Archive for the ‘quick hit’ Category
If you travel to Google’s homepage today (in the U.S.), you’ll notice a little sentence below the search bar:
This brought to mind a post by Shelby Knox on Feministe – namely, that “Of 109 innovators, artists, revolutionaries and creators designated important or interesting enough for a doodle, only 8 have been women.”
Apparently, the women’s suffrage movement in the U.S. is not a momentous enough occasion for crafting an actual Google Doodle, perhaps celebrating all of the women that worked long and hard to be recognized as active, contributing members of society, and not property.
I mean, come on, it took about 10 seconds of Google-fu to come up with this list. Imagine the wealth of knowledge on Wikipedia, or maybe in an actual book. This is just another example of minimizing women that, while taken by itself may seem insignificant, contributes to the oppressive behemoth that is our patriarchal culture.*
*For more dirt that we angry women use to make mountains out of molehills, see My Fault I’m Female. It is made of win.
I may come into possession of a small, fuzzy ball of cute in the next few days, so I’ve been going over in my head the geekiest names I can think of. My thoughts went back to Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, because Dickens’ character names are the amazing precursor to JK Rowling’s character names – i.e., they are novel, chosen/crafted very deliberately, convey the essence of each character, and are just damn fun to say. (Would this have been a much more fun topic to focus my thesis on? Quite.)
If I had any knowledge about gender politics back in my undergraduate days, I could have opened up a huge can of worms surrounding our conversation about names in Dickens, specifically the nickname David Copperfield’s childhood friend, Steerforth, gave him: Daisy.
Missed that boat.
If I do come into possession of a mewly little tribblekitten, this blog may temporarily descend into awwlookatthelittletailandthefeetzand bpabhbldhbhddb.
The other day when I was thinking about privilege, like you do, I was reminded of one of my favorite movies: a stunning piece of cinematic genius known as Power Rangers: The Movie. I know what you’re thinking: that PR:TM is slightly high-brow for a lowly blog, but bear with me.
So, back in the day, I was quite smitten with a certain Blue Ranger. The glasses, the overalls, the being socially ostracized – it just did it for me. And quite recently I happened upon a behind-the-scenes video from the bygone era of Angel Grove High that confirmed what I was too naïve to grasp in those glory days: Walter Jones was perfectly aware that he, a black man, was cast as the Black Ranger. I can also infer from this that Thuy Tran was well aware that she, an Asian woman, was cast as the Yellow Ranger.
This last paragraph doesn’t really have anything to do with my point. I just thought it was interesting.
My point is actually related to something Billy the (drop-dead sexy) Blue Ranger says on Phados when he and his buddies are fighting stunt actors in bird suits:
“Y’know the funny thing about Morphin’? You don’t appreciate it ‘till you can’t do it anymore!” [At which point he gets his ass handed to him by aforementioned feathered stunt persons.]
And – lo! – we do not live in a vacuum. Even movies like PR:TM are written/produced/filmed in a social milieu. (That may account for those egregious casting decisions I opened with! Look, I brought it around!) So, I thought, “Hey! What if I replace ‘Morphin’’ (as cool as that is) with ‘privilege’? With one word, I have successfully turned PR:TM into insightful social commentary.”
Some privilege doesn’t just go away, like Morphin’ can (if your head-in-a-tennis-ball-canister boss gets pwned, of course).
So, as a tool for folks when they come into a situation where their (white, cis, het, male, etc) privilege affords them an unearned advantage, just encourage them to imagine that they’re on an alien planet that looks a lot like Australia. All of a sudden they’re ambushed by wisecracking Tengu warriors, and they realize that their trusty magic gold coin, used to swathe themselves in Technicolor spandex, is gone, and without it their chances of escaping (psychologically, physically, emotionally) intact are, if not nil, at least drastically reduced.
That spandex – that’s privilege.
Seriously, use this in a conversation about the kyriarchy. It’ll help.
A co-worker just stopped me in the hall and said, “Do you think it’s rude that, when I walk into the employee lounge, and there are twenty people from India in there, that they’re all speaking in their language?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, I do. I mean, who knows what they could be saying?”
Having friendly co-workers makes your job easier. The vast majority of my white co-workers would not be as friendly with me if I were not white, and especially if English was not my native language.
This has been an episode of “a day in the life of white privilege.”
I have seen variations on this title EVERYWHERE:
Not a woman, not even a person. Only a STRIPPER. Would it happen if the victim were anything other than a sex worker? “…faces deposition in slain short-order cook lawsuit.” “…faces deposition in slain customer service representative lawsuit.” “…faces deposition in slain executive director lawsuit.”
The only reason this could be [MAYBE] justifiably used is if the woman’s occupation meant she somehow wanted to get murdered more, or the way in which she was killed has something to do with her occupation, like: “Weak I-beam at fault in construction worker’s death.” Even then, I’m squeamish about boiling down a person to their occupation.
This is not new, or even exceptional. It just happens to be flooding my various inboxes, so I’m holding it up as just one example of the Rape Culture.
As of today:
- Smashing headcrabs with a crowbar
- Reading awesome books and drinking beer
- Swimming laps (with the added vindictive pleasure of “fuck you” to folks who think fatties shouldn’t wear bathing suits)
- Cross-stitching Stargate chevrons while watching Jane Eyre (thank you, Masterpiece Theatre, for making a version that doesn’t suck)
- Making puddioca, then eating it
- Visiting my sister and SITTING ON THE PORCH (goddamn it, I love sitting on the porch)
- Actually going to yoga
All of the above are subject to change.
Fatties aren’t supposed to wear shirts with horizontal stripes so I went out and got one HA HA HA.
That was supposed to be the end of this post, but then I got to thinking about my fashion choices before and after Fat Acceptance. Many other writers are covering the topic of fatshion already (and pleez go partake of their eloquent wisdom!) but I thought I’d throw out a few personal specifics, y’know, for realness purposes.*
According to those closest to me, I am boring. I don’t go in for patterns (except for, apparently, HORIZONTAL STRIPES), I like jeans, I like black (even my tattoos are black and gray), I wear flat shoes, and I have some kick-ass accessories but only wear them once in a while.
All of that is not so different from when I hated my body, except for 2 crucial things: CUT and QUALITY.
My aesthetic preferences are, no doubt, due in part to my demonization of femininity in favor of being “one of the guys” (which is another topic for another time, and which has also been covered elsewhere), but the plain t-shirt of today and the plain t-shirt of 10 years ago have some differences, which I have conveniently laid out in a table:
So what role has FA played in all this? Well, now I like trying out different styles that highlight my body instead of hiding it. I also invest in higher-quality stuff because a) I think my body is worth it, and b) I don’t think it will be obsolete in a year because I will somehow miraculously become thin and have to start my wardrobe over from scratch.
I will now meander over to Etsy and drool over the drop earrings with vintage glass beads.
*I have the privilege to purchase brand-name clothing, though usually from discount stores. (Why the hell would you pay 40 bucks for a t-shirt even if you could, anyway?) This was not always the case, and is not possible for everyone. Trying to find current, stylish, cheap fatshion is almost always a nightmare, so there is no reason to police anybody, including fatties, about their wardrobe choices. So don’t do it!
My left hand as a guinea pig from Sunday afternoon. Practice makes perfect.
Sorry about that. My bad.
Last night I suddenly found myself with an extra 2 hours of unscheduled time on my hands. My mind jumped from unfinished project to unfinished project: “I could sort out the clothes that are going to Goodwill, I could get a house plant, I could drop off the recycling and finally pick up an extension cord at the store, because god that black cord stretching along my dining room wall is so damn ugly. Speaking of the dining room, I could go grab paint supplies and paint the chair rail, and while I’m there I can get stuff to make a giant D’ni clock on my living room wall (which, by the way, I’ve wanted to do forever and will be indescribably amazing if I ever get it done.)”
So, what did I actually do?
I drove home, changed into my sweaties, and watched 2 hours of Stargate: SG1 on Hulu. (To my credit, I did sort socks too.)
I was going to write a diatribe about the conundrum of working enough to afford my own place, and not having enough time to enjoy it. But, really, I think my point here is that I am a slacker, and so can you.
Plus, I can always tell myself I’m just doing research for an asskicking and insightful post about the fact that I made it all the way to Season 4 before seeing a POC that wasn’t an alien or a member of a “primitive” race.