How a Feminist Got Married: A Radical Manifesta

Published on by Lisa Category: Marriage

I’ve spent almost three years of my online life searching for my feminism. I spent the first year trying to understand blogging and feminist online activism/communication/communities. I spent the second year throwing myself into media. And this third year, I am sick of “working on” anything and just want to be me, a voice of a Womyn who is unafraid to say that I don’t and can’t know everything about politics, repro rights, or global current events. I am not the greatest or most updated blog when it comes to transgender violence. Or eating disorders or conference news. My worst posts have been where I try to understand and write about an issue for which I cannot fully comprehend.

I’m finished with blogging about things for which I cannot do justice. Others, with their specialization and expertise, will always be highlighted here, but I am finished in trying to “cover” issues which I cannot fully give myself toward. I’d like to think that is the most generous thing I can do at this point: develop the voice I do have in the areas for which I am passionate and knowledgeable and ally with those around me. Mostly, I think I now understand the difference between naively trying to take on the pain and oppression of others (and how utterly futile that is) and how to be an ally in my own skin, bringing fire to both my voice and for those with whom I am in community.

Which leaves me with the question: what do I do with My Ecdysis?

(How many times have I asked myself that?)

Last Thursday, Adonis and I agreed to do a presentation on marriage together.

We’ve been married for about three years and, although great partners in many areas of life, have never presented together on anything.

The preparation for Thursday was intense. It brought all the different ways we work together to the front.

I was nervous. After all, how does a feminist get married?

It was something I had been struggling to articulate for the past four years, since I became engaged and an area in which I had decidedly been quiet. Marriage, a decision and choice I made in love and awareness, is not a one or even two sided road.

Marriage is one of those six stop intersections with traffic lights in all directions; pedestrians walking during the “Do Not Walk,” light and left turn signals that don’t work. You wait seemingly forever to get to the center only to find people breaking the rules and confused as to which direction to move. People honk for you to go through it and urge you to figure it out later if you mess up while those in the car with you advise you to slow down and take your time. There are a million signs giving you directions and mirrors that reflect your genuine sense of disorientation.

It’s messy and there multiple ways to arrive. There are plenty of accidents, a great spot for rage and carelessness, and it’s often avoided by those who do not believe in getting caught in the fray. (Those people are so smart.) With all the metaphors out there, this is the best one for me: marriage is one big traffic intersection.

With all that’s going on, it’s so easy to forget the most important fact, the one thing that truly matters: you’re the one, the only one, in the driver’s seat.

It’s completely your call.

Today, the politics and art of marriage are hardly a quiet topic. From GLBTQ issues, to global and cultural practices, to gender and feminist issues, marriage is one of the most, if not the most, contentious and exhausting topics to tackle as a feminist and as a writer.

So, why am I writing a manifesta on marriage?

Because there needs to be a beam of light on the goods of marriage right now. There needs to be another side of the story told beyond the politics of coupledom, Rick Warren’s beliefs, or the extreme lefts and rights of D.C. I wanted to begin writing a story, a glimpse into the real life of a feminist who chose to get married, that is flawed, painful, but real. Mine is the only story I know.

January is a month of delusions. Most people, myself included, delude themselves into thoughts of who and what they “can be” versus who they truly are. There’s always room for self-improvement, but I took the first 18 days of January to contemplate where I am taking this blog, where I am taking my writing.

This blog has been my baby and work of art. And it is what I have always truly wanted it to be: a feminist memoir. As I write How a Feminist Got Married: A Radical Manifesta, I hope you engage with me in this timeless topic of kyriarchy, equality, and love.

The Radiators

Published on by Lisa Category: Household Hell

Our house is throwing a tantrum.

About a week ago, Nick and I woke up to a cold house and cool radiators.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the boiler decides to shut down.

Terrific.

AND

We woke up early to take our car in because the check engine light turned on.

Double YAY.

So, we drop off the car, and then walk back around 7:45am in the dark to our house. On the way we talk about really bright subjects like our cold house and the fact we’re leaving on a trip tomorrow and we need to get it fixed because our pipes may freeze and we really then have screwed ourselves over and all this will happen when we’re in Pennsylvania. The sidewalks are ice and the morning refuses to look promising.

Nick skates off to work and I warm my head in a hat and dial the home insurance people with freezing fingers. I’m sure you remember our garbage disposal debacle – where we had to pay $75 after the guy found the RECHARGE button under our sink – and today was another glorious episode.

After Mr. Fixit comes in and does a lot of mhm and hmmmmmmmm and “weellllll” with a flashlight in his mouth, Nick (who came home) and I were pacing the basement and praying he didn’t say, “You need a new boiler.”

I go upstairs and nervously eat my feelings. The rice krispie treat laying on a plate becomes my victim. While I’m munching on sugar at 9:30am, I hear a sharp and not happy laugh come from the basement.

I hop down the stairs and Mr. Fixit asks me, “What’d you do?”

Confused, I almost blurted out that I ate my feelings with a rice krispie treat but then Nick interjects, “It just turned on. Did you do anything upstairs?”

Other than eat a treat?

“Are you serious?”

“It just turned on and he can’t find anything wrong with it.” Nick and I stare at each other. My temper is flaring as the boiler is spitting itself alive with heat expanding through our house.

I am so pissed, stunned, and relieved that I stomp up the stairs while Nick calls out, “Can you make the check out?”

Another $75. I am absurdly angry.

Then the boiler kicks off again and thus began a three hour visit from Mr. Fixit. Nick takes him all around the house to all the different radiators and when he walks up to our chilly 3rd floor, he gets down on his hands and knees to inspect the thing, and I shit you not, gives the radiator mouth to mouth.

I almost burst out laughing. Instead, I excused myself and got myself together in another room and then wandered back into the room. He was still blowing air from his mouth into the radiator. Apparently this is an old method for starting it up again.

Well, whatever, it started!

And then he proceeded to give mouth to mouth to many other dead radiators who jumped back to life after some human interaction.

Our third floor is like a toasty little oven. I have called it our new apartment because we made it our TV room/weekend getaway/cottage. It’s big and has its own full bathroom. Why use the rest of the house? It’s so warm and we’ve never gone up there so it feels all brand new to us.

Now that the radiators are in full blast, they wheeze and blow up a storm when they’re hard at work. So, the other night when the radiator in our bedroom went head to head with a -20 degree night, I woke up and had to PUT EARPLUGS in to drown out all the racket.

Ahhh, but our third floor is our safe haven right now against the brutal assault of winter.

And then the check engine light came on again in our car.

Sometimes, I really hate being an adult.

For Whom Are You Throwing Your Shoe at Bush?

Published on by Lisa Category: Daily Resistance, Political Dirt

Muntadhar al-Zaidi, the original shoe thrower, sent his footwear into flight in the name of “widows, orphans, and those killed in Iraq.” Hurling much more than his shoes at Bush, the shoes, I believe, carried the unfathomable pain of those who have survived eight years of Bush foreign policies. Not just in Iraq, but all over the world.

For whom are you throwing your shoe? Let the world know on January 20, 2009 when Bush officially steps down as the leader of the US government. Take a picture of your shoe. post of your site or blog. Link back to the original post for participation round-up. If you do NOT have a blog or site and still want to participate, send me your shoe (don’t throw it, just hand it to me via email awecdysis@gmail.com) and I’ll post (throw) your shoe on my blog. Don’t forget to send in a small bit about you, your shoe, and for whom your throw is dedicated.

Having problems deciding for whom to throw your shoe? Mhm, I agree, it is a large task. Eight years of blowing up our fellow nations, instigating our violence in the name of anti-terrorism, basically handing our planet over to Darth Vader, and leaving our economy in the gutter leaves a shoe thrower with much to contemplate.

But be specific.

After all, you only have one shoe. Make it count.
Here is my dedication:

I throw my shoe for the poor who are living off garbage mountains, literally. I throw my shoe for the stranger who yelled in my face, after learning I was an American citizen in his land, that his garbage mountainside community has been terrorized and threatened by the Philippine government in the name of the “US charge against terrorism.”

These people, who scour the mountain everyday for food or anything they can sell for a peso, have centered their lives on survival, not violence. They are the poorest of the poor – eating inedible food, trying to sell what is no longer useful – and yet they are repeatedly targeted and harassed, their youth kidnapped for days and tortured, under the blanket of “anti-terrorism” laws initiated by the US after 9/11.

My shoe will fly for this man who who repeatedly yelled in my face, “I am not a terrorist! Do I look like a terrorist to you? I am too small, too skinny to do anything but survive.”

In essence, he is dying. And our president, our country’s allowance of Bush’s post 9/11 reaction, have quickened the death of his friends, family, and freedom. The re-election of Bush in 2004 continued the reign of terror in unheard, unspoken communities in the darkest corners of the world where no one dare visit or bother to know.

My shoe will be for this man who screamed his pain into my eyes and I, with the humble privilege of life and blogging, will throw as hard as I can.

How to Choose your Bush-Throwing Shoe

Published on by Lisa Category: Mixed Media and Poetry

I’m going to keep promoting this until the 20th and I see some serious shoes flying.

If you’re uncertain as to which shoe to throw, might I suggest a few tips:

1) Pick a shoe you have zero interest in. After all, you may not get it back after you throw it. Have no regrets when you throw it so choose one with which you have minimal emotional attachment.

2) Select a shoe that makes a statement. A stiletto, perhaps, sends a fine message to the world that not only are you crazy enough to wear those things, but you are of a generous heart – willing to forgo your style in the name of dissent. That sharp heel also communicates that you are serious about your throw. The aerodynamics of a stiletto can be lethal.

3) Throw the most grotesque and foul smelling shoe you own. ‘Nuff said.

4) Throw a sneaker with a sock stuffed in it. The extra weight might carry the shoe further in flight, thus resulting in much higher likelihood of hitting target.

5) If you’re still not sure if you’re down with this shoe throwing event, well, I suggest go light. Choose your bunny slippers or whatever you schlep around in when in the privacy of your home. Their light, compact, and even if it hits the target, feels more like a brush of cotton in the face than the regular weight of a snow boot.

Prepare for the throw on 1/20/2009. Spread the word.

We Fell

Published on by Lisa Category: Life is Never General

There’s no story, just a lot of funny instances I forgot to mention.

1) When we were loading up the car to go on our trip to Schellsburg, PA, Nick was walking behind me and as we approached the car, I heard him yelp a bit. I turned and yelped, “OHHHHH!” as I watched him slip and get balance and them slip again on the snow. It was in slow motion, but in classic movie style, he legs went out from underneath him. In the process of his legs flipping out from under him, he kicked me squarely in the gut and I hunched over with a moan while he landed on his back. And while he struggled to get up, I clutched my recently operated stomach and moaned loudly in pain for both of us.

If our neighbors were watching, they got a good 4 second entertainment show.

2) About 28 hours later, Nick and I are playing Tripoly with Vanessa and Tom. Vanessa, asks me to reach down and grab her sweatshirt, or something, off the floor and pass to her. I reach down and lose my balance, so I try to grab onto the table for steadiness. This is when I realize THE TABLE IS ON WHEELS and provides no stability and only further adds to my off balanced state.

I fall 1.5 feet to the ground. Vanessa said my scream sounded like I was falling from a skyscraper. Get this – in the process of that small fall – I PULLED A CALF MUSCLE FROM STRAINING TO HOLD ONTO THE WHEELING TABLE.

I hobbled for the next two days because of that little stunt.

Fully recovered today.

My friends, when you pull a calf muscle after falling off a chair, that is what you call PATHETIC.

Throw Your Shoe at Bush on January 20, 2009

Published on by Lisa Category: Daily Resistance, Political Dirt

When two shoes were thrown at George Bush by a journalist who had seen enough dying children and blood spilled on his country, I watched in disbelief.

What stunned me further was how people debated – in detail – if this man should be imprisoned or punished. Let’s see what would happen if we could turned the tables. Suppose another country invaded our land in the name of democracy and freedom, and through years and years of violence, shed blood on the bones of civilians and children who were never officially counted or reported about in the news. Might you, filled to the depths of your soul with death and injustice, throw your shoes?

His family maintains he did this out of frustration. Others report saying he was influenced by someone who “beheads people.”

From my view, I saw a reporter, an alive being, but filled with death. He was filled with the death of his country and the violence inflicted upon it by the hand of George Bush and our country. For all that has been done to their people, a shoe – or two – seems hardly a reason to beat and imprison him. It was a gesture that, some have argued, is perfect.

Schellsburg, Pennsylvania

Published on by Lisa Category: Roadtrips and Travels

As some of you may recall, Nick and I often go on trips with our awesome friends Vanessa Lombardo and Tom Ball, recently married and even more recently prego. (Due date – July 09)

The halfway point between New Jersey and Ohio, respectively, is Schellsburg, PA. So, we packed up, drove halfway, and stayed last Thursday – Saturday in a lovely and charming old country house in the…well, country. There’s not much around in Schellsburg.

We arrived Thursday evening and immediately began on what we do best: talk and eat appetizers.

In addition to the great company and conversation, we took a trip to Gravity Hill.

I was so excited for this, I feel asleep in the car on the way there.

Apparently, on this “hill,” if you put your car in neutral (read, it shouldn’t go anywhere), your car defies gravity and begins rolling UP HILL.

(Inside joke for Tom and Vanessa) THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE.

Well, it’s apparently possible.

While investigating Gravity Hill, a little miscommunication between Nick and I ended in a small ruffle. While I jumped out of the car and said, “I need to take a picture.” Nick heard, “I want to take pictures.”

He heard plural. I meant one. Usually, when I say I want to take pictures (plural) that means I need at least 15 minutes to snap a few good landscape shots. But I didn’t want a lot, I just wanted one. Nick thought I said otherwise.

Leaving my jacket in the car, I hobbled out into the cold winds of the mountain and proceeded to take a picture of the pretty outdoors.

Then the car left.

With my sweatshirt on, I ignored them, thinking they were just joking and starting walking toward them.

Then the car takes off.

Not sure what to do, I stand in the middle of the road and notice a menacing looking dog galloping toward me and starts sniffing my legs, greedily wanting my bone marrow, I’m sure. This whole episode takes about 8 minutes resulting in me jumping back into the car when it returns and bursting into tears. I *hate* being out of control and cold.

Nick is apologetic. I am embarrassed.

We get over it and Tom buys us whoopie pies, which are basically Suzi-Q cakes on steroids with enough frosting to kill an army of kindergarteners.

So, the weekend continues with more chatter about Baby Lom-ball-do, Tripoly, and enchiladas.

On Saturday afternoon, Nick and I took off and headed right into the snow mess that was blanketing NE Ohio. Terrific.

Fifteen miles into our drive, we see signs for the Flight 93 Memorial from 9/11. Of course we stop and stay about 35 minutes to see what was there.

The pictures tell more than we ever could. We both got teary as we saw the pictures of the 40 passengers and heard their stories of love, courage, and final good-byes.
There is a plan to finish the memorial in 2011, the ten year anniversary of the attacks.

As we drove home, of course, I fell asleep and entrusted my life to Nick’s driving capabilities.

After about five hours, we are unable to enter our driveway because the snow is too deep. We park in the street and dig out the shovels from the garage. As we begin working, Nick stops and says, “Wait, let’s think about this.”

I wait. “Ok. What are we thinking about?”

Nick looks at the house, “What direction does our house face?”

I have no idea what in the hell he is talking about, “I really have no clue. What do we need that for? Let’s shovel.”

Nick is looking around, “What direction is the wind blowing?”

“How should I know? The wind blows in all directions. I’m digging, no more questions.”

He explains, “I’m just trying to figure out snow drifts and stuff.”

I counter, “This I realize, but I don’t feel like standing outside talking while we have a foot of snow burying our driveway.”

We get to work.

About 40 minutes later, we run out of steam and only have about half of the driveway cleared.

Good enough for now.

Yeah, winter’s here.

Thought for the Day

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

Today, I was flipping through one of those calendars that has an inspirational thought or quote and this was the thought of the day:

Some goals are so worthy, it’s glorious even to fail.

My goal/glorious failure is to write a book. A memoir of spirituality, feminism, immigration, and humor.

What’s yours?

I Understand Selfishness Now

Published on by Lisa Category: the economy

There are countless conflicts going on outside my home. From Gaza to the Philippines. The environment to political corruption. From blogs to publishing houses, there are conflicts everywhere.

And the guilty part of me wants to use my blog to show how much we can do – in action – to make this world a better place. The activist part of me wants to throw myself into the middle of the frey and hold on tight to what hope remains, if any, in Gaza.

The truth of what is going on inside me is that I’m worried about my own internal conflict. This mess of an economy we have going on right now and how my own life whirls in response to the instability of it all.

I need a job.

Like my computer genius cousin who was just laid off after years of working with the same company and needs to put food on the table for his baby girl.

Like my friend who spent her finances chasing her dream of working in audiology, got her masters, and now works in daycare.

Like my confidant who is a gifted minister, transferred to IT work, and just got laid off as he found out he’s going to be a father.

Like the stories of women who are working three jobs and still cannot provide enough for their rent.

Like my…who lost…has a family at home…is losing their home…
….
I could go on and on.

I understand selfishness now. I understand, as I look out at the dripping icicles of this cold winter, that the dark months of unemployment are going slowly for everyone. And the sick twist in my stomach as I comb the classifieds section of the Cleveland Plain Dealer empties itself in tears. I understand that I am selfish because I am not in danger of being blown to bits or losing my life. There is no war on my doorstep, just the lonely winter winds beating down my door. There is a melting block of ice in my chest and it is chilling my blood.

The time that I want to spend in a job is now spent listening to the women of Gaza and wondering how I can be so selfish as to lay on my couch and cry with worry for my own ridiculous life and then feel so damn frustrated with my weak ass for crying in the first place.

The blanket of 10 inches of snow has quieted Cleveland and its haunting, like the city can hear itself dying in unemployment and laid off positions. The gray and white background of January looks ashen and I can hear the pulled sleds of children squealing down the street. My lentil soups are frozen, ready for the long haul of winter.

With all the time and silence in the world, an inescapable question sits in front of me, “What do you want to do with your life?” And my only reply in my head is that it doesn’t matter what I want, what matters is what I can do.

I don’t know if I mean the women in Gaza, my job search, and or the creeping plague of joblessness drowning the boat so many of us are in.

A1 is A-Sexist

Published on by Lisa Category: Big Media has Big Problem, Sexism

Over at The Bilerico Project (who is up for the Best GLBT blog Weblog Awards), Bil Browning had a sweet turned bitter taste in his mouth when he spotted a vintage logo on the bottle of A1 steak sauce.

Apparently, the image is a 1950s-esqu picture of a man silencing a woman with his finger while he eats his food. The caption reads, “Yeah, it’s that important.”

Browning goes on to admit, “I may not be the most versed in feminist theory, but, Good Lord Almighty, this one is glaringly obvious.” The comments in the thread go on to discuss the imagery and its meaning.

But my delight in this post was more than just someone taking a phone picture of what he saw as sexist and writing about it. It’s small things like this – taking initiative when you see something as offensive – and DOING something about it. One post on the internet isn’t going to change the world or even shake the boots of a popular steak sauce company, but it does rattle chains. And it inspires us to do some form of daily resistance, however small, when we perceive something as sexist, or racist, or classist, or just plain wrong.

It’s the collective action of our daily resistance and the power we hold to access media that will change the landscape of mainstream marketing and its irresponsible advertisements.

Cross-posted at Bitch Magazine.