of my favorite (excellently rendered, graphic and crass) satires: “Reno 911″. Believe me I understand this is an “adult” (funny how that term applies to something so obscene and full of buffonery of every stripe) program. It’s kind of maddening that I feel culturally hemmed-in; public screeching over “teacup” kids who are sheltered would apply to my family and our homeschooling/TV-eschewal; so would the judgments against the opposite-end-of-the-spectrum Evils, “neglectful” parents who have no standards about what’s appropriate for young children.  The funny thing is in both choices they are absolutely intentional and were made with my heart and mind and gut.  I could wax on regarding both (please do email me if you have to know); but since this isn’t particularly a Hogaboom-apologist bit I shall not go there for now.

And then, finally, let’s talk about those “television babysitters” because Man! Those people are just Horrid! Really? Really? You know, most of the time television is used as a babysitter it’s not because a parent doesn’t care about their child or is too lazy to hang out with them or has not gotten the message that “We” think TV-babysitting is a Bad Thing. Parents use television as a babysitter (when they do) because raising kids is hard (and you’d be surprised how little help many parents have), and some parents have three jobs and are trying to go to school and a terrible ex who isn’t paying child support and maybe a host of other problems that I don’t have to live with, so I am not so quick to judge them and more quick to want to help them at their point of need (which is, just to be clear, somewhere distant from a bunch of Haters Anonymous weighing in on their suckitude). By the way, Every Parent Ever has made choices that weren’t that awesome for their kid at one time or another. That’s why we need to support one another and be honest with one another, instead of heaping on liberal ladles of ooey-gooey shame.

So again, the message, in case you aren’t getting it loud and clear (and if you’re an involved parent I know you are): you should always be aware you could do it better, and if you don’t do it better, tsk tsk your kids will suffer.

I hope it’s clear at this point that my deliberately-no-TV household is not a dictatorial construct ALL ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE and their choices. Or, as Lenore’s post commentator Uly aptly responds in part to the ZOMG-you-television-free freaks comments:

As far as cultural awareness goes, I think you can get that without actually *having* a TV if you don”‘t want one. Now, before people jump off half-cocked, I said “if you don”‘t want one”. If you, as an individual, don”‘t think your family would benefit from a TV ““ don”‘t have one! You should absolutely not have something in your house you don”‘t want.

If you think TV is fun, and it”‘s worth it for a few programs, you enjoy watching TV with your family ““ get one!

Yeah, that? That’s a bit of the voice of reason, or the voice of, let’s not be jerks about this.

And perhaps more importantly this comment alludes to a fact we don’t always remember: no really, we are the boss. They are our children, our joys, our trials and our responsibilities. This means we should be open-minded and adhere more to the children and the family (or where our heart is) than the strictures of a culture that often doesn’t have our best interests at heart and is going to tell us we’re doing it wrong no matter how we’re doing it.

One slightly more personal point about television: at least once a month someone tells me they want to give up TV but they “can’t”. If I wasn’t honest and up front about the fact we don’t have television and why we don’t (which you notice I’m not touching on here because it’s not the point), and what we do instead and how much we like it (especially not having the monthly bill!) I wouldn’t be providing the families who are interested in booting television with assistance in doing so. TV is the “norm”, but that doesn’t mean those of us who don’t have one should keep quiet for fear of public censure or hurting Its feelings.

But you know?  Most of my friends have television, and they and their progeny seem just as “fine” as my kids do to me. Our lack of television is about as prescriptive for other families as the lack of me eating a Twinkie at this moment indicates I think your preschooler’s sample of “junk” food dooms you to the Parental Purgatory of Ruinous Shitbird-ness.

Parents/carers, go easy on yourselves. And one another.

Photo credit x-ray delta one on Flickr

Tagged , , , ,
Apr 06 2010
culture, family, feminism

the over-involved Momster, a convenient premise to continue the laydee-hatin’

The MOMster

Why did I even bring this thing home?

The anti-mother element in our culture is one of the hardest things I live with.  I feel its sting on behalf of many categories of mother (because yes, our culture categorizes us) even when I don’t have personal membership in the latest group being lambasted (formula feeders, c-section patients, morbidly obese mothers, mothers in any class besides working-class, mothers of color).  When mama-bashing occurs in a way that seems it could apply to my specific person, I feel it lasered in on my any possible defect even though hell, I know I’m a pretty good mom and a decent human being.

Still, whenever I fail – however briefly or epic in nature – it’s the cultural judgment and denigration of womanhood and motherhood, this enormous pressure to be all kinds of awesome (intelligent, fit, beautiful, kick-ass, kind, organized, unique, sexy, wise and whip-smart), that roars loudest in my ears.  For the moment I swim in guilt and smallness, knowing I’m deficient, and no other mom is as shitty as I, and I’m screwing my kids up, and it’s too late even though they’re only six and eight because I’ve set up all this pathology with my Horribleness and I’d should just give the whole thing up but then that would really screw up my kids and just: Suck.

But that’s just me.  No other mothers ever feel this way, right?  <snort!>

Because, you know, mothers are one group we don’t like to give a break to (like so many groups we belittle).  Our culture’s judgment and callousness towards mothers seems so needlessly cruel (although I suspect it has its uses, more in a minute).  Whenever our media crows the latest horrific thing that has happened to some American child the wail sets up: “Where was the motherrrr?!?”.  More disturbing still, there are those who seem to think the misfortunes befalling children are the just deserts to these women who’ve somehow failed their children (Seriously? Because a child being harmed or killed or dying isn’t already, you know, some of the worst shit that could ever befall many, if not most, parents?).  Mothers are too involved, not involved enough, overbearing, pathetically passive, too selfish, too selfless, too absorbed in their children, too preoccupied with things not their children.  They’re sell-outs if they stay at home to raise families; their priorities are skewed (and wrong and anti-family) if they aren’t home enough.

Briefly, and before I get to my main point, in late October 2009 I remember reading the sickening account of the Richmond, California 15-year old girl who was raped by many male assailants during a school dance.  The story was deeply sad and awful as such stories are; troubling me further were the vast amounts of comments online blaming both the victim herself – and her mother (just for, I suppose, the two of them not having the female decency to avoid rape). As many point out, internet discourse can be shockingly uncivil or cowardly; yet as it is also pointed out, it can also reveal thoughts and feelings people harbor deep within.  In the Richmond story I was struck by how much blame was attributed to the females in the case: the victim and her mother – women both deserving empathy, support, and compassion, I hope it need not be said.

This might seem a shocking example of wrongheadedness but I am here to say it’s nothing new.

It hardly matters the most recent bit I’ve read on the internet that gets immediately to the Mama-hating, because it’s such a common trope.  Funnily enough and as I’ve said, it always hurts to read.  Today’s example (which I am deliberately not linking to; it’s actually not that important who wrote it) happened to be the charge that moms are Boring and their over-involvement is The Cause of Our Country’s Problems.  You know, by ardently caring about chemicals in baby bottles or our parenting techniques or the carbon footprint of our family car we are creating a culture of tit-sucking Dependents who won’t be able to do anything for themselves.

Right.  So now: Mamas?  You’re boring.  Also, P.S., you’re Ruining America.

This flavor of vitriolic Mama-depreciation is nothing new.  Authors, pundits, and pop-culturalists have trotted out this particular bit since long before I ever birthed my own: the obsessed monster of a mother who has no life except for living vicariously through her kids.  She used to have a career but now she’s all nipple-shields and carseats and SUVs (we used to diss her minivan and soccer-chauffeuring).  Her involvement with and work for the family are not the result of her genuine caring and the heterosexist hierarchy that both demands these efforts and offers little status nor esteem for them, but rather her pathetic underdevelopment – a projection of her own Narcissism and shallowness.  Her interest and fascination with family life and babies demonstrates her profound limitations; these will surely and inevitably lead to her attempting to manage everything about her children’s lives which will result in ruining said children’s lives and, by extension, Everything Else.  So at this point an article like this will typically have some really cute and sarcastic (but rarely real-life) examples of Epic Fail, like how this woman’s children will be living at home at age 40 and won’t be able to hold a job, yawn yawn, you get the idea.

There are so many problems with this sort of article it’s hard to know where to start.  Let me just begin with what occurs from the example of my personal lived life, because funny thing is?  No woman I’ve personally known is anything like this caricature.

I started my family in a mid-to-upper class environs (though our little family, economically, qualified and qualifies as working-class), mostly white, self-identified “progressive”, and to a soul very – very – doting first-time parents.  The women I knew were those the Over-Involved Mother insults are often referring to: they had privilege (white, straight, moneyed as far as the globe goes), obsessed in doing well by their kids and often mourning their careers (whether on temporary hiatus or rejected permanently).  They found themselves up to their thickened middles in kid-care and parenting books and temporarily sexless marriages (not a uniform factor to all unions I knew, but common enough).  They really did care about this stuff and they talked about it – not all the time, but a heck of a lot.  They were literally just like these articles claim! OH SNAP! HA HA!  LADIES ARE STOOPID!

Of course, all these women had personalities, drives, desires, and yes, ambitions extending beyond family life (although why women, and not men, are supposed to apologize for their passionate work in “family life” boggles me).  A conversation on the playground about the best highchair might not sound too earth-shatteringly Thinky to someone who doesn’t have to worry about keeping a baby safe while eating (and anyway, as to highchair conversations being dull, I wonder why mothers should be required to be more damned entertaining and urbane than anyone else?) but the women themselves were not boring.  You had only to ask, to spend time paying attention – to change the subject if need be because hell, that’s allowed – and you’d find them as Special Snowflake as, well, anyone really. Like M. who was an amazing cellist (who kept teaching music even after breeding) and a pretty gifted photographer and had a career in pro-choice activism.  Like A. who’d waitressed and barfly’d and traveled Central and South America and now balanced a single income with a family of four including a former trust-fund husband while they both didn’t really know how to pay bills.  Like S. who was the most organized person I knew and had made it a priority to travel to lots of druggy outdoor festivals and made Wild and was a catalog of counter-culture.  Like A. who with her husband started an art supply store, and who could get so passionate about social justice that while she talked her breastfeeding child would pop off and A’s nipple would be an angry point while her mouth and mind, undistracted, spoke her passionate truth.  Like B. who read fashion blogs and knew more fashion than anyone I’ve known and started a little recipe blog such I ended up starting my own (I have decent enough readership, incidentally).  Like T. who was a former teacher and had gone through difficult and heart-wrenching infertility treatments and who taught me a lot about being less of an asshole about that sort of thing.  Like K. who was a former drink-and-drug ingenue, a chemical engineer, proficient seamstress, social activist, and B-movie buff.  Hey, psst, that last one is me.

It’s true that many of these women did obsess, and I do mean obsess, about partnership and new motherhood (P.S. they obsessed and thought and dreamed and talked about lots of other stuff, too). And why shouldn’t they?  It is fucking intense!  It has been, for me at least and alternately during different times in my life: amazing, exhilarating, more exhausting than anything I’ve known, rewarding, deeply troubling, by turns sublime and mundane.  I’ve had a lot of hard-working (and incidentally, a handful of well-paying and relatively socially prestigious) jobs, and while I loved those jobs and cared deeply and performed well, there’s nothing that has rocked my worldview quite like mamahood (probably because I was raised in a culture and family that kind of sneered at it).  I am not a boring or shallow or eye-rollingly obsessive person for caring – even caring a lot, for a time in my life – about homebirth or cloth diapers or cooking or sewing up the most perfectly soft blanket I ever could.  I’m not more silly than anyone else doing any other thing because each of these efforts increases my awareness of my abilities, of others’ needs, of the earth, the environment, my neighbors, of Love, of craftsmanship and failure and triumph.

Additionally, it seems almost Feminism 101 to point out the conversation dissing over-involved (and boring!) mothers gives fathers an Out entirely. For every over-involved laydee wondering how to pen a birth plan there is often a father who relies on her to shoulder the large part of the burden of worrying about such a life-changing event.  For every highchair enthusiast female there is often a male bankrolling or helping to bankroll the purchase.  Women who run about cleaning house and looking up recipes and reading on parenting techniques are often partnered to an (often male) person who comes home to a child (or children) well-loved and well taken care of.  What gifts these must be for him!  (He often comes home to dinner made, a house and checkbook managed, and a partner who deeply cares about his happiness and helps care for his needs, whatever her personal idiosyncratic tendencies.)

I know some people would like to believe that because I or any other mother (remember, we do not punish fathers so direly for showing any of the above passions or proclivities) get excited about reading up on childhood allergies or learning how to clean with vinegar and baking soda or cooking gingersnaps for a school function that we are tedious Bores of the first degree.  I mean, it’s a little confusing because people like eating the gingersnaps and benefitting from our volunteer efforts and they sure as hell, at some point, likely benefited from such a woman taking care of them. But now?  It’s so passé.  And worthless.  And shitty for America.

So, I don’t relate to the Out-Of-Proportion Over-Involved Mother because I haven’t yet met her – that I know of.  Now a real, true, rabidly-focused or even pathological parent?  Yes, this person exists (in all genders and sexes).  I know this because – guess what, there are all kinds of people out there!  (Like today I read about people who fervently collect artifacts involving human hair!*). She’s just: damned rare.  Really.  Or she’s remained elusive to me at least.  And don’t be so quick to smirk at a mother’s passion and endeavors – a passion that may very well be a temporary life stage borne of the life-changing event of parenthood.  This passion will often involve forging a person who cares passionately about other people, and her endeavors hopefully help raise a generation that learns how to care for one another as well.  After all, truly caring for one another – deeply and with consistency – is not always a culturally-expounded virtue but one at times in our lives we all, every one of us, desperately need.

Because seriously?  Next time you think moms are so, you know, MOM-like and boring and shallow because they give a shit about strollers?  First off, consider going and fucking yourself**, because someone changed your diapers and fed you and loved you up (and if you didn’t get the last I am deeply, deeply sad to hear this), and secondly – just, give me a break.  Women are people.  Even moms are people.  Just people, no more, no less.  And they certainly don’t owe you some kind of hip Awesomeness, all the time.

Kind of mind-boggling, eh?

Mentioned:

Rape in Richmond, CA from CNN.com

“What’s Wrong With Granola, Anyway?” by Wendy Priesnitz from Natural Life Magazine

* Annual Hair & Trade Show in French Link, IN. Mr. Kendall, curator: “Mr. Kendall: “My life revolves around hair.”

** “Go Fuck Yourself”

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Mar 12 2010
film revue

Film Feministe: Dick Flicks Edition (Part One)

fisticuffs & pipe-smoking

Holmes and Watson in a spat?

Like all reviews in The Film Feministe, I strive to reveal a brief synopses of a film as well as an analysis. Occasionally my reviews include minor plot spoilers; caveat emptor.

I love Westerns. I love action films. One of the reasons I seek these out and watch them is because more than just about any other type of film I enjoy a well-done “buddy picture”. These seem exceedingly rare; look at your average Hollywood film marketed as a “buddy picture” and you have a couple of (usually white) men punching and shooting because they “have” to or they should; a handful of women serve as either serious love-interest or titillating arm-candy and ogling fodder. Few “buddy pictures” really develop on the nature, integrity, and character of the men therein, although that is supposedly what the film is about. In subsequent editions of this column I’d like to talk a bit about when buddy pictures get it right; here we have an example of one that got it almost completely wrong – despite having some wonderful material to start with.

Without further ado… I give you Film Feministe’s Dick Flick Edition (Part One)!

Sherlock Holmes (2009)

One of my early cinematic memories of a life lived loving movies was my mother telling me of a Sherlock Holmes film rendition in which “Watson and Holmes were homosexuals” (The way my mom says “homosexual” sets my teeth on edge).  My mother identified the gay Holmes film as 1988′s spoof Without a Clue starring Michael Caine and Sir Ben Kingsley.  A cursory review of this older film does not reveal there is any romantic plot or subplot between the two men; knowing my mother, she probably got her facts wrong.

I loved the Sherlock Holmes fiction stories and have read them forward and backwards yearly since the age of ten.  A few months ago when I saw the trailer for the newest Guy Ritchie installation I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Upon first glance the film looked to have stripped away the character of Holmes and the appeal of his stories, supplanting these with explosions, fisticuffs, high-gloss, slickness, and – incredibly – sexual titillation (sex in the fiction series? Zero).  But, as a Holmes-lover, I couldn’t stay away. 

Even with my modest expectations I was surprised how much it got things wrong. In fact, the film got so much wrong it is much easier to pinpoint what it (almost) got right: namely, the bond between Watson and Holmes.  For me it has never mattered much whether there was a romantic or sexual relationship between the two men; this interpretation or a strictly platonic one could serve the stories equally well. An exemplary aspect of the Sherlock Holmes installations were less his so-called “clever” deductions (many of which were impossible for a reader to have predicted or participated in, given they often revolved around implausible and last-minute-delivered minutiae from Holmes’ physical or mental library) than rather the relationship between the two crime-solvers. Holmes and Watson loved one another.  Deeply, loyally, and certainly to the exclusion of actual details in case-solving when such a choice had to be made.  I have always been drawn to stories of deep friendship and fidelity despite adversity – whether between men or women, and including or excluding a sexual element.  Holmes and Watson continue to deeply satisfy me as a reader, even when the stories and mysteries, make no mistake, are often rather silly and contrived.

To say Guy Ritchie’s latest imagining of Holmes was capable of hinting at a sexual relationship between the two men would be understatement. There are so very many visual and verbal clues as to this being the case it would be exhaustive to list them.  Much of the double entrendre is delivered in aggressive, playful fashion by Holmes (played by Robert Downey Jr.) to Watson (played by Jude Law).  The plot and subplot are essentially skeletal framework on which the larger story of the two mens’ relationship plays out: there is a mystery, of course, involving violent, conspiratory elements to fill the run time of the film (Holmes’ mysteries were often only a few pages). The film’s theme, however, is the impending breakup of the active partnership between the two men. Watson is getting married to Mary Morstan and will soon be moving out of the Baker Street residence. Holmes seeks to disrupt the engagement and the move-out date in every way possible.

Watson is a more active participant in the film than he was in the books. When he’s not assisting Holmes on the shockingly dangerous and physically violent errands of mystery-solving (more on this a bit) he spends much of the screentime asserting his agency to leave his obsessively needy companion.  Their bickering is partly old-roommate, partly sexual. In a early moment of the film the two are arguing about Watson’s imminent departure and Holmes lifts a long cane up to his friend’s mouth. “Get that thing out of my face,” Watson snaps at his housemate. “It’s not in my face, it’s in my hand,” Holmes mildly teases back. “Get the thing that’s in your hand out of my face,” Watson snarls in return.  The film is filled with many such in-jokes and allusions although a clueless person might not see them (or wish not to see them – hello, repressed straight males, oddly enough a target audience for the punch-em-up nature of the film).

Any sexual guesswork as to this version of the Holmes / Watson relationship is irrelevant in analyzing other choices the film makes, most of them familiar and namely, a most Drake McManslab series of plot events.  There are a myriad of explosions, poison gases, the destruction of massive amounts of property (really.  lots), electronic torture devices, freakishly brutal henchmen, and perhaps least appealing and most boring of all, endless, slow-then-rapid-motion fight scenes, some of them half-naked (Robert Downey Jr. has a rockin’ bod), many with deadly, terrible weapons.  The fight scenes might go almost unnoticed to audiences used to the simultaneous pornographic exploitation and trivialization of violence – and that’s the point. The film, instead of taking us somewhere imaginative, truly sinister, or realistically scary, merely employs chains, cattle-prods, axes, bullets, and numerous other forms of brutality in semi-comedic treatment that – if witnessed in real life – would have real-life and horrific repercussions (okay, yes, I am aware this is a Guy Ritchie film).

The violence is used often but only halfheartedly informs us of Holmes character.  He is a macho, macho man, sporting fighting-weight abs and vicious fighting skills.  He punishes himself masochistically in the boxing ring and is too emotionally remote and physically tough to notice damage inflicted on his person (curiously, this film version has Holmes drinking alcohol and just about any other stimulating and illegal substance; no mention of cocaine, which in the books was his only chemical dependency).  OK, yes, we get it.  Tough, tough guy.  Anyone read these books?  The literary Holmes was tough, but not Big McLargeHuge-tough – he was not given to sport but an able boxer and a man of tremendous physical strength (that he rarely deigned necessary to employ), by terms lazy and driven, prone to cocaine and tobacco but no other vice – and yes, not even “fast women”, of which the film also takes liberty to add:

Because further progressing a tired hyper-masculinied meme, there are no women in the film.  Indeed all females – including grisly murder victims and the two romantic (yet largely ornamental) leads – are referred to as “girls” (hint: you might realize you are watching a tired-ass sexist film if the female characters are never referred to by name, or as “women”, but rather – girls, or in the case of Mamet, broads.  Seriously.  Pay attention next time).  Mary Morstan (played by Kelly Reilly) shows up so infrequently we’re not sure at all why Watson is marrying her.  Her performance embodies the traits of high-class demeanor yet accessibly sexual – and even though she is supposed to be the love of Watson’s life, she is conveniently absent from screen time (in the books she was instrumental in “The Sign of Four”, one of the more epic Holmes stories).  Irene Adler is even further altered from the character in the book to ill effect, turned from a woman of the world to a cute li’l thing in the casting of Rachel McAdams.  Adler is no longer the intelligent, dignified, and wronged woman-cum-blackmailer of the book (who did not have any physical relationship with Holmes, I seek to ad) but instead one of those Sexy Ninja-Thief Ladies we’ve been enduring with regularity since the Charlie’s Angels revival of the eerily nineties.  She lacks the human traits and character foibles her male co-stars get in spades; her main traits seem to be that of being besotted with Holmes, a whiff of standard duplicitous femme fatale, and being very, very pretty.  Did I mention she’s pretty? Gosh-darn, she really is.

The cast is good, but underused. The talents of Mark Strong, like McAdams, are wasted in the role of Lord Blackwood, a creepy Satanist-or-is-he? of standard fare.  I was surprised and pleased by the role, casting, and character of Lestrade (Briton Eddie Marsan), a minor but familiar customer in the Holmes canon.  Costumes, location, and historical backdrop were used to the effect you’d expect from a big-budget film; namely, with much flare and little depth.  The costumes, naturally, made me drool, but then, I am a sewist.

In conclusion, I could have forgived the glossiness or even the punch, punch, punch, slap, smack – if only we’d had a compelling storyline between the two men, whose friendship is a legendary one.  The last bit of film reveals a character and subplot that will make it near impossible for me, or any other Holmes fanatic, to stay away from the sequel; I’m hoping if the institution is not handed off to a less uber-masculine director we at least slow down.  Less slow-motion super-punches, more of the deep draught of a wonderful friendship between two thrillingly well-rendered characters.

Never judge a book by its movie.
-J.W. Eagan

Mentioned:

Without a Clue (1988)

Sherlock Holmes (2009)

03/14/2010 ETA: Holmes and I, a blog post

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Mar 05 2010
culture, feminism

i am literally some bovine person just going through the motions! or: it’s called 101, people

Harmless and delicious? WRONG! You are looking at my PRISON!

Dear reader, today was kind of a cranky day. Like, first? I was bothered by this post at Sociological Images, a blog I love very much, where today someone claimed – in part of a larger point about prescribed gender roles – that cooking was drudgery. You know, taking care of oneself by selecting and preparing food – what an onerous chore! Why should anyone even have to bother?

So why should I care about this one, measly little word in a sea of internet talk-out-the-ass-ness?

Here’s the thing: I read feminist blogs. And I love them (mostly).  And this “housework and kid care is so borrrring!” stuff that asses itself into some (note I said some) feminist discussion?

I get it, I really do. Allow me a summation if you haven’t devoted yourself to the conversation so far. First off, there is a tremendous disparity when it comes to men and women living together; women do a lot more of the domestic work that needs to get done to little respect, status, acclaim, or pay.  If you aren’t aware of this you’re uninformed – it remains to you to decide if this is (however subtly) deliberate on your part.  If you’re aware and you’re not really doing much about it. Um.  Perhaps you shouldn’t be reading here.

But let’s say for arguments sake you’re aware that yes, in heterosexual partnerships the laydeez end up doing more of the kid care, the housework, and the “invisible” errands (like tracking everyone’s schedule, making dentist appointments, knowing where the shot records are kept, keeping track of shoe sizes, shopping for clothes and groceries and, and, and… you get it).  Those of us bent on egalitarian treatment want this to change.  And part of that is we want our families and our media to quit socializing girls and women to take care of everyone else while any attendant menfolk reap the benefits of this invisible but in large part necessary work.  To housework-dissing feminists’ view, housework is de facto “less than” and women deserve a piece of the whatever pie really matters – status, money, acclaim, astronaut jobs (Note: I’m not addressing housework-dissing anti-feminists here. Another post, perhaps).

And of course, I understand this. Make no mistake: women are still pressured to and expected to juggle career, good looks, a hot body, environmental stewardship, solid and healthy friendships, volunteer work, wifedom and motherhood, and run a smooth household.  Penalties for flagging in these pursuits can be severe.  Just-minded women and men are bucking the concept that these goals should be mandatory for women (especially those married to or partnered with a man).  Where I differ from some feminist perspective is I refuse to denigrate those things that are, traditionally, female or femme. After all, the denigration of the female is part of the problem – hello wage gap for instance.

So: picking on the work of self- and household-care using pejoratives and diminishing language to describe it? What a win!  (I am totally typing sarcastically!) Funny thing: I cook a lot, and I clean the house and wash clothes and stuff, and I don’t get paid nor much externally-afforded status for the ins-and-outs of, you know, regular life, all functions to varying degree necessary and normal in Being and enjoying the wonder of our existence (it is only modern convenience and privilege that allows us to opt out).  Perhaps you can take a moment to imagine how I feel – after seven years out of paid work – when my sister-laydeez then heap insult on injury by telling me what I do is so farking mindless and boring! What a way to make sure to never recognize the efforts, integrity, expressive life, and personhood of those who’ve chosen the path! (and who, P.S., baked those fabulous cookies your co-worker brought in that you took two of at break time).

Because, hello, and I literally can’t believe I have to say this, but cooking and cleaning really is work that, you know, has to be done, notice I’m not specifying any particular standard but, hey, it really is a fact of life. It’s not like you can opt out of eating (for very long at least), so show some respect for whoever did the cooking. Also, hello again, if we want men to do their part in heterosexual partnership maybe we should quit disparaging the whole business?

So irritating, really. And here’s the hurtful thing: it’s not one person every now and then who tosses out this kind of diminishment: it’s a subtle but seemingly endless drumbeat – by loads of those with (male) privilege, sure, but including, sadly, should-be-savvier feminists whom I otherwise love and respect in every way.  So: thanks for that.  Heck, we haven’t had a breather from “Women’s work is lesser work” since the 20th century at least*, so why should feminists give us one? (Seriously! I can’t stop with the sarcasm! And yes, I know this indicates a deficiency of me as a writer!).

I hate the de-statusing (NOT A REAL WORD) of any job or vocation – period. I remember as a child hearing jokes about janitors and how crummy and menial and kind of creepy/sketchy they were.  You probably don’t remember janitor jokes because: your dad wasn’t a janitor!  Ta-da! At the time it was confusing because I knew my father was a hard worker who chose jobs he respected and did well at them.  The diminishment of his profession and personhood didn’t match with the man I knew.  Now I’m wishing I would have loudly stopped the Haters in their tracks: “Shut up. My father is a janitor. Polish the floors yourself if you think he’s so unnecessary.”

I can’t go back and defend my father post-humorously to a handful of elementary-school children, but I can sound my horn in defense of my work today.  I’m proud of my work.  It has value.  My work is caring for other people – not just the ones I partnered with and gave birth to but also the neighborhood children, the working mother and father whose kids need a sleepover, the friend who’s sick, the husband who’s “real” work means he can’t get away for personal errands during the day, the cancer patient who is cheered by my loaf of homebaked bread. These are all real examples from my last week.

Thich Nhat Hanh – who’s been on my mind and in my blog lately – has written a couple dozen amazing books.  If I may be permitted (and yes I may), I’d like to relate a deeply meaningful passage from my book Anger: Wisdom For Cooling the Flames (warning: be careful not to get reader’s whiplash in the difference between Thich Nhat Hanh’s literary tone and my own):

About fifteen years ago, an American Buddhist scholar visited me while I was in the United States.  She said, “Dear teacher, you write such beautiful poems.  You spend a lot of time growing lettuce and doing things like that.  Why don’t you use your time to write more poetry?” She had read somewhere that I enjoy growing vegetables, taking care of cucumber and lettuce.  She was thinking pragmatically and suggested that I should not waste my time working in the garden but should use it to write poems.

I replied, “My dear friend, if I did not grow lettuce, I could not write the poems I write.” This is the truth.  If you don’t live in concentration, in mindfulness, if you don’t live every moment of your daily life deeply, then you cannot write.  You can’t produce anything valuable to offer to others.

A poem is a flower you offer to people.  A compassionate look, a smile, an act filled with loving-kindess is also a flower that blooms on the tree of mindfulness and concentration.  Even though you don’t think about the poem while cooking lunch for your family, the poem is being written.  When I write a short story, a novel, or a play, it maky take one week or several weeks to vinish.  But the story or the novel is always there.  In the same way, although you are not thinking about the letter you will write to your beloved one, the letter is being written, deep down in your concsiousness.

You cannot just sit there and write the story or the novel.  You have to do other things as well.  You drink tea, cook breakfast, wash your clothes, water the vegetables.  The time spent doing these things is extremely important.  You have to do them well.  You have to put one hundred percent of yourself in to the act of cooking, watering the vegetable garden, of dish washing. You just enjoy whatever you are doing, and you do it deeply.  This is very important for your story, your letter, or anything else you want to produce.

Enlightenment is not separate from washing dishes or growing lettuce.  To learn how to live each moment of our daily life in deep mindfulness and concentration is the practice.  The conception and unfolding of a piece of art take place exactly in these moments of our daily life.  The time when you begin to write down the music or the poems is only the time of delivering the baby.  The baby has to be in you already in order for you to deliver it.  But if the baby is not in you, even if you sit for hours and hours at your desk, there’s nothing to deliver, and you cannot produce anything.  Your insight, your compassion, and your ability to write in a way that will move the other person’s heart are flowers that bloom on the tree of your practice.  We should make good use of every moment of our daily life in order to allow this insight and compassion to bloom.

Thich Nhat Hanh is eighty-four years old this year.  He has never partnered with a woman nor had his own children to care for, yet he sees as deeply into our common lives as anyone could.  His words ring of truth and are like clear, cool water after the ugly thoughts that swirl in my head and the passions that grip my heart when I see my life’s work so repeatedly devalued.

And this passage – the truths this teacher relates here – are in large part why, even though living in a world that so often devalues women’s work, I don’t consider cleaning, or chopping carrots or searing garlic, or putting a bandaid on the knee of my child a worthless enterprise.  Even if some of the men and women I want to stand with and fight alongside, do.

Mentioned:

“Little Girls Wear Whisks” at Sociological Images

* Good Housekeeping’s Good Wife Guide, 1955

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Feb 19 2010
culture, family

good luck with that really hard work! & here’s some more unrestrained vitriol:

Ruffians

My entitled, terrible children

This morning when I log in for my morning Inter-netz fix I immediately see two of my Tweeps (yes, I use that phrase! My husband hates it! It means a person I follow or who follows me on Twitter, if you are someone like my Mom who is reading this!) have linked to the online Details Magazine article: “Are You Raising a Douchebag?” And I simply can’t help it – I have to click through. For one, I’ve caught the trendy and infectious glee of the insult “douche”, just like everyone else.*  Secondly, I feel myself drawn to the latest bit of Parenting Pop-Culture Babble even though, upon bringing the article up, I experience that inward groan as I’m assailed by ALL CAPS:

ARE YOU RAISING A DOUCHEBAG?
YOUR INDULGENT PARENTING IS SPAWNING A GENERATION OF ENTITLED HIPSTER BRATS

Right.  That by-line?  Chances that this author (one David Hochman) has absolutely nothing valuable to offer in what follows except a series of smarmy zingers that sound kind of truthy about today’s kids – and at some point he will lean back and sweepingly claim these observations apply to a lot of kids, hell maybe even “kids today” if we’re lucky?: One Hundred to Yes.

Sure enough, the following copy is a relatively dense body of pithy snark about Terrible Kids and the Terrible Parents Who Raise Them (yes, “spoiled” gets trotted out, as does “brat”, “fetishized celebrities”, and a handful of other juicy kid-hate phrases).  Hochman illustrates in detail the snotty little shits who send back foie gras and “fashion-bull[y]” their peers if the latter aren’t wearing Junior Dolce & Gabbana (I had to copy and paste that from the original article! Because I do not know how to spell fashion houses! Because I know nothing about fashion!).  For being a relatively short article (and a remarkably insubstantial one), it is packed with quips like, “Put it this way: If it’s your child, not you, who gets to choose your weekend brunch spot, or if he’s the one asking how the branzino is prepared, it’s probably time to take a hard look at your own behavior.”

Ha ha! Yes!  This is so relevant to so many parents I know.  Actually, none!  Okay! Let’s move on:

Also, Hipster Hate.  It’s so fun!  I mean, doing an exacting send-up of hipsters means we get to demonstrate our knowledge of said Hip cultural edifices (what’s branzino?) but at the same time sneeringly dismiss those who are enthusiastic about pursuing them.  Picking on hipsters – it’s almost like a way to dehumanize a group of people and assume they only have the most shallow, superficial personalities and aren’t real, whole, earnest human beings!  Nevermind that I have yet to meet someone who self-identifies as “hipster”, but I have heard about a hundred examples of people smirkingly referring to others as such.  I could gladly go the rest of my life not hearing the moniker invoked as a vague, snooty pejorative, but I fear I won’t be allowed to.

Midway through the article there’s a brief, oh so brief, departure from picking on contemporary and/or wealthy parents and their kiddos:

It’s not just about money, though. Since the nineties, a surge in overprotective parenting has promoted discussion over discipline and made leisure activities contingent upon nanny CPR training (have you ever even considered letting your kid play with a pocket knife or a rusty Flexible Flyer, never mind have a paper route?).

Off-topic: at this moment my own children are playing with a pocket knife and a rusty Flexible Flyer (and likely an arc welder to join the two), but let’s get back on point.

So apparently we’ve had some “discussion over discipline” since the nineties. That’s some terrible shit.  Or wait – what do you even mean by that? Nevermind, forget a relevant discussion about overprotective parenting (and there are many to be had)** – no, we need hand-wringing and broad statements! Cue quote from author Katie Allison Granju:

We no longer allow children to have personal autonomy, to experience hard knocks, or to take real risks. [...] The result is a nation of overweight, overindulged, overly neurotic kids who whine and moan and often can’t function on their own.

Right. An entire generation.  Not one parent allows one kid to take a risk, ever.  Oh, and TEH FATTIEZ!

Why do I care about this article?  I know what you’re thinking: Why fuss? It’s a blip on the screen.  Yet, I see so much of this sort of thing: an author inexpert on the topic, gathering up a bunch of “authorities” to make a bunch of sweeping claims about Parents and Kids Today, as if today’s parenting culture was a monolith of Borg-like assholes going through the motions, rather than a complex, heavily nuanced series of mores, values, and traditions being fought in the trenches by, you know, real people.  In fact I’d posit that part of today’s parenting culture, indeed, are the throw-away judgy articles like this one, and I cringe when I read them – because I know how bad they make people feel, and not bad in a “Hey, you’re right, thanks for putting your finger on it!  I’d been feeling bummed about this. Now let’s motivate myself for some change!” way.  Just: bad.

Because oh my gosh! You are not writing this article in a cultural vacuum! Do you have any idea how much judgment/hate there is out there for parents? (especially moms, that’s the funnest Hate there is!).  In fact, maybe that’s why it’s so easy to write and publish this kind of thing – that stuff is out there like oxygen, yours for the taking and inspiration!

Do articles like this help anyone?  Is there a reader out there who, even though unable to relate entirely to the name-dropping and moneyed institutions referenced therein (or maybe they can; more about this in a minute), nevertheless feels that tug of, “Maybe that’s me, raising a douchey kid”?  Oh… maybe. Maybe one or two (note: article will not provide a course of action if this is the case).  Are there lots and lots of other parents who read this and feel gripped with a vague anxiety and an intense knowledge of how much they are judged by the public when out and about with their kiddos?  Uh-huh.  Are there a handful of parents who read this and feel smug that these are other (“rich”) parents raising a generation of jerks?  Yup.  Are there lots of other childfree people who read this and feel their breeder hate (and profound ignorance of some of the realities of parenting) increase? Oh heck yeah.  So hey, good job!

I realize many people write copy to get paid, so a zingy article is the goal in and of itself.  I just wish there was so, so much less of this kind of thing.  Writing an extremely critical article about Entitled Brats and how many of them there are today – apparently cared for by parents who only, only care about living some hip, urbane life – it just doesn’t match up to reality.

Because you know what’s weird?  I actually know parents.  I know a lot of them! Oops, I even am a parent! Weird how this happens! And I can tell you, despite the harsh terminology of articles like this, and the inevitable trotting out of the evil “friend” parent (never has any other progenitor assed out so thoroughly on their job, says the finger-wagging expert, than the Friend Parent), I do not personally know a single parent who doesn’t care very, very much about what kind of person their child is, and who he/she is becoming.  Daily in my life, friends seek me out to talk about their kids’ development, and not even in some hyper-vigilant, paranoid, fussy way.  Like, I’m raising this kid, what should I feed them? & My kid got hit in the face at school.  It’s no big deal but he’s a little sad. & Oh, my kid’s having trouble at night, growing pains.  What do you do for that? Oooooh, what a bunch of tightly-wound superficial assholes we all are.

So, you know, even if as an American parent you’re wary of the popularity of parent-hate, I think articles like these don’t mean much besides a bunch of judgy horseshit.  This particular article is just taking aim and firing at the moneyed, urban (and I daresay mostly white) variety.  If you are a parent whose lifestyle touches on some of the cultural markers referenced – you fly first class and take ski trips and go to brunch – okay, then.  Good luck with that, because this article at least gives you no help at how to navigate your privileged cultural terrain while raising a conscientious, empathetic kid (and just so you know, I don’t hate on money; our family wage puts us at working class but I myself feel relatively privileged by the world’s standards; besides, no matter where you are in America’s socio-economic specturm, empathy is one of our hardest jobs as parents).  Or wait, at the very end Mr. Hochman instructs you not to have such elaborate birthday parties.  And to hire the services of Child Minded, a parent-coaching with a fee of $1200 a day.

And if you are a parent, and your kid is kind of an asshole?  Well, I for one am not going to hate on you.  It happens. BTDT. Call me up, and let’s talk.  I’ll put the coffee on.

(Edited to add: my online friend Daniel Bigler penned a less-ranty, more spot-on post re: the Details piece; you can read it at his blog, last link below).

Mentioned:

Bill Corbett & Lenore Skenazy

Details Magazine, “Are You Raising a Douchebag?”

* “Douchebag; An Insult for the Ages” at The Rotund

“Truthiness”

** Free Range Kids, a blog; my own thoughts on “Just In Case” parenting

Katie Allison Granju (blog)

Daniel Bigler’s post at his blog

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Dec 26 2009
6,105 Comments
Uncategorized

OHNOES i’ve been squandering my “sex favor” cards!

Happily married!The day after Christmas a friend posted an article on her Facebook profile*, entitled “Men Who Help Clean Get More Sex”, from Limelife.com. It’s a subject I’ve seen many times online – another study that reports, in effect, that a relationship with a more egalitarian share of household responsibilities often enjoys more sex (although this study in particular – link below – seems to be talking specifically about high-energy couples – high-energy in work together and in sexual activity).

The way this relatively lightweight Limelife piece presents the information is typical of the many articles I’ve seen on the topic (and that you will see if you do a simple Google search). It contains the following assumptions and implicit assertions:

1. In a heterosexually-partnered relationship, housework is a woman’s responsibility. A man can choose to “help” if he wishes.

2. Sex isn’t a mutual act: men are the pursuant party and women the pursued (or withholding). It makes sense for men to use “brownie points” to get sex, because:

3. Women don’t want sex for sex’s sake. It’s something they dole out as a reward; or, to use the headline, something men “get” out of their women if they play their cards right.

4. Women find the sight of their male partner doing housework a “turn on” in and of itself – as opposed to male partners doing their share of housework being an element of a healthier relationship that helps heterosexual women stay happier, healthier, and sexually vigorous.

Several studies from diverse sources show that as a group heterosexually-partnered males do half of the work in the home that women do, regardless of paid or outside employment. In my own observances, well – let’s just say by example one of the many myriad and minor reasons I left Facebook were the handful of female acquaintances who’d post status messages like, “My husband is doing the dishes! I am the LUCKIEST LADY ALIVE!” without a trace of irony. As far as amorous relations, I don’t have much of a window into my friends’ sex lives – and they don’t have much into mine. But I do know a dismaying number of married-to-men women who heap all kinds of grateful praise and “rescuing” on their partner for considerably less effort and performance than they, as females, perform daily, day in, day out, over and over.

This hits home, too. My own husband is often the recipient of a glorified pedestaling for the kind of work I regularly do without much comment from outside parties; he has countless times been called “Superdad” for – I kid you not – taking care of his own kids and sometimes other people’s. And just so you know – in case you, dear reader are childfree and/or unaware – women do stuff like arrange playdates and take care of kids All. The. Time.** I’ll let my husband speak for himself more eloquently on his oft-prescribed moniker of “Superdad!” but suffice to say: he finds it demeaning and insulting to himself, and unfair to his wife.

Obviously, in any individual relationship there are mitigating factors, and my intention here is not to personally weigh in on any particular couple or couple’s habits. For instance: perhaps in the case of the abovementioned Facebook status the husband had done a bunch of OTHER awesome stuff earlier in the day. However, taken as a sum the truth is: we expect less out of our men and they are only too happy to deliver (or, as I like to more charitably believe, won’t decide to deliver unless we educate them on the necessity that they do so).

The sad thing is, ultimately, all this seems to point to a cultural devaluation of heterosexually-partnered women’s health and happiness. Concomitant to this (not-very) mind-blowing concept that dudes should maybe pick it up at home I saw recently, on a web medical information site, an absolute glut of queries regarding a low sex-drive in women and wives – and many, many medications, remedies, and long lists of nutritional do’s and don’ts to “fix” the problem. I’m left wondering: do the mojo-draining twin forces of overwork and deep resentment perhaps have anything at all to do with women’s libido and desire? Naaaah. Let’s keep to that whole, “What do women want? Ah, who knows! Let’s give ‘em a pill to get ‘em horny for us.” It’s just easier that way.

As for me? I actually do have a husband who does his share. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need reminders and re-education because, yeah, there is a right way to put away the dishes, bro. In fact, in our case – with one partner working at home and the other in paid employment – he’s at a bit of a disadvantage when he comes home and is thrust into the house ins and outs. But he knows it’s his job to do figure it out and do his share, and so do I. He’s a really, really fabulous guy (he’s also great in the sack, so I guess – bonus?), and I’m grateful to have such a partner. But I think I’m pretty cool too; I’ve been doing the hard, hard work of casting off the expectation I should do most (if not all) of the work en casa, and expect very little of – or be inordinately grateful for – his “help”.

* I don’t actually have a Facebook account, but I sometimes check my husband’s.

** Another thing people do? A lot? When a father of an infant is taking care of his own child, they call it “babysitting” (as opposed to, you know, parenting).

Mentioned:

“Men Who Help Clean Get More Sex”

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Jun 13 2009
culture, feminism, film revue

film feministe: the cinematic man-child and his perpetual harem of willing, nubile females

Happy Sailing!

Last night my husband and I spent a few sawbucks to watch the latest film starring Will Ferrell, Land of the Lost. Since we have young children and a working class income, a night with just the two of us is usually spent in simple pleasures: dinner together, a bit of housekeeping, a glass of wine and a silly film. Both of us, though we enjoyed this latest inane Ferrell comedy (the meat and potatoes of our mindless entertainment proclivities), were disappointed by the disturbing yet somehow boring repetitions of the same racist, sexist, and heterosexist foibles we keep seeing in today’s featured blockbuster comedies.

Land of the Lost evidences the seminal properties that define what I call the Man-Boy Movie. Ferrell plays Dr. Rick Marshall, a version of character repeated in countless comedies du jour, including Superbad, The Break Up, Knocked Up, Don’t Mess With The Zohan, Step Brothers, Hot Rod, Old School – I could go on. Marshall may somehow be an advanced scientist but is more importantly a middle-aged man uncouth, stupid – although somehow intelligent enough to create a revolutionary piece of scientific equipment – profane, and socially backwards. Anna Friel plays Holly Cantrell, in a winsome turn at Worshipping Girl Scientist. Danny McBride plays Will, a redneck, substance-abusing, pyrotechnic sidekick (more about him in a minute). Once in the Land of the Lost they are joined by Cha-Ka, a primate-like being played by Jorma Taccone, and the film follows the foursome through various comedic shennanigans based on a mere skeletal frame of a plot.

Ferrell’s potrayal is just as we’d expect (as listed above) – yet still, in my opinion, the performance managed to be very funny. Holly, on the other hand, is something different: her character is composed almost entirely of equal quantities of plucky cheerleader speeches, hero-worship in the case of Marshall (we are unsure as to how he deserves this), and a remarkable patience and fortitude whilst being sexually harassed, fondled, and diminished by all three male characters (including the humanoid Cha-Ka). Supposedly Holly is an empowered, intelligent woman; but she is none of these qualities so much that she’d inconvenience the bad behaviors of the males of the film. For instance, at the outset of the adventure Will comments to her, in so many words, she will find an upcoming adventure so thrilling her vagina will get moist. She threatens him with drowning should he speak to her this way again. But as the film proceeds we see this is an empty threat: similar comments, and an almost incessant amount of unwelcomed breast-fondling, are repeated regularly – and Holly takes no action to stop these. Her pluckiness and intelligence, therefore, serve only as a foil for her male co-stars, in such a way as to always help and never hamper.

She is also, of course, young and heteronormatively mainstream beautiful (she is also, of course, white), typical fare for these kinds of films. We are spared no details in an exploration of Ferrell and McBride’s very human physiques – a pool scene, half nudity, fat rolls, and many closeups on their faces showing every pore, greasy hair follicle, and wrinkle. Anna by comparison is framed through a dewey lense of flawlessness, presented in an immaculate tank top, hotpants, little girl braids, and impeccable makeup (I am skipping over the odd fact that in the orginial television series Holly and Will were Rick’s children; Anna as Ferrell’s romantic and sexual interest resembles something between Science Barbie and a teenage daughter). And most regrettable of all, although we are afforded long addresses by Rick and Will discussing their eating habits, the adventure of collecting hadrosaur urine (don’t ask), their life’s ambitions, their camp songs, their twisted view of the world and their harebrained, silly shemes – all we know about Anna is she went to Cambridge at some point and then attached herself to Rick’s scientific methods. For all intensive purproses Anna is a one-dimensional beauty, not anything approaching a three-dimensional person.

Because, for me, the most disturbing part of the Man-Boy movies is not so much the presence of young, heteronormatively beautiful females, but the lack of character and comedic fairness afforded to them. Part of the “Average Guy / Hot Girl” phenomenan (although, notably, the men featured in these films are “average” in looks and physicality, while their behavior often contains greater than average components of near-sociopathic behavior, personal ineptitude, aggressiveness, and sometimes sadism) – is that the bumbling hero will end up with a woman in some grey area of supermodel / mom – she being afforded only the most superficial character traits of these socially-prescribed categories. Another article refers to this as “the current generation of romantic comedies that pair aged boy doofuses with women who are far more mature and responsible.” Yes, the morality and intelligence of the females in these films is notably more developed than the male, but it’s also boring. They are beautiful, humorless (although they allow poor behaviors to go mostly unchecked so therefore show some tolerance), devoted to their deeply-troubled males, and serve very little besides eye candy and a sort of “prize” for our heroes. It’s frustrating so few moviegoers speak out about this.

Because in film it seems we find old, ugly, fat, comedic or flawed females as either A. the butt of the joke, or B. completely unable to carry our interest in a typical lead role. Taking the analysis, only briefly, up to better caliber of film, consider last year’s The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke was touted as not only giving a good performance but achieving heights of physical inhabitance in his turn as the scarred, battered, beaten-up hard-living professional athlete at the end of his career. The filmmakers’ choice for his counterpart? Marissa Tomei as the “aging stripper”. Really? Is that what an old, blousy stripper typically looks like? Taken as one film, you cannot really find fault; but why is this what we see, over and over, an uninteresting but repetitive variation of Beauty and the Beast? Because we would not find an ugly, “old”, deeply flawed (or all three!) woman relatable or worthy of much notice or interest.

It’s worth a brief mention: Danny McBride’s rendition of Will is also problematic. Within seconds of our introduction to this man he has spewed forth a few varieties of verbal vomit: elaborating on his future plan to build a massive casino complete with huge parking lot, taking a wife to mate with and then, if she’s not pleasing, imprisoning her in the far wing of the gold-leaf massive building which features a prominent racist charicature of a Native American (I am not making this up!). The character of Will bothers me almost more than Anna, because he provides us the opportunity to laugh at “rednecks” and their backwardness, but also get our giggles on the racist, sexist, and heterosexist behaviors (identical to those displayed for decades past) he mawkishly provides. Ultimately during the film Will becomes a far more relatable, if still crude, character. And this, to me, is a good thing. These films are in the final analysis buddy movies; and this is one reason I enjoy and continue to watch them.

Because yes: I laugh with crude, profane humor, I love depictions of playful – and yes, at times asinine – friendships, and I fiercely enjoy random, inane comedy. The funny moments in Land of the Lost – and there were many – were those where the camera lingered on Ferrell or Will as they were allowed to perform as unbalanced and very human characters with their own stories, their own weirdnesses. Why was this not afforded to the sole female in the film?

Too much analysis? I don’t think so. We have seen these same patterns, this same diminishment to the female, repeated in not only today’s Judd Apatow vehicles but movies spanning back through my cinematic memory. Pop culture is both a window into how we view our world and a mirror for which we can gaze, reflect, and self-correct. When we see a slew of same-minded pheomena, it can be informative to investigate why these memes exist, what they say about our culture, why they’re appreciated, and when and why they should carry some misapprehension.

I have decided it will only be when we have more female writers, directors, and producers, and more intelligent, discerning, and fair-minded men involved in the process that I can enjoy these comedies not just in my gut but in my mind and heart. In the meantime, I will enjoy the slapstick moments, the silly references to sexual appetite, the unnecessary and aggressive “fuck you’s!”, the odd impersonations and absurd and unbelievable scenarios Ferrell and his ilk deliver, as best I can.

Further reading: “Ah, Hollywood, where men will be boys”

***

Photo credit: “happy sailing” from x_ray_ on Flickr; used under Creative Commons license Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0).

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