shack up (modernist witch oct. 2012)

I write a column for Maximum Rocknroll. This is an upcoming column.

--

It’s not like unjustified fear is anything new in US political rhetoric, but this 2012 electoral cycle has really been a banner year for the kind of ignorant and hateful commentary that is meant to keep large swathes of the public – essentially, those of us who are not rich white cis men – on the defensive, responding to said statements rather than defining the terms of the debate for ourselves.  We spend our time and energy locked in circles, swallowing our own tails, feeling defeated before we even begin.

Of course, that is not to say that pushing back against the Todd Akins, Paul Ryans and Jim Greers of the world – the bigots who want to retain their policymaking power at all costs – is not important. But it is only half of the picture. There is organizing to do, there are projects to develop, there are networks between community organizations to nurture, and somewhere in there we need to take care of our own hearts.

I’m not the only one who is feeling completely drained at this point in time; every conversation I have with a colleague or likeminded friend who pays attention to politics seems to go this route: “Do you feel like you just kind of can’t even with the world right now? Yeah, me too.” We turn off our blogs, stop reading the news for a moment, step away from our computers, stop having the same discussions over and over again because they are so draining to have. Not only do we live in a culture in which police (or those adopting police tactics, like George Zimmerman) claim that their murders and beatings and sexual assaults were justified (and many people believe them), not only do we live in a culture where rape victims are afraid to step forward because of the way we fear we will be treated by the system based on past precedent, not only do we live in a culture where unions are vilified for even daring to challenge an employer on something like the provision of health care for their employees, not only do we live in a culture where Black and Latin@ voter suppression is an obvious part of the right’s political strategy – but we spend most of our energy trying to prove those things are even happening even when they’re easily documentable, even to those within our own movements.

The feminist environments I grew up in, for instance, took as a given that mainstream feminism as we knew it had been a movement in which white cis women had been allowed to define the terms of rhetoric and spaces to privilege their own voices and exclude those of women of color and trans women. (There are any number of histories and personal memoirs that speak to these experiences.) We looked at the segregated nature of ‘70s feminism and looked forward to building a movement in which we would not replicate the mistakes of past generations. This is not to say that the feminism of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s did not have many of those same issues, but it was an environment in which those conversations flourished, in which we did not have to prove over and over again to those who were supposed to be our fellows that something documentable (and obviously wrong) was indeed happening. These days, I see those kinds of 101 conversations that are really a step backward happening everywhere all the time, as mainstream feminist websites delete comments that merely question where the voices and viewpoints of those who are not white cis women are.

We live in a political environment where nuance is frowned upon (tl; dr), where the rise of Twitter as a news source has condensed sound bites even further into hashtags. The news cycle is absurdly quick these days – it’s been speeding up since the invention of the newspaper, but these days it can be a matter of minutes. I think sometimes that’s one of the reasons we have the same conversations over and over again so many times – because the amount of information out there is so enormous, and because the life cycle of the headline or the popular blog post is so short, memory has to accommodate for both. Sloganeering becomes survival.

I’m not saying that the sky is falling or trying to say that It Was Better Then – it was just different, and we have new media to contend with  - as the music and publishing industries, both mainstream and DIY, struggle with electronic media, so does politics. Since Atwater days in particular, the US right wing has done a really phenomenal job of messaging, of introducing terms into the debate that end up defining the debate, of keeping the left wing on the ropes, attempting to make up the distance. This isn’t a new critique by any means, but I see in this critique the source of my own personal exhaustion – it hurts to be having the same conversations over and over again about rape, about abortion, about police violence, about body autonomy, about economic justice. These are the subjects close to my heart, close to my own survival and the survival of people I love dearly, and when our survival is threatened in rhetoric and policy proposal by those who have the power to make the policies that will have very real impact in our lives, I start sending out SOS signals. Being in a state of constant SOS, constant vigilance, being tensed to fight every day, is beyond exhausting.

Fear motivates me too, in a way. It is a very different fear than the unjustified fear and hatred that motivates so many politicians. It is the constant fear that I live with that I will be attacked in my own home, walking down the street in any neighborhood, just because I exist – that amongst the members of my community there will be someone who will hurt someone else I love and that that community, much as the justice system at large, will not be supportive or understand.  That is a fear that is wholly justified. As a white cis woman, my fear of being erased by someone hateful just because I exist is less than others, because there are not as many people who feel threatened by my presence enough to strike out or kill as there are for, say, someone like CeCe McDonald (you should read up on her case if you aren’t familiar). The political environment constantly reminds me that not only my existence and autonomy are constantly being challenged but that the existence and autonomy of people I love dearly is constantly under attack. How do we hope to fight back, when we have such a disadvantage?

We go back to the basics. We organize, we talk, we have continued conversations where we listen to one another seriously and offer true help and solidarity to one another – not the kind of solidarity where you get what you came for and then you’re gone, not the kind of solidarity that tramples some by capitalizing on the struggle of others – we need the kind of solidarity where those of us who have more resources offer without caveat those resources to others fighting against systemic marginalization while still respecting the ability of those others to organize themselves and build their own movement, the kind of solidarity that does not have ego.  We start defining the terms of our political debate in-house ourselves, and then bring those terms to the public sphere. We need to figure out how we are going to use new media to our advantage without forgetting that some of us don’t have as much access to technology as others. And we need to give ourselves time to rest, time to breathe, time to be light. We need to study our history carefully as we look to our organizing strategies for the future.

an open letter to judge jacqueline hatch (tw: rape, victim blaming)

To the Honorable Jacqueline Hatch:

It was with dismay and disgust that I read today about your ruling in the case of the sexual assault committed by Arizona police officer Robb Gary Evans and your remarks to his victim.

Unfortunately, I was not surprised.

You see, I am a survivor of multiple sexual assaults. One happened when I was 13; I reported it, with the help of a school counselor, to the local police. No charges were filed, even though I knew the names of the people who raped me. The clothing I had on the day I went to the police station was questioned. My behavior was questioned. My prior relationships with the boys who raped me were questioned. I do not believe the boys themselves were ever questioned.

When I was 18, I was raped by someone I was dating and an associate of theirs. Not wanting to deal with the police again, and far from home during my first year of college, I reported my rape - and subsequent pregnancy - to the school I was attending. I was forced to attend "mediation" with the two people involved, deprived of choices about what to do with the resultant child (I miscarried), and dropping classes I had with those two people was an incredible chore that dragged on forever. It was a small campus. I saw them everywhere. I was not safe. (I transferred as soon as I could.)

I have been very public about my status as a survivor and the way that I was treated by police, college administration, therapists - institutions that are ostensibly set up to help victims of a violent crime or at least refer them to the correct other institutions, institutions that have the ability to mete out one form of justice/aid or another - because very little has changed, and I want other people, other survivors, to be able to receive support and understanding when they come forward. I received that kind of support from some places in my life (and I am thankful for it), but not from institutions who I was told that I was supposed to trust with my well-being.

I would imagine Evans' victim may have felt similarly as I did when she heard your words and saw your ruling.

We hear these messages EVERY DAY, we women. We can't drink, we can't wear certain outfits, we can't flirt, we can't change our minds: we led him on. We can't go outside. We deserved it. Some women - women of color, trans women - get this message more intensely and it manifests in different ways from the mainstream message - some women's bodies are deemed more worthy of protection, justice and autonomy than others. There is a wealth of literature, research and survivor testimonials out there on all of this, and one thing is clear from all of it - there is nothing we could ever do that would make rape justifiable. Someone who understands consent, who is not a rapist, backs off when there is any sign that a woman does not welcome his attentions - even if she did before. It has nothing to do with the victim's actions and everything to do with the rapist's.

I see that you have apologized to the victim; that's a good start. I really do hope that you apply what you've learned from the public response to your callous remarks to future cases, and that there is some way for  Evans to be punished for his crime - losing his job would be a good beginning. Sending the message that behavior like his is completely unacceptable is crucial. I hope you understand the fact that your ruling was unjust - a civilian would have been menacing enough, but a police officer who abused his authority in order to assault a woman? Evans is not the first or last, and it is an especially heinous abuse of power. I hope you truly understand the force your remarks had and how truly traumatic it is hearing a system reinforce the idea that you did something to bring your assault upon yourself.

Perhaps you can take this opportunity to work with a rape crisis center or another advocacy organization of that sort to educate fellow members of the judicial community. I can only hope. All of us survivors can only hope. Your voice as a member of the bar, as someone who sits on the Coconino County Superior Court, has more political weight than mine. Please use it for true justice, for true change.

Sincerely,

Jessica Skolnik
Chicago, IL

when hell's near

A lot of the collective organizing I find myself engaged in is that which some dismiss as "identity politics," but which I really believe is a politic of survival - the necessary agitation needed to disrupt a system which both historically and currently restricts access to resources to certain people based on race/gender/class/sexual orientation/ability.

When the sheer fact of your existence in the world means that you are subject to potential violence, when you are not safe walking down the street because your body scares people who have more power than you do, when you are cut off from the resources you need to support yourself and/or your family, you do what you can to get by. You hustle, you organize, you use what voice you have to advocate for yourself.

I agitate for my own survival, of course, and for/with others facing the same challenges I do - but I'm also not that far down the chain of power, personally, and so I believe that supporting others who are further down the chain from me in their quests for their own survival is critical. That can manifest in many ways, the most common being sharing resources (financial, informational) on a micro-level and using what platforms I have to boost others' voices, ideas, and organizations.

It should not ever mean busting into discussions that don't directly involve me, insisting that I know better than someone else what they need in order to survive, thinking any of this makes me a better person than others, talking over others, insisting I deserve praise for my Good Deeds, ignoring preexisting community networks in favor of my splashy new organization, hogging the spotlight, making a career out of my participation in an oppressive system and criticism thereof (when perfectly good and voluminous criticism already exists from those who are oppressed by that system). It should not ever mean becoming so enveloped in my movement that I defend the ways in which it's flawed and shout down legitimate criticism.

It involves a lot of listening and a lot of reading. A lot of thought. A lot of meaningful personal relationships. It is not easy or simple and it can't particularly be packaged neatly or sold because it's so practical and conditional.

This is a politic of personal survival as well as collective survival. This is the only thing that matters to me: that we still live in a massively fucked and weighted world that favors those who already have the resources and who are given the benefit of the doubt and are treated with full humanity, who live in this world with less fear of personal harm every day than others, and continues to shaft those who don't.

One more thing: should you dismiss rhetoric (as we are in hyperelectoral mode as a country in the US right now), it matters. It matters because rhetoric is used to enact and justify policy, and policy has real life effects.

you better be doubtful

I feel a lot like I harp on/concentrate on the same social topics over and over to the point where I may become one long drone - sexual & relationship violence/consent, institutionalized violence, body autonomy, economic justice, dismantling whiteness, gender equity, and so on. There is never a day when these matters are not crucially important to me.

But there are some days when I want to just lie face down on my bed and not talk or hear about any of it. I don't really have the luxury of doing so most of the time, and I'm very much aware that those rare moments when I'm not forced to confront such things simply because I live in my body in this world are because of fucked-up social structures that I benefit from also because I live in my body in this world.

I've felt like that for pretty much all of 2012.

It might be that I have narrowed my access to information so that the headlines I get are particularly tailored to my social concerns, or it might be that this election cycle - and the proposed Republican platform specifically - feels particularly threatening to me personally. This is not new news, but it feels particularly urgent right now. Much of the dialogue I'm reading from left-activist corners feels like it's failing really basic stuff (like an intersectional analysis that takes into account the impact of race, gender, class and sexuality all at the same time as opposed to focusing solely on one axis), and so I find myself reading (and sometimes writing) a lot of necessary 101 responses - but they are the same kinds of responses people have been making to ignorance in activism for the last FORTY YEARS.

I am tired. Tired. Tired. I am not the only one.

There are a few things I am taking solace in: making music. Building things. Being with the people I trust and love. Good food and books and records and movies.

I am glad I have those things in my life.

But I am so tired.

At the same time, I feel like I have to pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep fighting no matter how little energy I have, because times are so incredibly critical. I try to use my voice where it's useful, try to promote others' voices where that's what's needed, try to share the resources I have and help community organizations connect with one another if I can.

Sometimes I feel very lonely. Other times I feel lucky, surrounded by others who understand, others who are fighting too, others who I look up to.

This is going to be a pretty short piece, but I just wanted to acknowledge that I feel lucky to have this space to share my thoughts, as I am lucky to have the people around me both virtually and in my "real" life that I do. If anyone else is feeling isolated and alone in this horrendous political climate, feeling small against institutions that were built broken and have further corrupted, let's squeeze one another's hands for support. Let's lean on one another.

winter rainbow

I used to be skinny. I also used to hate myself.

I was a US size 4-6 for most of my teen/young adult life. I always had big tits and a big ass/hips relative to my frame, which is a tiny one (I'm somewhere between 4'9" and 4'10". The rest of my family is also that short). My body was sexualized from a very young age, a site of shame, and as I went through puberty I also learned that it was an easy way to get attention (both negative and positive - it took me a long time how to figure out how to separate the two).

I can remember being 11 years old (the year, interestingly enough, that I became socially involved with the boys that would sexually assault me two years later). I weighed less than 90 lbs. I'd lie in bed pinching the skin on my sides and belly. I was so disgusted with myself, so depressed, so suicidal, that I'd seized on my weight as the thing to focus on (having been bombarded with messages about weight and attractiveness and self-worth from every conceivable angle). I ate nothing but yogurt for a week. I starved myself sometimes, and then I'd binge. I hated myself so much. I wished to disappear. I wished myself out of my skin, away from the frame and flesh I found so repugnant.

And so I developed body dysmorphia.

That stuck around as I developed healthier eating habits, as I stopped doing insane amounts of drugs, as I started coping with the fallout from that assault at 13 and both earlier and later issues, as I started putting myself together slowly and carefully, as I worked on my mental and physical health in fits and starts. I never saw other fatter women as anything other than beautiful, though I'd compare myself to skinnier women and wish that I could look like them, wished that I could benefit from whatever I perceived them to benefit from (the more I unpack it, the more absurd and irrational it's revealed to be). All of my bodily self-hatred was focused toward the things that deviated from the standard - my hair, my nose, my height, my shape. Fat was a strange phantom, a psychic location for my inner self-hatred.

When I went on anti-depressants I gained weight, and a few years ago I was diagnosed with PCOS, and both the PCOS and the hormonal birth control I went on as an attempt to deal with it were contributing factors to my gaining even more weight. I am now a US size 10-12 (still smaller than average, but on my frame that means something different than it might for someone taller than me). At first I was really unhappy with how I looked (as I always had been), but as I began to talk to friends of mine and women in my community who were larger than I am I started realizing a few things:
1) That it's incredibly insulting to other larger women for a smaller woman like myself to speak in the way that I was speaking about my body, regardless of my intention (I feel terrible about this on a daily basis);
2) That I benefited from thin privilege for a very long time, and that I still do to some extent (I can shop in straight size stores, etc);
3) That the weight loss industry is horrifying, misogynistic, manipulative and nothing more than the hand of capital in my pocket;
4) That my health is my own business and that nobody has the right to judge anyone else based on their weight;
5) That I am personally a thousand times healthier and happier in all respects than I was when I was skinny.

Without movements like Fat Acceptance and Health at Every Size, without the words of wise women out there (both friends and strangers), I doubt I would have come to these conclusions. I owe these women a debt of gratitude far larger than I can ever repay. I am proud of my belly, my big thighs, my big hips, my ass. I no longer find shame in my hair, my nose, my short neck. My cleavage is my business, and I can choose to reveal it or not as I please. These aspects of my body are all part of me, and my body is beautiful because it is MINE and because I love being alive. The phantoms no longer haunt me.

I never thought I'd get here, much like I never thought I'd shake the constant cloak of depression and PTSD that I was hiding and suffocating in (that I wrote about in December). But I have, and I write about it here to flout the myth that skinny is necessarily better or more desirable. I feel more loved, more comfortable, more proud and beautiful than I ever have.

We all have different bodies, and we have to learn what's comfortable and what's right for us. Sometimes what's right and comfortable and natural for us aligns with socially acceptable standards, and sometimes it doesn't. I'd love to live in a world that celebrates the beauty and power of all sorts of different bodies, but as long as there is money to be made off of shame and pain the fight for that utopia will be a tough uphill battle. I'm inspired to fight, though. I am full of fire.

the common-sense guide to being a survivors' advocate

1. If there's a story in the news about rape charges or a survivor brings a story to you, don't dismiss that story. Listen. Don't assume automatically that the charges are false or could be false. The chances of it being false are extremely low.

Don't make excuses for the person who is being charged or the person you're being told the story about ("Wow, but he's always been cool to me!" is the most obvious example of the kind of dismissive language/excuse I'm talking about here). No matter your intentions, this is rape-apologist language, and it's one of the many factors that contribute toward survivors not speaking up - a cultural atmosphere in which we we as survivors have historically had our experiences scrutinized, minimized and dismissed.

2. If a survivor comes to you with a story and would like advice as to how to proceed, let the survivor direct the course of action (as long as that course of action isn't dangerous to anyone). Remember that there are survivors' organizations and crisis centers in your area that can help and have the resources to do more than you can alone; that's always my first suggestion. Those organizations will also in many cases help the survivor through criminal, legal and medical filing if that's what the survivor chooses to do.

3. Donate your time and/or money to a worthwhile organization that supports survivors' services in your area. There are local and national shelters, hotlines, and other nonprofit organizations that are always in need of your energy.

4. If the person being accused of assault is an artist or musician (or producer of goods, so on and so forth), step back and question why you're supporting this person's work, if you are. There are enough artists and musicians out there that you're not losing anything significant by not focusing on, supporting or choosing not to associate yourself with that person's work. If that person is a member of your community, help figure out community strategies to deal with the resultant issues. Keep in mind that safety within the community comes first.

5. Take the time to educate yourself. Start here:
Yes Means Yes
Rape Victim Advocates
Support New York
Men Can Stop Rape

organs

Stretch your arm out. Point your finger.
A to B. Nebula. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.

We chew on ourselves. Our mouths are full
of flesh and dead words, cells sloughed off.
The newsday sets when we stop the noise,
screaming silenced beneath the fold.

Ourobouros. Nothing left. Seize the immediate.
Nothing left. There's a narrative. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.

Each of us an empire, collapsing. The dust from
our abandoned cities clouds the sun.
Lay the blame: a new foundation.

mississippi kite

There aren't distinct points demarcating The Time When I Was Severely Depressed (essentially from my beginning memories of consciousness to age 22 or so) from The Time When I Started Reckoning With Things But Was Still In A Lot Of Pain (ages 22-28, roughly) from The Time When The Clouds Are Allowed To Pass (ages 28 - present). Only in hindsight am I able to carve out rough biographical epochs, useful for tracing growth, learning forward and trying not to commit familiar mistakes.

My depression as I knew it is gone, and that's weird. It's weird to wake up without a demon curled around my neck, whispering how worthless I am, sucking out my energy, reminding me throughout the day that the world would be better off without me, that I've fucked up many times over, that there's no atonement possible. That demon was my familiar for so long that without it I found myself not really knowing how to function - I'd relied on it to gauge my actions for so long. It warped my lens and cast a long shadow over everything I could perceive.

I had my eyes examined a week or so ago for the first time in eight years. Turns out I actually need glasses - my prescription isn't that strong (I'm a little nearsighted/astigmatic) but it's strong for someone who wasn't wearing any kind of corrective eyewear. When I put my new glasses on for the first time, the amount of detail I could see was astounding. My brain was processing "blurry" as "normal."

It was a quick adjustment to my new glasses, but the analogy to operating without the demon is obvious. It took way longer to figure that one out. For a period of time, every single step I took was a little bit wobbly. I had to learn all over, in my late twenties, how to assess myself and others, how to operate in the world. I had a decent idea, but the process of rehabituating is a strange and complicated one. After about two years of this, I feel like I'm on solid ground.

The sadnesses I feel now are normal, not all-encompassing, and I know how to deal with them - how to work with them (as I would work with any other strong emotion), how to let them flow over and through me. They don't appear rootless. Meditation, talking/thinking things out and letting myself lean on others (as I let others lean on me) actually help.

The demon - and various events, most of them traumatic - helped ensure that I was a real asshole as a teenager/young adult. Any wounded animal would be. I spent most of my time licking my wounds, trying not to smear blood everywhere, and lashing out at anyone who tried to love me. I count myself extremely lucky that I had music, art, writing, literature and what existed of an underground community (and people who loved me) to fall into, because if I hadn't had those supports I would have tumbled headlong into the abyss. I've spent the last decade or so trying to figure out how to pay others back for the support I received, and I think I've figured out a few common-sense strategies through trial and error - ethical principles, responsibility to my community, and so forth. (The demon enjoys stripping you of common sense and replacing obvious things with its own bent philosophies.)

I have this kernel of hope to offer others in various phases of struggling with the demon in the many guises it appears in, be it organic depression or PTSD or a combination thereof (or something else) - you won't know when it leaves, but its absence will be loud. It'll take time to adjust, but we humans are remarkably adaptable creatures and if you're tempered by the fire, as anyone fighting the demon is, you'll figure out how to reckon with its absence. There's never a day when the fight is over, but there are days when it gets so much easier, days when you can relax your vigilance, days when you can allow yourself to experience real joy and an entire spectrum of other emotions and experiences you previously thought weren't possible. Being a grown-up is weird. Being a grown-up who's spent her life reckoning with this shit is even weirder. It's complicated and it's messy and there is no neat ending - but there is motion beyond, life beyond, and you'll know it when you're in it - and it is worth fighting for. It is worth it a thousand times over.

the void

I haven't written here for a few months partially because I've been busy with Band and Work and Electoral Politics and General Life Stuff but also partially because I haven't felt like anything I have to say is cogent enough or worthwhile/useful enough to put into blog form or even to particularly exist outside of my head.

Here is a poem I wrote this morning.

Glass ribs filled with fluid
holding a dumb heart too
poor to hold up its metaphor
all the weight that we ascribe
to a clot of muscle
clanging around in there like
a churchbell late for service
I can't hear you over the sound
I can't hear me over the sound
I can't hear it over the sound
I say these words so often
they lose their meaning.

Here is this body, here she lies
shorn and glossy and picked for
public view, careful of context,
isn't she lovely. Here is the ghost
standing at the foot of the coffin
a paradox, too insubstantial
too poor to hold up her metaphor.
I can't see you through the fog
I can't see me through the fog
I can't see it through the fog
I say these words so often
they lose their meaning.

more to this life

I've been thinking a lot lately about the strength and possibilities of the female friendships I'm lucky to have. As someone who has rejected some aspects of traditional femininity and embraced some others, I worry about a kind of essentialist view of female-ness, and I'm keeping that firmly in mind as I write this; I am not always referring to ciswomen in the following entry, either. I'm thinking about all of my friendships with other people who identify as female.

The Archetypal Female Friendship we're presented with in modern culture - I'm thinking 'Sex and the City,' that sort of thing - might have a core of sincere love and support (I'm not sure sometimes, honestly), but it is most definitely presented to us as a friendship that in most respects only goes so deep and is divided easily by competition and materialism (and the competition is usually over a romantic partner). Internalized misogyny, as I've mentioned elsewhere on this blog, is a real thing and it eats a lot of these friendships alive.

I'm lucky enough to know so many women who I've maintained long, healthy friendships with; they challenge me, as the best relationships do, to be a better person daily. There's no untouchable subject with most of the women I know, no boundary that can't be explored, no hurdle we can't figure out a way to cross. There is a sense of trust and mutual respect. Without these relationships I'm not sure where I'd be.

This is not to say that these qualities are absent from my relationships with the male-identified folks in my life either. I've gotten extraordinarily picky about my personal relationships - though I can see the best things in most people, it's the rare one I let in close. I think of love as a thing that is huge and mutable - it can be poured into various molds, assigned various activities, but in its true essence it is something beyond those roles and activities, something much wilder and more fluid. My love for my friends is just as powerful as any other love, and just as sustaining. I'm focusing on female relationships here because, again, gender identification affects our lives and how we're socialized to relate to one another in a prism of ways.

So - this is for you. You know who you are. This is for women building communities, finding strength in one another, finding strength in ourselves, refusing to let areas of traditional competition come between us. Thank you.

slave ship

I had a really wonderful day-long hang with a friend of mine who just moved to New York, and one of the topics we discussed while we were thrifting and record shopping and trying to avoid weird spring hailstorms was labor and production in the culture industries (music, fashion, film, literature, art, and so forth).

We in organized labor don't talk about these industries that often, and when we do it's focused on anti-sweatshop measures (which are obviously important and I think something that always has to be borne in mind when thinking about the fashion industry - something that I think a lot of us, myself included, have pushed away thinking about at points because we are so used to fast fashion and the fact that it's very difficult to avoid sweatshop labor entirely post-NAFTA). The particular costs of production and exploitation in the culture industry are echoed elsewhere in the labor market

Our top entertainers make a lot of money. A LOT of money. Celebrity and opulence has become part of their marketing, because ... celebrity sells. Having money is cultural currency. (I'll expound at some point in this blog on this because it's something that horrifies and disgusts me and something that is omnipresent and that I am thus weirdly fascinated by and feel the need to study, take apart and analyze).

If you're anyone involved in the industry other than said top entertainers, though, you get worked to death. You have to deal with jobs that don't tie health insurance in as a benefit necessarily, jobs that treat you like a contractor even if you're a full-time employee, jobs that you hate that you work just because they allow you to go on tour. Sometimes you end up working for a small business that is just surviving day to day itself, and it's difficult to demand the fair compensation due to you because even the owner of the business isn't making enough to get by. The culture industry is like a highly magnified version of the stratified class system we function in at large - the very small top percentage take it all, everyone else gets fucked. The film industry is the one aspect that has been unionized for a long time, but if you're self-producing or not working for a big studio, there are major barriers there too.

The recording industry hasn't figured out yet their strategy for remaining viable in an age of digital media. The rest of the culture industries are all struggling with similar conundrums. Now is the time to organize this work force (or not to cede ground in already-organized industries); now is the time to assert what is ours as laborers. Now is the time to try to balance out the employer-employee relationship as best we can and to lobby for federally funded social programs that allow major grants to the arts (look at Canada for a pretty great system as far as that goes).

A side note: I maintain that sex work is part of the culture industry and that we need more worker-owned collectives/union shops for sex workers; the Lusty Lady is a start, but I have yet to see the stage (pun intended) opened up further.

There is much for us to critique in the products culture industry at large as conscious consumers as well as producers, as activists and feminists. We must not forget that worker advocacy in these industries is equally important (if not more important in some cases); the process must be critiqued as well as the product.

echoes from one to another

I've been thinking a lot lately about bodies and representation, visibility, marketing and mainstreaming, particularly in light of some of the news and blog postings of the last couple of weeks (SB1070, the re-emergence of discussion in the mainstream media about what a terrorist "looks" like, so on and so forth). I mean, this is a thing I think about daily anyway, but my attention to it has been ramped up for several reasons.

While I am under no illusion that the inclusion of bodies of different shapes, sizes and hues (and class signifiers, and ability, and queerness) in advertising and mainstream media/pop culture doesn't generally constitute anything more than pandering, an attempt to make money off of a particular submarket, there's something unintentionally powerful that happens with that inclusion of variety - a lifting of shame and stigma, a widening of the definition of normalcy. It's AMAZING how many people come out of the woodwork to protest about how offended they are whenever a non-normative body is highly visible (for an easy and timely example, see any blog comments about Gabourey Sidibe, who is an inspiration herself in many ways). Obviously this unintentional effect shouldn't be overstated, but it shouldn't be understated either. When we keep pressing to widen the boundaries of what is "normal," what is "acceptable," we open up space for the beautiful and unexpected.

That said, there are problems with the idea of mainstreaming an image beyond just ad-pandering (though I do love the fact that with the widening of the definition of the normative body there is a chance to screw with capitalism a little - just as we are target markets, we are also taught to conform to certain standards because products used to create those standards are being marketed to us. The anxiety created by such marketing of conformity/idealized bodies is flattened a bit when the spectrum of what's normal is expanded). There's a chance for complacency in there that makes me worried - that if someday we achieve some kind of magical pop culture utopia in which all kinds of bodies are presented as normal, with the ability to achieve happiness and success, we'll stop and rest there. (When your life involves constant vigilance and fighting, particularly, it's a total luxury to just stop and hang out and disconnect for a moment. At the same time, there's the potential for inertia there.)

Becoming included, destigmatized, defetishized - that's only the first step. That includes us in the discussion as opposed to putting us up as props. (Also: those of us who are non-normative in some ways should be reminded to check our privilege because chances are there are ways in which we ARE normative, things we don't have to think about every day because we're not confronted with them constantly.)

P.S. I've been rereading Hannah Arendt's The Human Condition for a book club, and it's definitely been influencing my thinking this week in a large and visible way (and reminding me where I picked up some of these perspectives in the first place). Arendt's book mentions some of the ways in which technology shapes society, and I've been thinking a lot about the power of representation in an age in which so much of our communication is done via internet, text, etc.

previous condition (or: the deal-with-it dog meets the worthwhile cause)

"Chill out, dude, it's just _______."

Yes, there are many points in discourse (in its many forms) where we start to take ourselves too seriously and have to step back and re-evaluate our positions, choose to step away from an argument, rephrase our words or let something go, particularly in light of the general absurdity of the world we live in. That's only reasonable.

However, there's still a lot that is meaningful and real - even in said absurd landscape - that's worth fighting for. There are convictions we hold that are important, and speaking up when relevant is our responsibility.

The "chill out, dude, it's just _____" tactic is one I've encountered again and again when I speak up for myself or for values that I believe are important (and one I've seen employed against countless others when they do the same), and it's always used by the person who has created the situation that is being spoken out against - that is, the person in the position of power, the person that represents the status quo. It's a specific tactic that is used to minimize the worth of the arguments against, and I've seen it in every aspect of my life (from negotiations at work to conversations with punk kids). It dovetails nicely with institutionalized sexism/racism/homophobia, which already sees the othered group as less-than.

"Can't you take a JOKE?"

"What are you, the PC police?"

To be offended by something we have to be humorless and uptight in this worldview (rather than ... reasonably offended by something which is offensive). Hysterical women! Angry black people! Those gays, running their mouths again! What's always fascinated me is people who create provocative art that obviously pushes classic taboo buttons getting bent out of shape when they're called on ... doing exactly what their art sets out to do.

(Newsflash: the "PC police" don't exist, and I am all for free speech. However, that also means that if you are free to say something that I find offensive, I am free to speak my opinion on said statement. In other words, the tail of the deal-with-it-dog wags both ways.)

the machine that tore speech to pieces

I'm reading How to Wreck a Nice Beach by Dave Tompkins, who has obviously been invested in this project for a good long while - the history of the vocoder from its Bell Labs-national security roots to its significant presence in music.

I'm a latecomer to the Cult of Tompkins, but I'll scribble my name on as many cards to carry as I can. (Now I'm cursing myself for getting rid of all those old Wires, right?) His prose is lush, dense, playful and evocative (like Vollmann in places but without that annoying shadow of self-importance that hangs over a lot of WV's work) and the depth and breadth of his knowledge and research are remarkable. HTWANB is a pleasure to read at every level. It's also full of potential song titles/band names. Go get yourself a copy.

not yr fucking fetish object (2010 remaster)

I've been in love with music my whole life. I was raised by two musician parents, both of whom encouraged me (and continue to encourage me) to make and love and be critical of music. I started learning to repair amps because it was the family business - I was inspired by my dad's experience with it and lucky enough to have his resources at my fingertips (I'm still an apprentice in many ways).

I was also lucky enough to be introduced by my parents to DIY music before I would have discovered it on my own. I got into punk in the early '90s and never looked back. As I grew and learned about politics and became deeply invested in changing the system for the better, I was galvanized by riot grrl (a movement for which there is clearly a need for a critical history; there were powerful and beautiful things about it just as there were dangerous lessons about classism, racism, transphobia and so on to be learned) and by bands like Minutemen - our band could be your life, indeed. My experiences in music opened me up to questioning power, questioning consumption and to making art out of hideous experiences - to friendships and frustrations.

Fast forward to 2010; I'm still making music, still buying records, still giving a shit. I doubt I'll "grow out" of it at this point. It's not news that there are women involved in music at every level from consumer to producer - musicians and songwriters, label owners and employees, promoters, reviewers, publicists, record store owners and employees, so on and so forth. We're everywhere! Why, then, is it still an uphill battle to be a woman involved in music? We've made inroads, right? We're visible, right?

The answer is sadly simple: because music culture (both mainstream and DIY) is still a sexist paradigm. It's one of those cultural corners where women end up ants under the magnifying glass, on fire because we've gotten a concentrated and focused dose of misogyny.

Silvana at Tiger Beatdown makes some points in her post that I agree with, particularly this one:
"Being a feminist who is into music and cares about feminism and women in music is a giant pain in the ass, because music is the greatest haven of all time for ITSJUSTMYOPINION-ism. Because, you see? Music is art. Which means if you try to criticize someone’s personal taste, especially if you are suggesting that they don’t like woman-made music because THEY HATE WOMEN, you will get nowhere. There is almost no argument you can make that will have any effect whatsoever, because it’s just my opinion, man. And people believe, they believe with all their hearts, that they are entitled to their opinions when it comes to art, even if those opinions are stupid."

Then her personal viewpoint diverges with mine, because I love music that she describes as "dude music," music made "by dudes for dudes," music that she doesn't find personally resonant (which I obviously have no quibble with). I've found something to glom onto in some of those styles, even in styles that are harsh and nasty and that you have to watch for misogynist/generally sketchy undertones in. (I grew up on death metal, fast hardcore and early '80s industrial music, for goodness' sake.) By no means do I dismiss music made by women; I love and support other female musicians and love a lot of music made by women too.

I know a lot of other smart, strong, feminist women who also find "dude" music appealing.

The trouble with being a feminist who likes "dude" music as much as she likes "lady" music is that you will run the risk of being a weird fetish object to a lot of the men you come across. You might be treated at first like "one of the boys," but it will become quickly apparent that a lot of the men you meet through musical channels are fascinated by the fact that you are A GIRL but you like THE SAME THINGS THEY DO. (The flipside of the Fetish Object is the Invisible Girl - the woman who simply doesn't exist and isn't acknowledged or is quickly dismissed no matter how loud she yells because she doesn't fit into a prescribed role.)

I fell into the velvet chains of this role for a while when I was younger. I am somewhere in the spectrum of physical attractiveness between Traditionally Attractive Babe and Hideous Gorgon, and I used to focus on the things about my body and self that were not traditionally attractive and beat myself up for them (because that's what consumer culture encourages us to do. P.S. Buy this thing that we promise will bring you closer in line with the ideal we're showing you!). When the men around me started trying to get in my pants because I was A GIRL but I had "good taste" I thought it was flattering instead of a technique meant to minimize me, put me on a pedestal instead of allowing me to be an equal.

I know some women who have bought this bill of goods so completely that they tear down other women involved in their scene because they've been buttered up so many times with the li(n)e about how no other women are as "cool," have as much cultural cache, like such "dudely" things as they do. This hurts my heart so fully and dearly because I'm so close to it. It is destructive and it is real and we need to fucking cut it out. It's the same internalized sexism that causes women on fashion blogs to critique celebrities' weight. It comes from fear and self-doubt and the pressure of misogyny.

There is no reason that this conversation can't be loud and continuing and always present. We as women in music can change the culture and are doing so right now in many different venues. This entry is just one drop in the ocean. Let's flood this fucking world.

P.S. I'll also use this entry to plug Women in Music, an incredible organization, total trash music, a great blog focusing on women in DIY music, and Tuberculosis, a young LA band I can't stop listening to.

cameo demons

Somewhere along the line (maybe within the last ... year or so? - though this has been an ongoing process and the load has gotten lighter over the last ten years in general) my life ceased to become an absurd knot that could never be untangled but that required constant painful effort. While I'm busier and more productive than ever, I also have to remind myself that there are new challenges ahead and that I can't just coast for too long.

Also, Malicorne's "Almanach" is the weird dark '70s folk-rock record you probably forgot about but should dig out if you're feeling like hearing some hollowed-out sick and ancient somber tones. I periodically forget about it but it's so perfectly bent and able to make sense both within and without the context of its production.

i should be so lucky/confront

Today on Facebook I linked this heartening story from the NYT regarding the fact that Maryland, the state I grew up in, is recognizing gay marriages performed in other states. (It's a step in the right direction, at least.)

The picture accompanying the article in the link was from another NYT article, which I skimmed with mild disgust, about a woman who moved from Park Slope to Clinton Hill and was faced with the oh-so-daunting task of "bring[ing] a contemporary feeling to the rooms without losing touch with the building’s history." As interested as I am in design, I am also repulsed by articles like this that continue the narrative of pure consumption/consumerism, sans context, as desirable. It's nice to have the luxury of designing your own apartment when you have the money to do that and support a child (and you've chosen to put your money in that particular basket), but what about the millions of families that don't even have a home they feel comfortable in because they can't afford one? What are they supposed to feel when they read this article?

Anyway, the juxtaposition of the wrong picture with the article I linked was particularly amusing when one takes into consideration other narratives about homosexuality and design sense, in which are contained truths and falsehoods, as any generalization will. Oh, NYT. Way to perpetuate.

I had a bunch of thoughts floating around in my head already from reading about the ghettoized bullshit condescension of Vogue Curvy (note that there is also a Vogue Black, because apparently women of all colors and sizes aren't "legitimate" enough in the eyes of the fashion industry to appear in the same magazine - only very particular "large" women and black women are represented, too).

I am a consumer, of course. I try to think about my consumption habits and make decisions that are at least rationally and politically informed about my spending, but sometimes I fall short of that goal, as we all do. Sometimes I forget about how capitalism has been ingrained into my body, my being, my gender presentation, my sexuality, my idea of self-worth. I still think it's important to examine the ways in which we personally interact with capital (and in which capital attempts to partition or label us because we're easier to sell to that way), and I think that sometimes radical feminism/queerness as a movement forgets about it too. The sheer weight and frustration of all of it is often too much, but we have to keep pushing if we truly want to effect real change.

When I was young I wanted so desperately not to look like I do; I wanted not to be an outsider. I wanted to be popular and accepted, and that also meant being taller and skinnier and looking less "ethnic." It meant not speaking up about certain things I cared about; it meant playing the right roles and the right games. I still have twinges of those feelings, because even though I am generally content these days with myself and my life, my environment never stops reminding me of the many ways in which I deviate from the norm. We all experience this pressure, even though I am pretty sure that those of us who are further from the norm are consistently reminded of it in different ways than those who are closer to it.

In short: this is my reminder to myself to keep questioning systems of power and the stories they spin, even when/especially when they produce emotional resonances. This is my reminder to myself to keep challenging the movements I am a part of as well as the greater mainstream society/culture towards greater social justice.

good thoughts, bad thoughts

I've been using the Internet too long. This is like my 800th blog at this point. I've been out of the habit of writing daily. Part of me feels guilty for not completing projects (as if something like this could ever be 'complete'); part of me feels like I'm leaving diaries in the garbage for the general public to find. For a while I was private-journaling only, but the major ghosts have been exorcised at this point or at least whittled into more manageable forms.

I am listening to Funkadelic and thinking that there are moments on their records that I wouldn't let other groups get away with.