We’re moving, hurrah.
But our new internet access won’t be available for almost a week. Bummer. And while I surf at work, I’d rather not write my heartfelt rants there, so keep your fingers crossed that Time Warner (sigh) actually gets us hooked up in a timely fashion.
Meanwhile, spend some time at icanhascheezburger.com
You’ll be glad you did.
I read so many blogs, liberal and neutral*, political and social and whatever-ial. But the one issue guaranteed to draw ireful, passionate responses out of everyone is education. It doesn’t matter if it’s about funding, or social issues, or testing and grades, or diversity, or even just what books should and shouldn’t be taught in English class. Everyone has an opinion, even people who don’t much care about anything else.
Maybe because we all had an education of some kind, and because those years make such a deep impression on us, every bully, every bad teacher, every stupid or boring class assignment is remembered with a lot of bitterness. More rarely, people talk about their good teachers who inspired them, or a class that made them think and learn more than they thought they could.
But just because you were a kid who went through school doesn’t mean you really understood what was going on there. The teacher who taught your boring class may have been burned out from trying to teach 6 groups of 30 students every day, at all levels of ability, with only 45 minutes to get the most basic ideas across. And then go home to grade 180 worksheets or tests every night. And maybe field calls from an angry parent whose kid got a B when the parent thought they deserved an A. And then find out that your union caved and you’re going to see your health insurance costs go up next year, but only get a 1% raise.
I work with ex-teachers, and they have a lot of stories to tell that no one who’s griping about the failures of public education ever seems to hear. They know about bad teachers, too, and will tell you about them. But also about being in the trenches under stresses that would send a lot of millionaire CEOs crying to Mommy. How many of us face the possibility of violence every day? Or, as this poor woman found out, the possibility of going to jail for 40 years because you didn’t know how to stop a virus-infected school computer from displaying porn spam? How many of us would enjoy being expected not just to do our jobs, but also to be legally bound to monitor our clients for signs of abuse? To not only teach, say, physics, but also manners, respect for others, discipline, and critical thinking? The good teachers try to do all that. And many of them burn out under the strain.
We treat teachers with a strange sort of scrutiny, a lot like that we use on parents. Partly because they are taking care of our kids, and partly because when we were kids, they were such huge figures in our lives.
But as adults, we need to understand that they are, and have always been, mere human beings. Teaching suffers from a number of problems other professions don’t; low pay, high expectations, the stresses of dealing with children and their issues, the way that teachers are expected not just to do their jobs, but to connect with and nurture their students. Like many female-dominated professions, it also suffers from a lack of respect and low prestige.
Maybe this is all connected. Maybe we resent having to pay them for such a demanding job because we think of them the way we think of mothers; people who, because they are female and in charge of children, should do a perfect job for no reason other than love. Who certainly should not demand a lot of money and respect for doing that job. Who should be saints without lives of their own, devoted only to their (surrogate) children’s well-being, no matter the cost to themselves.
Maybe this is why we shrug when told teachers have to buy their own supplies, hold bakesales, accept pitiful pay to do the job that is supposed to be so important. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? We’re letting them teach our precious children…how dare they complain?
I didn’t have any monstrously bad teachers, but I certainly wouldn’t say they don’t exist. Nor would I say the system itself doesn’t harbor a lot of bad environments, bad attitudes, abuse and neglect. But the teachers I remember were, by and large, trying hard to do their jobs. Some of them had weird chips on their shoulders or treated students unfairly, but even those I managed to learn something from. Many of them were forgettable. I have no idea who taught me in 7th grade English, for example. But since I didn’t fail, I must have learned something from her. I must have at least read my assignments, done my homework, taken my tests. The teachers I do remember weren’t all extraordinary, but they were committed enough to show up every day, take us through the lesson plan, try to help us when we asked questions.
I don’t want people online or anywhere to stop thinking critically about what happens in schools. It’s a vitally important question. I do want them to consider whether their expectations of teachers take into account the realities on the ground–the same realities they would want someone to look at if they were being evaluated. I would want them to appreciate just how enormous a task it is to educate every single child in the United States to the highest level of literacy, mathematical competency, and critical thinking that they can reach. We ask educators to take on a job larger and more complex than that of the military on a fraction of its budget, while taxpayers howl about paying even that much.
There is one reason that, along with librarians, teachers are my heroes. And that is: there is nothing more subversive than equal access to knowledge. Making education available to all regardless of income is one of the fragile threads that holds us from falling back into the Middle Ages. Slave owners understood the power of knowledge, which is why teaching a slave to read was once a serious offense. An educated slave is a slave who might think up a route to freedom.
Public education in this country needs a lot of work, but that work has to go beyond tearing it down or recounting our childhood traumas. It can’t be done if we don’t understand the power of even a poor education to open doors. It’s true that not enough doors are opening for not enough kids, yet. It’s true that rich kids still get a better education than poor ones, and that true equality in education may be unattainable. But it’s also true that the failures of the system are not the same thing as a failure of the ideal. Education is one of the best tools we have for creating ladders out of poverty. However we decide to fix it, it’s time we recognized how little most of us could have done without it.
*I’d be lying if I said I read any conservative ones. Heh.
His mouth is full of teeth. Where is he putting the new ones? Maybe he’s getting his wisdom teeth early too. I can’t tell, because putting your finger in there is a good way to lose it. I need some sort of dental pry-thingie and a flashlight if I want to find out, and I just haven’t bought the proper ropes with which to hog-tie him first.
But….drooling? Check. Not eating much? Check. Extra poop? Check. Sometimes fevery? Check. Waking up from a deep sleep wailing? Check. Fingers in the mouth? Check.
Either he’s contracted some rare disease that has all those exact symptoms, or it’s another &^$$#*&^$#! tooth. Making this the 8,00th Complaining About Teething entry. Sorrry ya’ll. At least I didn’t write a whole entry about how relieved I am that he is an extremely regular pooper and hardly ever gets diarrhea, knock on wood. So thank your lucky stars for that.
For the last few days, I have been enjoying a sudden mental change that took me by surprise. Namely, that while I have dutifully hated my body since the age of 11, like all girls are supposed to…I don’t anymore. Not even that…I think I look awesome.
I have no idea where this came from. Maybe I’ve always thought that, but learned, as all girls do, that you must never say that you think you look damn good. I don’t know why it’s rude NOT to hate yourself, exactly, though I suspect the slimy tentacles of the patriarchy at work.
Maybe it was when I decided that I am not dieting anymore, that I am not going to keep thinking about “when I lose weight” as some sort of mandatory goal I must pursue, like all women must. I mean…who says? Why does anyone get a say in what I weigh/wear/how I look anyway? Why does my scale weight or my clothes size matter to anyone? Why should it?
I’m not going to get positive feedback on this from some people; being non-thin is the one sin you musn’t commit. It’s the Mark of the Beast, or of Cain, the scarlet F. And while people will tell you it’s about Health, it’s not; if you were thin because you lived on carrot sticks and diet Coke (which is about the only way I could be) you’d have anemia but everyone would tell you how good you looked. It’s about Appearance, and acceptability, fitting the template, not taking up too much space, not making people have to look at you…my god! How dare they have to see a woman with a belly! What kind of world would it be if women didn’t have to constantly monitor their bodies and appetites for other people’s approval? Chaos in the streets!
It’s just enough, for me. I’m done with that burden. I’m done seeing myself not as I am, but as a person who is Not the Size She Should Be. There is no size I should be. There is my health, and a weight at which it would deteriorate, which I am not anywhere close to, nor likely to be. There is muscle and strength to be gained if I exercised more (though it wouldn’t necessarily make me much smaller even if could hike 20 miles) and that is something I want, but I don’t want it so that I will become Blonde Fairy Fantasy Skinny Barbie. She is not me, she is not anything I care about. My life would be easier if I looked like her in some ways, but the price is too high.
And you know, the irony is that when you hate yourself, exercise is so much harder. Because you’re in an awful mental place, where you think about how hideous you are, and you don’t want to run marathons. You want to hide in a cave. But when I allow myself to think that yes, I am kind of hot, thank you, then moving around and sweating and probably looking somewhat stupid seems fun, fun like when I was a kid running around my neighborhood with all the other kids. Before I learned to think of myself as defective, or care what my body looked like at all. I got lots of exercise in those days, but I was never rail-thin. I was always built solid, like all the women in my family, good Viking stock with strong arms and legs and a solid layer of flesh that would get you through the winter (at least, that’s my theory).
More than at any time in my life, I love food. Healthy food. Fresh stuff, well-cooked stuff, stuff with flavor and juice and seasonings. I refuse to give that up. The problem is, it’s hard to get unless you want to spend a lot of time cooking, so I work at that, and at getting exercise to counter the crap food I’m forced to eat now and then.
When I hated myself and dieted (or rather, beat myself up for failing to diet), I had the horrible feeling that food controlled me; that left to my own devices, I would eat and eat and eat until I was 800 pounds and couldn’t walk anymore. And that does happen, but I don’t fear it for myself. I eat, but I stop, and I’m getting better at figuring out how to stop. There’s a big difference between eating for pleasure and eating to numb pain; I’m trying to have much more of the first and less of the second.
Dieting hasn’t been totally useless. Doing Atkins for a while taught me not to fear fat (since I lost weight while eating lots of it). The idea of eating slowly and savoring your food, is a good one. It’s just that it needs to be about pleasure, not about restraining your evil appetite that wants to make you a hideous beast.
I think diets in general make your appetite into something that’s so fearful that it does end up controlling you; because it’s all you think about. But when I stopped dieting/trying to diet, a funny thing happened; I occasionally forgot to eat until I got hungry. Food moved off of center stage, and became just another part of my life, not an addiction but a necessity and a pleasure.
Like I said, I haven’t lost weight, that I can tell, but then I don’t own a scale or want to. Or need to. I’m doing fine on my own.
Dooh doh doh doo: I am playing cutely, and perhaps looking in the mirror as I do.
NaNAnanana: Blah blah: imitation of adult speech. See also Charlie Brown “wah wah wah wah.”
Stck: stick
Dah: dog
Mama: Mom
Dadada or Dadoh: Dad
Mii mii mii!: General expression of pleased surprise: “Well would you look at that! I’ll be darned!”
Nononononoo: Sometimes “no.” Sometimes simply commentary, i.e., “I just don’t know about that.”
Ahhpul: Apples. Also, any food. Also, rocks that look like they might be food.
and maybe this too…
OK, I’ll admit; not the hugest fan of Spiderman. Or any superhero. But if you read any comics whatsoever, they’re pretty hard to avoid.
Which is why I know that Spiderman’s girlfriend/wife/whatever is a nice girl named Mary Jane, who, as far as I know, has never starred in a porn film.
Anyway, it helps to filter the latest happenings in fanboy wankery through an inisightful feminist viewpoint such as Wonder Girl’s.
And it’s thanks to her that I found a link to this little bit of Mary Jane fanboy collectibilia that answers the crucial question: how can we reveal our utterly infantile and assholish attitudes towards women that will fully explain why no actual woman would want to touch us?
Ta-dah!
Oh wait..here’s a better look.
What you can’t see, unless you want to go to the website of the soft-porn version of the Franklin Mint that’s selling this crap, is that she’s also barefoot.
So let’s recap:
–Usually normal-looking female character pornified via big-boobing, stripper wardrobe, and back-breaking (and impossible!) submissive pose? Check!
–Female engaged in menial task that the male in her life should by all rights be doing for himself…and getting some weird sexual thrill out of it? Check!
–Female…shudder…barefoot while doing said task? Extra double check!
–Pitiful fanboys on the comment boards of the retailer’s site thinking said degredation is not disturbing but “hawt”? Extra triple check!
The damn thing’s apparently sold out. Despite the fact that any self-respecting woman who saw it ensconced in pride of place on her date’s coffee table would be completely excused for running far away, fast.
When faced with such a massively clueless bit of offensiveness, sometimes there is only one way to get your point across: turn the tables.
And so, I give you this lovely creation of artist logansrogue, featured on devildoll’s blog:
It may not be pretty, but it had to be done.
Can you imagine a world without men? No crime and lots of happy fat women. — Nicole Hollander
I haven’t been able to put my finger on why I wasn’t blown away by the much-hyped Y: The Last Man series. It’s an interesting premise (all men and male mammals mysteriously die, except for one man and his male pet monkey. Cue chaos). And the writer Brian K. Vaughan, works hard to show a variety of women characters, and to not make his male survivor a macho superstud in any way. But it still seemed a bit shallow and overwrought to me, and I couldn’t figure out why.
Blogger Bookseller had some good critiques. She points out that the only “radical” bit about it was putting a man in a traditionally female role; the sought-after prize being pursued by others while trying to find happiness and love. The rest, unfortunately, has been fairly dull. Although there are so many female characters, many of them strong, smart, etc. etc., they all feel interchangeable. I have no sense of them as people, even when their tortured backstories are revealed. This may be partly due to the character design, which seemed to give everyone, male and female, rather bland “comics people” faces and bodies; this works ok in a superhero comic, becaues you have the costumes and masks to give the main characters interest. But what that means visually in this comic is that it looks like a Superman world where all the heroes have left and it’s nothing but blandly-drawn extras.
In the presence of really strong writing and dialogue, the bland inexpressive faces might not have mattered as much, but Vaughan isn’t writing to that level, so every “emotional” scene comes off as staged and fakey.
Y has gotten a lot of attention, and a lot of praise, and is quite likely to be turned into a movie, and maybe it’ll even be a decent one. But I don’t think Vaughn quite understands what kinds of issues he’s really dealing with when he takes on gender power struggles and the history of sexism.
It doesn’t help that “world without men” scenarios have been done before, and done better, and done by women–in sci-fi stories like Herland, The Female Man, When it Changed, etc.
It’s especially disappointing to read Vaughan after so recently reading the story “The Matter of Seggri” in Ursula K. Leguin’s The Birthday of the World. Next to his thinly-plotted adventure tale, with its ersatz and unbelievable “Amazons” and anguished supermodels, LeGuin’s exploration of what a flip-flopped world with women on top would really be like shines with intelligence, compassion, and honesty.
Her women are not any more admirable as dominators, but they are infinitely more believable. LeGuin took the same conceit that Vaughn used, wondering what it would mean to be a scarce man surrounded by women who want him for his body, and reveals the downsides with a wisdom and precision than Vaughn is unable to match. Seggri is a world with about 20 times as many women as men, and so men are rare, precious, and confined to “castles” and forbidden to do anything but play sports and have sex…provided they’re good at both. No reading, no art, no science is allowed to them (because “what goes to the brain takes from the testicles”), and they can never leave their compounds or choose their partners. We see this system from both male and female sides; the vague guilt and justifications of the women, the horror of the lives of the men, deprived of personhood and agency exactly as so many women have been and still are on Earth.
Like Vaughn, LeGuin puts a man (or all men) in a female role, but unlike him, she doesn’t pull her punches as to what that means in a system without gender equity; i.e., loss of bodily ownership. What I found most unbelievable about Y is that Yorick would be anything but a prisoner; in a world where he was the only possible hope for continuing humanity, he would be locked up and forced to contribute sperm for the rest of his life–and not by having sex, either..far too risky. It would be nothing but glass jars and porn mags for him, except maybe for the occasional experiment with a carefully-chosen, genetically-desirable partner. His own wishes would be seen as mattering not at all next to the needs of his society.
To a woman raised in a society where her uterus (or any of her body) is hardly ever considered her own property to do with as she likes, this is utterly evident and predictable. But it’s as though Vaughn can’t quite admit that anything like that could ever happen to a man. As though he can’t quite imagine the full extent of it–or doesn’t want to. I don’t think that makes him a bad writer, just one unable to see past his own privileges.
So So Silver Age has more.
I love this story Frectis tells that she heard from Ina May Gaskin (possibly the most famous midwife in the world!):
She also talked about breastfeeding and told this story of a nurse in California who was tired of the low breastfeeding rates of her hospital at discharge. She linked the low rate to the “necessary†separation of mothers and babies for “assessments†in the nursery. Being clever and knowing the hosptial machine rolls by the mechanics of intervention and you can’t just propose a new protocol based on good sense, she devised a new intervention: mandatory attachment assessment. Now following births, the baby had to remain skin to skin with their mothers for at least 30 minutes following birth so they could be observed for “bonding†before the nursery was allowed to take them. Thirty minutes turned into a lot longer once the babies started nursing. One thing led to another and now the hospital has a sky-high breastfeeding rate.
I mean, it’s beyond stupid that it has to be done this way, but kudos to the brilliant nurse who figured it out.
