A Marriage Proposal
I've been thinking about this for a long time, but with the new attention given to Gay Marriage and Civil Unions, it's time to put this idea out there. We need to decide as a culture whether marriage is a religious sacrament or a legal arrangement.

In our current system, it is both. The problem is that the religious side wants to control who is allowed to participate. The State has an obligation to provide equal protection under the law. Those two views simply are not compatible. So, is it a religious institution? If it is, then the government should not be involved at all and there can be no restrictions on marriage except the individual's religious beliefs. If it is a legal arrangement, then again, it has to be provided fairly, so you can't really restrict the form that it takes. Either view dictates that people be allowed to define marriage for themselves within the structure of their beliefs or choices.

Our attitudes toward marriage make very little sense. You can't enter into a binding contract until you are 18, but some states will let you marry legally at 13. Apparently, someone decided it was more difficult to get a rent-to-own dishwasher than it is to choose the person you'll spend the rest of your life with. How the State can approve a match that would under reasonable circumstances be considered child abuse, I don't know. Consider the Mormons.

The Mormon faith is perhaps the largest religion of purely American origin. In its original form, it encourages polygamy. In order not to be driven into the sea, the official church agreed that they would not practice polygamy, and those who do are excommunicated. According to our Constitution, the State did not have the right to impose that restriction. As a result, certain renegade Mormons do practice polygamy, with Utah officials mostly looking the other way.

I respect the Mormons because they take their faith seriously. They study hard, they walk their walk, and they seem to be nice people. I think that we should honor our Constitutional spirit of plurality and let them marry as they please. One problem, though, is that in the current underground of polygamy, girls in their early teens are being forced into plural marriages by their families. Of course, if they had to be 18 to get married, and if polygamous marriages were legal, this wouldn't be a problem. See where I'm going with this?

If marriage is such an important institution, let's reserve it for responsible adults. Among consenting adults, let's have fairness in the Law and therefore equal access to insurance, inheritance, healthcare, parental rights, tax cuts and the other privileges that are currently reserved for "Husband and wife". As an American citizen, I am quite capable of deciding to whom I will or will not commit. It is not the government's role to parent me. My religion of choice has no gender restrictions, or quantity either. If I want to be monogamous, polygamous, polyandrous, or just plain plural, that's my right.

America is about freedom, above all. People are fond of saying "it's not in the Constitution" - usually where privacy rights are concerned. What they forget is that the Constitution, in its wisdom and beauty, specifically reserves to the People all rights and liberty not delineated therein. In other words, if it doesn't say so, it's your right.
They didn't have to mention privacy for us to have privacy rights. They simply did not restrict those rights.

To love whom we love is the most basic of rights. It makes us human. It improves our lives and by extension, the society. No one has the right to infringe on this liberty.
It's only fair.

Amendment IX

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Amendment X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

My apologies to Dharma Girl

Last week, I suggested to Dharma Girl that she post here her piece on Love and Attachment -- a piece that, IMHO, was an authentic example of one young woman's struggle to voice an important part of her journey. Yes, she was critical of women she saw as dependent etc. etc. etc. But she didn't name names or target any one individual. I saw it as a very personal essay worth sharing.

I know that the blogosphere is an open forum. I also thought that Blog Sisters was a good place for Dharma Girl to get some insightful feedback, especially from some of us older folk who have gone through the same relationship challenges and have come up with different solutions. However, her post from Blog Sisters was forwarded to someone who successfully managed to shut down Dharma Girl's voice, with a heartlessness that I, for one, do not want to ignore. You can go here to read and link and try to understand the whole sad, sad story. I'm really sorry Dharma Girl. What happened is a good example of one of the worst blogging practices. I thought the blogosphere had more heart than this. Too soon old; too late smart.

Losing Her Religion

The faith journey of Laura Schlessinger -- self-proclaimed talk-show "doctor," virulent anti-gay and anti-choice conservative, and her kid's mom -- has taken a surprising turn. On Aug. 5, the nagging advice-giver announced that she is no longer practicing Judaism. Schlessinger, a longtime atheist who was born to a Jewish father and an Italian mother, had converted to the Orthodox Jewish faith in the 1990s.

Her statement came on her nationally syndicated right-wing radio show: "I still see myself as a Jew," Schlessinger said. "But the spiritual journey and that direction, as hardcore as I was at it, just didn't fulfill something in me that I needed." It probably didn't help that many (though certainly not all) Jewish people didn't like Schlessinger's views, her rigid "morality," or her harsh, unforgiving tone -- and told her so.

I pray this will be a healthy, positive move for her. Assessing one's spiritual path is a difficult, often painful process; I know, I've been there. If the non-doctor sees this as doing the right thing, more power to her. Let us hope she finds the road to self-enlightenment and spiritual fulfillment soon.

In the meantime, we're stuck with, in the words of Susan Weidman Schneider, executive editor of Jewish feminist quarterly Lilith Magazine, another "garden variety, anti-choice conservative.".

Oh, goody.

from All Facts and Opinions

a shout out to the Blog Sisters...

This Article from the Sunday Times Online gives a shout-out to BlogSisters and a mention of yours truly.

I would link to the actual article, rather than the 10-pound (as in money) version I paid to download (can't download individual articles--only in multiples of 10 at a minimum). However, my emails to the editor who contacted me back in June about the story went unanswered once the article appeared. So I never saw it. Never knew when it came out. And now it is, of course, in big-media fashion, behind the pay-to-play firewall.

Obviously, given context clues, my photo made it in, but I'll never know which photo since they asked for a few and since archived articles appear sans photos. Sans personality. Let's see, remove the layout and design, remove the photograph, and charge for it. Um.... okay. That's one way to do it.

If I had time, I'd launch into a rant about big media and its cluelessness as to things even beyond blogging, as in: pulling content behind the magic curtain where people--even the people who contribute to stories, people who are quoted or featured in stories--need to pay for the privilege of reading them.

But I don't have time this evening. So I won't. I'll just bask in another five seconds of fame, which in the end, cost me somewhere close to the tune of $20.

Reason 567 why we'll be here long after they go away.

Cross-posted on Allied. Thanks to Elaine to sending the editor my way. If nothing else, the notice by mega-media boosts our visibility. Write on. --j.

Homegoing

My childhood pastor and lifelong friend, the Rev. Monsignor Henry F. Zerhusen, passed away last Saturday after a long illness. He was 78 years old -- almost reached the four-score mark -- and the life he lived was full and meaningful, so there is every reason to celebrate his homegoing. But after hearing the news of his death, I was left with a deep sadness.

As you know, I left the Roman Catholic Church about a decade ago. The reason: the denomination's leadership and its obvious (to me) lack of concern for the full humanity of women, gays, and others. My departure was difficult for me -- I grew up in a wonderful, liberal, social-justice-focused Catholic parish that was part of the Catholic Worker tradition. When my mother taught catechism to people or attended parish-council meetings (the laity had a voice at Baltimore's St. Ambrose Church when that sort of thing was unheard of), my brother and I ran around the rectory and saw what it was to minister to people and love them unconditionally firsthand. And being the joiner and doer that I am, I got involved: singing in the choir, performing in plays, attending the parish school, spending time with the priests and nuns, hanging and helping out at the rectory. It was grand.

A big part of that was Father Henry. He presided over most of the sacraments I received in the church. He, along with my fifth-grade teacher and social-justice hero (to this day) Sister Charmaine Krohe, passed their commitment to love and justice along to me and to many others. Back then, I harbored a secret desire to become a priest. Once it was expressed aloud, many people berated me for wanting something so unthinkable. But not by Sister Charmaine. And not by Father Henry, who told me that this pull I felt could not be fulfilled at present. "But you never know how hearts may change in the future," he told me as he dried my tears. Indeed, one never knows what the future may bring.

St. Ambrose was that magical parish one recalls when thinking of Catholic communities. In the '60s and '70s, it welcomed more and more African-American members. (My family moved to the 'burbs in '73, but we continued to attend St. Ambrose until 1976, when the commute became untenable.) New modes of worship started being assimilated into the church's celebrations, and a ministry to the area's increasing number of poor and needy residents became the parish's hallmark. Father Henry and Sister Charmaine -- he always treated her as an equal in every way, despite the church's mandate that women be relegated to second-class duties -- led the way.

What I remember is that when parish membership became darker in hue, Father Henry didn't seem to notice. He just loved and welcomed everyone. He gave everything he had to anyone in need -- money, food, time, smiles, hugs, acceptance, love.

And his love was what filled my mind and heart when I visited St. Mark's Church, his last parish, for his wake and funeral. At the wake Tuesday night, Sister Charmaine, who to this day runs the St. Ambrose Outreach Center (an awesome place that does immeasurable good for God's children), gave a stirring eulogy chock-full of wonderful reminisces of Father Henry's funny foibles and wondrous works. And when she was done, all in attendance -- representatives from all the parishes at which Henry had served -- laughed and cried and shared their own remembrances. It was a night I will always remember.

The funeral Mass was also wonderful, but in a different way. Henry was a monsignor, so his send-off was a big-deal for the Archdiocese of Baltimore: Dozens of priests were in attendance, as well as bishops from various parts of the country, the retired archbishop of Baltimore (a wonderful liberal -- meaning out of favor with the pope), and the reigning Cardinal Archbishop (an arch-conservative, very ambitious man who presided over the coverup that led to Baltimore's part in the horrid sex-abuse scandal, William Keeler is also my former boss and present nemesis). It was awesome to see and hear the ritual and the pomp and circumstance Catholics love. Father Henry would have hated it -- and he would have been sad that because Sister Charmaine is female, she would not be allowed to speak, since the Cardinal was in attendance -- but it was enthralling to see the priests all taking part in the communion preparation and hear them speak of Jesus' last supper in unison (so cool; it was the transubstantiation of all transubstantiations!). I suppose you can take the girl out of the Catholic Church but you can't take the Catholic out of the girl...

It also reminded me of the differences that exist between the church leadership and the people who really are the church. The Cardinal made those differences clear; his comments positioned "the bishops and leadership" as being quite distinct from we, the people in the pews. Not that the rabble went unheard: As the Cardinal spoke, progressive Catholics in the audience (myself included) would add "and Mother" to every instance where the Cardinal referred to God as "father"; when he would refer to "men," we would append his phrase with "and women" (much to the Cardinal's visible, though well-contained, chagrin).

I couldn't help but compare Father Henry (none of that "Monsignor Zerhusen" nonsense for him) with the red-hatted man at the altar. Keeler's actions before and during the scandal showed that his priority was the perpetuation of the church; Henry's was about loving God's people. (Sister Charmaine mentioned yesterday that she recalled a liturgy where a grinning Henry, that adorable cherub, folded his hands, looked heavenward, and prayed, "Oh, God, please let the church allow women to be priests. We need them.") And as these thoughts ran through my head, I knew I had to give Keeler a break. Whatever he has done or will do, while holding him accountable is a good and right thing to do, I must respond to him not with anger, but with love. That is what Father Henry did; that is what he would want me to do. Sitting in a pew at St. Mark's, I decided that this was a challenge I would have to face.

An opportunity to put myself to the test presented itself in the final hour of the funeral Mass: My left-wing writings and outspoken criticisms of Keeler and the church have not made me popular in archdiocesan circles. (Many tell me that I am persona non grata there.) So I went back and forth on whether to take part in communion, given everything that has happened and my relatively new status as a non-Catholic. I ultimately decided yes, because I knew that Father Henry would want me to -- he would never turn anyone away.

With great trepidation, I stepped into the line for Eucharist and realized that I would have to partake it from Cardinal Keeler. Anger flooded my body at the thought, and I reminded myself again that the most important thing Henry taught me was to love everyone no matter what. So I went up to Keeler, looked him dead in the eye as I took the communion wafer, and gave him a genuinely warm smile. Felt it too. He smiled back. And I lived up to my challenge and the shared mandate of Jesus and Father Henry, the person from whom I learned the most about Jesus' love.

Henry Zerhusen was all about love. He was all love. He was described as a "humble giver of gifts," someone who gave all he had to the needy and poor and never expected anything in return. He judged no one. Period. I know Father Henry was disappointed when I left the Church, but he understood and stayed steadfast in his love for me. He remained an important part of and influence on my life anyway, and will remain so until I die. And he cared for people, giving special attention to the sick, the lonely and lost, those in mourning -- even after his own age and infirmity caught up with him. When my grandpa died three years ago, he showed up to comfort us and say wonderful words at the service -- which was not held in a Catholic church -- despite his illness.

And he was courageous, unafraid to speak openly about how he wanted everyone -- regardless of color, gender, orientation -- equal in the church. That cost him when Rome took a strong stand against Baltimore's growing liberal Catholic ethos. Henry didn't get his monsignorship until he was nearly 70, after popular-with-the-pope conservative Keeler swept into the archdiocese and brought a wave of darkness with him that still hovers malevolently over progressive Catholics here. (And Henry received the promotion, I suspect, only because he was so beloved throughout Baltimore and beyond, and because it was impossible to ignore the many good works he had done and was doing.) Not that he even thought about any cost -- he once told me he didn't give a rat's behind about being a monsignor; he was just a priest. Interestingly, the only times I saw him in his monsignor's robes was when he was lying in state. But he was wrong about being "just a priest." He was the finest priest I have ever known.

And he was just a great guy -- a little clumsy, a bit goofy, very funny, super sharp, always kind. He adored his family and they adored him. He never took himself seriously and was famous for his good-spirited self-deprecating comments. He had been a straight-A student at Catholic University and Villanova, but never lorded his intelligence over anyone. And he just loved people. I recall him coming over for dinner, dressed in street clothes, and just hanging out with us like the regular guy he was. He bowled on the church leagues (he was really good), take us on outings (he would always get lost; riding in a car with Father Henry was almost always a comedy of errors), and hide sweet treats away (he had diabetes -- not a good choice). A typical exchange:

"Father? What's this behind your bookcase? It's cookies! Henry..."

"I don't know how that got there, but they're delicious. Would you like one?"

Father Henry treated everyone in such a way that he would bring the Christ in them outward. He didn't deign to be Christ for people; he saw Christ in all of us, in everyone. He worked to convince every person he met that he or she was the likeness of God, because that is what he believed. And he was mentor to everyone, certainly to me. Whatever dilemma you'd face, be it a problem at home or school, or a moral dilemma like treating gays or women equally (but the bible says...) or dealing with 9/11 perpetrators, his message was the same trite, but true one: "What do you think Jesus would do? Do that. In other words, err on the side of being loving." I am not saying he was in favor of legalizing gay marriage; that question never arose between us, so I do not know that. I am saying that Father Henry loved people, not rules and not hierarchies. His unconditional love and acceptance was a most precious gift I will always treasure.

He even gave me a gift on the day I said goodbye to him: Cardinal Keeler did horrible things, and yes, I believe he needs to be held accountable. But I can still love him and treat him with kindness. And I did. So I know Father Henry was proud of me.

I know few people who are truly saintlike, people I am certain have a direct shot to a seat next to the Almighty. My late great-grandmother Genevieve was one. Father Henry is another. He was my pastor, my mentor, my inspiration, and, for my entire life, my friend. Even as the darkness grows, I do know that surely I have been blessed.

How appropriate, in a way, that Henry died on the anniversary of Jerry Garcia's death, Aug. 9. The former Grateful Dead guitarist sang some words that feel appropriate now:

Fare thee well,
Fare thee well,
I love you more than words can tell.

Safe journey, Father Henry, and thank you. And thank you, God.

from all facts and opinions

'You' and the need to be universal

I recently became aware of a young, African-American artist who seems bewildered by the local literary scene. Rochell Hart has enjoyed some success on the hip hop and spoken word circuit, but believes she is unappreciated in her hometown. She was among several writers interviewed by Willamette Week, an independent newspaper, to check the artistic pulse of Puddletown.

I hate to throw the race card, but as a black performance artist in Portland, it is hard not to. A native of this city, I have been a published author, motivational speaker and performance spoken-word artist (a.k.a. poet) for quite some time. Throughout the years, I have performed on countless stages across America, including such artistic hot spots as New York and Chicago. After carefully sifting through my opinions about life in Portland, I am convinced that as a minority artist, this is one of the hardest cities to survive in.

Be assured that my opinion is not merely a woe-is-me cry. The fact is, only 1.6 percent of the entire state is African-American, with most other ethnic backgrounds weighing in at even less. In a state where it was once illegal for minorities to reside (racist laws remained on Oregon's books until the late 1920s), it's no wonder so few minorities choose to call this place home. Those of us who do must struggle daily to have our voices heard and to make a serious impact.

. . .In Portland, however, my message of righteousness often falls on the ears of a crowd whose majority simply cannot relate. It is seriously challenging (though I am up to the challenge) to recite my signature poem, "Never Question Who I Am," to an audience whose only other minority representatives are my family and friends. The rest of the audience, even with the best intentions, simply seems indifferent to the realities I raise my voice to:

"I am a vibrantly vivid collection


Of ghetto reflections


I am a compilation


Of mass communication


I am black powered, cynical, reigning queen


Supreme


Surpassing surreal expectations of anything you ever thought I would be."

I haven't conversed with Hart, but if I did, one of the issues I would discuss with her is the need for an artist to be universal. After reading about her and listening to and reading some of her work, I believe part of her failure to connect can be explained by a failure to relate to Everyman or Woman. When writers speak of universality, we don't mean everyone has to write about everything. We mean that the characters and settings we choose to write about need to be made comprehendible by people not from the same background. Much of Hart's material focuses on a narrow conception of the experience of being black, low-income and ghettoized. Though characters in a ghetto or barrio can be just as universal as any others, one must depict them broadly, as human beings first, to make them so.

Near the same time, I read about Hart in WW, I was reading a collection of short stories by Rohinton Mistry. He is an Indian writer of Parsi descent who has resettled in Toronto. The book I was reading, Swimming Lessons: Other Stories from Firozsha Baag, is about the residents of a mainly Parsi apartment complex in Bombay. Though middle-class by Indian standards, they would be mostly working-class by ours. They take for granted the realities of those who don't have and aren't likely to get: leaking toilets, pealing wallpaper, roaches and rats, having to struggle to pay the rent. When I began reading Mistry, starting with his acclaimed novel, A Fine Balance, all I knew about Parsis was that they are one of the smaller sects in India and usually escape the clashes between religions and castes. I still am not sure what a sudra looks like. But, I do understand struggle, and that it is a constant of the human condition. It is that understanding, that element of commonality, that seems to be missing from Hart's work.

That may be partly because she has fallen under the spell of Afrocentricism. The movement too often seeks to empower persons of African descent via chauvinism, glorifying African-American culture and separating it from others. Such thinking is in direct conflict with the need for universality in art if it is to transcend differences between artist and audience.

Mistry, on the other hand, has taken characters set in a minority culture thousands of miles away and made them comprehendible by millions of readers worldwide. He does so by presenting the Parsis as people, hopelessly flawed but deserving of compassion. Hart, at 26, has plenty of time to develop as a writer. She may discover the need to paint portraits of her characters with warts and all eventually. (Serious artists usually do, to the chagrin of shallow people.) Then, she will understand the relationship between 'you' and the need to be universal.

Note: This entry originally appeared at Silver Rights, a blog focusing on civil rights and related issues.

Women are people, too: Laci's Choice

As much of the country has, I've been watching the Laci Peterson case unfold on the news channels. It's a heartbreaking story - a beautiful young woman, perfectly in bloom with her first child, living what seemed to be a perfect life. Until someone ended it, that is. I'm not going to speculate here about who killed her - I think we'll all be convinced as the trial proceeds. What concerned me was the reaction of Feminist organizations when the prosecutor considered charging the main suspect with a double murder.

Laci's child, Connor , had not yet been born when she was killed. Pro-choice forces scream at any attempt to assign 'person' status to a child in utero at any stage of development, for fear that anti-abortion groups will use it to get a foothold toward reversing Roe V. Wade. I am a vocal proponent of abortion rights. I believe it should be available on demand, and without cost so that it is equally available under decent conditions for all women regardless of income. (Low income women often cannot afford the procedure, or have to endure it with only a local anesthetic - a barbarous practice under the best of conditions.) So how do we reconcile the inestimable loss of this child with our political needs? By emphasizing the Will of the Mother.

Women are sentient beings. How and when we choose to bear a child is the most intimate choices we ever encounter, and it is an undertaking fraught with danger. In my opinion, that danger, the impact pregnancy has on a woman's body, and the importance of Motherhood in this or any other culture, give women an inherent right to control their own bodies. Pregnancy should never be seen as a punishment - a favorite argument of the religious right- nor should it be enforced in any way. We each have an innate right to control our own person. In addition, I believe that each child has a right to be wanted. The rights of the Mother who is already a member of society naturally take precedence over the rights of an unborn entity.

Under any circumstance, I would have defended Laci's right to terminate her pregnancy, She chose to have her child, and was happily awaiting his arrival. That choice - Laci's choice - is what should determine the charges to be brought in the case against her killer. It was Laci's Will that Connor be born, to be a part of her family. His death, like her own, was not in keeping with her wishes and that is what makes this a double homicide. Left to her own devices, she'd be living happily with a six month old baby now. The loss of both lives is of import. The infringement on Laci's right to life and motherhood are violations of the most fundamental rights of humanity.

The bottom line is - when is government going to admit that women have free will; that we are naturally endowed with the right to sovereignty over our own bodies; and that our personal and medical decisions are ours alone? These issues have never been called to question where a man is concerned. They are at least as obvious for women. When we reach this basic understanding of ourselves, the arguments become moot, and our energy may be better spent caring for the children we already have. "

BlackBoxVoting.org

Please sign this letter to Jimmy Carter. All of your campaign efforts will be for nought if the election is rigged in 2004.

http://www.blackboxvoting.org/petition.htm

Morgaine

Blogging Ecosystem

Have you heard of The Truth Laid Bare's Ecosystem? It is yet another listing service for online journals and weblogs, but it is one that can help you build a lot of traffic to your diary if you want to.

If you want to get listed in their ecosystem just visit this link: TLB Ecosystem

Also, if your journal/blog is new you can enter the competition for a week's promo in the New blog Showcase.

I entered this entry from my journal A Study in Escape and would really appreciate your helping me win this week by voting for me. The way you vote is to link to the post in your own weblog, but your vote will only count if you are registered in the ecosystem already and if you create the link by this Sunday (8/10).

If you do decide to enter the showcase let me know and I will vote for you the week you are in too. Remember, the only way votes count is if you link to the exact post, not to the journal/blog in general.

Nigerian Stoning Update

This appeared in my inbox today. For the love of anything humane, please take action NOW:

Amina Lawal set to be stoned 27 August 2003

The Nigerian Supreme Court has upheld the death sentence for Amina Lawal, condemned for the crime of adultery on August 19, 2002, to be buried up to her neck and stoned to death. Her death was postponed so that she could continue to nurse her baby.

Hearing on her Execution is now set for 27 AUGUST 2003.

If you haven't been following this case, you might like to know that Amina's baby is regarded as the 'evidence' of her adultery.

Amina's case is being handled by the Spanish branch of Amnesty International, which is attempting to put together enough signatures to make the Nigerian government rescind the death sentence. A similar campaign saved another Nigerian woman, Safiya, condemned in similar circumstances. By March 4, the petition had amassed over 2,600,000 signatures. It will only take you a few seconds to sign Amnesty's online petition. Please sign the petition now, and then send the URL -- http://www.amnesty.org.au/e-card/petition.asp -- to everyone in your address book.

Amnesty offers background information on this sad story. For the sake of justice, for the sake of an innocent baby, sign the petition and help save Amina Lawal from this ludicrous and inhumane death sentence.

The Jewish grandmother who could

Portland Mayor Vera Katz, 69, has announced she will not pursue a fourth term. She will be a septuagenarian when she leaves office. It will be the denouement of a remarkable life story that began in Germany in 1933. Her family fled the Nazis to France and then resettled in New York City. She studied dance and became a wife and mother. Then, after she relocated to Oregon in the mid-1960s, Katz' political activism, which began with protesting against purchasing grapes because of the way agricultural workers were exploited, bore fruit.

. . .Katz broke ground as the Oregon House's first woman speaker in the 1980s before bringing her hands-on style to the mayor's job. There, she has been equally likely to plunge into a raucous City Hall demonstration as shut out a City Council colleague who crosses her.

Katz, 69 and a breast cancer survivor, said Tuesday that she felt confident she was up to another strenuous campaign and could raise the $1 million she figures is needed for a run. But the key question, she said, was what she wants to do for another 51/2 years -- the remainder of her current term plus another four-year term if she won.

'Vera,' as most residents of Puddletown refer to her, has been mayor for much longer than I have lived here. It will seem strange not to hear her familiar New York accent in press conferences or have her dash to the front of the line at the grocery store.

Not everyone believes Katz' record is largely positive. Some conservatives consider her a socialist despite the pro-business positions she has often taken.

In "Winners and Losers" (July 25), you gave Portland Mayor Vera Katz a "thumbs up" and described her record as "mixed." The editors are most gracious.

Development fees are prohibitively high under her leadership ($30,000 to move a pizza parlor across the street). She continues to show her contempt for law enforcement officers, both local and federal, along with their efforts to make our community and nation a safe place to live. She has demonstrated, by speech and action, favoritism for minority groups, both racial and sexual. The mayor has solved traffic problems by having heavily traveled lanes of traffic removed and replaced by bike lanes.

. . .The only thing Vera Katz has done to earn a "thumbs up" is promise to leave, and then only if she doesn't come back.

There is even a fledgling movement to recall her.

I disagree with some of Katz' stances. Her sweetheart deal with investors in the rehabilitation of the former Civic Stadium has wasted tax dollars while further enriching folks who are already wealthy. She has not done enough to rein in the Portland police so that unnecessary shootings such as Kendra James' don't recur. Her plan to cap highway 405 is naive and imitative of a certain larger city in the region. However, in describing Katz' politics, I would use the term "moderate," not socialist or leftist.

Katz says she will devote the rest of her tenure to completing projects she is working on, including development of the River District. She is rightly concerned about Oregon's, and Portland's, record unemployment rates.

She said she would like to leave her mark on other major civic efforts: building a new stadium to lure major league baseball's Montreal Expos; improving education in low-achieving public schools; finding a new use for Memorial Coliseum; securing city acquisition of Portland General Electric from bankrupt Enron.

It is the River District plan that has really sparked her enthusiasm.

On July 10, in front of a packed City Hall, Mayor Vera Katz anointed real-estate developer Homer Williams as Portland's savior.

. . ."Homer is unique," Katz says. "He sees possibilities other people don't see."

Katz, who last week announced she will not seek a fourth term, is counting on Williams to provide a capstone to her 12 years as mayor. "This is the biggest, most complicated deal the city has ever done," she says.

. . .Williams' biggest champion at City Hall is the mayor. "Homer's got a holistic view of the universe," Katz says. "Our conversations are usually about bigger issues, demographics and how the city is changing."

Contrary to expectations, candidates are not rushing forward to replace Katz.

I don't blame political hopefuls for thinking twice. The Jewish grandma will be an hard act to follow.

Notes:

To learn more about Portland visit this site. Curious about Katz? See her homepage.

This entry was originally published in Mac-a-ro-nies, a current events and public affairs web log.

Snaps to Miss Helen

Miss Helen's posts about the Hilton's reminded me of this essay I wrote a while back, so I thought I'd share...

Gwyneth

"Golden Gwyneth" says the magazine cover. Darkened eyes peer at me from under straight bleached hair. I am fascinated. I am repulsed. I wouldn't say I'm obsessed with this chick, but she definitely bugs me. The first time I saw her, my reaction was typical. Another skinny blonde actress - how original. she seemed such an instant success that I quickly came to loathe her. I had a rule - I would only see her movies if someone was trying to kill her. Interestingly enough, there were several of those. Did Hollywood know? Anyway, a friend dragged me to just such a movie, and I found myself rooting for her at the end. Holy shit! Did I actually like the girl? Ok, radical change in thinking here. It's happened before . I'm not afraid to admit when I'm wrong. So I saw a couple more of her movies and I found that I liked them. Then I found out she was Blythe Danners daughter. Looks just like her. Blythe Danner had been in a great TV show in the 70's called "Adams Rib", where she played a married feminist attorney and had thus had a hand in the formation of my developing feminist sensibilities. (I was about 10 or so.)

Then it began. The Academy Awards where G. wore the dress of my dreams and the hairstyle of my nightmares. She was a hit. She was everywhere. She was goddamed inescapable. The new "It" girl, the magazines proclaimed and galvanized my ambivalence about her very existence. To be perfectly fair, she seems like a nice person and she can definitely be entertaining. If I met her, I'd probably think her a perfectly lovely human being. Personality aside, I think I'm upset more about what she represents than about her actual being. Every minute of my life I think " I should have been born Gwyneth Paltrow."

I exaggerate. I told you, I'm not obsessed. Let's face it though - G. is the ultimate clean white girl. You know the type. A tall W.A.S.P.-y vision fit for boarding schools and board rooms and you just know she took riding lessons. A younger, hipper "lady who lunches". She dated Ben Affleck and makes movies with Matt Damon. Maybe I do hate her. What I really hate -- or rather, resent--is the access that she has and I never did or will have. I used to be young but I was never "fabulous" except in an over-done, drag queen sort of way. Even if I had come from money, I wasn't tall, wasn't thin and I never felt "clean". I didn't have that smooth white skin that glows rather than perspires. I didn't learn the unwritten rules of the gentile country club set. It's the unknown that tortures me. I know that she sees things and goes places and knows things that I really don't understand because I'm not a part of that culture. The hell of it is that I'm just outside of it. The evidence is everywhere. Gwyneth at the runway shows on the evening news. Gwyneth at a premier in a Magazine. Gwyneth frequents this spa and that designer and was in Madonna's wedding. And that is the real source of my discomfiture. How can you get on with your life if you know that there is a party going on and you aren't invited?


***

Peace,
Morgaine

checking in to the Hilton

There are a great many clever people who make it their sick business to diagnose our unwell culture. Personally, I am too lazy pay these critical thinkers much heed. Just above the din of text message alerts and Hot 30 countdowns, however, I can sometimes make out their whining. Which usually proceeds along the lines of: everything’s crap and there’s just no substance anymore.
Normally, I really don’t fret about the absence of sense in contemporary culture and I just go about my meaningless business. I hold celebutantes in a vague esteem: I think of them only occasionally and with the same mild affection as I would my second cousins.
Immersed as I am in pop culture’s soap opera, I do not fret too much, as, really, it just seems so distant.
My relationship with electronic media and its protagonists is normally quite hazy and manageable. And so I pay about as much attention to the paranoid bleating of media critics as I do to bi-annual Dental Exam reminders.
That is, of course, until the advent of The Hilton Sisters.
Yes, Nicky and Paris, for those of you unversed, are a pair of those Hiltons. They are wickedly blonde, unreasonably young and, if one believes the gossip rags, visited by wealthy businessmen quite so often as the Hotel chain that bears their famous name.
To date, despite their burgeoning fame, they haven’t done anything of ‘substance’ . That is, unless you count taking tremendous risks with Instant Tan, getting drunk and putting their names on an unremarkable hand-bag product line.
Oh, they each have accrued a brace of ‘Girl on Beach’ credits in the sorts of movies that go straight-to-video. They date Male Models. And Paris will shortly lay claim to a quasi-legitimate fame when she co-stars with – wait for it – Lionel Ritchie’s daughter in a FOX produced reality TV extravaganza. Word is, The Simple Life threatens to topple broadcast standards even in this, our post Joe Millionaire era.
So why do I, and countless others, feed the Hilton monster with our endless fascination? .
What could modern scholars tell me about the Hiltons and their vacant rise to fame? Why are the normally dispassionate, such as I, drawn to their every dilettante gesture?
I considered telephoning an academic to demand, why do I love Nicky and Paris? They have neither talent nor grace nor exceptional looks. Their curriculum vitae is a motley affair peppered only with wealth and occasional, unsubstantiated reports of sex in fashionable public bathrooms. What IS it about these gals?
Remembering, from my brief tertiary experience, that most academics in the Cultural Studies department were very rude and, in general, too busy writing Buffy The Vampire Slayer theses, I refrained
it was up to me to unravel the threads of my obsession.
Looking long at a picture of Paris who, it must be said, does look rather a lot like Sarah Michelle Gellar might if she’d stayed up all night and retouched her make-up after a vat of Long Island Iced Tea, I made some decisions.
It is the Hilton’s LACK that makes them so intriguing. It is precisely their absence of achievement, wit, Bouvier charm or, frankly, anything else that makes them so compelling.
Those who can empty themselves of history, accomplishment or substance are inheriting the earth. Just ask Gee Dubya.

New Hope for the Battered but not Broken Left Wing

After the 2000 debacle that pased for an election, I gave up on politics. I was bitterly disappointed with my first experience as a delegate to my state Democatic convention, and if I hadn't feared such a close vote, I'd have voted for Ralph Nader.

I unexpectedly and delightedly find myself geting excited about politics again, thanks to the Howard dean campaign. In case you haven't heard, he's leading the polls of likely voters in Iowa; He's the first candidate in history to appear on the covers of 3 major magazines before a primary has taken place; He's raised more money than any other Democrat, largely through efficient use of the internet; 70,000 people will participate in in Meet-ups this week on his behalf; And he's taking the fight directly to W. with petitions regarding his lies about Iraq, demanding resignations of those responsible for those lies, and opposing his assault on standards for overtime pay with campaign ad's in his home state.

Starting tomorrow, Dean begins running spots in Texas inviting them to join him in taking the country back. Since it's preview by Tim Russert last night, over 20,000 new people have signed up to support Howard Dean on his website. 7,000 have called an 866 number that won't even be fully staffed until tomorrow and/or signed up for meet-ups taking place on August 6 . All of this before the spots have even aired.

Howard Dean will appear on Larry King Live Monday night, and I want to urge everyone to tune in. As a true progressive, I feel as if someone is speaking for me...finally. I'm excited about our chances in 2004. I feel as if I'm waking up from a 2 1/2 year nightmare.

I'd love to hear your thoughts... Peace!

A Study In Escape

Compare these news headlines "American Wedding" tops the North American box office, AIDS Cases on the Rise in United States, and Robert De Niro, Howard Stern Among Those Licensed to Carry Guns. And let's not even start talking about the international scene with the US, Iraq, Liberia, North Korea, Israel/Palestine, and Iran all begging for preiminence as the greatest pain in the neck for peace lovers everywhere. Let's not talk about the national economy or the insane intent of Californians to reverse a legal election because they don't like how their governor has managed their economy (here's a tip: don't vote for him next time).

So here is my point, do you see a connection between what Americans are choosing for entertainment and what is going on around them in reality? Obviously the word for the day is "Escape." And while I can't join 'em, I don't blame 'em either. I can understand the need to disconnect from this insanity and spend 2 hours in a fantasy world where either their are not villains, just innocent sexual frolicking, or at least any that do exist are well-defined and inevitably defeated before the lights come back up.

Here is my question: After we have succeeded in giving ourselves a much needed break from the horrors of the day, after the lights do come back up, what then? Do we use this respite to refuel our resolve to do the work of truly forging a nation that lives by the peace it holds to be its ideal? Do we tackle the complexity involved in responsibly deciding just what is in the best interests of humans worldwide and how we are to balance that with what is best for us personally? What comes next?

Tech Update

A minor bug in the template was making a mess of the Blogsisters site when viewed in Mozilla. As the popularity of more standards-compliant browsers increases, and IE gets comparatively less functional (market share or no market share), I finally got around to making the fix. All you Mozilla browsers out there should now be seeing a nice happy sidebar to the left of the screen. Viva la standards.

Sincerely,
Tech support

Sisterhood and Wisecracks

Sisterhood and wisecracks: That's how Joanne Weintraub of Milwaukee's Journal Sentinal describes my favorite sitcom of all times, Designing Women. (Well, maybe after Northern Exposure, which made me laugh out loud too, but for different reasons.)

I couldn't resist tuning into parts of the Designing Women reunion show that aired tonight, and I hooted and hollered at the old clips all over again and cheered on Dixie Carter as her character launched into her clever and clipped diatribes about the nonsense that women not-so-patiently put up with, particularly from men.

Its characters talked about things real women talk about, from politics to pantyhose. There's a clip from an episode where Mary Jo (Potts) deliberates getting implants that may be both the funniest and most honest discussion a TV character has ever had about breasts. (from Weintraub's article)

Small-chested Mary Jo carries on about how powerful she feels with (temporary) bigger breasts. If she were a "D," she muses, she'd probably feel like punching someone out. And her descriptions of how differently men treat her and her bigger breasts are as hilarious as they are unfortunately realistically accurate.

I think I've seen every episode more than twice since they started airing in 1986 and moved into re-runs in the early 90s. The characters are feisty and fallible, smart and sexy. They are not girls. They are women. They like themselves, they like each other, they like men, and they like to laugh at their own human foibles.

Hot, sexy, strong, femine, feminist W-O-M-E-N.

Blogathon 2003 Under Way!

All Facts & Opinions is blogging to raise money and awareness for and of SOULFORCE; we've been at it since 9 am and we will continue on, goddess and Kinko's 40-cents-per-minute fees willing, until 9 am Eastern Time Sunday. This marvelous organization, of which I am a member, is dedicated to using nonviolent means to win justice for gay, bisexual, lesbian, and transgendered people in religious denominations.

From the group's Web site, here is its mission statement:

"Soulforce is an interfaith movement committed to ending spiritual violence perpetuated by religious policies and teachings against gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender (GLBT) people."

What is spiritual violence? here is how Soulforce defines it: "Spiritual violence is the misuse of religion to sanction the condemnation and rejection of any of God’s children. Misusing religion and/or God to support society’s bias against sexual and gender minorities also inappropriately justifies psychological, legal and physical violence against them. Some zealots blatantly articulate spiritual violence against gay, lesbian, bisexual and trangender people when they scream 'God Hates Fags.' Mainline churches may be less blatant and more sophisticated, but they are no less guilty of spiritual violence. It is just as violent spiritually when pastors and parents—quoting scripture—condemn and reject members of their congregation and their family. When this happens, God’s gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender children also feel condemned and rejected by their Creator as well."

By following the teachings of Mohandas K. Gandhi and the nonviolent civil-rights strategies used by his most noted devotee, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Soulforce hopes to spread a message of Gandhi's 'satyagraha,' which translates roughly into "soul force." The idea is to use the power of love to win over our opponents to the ways of justice, equality, and peace. Not a bad plan, eh?

Over the course of Blogathon 2003, I am posting roughly every 30 minutes -- depending on the vagueries of life and circumstance; I am working catch as catch can from wherever I can, given that I have no phone and can't go online at home -- offering information on Soulforce; its co-founder, the Rev. Mel White and some of the organization's key participants; Gandhi and King; Soulforce reminiscences of my own and from others; stories sad and sweet from churches of many denominations; material on civil disobedience and nonviolence; progressive commentary; pertinent music; some funny stuff; and more. In all, it should total about 49 postings by 9 am Eastern Time tomorrow.

So far, only two people (including myself) have sponsored my efforts. Yes, this disappoints me, but that's life. You can still do a mitzvah to the world by making an online contribution to Soulforce and its work for justice. I pray -- please, please, please do so -- that you will. It is only through all of us participating that we will make a difference for peace, for justice, and for love. At the very least, drop by and say hi.

A little Zen for your day

When you understand, you belong to the family;
When you do not understand, you are a stranger.
Those who do not understand belong to the family,
And when they understand they are strangers.

If you want more Zen koans you can download a free ebook The Gateless Gate at Healing Words Press (Where I got this one.)

Welcome Home, Jessica!

Like most people, I do rejoice at the homecoming of former prisoner of invasion Jessica Lynch. After months of medical treatment, she returned to her family and friends in West Virginia today, and that is wonderful news that merits a rousing "hot damn!"

One thing concerns me, though. What makes this young woman a hero? Jessica Lynch was a 19-year-old just out of high school who signed up for the killing squad. She ended up in Iraq, riding in a Humvee that was part of an army convoy. Fog and fatigue, according to the military, led to a navigation error that led them into "enemy territory." The convoy was ambushed; Lynch was badly injured and captured. A little more than a week later, thanks to a tip from an Iraqi man, she was rescued. How does this make her a hero?

I've been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time on many occasions. You too, I would wager. Does this make you or me some kind of hero? Uh, no. Does merely enlisting in the death brigade make one a hero? Does getting shot or stabbed or beaten up make one qualified for hero status? Help me here; I don't get this. It is one thing to celebrate the safe return of a person saved from a horrible fate. It is another to place someone on a pedestal for no apparent reason.

I can't help but wonder: Is America so starved for heroes? Here is a suggestion: Look to those being persecuted because they speak and act out for peace and justice. You'll find tons of heroes there.

Meanwhile, welcome back, Jessica. There's no need to give you false praise -- you should be welcomed home and celebrated just for being you and just for getting home safely. That, all by itself, is fine reason for elation.

Big Chested

Hurrah for Tanya Streeter, who broke the world record in free diving. She managed to hold her breath 3 minutes and 58 seconds in order to descend 400 ft under water and return triumphantly to the surface.

The best I could do was a minute and thirty seconds when I was bored on the bus home from school.

More at the SF Gate.

For a Night of Love: Emile Zola

For a Night of Love is a recent release of previously untranslated short stories by naturalist master Emile Zola. The three stories in the slim volume are all about love -- from Zola's sometimes perverse perspective.

What if the kind of man you pine for but could only attract the attention of if you burst into flames in his presence offered you a night of love? (Tom Cruise is single again, so let's use our imaginations.) That is the offer the shy, easily intimidated clerk an amateur flutist Julien Michon must respond to in the title story. He has courted the girl across the plaza by playing his flute for her for nearly a year. A haughty, convent educated marchise, she has ignored him. Then, an unforeseen occurrence in her life causes her to need Julien's body. He responds as expected, but does he achieve satisfaction?

Nantas, the protagonist of the second short story, is in a position readers of Zola and Balzac will find familiar. The young man has come to Paris from the provinces to make his fortune with only 200 francs in his purse. Two months later, he must choose between starving and hurling himself from the garret where he resides. To add insult to injury, Nantas believes himself to be a genius awaiting discovery. All he needs is an opportunity to prove his worth. Unfortunately, the busy world of Parisian commerce does not see it that way. It does not see him, one of thousands of ambitious youths in the same situation, at all.

A form of deliverance arrives at the last possible moment.

The young man decided this lady had come to offer him a job. He answered that he would accept anything. But, now that the ice was broken, she asked him bluntly: "Would you have any objection to getting married?"

"Getting married?" exclaimed Nantas. "Who would want me, Madame. . . .Some poor girl I wouldn't even be able to feed."

"No, a beautiful, rich your girl of magnificent lineage, who at a stroke will place in your hands the means or arriving in the highest position."

Nantas stopped laughing.

"So, what's the deal?" he asked, instinctively lowering his voice.

"This girl is pregnant and the child needs to be acknowledged," said Mademoiselle Chuin straightforwardly, forgetting her ingratiating turns of phrase so as to get to the heart of the matter more quickly.

Nantas accepts the offer. The capital he acquires by marrying Flavie will be the foundation on which his wealth and reputation are constructed. Consideration for her will be avoiding the scandal of bearing a child out of wedlock. One of the spouses is satisfied with the outcome a decade later. The other is not and considers suicide.

The third and shortest story in the collection is a character sketch focusing on two people -- a smug, vapid baroness and her equally depthless minister. It is a meditation on appetites and how easily one kind of desire can be mistaken for another. The baroness hungers for carnal satisfaction, the curate for gustatory delight.

Naturalism was an artistic movement that began around 1870. It was very influential into the 1900s.

In literature, [it is] an approach that proceeds from an analysis of reality in terms of natural forces, e.g., heredity, environment, physical drives. The chief literary theorist on naturalism was ?mile Zola, who said in his essay Le Roman Exp?rimental (1880) that the novelist should be like the scientist, examining dispassionately various phenomena in life and drawing indisputable conclusions. The naturalists tended to concern themselves with the harsh, often sordid, aspects of life. Notable naturalists include the Goncourt brothers, J. K. Huysmans, Maupassant, the English authors George Moore and George Gissing, and the American writers Theodore Dreiser, Frank Norris, Stephen Crane, James T. Farrell, and James Jones.

Persons who are sentimental might find reading naturalists and other practitioners of realism hard going.

Naturalists have been the most uncompromising realists. They believe that knowledge is acquired through the senses, and that the function of the writer is to report accurately what he or she observes. The naturalist tries to be as objective as a laboratory scientist. In their theory of life, naturalists are more pessimistic than realists. The realist believes people can make moral choices, but the naturalist doubts that they can. Naturalists believe everything people do is determined by their heredity, or environment, or both. Naturalists believe people are trapped by forces such as money, sex, or power.

In picturing people as trapped, the naturalist usually deals with the more sordid aspects of life. Characters in naturalistic literature are driven by their most basic urges. They are often brutal and usually failures. They use coarse language, and their view of life is often bleak and without hope. Yet in the best naturalistic works, there is a tone of compassion and even admiration for those characters who struggle against overwhelming odds.

I would describe my own fiction writing as domestic realism. However, I have found the uncompromising insights of the naturalists very useful in my development as a writer.

The stories in For a Night of Love are as vital today as they must have been when they were written. Love is one of those ongoing dilemmas of humans that never becomes dated. Zola is confronting the same concerns master of realism Raymond Carver does when he considers what we talk about when we talk about love.

Note: Some of the material in this entry is from the World Book Encyclopedia for OS X.

No New Nukes!

Remember the '70s-era band Orleans ("Dance with Me," "Still the One")? I can't get its Baltimore-born band leader and anti-nuke activist John Hall's old song "Power" out of my mind:

Just give me the warm power of the sun
Give me the steady flow of a waterfall
Give me the spirit of living things as they return to clay
Just give me the restless power of the wind
Give me the comforting glow of a wood fire
But won't you take all your atomic poison power away ...

With that in mind, here is an alert from the Union of Concerned Scientists. This message is aimed toward US citizens:

This week, your representative and senators are scheduled to vote on funding for the development of new nuclear weapons. This is part of the Bush administration's strategy to pursue new nuclear weapons by promoting them as "more usable."

With their enormous destructive power and radioactive fallout, all nuclear weapons are unacceptably dangerous. In addition, the administration's strategy could encourage other countries to seek nuclear weapons and build their own arsenals--a grave risk to US and global security. Now is the time to tell our elected officials that you oppose this new generation of nuclear weapons.

Please visit our Web Action Center to send a letter to your legislators. By adding a few of your own lines, the letter will be much more effective. Together, we can stop these dangerous new nuclear weapons!

Good gravy, I have another tune running through my head, this time from Dan Fogelberg (I know, I know, but can I help it if the man makes relevant music? At least it's not another Hugh Jackman reference.):

Face the fire, you can't turn away
The risk grows greater with each passing day
The waiting's over; the moment has come
To kill the fire and turn to the sun...

I've been marching and working and screaming "NO NUKES!" for more than 20 years now. The same holds true for the Council for a Livable World, which printed this classic article on September 11, 1980. The piece warns of the dangers of then-new weapons of mass destruction, such as the MX missile, which was supported by both President Jimmy Carter (who won a Nobel PEACE Prize recently, go figure) and the man who defeated him in that year's presidential election, Ronald Reagan. As the old adage go, the more things change... Oh lord, another brain-enveloping tune, this time from longtime No Nuker Jackson Browne:

Here come those tears again...

There is no time to weep. Please take the action proposed by UCS and stop the creation of new US-held WMDs. Let's take up the cry for yet another generation of world citizens, including my kids and your kids and Hugh Jackman's son: NO NEW NUKES!

Shoes

Do all kids go through a "dress-up" phase where they try on adult clothes or at least think about trying them on? I remember one instance when I succumbed to this particular curiosity. I was maybe ten or eleven. But it wasn't really clothes, per se. No dresses or hats or ties for me. It was the shoes.

They were my mother's: pumps the color of straw and of a basket-weaving design. These shoes were new, too, and they were nestled into the corner of the closet. My mother never wore shoes with heels though and she wasn't meek about her opinion on such scandalous shoes. Women who wore pumps had "horse-feet" and she told me that constant use completely ruined their feet. How was I to argue? It seemed reasonable enough to me considering the abnormal positions the shoe put the foot in.

My mother never bought those pumps. I think some trendy relative gave them to her. But nonetheless, those shoes held some sort of fascination. Was it because it made me taller? Gave me a glimpse who I would be when I grew up? Was it somehow that these shoes made me more trendy and pretty than I normally was. Or was it only false confidence?

I never had many shoes. When I had been in grade school, my shoe collection consisted solely of a pair of worn sneakers and an unsightly pair of low-heeled white dress shoes. It wasn't because my parents didn't want to spend money on shoes; they just thought the money would be spent better elsewhere. Even now, I don't have that many shoes: just some worn boots for winter, hiking boots for summer, the sneakers, the low-heeled dress shoes.

But I have a thing for shoes with heels. Once, on an emergency shopping trip looking for black shoes to go to an orchestra concert (I had forgotten them at home, 2,000 miles away), I came across a pair that would give anyone nosebleeds. They were shiny and black and had thick heels that would increase the height of the wearer by four or five inches. If my mother had been there, she would had shaken her head and adamantly had me try on a different heel-less pair. But she wasn't there.

So I bought them.

Perhaps my fascination with heeled shoes, or any shoe for that matter, that gives the wearer extra inches in height stems from my dissatisfaction with how short I really am. People don't really take you as seriously when you're the shortest person in the room. But with those black shoes, I felt more like an equal. And at moments, I could even sample a bit of the domination and intimidation powers that naturally tall people had all the time.

I rarely wear those shoes, though. They're too dangerous to handle on a daily basis.

Cross-posted on Syaffolee.

iraq's national day

Say what you will about the US, her gluttonous foreign policy, central role in global economic marauding, unnatural affection of citizens for synthetic fibres etc etc. This country may well be an internationally unrivalled producer of both paternalism and static cling. Her citizens do, however, know how to prepare barbeque with full-fat aplomb.
The Cook Out, as you may be apprised, is generally a central feature of the Independence Day festivities just past. It was my great fortune to once attend such a July 4 feast. Despite a distaste for giddy nationalism and an irrational fear of tinsel, I have to allow that I had a very nice time. It was, perhaps, after a fourth ladle of cream gravy, before a third serve of chicken-fried steak and simultaneous to a swan dive into a vat of Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing that I had a fleeting if overwhelming suspicion that This Is The Greatest Country In The World.
I awoke after a sixteen hour post-prandial nap swathed in streamers, a lard hangover and an overwhelming sense of shame. I had been seduced to US nationalism, if temporarily, by cholesterol and fixins.
Now, as ASIO might tell you, I am a difficult test case for the potency of the July 4 barbeque. In my ethical past, I have marched in solidarity with Palestinians and consumed more Sandinista produced coffee than an entire Managua postal district. I have acquired a knee-jerk mistrust for all things US in my adult life and so, one would think, would be relatively impervious to the lure of fat and convivial July 4 spirits.
Not so. For a good ten minutes after my first USA style Cook Out, I was suggestible, content and perfectly happy to consider the editorial on Fox News an enlightened and well-balanced diversion. Further, I would defy even the most vegan anti-globalisation protestor to resist the charm of US suburban cheer when amplified by a tasty batter redolent of celery salt, cayenne and First World glory.
This is the heinous truth: America is propelled in her quest to conquer and forget by baby back ribs, velveeta and soporific desserts. Before you dismiss my hypothesis regard (1) US supermarket aisles stocked entirely with antacids, laxatives and other dangerous medication that allow citizens to maintain a near impossible but powerfully hypnotic diet and (2) the trace of chicken grease that is nearly always dribbling down G W Bush’s ill-defined chin.
On July 14, a mere ten days after the North American Festival of the Gut, Iraq will enjoy her first ‘liberated’ anniversary of revolution since Saddam first publicly waxed his mo’ in 1979. It is indeed fortuitous that Iraq’s National Day, commemorating the 1958 revolution, is celebrated so close to Independence Day.
As anyone who has survived an American Cook Out will attest, the Lard Over is intense and one might not evacuate the barbiturate effects of pork dripping for a good month or so after dosage. Any post-bellum guilt caused by little things like, say, Iraq’s unfortunate lack of utilities, hope or even, perhaps, provision of a real reason for the invasion in the first place, will be MUCH easier to deal with after a huge national meal.
That the US remembered their day with fireworks and that Iraq will spend theirs locating unexploded cluster bombs is a fact so much more palatable with a fry up under one’s belt.
On Iraq’s July 14, , the customary display of military vigour might be diminished somewhat. A sense of national pride or attainment could be slightly allayed by, for example, the lack of decent plumbing.
Fortunately, for Americans at least, that extra slice of Key Lime Pie might just tip the serotonin balance in favour of forgetting.

A Whale of a Tale.

A while ago, Blog Sister Andrea James posted here about the movie Whale Rider.

Last night I went to see it with some women friends, after we had dinner at a great little new place called the “Barefoot Gypsy.” I wish we had seen the movie first so that we could have had all of our dinner time to talk about it. There’s so awfully much to talk about.

Andrea was absolutely right about the movie being extraordinary on all kinds of levels, including visual.

And, I, who am so enamored of mythologies that empower women, was, of course, swept away by the tale’s affirmation of intuition and connections to “feminine” elements (water, sea creatures), ritual as art – and all that “right brain” stuff.

I’m still mulling over how I feel about the role of women in that society – which is very much like the traditional role of, say, Italian and Polish women. And that is that they let the men think that they are the bosses and then the women find ways around their foolishnesses. The men make up strict rules for everyone’s behavior (including their own) based on their interpretation of what their god or gods have supposedly proclaimed. And the women go about their lives on a whole other intuitive, connected, and somewhat devious plane. They “mother” their men, treat them like large children who can be dangerous because of their size, and so they have to be placated and manipulated into doing the right thing.

But despite my discomfort with that “woman’s place” thing, I felt in my very bones the power of the movie’s honest message. Whoever rides the whale is the one who was meant to ride the whale. Ride, Sisters, ride.

"Men are wilting away..."

In her article on the "Incredible Shrinking Y" Maureen Dowd writes:

In a new book called "Y: The Descent of Men," Steve Jones, a professor of genetics at University College in London, says males, always a genetic "parasite," have devolved to become the "second sex."

The news that Dolly the sheep had been cloned without masculine aid sent a frisson through the Y populace, he writes, because men began to fear that science would cause nature to return to its original, feminine state and men would fade from view.

The Y chromosome, "a mere remnant of its once mighty structure," is worried about size. "Men are wilting away," Dr. Jones writes. "From sperm count to social status and from fertilization to death, as civilization advances, those who bear Y chromosomes are in relative decline."

Read her article here and my post about it here.

Homeland Security: Strange, but True

Imagine this: For whatever reason, you need to reach the US Gestapo -- aka the Department of Homeland Security (John Ashcroft's so-called Justice Department is its partner in crime). You look through DHS press releases for the name or phone number or fax number of a contact person for the department. But your search turns out to be in vain -- there is no contact person. Dig this, from the Hartford Advocate.

Does this set warning bells in your head? It does for me. So I conducted a search of DHS press releases and the departmental Web site -- nothing. There is no phone number listed, no fax number listed, only a snail-mail address (and we all know how useless sending mail to any gummint agency can be) and a Web-based feedback form.

State DHS offices have phone numbers, so citizens do have a place to go, and there is the DHS Fear and Loathing, um, Ready.gov site, which offers a toll-free number for US residents with questions. But the omission of phone numbers in departmental press releases presents a number of concerns, which are well articulated by Oregon-based journalist, grassroots activist, and organizer David M. Baker:

This story has VAST implications! I don't know about you folks, but this is the first i've heard that the venerable DHS is sending out press releases with no cotnact information. what's crazy here is that nobody, until this story popped up, NOBODY in the news media has said a thing about it!

Think about what this means, folks! It means that anything you've

1. read in the paper,
   
2. heard on the radio,
   
3. seen on the television

citing information from the DHS could well be information that has not been verified, clarified, or otherwise vetted by the so-called journalists receiving it.

I'm trying not to freak out...really...but i think that this story should be used as a springboard for an action. I'm thinking that this could be a WONDERFUL opportunity to challenge local media outlets on how they handle information they receive from government sources. At the very least, it provides a point of interrogatory.

Again, imagine a tired reporter on deadline. Imagine she gets a press release from the Department of Homeland Security. Imagine her printing the information from the release without verifying the facts contained within, under the assumption that the news is accurate and reliably sourced. What if the info in the release is, in fact, untrue or nothing more than governmental propaganda?

Great. Another reason to question the integrity of the media and the government.

Want to discuss the matter, along with possible actions progressives could take along the lines of Dave's suggestions? Write us.

An Independent Woman

Two great female pioneers of cinema are long-worshipped icons for me: the actors Hepburn, graceful gamine Audrey, who died a decade ago, and stylish independent Katharine. Today, we lost her too. I still miss the former... and it seems I will miss the latter for a very, very long time as well.

Miss Katharine Hepburn, who had been in poor health for a number of years, died today at her home in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, at the age of 96. She was known for being an intelligent, self-sufficient, freethinking woman -- quite the firecracker, onscreen and onstage, of course, and when she was just being herself. Daily Celebrations offers a terrific summation of the screen legend's life and career.

Some of the award-winner's most interesting words came back to me today as I remembered her presence and talents. Surfing around, I found a bunch of Hepburn wisdom and thought I would share it in honor of a gifted artist and a fine role model for indepndent women everywhere.

• "Acting is the most minor of gifts and not a very high-class way to earn a living, " she once said. "After all, Shirley Temple could do it at the age of four."
  
• "Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then."
  
• "We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers - but never blame yourself. It's never your fault. But it's always your fault, because if you wanted to change you're the one who has got to change."
  
• "Without discipline, there's no life at all."
  
• "It's life isn't it? You plow ahead and make a hit. And you plow on and someone passes you. Then someone passes them. Time levels."
  
• "If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun."
  
• "Life is hard. After all, it kills you."
  
• "Death will be a great relief. No more interviews."

These quotes and many more can be found at Brainy Quote.

Rest in peace, Miss Hepburn, and thank you very much.

rubs me the wrong way

I posted something on allied that I wanted to post over here too. About a site that is fascinating, if not to my mind creepy. Let me say that I'm not anti-donor sperm in general, nor am I against lesbian couples and single women having children. Wonderful parents are wonderful parents, period. But there's something about this business model that makes me suspect of those attracted to spend their money here... Without further delay--here's my post:

Have you heard about this one? The world's first "Internet Baby" will arrive next month.

No, this doesn't mean live blogging from the event, or web-cam assisted delivery, which I'm pretty sure have already taken place. In fact, the story is about man not included, a site that nearly removes the man from the conception equation.

FAQs here.

The service, which is marketed as a kind of e-marketplace or match making service between interested parties--both sperm donors and primarily lesbian couples and single women--gives me the willies. Especially the name, and the branding which has all the panache of a dot.com with a rather twisted business model. Guys--if you didn't know what you were good for before, you do now. Ante up the sperm and get lost.

I see a lot being done to ensure peace of mind and security for the sperm consumer, but I don't see fuck-all about making sure the parents to be are legitimate. I'd feel a lot better if I knew no boy children would be born from those drawn to the site.

The notion of "home insemination" with donor sperm from an online matchmaking service that overtly male bashes and now controls the most sacred of data from participants takes conception to a new level: somewhere between a back alley rape and a sterile motherboard insertion.



I wonder when they'll come out with onesies for the children? Imagine the blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler boys of the future running around with this logo on their chests. Destiny pre-determined.

Am I being too hard on the site and its members? Maybe. But I'll take that chance.

And I'll even do the favor of giving them a tagline for free--one they would no doubt be proud of: "No guy, no lie."

Ladies who tattoo

I keep a curious eye out for the phenomenon of body art, and was sent this article in the Sydney Morning Herald about the growing popularity of tattoos for middle-class women in London. It seems that a Selfridges department store has opened a tattoo department that is doing a fair amount of business-- enough for the store's managers to want to keep the department.

It's interesting the way body art is perceived. In tribal cultures, tattoos, scarification, piercing, etc. are a symbol of belonging, but in Western culture they've long been the symbol of the outsider: criminals, soldiers, rebels, rockstars, etc. They were especially stigmatic for women. Now they are becoming a fashion symbol for the middle class, acceptable even for 44-year-old housewives.

What do I think of tattoos? Well, I don't know that I'd get one for myself, because I'm pretty fickle (though I do have my bellybutton pierced), but I do find many of them fascinating and beautiful. For those that dare to go under the needle, I'm sure it can be a great form for self-expression.

Is the Sky Falling Yet?

And it's still PRIDE Month...

I don't yet know if this makes up for the crime against humanity committed when the US Supreme Court put an illegitimate ass into the Oval Office's main chair. But credit where it is due: The nation's highest court finally did something to uphold justice, ruling that Texas' ban on gay sex is unconstitutional.

Pro-justice and pro-GLBT organizations are, naturally, ecstatic by this supreme occurrence. Some fundamentalist Christians, predictably, accuse the court's justices of signing onto some "homosexual agenda."

Well, if that agenda is fairness for all, good for the justices. I'm certainly thrilled by the long-awaited verdict, even a little shocked. Cynical me, I don't always trust people to do the right thing. On the rare occasions when they do, I am generally left in a state of grateful bewilderment -- it is there I reside today. My happiness and thankfulness is, in part, due to my proud status as a queer human. But the "human" part is glad too -- today's Supreme Court ruling underscores the freedom and protection that we all are supposed to enjoy.

On the heels of Canada's recent breakthroughs in marriage equality, today's controversial high court decision makes me feel actual hope for the future of GLBT Americans; for women; the elderly; differently abled and bodied people; religious, ethnic, and pigmentational minorities; and all the world's citizens. Good stuff does happen!

So raise a glass. Celebrate! Watch for falling bits of sky. And take that, Rick Santorum.

Beautiful Woman Month.

There was an interesting article in the New York Times the other day, regarding an e-mail that’s going around. It announces Beautiful Woman Month. I got it from a friend. The NYT article takes some shots at the veracity of some of the claims made in the e-mail but also talks about the importance of size acceptance.

I was struck by the increase numbers in average weight. Apparently the numbers have jumped (their word) from 144 in the late seventies to 152 in the nineties. Eight pounds. I don’t know about the rest of my Blogsisters but I gain and lose eight pounds every month. It doesn’t seem like much of a jump.

The article does say some very cool things about a shift toward fitness and not thinness. If you have read my blog and read me rant about fat issues you might guess that it does not go far enough for me.

The article has a sales pitch for Curves. Now. I want to say that I’ve not been in a Curves. But I did hear a story about a fat woman who went in one to say that she wanted to join and get exercise but wasn’t interested in losing weight. They wouldn’t let her join. It may be a lone story.

The article quotes Dr. Kelly D. Brownell
“If there's a change so far, it may be that women have gone from being horribly dissatisfied with their own bodies to being somewhat less horribly dissatisfied. It's very hard to find a woman who really likes her body. Even if she likes the shape, she will not like her toes, her knees, her elbows or her ankles. There's always something wrong."

He also goes on to say that body dissatisfaction stems from two assumptions — that a body can be shaped at will, so that the only thing that lies between any woman and perfection is effort and that an imperfect body reflects an imperfect person.

The article includes the usual litany of fat phobia. I guess it’s OK to accept your size but not if you’re fat.

The mighty Deb Burgard, who keeps the Body Positive Site, has the last word.
"I don't see how we're going to stop eating disorders until we stop reading character into the size of people's bodies. It's stereotyping. We've made progress against other stereotypes, and we can make progress against this one, too.”

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Small personal note for anyone who normally checks my blog daily. Blogger is apparently overhauling (or upgrading or whatever) a whole bunch of blogs and I haven't been able to get into my edit page for 12 hours now. Pisses me off because I've gotten obsessively anal about posting daily. So just wanted folks to know.

Vacationing with Friends

I just got back from a week in a rented cottage at the ocean in Maine with two of my women friends. I hope that you all have friends like mine, and you can share our adventures at www.kalilily.net.

Evolution from a Female Perspective.

A post by Jeneane over on her site about evolution made me remember a book I read when it came out in the early seventies that speculated on evolution of the human female. The Descent of Woman (entitled that to contrast with Desmond Morris’ The Naked Ape ) rejects the brutish ape-man in caves theory and substitutes a vision of pre-human creatures living in a primarily aquatic environment.

In 1994, Elaine Morgan came out with another book, The Scars of Evolution. According to Ingram review of the book on Amazon:

Natural selection dictates that enduring changes to a species occur because of the need to adapt to changes in the environment. Elaine Morgan, author of The Descent of Woman and The Aquatic Ape, maintains that the human propensity for lower back pain, obesity, varicose veins, and other chronic conditions is the result of an earlier need for humans to survive a watery environment.

It’s always so surprising to me that so many women never even heard of Elaine Morgan’s theories. They make as much sense as the aggressive caveman ones, and I sure like them a lot better. But then, again, when media like the Discovery Channel opt for programs like the one scheduled for tomorrow, Walking With Cavemen, rather than a less male-centric vision of the past, it's not surprising.

A World without Husbands and Fathers

Last night on the Discovery channel here in Oz: Civilisations focused on a culture almost completely the inverse of many cultural commonalities. The Moso of China do not have an institution of marriage, and no word for "daddy." They are matrilineal and matriarchal. Promiscuity is not only common, but sought after, and jealousy over affection is mocked and discouraged. Men have no role in the upbringing of their children-- indeed, the Moso believe there is no biological link between father and offspring. Instead, uncles take on a father-like role. This unique group debunks the notion that some cultural constructs, like marriage and fatherhood, are not as universal as previously thought. I couldn't find much online about the Moso, but I did find this.

Watch out for Paynter!

He’s done it with other Blog Sister before, here, and here, and here, here, here, and, his very first, here. Well, you can look here for the whole list of those he’s unveiled.

Now he’s set his insiteview on Betsy Devine and says he’ll have his interview with her up any day now. Watch out for it. It’s bound to be delightfully revealing.

And while you’re over there, check out his post on Cyberfeminism and hacker/artist Cornenlia Sollfrank.

If we had a category for “Honorary Blog Sister”, I most certainly would want to see Frank Paynter head the list.

Booth Bitch

Popular culture has embraced many former Coat-Check Girls. These include: Liverpudlian songbird Cilla Black; willowy blonde starlet Gretchen Mol and Fabulous Disaster Mariah Carey. Any reasonable history of coat checking could not, of course, overlook celebrated Exotic Dancer Blaze Starr. Apparently she was ‘discovered’ while sitting behind her Baltimore counter. How, exactly, one demonstrates a talent for burlesque while sitting in a booth is a question I regularly attempt to address. This fascination is due less to my interest in nipple pasties and more to my recent induction into the Cloaking Sisterhood.
Coat-Checking is not, altogether, an unenviable arrangement. Certainly, the position description is more succinct than some and the job title may not command the same line of credit as, say, Chief Executive Officer. However, the pay is reasonable, the coats are, oftentimes, intriguing and, when I think about my former stint as a Senior Public Servant, the complete lack of meetings called to discuss which letter-head the Corporate Mission Statement should be printed on is refreshing.
I am, for the moment, quite content to add Coat Check Girl to my Résumé. I quite like people, for the most part, and I enjoy guarding their possessions with lady-like brutality. I am warmed by their gratitude when I produced their unscathed garments and I am often politely amused to see their coats depart with a coat they have only just met. Further, the confessional aspect of my booth permits all sorts of truths. I am the trustee of more secrets and venal sins that your average Father and, according to Cloaking Code, far less likely to reprimand.
So, work as a Booth Bitch is fine by me. I provision a dependable and useful storage-and-risk-minimisation solution to coat-wearers AND there’s enough down time to get through one decent novel per night. However, my first service industry experience in fifteen years has given me cause to recall: Some People Have No Manners.
There is a handful of people in every well populated room that live, quite simply, to Lord It. These are the sorts who love to rub one’s low-income earning nose into a big pile of crude humiliation. They like to shout at Call Centre staff, tut inscrutably at busy bar staff and roll despondent eyes at anyone near a cash register. Whether this amply expressed frustration is the by-product of Hating The Capitalist System or just a really rotten week, I am unsure. All I know is that I am aghast at the tendency of a few to make the servile feel really servile.
Two to three times an evening someone will just HURL their garment at me. At least one of these people will say ‘watch it, I paid a lot of money for that’ as though it were my habit to drag lesser raiments through a pig-sty of stinking disrespect. One of these errant customers may also (a) blow cigarette smoke into my booth (b) ash said cigarette into my tip jar and/or (c) insist ‘you’ve got a GREAT job, haven’t you?’ without a hint of empathy nor cheeky wit.
I do understand that many people wade through their weeks feeling trammelled and alone. I also understand their need to ‘blow off steam’ – or smoke into my booth as the case may be. It befuddles me, however, that such people choose to relieve themselves on relatively powerless institutions such as Coat Check Girl. Why not pick on the Big Boys?
In my effort to cleanse the world of poor manners and ill-feeling, I have now devised an information sheet for my more troublesome customers. Entitled ‘Yo, You With The Coat: Use Your Rage for Good Instead of Evil’ it suggests a number of bodies to which they might more profitably address their anger such as the World Bank, President George W Bush and the Advertising Standards Agency. (To date, this document has confused all but one parton into silence and has encouraged the emergence of at least two anti-globalisation activists.)
Respect the servile. Or you never know what kind of pamphlets they may produce!

So mad that I missed this one!

I don't know how I missed this! I guess I'm too sandwiched between cute little grandbaby and frail old mom.

People of the world take note: The women have met. They've hatched a plan. Think Seneca Falls 1848. Think healthy planet. Think: Magic hips.
So begins the report in my newspaper today about the second annual Women & Power Conference to explore self-transformation and world healing that was held last weekend at the Omega Institute -- which is less than an hour's drive from where I live. Eve Ensler, Alice Walker, and Eileen Fisher were there, along with more than 450 women from around the world, including Jungian analyst Marion Woodman and hip-hopper Rha Goddess. Plans are underway for a June 2004 convention to develop a platform for the national elections to ensure, as Ensler asserted, that whoever runs for president "cannot deny the power of women." Supposedly Ensler is going to organize the convention through her V-Day web site, but I haven't seen anything on there yet. I wonder what it would take to be named a delegate from New York?

Whakakau Paikea hei

Whale Rider is the story of a young Maori girl defying the expectations of her very traditional grandfather. You see, she's a girl, she shouldn't be learning stick fighting, or certain sacred chants, and she certainly isn't qualified to become a leader of her people because of her very femaleness. But, ironically, she becomes the one person best qualified, through courage, persistance, and a deep love for her Maori heritage; she shows herself the inheritor in a long line of great chiefs back to Paikea, her namesake. Good movie, go see it. More thoughts here.