Friday Morning Musings on White Privilege

I haven’t been called racial slurs very often in my life; when you’re a middle class white girl from the South, it’s just not something that happens on a regular basis.  The only time I distinctly remember being called a cracker, actually, was when I was in the fifth grade:  a little boy declared that I was a cracker and he was a black-eyed pea, and that made him better than me.  I recall being vaguely hurt by this, in the way that you tend to be vaguely hurt when someone you’ve just met takes an immediate dislike to you.  Mostly, though, I was just puzzled.  “Why did he say that to me?” I asked one of his friends after he’d run off.

“He has a bad home life,” she shrugged, and that was the end of that.  My great experience with racism ended with me playing with the kid’s friends while he went home and sulked.

I understand that not every white person has my experiences; I understand that there are, in fact, white people who grow up being the only white kid at school, and that that’s usually not much fun.  I’m not saying it’s okay when those white people ignore hundreds of years of American history and claim that they’re the ones who are really oppressed, but I get it.  I understand taking an extremely traumatic personal experience and making it into a universal one.  What I do not understand are the white people who grew up in situations like mine who try to claim that having individual black people dislike them or mistreat them is the same thing as being systematically oppressed.  And I have a really ugly reason for not understanding that.  Because my reaction has always been, “Why the fuck do you care if someone calls you a cracker?”

And Now Let Me Be Brief and Dismissive

Tana French, The Likeness

You know what I hate?  When an author takes an otherwise blameless mystery novel and mucks it up with ill-advised attempts at profundity.  The Likeness is a good mystery, but Tana French wants it to be more–she wants it to be deep.  And you know, it could have been, if she hadn’t overwritten the crap out of it.

The Likeness is about an Irish detective named Cassie who infiltrates a houseful of postgrad English students when her doppelganger turns up dead–and wearing the ID of one of her old undercover identities .  Sounds fun, right?  And it is, when French isn’t musing about how being ”a good undercover” means there’s something wrong with Cassie.  Or whining about the “missing piece” that allowed Cassie’s doppelganger to assume the identity of others, or blah, blah, BLAH.  Yanno, All She Was Worth is a good mystery novel with an elusive identity thief at its center, and you know how Miyuki Miyabe managed that?  BY NOT OVERWRITING THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYTHING.  Let the reader think for her goddamn self, yo. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST STOP WITH THE CONSTANT HAND-WRINGING AND PHILOSOPHISING.

Recommended for:  If you can stomach the pretentiousness, it really is an interesting puzzle.  If you can’t, skip it.

Crazy On You

During my junior year of college, I was snotty enough to take a seminar on Virginia Woolf.  I was a Women’s Studies major; it seemed to fit.  In an effort to get us closer to Virginia, my professor asked us to free write about our earliest memories—Woolf did this in her uncompleted autobiography, so why shouldn’t we?  I came up with something that probably scared the bejeesus out of my professor.  I remember getting my paper back a few classes later:  her comments were enthusiastic and engaged for the first few paragraphs, then trickled down to nothing near the end.

She never said anything to me about it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was either A.) bored out of skull by what I’d written; or B.) convinced that she was reading about a half-buried memory of molestation.  Spoiler:  she wasn’t.

I remember very clearly what I wrote because it’s my first memory—not my official first memory, which is of sitting on a stump in my parents’ front yard at the age of two, but my real first memory.  The one I still have dreams about over two decades later.

I was probably about three or four; we were visiting my mother’s relatives in California.  I have a cousin, Jessica, who’s two years older than me and was, at the time, an only child (not to mention the only girl-baby my gramma and great-gramma saw on a regular basis).  In other words, she had LOTS of toys and costumes, and many of those dresses sort of kind of fit me.  So My First Memory is of walking down the street in my grandma’s neighborhood in Oakland wearing a Snow White costume that dragged on the ground behind me.

It would just be one of those moments that’s only memorable because you remember it:  my brother has one of those—he remembers talking about eating grapes with my parents when he was three, and that memory only stands out because it’s all he remembers about being three.  But this memory is different.  This memory is memorable because of the feeling attached to it:  the wrongness.  I tried to get at that feeling when I was writing about it for class, but I think I wound up sounding like I was trying not to remember the Bad Touch.

But what was wrong about that memory is that nothing was wrong:  nothing was wrong. I was wearing the coveted Snow White outfit (I had to practically rip it from Jess’ lonely-only hands), I was outside, it was a beautiful day, and I was being allowed to Think My Thoughts.  Even as a very small child, solitude was important to me.  And yet, I wasn’t happy.  I still felt this free-floating, pervasive anxiety that I could neither explain nor process.  And that’s why, twenty-one years later, I still remember being that little blond kid on a dusty street in a too-large Disney costume.

Because that’s my first memory of my illness.

Soooooooooooooul Mates

So some of you may be wondering, “What is with all this goopy relationship shit?  Where is the incisive literary commentary?  When will she finally post another Bayou entry?  Where is my goddamn sandwhich?”

To which I say—why were the stats on my last entry so low?  What, do you people hate charity?  And teenagers?  AND CONDOMS?

I think we’ve BOTH got a lot to answer for, really.

‘Tis the Season…

…to think about teen sexuality.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in 1894 when I asked everyone to suggest charities to spotlight during the holiday season, Otter wrote in about Scarleteen.  This is what she had to say:

Oh, here, let me plug my favorite charity to you. Even better than Planned Parenthood! It’s Scarleteen, a site that gives factual, unbiased, nonjudgemental sex education for teens. They’ve had millions of users, and also do outreach and work with homeless teens, runaways, glbt teens, everything.

Heather Corinna, the woman who runs the site, is a friend of mine, and I can tell you she spends at least ten hours a day helping young adults. And she doesn’t make a whole lot of money. She does it herself, with volunteer moderators in the forums. Donations are pretty much all that keep it going.

I’ve poked around the site, and like Otter said, it’s pretty amazing.  There’s stuff on anatomy, of course (see here and here for examples), but Corinna also devotes a large amount of space to questions of sexuality and gender.  Speaking as someone whose “sex ed” consisted of a viewing of The Miracle of Life and some gnarly STI pics, this is some heady stuff.  And it’s based on some pretty sound principles:

While we at Scarleteen do not hold to the notion that just telling young adults to just go have sex is a better solution (or any solution at all, since that wouldn’t answer anyone’s questions), we strongly feel that belying judgment and furnishing them with the facts and context they need to know REGARDLESS of whether or not they are sexually active readies them to learn to make their own choices, and that often unheard perspectives help develop their own systems of ethics and values when combined with the perspectives of peers, schools, parents, other mentors and their overall culture and communities.

Can I get an “Amen!”?  Or at least twenty bucks or a few hours of your time?

Donate here, volunteer here.  And remember, guys: ’tis the season to be generous.  And to help some dumbass teenagers make safe, informed decisions.

Dream Wedding

So my best friend’s sister is getting married, and since the sister is a conservative Christian, things are a little…tamer than Erika would like.  Particularly the bachelorette party.

“YOU’LL let me have penis straws, won’t you?” she asked me in desperation this morning.  “YOU’LL let me make you a cake with two guys humping, right?”

“Of course, kitty, of course,” I said soothingly, but the truth is–no.  I will not.  Because I’m not having a wedding, and therefore I will not be having a bachelorette party.

I’m surprised Erika forgot this, because she is INTEGRAL to my marriage plans.  Yes, I will get married–I’m just cutting out the middle man.  No cake.  No preacher.  No goddamn dancing.  No torturing of the bridesmaids (I actually LIKE my friends).

No.  It’s going to go down like so:

I am going to wake up one morning dressed in a fabulous red gown with an epically plunging neckline and a burlap sack over my head.  My wrists will be bound.  George will be carrying me slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  Unless I go on a diet and he starts working out, he will probably be wheezing (note to self:  remember to stash inhaler in epic cleavage).  After a few seconds of abject terror and panicked squirming, I will remember what’s going on and where we’re headed.  “NOOOOOOOOO!” I’ll scream.   “You CAN’T take me to the justice of the peace!  I don’t WANT to get married!  I WANT TO KEEP LIVING IN SIN!!!!!”

“Don’t listen to her!” Erika will scream (sidenote:  Erika will also be fabulously dressed).  “You make an honest woman of her, you hear!  You’ve been exploiting her long enough!  It’s embarassing!  You’re a disgrace!”

George will carry me in silence; Erika will continue to scream abuse.  Eventually, we will reach the courthouse, where George will deposit me in front of a judge and Erika will remove my sack.

“Uh…what’s going on here?” the judge will ask.

“We’re getting married!” I’ll say brightly, my hands still tied.

And that will be that.  See?  See how easy that was?  All that’s necessary is a boyfriend with excellent upperbody strength and an ill-tempered shrew of a best friend!

I think it’s going to be fabulous.  None of you are invited, but only because that would defeat the purpose.  Don’t worry–there will be video.

Momma’s Tired

…so she’s not going to write anything new today.  Instead, here’s an entry from my personal journal dated June 28, 2008:

George and I are observating a townhouse because he wants to buy one.  We’re standing outside, looking at the exterior while his realtor goes hunting for the code to open the door, when the following conversation takes place.

Me:  Ooooh, I like the ivy growing up the front porch.
George:  I hate ivy!
Me:  You know, you can uproot it if you really dislike it that much.
George:  I will replace it with…ELECTRONICS.
Me:  …robot vines?
George:  Yes.  And I will program them to have moods!  So if you feel a vine snaking up the back of your neck, I will just say, “Don’t worry.  The vines are in sensual mode.“
Me:  …I hate you.

The sad part is, I really wouldn’t put it past him to do it.

I Am a Bad Mother

So last night I tried to bathe the toilet drinker because it makes his coat all glossy and healthy, and he reacted by clawing me so badly that I bled through my clothes.  And then he pissed all over himself and the tub.

…it was not my finest hour as a cat owner.  And no, I will never, EVER do that to him again.  My poor giant boo—it took him an entire two hours to forgive me.  I felt so bad about it that this morning when he tried to eat my blueberry bran muffin, I barely had the heart to stop him.  “He’s EARNED that muffin!” I thought, but I figured that giving in over the baked good would be like trying to bribe your kid with candy after beating him the night before.  So I ate the muffin myself.  THROUGH MY TEARS OF SHAME.

Man, I can’t WAIT until I have an actual human-type infant!  I will not fuck that up horribly AT ALL!

Halloween 2009

Halloween was a fairly relaxed holiday chez Mankiller.  My best friend and I watched Gossip Girl while my menfolk (FANG! and the Boyfriend) repaired electrical outlets, and occasionally someone would open the door and toss out a handful of candy to the slavering wolves disguised as small children.  It was all very low key. 

Well, let me take that back–it was all very low key for most of us.  For a certain kitty dressed as a shark, it wasn’t low key AT ALL.

The Ghost in the Machine

So this probably would have been more appropriate before Halloween, but I’m afraid that I have some disturbing evidence that my cell phone might be possessed by the Devil.  To whit:

1. When people try to call me, a disembodied voice tells them that the number is no longer in use.  And yet when I call others, everything is perfectly fine.
2. Whenever someone puts me on hold, my phone “randomly” drops the call.
3. Texts show up days late or not at all.
4. Even though my phone can TAKE photos and send them elsewhere, it will not receive them.  Like, ever.
5. No matter where I am or who I’m talking to, the person on the other end of the  line always sounds like they’re under the sea.  Except there’s no talking crab or racist undertones.  Just wooshing.  ALWAYS WITH THE WOOSHING.
6. Have I mentioned that texts show up days late or not at all?  Seriously.  My friend texted me a couple of times on Saturday, and the texts didn’t come through until 3:45 THIS MORNING.  If that’s not the work of the devil, I don’t know what is.

Taken altogether, I’m reasonably certain that my cellphone is a tool of Satan–I mean, even more than cellphones usually are.  Which annoys me, because like many trendy young people (ha!) my cell is my primary form of communication, and it is failing me left, right, and center.  The other morning my carpool tried to call me FIVE TIMES before the call finally went through.  FIVE TIMES.  I’m lucky they didn’t just assume I was dead and leave me.

What?  DC rush hour traffic is brutal.  You don’t have time to wait for the damn paramedics.

Anyway, the whole thing is annoying because not only is it keeping me from communicating with my nearest and dearest, it ALSO requires me to do the thing I hate most in the world:  pick out an electronic device.  Seriously, I hate that shit.  You should have seen me when I went to pick out a laptop–it was shameful.  The Boyfriend was like, “I think you should get this one,” and I was like, “Yeah, it’s cheap, I’ll take it.”

And that was IT. 

I don’t want to talk gigabites or OS or whatever; I don’t even know what that shit MEANS.  Nor do I care.  And my ignorance is not limited to computers:  when I bought SASHA FIERCE, the Boyfriend had to ask the hard questions.  And when I got this cellphone, NO ONE asked the hard questions because I went with my family and where do you think I got my lazy luddite tendencies from?

Seriously:  we all picked the cheapest model phone in under five minutes, and that was that.  You should have seen the look of horror and disgust on the poor salesman’s face.  I’m still ashamed of us all.

And this is the point where I’m supposed to say that I’m going to do better, that I’m going to do my research and learn what all this shit means and get a good deal and fear God and whatnot, but honestly?  I’m not.  Come Saturday I’m going to go to the Sprint store, find the cheapest plan that I can live with, and find a phone that is easy to text on (don’t even get me STARTED on the lack of punctuation options on my current demon-possessed communication device).  Oh, and I’ll make sure it’s pink.  PINK.  Those are my only requirements.  Because I am shallow and life is too short to pretend to give a shit about data plans.

What?  I WAS just going to douse my current phone with a vial of holy water, but I was told that that probably wouldn’t work.  JEEZ.  What do you people WANT from me?