A Time for Rape, A Time for Voice
Like so many others, I’ve been overwhelmed with December.
It’s not just the holidays, but the buzz and speed of the year ending, the economic crisis, family gatherings, and holiday obligations all combine to make December one big TO DO list.
I thought about what I wanted to write about this week and began reading some of my favorite feminist bloggers for inspiration. As I clicked on my usual suspects, a surprise settled over me, “Is there a reason why so many blogs are posting about rape?” My brain, in lightning speed, reviewed the month themes and reasoned that September promotes Women’s Health Awarness, October is Domestic Violence Awareness month, March is Women’s Herstory month, and April is Sexual Abuse Awareness month.
The only December theme I could think of was World Aids Day, which was December 1.
I couldn’t think of any direct tie to sexual assualt.
Was there a reason I was finding so many posts about rape?
As a sexual assault advocate and educator, a field I’ve explored for several years, I quickly felt shame as realized I had forgotten a very simple lesson about sexual violence: there is no specified time for sexual assault awareness, every day is a day of rape for women in the world. Why should there be an allotted month to focus solely on this issue when it happens every few seconds of every day, holiday or not, December or July, sexual assault occurs. Why should I not be fiercely glad that on any given day, a no-name day like today, I can find this issue being discussed with resolve, strength, and bravery. There is no time for rape. It happens in the brightness of days and darkness of night. I’ve heard the stories from my friends and listened to strangers in emergency rooms before undergoing a rape kit. Everyday, too, is a time to heal and a time to speak for someone, somewhere in the world. In the age of accessible media making for everyday women – the face of sexual violence – we are capable of understanding more than ever the complicated and painful road of admittance, healing, and sharing one’s experience for the world to hear.
I quickly reminded myself that I should not be so worried if I had “missed something” when I read so many posts about violence against women in one day. I am thankful that so many brave women are utiliizing media to get their stories out, creating voice when there was once silence, and committing to put an end to rape.
Joan Kelly and Brownfemipower have their say (and thank goodness they do)
Latoya at Racialicious: The Not Rape Epidemic
Womanist Musings posts: I Cried As If I Was His Daughter
Feministing discusses a disturbing video about a cartoon, The Rapeman
The Cookie Monster
My sister Carmen and I tried to do something creative to take my medicated mind off the pain. So we decided to make Christmas cookies.
This was actually more of her baking and my watching TV and then hobbling into the kitchen to help decorate.
They were the most hideous looking things I’ve ever created.
I had to hold onto my stitches because we were laughing so hard at how ugly they were.
Winner in picture.
Letter #3
Dear Veronica,
It’s Saturday morning and two days since my surgery to “spiff up” my ovaries to someday have you. Darling, I feel like someone rammed a spatula into my stomach and starting smacking everything red.
What was supposed to be an hour and fifteen minutes took over two and a half. Much to my amusement, I learned that your father was devouring any reading material possible in the lobby and then switched to TV when NO ONE came out to tell him why I, his wonderful wife – the mother of his future children – was still in surgery. Poor guy. You know how he hates to be out of control.
Alas, Dr. Liu came out and told him these words, “It was complicated, but successful.” Apparently, there was enough scar tissue to wrap all of eastern Europe in its own casserole and needed to be removed from my insides. That extended as south as you can go in my uterus and ovaries into my northern stomach region. The stitches around my belly button are as sore as sore can be. It feels like they reorganized my entire reproductive and digestive system.
On a funny note, I am passing gas like it is my job. To see as much as possible through a small camera and light, the doctors blew up my body during surgery. Some was still in there after the procedure which is why my belly looked like I was 7 months pregnant when I left the hospital, and it leaks out every 20 minutes or so. I’ll take a teaspoon sip of water and belch like I just ate an entire plate of Italian food goodness. I’ll take one step and leave a wind of gas behind me. It makes me giggle, then I grip my belly because it’s painful to laugh.
Your father is trying his best to be everything to everyone these days and I watch him from the couch, or bed, doing laundry, cleaning up, washing dishes, trying to get me DVDs I’d like to watch, and sprinting to Pearl of the Orient for my scallop and shrimp lo mein. About two weeks ago, I came down with a common bacterial infection that put me in the worst mood. Shortly after that, I was diagnosed with strep. Then I had this surgery and am farting and burping like a mindless second grader. All in all, I wonder how your father still manages to sit at my bedside and whisper, “my beautiful bride,” into my ear while I am waking up or how he runs his hands into my hair and looks at me with a longing to feel better.
I wish that for you, my love. I wish for you a soul who will love you tirelessly and without knowledge of rest. The way your father loves me is a gift from I don’t know where. I just know that I want you to someday find it in a person who is endlessly fascinated by your thoughts and post-surgery farting habits. Someone who looks at pictures of your tender ovaries as if they were pictures of God’s face. Most of all, I hope your father and I set an example for you of what is possible in this world.
It IS possible to love someone so much that it feels like a miracle.
Love,
Mom
This is Me on Drugs
I had surgery yesterday.
I am in recovery now, about 60% “with it” as the anesthesia continues to wear off and the painkillers begin after the upteenth trip to the pharmacy.
Let me explain.
Back in 1999, the summer before my junior year at Xavier, I had a big surgery, the kind where they actually open you up, to remove ovarian tumors and cysts that were causing sharp abdominal pain. After biopsy, the report read BENIGN and confirmed they were dermoid tumors – relatively harmless, usually benign, but complicating the life of women like me nonetheless. I fully recovered and healed and went on my merry way of life.
After I got back from the Philippines, I went hunting for a good doctor and went through the whole assessment testing, which included an ultrasound given my medical record. According to my results, things looked a little fuzzy around my ovaries again and my doctor began consulting with a specialist. Nick and I started meeting with doctors over the past two months and they recommended Laparoscopy to take a look inside and remove anything that shouldn’t be there – scar tissue from my previous surgery and these new growths that are being spotted again.
Laparoscopy pretty much reminds me of a three armed Inspector Gadget like person sticking one hand – camera and flashlight device – right below my belly button, and then two hands on each side of my waist which are like robotic hands to manipulate my organs and remove anything the doctor deems problematic.
Simple enough.
So, around October, my doctors told me I’d probably need this but a billion reasons to wait came up. First I needed to do additional appointments with another doctor who would be doing the surgery. That took 5 weeks. And then December started getting crowded. And then no operating rooms were available. And then insurance compatibility came into question. And then Sunday night I had 102 temp with a case of strep. With antibiotics, the doctor at urgent care wasn’t sure if I’d be able to have surgery. We placed a frantic call to my doctor/surgeon. He said as long as we tell the anesthesiolgist, we should be ok.
FINALLY though, it all came to fruition yesterday. After all the months of waiting and getting sick earlier this week, it was finally here.
My surgery was scheduled for Wednesday, December 17 at 1:30 and we arrived an hour early like they suggested. I had been so ready for this surgery, I didn’t really feel all that nervous and I knew it wasn’t go to be as extensive as the one I had almost 10 years ago. So, Nick and I hung out, admiring my name on the wipe board and gave the socially awkward nurse a new name – George. One, he looked like George Kostanza from Seinfeld and two he was a bit like George O’Malley from Grey’s Anatomy.
Dr. Liu, the chairman of some uber important department at Case Western and supposedly the best in his field, was my surgeon. Grateful isn’t a strong enough word when you have excellent healthcare and benefits. While he doesn’t have a lick of Dr. McDreamy/Patrick Demsey in him, he was a thorough and surprisingly giggling doctor. At first, I was taken aback by his constant smiling and small laughs that followed everything he said, but Nick seemed to like it. He thinks anytime a doctor is not somber it shows your case is not that serious.
The nurse looked disapprovingly at my nose and said, “You’ll have to take out all body piercings,” but her look said, “WHY DO YOU YOUNG PEOPLE HAVE TO BE SO RADICAL?”
I asked if there was anyway to keep it in because I was afraid of the hole closing. You’d think from the look she gave me that I asked for a push of crack before I went under.
Anyway, the narcotics and drugs started pouring in around 1:50pm and the last thing I remember is watching a needle go in and a doctor’s voice say, “this is a narcotic, it’s going to feel like I gave you a shot of tequila…” and Nick saying, “Oh, it won’t take much, believe me…” and then laughter. I felt my eyes roll into the back of my skull and the doctor yelp, “Woah!” as I slumped and don’t remember anything else.
I awoke as they were prepping me in the O.R. and noticed it was all men fussing over me and tucking in my arms really tight at my side and wrapping me with blankets. I wished someone would talk to me as I started seeing little shapes in the air float around. One of the last things Nick said to me was that if his mom had been there as the nurse, she definitely would’ve talked to the patient, but everyone was too busy being nurse, doctor, or anesthesiologist to make small chatter. Too bad.
Then I was knocked out again.
I awoke to a nurse calling my name and feeling like a train ran over me. She was asking if felt alright and I nodded thickly, wanting to see Nick but not having ability to move. Something was up my nose and I felt like I was the only person in the hospital.
She leaned over and semi-yelled, “Would you like to take a nap?”
I tried to muster the strength to yell back, “Yeah if you stop screaming in my ear. I had tumors removed from my ovaries not my ears.” But I just nodded and went back into a dream world.
I awoke to find Nick and my sister. And something in my right eye.
I could barely talk or walk to the bathroom, but felt like there was a grain of sand tucked behind my eyelid.
It was around 8pm by now and I thought I’d be home by 6pm. It was taking much longer than we anticipated. It was right around that time when I realized I was hungry. I wasn’t permitted to eat since dinner the last night and felt weak and nauseated from my empty stomach. Nick placed a graham cracker on my lips and I took a bite.
It might have been the drugs. It may have been the fact I was so hungry I could have eaten a hippo, but I tell you, that graham cracker exploded on my tongue with flavors I’ve never experienced. The honey and sugar melted all over my tongue and coated my dry mouth. And the ginger ale! The sweetness waved over my teeth and I thought it tasted like heaven. My taste buds were reborn. I wanted to savor it.
In the meanwhile, lovely nurse Julia who I didn’t rename because I liked her pulled some doctor from boofoo to look at my eye. The pain was worsening and he took one look and said I’d have to see an opthamologist to diagnose it. Thanks genius. I think my 3 year old nephew could have given that medical advice. The best part is that he was walking away as he said it. Nice attitude.
He came back and said to the nurse, “Well, just say that I examined her and it could be something. It could be nothing. You won’t be able to find an opthamologist at this hour (harr, harr, he laughed – what the hell is so funny about that? I have a grain of sand in the back of my eye – how comfortable do you think THAT is).”
The he says, “Maybe conjunctivitis.”
That’s when I said in my head to myself because my lips were immobile, “Get this fool out of here. Even I know it’s not pink eye and why in the hell would I have pink eye after I wake up after surgery.”
He looked at me for once, “How do you feel?”
Pissed off at this Dr. Faux, “Terrible.”
Lovely nurse Julia privately didn’t like the doctor either. She kept saying it wasn’t right to send me home in pain if it was caused by my surgery and didn’t give me meds for it. She proceeds to call all these different doctors – all of whom, I’m sure – are eating their roast beef dinners in their condos or lake front houses. Dr. Liu, my surgeons is finally reached and gives a possible diagnosis that makes sense: corneal abrasion.
During the procedure it’s possible that my right eye wasn’t completely closed and without the lubricating protection of a blink or being fully closed, the gas used to pump up my body during the procedure had caused slight damage.
Fine. More drugs.
At this point, I feel old.
The eye drops feel like I threw rubbing alcohol into my eye and I nearly screamed in shock when they coated my eye. Nurse Julia, “Yeah, that’s definitely an abrasion if it hurts.” Great.
More drugs to combat nausea.
More graham cracker heaven and ginger ale.
We drive home.
It takes me eons to get on the living room couch and ask Nick for a strange compilation of foods: graham crackers, milk, peanut butter, banana. mashed potatoes, green beans.
I have no idea what that’s about, but he writes everything down and jets off to the store while I am falling asleep sitting up.
The drugs are messing with my brain. I wake up three times with my arms in front of me, wacking the air and vision of neon parakeets flying in front of my face. I’m yelling, “No! No!”
Poor Nick has to deal with his psychotic wife who has delusions of a parakeet and needs mashed potatoes.
This is the prognosis that Nick gave me from my doctor:
The surgery was much more complicated than expected, but it was successful. There was considerable scar tissue from my previous surgery which took a long time to remove. Small dermoids were removed from my right and one larger one was removed from my left. The procedure, which he first estimated to take 1 hr and fifteen minutes took over two and a half. Poor Nick was in the waiting room with no one informing him of what was taking so long until George Kostanza/O’Malley came in to tell him everything went well. That was five minutes before the doctor came though. Nice effort, George.
So, right now, I’m in a lot of pain and keeping my mind busy so I don’t think about it.
We thank everyone for their support and prayers. Recovery time should be about two weeks. I’ll be able to travel for the holiday but will be sitting most of the time and steering clear from the stairs.
And just as 2009 arrives, I’ll be as good as new.
Again, thanks to all for their prayers and well-wishes. Once I’m off the drugs, I can thank you properly in person.
SPEAK! Album
Speak! is a women of color led media collective and in the summer months of 2008, they created a CD compilation of spoken word, poetry, and song. This is the first self-named album.
With womyn contributors from all over the country, Speak! is a testament of struggle, hope, and love. Many of the contributors are in the Radical Women of Color blogosphere and will be familiar names to you. Instead of just reading their work, you’ll be able to hear their voices.
I can guarantee you will have the same reaction as to when I heard them speak, I was mesmerized.
Proceeds of this album will go toward funding mothers and/or financially restricted activists wanting to attend the Allied Media Conference in Detroit, MI this July. This is our own grassroots organizing at its finest with financial assistance from the AMC. We collaborated and conference called for months and here it is, ready for your purchasing.
In addition to these moving testaments, there will be a zine, featuring more of our work and a curriculum available to further process the meaning of each piece for yourself, education, or a group discussion. The possibilities are endless.
You get all of this for less than $20, you can order one for yourself or buy a gift card for friend which can be redeemed to buy the CD. Stay on your toes and look for more information come January 1, 2009. Only 200 copies are available.
Forward this promo vid widely and to the ends of your contact list. See the link here.
Much love.
Responding to, “Can You Love God AND Feminism?”
Right before I sat down to write this post, I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my hair out and roped it into a pony tail and did two brief neck stretches. No joking. Before you delve into an issue like feminism and God, you have to be ready for the long haul.
At the ever-stirring community of Feministing, a specific headliner, in the form of a question, caught my eye, “Can you love God and feminism?” Not unusual to online communication, the comments quickly delved into discussions of organized religion, personal experiences, and emotional declaratives. Not surprisingly, several different topics surfaced and none were resolved or even wholly addressed, which is typical in an online format. But even in face to face conversation, the subject of religion and feminism is too wide, the issue is personal for many, and the scrutiny too close for honest disclosure.
The question got me thinking: “Can you love God and feminism?” The two issues of religion and feminism have been the backbone for some of the ugliest debates I’ve ever seen. There are usually two problems in such verbal banter. First, at least one person with really good ideas backs down or refuses to take the plunge into the conversation. Thus, the dominant talker dominates. Two, the discussion freys into a million other topics and it doesn’t stay spinning on one or two issues, but splatters into a mess of biting words.
I’ve split this post in two segments. The first part are a few helpful hints if you ever find yourself in a dialogue with another person or with a group of people discussing these issues and you find yourself backing away. Try these suggestions. I’ve found them helpful as I grow as a feminist. They’re for everyone, regardless of religious affiliation, agnostic, or atheist identity.
The second part of this post is my personal experiences and background of religion and feminism and the problems I’ve found in the feminist blogosphere in regard to these topics. Also, to be clear, I’m not knocking the post at Feministing. It was a great stimulus for conversation and the content of the post is not what I’m addressing. I’m expanding on a much larger issue that the question raised for me.
PART I. SUGGESTIONS FOR TACKLING INCREASINGLY TENSE CONVERSATIONS
Tip #1 Look at the question being asked.
Take a critical eye to the question and examine the heart of the issue. There’s nothing academic or scholarly about thinking about the crux. Everyone can do this – at a table, a wedding (I almost saw a fight break out at a reception), or over a campfire. It’s true that there is no such thing as a dumb question, just as long as it’s a sincere one. The art of questioning is often misused as tool by some to instigate or flame a controversial issue, e.g. (the ever popular) “How can you vote for that candidate when s/he is pro-choice?” If you choose to ask or answer a question, be prepared to use a mental scalpel. Bypass pretense and admit if you don’t know something, or haven’t fully thought through your way. In most instances, people are willing to engage in honest and challenging debate that stimulates growth, not defensiveness, when you get to the heart of the question and remain calm about your position and experiences.
Tip #2 Start a revolution and embrace the gray.
Even science cannot yet find a way to explore the outer celestial heavens, so why should we presume to know every artifact of faith? Nobody, save the handful of religious scholars tucked away somewhere, has all the background knowledge on religion and religious text. Good thing we don’t need to know everything to examine our own lives and its meaning. It’s impossible to know it all or grasp all the different interpretations. Relax in the fact that you will likely never get resolution if you’re looking for black and white answers. Reject the immediate answers that most gravitate toward.
Ye be not confused with apathy or uncertainty, however! Embracing the gray is standing in conviction, not lying down in laziness. While it’s wise to accept complexity, it’s important to continuously chisel and define your evolving beliefs. It takes a carefully tended maturity to remain unthreatened and curious about these issues. It’s work, hard work, but it’s always worth it.
Tip #3 Be Yourself. Be Open. (if you) Believe.
We’re all entitled to participate or not participate in organized religion and define its traditions and orthodox with our chosen teachers, families, mentors, and conscience. But, too often in feminist circles, that freedom dissolves. I’ve seen young questioning women of faith abandon the term “feminist” because of this ridiculous notion that feminists do not believe in God. I’ve witnessed so many neon bright feminists not identify as such because of the paradoxical branding of “feminist” on a religious person/spiritual individual/worshipper of a higher power. What comes of hiding who you truly are? Come out of your shell. Most people get the fact that activism is about trying to make the world a better place and that, typically, is one of the agenda items for those who are active church goers, mosque attendees, or temple worshippers. We all have a lot more in common than is perceived.
PART II: PERSONAL MUSINGS ON FEMINISM AND RELIGION
What I didn’t like about the question, “Can you love God and feminism?” is that it reminded me of all the times I’ve been asked variations of that same thing over the course of my life and how I’ve never really been able to put my finger on my frustration; that is, until I started blogging. Only then did I get it: both sides pigeon hole the other.
While on one hand it’s clearly understandable as to why so many could ask a question such as “Can you love God and feminism,” given the media’s attention on fundamentalism and right-wing extremist’s ties to evangelicals, what’s equally disturbing is when I find feminist bloggers conflating religious groups with the terms conservatives,”pro-lifers,” and then add some sort of an insulting name because the author thinks religion and conservatism go hand in hand. Much like how feminists go hand in hand with other stereotypes, right?
With privilege, I’ve attended Catholic schools my entire life, from pre-school to graduate school. I’ve genuflected before crucifixes everyday of my existence, including the rebellion years and the periods of tumultuous resistance. I grew up with rosaries in my hands, and penance room visits on Saturday afternoon. I went through the whole blind acceptance, acidic rebellion, and then painful self-doubt. Here is what I know after 29 years of Catholicism and Feminism: neither is perfect, nor am I.
Feminism is about liberation. It is about the deepest analysis of and against the intersecting powers of racism, sexism, homophobia, ableism, sizeism, and ethnocentrism that enslave ALL marginalized persons, but most especially women. Feminism recognizes, as well, that just as women are enslaved, it positions men into false characters they often do not wish to be, but in the absence of alternatives and voice, they become culprits to kyriarchal practices of domination.
In my religion of choice, Catholicism, it is about endless efforts to love others and ourselves. It is sorely educated in many gradeschools and children are short-changed from the start with cartoon coloring books and three ring circus holiday distractions. But the beauty of its symbolism and its disarming dedication to the marginalized captivates me again and again. Believe me, I know and understand its problems with women, sexuality, power, and choice, but after a lifetime of studying it, I stand with Rachel A. R. Bundang who states in “This is Not Your Mother’s Catholic Church,” in the anthology Pinay Power, “…Catholicism’s cultural significance and its ties to who I am as a Filipina are thick as blood itself. My experience of the Church cannot be encapsulated in a single sticking point and is greater than one sole controversy.”
What I’m saying is that religion and feminism are not easy. They’re difficult terrain to cross and explain. But I do know that the exploration of self within both is a thrilling journey, but both sides – religion and feminism – need to re-evaluate how we write and use language, how quick we are to interchange descriptors like “religious” and “conservative” or “feminist” and “pro-choice.” Regular everyday people – you and I – are much more than these lables and the language we choose to communicate with one another needs to make room for the reality that feminism is growing and we need our language to reflect that complexity. We do ourselves a disservice when we intentionally or unintentionally exlude activists when we point our verbal guns at communities of faith. As a small sample (in my research, I typically read Christian and Catholic feminists), here are just a few of the most courageous and inspiring lovers of both God and feminism:
Joan Chittister is one of the greatest writers on contemporary feminist spirituality. Her anti-war speeches are legendary. Mary John Mananzan is one of the most prolific writers I have ever researched. Her views on women and prostitution in Challenges to the Inner Room enriched my feminism in unspeakable ways. The term kyriarchy that I wrote about which has been so well received in the feminist blogosphere was created by Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza, one of the pioneers of feminist biblical interpretation and with whom I had the honor of studying under and stood forever changed. Leela Fernandes wrote Transforming Feminist Practice and advocates for a spiritualized feminism if it wants to survive and, more importantly, succeed.
I don’t believe any of these women would laugh at me if I asked them, “Can you love God and feminism?” I think they’d be silent, as they wouldn’t see a distinction between the two.
LBJ
I went to my first Cavs game last week.
My brother, Fran, has season tickets and they were mighty good seats, too. As a season ticket holder, he was able to bring me out to the floor and I was able to touch the floor for good luck.
Lebron is simply a beast. Incredible. Superhuman. He’s a beast. I was able to snap some good pics of him. I was in awe the whole time.
Letter #2
Dear Veronica,
This has been a week that you must know about.
First of all, my beloved ob/gyn decided to throw me to a specialist five miles away because I am going to need surgery. Dr. David decided that my ovaries need to be “spiffed up” and thus need a laparoscopy. In a nutshell, it’s like Inspector Gadget is going to go in there and remove any scar tissue from my last surgery in 99 and to remove another sprouting dermoid tumor.
All of this in your name, my sweet.
Your father is quite anxious at the doctor’s office. He makes ridiculous comments and tries to make me laugh. I shake my head at him to stop and I feel like a principal telling a misbehaving 10 year old to shut his mouth.
My other doctor, Dr. Liu seems quite optimistic about the surgery and I felt he was nearly giggling at inappropriate times when I asked a question. Your father thought laughter was a good sign; it means we’re not going to be the 12% of couples whose efforts to have a child are saddeningly null. Laughter from doctors, your father contends, means we have minimal to worry about.
My mouth was set in one straight line, unamused. THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS, don’t they know that? Of course, I ended up stuffing a smile back when doc was examining me and inserted a strange looking instrument into my vaginal canal and showed me my empty uterus and fuzzy looking ovaries with strange masses around them. He, your pops, and a medical assistant leaned in and studied the screen like the state lottery numbers were popping up and they were going to win a 300 million dollar pot.
It struck me at that moment, my dear, that the world rests on the shoulders of woman who go through extensive circumstances to have a child. I have been thinking through how far in this process I want to go and decided I will give it my all to have you for about a year or two and likely will stop before Dr. Liu suggests in vitro. I think at that point, I’ll look into adoption.
Last night I went to bed feeling sick to my stomach. I ended up sleeping for about 14 hours today and then went to urgent care. Strep throat was my diagnosis. I was so sick and frustrated. It seems the universe does not want me to have this surgery. First, I waited two months to see a specialist and then it was nearly canceled because of insurance coverage and now strep. I’m determined, though. I hope you can someday appreciate what we’re going through to someday welcome you into this world.
But, Dr. David, Dr. Liu, your pops, and I, are highly optimistic that all of this is going to work. I took my first prenatal vitamin on Thursday and nearly squealed with excitement. It tasted like acidic garbage, but the thought of it making you a nice red womb to float around in and feeding you into a healthy body make it worth it. I’m going into surgery in three days and I’m hoping to start the most amazing journey of my life shortly after the new year.
Love,
Mom
Insulting the Intellect, Agnes Scott College Opens Its Doors to Road Trip II: Beer Pong
If you view the website of Agnes Scott College, a private all women’s college in Decatur, Georgia, the visitor or prospective student will find idyllic pictures of fresh-faced young women with telescopes, smiling students engaged in music, or tony looking youngsters attending a swanky social gathering. In the rotating slideshow, there sits the most formidable question of life development: Who will you become? If your eyes drift to the right, the mission of the College hugs the top corner, “Educating women to think deeply, live honorably, and engage in the intellectual and social challenges of their times.”
By every measure of that statement senior Louisa Hill, a guest blogger at The Bilerico Project, is doing just that. For all the varied struggles against sexist oppression, I surmise she would not have anticipated finding one of those battles on her own campus when the College stuck a deal with upcoming sequel Road Trip II: Beer Pong and gave open accessibility to not just the physical campus for shooting the flick, but the matriculated students as well.
Hill’s report gives account of deeply disturbing actions that has taken place on campus with the filming of Road Trip II: Beer Pong. She outlines the racist and sexist recruitment efforts:
…Craigslist ad states “primarily seeking White” and “Attractive Female
Model Type” extras, valued at $7.17/hr (be sure to send in your
weight!). These racist and sexist standards are clearly visible on the
movie’s promotional flier, helping to perpetuate the image that only
sexy white people go to college. The flier shows a headless white
woman’s body, focusing on her large breasts, barely covered by a shirt
that says “Nice Rack.” Her pelvis is in front of a triangle of shot
glasses. The tagline? “Get your balls wet.”
The students were also subject to horrendous stereotyping as the film crew shot the “Lesbians Until Graduation” scene which only eroticizes lesbianism as nothing more than an experimental “choice” made in the absence of men and, in the movie industry, sells women and their sexual identity as a heteronormative gift for men.
…the scene involved the male protagonists
stumbling upon the room full of these “making-out lesbians” (to
presumably “convert” them?). When we expressed offense, the recruiter
said she was warned about encountering uncooperative students who were
“really into being women” (versus into being objects?).
Other incidents of objectifying the students at Agnes Scott were documented, including reckless behavior of extras working in the movie. One student reported being told that she was so attractive, she should be careful of being raped. Another student, carrying a cup of coffee, was asked by an extra to get him one as well.
In the glitter of gifted professors and sprawling green spaces, it is easy to forget that higher education is business. It is an intellectual playground for thinkers and activists, the thrilling table in the exchange of ideas and challenge. Underneath that playground, however, the business roots of higher education occasionally sprout foul-smelling weeds that spring from damaging deals. To students, those agreements feel like betrayal, and rightly so. All the elements that lift a women’s college to another realm of engagement and learning is completed neutralized by a $30,000 business contracts that allow hapless Road Trip II: Beer Pong to sick its claws into, what appears to be, a vibrant and promising student body.
While the College recently announced its smallest tuition increase in over 35 years and boasts the College’s willingness to go the extra mile during these hard economic times, I’d wager that the students and their families would not have minded a sharper tuition spike if it meant cancelling deals with films that not only stand in contradiction of the College’s mission, but attack the values and minds of the women whom they claim to be educating.