Categotry Archives: privilege stories

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I’m An Idiot, But Wikipedia Is Still Sexist

Categories: failings, media tool kit, privilege stories, the patriarchy: you can't live with it....that is all

Well, okay, so ducks, I’m a bit of a silly goose.

As a very helpful commenter pointed out, I’m an idiot without any fact-checking ability because I ran with the front-page article on the English custom of wife selling as if it were a hoax. And it ain’t, more to my chagrin–although I should point out, that when I got off my ass and finally did do the fact-checking, there’s not a whole lot of very credible evidence for it on the free net–a lot of 19th century newspaper articles, and of course the Hardy novel; but one should really not put much credence in 19th century news articles. (It should also be noted that the edit history of the article shows it was written today My mistake, didn’t dig deep enough into the edit history.)

Be that as it may. I won’t even point out that if I got fooled, so did substantial chunks of the internet, most of whom ran with the story as if it were a hoax as well. (It seems that the Wiki tradition is to put slightly misleading headlines on the front page which link to totally legitimate articles. I was not aware; my main experience of April Fool’s day hoaxing are Google’s patently false ones.)

So anyway, I took the post down for a while. Not because I want to run away from being stupid, but because I had some freelance to do today for a tiny amount of money and really didn’t need to get a bunch of emails about how stupid I was. Thanks, got that the first time. And I wanted to fix what I wrote.

And it’s not as if I still don’t have a feminist bone or two to pick with Wikipedia.

Because here’s the deal: of all the articles they could have posted prominently, they posted this one. Now, maybe it says great things about us as a people that we think the concept of selling your wife so outrageous that it could only be a prank. That would be nice to think.

But how much more likely that the folks who organized today’s front page instead thought it would be totes harharhar to lead with an article about how women were property. With fun echoes of how other people were once considered property. And excuse me for being a paranoid lefty, but in today’s climate–when we’re seeing a tremendous backlash against women’s rights (just look at all the anti-abortion laws being passed, the Stupak amendment, the return of an anorexic beauty ideal, etc. etc. etc.) coupled with the steady drumbeat of racism on the rightwing fringe (examples too obvious and numerous to get into)–well, yeah, this whole fiasco troubles me. Quite a bit.

Don’t believe me? Take a look at this:

Would I like to see “wife selling” legalized in America? Nope … it seems like slavery (one person owning another). But I would like to see the modern practice of taking hubby to the cleaners in divorce court ended.

That also seems to be a lot like slavery … or at least it’s like indentured servitude. There’s no moral reason why a hubby should be forced to buy his freedom, any more than there is any moral reason why a hubby should be permitted to sell his soon-to-be ex-wife’s freedom.

Or how it’s the first post in this Straight Dope thread titled “April Fool’s articles I wish were real.”

So yeah: lulz. We’ll drag up one of the most misogynistic things we can find in our database (and yeah, I know all about how it was a way around restrictive divorce laws, and how the women were supposed to not mind–which goes to show you just how low the English opinion of women was back then, and how desperate they could be under the law, not that this was some kind of good thing) and make it our lead post on a day it is guaranteed to be picked up everywhere! And for the true deep lulz, it will actually be true! Hahahaha! Stupid internet! Stupid ladybloggers! (Well, ladyblogger. I seem to be the only one dumb enough to write about it as if it were true.)

I mean, the rest of the articles are all mostly harmless (though somewhat guy oriented, or rather doood oriented: mentioning James Brown–no, not that one, fighter jets, video games, crime, and the hy-larious idea of the city of Halifax having sex with multiple partners. And a monkey.) But the main, featured, excerpted article is about selling women as property.

Okay, fine. I see sexism everywhere. I even flew off the handle about a non-hoax. But you want to know something? There are only two mentions of women on the front page: the wife-selling article…and this ad:

Fat ladies! Is that hilarious or what?

Sheesh.

(Yes, I’ve taken down the original. Yes, it’s in the time machine, I think; it’s probably also on the Facebook page. I’ve got enough going on in my life that I don’t need to have EVERY monument to my foolishness on the homepage of my blog.)

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David Brooks: What Price Happiness? (Hint: Ladies, Keep Your Man!)

Categories: (un)popular entertainment, double bound, i heart oppression, internuts, kyriarchy, media tool kit, privilege stories, the patriarchy: you can't live with it....that is all

I haven’t played kick the can–where can means the New York Times–for a while, mostly because it’s too easy: the stolid Grey Lady’s inability to cover issues beyond it’s narrow frame of all the news white, middle-class, male America finds worthy to think about is a cliche at this point. I mean, for goodness sake, their lead writer on women’s rights is a dude! (Not to knock Nick Kristoff–keep up the good work!–but still.)

Truth be told, I only scan the headlines and drop in to read Krugman and Rich when they’re up. I don’t usually bother to read the rest of the columnists, and certainly not perpetual anal-cranial inversion artist Ross Douthat or David “Bobo” Brooks, master of somehow finding the tone your clueless, warm-n-fuzzy conservative uncle might strike–somewhere between concern trolling and reminding you that if you just wore lipstick more often, you’d find a nice fella.

But every now and then, I drop in on what he says, either because I’ve been referred there or because for some reason the headline writer is earning her or his pay this week by getting me to read something I ordinarily wouldn’t. Take today’s headline: The Bullock Trade. (It actually is “The Sandra Bullock Trade,” but it was truncated in the little upper-righthand corner area the Times puts it’s op-ed links.) Now, I was intrigued, both by the possibility that Brooks was branching out–bullocks could mean anything from modern Hindu religion to the sacrifices of the ancient Minoans–or by seeing what behavior by Ms. Bullock Brooks was disapproving of.

Because I’ve read him before, and I knew that there was no way he’d be in favor of her doing anything except marrying a Republican Senator.

But whoo boy, was this a piece of work:

Continue reading →

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The Secret Lives of Married Men–Now With Bingo Cards

Categories: i get around, privilege stories, the male ogle, the patriarchy: you can't live with it....that is all, tiger beatdown rocks

Where am I again? Why, Tiger Beatdown:

I have not, temporally speaking, been doing this here ladybusiness for all that long. (Some would draw a facetious comparison, in fact, to the amount of time I have in fact been a lady, but as that number would vary between never and 37 years depending on whether you asked Germaine Greer or Kate Bornstein, I’ll just move on.)
Yet even that short time, the depressing amount of material that exists out in the lady-hating or lady-indifferent or just lady, get me a beer world can drag you down. Why, you say to yourself as you labor over your blog in a hot kitchen (well, I’m baking cookies, see…) should I address another MRA apologia, tear apart another straw-feminist, or deal with this week’s Exciting Variation on the Tone Argument. (I solve those by getting louder.)
But then, as Sady herself discovered, you come across something absolutely stunning in its bold sweep, all-encompassing douchery, and just plain ol’ damnfoolishness.

 Yosh!

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Later That Same Evening

Categories: media tool kit, privilege stories

I’m not much for the late night talk shows–I don’t even watch Jon Stewart when he comes on, preferring to let my DVR work its magic. (Not to mention that there have been more occasions than I care to discuss where Jon was–there’s no gentle way to say this–a bit of a douche.)

So I really haven’t cared too much about the Leno-O’Brien freeforall on NBC; I have better things to worry about than which middle-aged white guy is going to bore me at 11:35 PM. I haven’t watched Conan O’Brien since I was in college, and Letterman since I was in high school–and the odd times I have caught Dave since then have just proved that what played well to my 15-year old, kinda-sorta guy self is pretty crappy nowadays.

And as for Leno, his show has always been an unwatchable piece of trash–he turned hard into the gutter back in 1995 with the Lance Ito dancers and has gleefully wallowed there ever since.

But one thing that I have noticed about this whole fiasco is how often the principals have descended to lady-hating and other associated misogynies. I said noticed, not “surprised at”: Leno has frequently been a public prick about women, and Dave…well, Dave built a frakking bedroom over his set so that he could not-quite coerce his not-quite interns with not-quite threats about very, very realistically killing any chance of a career in the business.

So no surprise as well, as Liss noted, that Leno is a contemptible misogynistic jerk:

He takes a swipe at Letterman’s marriage that, in trying to hit Letterman, sprays collateral buckshot all over Regina Lasko, who is married to Letterman. And that’s not a bug of the joke; it’s a feature. Leno’s the kind of nasty bully who will take aim at another guy in a way that hits his wife, too.

It’s a construction that treats Lasko like Letterman’s property, which is why this jibe has the same cowardly feel as a guy who keys another guy’s car in the dark parking lot of a bar, instead of taking a swing at him.

 But wait! It’s not just the principals in this mess, it’s also the feakin’ commentators:

Now, Seth Myers has always been pretty douchetastic; it’s his shtick, and it has been ever since he started co-hosting Weekend Update with Amy Poehler. But for fuck’s sake, comparing hosting a TV show to being married to a woman, and the process of changing hosts to divorce…and…and…the whole way it just assumes that women are commodities to be traded, is special even for him, and a further sign of SNL’s two-decade decline into pointless wankitude. To think: this was the show that started out with Jane Curtin, Gilda Radner, and Laraine Newman, launched the career of Julia Sweeney, and gave as Tina Fey as well as the aforementioned Amy…well, sigh.

Of course, it’s a woman’s fault to begin with, because a woman fucked up the Tonight Show 17 years ago.

That woman was the late Helen Kushnick, the woman who had discovered Leno, served as his manager and personal friend for his entire career, and engineered his takeover of Johnny Carson’s well worn seat. And right away there were nasty stories about her: she was most notorious for her vindictive policies of shitlisting guests who had dared to appear on Arsenio instead of The Tonight Show. NBC, tired of her bullying ways, fired her after a few months of heading up the gabfest, and Leno sadly had to let his friend go before she destroyed the career she had built.

Or wait! Maybe that’s not what happened, mostly because Leno is a huge douche and misogyny is a recreational sport in Hollywood. To wit, from a 1996 EW profile:

Kushnick’s story is well-known to those who follow the late-night TV wars. She was portrayed as an abusive tyrant in The Late Shift, Bill Carter’s 1994 book about Leno and Letterman, and in last February’s HBO movie; and the image was no exaggeration. In the end, many who had been her supporters, like former client Jimmie Walker, and even NBC executives, found her impossible to deal with. Her stepdaughter, Beth Kushnick, 35, still calls her a ”ghastly monster.” Even her only sibling, Joseph Gorman, 48, had been estranged from her until shortly before her death at age 51.

But what is not so well-known is the story of Kushnick’s final years — years spent out of the media eye, years that ended in a kind of redemption and, for her daughter, Sara, 16, in a reconciliation with Leno. ”Maybe she did have to be a bitch to get where she did,” says Sara, Sam’s surviving twin. ”But when she started out, women were supposed to be secretaries. She did things with anger because it was the only way she knew how.”

”They called her a bitch,” says Mitzi Shore, owner of L.A.’s Comedy Store, ”but if she were a man, she wouldn’t be called a bitch. There are managers in town who are 10 times worse than she was and they don’t call them bastards.”

 And if you needed any more confirmation about Leno’s jerkiness, consider this from the same piece, about  Kushnick’s daughter:

She grew up with Leno, called him Uncle Jay, considered his parents her grandparents. ”He came over for dinner the weekend after my mom got fired,” she says. ”We had chicken wings — we always had chicken wings. I sat on his lap and he said everything would be okay. That was the last time I saw him.”

 And there’s another way to look at the Kushnick story, as Rudy Panucci explains in a sweetly vitriolic piece on the whole late night mess:

Kushnick was dying of cancer while Leno was explaining that he had to fire her and ban her from the studio lot because he was shocked, shocked, to discover that she had lied to him about planting the rumors that hounded Carson into early retirement. The truth is, Leno threw his long-time manager and personal friend under the bus when it became clear that The Tonight Show with Jay Leno was a poorly-produced, barely-watchable disaster. After eighteen months of coming in second to Letterman, even though NBC had a strong prime-time line-up, Leno’s manager took the fall, and then the large-chinned wonder let NBC revamp the show to rescue it from cancellation.

So there you have it, folks–the kyriarchy in a nutshell, brought to you by a bunch of rich white guys who are barely even funny. I think I’ll just go to bed early.

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The Patriarchy Doesn’t Exist And Other Comforting Fictions For Hard Times

Categories: double bound, i heart oppression, invasive kyriarchy, privilege stories, supremely sexist

It’s comforting to tell ourselves that a lot of the battles that feminists have fought are finally over, and we’re in the mop up stage. It seems undeniable that attitudes have indeed improved since the days of the pre-Second Wave; one sees more and more female executives, attorneys, and doctors (though not nearly enough) than ever nowadays, and even my D&D book uses the female pronoun as often as the male pronoun in the text.

When D&D hops the equality train, that’s progress.

So we can tell ourselves that women are finally (at least in the West) moving out of the shadow of men, begin to truly have autonomy: that what Elizabeth Gilbert says below is indeed happening, and more than that, is being successful:

…Gilbert says, we’re still in the midst of a radical new social experiment.
“And the radical, unprecedented new social experiment is: What happens if we give women autonomy, education, finances, you know, control over their sexual biology?” she says. “What happens if we give you all this freedom? What are you going to do with it? … And we’re all still sort of puzzling it out in a very intense way.”

 And then you open your browser or flip through a newspaper and all that comes crashing down around you, and you see it for the papier-mâché construct it truly is. Like when you read this:

Before the first juror is selected or witness called, a decision allowing a confessed killer to argue he believes the slaying of one of the nation’s few late-term abortion providers was a justified act aimed at saving unborn children has upended what most expected to be an open-and-shut case.

Some abortion opponents are pleasantly stunned and eager to watch Scott Roeder tell a jury his slaying of Wichita doctor George Tiller was voluntary manslaughter. Tiller’s colleagues and abortion rights advocates are outraged and fear the court’s actions give a more than tacit approval to further acts of violence.

”This judge has basically announced a death sentence for all of us who help women,” said Dr. Warren Hern of Boulder, Colo., a longtime friend of Tiller who also performs late-term abortions. ”That is the effect of the ruling.”

Just so that we’re really clear on this, just so that everybody gets on the same footing, just so we can skip past the language issues of calling fetuses “unborn children,” understand this: Roeder’s defense, basically, is that he had the right to kill someone based on his right to control what another human being does with her body.

He had the right to control you. And if you asserted that control (which is due to you, one would hope, as a member of the human race–at least the male half is supposed to have bodily autonomy) and enlisted the help of a medical professional, he had the right to kill that professional in order to remove your autonomy.

Of course, “yours” only if you’re female. Which still seems to be a quasi-legal status.

Think of other cases where bodily autonomy might be involved, and wonder to yourselves if they would be able to be entered as legal justifications: But your Honor, I had to kill that abolitionist, she was helping my slave to escape.

If somebody had killed Dr. Kevorkian, would the court allow a justification defense? Even though it would be a lot more warranted than one in the case of the murder of a physician, a man who helped save the lives of many women?

Jill at Feministe has a good explanation of what’s happening, though it hasn’t quite gotten me off the ledge:

I will write more about this later as time allows, but the judge in the Scott Roeder case — Roeder is the man who shot abortion provider George Tiller at Tiller’s church — has ruled that Roeder may present a case for voluntary manslaughter instead of murder. Voluntary manslaughter is a less serious crime than murder, and subject to softer penalties. This doesn’t mean that Roeder is only being charged with voluntary manslaughter; my best guess based on the judge’s comments here is that he doesn’t want this case to be overturned on appeal, and so he’s allowing the jury to consider voluntary manslaughter as a lesser-included offense. Which makes sense.

Except that there are, of course, bigger issues at play. The judge at least rejected Roeder’s proposed “necessity” defense, but a jury will still have the option of giving Roeder a lighter sentence if the defense makes the case that Roeder had an “unreasonable but honest belief that circumstances existed that justified deadly force.” If the jury does buy that defense — and you can bet that Roeder’s team will make the trial about Dr. Tiller and abortion — it lessens the disincentives for other would-be terrorists to take out abortion providers.

Indeed.

So there is no patriarchy, and justice is for all. Just not the all that includes you.

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L’Affaire Polansky: autres voix

Categories: privilege stories, rape is hy-larious

The perception here is that the Polanski arrest has generated outrage in France–that the opinion of Frédéric Mitterand, the Culture Minister, reflects that of the entire country:

Both French Culture Minister Frederic Mitterrand and Foreign Minister Bernard Kouchner stressed Polanski’s artistic gifts in their defense of him, though in theory all men — regardless of talent — are equal before the law.

Kouchner called the arrest “sinister,” adding: “A man of such talent, recognized in the entire world, recognized especially in the country that arrested him — all this just isn’t nice.”

To many here, the slap of American justice seemed particularly sharp as the arrest came as Polanski was entering Switzerland to receive a lifetime achievement award from the Zurich Film Festival.

Mitterrand said, “To see him like that, thrown to the lions because of ancient history, really doesn’t make any sense.”

Mitterrand continued with a jab against the United States: “In the same way that there is a generous America that we like, there is also a scary America that has just shown its face.”

As my Francophilia knows no bounds, I thought I’d investigate: so today I spent some time reading Le Monde, the Parisian paper of record for the Francophone world. I am happy to report that French “outrage” is exaggerated, at least based on the comments I read on this story (warning: if you can read French, it is quite douchey.) Quite the opposite: most of the commentors railed about how there seems to be two laws, one for famous people and one for everyone else, about how Polanski is an admitted rapist and should be punished, and basically how the “but he made cool movies” film is an utter failure. (One poster had an arresting image of an “evil cocktail” that the article’s author had mixed up, and ironically said she was glad she only had sons, so that no daughter of hers would have to drink it. I thought I was at a French Shakesville.)

And then there’s this article, whose title is pretty obvious even if you don’t have much French: “La Loi est la même pour les artistes et les citroyens.” It’s an interview with Maitre Eolas, author of a French legal blog, and he calmly shoots down most of the arguments against the arrest of Polanski. I like the last paragraph the best, where he answers the “objections” of the artists that it wasn’t fair to surprise him with an arrest when he came to collect an award in Switzerland:

C’est un peu le principe d’une arrestation que d’être effectuée par surprise, sinon, elle échoue… D’autres estiment qu’il ne pouvait pas s’en douter puisqu’il se rendait régulièrement en Suisse, dans sa maison à Gstaad. Cela n’a rien à voir car cette fois il venait recevoir un prix dans un festival, sa venue était annoncée dans tous les journaux. Et apparemment, la police lit le journal.

A quick and dirty translation (anyone who speaks French better than I do, please feel free to jump in with corrections!):

It is a principle that an arrest should be effected with surprise, otherwise it fails…they consider that he couldn’t have suspected it since he came regularly to Switzerland, to his house in Gstaad. But that this time he came to receive a prize at a festival has nothing to do with it; the venue was announced in all the newspapers, and apparently, the police read the news.

Waker Attie provides a better translation below–thanks!

It is somewhat the essence of an arrest that it comes as a surprise, otherwise it fails… Others think that he couldn’t have suspected it since he came regularly to Switzerland, to his house in Gstaad. But that is totally different: this time he came to accept an award at a festival, and his attendance was announced in all the newspapers. And apparently, the police read the news.

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Rapist, International Fugitive Arrested: Media Aghast

Categories: don't get your panties in a bunch, monday media watch, Outrage, privilege stories, rape is hy-larious, supremely sexist, your rda of misogyny

I will preface this by saying I like Roman Polanski’s movies, at least the ones I’ve seen–Rosemary’s Baby, Frantic, The Pianist, and especially Chinatown; I saw a restored print of it ten years ago that was almost a religious experience.

His sudden arrest in Switzerland over the weekend has stunned the world’s artistic community. A true cinematic artist, one who’s long-suffered and even been forgiven by his victim, opinion seems to be that…the man is a rapist and why the fuck are we having this conversation?

Yeah. Rapist. He didn’t “have sex” with a 13-year old girl. He raped her. Well, first he got her drunk and high on quaaludes. Then he raped her.

Don’t believe me? Check out the Smoking Gun’s transcript of her testimony. I looked at it for the first time on Sunday. It made me ill.

Predictably, the comments at the New York Times website were full of fail. A lot of people seem to feel that he’s “suffered enough.” They base this, I guess, because he hasn’t been allowed to re-enter the United States since he fled in 1977. Instead, he’s had to content himself with making lots of money directing movies in Europe and living in France.

Ya know, I just got back from France. That’s really not a hardship assignment.

The latest bit of doucheoisie posturing is this:

Nearly 100 entertainment industry professionals, including the movie directors Pedro Almodovar, Wong Kar Wai and Wim Wenders urged in a petition that Mr. Polanski be release, saying: “Filmmakers in France, in Europe, in the United States and around the world are dismayed by this decision.”

Ronald Harwood, who won an Oscar as screenwriter of “The Pianist,” which Mr. Polanski directed, said: “It’s really disgraceful. Both the Americans and the Swiss have miscalculated.”

Jack Lang, a former French culture minister, said that for Europeans the development showed that the American system of justice had run amok.

“Sometimes, the American justice system shows an excess of formalism,” Mr. Lang said, “like an infernal machine that advances inexorably and blindly.”

One wonders, however, if Wong Kar Wei, Wim Wenders, or Pedro Almodovar would feel comfortable leaving a prepubescent female relative unattended around Roman Polanski. Or if they’d be arguing about the “great artist” exemption for a shocking act of rape if it were their 13-year old daughter.

Liss McEwan, as usual, hits it right on the head:

Very few, if any, of the people who have publicly defended Polanski, or who have worked with him, make it their business to champion or associate themselves with admitted child rapists. They make an exception for Polanski for the same reason exceptions have been for other famous, artistic men – directors, writers, actors, comedians, singers, musicians, dancers, choreographers, painters, sculptors, photographers – who have been known to sexually assault women and/or children: Because geniuses get special dispensation.

Because there’s only one Roman Polanski.

So goes the breathless defense of the artiste, while the flipside of that particular coin, because thirteen-year-old girls are a dime a dozen, goes unspoken.

So yeah. Overaggressive prosecution! Of a child molester! Who admitted to it! That’s overzealousness, all right! Just remember, as long as you can paint a nice picture or make a good movie, you get to rape young girls!

But not boys. That would be sick.

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Cahiers Parisiens: ce qui vous tenez, ça c’est ce que je prends

Categories: invasive kyriarchy, paris notebook, privilege stories, travels with CL

I’ve finally escaped my Catcave the last several days, making my way out to a few museums I hadn’t visited before. First was the Musée Carnavalet on Friday, down in the Marais. Carnavalet focuses on the history of Paris itself, and has dioramas, objects d’art, paintings, etc. from various time periods. They also had a special exhibition on the French Revolution, which engaged the military historiophile and the Francophile in me: the Revolution is one of my favorite time periods, and they had a wealth of stuff. Including some of the commemorative models of the Bastille that were actually carved from the stones of the Bastille itself.

Plus I discovered that I could read the Declaration of the Rights of Man in French. Score one for me.

I’ve been eating lunch rather than dinner the last several days, since lunch is cheaper, so I had my traditional, once a trip croque monsieur at a nearby cafe, washed down with some Haut-Médoc and a cup of strong French espresso. I’ve taken to drinking coffee in the French style after meals–espresso, with some sugar to cut the bitterness. It makes me feel all expatriate and such. Though I suppose I’d really need to drink some Pernods in a bar with a zinc counter top, and scribble furiously away in my notebooks about running the bulls at Pamplona and other homoerotic displays of masculinity.

Wait. That’s not me. That was Hemmingway. Maybe I’ve been drinking too much wine.

Saturday I had a real treat…well, not an unproblematic treat. But you’ve probably come to expect that of me. I went to the Musée Guimet, over by the Trocadero. This is the main Asian art museum in Paris. I didn’t go straight there, acutally: I had a large lunch nearby first, which included a desert of profiteroles–cream puffs stuffed with vanilla ice cream and drenched in chocolate sause–my favorite desert in the world, and something that it is almost impossible to get (at least, impossible to get done right) back in the states:


Anyway, the museum really has an excellent collection, from all parts of Asia. The India collection was quite good; and as someone that has been interested in Shiva since my days researching Indian mythology, I was happy to see this marvelous bronze of Shiva Nataraja, the Lord of the Dance:

They have an excellent Cambodian section. As I’ve been to Cambodia this year, it was quite pleasant at first to reacquaint myself with the amazing and monumental Khmer art–to see one of the gently smiling, inexplicable faces of the Bayon silently contemplating me again, to look at a marvelously preserved naga, to see a beautiful bas-relief apsara.

But something began to bother me. When I would read the labels to see where these things came from, I began to feel…uncomfortable. That’s because I’ve actually been to those places; I’ve seen the elephant terrace, the royal palace, the Bayon of Angkor Thom. And given that Cambodia was a French colony for ninety years, I thought it was a pretty good bet that they didn’t ask if they could take any of those things.

This isn’t a new issue, of course: the Louvre has the best egyptology collection outside of Egypt, because of Napoleon’s conquests there; the British plundered the Greek world to build their amazing collections; even within Europe itself museum collections are often the plunder of war.

Still, the enormous gap of wealth, privilege and power between the colonial nations of the nineteenth century and the countries they subjugated seems to lend an air of disquietude that doesn’t linger over the internecine push and shove of Europe’s long shabby history of warfare. Because they essentially stole these things from people who found it difficult or impossible to resist. Stole, and left no recompense, and often no regrets. Even the great humanist Andre Malraux got into the act, trying to steal artifacts and whole bas-reliefs from the newly-rediscovered and beautifully-preserved Banteay Srei in Cambodia.

Of course, it’s nice that people in other places in the world can see these things, and it’s good to have some of them safe in a museum–the Angkor artifacts suffered during the reign of the Khmer Rouge. But that still doesn’t make up for the crime of taking them in the first place. I mean…they could have just asked.

In any case, maybe it’s appropriate that this guy, donated by the women of the United States in the memory of Lafayette, should be right outside the museum:

(Yeah, that’s good ol’ George himself.)

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Monday Media Watch: Oh NYT, You’ve Done It Again

Categories: media tool kit, monday media watch, privilege stories

Oh, New York Times! You mixed-up kid! When you’re not panting all over the latest Dan Brown novel (for shame, Janet Maslin, for shame) you’re punting muddle-headed essays on gender on us.

Let’s take a look-see…hm, they talk about Caster Semenya–hey, join the club! I used the controversy to talk about gender issues too, seeing as gender and appearances were a major part of my life. What’s Peggy Orenstein got to say?

I had my own reasons to be fascinated by Semenya’s story: I related to it. Not directly — I mean, no one has ever called my biological sex into question. No one, that is, except for me. After my breast-cancer diagnosis at age 35, I was told I almost certainly had a genetic mutation that predisposed me to reproductive cancers. The way I could best reduce my risk would be to surgically remove both of my breasts and my ovaries. In other words, to amputate healthy body parts. But not just any parts: the ones associated in the most primal way with reproduction, sexuality, with my sense of myself as female.

I…see.

No, wait, I don’t.

I mean the whole point of the Caster Semenya story is how people question your gender, right? Now, not to diminish Ms. Orenstein’s pain here. I am well aware of how terrible cancer, breast cancer, and the surgeries proposed are, and how not having breasts or a womb or ovaries can make you question your femininity and your sense of yourself as female, as a woman. (I’m rather intimately acquainted with that, actually.)

But like they say over here, quoi?

So I began to fret: without breasts or hormone-producing ovaries, what would the difference be, say, between myself and a pre-op female-to-male transsexual? Other than that my situation was involuntary? That seemed an awfully thin straw on which to base my entire sense of womanhood. What, precisely, made me a girl anyway? Who got to decide? How much did it matter?

Um…the difference would be that you thought of yourself as a woman? Ya think? And waitaminute–involuntary? Are you kidding me?

I guess you can say that starting treatment to transition is voluntary–I mean, you have to decide to do it; nobody makes you. But the being trans part isn’t.

Oh, goodness, ducks, there’s a lot to pick apart in the essay–like when she says biology is destiny! Sorta! But it totes shouldn’t mean anything to women’s rights or stuff (which seems pretty baffling.) She does inch close to something important though:

According to Sheri Berenbaum, a professor of psychology and pediatrics at Penn State who studies children with disorders of sex development, even people with ambiguous biology tend to identify as male or female, though what motivates that decision remains unclear. “People’s hormones matter,” she said, “but something about their rearing matters too. What about it, though, no one really knows.”

There is something mysterious at work, then, that makes us who we are, something internally driven. Maybe it’s about our innate need to categorize the world around us. Maybe it arises from — or gives rise to — languages that don’t allow for neutrality. My guess, however, is that it’s deeper than that, something that transcends objectivity, defies explanation.

Now, that I can agree with. I mean, that’s the story of my life, right? Except that in my case, my sense of gender was at odds with my body. I didn’t choose a middle way or androgyny or something like that (though people do and that’s just as valid as my own gender), but instead was impelled to think of myself as female. Why? And why is it so hard for some people to accept that about me–why do people cling to narrowly construed models of gender? What is it in human culture or the human brain that does that? These are good questions! Ms. Orenstein, maybe you’ll leave me on a good note!

I know that my sex could never really be changed by any surgeon’s scalpel.

Thunk. Boy it’s a good thing my desk is 5,000 miles away.

I mean, I know what she means, and it actually follows the same course as my own thinking: my gender was female before, during, and after my surgery. But sheesh, lady, for TS and intersex people, surgery can be Kind. Of. Important.

And that’s just it. She wants to talk about gender, she even brings in the example of a famous person who is intersex (or presumed to be, thanks to the leaks of evil, evil people), but does she engage with any intersex or transsexual people, who sure as hell know a lot about intrinsic gender identity?

Fuck no.

People get all in an uproar, it seems lately, about the word cis as opposed to trans. (Right now on a message board I still read we’re having our latest battle about it, a three-way fight between cis folks who don’t want the word applied to them, trans folks who want it applied in the neutral and descriptive way, and other trans folks who oppose its use and want to be nice in hope of getting a cookie from the cis folks.) But an article like this shows exactly why we need to have a word like this: because the privilege of not only never wondering about your gender identity, but never needing to know anything about people who have, is astonishing and smothering. So many of the questions Ms. Orenstein ponders have been batted around for years. There’s research, books, testimonials, diatribes, and even blogs.

There were answers. But privilege deafened her to them.

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How to Tell You’ve Transitioned, Part I

Categories: adventures in transition, all about me, how to tell if you've transitioned, privilege stories

How can you tell you’ve transitioned?

…because shopping for clothes becomes a tedious chore rather than a fun excursion.

OK. Not fair, I get that–I know plenty of women of all stripes and origins who enjoy clothes shopping, including me, on occasion. But still…as compared to the times when I constructed myself as a crossdresser, shopping for clothes doesn’t have the same kick.

On the face of it, this seems strange. I mean, I no longer have to use the exasperating and even sometime ridiculous accoutrements to round out my figure, give me the appearance of having breasts, add to my hips so that my skirts wouldn’t fall down. I’ve got a body that actually fits the mold women’s clothing is intended for…and that is a relief and a pleasure, often.

On the other hand, maybe my body’s part of the issue–I’ve gained about 25 pounds in the last six months, and while that’s not an earth-shattering, cry myself to sleep issue, I am a little unhappy about how I look in my clothes lately.

Which got hammered home yesterday when I went out to buy some clothes for the first time in months (business has been slow and I haven’t had the cash to spend on clothes–though maybe I’d kill both my issues there if I stopped ordering out all the time.) But I’m travelling tomorrow and wanted to have some new clothes for the trip, especially some casual dresses, which would be light to pack. I didn’t find any that I liked, although I did get some new jeans that will actually fit.

I hate shopping for jeans. There are times I just can’t even work up the energy to go try them on, even though I think I look good in a lot of different styles of jeans. But I just hate doing it.

Maybe that’s another sign I’ve transitioned.

My relationship with my clothing has always been…interesting. I’m not like a lot of trans women–I don’t deny having had a long period of time identifying as a crossdresser; I think I was a crossdresser, albeit one with a greater interest in transitioning than I let on, even to myself. Back in those days, clothes held an allure, a mystique, an air of the forbidden about them. To crossdress was to engage all my hidden desires and frailities at once; the feeling of being at home while crossdressed was exhilerating and terrifying, and my clothes were fraught with a lot of meaning.

Which isn’t to say that clothes aren’t fraught with meaning for anyone–compare the different uniforms we wear every day, from bike messenger with one pants leg rolled to corporate honcho in a bespoke suit. Clothes are shorthand for our identities, they send out messages about us–sometimes ones that we don’t want to send.

For example, when I was in India, I bought two saris. I bought them because I loved India and the culture and the people, because I wanted to bring home a souvenir, because I think saris are beautiful dresses. I even asked a friend of mine (not Indian) if I could wear one of them to her wedding, and she enthusiastically agreed.

All this was before my “second awakening,” though. After I began to engage identity politics further, I saw that my wearing a sari just couldn’t be an isolated action–that I couldn’t avoid all the centuries of past interactions between Western and Indian people, and that ultimately I wouldn’t be able to get past the fact that if I wore a sari, I’d be a cool multiculti chick–whereas an Indian woman who wore a sari in America would seem to be “fresh off the boat,” unassimilated, perhaps ingnorant of American culture or even English. And that while some Indian people wouldn’t have a problem with me wearing a sari, others would, and it wouldn’t be easy to just discount their opinion simply because it was a beautiful dress and I liked it a lot.

I did end up wearing the sari, because my friend insisted, and she was the bride. I was fortunate; the only couple I met at the wedding who were from the region didn’t mind at all. Still I changed out of the sari and into a dress after the ceremony. And I’m not upset that I felt I had to do it, and certainly not upset at any Indian people who might take offense at me wearing a sari. I’m upset at the four centuries of Westerners who plundered India, who exoticized it, who used and abused the people there. They’re the ones who’ve “ruined” it for me–not their victims.

So yeah, clothes mean a lot more than just something to keep the wind out.

But you knew that already, didn’t you? Any woman who has been verbally (or all too often, physically) assaulted because her neckline or hemline had crossed the invisible threshold between “prude” and “slut,” who’s been told she’s “asking for it” because of what she’s wearing, who’s been told that her outfit was part of the reason she was attacked (as if women in pants and long sleeves are never raped) knows this. Hell, even I knew that back when I was a crossdresser, although sadly like many of the CDs I knew, I don’t think I really fully engaged with all the implications of what that meant. (There are things that being full-time does to you.)

Wearing clothes has a context for me now that it didn’t have back when I kept mostly to safe spaces–it has the context any woman has to deal with, from issues of personal safety to the whole construct of female beauty and its impossible-to-attain ideals. So yeah, some of the fun has leached out of it. And that’s how I can tell I’ve transitioned.

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