Do we want to prevent teen pregnancies? Or shame teen mothers?

New York City has recently seen some really awful ads directed at shaming teens into pregnancy prevention, ads which by and large (though not entirely) ignore the fact that, as I’ve mentioned before, pregnancy requires sperm, and in most cases, sperm is delivered via human male. The ensuing online conversation has reminded me of a piece I ran in the Chicago Tribune in September 2008 about these same issues, so I thought I’d post the piece here. You’ll note that my references to pop culture (and the 2008 Presidential campaign) are a tad dated now, but the problem itself is not.

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teen pregnancy adsAMERICA is awash with the news that, wait for it: Teenagers get pregnant.

From the fictional worlds of the movie “Juno” and the TV series “The Secret Life of the American Teenager,” to the reality-based worlds of celebrity and politics — with the odd, if phantom, working-class pregnancy “pact” thrown in for good measure — American society has suddenly noticed that kids occasionally become parents. Which, we surmise, must mean they have sex.

These are not facts with which American society has ever been particularly comfortable.

Typically, our response has been either: Woe-is-me-the-sky-is-falling! or What-a-bunch-of-stupid-sluts. Or both. (It goes without saying that the males involved are only rarely called to account. We know who Jamie Lynn is, but, pop quiz: Can you name the baby daddy?)

We’ve condemned girls and parents. We’ve compacted their struggles and imperfections into talking points or mean-spirited punch lines. We’ve read commentary suggesting that young girls are stupid enough to willfully follow in the fertile footsteps of fictional characters or wealthy actresses.

In the course of this “discourse,” teen sex and pregnancy are reduced to a series of bifurcated judgment calls. We demand that decision-makers and media oracles respond instantly to all of it, neither encouraging nor allowing time for reflection — and woe betide any who change their minds over time. No, we want an opinion, we want it in black-or-white, and we want it in stone.

As unambiguous as we might wish the subject were, though, the reality of teen sex and pregnancy won’t go away just because some want it to. It isn’t laughable. And it’s not really news.

The hormonal imperative to reproduce has been getting young Americans in trouble since before there was an America: As many as a third of colonial brides were pregnant at the time of the Revolution, according to several historical sources, and possibly more than a third of births were out of wedlock.

What has changed, though, is birth control. The modern day fairly bristles with it.

Among sexually active 15- to 19-year-olds, 83 percent of girls and 91 percent of boys report using contraception — possibly explaining the 34 percent drop in teen birth rates between 1991 and 2005, according to the non-partisan Kaiser Family Foundation.

Yet the recent reversal of that trend (teen births have since risen 3 percent) reminds us that we must never relax our efforts at education. Every single kid has to be given the necessary information and urged to be smart, even when hormones scream.

Getting pregnant young is a tough thing. Carrying a baby and raising the child is hard work; giving one up is, for many, even harder. And though I support reproductive choice, it can’t be argued that abortion is a cakewalk either. I know — and I was an adult when I had mine.

And abstinence programs just don’t work: A 2004 study by Yale and Columbia Universities found that fully 88 percent of those who pledge abstinence have premarital sex anyway.

So we’re left with birth control, and information. And kindness, and compassion.

Again, and again (and again), we’ve got to tell kids that unprotected sex makes babies, and babies change lives. If they make youthful mistakes anyway, we need to be there to help them make wise decisions and keep their lives whole.

This isn’t easy. Planned Parenthood reports that 73 percent of teenage moms come from poor or low-income families; the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy reports that some 80 percent of teen fathers don’t marry their children’s mothers — and that two-thirds of families started by single moms are poor.

We may not like these facts, but that’s what they are. Facts. And they don’t bode well for anyone: not the mothers, not the babies, not the country.

This is what we need to be talking about, not the moral fiber or relative philosophical consistency of this particular 16-year-old, or that political party. We need to be talking about, and dealing with, the facts.

Sadly, one of the people who recently had reason to face these facts publicly — Republican vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin — has failed on this most basic front. She has expressed support for abstinence-only programs, and as Alaska’s governor, reduced funds for a program intended to house young mothers while they get the life skills they need to become successful adults.

Rather than focusing on the poor decisions or sheer bad luck of individual young women (famous or not), we need to give all teenagers all the tools they need to keep their lives on track; when the next girl falls pregnant anyway, we need to surround her with all the support — familial, societal, and governmental — she may need. Oh, and we should probably involve the fathers too.

Is teen pregnancy a good thing? No. But it happens, and every baby born should be given love and a good chance. Every single one. With a lot of dedication, it can work out.

Just look at Stanley Ann Dunham’s boy, Barry. He’s running for president.

Why white people can’t use the n-word.

n_wordMuch of my political commentary really boils down to: Don’t be an asshole.

So, honestly, my personal go-to response to the very notion that white people occasionally get wrought up over the fact that they really-but-really should not say the n-word under any circumstances, “friendly” or not, is: Don’t be an asshole. Because seriously, how hard is that? Millions of people are telling you that when you use that word, it’s painful and offensive. That should, in a perfect world, be enough.

I mean, come on! The n-word isn’t even like, I don’t know, “bitch,” about which there is real disagreement among women. Millions upon millions of black folks are pretty clear on the fact that white Americans should never ever put that word in our mouths. Ever. “But they say it to each other,” you say? So the effing eff what. You are not them. The English language is positively chock-a-block with words — words that don’t carry the lash, and centuries of systematic terrorism, and the rending of families, and the continued devaluation of people who happen to be going about the business of Being Human While Black — that you can use with your black friends. I promise! Do.Not.Be.An.Asshole.

Alas, the world is not perfect, and “don’t be an asshole” isn’t really much of an argument. Indeed, the argument could be made that understanding why a particular behavior is asshole-y is pretty useful in ridding ourselves of said assholery — and as he so often does, Jay Smooth has our backs on this. Give him a listen, and tell all your white friends.

And don’t be an asshole.

On Marissa Mayer, Yahoo, and cupcakes.

So! Marissa Mayer, a person of whom I’d never heard before yesterday, has been tapped as the new CEO of Yahoo. Here’s what the Forbeswoman blog had to say about Yahoo’s hiring news:

When Marissa Mayer was announced as the new Yahoo! CEO yesterday, there was a collective wow. A 37 year old woman! An engineer! Another role model – in Silicon Valley, a place in dire need of more women in top positions. And then a little part of me got greedy and thought, can you imagine if she were a mom too? We could watch as she juggled and managed her inevitably hectic life.

But then last night news broke that Marissa Mayer is six months pregnant. This is too good to be true! Why should we care? Because women all over this country who seek employment while pregnant worry, obsess and hide their growing stomachs with the valid fear that they will be discriminated against. And now Yahoo! has hired a six months pregnant woman to run their 20 Billion dollar company.

Excellent!

Here are the “five things you need to know about Yahoo’s new leader” according to People, arguably the only place most Americans will ever hear Marissa Mayer’s name uttered:

1. She Made History
When she started working for Google in 1999 – years before Google became an everyday verb – Mayer was the company’s first female engineer….

2. She’s Glamorous…

3. And So Is Her Apartment…

4. Her Cupcake Recipe Is Better Than Yours…

5. She’s Going to Be a Mom…

I… cupcakes?

Is this a laugh or cry moment?

Is this People quietly subverting expectations of American womanhood by introducing the notion that a woman doesn’t need to eschew normative gender behavior in order to be a geek (and a powerful geek at that)? Under item #1, the site quotes Mayer as once saying “I’m not a woman at Google. I’m a geek at Google…. If you can find something that you’re really passionate about, whether you’re a man or a woman comes a lot less into play. Passion is a gender-neutralizing force.”

Or is this People reinforcing the very expectations that we saw on display last month when Family Circle pitted Michelle Obama’s cookie recipe against Ann Romney’s? Are all women, regardless of their power and influence, required to conform to our notions of good womanly behavior in order to be worthy of our attention and praise? Is People reminding America that it’s ok for girls to like computers — as long as they’re pretty, too?

What if Marissa Mayer were fat? What if her apartment had free weights in the living room? What if she’d had her tubes tied because she knew that she didn’t want children? What if she hated cupcakes?

Please don’t misunderstand: I have no problem with glamour, or cupcakes. I really, truly don’t. I am so excited to wear the pretty new dresses I just bought for my son’s bar mitzvah weekend, and baking is pretty much my favorite kind of cooking. It’s certainly the one I’m best at. Not to mention that I’ve consistently made the choice to work part time so that I could be my children’s primary caregiver. To look at me, I’m very nearly June Cleaver.

But if you were to write about my career of Israel/Palestine advocacy, or my skills as a writer, and make 80% of your article about the time I made a dragon cake for my son’s birthday and the fun I had shopping for those dresses — I’d frankly want to tear your head off. And I didn’t just spend the last 13 years climbing the corporate ladder and busting through the glass ceiling on my way.

The news about Marissa Mayer is really, truly excellent. This is the sort of event that takes us closer to that magical day when people will be judged for their skills, not their social roles, and being a parent will be recognized as a nearly universal condition shared by grown men and women alike. (I’m guessing, off the top of my head, that no one wrote stories about it when Yahoo’s last CEO became a dad, for instance). I’m quietly nursing a hope that the last name “Mayer” means Yahoo’s new top dog is Jewish, to boot, and I can add her to my Fantasy Seder list.

But I can’t help but feel that the folks at People haven’t quite gotten the memo yet. It was a five-item long listicle — could not three of those items been given over to Mayer’s skill-set and achievements? Would that have been such a tough sell?

Apparently so. Or, at least, the editors at People think so. And given the outsized role that People plays in our national discourse, that frankly makes me sad.

Cyclical dieting as a form of bulimia; normal eating; & being so sick of it all.

Emily McCombs, blogger at xoJane and owner of a lovely first name, is not only a dang entertaining writer, but also a painfully honest one. Among the issues about which she is painfully honest is body image, specifically as regards her struggles in adulthood with what she terms “subclinical bulimia.”

There is, of course, a life-story behind McComb’s eating disorder issues, and it’s a well-written, even entertaining story, so I encourage you to read the whole thing, but there are two things that I want to get at specifically, things that I think touch on the lives of a lot of women, myself included.

Because a diet worked so well for me once, I have considered my compulsive eating the problem and adhering to a diet the solution. Not until now have I been emotionally able to see that my dieting is actually part of the binge cycle…. Throwing up is not the only bulimic behavior I engage in. My yo-yo dieting is just as much a part of the cycle as sticking my finger down my throat.

She goes on to reference The Rules of Normal Eating,

which identifies the four basic rules that “normal” eaters follow: 1. eating when hungry. 2. choosing satisfying foods. 3. eating with awareness and enjoyment and 4. stopping when satisfied. Is that definition as mind-blowing to you as it is to me? Do people actually live this way? Can I?

I wrote about the effort to determine what “normal eating” is very early on in this blog’s life (pivoting off a quote that began “Who started the lie, anyway, that women shouldn’t have an appetite?”), because it’s a concept with which I genuinely struggle — a struggle which is, in turn, a thing of which I am ashamed.

I’ve never had an eating disorder, nor have I ever had particularly disordered eating (there’s a difference — & according to one study, two-thirds of American women aged 25-45 have disordered eating). I’ve long recognized that life-long diets are a kind of ED, and I’ve neither dieted nor weighed myself for the better part of two decades (more, actually).

But I am not the size America wants me to be, and that dogs me.

I am (and a healthcare professional has actually confirmed this for me!) broad — my bone structure is literally wider than that of the average bear. I’m proportional, but I’m a bit wide.

I’m also big-busted, and as most naturally big-busted women will tell you, all that pillowy goodness tends to come with pillowy goodness elsewhere on the frame as well. I am, my children have told me, a delight to hug. My husband finds me beautiful and (though I feel shy saying it) even sexy. I still get looks, and the men doing the looking are still cute.

But I am not the size America wants me to be.

I am not now, nor will I ever be. I could, with some truly dedicated disordered eating, get smaller, and when my clothes get tight about the waist, I do consciously eat less until they no longer are. But as I don’t actually eat all that much, there’s not a lot of wiggle room. I’ll never be small.

So I attempt to accept this, as I have attempted to accept it since that day I stopped weighing myself in college (one exception: Prior to our nuptials, the husband and I put on a fair amount of happy fat. We both consciously dieted for the wedding). I talk a good game, because I’m a big believer in faking it until you make it, not to mention not adding to the dysfunction that swirls around us. I don’t bond over tales of self-loathing or food-shaming.

But I don’t accept my size. Not really. Not fully. I am aware of eyes on me (real or imagined, I couldn’t tell you) as I eat in public; I struggle to not be aware of them in private. I eat well, I eat what I want, I stop when I’m satisfied — but I have to tell myself, nearly every single time I put food in my mouth, that that’s all good and fine. That it’s ok to eat.

And that’s where my shame lies. I don’t want this albatross around my broad, pillowy neck for the rest of my life. I don’t want even one more synapse to go to those thoughts and those concerns. I have guitar lessons to take! Books to read! Ideas to have! Beautiful dresses to enjoy! Every self-doubting thought I have about food or my body takes time and energy away from all of those other things and I hate it.

I did recently come to a brand new idea, one that I’m able to access on most days: If I have to struggle, this is a worthy struggle to have. If I am to go to my grave having wasted time on food issues, let it be in the effort to support myself. Let it be in the effort to shout the voices down.

It’s not perfect, but it’s a kind of peace, and it’s the best I have for now. I’m holding firm to the hope that in fighting this fight, I’m helping my daughter forge better tools for herself.

On older women and body image.

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The other night I discovered the following on BuzzFeed: “Women Over 50 Plagued By Eating Disorders, Body-Image Issues.”

The hell you say!

Reports BuzzFeed:

Today’s dieting young women plagued with body-image concerns aren’t necessarily likely to grow out of them when they get a little older, have kids, retire — just you know, age — according to new research. A study from the International Journal of Eating Disorders shows that women over the age of 50 commonly struggle with body image and eating issues. Researchers from the University of North Carolina Eating Disorders Program, led by Dr. Cynthia Bulik, found that 62 percent of 1,849 women aged 50 and older surveyed across the U.S. said their weight or shape had a negative impact on their lives.

Ok, I have a question: Why on earth would we be likely to “grow out” of our body image issues?

Women are told, our entire lives, that our greatest worth is measured in conventional attractiveness, and that furthermore, we are never attractive enough. We are told this in our movies and TV shows, in our supermarket check-out lines, in our social circles, in our jobs, and often in our families. We are told this by bloggers, by commenters, by Twitter, by Facebook, by complete strangers on the street. We are told this from the moment we are born (else why did people feel the need to assure me that my chubby girl baby would “thin out”?), and we are told this until the moment we die.

We are told this so often, and so convincingly, that we women punish ourselves with deprivation, torture ourselves with self-doubt, and sometimes spend our own money to cut out our own flesh. And then we bond over it all. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t suffer from a certain amount of body-image anxiety (or flat-out self-loathing) or hasn’t had to struggle on occasion to keep that anxiety/self-loathing at bay — and every single one of us talks about it (or is expected to).

One never just eats — one laughs about how much one is eating, or announces that one will have to not eat tomorrow to make up for it, or compares and contrasts the relative fat contents of Food A vs. Food B. One never just gets dressed — one has to consider what will be said about one’s muffin-top, or flabby arms, or cankles. One never just ebbs and flows with the years — one is expected to constantly strive for a physical ideal that is rooted in pre-pregnancy youth and which for many women isn’t even remotely possible (or healthy).

To think that we might lose these thoughts and behaviors as we age and get ever farther from that youthful mirage would be laughable if it weren’t so tragic. There is health — there is a body functioning at or near its potential peak because it has been well-maintained (and its owner lucky) — and then there’s this destructive, obsessive bullshit.

The BuzzFeed post goes on to devote about a third of its text to the following:

The trend is concerning not only for women over 50 — who are assaulted daily with reminders of how bad it is to age like a normal person — but their kids. Research shows that moms who are unsatisfied with their bodies can easily pass those insecurities on to their daughters.

…A mother who expresses concern about her own not-thin-enough body — or openly admires a “neighbor with the long, thin legs,” for example — sends the message to her kids that physically looking a certain way is what’s valued and praise-worthy.

And you know what? I agree, and I am all for raising our daughters to value themselves in all of their many sizes and shapes — but fuck that.

Fuck the idea that women over the age of 50 cause troubles for others with the attitudes and social cues forced on them their entire lives by a society that devalues them daily — they are suffering themselves, and that matters.

The report to which the BuzzFeed piece refers finds that

[Of those surveyed] 62 percent said their weight or shape had a negative impact on their life, 79 percent said it affected their image of themselves and 64 percent said they thought about it daily…. In all, 66 percent didn’t like their overall appearance. Their dissatisfaction was highest with their stomach (84 percent) and shape (73 percent).

Sure we need to model good, healthy, self-affirming behavior for our daughters and the other girls in our lives — but we deserve lives that are free of this kind of collective body dysmorphia. We deserve lives full of joy and creativity and unabashed enjoyment of these wondrous machines in which we live.

Oh look - Time also wrote about the eating disorders study! And you’ll never guess what articles the piece directs interested readers to: “5 Tips to Overcome Emotional Eating,” “Why Sleep Deprivation Leads to Overeating,” and “How People-Pleasing May Lead to Overeating.”

:: headdesk ::

“Like a girl” – yes, again.

Maj. Heather "Lucky" Penney

I thought about the following (first posted in November, then re-upped in March) when I learned of a hurricane hunter (yes, that’s a real job) in the US Air Force Reserve named Capt. Nicole Mitchell. She flew back and forth and back and forth through Hurricane Irene a couple of weeks ago, in order to gather data as the storm was unfolding.

Then I thought about it again in the lead-up to the 9/11 anniversary, when I learned of then-Lt. (now Maj.) Heather “Lucky” Penney, one of the two F-16 pilots who had taken to the sky that morning in order to bring down Flight 93 — by ramming their own planes into it. Which is to say: Before the Flight 93 passengers sacrificed their lives so that the terrorists’ mission would fail, Lt. Penney and her commander were offering up their own.

A third plane hit the Pentagon, and almost at once came word that a fourth plane could be on the way, maybe more. The jets would be armed within an hour, but somebody had to fly now, weapons or no weapons.

“Lucky, you’re coming with me,” barked Col. Marc Sasseville.

They were gearing up in the pre-flight life-support area when Sasseville, struggling into his flight suit, met her eye.

“I’m going to go for the cockpit,” Sasseville said.

She replied without hesitating.

“I’ll take the tail.”

So. The next time someone says “like a girl” to me, I think I might counter with “oh, you mean like an F-16 pilot willing to sacrifice her life in defense of her country?” And the next time some clothing company sells dreck like this (as Forever 21 is this fall, if they haven’t yet responded to numerous requests that they stop)

I think I’ll sneak out in the dark of night and cover their mannikins, guerrilla-style, with truth like this

because pilots are badass, and badass girls use their brains.

…like a girl.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, for reasons I’m not entirely clear on, about the ways we use words that mean “female human” to insult each other.

There’s “scream like a little girl,” of course, which, you know — ok. Little girls are high-pitched. It’s meant as an insult, but there’s some grain of reality to be found in it. Perhaps I will someday “scream like a linebacker” or “like a South Pacific Islander.” Or something.

But once you get past “scream,” there’s:

  1. Throw like a girl.
  2. Run like a girl.
  3. Hit like a girl.

Not to mention:

  1. Pussy out.
  2. Be a pussy.
  3. Be a little bitch.
  4. Be X’s bitch.

And so on.

In the largest, broadest sense, I believe that these kinds of insults hurt us all, male and female alike. The recent bullying-related suicides of several gay-or-maybe-gay boys have their roots deeply buried in our fear of males behaving in anything but a society-approved-manly fashion. Witness the clear discomfort experienced by adults when five year old boys choose to wear girls’ clothing.

Witness that, and then think about women in pants suits, or girls in jeans. When women adopt and co-opt a traditionally male form of dress, we are empowering ourselves. When men adopt and co-opt a traditionally female form of dress — they get beat up. Because we do not value women as we value men, and we are frightened when men choose to give up the prerogatives of their gender. So, yes, everyone suffers when we continue to maintain and perpetuate misogyny.

But women and girls suffer more. Because we are the ones you shouldn’t be like.

I’ve known this for years, of course. I’m not new to noticing misogyny. I’m not new to feeling its sting and pushing at its edges. But it’s suddenly struck me how powerfully we telegraph our contempt for women merely by opening our mouths and starting to talk.

You throw like a girl. Don’t pussy out on me, bro! I’m gonna make that job my bitch! Close your eyes for a moment, and substitute any other person-naming noun/pejorative for the words “girl,” “pussy,” and “bitch.”

You throw like an Asian. Don’t Hymie out on me, bro! I’m gonna make that job my nigger!

Suddenly, the mind reels a bit.

Good lord, like most non-racist white people, I had a hard time just typing the n-word — but absolutely stand-up folks, men and women alike, without an otherwise bigoted bone in their bodies, will insult each other with words that describe me and my body, with nary a second thought. They will do it loudly, among friends, in print, on television, in movies. It’s just, you know: The way we talk.

But I cannot help but believe that we hear these things, we women and girls, we hear them, and we steep in them, and they go in and down and twist and burrow into us, and they damage us. They leave vapor trails in our thoughts and scars on our hearts. They tell us, day in and day out, that we are weak, we are not worthy, our bodies are the stuff of mockery.

When you’re someone’s bitch? You’re under their violently-wrested control. When you’re a pussy? You’re untrustworthy. When you’re a girl? You are just plain weak.

And who the fuck would want to be any of that?

Twenty-one minutes to 9/12.

Twenty-one minutes until it is no longer 9/11, and I find I do not want to lose this day entirely to those who have stolen it in an endless cultivation of a cult of sorrow. It was actually Angry Black Lady who helped me finally get here, before the day was entirely gone, and I’m grateful — because I, too, lived that day, and have lived every day of the decade since. I, too, am still in mourning — and not because I am told to be, but because I am.

And so I’ve decided to re-up what I wrote two years ago, as I tried to remember that crystal-clear, blue-sky Tuesday and tried, as I will for the rest of my life, to make sense of it. Everything I wrote then is what I feel now, so here it is, again.

This day.

I want to write something today about what day it is, or, I suppose, about what day it was, 8 years ago. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to say.

I still, eight years later, do not know what to make of the attacks on September 11, 2001 — my heart and my head and my common sense and my fears and then my heart, again, all freeze up in the face of the enormity of it, in the sense-less, makes-no-sense, nature of it. The horror of individuals falling, rag dolls thrown, from windows, the horror of men climbing stairs, loaded, heavy, with equipment and mission, to their deaths, the horror of those whose horror we will never know, the office workers, housekeeping staff, corner-office executives who had a second — did they even have a second? — to know of their deaths, or had a handful of moments to hope for their lives and then came the roar that must have come, a deafening, howling roar, as the buildings began to collapse. The people on the planes, the people on the ground looking up, the flight attendants, the thank-god-I-got-to-work-early eager beavers, the police officers, the I’ll-call-mom-when-I-get-to-the-office forgetful kids. We’re all someone’s kid, aren’t we.

In the intervening eight years, we’ve lost far more Americans to two wars predicated on that day than we lost that day — more than twice the number, in fact. Parents and brothers and wives, and probably some assholes, people who had a second to know of their deaths, or had a handful of moments to hope for their lives, were rag dolls, thrown, out windows, in the air, to the ground. People who, in a very real sense, are also casualties of 9/11. People who were, who are, someone’s kids.

There are days to question your country, days to demand and protest and rage. This is not one of them. I am proud to be American. I am grateful to be American. On this day, I’ll put my demands and my protests and my rage — the very tools of patriotism — in my pocket, to be pulled out and wielded tomorrow. Today, I’ll send my thoughts and my hopes and my prayers out for this country that I love so much, for those at memorial services on this day, for those humping across Central Asian mountains and through bomb-pocked streets, for those who won’t come home but don’t know it yet.

Questions and answers: Misogyny and violence edition.

Live in Ohio? Please work to get this man recalled and/or arrested.

Please note update with helpful information for people living with abuse, below.

Q: Who said “She got a little upset. Girls do that,” when his wife called 911 after he got drunk and attacked her?

A: Ohio State Senator Kris Jordan.

Q: What is the State of Ohio doing about it?

A: Exactly nothing.

Prosecutor won’t file charges against senator

Sen. Jordan, a Republican from Powell, told deputies that he and his wife had argued over his not cleaning their condo. Cruiser dashboard camera recordings released yesterday detail the deputies’ conversations with the Jordans.

“She got a little upset,” Sen. Jordan told a deputy on the recording. “Girls do that.”

The 34-year-old senator went on to say the incident was “90 percent emotion.”

“I threw some things on the ground, but I didn’t hit her or anything,” he said. “So she’s all worked up about who knows.”

On the recording, Sen. Jordan tells deputies that he works at the Statehouse, “until she gets me thrown out of office,” he said. “Over (expletive) not cleaning the upstairs … and then me pushing some towels over and some other stuff over.”

His wife also was recorded speaking to a deputy outside the home.

She said there have been problems with her husband but she had called his parents when those happened. She said, however, that they were out of town that night.

She also was recorded as saying violent incidents with her husband began about two years ago, sometimes after he had been drinking. She said her husband had been drinking that night but not to excess.

“This is not new,” Mrs. Jordan, 31, said. “He’s done this numerous times, and I just got sick of it and I just had to call.”

Assistant Delaware City Prosecutor Joe Schmansky said, Melissa Jordan’s insistence on not pursuing charges was the most important factor in his decision not to file charges.

Here’s another salient piece of information:

She also told deputies there were 10 to 15 unloaded guns in the house.

How many times have we read this story? The story in which the woman complains, but as so many victims of abuse do, hesitates to press charges, so law enforcement does nothing — until one of the guns gets loaded, and the woman is killed.

I’ll be perfectly frank here: I am positively sickened by this story. By the abuse, by the misogyny, by the response of Delaware City’s Prosecutor. I know people who have lived with abuse, I know how it plays out, and I have watched, too often, as society steps back and says: “Not our problem.”

I’m sorry, State of Ohio, this is very much your fucking problem. Aside from the fact that it is a shared, collective good that our citizens (even the female ones!) not live in fear, Kris Jordan is a Senator, for God’s sake! I don’t know what should be done, what can be done — mandatory anger management classes? Senate censure? — but I know that someone has to do something.

Else the next call may very well be for an ambulance.

UPDATE: If you or someone you love is also living with an abuser, you can always call the National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1- 800−799−SAFE (7233), 24/7, 365 days a year. If you’re not sure if you’re in an abusive situation, or are not sure what to do next, here are some good resources: Get Help, Am I Being Abused?, Teen Dating Abuse and Information for Immigrants and Refugee Women.

h/t Mac McClelland at Mother Jones, Ohio politics blog Plunderbund, and the Columbus Dispatch.

Crossposted at Angry Black Lady Chronicles.

It’s Ramadan. How ’bout those Muslim women?

In honor of Ramadan (which began this week ), and the fact that I have but a little time left with the lovely folks of Feministe, I thought I would aim once again for the overlap in my life’s Venn Diagram.

To your right! The circle labelled “reads a lot of books.” To your left! The circle labelled “academic and professional obsession with matters Middle Eastern.” Up above! The circle labelled “thinks a lot about women’s issues.”

Boom! Right there in the middle, where you would find the book I blogged about on Tuesday, Teta, Mother and Me, you will also find this: Paradise Beneath Her Feet: How Women Are Transforming the Middle East, by Isobel Coleman, senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Affairs (which I first reviewed when it came out in 2009).

The public discourse among non-Muslims regarding the Muslim community tends to be shaped by stereotypes, possibly most powerfully when the conversation turns to Muslim women — they are hounded, we tend to think, and quite possibly cowering. The very real problems with which Muslim women grapple appear rooted in the nature of the religion, and, we assume, are thus powerfully immune to real change.

By way of counterargument, Paradise Beneath Her Feet presents an engrossing, seemingly counter-intuitive take on the question of women’s advancement in the Muslim world, showing that Islamic feminists are successfully arguing – from within the texts and traditions of their faith – that gross gender inequality flies in the face not just of the spirit of Islam, but also its laws.

Opening with a global examination of the dilatory consequences of gender discrimination – higher infant mortality, lower incomes, even lower agricultural output – Coleman then takes an exhaustive look at the “gender jihad” under way across Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and Indonesia (an indication, in fact, of the inaccuracy of the title — this is not so much “how women are transforming the Middle East” as it is “how women are transforming the Muslim world”). Over the years, the shape of the effort has changed, as Muslim feminists learn from the mistakes of the 20th century — efforts to impose change from above (anti-veiling laws, for instance) are now understood to have “sow[ed] the seeds for decades worth of Islamic backlash,” ultimately setting women back as they struggle to move forward.

Today, Coleman argues, those engaged in the jihad for Muslim women’s rights are trying to work “with the culture, rather than against it,” frequently succeeding where few thought it possible, as they attempt to build “a legitimate Islamic alternative to the current repressive system.” Her findings reflect the countless interviews she’s conducted, with activists who’ve been fighting for decades alongside those born in the meantime, as well as years of comprehensive research. She doesn’t attempt to paint a rosy picture — the challenges are real, and they are immense — but Coleman does present a convincing argument that Muslim feminists have the potential to shape the future of Islam.

********************

A few links for anyone looking for more on Islam:

  1. The BBC has great background information on Islam (and all kinds of things, really!) on their website, covering all the bases in brief articles — here’s the one about veiling (hijab).
  2. Muslims respond to extremism – a brief compendium that I put together, with links to more information if you want to go deeper.
  3. A Gallup poll finds that Muslim Americans “are by far the least likely among all religious groups to justify targeting civilians, whether done by the military or by ‘an individual person or a small group of persons’.
  4. A short list of Muslim American heroes that I compiled in response to the wave of Islamophobia that has swept the US in recent years.
  5. To learn more about Ramadan, click on the links at the top of the post. They’ll bring you to the BBC & a great, brief video by The Guardian (check out the Indonesian drummers!).

 Crossposted at Angry Black Lady Chronicles and Feministe. 

 

Things about me which please me (and even occasionally make me proud).

The other day I wrote about things I do of which I am ashamed.

This shame is based in my personal, and particular, experience with patriarchy and my understanding of feminism, and it’s real, but it’s dawned on me in the meantime that it might have been useful to note that I don’t exactly live my life soaked in shame or guilt. I have moments. The third and fourth things on the list plague me to a greater or lesser degree fairly regularly, but I don’t walk around in a morass of self-loathing. Mostly, on most days, I’m pretty ok with myself.

But if I think about it, expressing shame or guilt — while honest and I think even important (we can’t deal with something until we admit to ourselves that it’s a problem. Hello, daughter of the 12 Step Programs here!) — is hardly revolutionary. In fact, it’s kind of part-and-parcel of the Judeo-Christian (I cannot believe I just used that term) worldview, and — even more problematically — part-and-parcel of Western social norms and mores for women. We talk about what we’re doing wrong all the time, frankly.

What would be revolutionary, perhaps, would be to talk about what we do right.

This came to me yesterday after wandering around at Eat The Damn Cake, through the posts of ETDC blogger Kate & her guest blogger, Anna. Kate has a regular feature at the end of each post that she calls an “Unroast”; in each one, she expresses love for some part of her body or appearance. Recently this has included “Today I love the way I look in baggy shirts” and “Today I love my ankles. They’re an almost exact combination of my parents’ ankles,” both examples indicating a certain looseness and creativity to the idea which I love.

The attitude behind the Unroast (and, frankly, the attitude behind the blog’s name) leads me to visit Eat The Damn Cake frequently. I have even written in response to Kate’s work in the past, but yesterday, it was guest blogger Anna’s posts that really grabbed me.

Anna was veryvery pregnant as she wrote the posts in question, grappling with the reality of moving as a veryvery pregnant person through the world, and these are the two bits that made we want to go out in search of her to ask her to be my lawful wedded wife. The first is from We are already normal (a very pregnant post), the second from We owe it to little girls (emphasis Anna’s):

Women’s bodies. Want to know what normal is? Look around you. Working women. Mothers. Students. Friends. Teenagers. Grandmothers. We are normal already.

and:

Our attitudes influence more than just ourselves. If we’re going to change our body culture, we have to change our habits. Even those that are socially reinforced, even those that can be pleasant and bonding, as negative body talk so often can be.

And finally, we get to my point (which I swear, I have):

If I’m going to speak publicly about my feelings of shame, I should also choose to take the rather more revolutionary step of tooting my own horn. And thus, hereunder you will find a list of things about me in which I find pleasure, and even, occasionally, pride.

  1. I have genuinely taken on-board the notion that if an article of clothing doesn’t work on my body, the problem is not my body, but the article of clothing. This seems small at first glance, but I think it’s actually kind of big. That moment, that moment when you stand in front of a mirror trying to take some piece of clothing (that you have been assured is gorgeous and all-the-rage) and make it look “right” on your own body and it’s.just.not.working — that moment is a moment of such deep intimacy with ourselves, a moment in which it is perilously easy to further swallow the lie that all bodies must look like one kind of body in order to be worthy, a moment in which it is so easy to get angry with our very flesh — it took me more than 40 years, but I have finally reached the point that when I start to hear those voices, I tell them to shut the fuck up, and I mean it. And I’m proud of myself, because it wasn’t easy.
  2. I regularly contribute to the social dialogue about women’s rights, women’s bodies, and the fact that — given that we make up half the world — these are not “women’s issues” but human issues. In fact, there are days when I act like this is a job. I’m not particularly aggressive in my approach (often leading with versions of “I see why you’re saying that, but…”), but I am dogged. I write, I tweet, I confront, I question. I am part of the process by which society is undoing its assumptions about rape, women’s autonomy, our reproductive rights, and the essential human right of all people to make their own choices and live their lives precisely as who they are.
  3. I am raising my children to be aware, thinking feminists. Our family talks all the time — at the dinner table, in the car, while watching TV — about how the world treats people, what society’s expectations are, and whether or not those expectations are fair or just or even reflective of the reality that we see around us — and the husband and I see the fruits of this labor all the time.For instance #1: The girl recently complained that a very cool construction toy she’d gotten for her 8th birthday had no pictures of girls on the box, and when she found one on the instructions, she noted, with sarcasm positively dripping from her voice, that the model had built a princess crown “because all girls ever do are princess things.” For instance #2: The boy prepared this speechin honor of Martin Luther King last year for school (when he was all of 11), writing: “I have a dream that one day no one in this world will be able to push you down, regardless of any stereotypes. I have a dream that in all 50 states Muslim Boys and Muslim Girls and homosexual boys and homosexual girls and rich boys and rich girls and poor boys and poor girls and all of the boys and girls of America will join together and nothing in the world will be able to stop them.”It matters that our girls and boys grow up to be feminist adults, but it also matters that they be feminist children. We need only look at schoolyard bullies to see the impact that children can have on people’s lives — loving, caring, egalitarian-minded children can help heal the world. And of course as their parents, it matters very deeply to us that the boy and the girl gain the tools they’ll need to shake off the world’s damaging messages. I am proud of the way that I am raising my children.
  4. And finally, in the spirit of the Unroast: I love my hair. It’s long, of a vaguely once-was-blonde-now-is-brown color, streaked with bits of silver here and there and now that I’ve stopped using shampoos with Sodium Lauryl Sulfate has returned to the kind of softness and luster it had for almost all my life. It feels like a crown on my head, particularly when I wear it loose, and I love the way that makes me feel.

Crossposted at Angry Black Lady Chronicles and Feministe.

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