I have been thinking a lot lately about boys and girls. I have a girl who want to be a boy, boys who think they are hot shit because they are boys, and girls who think boys are dumb. What role does the media play in this? Can I change any of it, and just have everyone be happy with who they are?
Gender and discourse stems from the very beginning of humanity. (Note that the use of "Man" as a general term for everyone is no longer acceptable.) God made Adam first, but then Adam needed a partner, so God took from Adam and made Eve. So if you want to get technical, you could say that Adam is somehow lacking, and Eve is more whole. God did not decide that Adam needed a plaything. Women are meant to be equals, even according to the Good Book.
Yeah, I don't put a ton of stock in that story either. But when you look at evolution and the types of tasks men and women divvied up, it is pretty apparent that men were set up to evolve into bulkier, more physical beings. Women grew into softer, more cunning folks.
Honestly, women have learned the power of manipulation because we don't have the ability to physically overpower others. So I think the answer to all the gender talk is to teach the boys to use what they have to get what they want, and do the same for the girls. We do it, anyway, with our own actions, the things we place importance on for each gender.
The media plays quite a significant role in this as well. Just take a look at any Hollywood affair. The women are all beautiful and glamourous. The men are burly and rugged.
Is encouraging each to play into the roles their gender specifies wrong? Or is it survival of the fittest?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tracy, part one--the introduction
1993 was not the year to live on the West Side if you were white. Split by the chocolate water of the Rock River, the kids west of the river went to Auburn high school, while the kids on the other side went to Guilford, Jefferson, and Harlem. The Auburn kids were mostly black and latino, with a few tough white kids thrown in the mix. They were tough because they were poor. They were poor because their parents were mostly the uneducated, blue collar workers that made Rockford tick, and they were destined to stay poor since the education they got at Auburn was more about survival than it was about learning.
I was one of the few privileged white kids stuck on the West side. My mother was a chemist at Pierce Chemical and my father was an engineer at Sunstrand. We lived on the West side out of convenience. Pierce was way out west, and Sunstrand was close to the bypass, so my dad could be there in ten minutes if he timed it right. They made over 100K a year, so I was an easy target for all the Auburn kids, whether they were white or not.
I got my Grandma’s old T-bird when I turned 16. It didn’t have rims on it or a bumpin’ system, like most of the cars the kids at Auburn had. It was also paid for, so I didn’t have to have an after-school job. I parked it between the ghetto cruisers and old beaters, and it stuck out like a shiny, red thumb.
We lived in a house, not an apartment. Our house was not a HUD or Section 8. We didn’t live with my grandparents. We had an extra bedroom and a garage and a landscaped yard. We didn’t have a chain-link fence around the front yard. We didn’t have a pit bull staked out in the yard. We didn’t have plastic on the windows in the winter. I got a new winter coat every year. Not from the Salvation Army. Not a hand-me-down. A brand new winter coat from Marshall Field’s. Some of those kids I don’t think had ever even stepped foot inside Marshall Field’s, much less had a new winter coat.
My classmates made up for all their economic shortfalls with their quick tongues, calling me “Richie Rich” and “Princess” on good days, “Whitey” and “Gringa” among other things on the bad ones. My parents ignored my pleas to go to Boylan, the catholic high school on the Northwest side, since it cost money and the education I was getting at Auburn suited them just fine. The education at Auburn suited me fine, too, it was the threats that made me a little uneasy. My parents told me to just “Suck it up. It will make you stronger.” Mostly it made me a fast runner and a good hider, though.
I wanted to understand why the other kids hated me so. I wanted to understand why I could never understand them. Mostly, though, I wanted to live on the East side of the river, cavort with the kids who were like me, and not be the whipping boy for all the racial, social, and economic adversities the Auburn kids faced. Tracy was my window into their realities.
I was one of the few privileged white kids stuck on the West side. My mother was a chemist at Pierce Chemical and my father was an engineer at Sunstrand. We lived on the West side out of convenience. Pierce was way out west, and Sunstrand was close to the bypass, so my dad could be there in ten minutes if he timed it right. They made over 100K a year, so I was an easy target for all the Auburn kids, whether they were white or not.
I got my Grandma’s old T-bird when I turned 16. It didn’t have rims on it or a bumpin’ system, like most of the cars the kids at Auburn had. It was also paid for, so I didn’t have to have an after-school job. I parked it between the ghetto cruisers and old beaters, and it stuck out like a shiny, red thumb.
We lived in a house, not an apartment. Our house was not a HUD or Section 8. We didn’t live with my grandparents. We had an extra bedroom and a garage and a landscaped yard. We didn’t have a chain-link fence around the front yard. We didn’t have a pit bull staked out in the yard. We didn’t have plastic on the windows in the winter. I got a new winter coat every year. Not from the Salvation Army. Not a hand-me-down. A brand new winter coat from Marshall Field’s. Some of those kids I don’t think had ever even stepped foot inside Marshall Field’s, much less had a new winter coat.
My classmates made up for all their economic shortfalls with their quick tongues, calling me “Richie Rich” and “Princess” on good days, “Whitey” and “Gringa” among other things on the bad ones. My parents ignored my pleas to go to Boylan, the catholic high school on the Northwest side, since it cost money and the education I was getting at Auburn suited them just fine. The education at Auburn suited me fine, too, it was the threats that made me a little uneasy. My parents told me to just “Suck it up. It will make you stronger.” Mostly it made me a fast runner and a good hider, though.
I wanted to understand why the other kids hated me so. I wanted to understand why I could never understand them. Mostly, though, I wanted to live on the East side of the river, cavort with the kids who were like me, and not be the whipping boy for all the racial, social, and economic adversities the Auburn kids faced. Tracy was my window into their realities.
I just want biscotti and world peace!
A nice man approached me today. He told me he was with the newspaper and they were doing a feature article about mothers. I said, "Ha, you don't want to talk to me." "But aren't these your kids?" he asks. I nod. My kids cling to my legs, wondering why I am talking to him. He is, after all, not their daddy, and he is the only man they ever see me talk to.
He begins to walk away, thinking that I have nothing to say to him. He tried, after all. I call him back and begin my tirade. "Do you think that any REAL mother will take time away from her kids to talk to you? What do you want to know so badly? What about ME is newsworthy?"
He looks taken aback, almost frightened. "Well, what would you ask for this Mother's Day, if you were assured your wish would be granted?" I ponder a moment. I'd like to be 30 pounds lighter, I'd like 2 more hours in every day, I'd like a maid, a nanny, a wet-nurse. I say none of these things.
"I'd ask for an uninterrupted cup of coffee with a biscotti. And for everyone to stop fighting. No, not bickering about which movie to watch or which game to play. Real fighting, the kind with guns and bombs, so all the Mommies and Daddies could be home with their children."
He thanked me, and walked away quickly so I only caught a glimpse of the wet on his cheeks.
He begins to walk away, thinking that I have nothing to say to him. He tried, after all. I call him back and begin my tirade. "Do you think that any REAL mother will take time away from her kids to talk to you? What do you want to know so badly? What about ME is newsworthy?"
He looks taken aback, almost frightened. "Well, what would you ask for this Mother's Day, if you were assured your wish would be granted?" I ponder a moment. I'd like to be 30 pounds lighter, I'd like 2 more hours in every day, I'd like a maid, a nanny, a wet-nurse. I say none of these things.
"I'd ask for an uninterrupted cup of coffee with a biscotti. And for everyone to stop fighting. No, not bickering about which movie to watch or which game to play. Real fighting, the kind with guns and bombs, so all the Mommies and Daddies could be home with their children."
He thanked me, and walked away quickly so I only caught a glimpse of the wet on his cheeks.
monsters are REAL!
I admit it, I like to frighten my children, especially the little ones who still literally shake in their Nikes. I must inform you all, since so many of us seem to forget, especially in small towns and small-town atmospheres like Duluth, monsters still exist.
I was reminded of this today. I was in the line at the grocery store and Zane and Nora made a break for the St. Jude's donation contraption, the one where you can watch your coins slide, flip, or spiral into the donation pile. I called them back and gave them each a dime to donate. They took off again.
As I was unloading the haul, I was half-assed watching them. Again, they are mostly good kids who are respectful of adults, so I wasn't surprised to see them both talking with one of the hairdressers who came out of Cost Cutters to see what they were up to.
But then I got to thinking. What if it weren't so innocent? I have lived in this small-town atmosphere for too long, I think, because I didn't have to have my eyes on my children at all time. I have put too much faith in people being good. My obsession with Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson and others of their likes should have taught me that.
But just acknowledging that evil people exist out in the world is not enough. It has to be BRANDED into the backs of my eyelids, so I see it every time I blink. I have to be paranoid. After all, it's my job to keep these little sheisters safe until they can manage on their own.
Then I start to wonder if the older kids have too little fear of strangers. They are scared of the little old lady who tries to talk to them when they are at the park, maybe because she is old, or maybe because it was a foggy day when she spoke to them.
But not all monsters come out at night. Not all monsters are scary looking. Some are just regular looking people who may seem nice enough at first. They may be charming, suave, and have a pocketful of candy to offer. But they will be none of those things as they slide their manacles around my babies' arms and try to drag them into the back of their rusted out panel van. BEWARE!
I was reminded of this today. I was in the line at the grocery store and Zane and Nora made a break for the St. Jude's donation contraption, the one where you can watch your coins slide, flip, or spiral into the donation pile. I called them back and gave them each a dime to donate. They took off again.
As I was unloading the haul, I was half-assed watching them. Again, they are mostly good kids who are respectful of adults, so I wasn't surprised to see them both talking with one of the hairdressers who came out of Cost Cutters to see what they were up to.
But then I got to thinking. What if it weren't so innocent? I have lived in this small-town atmosphere for too long, I think, because I didn't have to have my eyes on my children at all time. I have put too much faith in people being good. My obsession with Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson and others of their likes should have taught me that.
But just acknowledging that evil people exist out in the world is not enough. It has to be BRANDED into the backs of my eyelids, so I see it every time I blink. I have to be paranoid. After all, it's my job to keep these little sheisters safe until they can manage on their own.
Then I start to wonder if the older kids have too little fear of strangers. They are scared of the little old lady who tries to talk to them when they are at the park, maybe because she is old, or maybe because it was a foggy day when she spoke to them.
But not all monsters come out at night. Not all monsters are scary looking. Some are just regular looking people who may seem nice enough at first. They may be charming, suave, and have a pocketful of candy to offer. But they will be none of those things as they slide their manacles around my babies' arms and try to drag them into the back of their rusted out panel van. BEWARE!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Classes vs Camps
Tonight we had class. It was "How to fold the goddam chip bag so the chips don't get stale" class. We have had this class before, but apparently all the knowlege acquired in that class was voided by the mass intake of sugar over the Easter holiday.
After finding my bag of veggie straws hanging open in the cupboard, class commenced. Each little shit got their own bag of chips. (Yes, we do keep that many bags of chips in the house. If you have kids over the age of 9, you know what locusts are like!) They had to fold and re-fold the tops of the bags for 15 minutes. Then we had a little lesson about the economics of wasting chips and how quickly chips become stale and inedible.
I sure hope this class sticks, because "How to fold the goddam chip bag so the chips don't get stale" camp doesn't sound like much fun.
After finding my bag of veggie straws hanging open in the cupboard, class commenced. Each little shit got their own bag of chips. (Yes, we do keep that many bags of chips in the house. If you have kids over the age of 9, you know what locusts are like!) They had to fold and re-fold the tops of the bags for 15 minutes. Then we had a little lesson about the economics of wasting chips and how quickly chips become stale and inedible.
I sure hope this class sticks, because "How to fold the goddam chip bag so the chips don't get stale" camp doesn't sound like much fun.
Going Veggie, short-term, sort-of
I stuffed my face with ham and hamburgers and hot dogs and more ham and now my kidneys are crying out for mercy. See, those little bean-shaped critters apparently hae to put in double-OT when we eat meat. I'm no nephrologist, but I think after 34 years of being mainly carnivorous with a side dish of sugar, my ways are catching up to me. I basically feel like crap in direct relation to what I eat.
Since my days of producing children are done, I feel like now would be the optimal time to evaluate what I can cut from my intake. I no longer need oodles and oodles of protein to create new beings. I no longer need sugar to power the "machine." I'm a little freaked out by this, because I love meat. But I love other things too. Chocolate. Preservatives. Sugar. And they have turned on me.
I don't remember what the condition I almost have is called. I eat sugar, and then it turns into the viscious cycle. Either eat more sugar or crash and burn. Sometimes I fall asleep. Other times I continue on my sugar fiasco. Hypoglycemia? I'm not diabetic, yet. But I feel it looming in the near-distance. Either way, poor pancreas is confused. Insulin or no?
So here is my challenge. I am going to go every week for the next month only eating meat one day a week. That is all of May. Meat will be consumed on Thursdays. I will eat no refined sugar for the entire month of May. I am not planning on making my family participate in this. They tend to balk at dietary changes of any sort. I'll get back to ya'll and let you know how it goes down. Seriously, though, its only 31 days, and its in the interest of the kidneys, the pancreas, and the general overall health of Luna and me.
Since my days of producing children are done, I feel like now would be the optimal time to evaluate what I can cut from my intake. I no longer need oodles and oodles of protein to create new beings. I no longer need sugar to power the "machine." I'm a little freaked out by this, because I love meat. But I love other things too. Chocolate. Preservatives. Sugar. And they have turned on me.
I don't remember what the condition I almost have is called. I eat sugar, and then it turns into the viscious cycle. Either eat more sugar or crash and burn. Sometimes I fall asleep. Other times I continue on my sugar fiasco. Hypoglycemia? I'm not diabetic, yet. But I feel it looming in the near-distance. Either way, poor pancreas is confused. Insulin or no?
So here is my challenge. I am going to go every week for the next month only eating meat one day a week. That is all of May. Meat will be consumed on Thursdays. I will eat no refined sugar for the entire month of May. I am not planning on making my family participate in this. They tend to balk at dietary changes of any sort. I'll get back to ya'll and let you know how it goes down. Seriously, though, its only 31 days, and its in the interest of the kidneys, the pancreas, and the general overall health of Luna and me.
What women want
A poem that I wrote for my MFA. I can't find anyone with big enough balls to publish it, even the feminists! I think it's good enough, and it deserves to be read.
What Women Want
I want a red dress.
I want a small waist and big
exotic eyes, the kind that get me noticed.
I want men to swoon
when I speak, even when the words echo
my distaste for them.
I want you
to stop and wait for me
when I fall behind, distracted
by the scent of lilacs or the pile of dogshit
that resembles a man
we both know.
I want to wear flannel shirts. I want
to shed this skin
and wade into the March river, clear and biting,
the current raging. I want
to sit around a campfire, cheeks on high
from whiskey burning in my guy
I want to laugh and be certain
it isn’t too loud, it doesn’t make me ugly.
I want to touch all your right places,
my hands made of peacock feathers, lithe
and vibrant. I want
to flood you with the red
of my dress, comfort you with the soft
flannel of my shirt. I want
to erode away all the girls
you loved before me, the pretty ones
you won’t forget.
I want lakes of fire
in my thighs so I can sear my name
on you, make you wear
it: mailbox, bank account, byline.
The same way I wear yours.
What Women Want
I want a red dress.
I want a small waist and big
exotic eyes, the kind that get me noticed.
I want men to swoon
when I speak, even when the words echo
my distaste for them.
I want you
to stop and wait for me
when I fall behind, distracted
by the scent of lilacs or the pile of dogshit
that resembles a man
we both know.
I want to wear flannel shirts. I want
to shed this skin
and wade into the March river, clear and biting,
the current raging. I want
to sit around a campfire, cheeks on high
from whiskey burning in my guy
I want to laugh and be certain
it isn’t too loud, it doesn’t make me ugly.
I want to touch all your right places,
my hands made of peacock feathers, lithe
and vibrant. I want
to flood you with the red
of my dress, comfort you with the soft
flannel of my shirt. I want
to erode away all the girls
you loved before me, the pretty ones
you won’t forget.
I want lakes of fire
in my thighs so I can sear my name
on you, make you wear
it: mailbox, bank account, byline.
The same way I wear yours.
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