Growing up as a little girl I played with Barbie and little dolls. I almost never had action figures with the exception of ones from Aladdin or mermaids that I would play with when I took a bath. Now this was not because my mother had anything against action figures, I just wasn't interested in playing with G.I. Joe. There have always been very few female action heroes or action figures. As a child(and as an adult) I loved Xena so I was certainly open to the idea of strong women, I just didn't have the option toy wise, although I certainly had all of the little kitchen stuff and all that bullshit that was supposed to help train me to be a good little housewife. I am only enraged at toy companies and the propaganda they shove down the throats of American parents and their children, a wee bit.
Anyway, I was delighted to find that a line of toys seem to be coming out of female action heroes that have a positive message about females for both girls and boys. Girls are not the only ones who need to know that women and girls are capable of saving the day just as their male counterparts can. Having toys that allow both girls and boys to see female characters in a nonsexual, powerful role exposes them to a broader sphere of thinking, allowing women and girls to occupy roles that in the past (and in some cases presently) have been taboo.
Do I think that this new toy line of female action figures is going to save us all from ourselves? No. Do I think it is the step in the right direction? Yes. Do I think this is a genius way of making money? Yes. But all toys are designed to make money so I really don't care about that. I would rather toys that broaden a child's horizons than ones that reinforce gender norms and antiquated ideas that only serve to stunt a child's imagination. The more options we give children with play the easier it will be for them to develop into who they are. With that however, it is important not to completely throw things that are considered "girly" under the bus because that reinforces the message that the feminine and things associated with the feminine aren't as good as more masculine traits/toys. Little girls can certainly play with dolls (although Bratz dolls should all be burned. There is no redeeming those things) as well as action figures, trucks or whatever else they want. And the same goes for little boys. I hate the color coding and separate isles in toy stores. THEY ARE TOYS! They shouldn't be gendered. And the gendering of toys is the clearest case of money grubbing capitalism I have seen in a while. For an example, if you have a brother and sister this could easily happen "I can't have pink bat! I need a boy bat!" No. There is no such thing as boy and girl bats. This is as stupid as those pens for women that were purple but parents buy into the pink baseball bats because they're "cute". Sexism isn't cute. Gendering toys and other items is moronic. Besides if you want a baseball bat you should buy a Hannon Bat. Everyone knows that. *Yes, I just plugged my cousin's baseball business.*
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
History in my State
Today my home state PA became the 19th state to strike down the ban against marriage equality. I am so excited for my friends and family who can now marry the people they love in their home state. It is a shame that it has taken until 2014 for this to happen. The gross injustice that still goes on in this country that infringes on basic human rights is something I have never understood. Love between two consenting adults is no one else's business. And I for one have sat through enough straight weddings where I knew that the two people saying "I Do" were going to be getting divorced for whatever reason. If people who obviously are headed for divorced can get married because their genitalia happens to be an innie and an outtie then why can't two outties or two innies enjoy the same freedom if they love each other? Marriage is a legal binding contract with the state not just a religious ceremony. They are different. And quite a few religions allow for marriages that do not fit the narrow Judeo-Christian definition. And Christians are not being forced to allow gay marriage in their churches that is a battle I don't particularly care to engage in. Today is a day of celebration for human rights.
Sleep well tonight PA. You did right kid.
Sleep well tonight PA. You did right kid.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Passing
My skin is so white, it's amazing I don't glow in the dark. Looking at me there is no surprise that I have am of Irish, German and English descent. My skin has afforded me a certain amount of privilege, privilege that my father enjoyed but that mother was never allotted. Looking at my mother, you can tell that she isn't quite white and she is very proud of this fact. My mother's face betrays her Native American heritage. So much so that when she was growing up in the 1960's the kids in her school called her "breed". My mother has always embraced her Native culture and I was raised to do the same. Unfortunately, I went to an elementary school that wasn't just predominately white, it was completely white.
I was in the third grade and very excited because my Mom let me wear one of her Native American chokers that she had bought at an event earlier that year. I felt very special because this necklace was particularly intricate. I proudly wore the necklace because it was so beautiful and because it showed I had earned a degree of trust from my Mom. Or perhaps I had just hounded her enough that she was decided to give in. I was set up to have a great day, until my one classmate, Jamie, pointed out my necklace in a less than positive way. When asked I simply said "It's my Mom's Native American necklace. She let me wear it." and then he asked "Why would you wear that necklace if you're not an Indian?" I explained that I was, in fact, "Indian". My classmate then continued to taunt me based on this saying "I'm Irish and I don't have a giant shamrock on my chest." If I had been as outspoken as a child as I am as an adult I would have fired back at him "Yeah except for St. Patrick's Day and the Fighting Irish jacket and hat combo you have!". Instead I just told him that I was Irish too, which by both my last name and my fair skin is obvious. It occurred to me that the problem wasn't that I had pride in my heritage. It was the pride I placed in the wrong skin color.
After that day, unless I had a class assignment, I did not tell classmates and sometimes friends about my heritage. People have asked me if I was adopted all the way up through high school because I do not share the same Native features as my mother. My mother accused me throughout school and well into college of turning my back on my heritage. It added salt to the wound that I embraced my Irish heritage from my father's side because my parents divorced when I was two years old. She thought my shame had more to do with her than with the kids at school shaming me out of identifying. It wasn't until I was in graduate school taking a class on Feminist Theory that I learned of the term "passing". My one classmate, who later became my roommate, was the one who identified my experience as just that. I have spent my life passing as white and enjoying the privileges that go along with that. And please understand, you're an asshole if you're white and living in America and you don't think you're enjoying white privilege because no matter how disadvantage you might be, you are still treated better than people who have more pigment to their skin. Racial slurs have never been thrown at you in a way that bring you back to a point of oppression. My classmate spent her life passing as well. Her parents are both immigrants but from different parts of the globe. She went to a rich all white school and she preferred to have her Mother seen, because she was paler, and her Father to be heard, because he spoke English more clearly.
We both had spent most of our lives playing what other people wanted us to be because it was easier. The Japanese have a saying "The nail that sticks out gets the hammer" and it applies in the States. I have spent much of my life denying that part of who I am and now it feels weird and pretentious to try and claim any sort of affiliation. I certainly have not been negatively affected by the stereotypes that plagued both my Mother and Native Americans. What I can do is simply embrace who and what I am. I think it is time that I put that necklace back on.
I was in the third grade and very excited because my Mom let me wear one of her Native American chokers that she had bought at an event earlier that year. I felt very special because this necklace was particularly intricate. I proudly wore the necklace because it was so beautiful and because it showed I had earned a degree of trust from my Mom. Or perhaps I had just hounded her enough that she was decided to give in. I was set up to have a great day, until my one classmate, Jamie, pointed out my necklace in a less than positive way. When asked I simply said "It's my Mom's Native American necklace. She let me wear it." and then he asked "Why would you wear that necklace if you're not an Indian?" I explained that I was, in fact, "Indian". My classmate then continued to taunt me based on this saying "I'm Irish and I don't have a giant shamrock on my chest." If I had been as outspoken as a child as I am as an adult I would have fired back at him "Yeah except for St. Patrick's Day and the Fighting Irish jacket and hat combo you have!". Instead I just told him that I was Irish too, which by both my last name and my fair skin is obvious. It occurred to me that the problem wasn't that I had pride in my heritage. It was the pride I placed in the wrong skin color.
After that day, unless I had a class assignment, I did not tell classmates and sometimes friends about my heritage. People have asked me if I was adopted all the way up through high school because I do not share the same Native features as my mother. My mother accused me throughout school and well into college of turning my back on my heritage. It added salt to the wound that I embraced my Irish heritage from my father's side because my parents divorced when I was two years old. She thought my shame had more to do with her than with the kids at school shaming me out of identifying. It wasn't until I was in graduate school taking a class on Feminist Theory that I learned of the term "passing". My one classmate, who later became my roommate, was the one who identified my experience as just that. I have spent my life passing as white and enjoying the privileges that go along with that. And please understand, you're an asshole if you're white and living in America and you don't think you're enjoying white privilege because no matter how disadvantage you might be, you are still treated better than people who have more pigment to their skin. Racial slurs have never been thrown at you in a way that bring you back to a point of oppression. My classmate spent her life passing as well. Her parents are both immigrants but from different parts of the globe. She went to a rich all white school and she preferred to have her Mother seen, because she was paler, and her Father to be heard, because he spoke English more clearly.
We both had spent most of our lives playing what other people wanted us to be because it was easier. The Japanese have a saying "The nail that sticks out gets the hammer" and it applies in the States. I have spent much of my life denying that part of who I am and now it feels weird and pretentious to try and claim any sort of affiliation. I certainly have not been negatively affected by the stereotypes that plagued both my Mother and Native Americans. What I can do is simply embrace who and what I am. I think it is time that I put that necklace back on.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
OMG SHOES!
59 Pairs of shoes
16 pairs of heels- 10 of them 4+ inch heels- and if you can't walk or stand in them you don't wear them
2 pairs of wedges- which I never wear because I hate wedges
4 pairs of flats
4 pairs of sandles
5 pairs of boots (one set of steel toed hiking boots which I never wear when I hike)
3 pairs of slippers none of which I bought. Everyone just thinks I need them for my freezing feet that I like to slide onto unsuspecting family members and friends in the dead of winter.
And lastly a pair of water shoes that are strictly for showering at the gym.
Let me be clear. I love my shoes. Feet are not my thing. I like mine enough because they get me where I need to go but I don't have a fetish for anything foot related. About a year ago my roommates at the time started telling that I had a shoe "problem" when my beauties started spilling out from my room into the living room. Their constant taunting of my shoe hoarding forced my confession. Something I had never told anyone before, the origin of my shoe love.
When asked about my shoes I usually just say "I got it from my mama!" to the beat of that song and laugh. The truth is far less lighthearted. When I was 9 I was at school and I remember I was kicking a ball and my tennis shoe just fell apart at the toe, peeling open like an oyster to reveal my soaked toes. I didn't think much of it figuring my mom would fix it later. The school taped up my shoe and I went about my day. When I got home however, my mother told me that she didn't have the money to buy me new shoes. I was horrified. I placed my hands on what would eventually become my hips and yelled back "but I NEED shoes!". I can't imagine how much that night hurt my mother. But the next morning she used the masking tape from the junk drawer and taped up my shoes and sent me to school.
Friday soon came and my mom took me shoe shopping, not just for one pair but for five. That's when my mom told me she used to always buy shoes whenever she was sad and that her shoe purchases would make her feel better. I think that day she was trying to buy away both of our sadness. So today when I sit huddled closely to my 118 shoes, it's because I've had a lot of sadness to buy away and because I promised that 9 year old girl that she would never feel the sting of shoeless poverty again.
16 pairs of heels- 10 of them 4+ inch heels- and if you can't walk or stand in them you don't wear them
2 pairs of wedges- which I never wear because I hate wedges
4 pairs of flats
4 pairs of sandles
5 pairs of boots (one set of steel toed hiking boots which I never wear when I hike)
3 pairs of slippers none of which I bought. Everyone just thinks I need them for my freezing feet that I like to slide onto unsuspecting family members and friends in the dead of winter.
And lastly a pair of water shoes that are strictly for showering at the gym.
Let me be clear. I love my shoes. Feet are not my thing. I like mine enough because they get me where I need to go but I don't have a fetish for anything foot related. About a year ago my roommates at the time started telling that I had a shoe "problem" when my beauties started spilling out from my room into the living room. Their constant taunting of my shoe hoarding forced my confession. Something I had never told anyone before, the origin of my shoe love.
When asked about my shoes I usually just say "I got it from my mama!" to the beat of that song and laugh. The truth is far less lighthearted. When I was 9 I was at school and I remember I was kicking a ball and my tennis shoe just fell apart at the toe, peeling open like an oyster to reveal my soaked toes. I didn't think much of it figuring my mom would fix it later. The school taped up my shoe and I went about my day. When I got home however, my mother told me that she didn't have the money to buy me new shoes. I was horrified. I placed my hands on what would eventually become my hips and yelled back "but I NEED shoes!". I can't imagine how much that night hurt my mother. But the next morning she used the masking tape from the junk drawer and taped up my shoes and sent me to school.
Friday soon came and my mom took me shoe shopping, not just for one pair but for five. That's when my mom told me she used to always buy shoes whenever she was sad and that her shoe purchases would make her feel better. I think that day she was trying to buy away both of our sadness. So today when I sit huddled closely to my 118 shoes, it's because I've had a lot of sadness to buy away and because I promised that 9 year old girl that she would never feel the sting of shoeless poverty again.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Time Capsules
As a child I was obsessed with time capsules. I buried them probably every week for a month. I would make little maps and swear to myself that I wouldn't dig them up for years. But each time, after a mere few days I would find myself digging them up- fearing that they had somehow changed or were no longer there. The only one I left buried I ironically cannot find now because the landscape of my mother's backyard has changed. My swing set, which I always used as my main marker because I assumed it would be there like my father who installed it but unfortunately neither is there any longer. My father died when I was 18 and my swing set came down shortly there after. Even the indents in the ground that showcase where the legs of the swing set had once been have long been filled and grass grown over. My hopes of finding this lost time capsule are all but nonexistent.
I started writing this blog as I sat in the ER waiting room. Once I went back to the room where they kept my mother, she was the child and I the adult. I was not comfortable with this switch. When we become the caretakers of our ailing parents, it's a special kind of heartbreak. When I followed the ambulance to the hospital, I was sure to put my sunglasses on so that my mother wouldn't be able to see me crying through the windows. I was glad I did when we were in the ER and she asked me if I could see her waving. I couldn't because they had the American flag painted on the outside of the windows for patient privacy. I was glad I had the foresight to hide my tears. My mother was very apologetic as it was, she didn't need to worry about me. My mom apologized for being sick and for ruining my evening, as though there was anywhere more important for me to be.
As the time dragged on and we weren't getting any answers from the hospital staff I began to feel as helpless as the child who buried those time capsules. And then I started to get angry. Having to hunt down hospital staff is one of my least favorite activities and yet one I find myself doing frequently at this particular hospital(my sister spends a lot of time in the hospital). Waiting for 2 hours to have an IV put in after the doctor requested it is unacceptable in my world especially since my mom was dehydrated when she came in. But at least having someone to track down and being slightly murderous kept me from having to dwell on my Mom being in the hospital. Having only one parent left, and her being the most important person in your life, makes one a little panic stricken. My mom was often my only playmate growing up (at least the only human one). I couldn't imagine living in a world without her and the knowledge that one day I will have to isn't something I can even bare thinking about.
One thing that I was extremely touch by were the friends both old and new who were willing to come and sit with me at the hospital. And my wonderful roommate who brought me food when I had been at the hospital for six hours and was desperately hungry. My anger level also went down once I ate. The moral of this story is if I am ever really angry, feed me and I will no longer be murderous. Who knew those Snicker's commercials were right?
I started writing this blog as I sat in the ER waiting room. Once I went back to the room where they kept my mother, she was the child and I the adult. I was not comfortable with this switch. When we become the caretakers of our ailing parents, it's a special kind of heartbreak. When I followed the ambulance to the hospital, I was sure to put my sunglasses on so that my mother wouldn't be able to see me crying through the windows. I was glad I did when we were in the ER and she asked me if I could see her waving. I couldn't because they had the American flag painted on the outside of the windows for patient privacy. I was glad I had the foresight to hide my tears. My mother was very apologetic as it was, she didn't need to worry about me. My mom apologized for being sick and for ruining my evening, as though there was anywhere more important for me to be.
As the time dragged on and we weren't getting any answers from the hospital staff I began to feel as helpless as the child who buried those time capsules. And then I started to get angry. Having to hunt down hospital staff is one of my least favorite activities and yet one I find myself doing frequently at this particular hospital(my sister spends a lot of time in the hospital). Waiting for 2 hours to have an IV put in after the doctor requested it is unacceptable in my world especially since my mom was dehydrated when she came in. But at least having someone to track down and being slightly murderous kept me from having to dwell on my Mom being in the hospital. Having only one parent left, and her being the most important person in your life, makes one a little panic stricken. My mom was often my only playmate growing up (at least the only human one). I couldn't imagine living in a world without her and the knowledge that one day I will have to isn't something I can even bare thinking about.
One thing that I was extremely touch by were the friends both old and new who were willing to come and sit with me at the hospital. And my wonderful roommate who brought me food when I had been at the hospital for six hours and was desperately hungry. My anger level also went down once I ate. The moral of this story is if I am ever really angry, feed me and I will no longer be murderous. Who knew those Snicker's commercials were right?
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
A little Notoriety
Much to my delight this blog has been highlighted as NEPA's blog of the week and featured on PA LIVE! Here are the links to both the short write up and the video clip that aired on Tuesday April 22nd. Video that aired
The write up
The write up
Monday, April 21, 2014
A Feminists Adventures in Bro-dom Take 2
Any tomboy will tell you, boys play rough. Well, when boys grow into men, they still play rough. And while I wouldn't categorize myself growing up as a tomboy, I certainly learned and liked to play rough. Most of my guy friends are around the 6 foot mark. I am 5'2 1/2, THE HALF MATTERS! Ask any short person and be sure that on legal documents I round up! Now let me dial down my crazy. Because I'm generally close to a foot shorter than the guys I tend to be the perfect size to try and throw into a snow bank or pool depending on the season. Obviously they do this out of jest and not as a means to try and injury me. I am not treated as though I am a breakable doll. And honestly, if they tried to I would probably actively physically annoying and taunt them until I broke them of such a habit. I find physical humor hilarious, which explains my love of pro wrestling. (I know, I know. Boo. Hiss.)
One thing that has backfired on me however is that along with being taller than me, the guys tend to outweigh me significantly. This is not to say that they're a bunch of fatties. Muscle and bone weigh more than fat after all and believe me, it feels like a ton when it is crushing down on you let's say after your cousin has stuffed you in a laundry hamper or your friend is sitting on your chest cavity. Something that I know first hand.....
Around two month ago I was hanging out with some friends, having a couple drinks and playing Just Dance. Don't let anyone tell you that Just Dance isn't fun. I don't care who you are, if you have functioning legs it's the bomb! Anyway, at one point my one friend Tim had picked me up and thrown me on a couch and sat his fanny on my abdomen. It was funny, we were laughing. Another friend-Vin- sat on top of Tim, who had been attempting to stand up. Vin then started to bounce. The 400+ lbs bouncing on my internal organs and ribs was no longer amusing. I couldn't breath. Unfortunately, only Tim could hear me say this and it took him what felt like minutes, although it was most likely half a minute, to get Vin to stop bouncing on us and to get up.
My body and brain were in complete panic mode. And once they were off of me, while I wasn't in pain any longer, I couldn't stop the tears. I only had maybe only one of two tears escape but I felt completely embarrassed and stupid at the same time. I especially didn't want Tim to feel bad because it wasn't his fault and I knew it was a joke, it just went wrong. No one had meant to hurt/scare me, accidents happen. But more than anything else, I didn't want them to view me differently or to be afraid to rough house with me. When I reviewed these thoughts it caught me as strange that I was worried I had violated some kind of unspoken pack that if I wanted to hangout with the boys and be treated equally that I had better not cry.
Women and girls always are put under this pressure to not cry. Men are too and that pisses me off just as much but the reasons that both are shamed for their tears is because they are acting like "little girls". As though little girls are deficient in some way. At least little girls are allowed to cry whereas little boys are not. Males are chastised from birth into adulthood for crying. One of my guy friends from high school told me he refuses to let his 2 year old son to cry. Whenever he starts crying his father yells at him "Hey! Boys don't cry!" I calmly as possible reminded him that I have vivid memories of him crying well into our 20s. And added in that he is basically attempting to turn his son into a sociopath. He laughed. I wasn't amused.
Most of my guy friends are NOT like that I would like to think. My friends that squished my organs haven't really treated me differently. However, Tim did make the comment about a week ago that I cry "at the drop of a hat". I reminded him that we have been friends for almost a decade and in that time he has seen me cry twice: once at my father's funeral and then the night of the organ crushing. I would like to think that my generation is rising above the prejudices of the past. But what I see in the media doesn't seem to support this.
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