Operation Oopsie

Operation Rescue, an anti-choice group, is about to have some major problems.  Some shady person has stolen a bunch of medical records.  And not just any old medical records, but the records of women who visited a clinic in Kansas that yes, DUM DUM DUM….performs abortions.  Troy Newman, the president of Operation Rescue, received the records from last month, from an unidentified person, who Newman idiotically repeats that the man insisted the records were obtained legally.

Except that they weren’t.  They couldn’t have been.  Medical records are not given out to anyone. If Troy Newman’s buddy “obtained” those records, they are ill-gotten gains, to say the least.  It is against federal HIPAA regulations to have those files in his hand without a properly executed Release of Information form.  Which form he obviously does not have, which form the unnamed Newman pal obviously did not have.  Actually, he would have needed dozens of forms, one for each damn patient. 

So.  Obviously this is some illegal AND immoral shit going on.  Newman says some stupid crap about the files showing illegal shit like covering up child abuse, or that the files were improperly disposed of.  Riiiiiight.  I’ll go ahead and wait on the LEGAL proof of that, if it’s all the same to Newman's dumb ass.  An attorney for the clinic called the FBI after someone broke into their dumpster last month. So someone’s obviously looking for something, but they wouldn’t have found April’s medical records in the trash.  Duh.  Medical records are kept for about a decade, and then they are disposed of—by shredding them.  So April’s records wouldn’t have been in the trash.  And if April’s records from over ten years ago were in the trash, they would have been shredded.  Further, it’s unlikely the clinic, with all the anti-woman crazies like Operation Rescue out there, would even put the records in the clinic’s dumpster.  Right alongside the aborted fetuses, amirite?   

I’m super interested in how this turns out, even if it turns out Newman’s insider only got him sign-in sheets or something.  Hopefully a whole bunch of people will be in some deep shit over this.  Which is too bad, because it takes away from their time helping women.  HA!

Pointing and Laughing

In “Well, no shit” news today, Florida’s lost a bunch of money drug-testing its welfare applicants over a 4-month period.  To the tune of over $45,000, lawmakers in Florida found out that not only did the number of applicants not go down, but only 2% of the tests were positive (most for marijuana use).  The state had to reimburse the applicants who passed, so the state ended up paying more for the testing than if the applicants had received benefits.  Which leads me to say:

HA, HA, TOLD YOU SO.  I FUCKIN TOLD YOU SO. 

Like I always say...FUCK OFF...er, I was right.

The Feminist Breeder shared a link yesterday about the failure of this program to prove…well, anything they wanted it to prove, that’s for sure.  Some of the comments on TFB’s facebook page were eye-rollers.  Some woman said “What’s harsh is when u go apply at the welfare office and in the parking lot u c brand new cars.  They don’t belong to the workers.  Its all the other people on welfare.”  How does one go about discovering this information?  Did this odd woman ask around in the office, applicants and employees alike, to identify the make, model, and year of their vehicles?  I’m pretty sure she wasn’t just talking out of her ass, you guys.  Probably.  You might say it’s none of this lady’s fucking business who drives what, when they got it, how much they paid for it, etc. 

But!  Drug testing is not unfair to poor people, and it’s not discrimination, as some other person points out smartly. 

It’s not discrimination when you are asking tax payers and the government to financially support you.  Just because someone passes a drug test does not mean they are drug free.  I know tons of people who have collected their child’s urine in order to pass a test.  Many people slip through the cracks.  Millions.

Listen, she knows thousands of pounds’ worth of people who use their child’s urine to pass a piss test.  Who knows how many people that is!  Though if they’re poor, they must be fat, amirite, commenter?  All those munchies from the weed and the crap food they buy with their food stamps, you know. 

And don’t dare question her, because this chick knows what she’s talking about.  “Millions is an accurate statement.  Millions of welfare receivers nationwide are on drugs and use the free money for illegal purposes.  Also online reports can be biased and missing key information.  Just because it’s on the Internet doesn’t make it true.”  Except what she just said.  That’s true. 

Besides, this happened to another commenter: 

This is a tough one for me…i was at the grocery store recently and the couple behind me smelled of pot so badly that my nose burned.  When they paid for their groceries, they paid with a welfare debit card.  Im all for helping the truly needy, but if u can afford to buy pot, I don’t need to buy your groceries.

A commenter who WASN’T an asshole pointed out that that commenter does not know that the couple bought the weed.  Stoners, as she pointed out, are notoriously generous.  Maybe someone gave them a bud.  Maybe they grow their own.  Either way, though, who gives a shit.  It’s not commenter X’s job to police the welfare recipients.  NOR IS SHE PAYING FOR ANYONE’S GROCERIES.  Not really, not any more than I’m paying for her roads and for her local fire department.  So STFU already with the whining, “I shouldn’t have to pay for that,” because you DON’T. 

Of course people on welfare use drugs—some of them.  Just like some congresspeople.  Just like some ranchers.  Just like some teachers.  Just like some internet commenters.  Just like some line cooks.  Just like some restaurant owners.  Just like some of every group everywhere ever.  Folks on public assistance don’t have the market cornered on drug use and government fraud.  So lay the fuck off.  And can I just say it one more time?

TOLD YOU SO.  TOLD YOU SO.  TOOOOOOOOOOLD YOU SOOOO. 

Is anyone counting the waves?

I had an interesting conversation today on the Facebook.  A page that I follow, Evolutionary Parenting, posted an interview with Dr. Mayim Bialik (That’s Blossom, yo!).  Dr. Bialik is a strong advocate for Attachment Parenting, and she has a book out on the subject.  I read the transcript, and it was a great interview.  She talked about her parenting philosophies and why she chose to circumcise her son.  I found this part interesting:  Dr. Bialik said “I think especially in a productive and kind of feminist society it’s not valued to surrender that way to the needs of a child.”  I’ve read a little about AP, and I think it’s a sound philosophy involving co-sleeping, breastfeeding, babywearing, and basically listening to your child, learning them, and learning to respond to them in the way they need.  Not all of the tenets work for every AP family, I’m sure (I couldn’t co-sleep because I am a light and crappy sleeper and would not get ANY sleep if my baby was right next to me), but basically I think it sounds like a great way to raise a kid. 

                I wondered on the Facebook why Dr. Bialik would say feminist society doesn’t value surrendering yourself to the needs of your child.  I had thought, as a feminist, that I did value that.  I surrender to the needs of my kiddos every day of my life, happily.  The owner of the page and blog pointed me in the direction of a post she wrote last year, called “Feminism v. Mothering.”  It’s sort of a summary of what the first wave of feminism fought for, and how she feels the second wave (Betty Friedan, etc) got it wrong.  Instead of pushing to have mothering valued in a significant way to society, the second wave of feminists devalued motherhood by eschewing family for career:   

The crux of the modern-day feminist movement has been to fight for women to have the chance to make it equally in what they themselves have called the patriarchal society. By doing this, they have placed immense value on the traditional work of men, making it the pinnacle of success and fulfillment in life. Indeed, according to these feminists, the only way women can be fulfilled is to pursue one of these masculine endeavors; to not do so leads to depression and resentment.

See, I just don’t think that’s right.  I think, in this—what, third?—wave of feminism, us feminists are trying to be inclusive, not divisive.  I see us opening our circles to respect choices.  One of my favorite bloggers, The Feminist Breeder, is a perfect example.  She chose her blog name very purposefully, because she believes that choosing to be a mother is valuable and fulfilling.  I agree.  Being a feminist today does not mean you have to give up having a family.  It does not mean you have to give up having a career.  It does not mean you have to “do it all.”  It means you get to do what you want to do, and other feminists will respect your choices, regardless of whether they would make the same choices in your position.  That’s what feminism is all about to me—choice.   I want to be a great mother, a great writer, a great medical transcriptionist, and a great wife.  And I fail every day at something; but even if I chose just one of those things to be, I’d still fail every day, a little.  Because I am just one woman, one feminist, one mother, trying like hell to raise these little people to be solid grownups, and trying like hell to be a solid grownup myself. 

Posing for Picture Day in Spring

The elementary school photographer told the seven-year-old boy with the spiky hair to prop a short leg on that fake rock . . . and let it swing. Let it catch an early Spring breeze. Having a little penis and a set of promising testicles is something (indeed) to be proud of! 

Well, no one said anything about the little boy’s little penis and testies; it was, however, subtly implied.

My daughter was next in line.

That morning, she had tried so hard to make herself look pretty for Picture Day – piggy tails, hair clips with neon streaks of fake hair, her new sapphire earrings sparkling, a touch of glittery chapstick. She is a bit artsy-fartsy – a fan of Judy Moody – and she likes playing in front of the mirror and trying on quirky things as much as she likes coloring pictures and scotch-taping them all over my living room walls. That morning, she sneaked into my make-up, just before leaving, and her daddy worked himself into a tizzy trying and trying to wash off – in two minutes – what was successfully marketed as 100% waterproof mascara. He would tell me later (because I had already left for work) that she got on the school bus “lookin’ like a little Ozzy.” 

When my daughter stepped in front of that fake Spring backdrop to be photographed, she (most likely) flipped back a crooked pony tail. I can see her doing it because I’ve seen her do it, just as she has seen other girls – including her 17 year old sister – do it a thousand times. Then (she told me) she threw a leg up on that fake rock because she wanted to look “tough” like the boy before her did. She turned to the camera with her best smile.

Her legs are long – as she is one of the tallest in her class – and she’s a fast runner. Her shins and knee caps are all bruised up because she’s never afraid of falling. She was the only girl in the first grade to submit a project to the school's Science Fair. Her project was on additive and reflective colors, and it kicked ass. She mixed paints and dissolved Skittles and separated the pigments in Kool-aid and made three shades of Jell-O. And when her project didn’t win, she cried. She still cries about it sometimes. She has a fifth grade reading level. Okay, I'll stop there. I promise I am making a point (although, I must say, all this pointed bragging is the most fun I’ve had in days!).

The photographer (a tubby, bald male? a twenty-something year old girl?) likely chuckled a minute, then told my daughter to close her legs and place her hands delicately on her thigh.

And she growled. She told me she did. And I was proud.

But, of course, there was a long line of kids – kids who had been repeatedly instructed to follow the rules lest they be sent to “The Solutions Room” for interrogation; kids who find that wimpy principal in mid-life crisis quite frightening; and girls (like mine) who hold their heads high every time they are handed a golden ticket signifying that they have been a Good Citizen, abiding and assisting the flow of elementary school life rather than adding to the rowdiness. My daughter was easily – understandably – coerced her into closing her legs. She was told to hold it all in, hide it all away, as prudently as possible, that her something (indeed) need not catch a breeze, for it might make others uncomfortable. But she didn’t like it, and she saw the unfairness in it, and she didn’t understand it. It taught she and I both something.

I hope she remembers always, even as life coerces her subtlety into roles and expectations, that she has the right to growl and the right NOT to like such coercions, the right to step out of the roles because, more often than not, they are simply stifling.

Here’s what worries me: will we always see the subtleties? They are certainly sneaky. They are the subtleties that sneak up in the mornings, still, to assure me, yes, I had best keep my bag of beloved make-up. Those same subtleties are likely what piled up to coerce me into growing more quiet as the years crept up, as my legs became freakishly long, so long that I would tower over all the boys until eighth grade, ashamed; and again when my booby buds showed up, poor tender nubs as foreign as tumors; and again when one of the high school boys called me a slut for wearing short shorts then stuck his tongue out at me like some kind of lizard. Those same subtleties made me cry as the skin on my upper thighs split to show stretch marks, imperfections that labeled me damaged, not so marketable. They were what kept me from looking at myself, fully, from understanding all that I was, from exploring myself. They were what let me think both the ends and means were rooted in simply finding a lover; a Prince Charming need only be any man who would have me.

Those subtleties may be what keeps my daughter from taking giant steps in the future, and instead keeps her in some safe-box with a close eye on everyone around her. They may be what makes her heart pound as she considers raising her hand in class. They may be what makes her doubt love of self and so love of others. They may be what keeps her from running for president or what keeps her from being a revolutionary poet.

Of course, her pictures still turned out lovely. Her straight back. Her wide smile full of new teeth. Her blackened eyelids in Heavy Metal fashion. And yet, the backdrop behind her is slightly tilted like it might fall over, the whole world of Spring – the sparkling lake, the budding trees – fabulously off-kilter.

We Girls, Girls, Girls

I confess: my expectations of girls and women are conflicting. Over the last few weeks, I paused to consider the expectations I was imposing and bitching about, scratching my head about, allowing myself to become depressed over, and – of course – the expectations I was setting myself up for. I have more confessions. Maybe this can be a “Name That Conflict” kind of game, for I am trying to answer for myself how these things fit together (or not). I see potential problems – maybe your experiences are similar? – but, in this world and as a strong woman hoping for a professional career, I’m not sure how to move myself around them. For now, there may be lines to be drawn . . .

 . . . in football?

1.       At the bus stop just outside my apartment, I stood staring up at a pair of billboard-sized, posterized cheerleaders as they hovered above the Sullivan KinderCare, flaunting their cleavage and belly buttons for the Arena Football League, the “SpokaneShock” Games. The text on the board read in big orange letters: “MORE THAN just a game.” And I thought to myself, “Now what the hell does THAT mean? Are they offering something beyond the usual football cheerleading like End Zone pole dancing?” Then a bus appeared with an ad for Busty’s Top Espresso plastered across its broad side. There, larger life, rolled up two more sets of women’s perky knockers in push-up bras, i.e., bikini-clad baristas serving Spokane’s top coffee. I made some snark comment to no one, but then I let the bus wisp me away to the downtown bus Plaza where I always feel overdressed – even a bit floozy – in the mornings in my v-neck blouses (a more womanly attire?) and with my lipstick fresh.

2.     I didn’t watch the Super Bowl, but I went on a mad search for Madonna’s NFL half-time show after the fact. I was a child of the 80’s, and by the early 90’s she was teaching me super-details about sex, and I loved her for it. Her boob cones were fantastic. She has orgasms on the concert stage, I liked to say as though I had actually bore witness. After I watched the entirety of the her half-time show, I smiled for the World Peace thing at the end, but then bitched that the show was surprisingly modest, as if Madonna had somehow digressed. I said it was probably because she was now a mother or maybe because she’s over 50, but I couldn’t talk myself out of being a little pissed.  

 . . . in girl talk?

3.       We have new neighbors – a set of three young girls in the apartment just above us. The three young girls have replaced a set of three young boys who partied every weekend, having turned their bay window into a fully stocked liquor cabinet. When the boys were here, they revved their pick-up truck/tank every morning before daylight. Their partying friends liked to steal our assigned car port. We dealt with the boys but not without griping – once even mentioning the thumping bass to the management. But the girls, since they had moved in, had been so stompy and loud and bass-thumpingly annoying that they might as well have been doing the Dougie on our last nerve. Finally, they piled up in the stairwell one night – a school night – near to midnight, laughing and squealing and calling out to each other between the levels. They were stumbling over each other, having a good ole’ time, keeping every last toddler awake in the building. It takes a lot for me to work up the anger/courage to let someone REALLY know how I feel, but often times I’m good to go once I have convinced myself it’s for a higher purpose. I did it for the sleeping babies – including my own. I let them have it. I marched out into the stairwell and told them there were people and children trying to sleep in the building and then I told them they needed to shut the fuck up – five times. I surprised myself. The cute red head responded with “Calm down, honey,” and I told her to shut the fuck up again. She’s lucky I didn’t break her nose. My partner practically grabbed me by my waist and pulled back in to our safe haven. He was a little shocked . . . and scared. We argued over this a little, but he insisted the boys were far worse than these girls had ever been, and I never once attempted to let THEM know how I REALLY felt. He accused me of taking on some “boys will be boys” level of tolerance that I wasn’t willing to extend to the girls. He was right.

4.       Another true story: a few weeks ago, a drama between two love-strewn high school girls via Facebook resulted in a flash mob of teenagers anxious to view a predicted cat fight at the Spokane Valley Mall (by the Orange Julius, just beyond the dark breezes of the Hot Topic). A boy had broken up with the younger girl to start dating the older girl (“Because what high school freshman doesn’t want to date a sophomore?” I thought and then kicked myself for it). Although much of this is the result of rumor (the result of having a daughter in a local high school and having a keen ear on the bus), it was said the boy was beside his new older girlfriend when older girlfriend pulled out a knife and stabbed the younger old girlfriend in the thigh, nicking her femoral artery. The younger old girlfriend, left a trail of stark blood on the mall floor all the way to the bathrooms, and she might have bled to death if not for the convenient appearance of an EMT and a surgeon who happened to be around, browsing American Eagle and Radio Shack and gnawing on Auntie’s Pretzels (Okay, either an EMT and a surgeon or highly trained mall staff). The older girlfriend and the boy disappeared, presumably to the Centennial Trail as it is across the road from the mall; the trail follows the river and dips under one badass railroad bridge (If I was a teenager of the valley I would so hang out there every full moon). I heard (via high school kid gossip on Bus Route 97) that older girlfriend threw the knife in the river and the two of them tried to skip town. Of course, it had to be a boy, I said to myself. He probably asked older girlfriend to marry him afterward as they were running with dry blood on their shoes, and the girl saw cloud castles and rainbows through her tears. Stupid, stupid girls. It’s just a stupid, stupid boy. But then if I was dumb enough to stab some chic and run, I sleep easy at night knowing I'm lucky enough to have a a lover/partner/husband who would be right there with me, running alongside, ready to truck it to Mexico, telling me when we get there, he'll find us a couple of Strawberry Daiquiris, and he has no qualms with changing his name. And what better lover could one ask for? 

. . .  on buses?   

5.       I’ve been on the bus a lot lately, since my Looney Tunes edition Venture minivan died and since I realized how idiotic it was to keep driving (even after the Venture was replaced) back and forth to work, wasting gas and spewing emissions, when a bus route could get me there for free and with little worry. Last week, I rolled my eyes at a set of loud girls who stood in the aisles of the crowded bus, pushing each other around, laughing like second graders on sugar highs. They flipped around their flat-ironed, dyed hair; they wore tight skinny jeans and thick make-up – extra curly-Q mascara, and their eyebrows were plucked near to oblivion. They took turns punching each other in their respective limbs and giggling and snorting. They stood between impending conversations (as they were occurring across aisles between myself and a colleague) without even noticing. Or maybe they noticed and kept themselves in the same spot regardless. Surely they were having fun. Surely they wanted all eyes on them. And that’s where mine were, although I was far from impressed; rather, I was steaming and my nostrils were flaring.  Because I didn’t want to scare my colleague as I had scared my husband when I let the neighbor girls have it in the stairwell, I said nothing. But then, had I caught myself thinking "Girls should know better" again?

6.       In the fall, I was on a Greyhound in the middle of Kansas on a four-day trip from Spokane to Indiana for a family funeral. My presence back in Indiana was absolutely necessary, but a bus trip cross-country was all I could afford. I came to learn I wasn’t the only one on the bus taking the cross-country route. I was sharing the same space with several of the same faces I’d met up with, even joined coming from Seattle, at the Greyhound Terminal in Spokane. Conversations were sporadic but always with purpose. Some of us had grown to know each other quite well. Some of us had gone far to illustrate our distinctive personalities. All of us were smelling bad and ready to be out of Kansas. The bus driver told us the air conditioning had stopped working not far outside of Salina, but we wouldn’t be able to change buses until Kansas City. At some point – a stop post-Denver? – the bus had picked up an older obnoxious woman in a tank top with lots of tattoos, who wouldn’t stop fidgeting – standing up, sitting down – and also chatting with thin air. The man beside me told me she was likely “missin’ her crystal.” When a few passengers started telling her to sit down and shut the hell up, she became pissed and started flipping us all off. She threatened us all with an ass-whoopin’, told us she didn’t have to put up with our shit, started yelling at the bus driver to do something because everyone was ganging up on her. A twenty-something girl who seemed quite comfy in the bus setting had been among the first few who had spoken out to her. The girl stood up where her seat was (as the bus trucked on down the wide and super-flat interstate) and told the older woman to come a little closer if she was going to be such a whiney ass bitch and the girl would see to it that she shut her mouth. Sweat glistened on both of their foreheads. The older women flinched as though she might pull up a fist, and it was enough to send the twenty-something girl near-to crawling over the head of the passenger seated between them in some fit of mad rage. A man jumped to his feet to hold them apart while I sat shaking my head like I beheld greater self-control and wisdom. The bus stopped and the older tattooed woman was handed a lecture (for us all to see) from the bus driver who was indeed a firm woman who had been quick to spout her rules when we first met (“If you are off smoking or eatin’ Subway and you aren’t back when I say I’m leavin’, I’ll leave your ass in TheMiddleofNowhere, Kansas – Don’t test me.”). I confess: I had expected the men at the back of the bus to start arguing about the pot smell coming out of the bathroom first. I must have truly been delirious or an idiot. I came to learn that days on a Greyhound levels the playing field in gender, class, and reasoning skills.

. . . for pretend or real?

7.       I didn’t watch the Grammys because I don’t have cable. I did find a list of winners the next day – Go Adele and Foo Fighters!  But what was with all the Chris Brown shit? And then there were the tweets. The small-minded über-goofs of far too many naive girls calling out (as Brown’s Grammy performance was rolling) hash-tagged comments to the online social networking world like, “I’d let Chris Brown punch me in the eye any day.” Wink. Wink. I confess: I hope they may never get a punch in the eye from a man who they think loves them, but then a part of me thinks it might take something just like that before they kick themselves for having ever made such an idiotic public claim. Meanwhile, Brown will continue to get his shoes kissed like some R&B hero who couldn’t help his manly rage (as sexy and encouraged as manly rage is). We’ve been TAUGHT to raise a higher eyebrow at Rihanna.

8.       The only time I was ever homeless was when I was hiding in a domestic violence shelter, seeking a divorce and doing all that was in my power (which wasn’t much at all) to keep from losing custody of my three kids. At the shelter, I had to keep my apartment up to par for daily inspections. There was a curfew of 9PM and a locked gate. There were group therapy sessions in the basement alongside the washer and dryer, and we cried to each other while our children rolled around with a set of blocks on the cold concrete floor. I stayed there in a tiny little apartment on the toughest side of Indianapolis for almost six months while I endured court hearings and tried to keep my kids (and myself) in the same school. Within that six month period, I drove down once to my hometown (five hours south) and picked up my big sister just before her husband was thrown in prison for running a meth lab (a business she had long suspected but had tried to ignore). She showed me photos of herself she had taken months ago when she had a black and blue face, swollen and broken to the point of missing several days of work. She told me she took those pictures to remind herself of how hideous things had gotten between the two of them. I drove her up to Indianapolis with me – so she too could hide in the shelter with me, even though her husband was going to be behind bars. We needed the therapy. We needed the daily inspections. We needed the curfew, and we needed the gate. If we knew nothing else, we knew that we needed those things, and that we needed each other. When her husband got out of prison, she took him back and not much changed. She didn’t see other options. She wanted to make him better. I blamed myself for being the world’s worst sister, for preoccupying myself with my schooling rather than giving her the friendship she needed. It reminds me now of how I know there is a part of me who still blames my mother for her crooked nose, having had it broken by my drunk father twice, early in their 7-year marriage. And although divorced from him today, I can become angry at her in a flash when she implies she may be regretful, being in love with him still – if only a little.  

finis. (Finally!)  ;)
Anybody else got any conflicting expectations or confessions? Or did the world drop a make-believe egg on my head again?

Who cares about poor people?

Not the GOP. Nope, not at all. Being a poor person, of course I already knew the mouthpieces of the republican party think I’m lazy and uneducated. I know that for various reasons they think I should both stop having babies and stop aborting babies.

And also apparently the stupid Susan G. Komen for the Cure Foundation doesn't care about low-income women.  The Foundation pulled its funding from Planned Parenthood, which move was announced yesterday. The foundation, which has come under fire for various dealings, did so because Planned Parenthood is under a congressional investigation on account of some superamazing undercover work in which spies found PP employees to be doing their jobs! Advocating for women’s health! Scandalous, indeed. So the new vice pres of the Komen Foundation just happens to be a woman who ran for governor of Georgia partially on a platform of defunding PP. And the guidelines about not being able to fund an organization under congressional investigation? New.

The Susan G. Komen Foundation for the Cure does not care about poor women’s health. Hundreds of thousands of women will go without breast cancer screens now, because surprisingly, there aren’t a lot, or any in many areas, places that do free or cheap cancer screenings. Despite anti-choicers efforts to the contrary, us poor women haven’t been tossed under the hearse yet.

Planned Parenthood has already launched a Breast Health Emergency Fund to offset the untenable actions of the Komen Foundation. Led with a grant of $250,000 by the Amy and Lee Fikes Foundation, the fund will work immediately to allow PP to keep performing life-saving screening and care. “We are deeply alarmed that the Susan G. Komen for the Cure Foundation appears to have succumbed to political pressure from a vocal minority,” Karl Eastlund, president and CEO of Planned Parenthood of Greater Washington and North Idaho, said.

Eastlund’s alarmed, but I bet he’s not surprised, and neither am I. More and more it’s obvious that the vocal minority is getting louder, and if you listen, this is what they’re saying to the rank and file: You don’t matter.

Look, I’m not going to ask you to donate to the Emergency Fund, because you’re probably as broke as I am, and I get annoyed with all the “Donate if you can” stuff, because I DO want to, but I can't. But I know that our pro-choice, pro-women pens are mightier than the swords of holier-than-thou-ness wielded by many enemies of folks in poverty. We may be poor, but we deserve, yes, ARE ENTITLED TO, healthcare. I’m grateful for those who remember that, like our Senator Patty Murray, like the Amy and Lee Fikes Foundation,and like Planned Parenthood.

Four out five parents agree: questions are a good thing!

The mommy wars are still raging.  Parents judge each other so harshly that it seems no one wins when it comes to a variety of topics like giving birth the “right” way, breastfeeding, free-range parenting, television watching habits, proper age for things like earrings, cell phones, walking home alone, issues of discipline, etc., etc., etc., and, of course, vaccination.  A couple of months ago I wrote a guest post  for The Feminist Breeder  in which I expressed my surprise that many of my cohorts in the pro-choice movement, who vehemently defend any woman’s right to choose, seem very much anti-choice when it comes to vaccinations, both for children and adults.  I am all for choice when it comes to vaccines.  I’m not anti-vaccine, but I’m definitely a skeptic, and have decided from now on to research vaccines and do what I think is best on a case-by-case basis. 

            When it comes to the HPV vaccine case, I have made my decision.  My daughters and my son and any future children I may have will not receive the HPV vaccine while it is my decision to make.  When they are old enough they may choose for themselves.  I have a real problem with the vaccine, and it’s not because of the way the virus is spread.  I have two  main problems with Gardasil in particular (not having read too much about Cervarix, a less popular HPV vaccine by a different company). 

EFFICACY.  According to WebMD, the vaccine is proven to be effective for at least four years, and maybe longer.  Long-term effects are not known.  (How could they be?  The vaccine only came out six years ago!)  So, it might last for five years?  Six?  Gardasil is now recommended for females and males from about age 9 to 26.  So if a person received the series at 9 years of age, they’re going to be protected until they’re 14 or so.  Then what, a booster?  A series of boosters?  According to the American Cancer Society, cervical cancer occurs mostly in mid-life, usually under 50 years of age but rarely in those under 20 years of age.  Multiple booster shots would likely be necessary to keep immunity up.  The vaccine works to protect against those strains that are most likely to cause cancer ONLY if sexual activity hasn’t begun yet. 

So if my nine year-old hasn’t had sex (cripes, did I just have to type that?  Ack!), they’re protected against four strains for at least four years.  If my child has begun sexual activity by the time they receive the injections, and they have been exposed to one of the four strains, “catch-up” vaccines may be useful in protecting against the other three strains.  But then again, they may not.  The American Cancer Society says “the independent panel making the Society recommendations found that there was not enough proof that catch-up vaccination for all women age 19 to 26 would be beneficial.” 

While writing this I attempted to find an article or piece of information discussing this discrepancy.  Why vaccinate our children for something they are not likely to contract until middle age?  Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait if the protection lasts for only four years?  I found nothing in my search for discussion about Gardasil’s length of efficacy.  I’m not satisfied with the gap here.  If I were to seriously consider this vaccination, I would want to know how long my kids would be protected, and they would also deserve to know if they would need to continue to receive boosters throughout their lives. 

It’s generally agreed, at least, that Pap smears remain a necessity even if a woman has had the vaccination.  Pap screening can catch atypical cells and precancerous cells, and the rise in the percentage of women getting regular Paps has led to better detection of atypical and/or cancerous cells, which has led to fewer deaths from cervical cancer. 

But wait.  So women should get Paps regularly.  Obviously.  Now, here’s an argument I have come across a few times, or something along these lines:  “Pap smears are great, but lots of women don’t get regular Paps!  This vaccine is here to protect them.”  Still, no one’s denying that Paps are still necessary, even with the vaccine.  My question is this:  If these people see women as neglecting their health screening, or being too busy to get in to see their doctor, why do they think these same women could make it into the office three times in less than a year?  I mean, getting to the doctor is getting to the doctor is getting to the doctor.  This reasoning is faulty. 

And so was Governor Rick Perry’s when he attempted to mandate the HPV vaccine back in 2007.  Perry mentioned that he could overlook the government encroachment on parents’ rights because he erred “firmly on the side of protecting life.”  Does Perry…wait.  Does anyone think that the majority of parents out there aren’t doing their damndest to protect their child’s life?  I mean, sure, there are crappy parents out there, crappy guardians, crappy grandparents, who don’t care much what happens to their wards.  But I stand by this.  Most parents are doing what they think is best for their child.  And when we’re informed, we can do that.  Lots of parents conclude that Gardasil or Cervarix is right for their child—but not all parents, and that’s their right. If we all know all the information, we should be free to take our own paths, right?  Right?  And even when folks don’t know all the information (I didn’t research anything my doctor told me to do before a couple of years ago), they still want what’s best and safest for their kids.  I did then, when I followed the recommended vaccination schedule, and I do now, when I will not be fully vaccinating my youngest.

SIDE EFFECTS.  Look, there’s a lot of stuff out there about how many people have been injured by or had reactions to Gardasil, according to the VAERS reports.  I’m aware that there’s no way to verify that the reactions were definitively caused by the vaccine.  Correlation does not equal causation and all that.  However.  For me and my kids, any risk of serious reactions is too high, especially when the vaccine has higher reaction/injury reports than other vaccines. 

Currently in California, the HPV vaccine is being offered to 12 year-olds without their parents’ knowledge or consent.  Now, if a person has talked to their child about the vaccine and decided it’s the right choice for them or the wrong choice for them, it’s probably no big deal.  The kid can say yes or no according to what they and their guardian have decided (unless, of course, there are attempts at coercion, which is not unheard of).  But lots of folks don’t have all the information and they’re trusting that the school administration would not do something to harm their children.  And I can pretty much guarantee that the school nurse is not giving the tweens information on the VAERS or length of efficacy. 

Another thing that surprises me about the pro-choice, environmentalist, eco-feminist crowd I mingle with online is that they don’t question the vaccine, and all vaccines.  We are people who question every single thing that goes into our kids’ bodies.  Some people don’t allow their kids to have sugar—others forbid sugar substitutes.  A lot of us try not to use unnatural food dyes.  We check to see if there’s BPA in our plastic.  So it makes perfect sense to me that this crowd in particular would wonder about each and every thing that is ingested by or injected into our children, especially vaccines. But again and again I’ve found that those who advocate for informed consent in almost every other issue, are not OK with me deciding not to vaccinate. 

Since when did doctors become so elevated?  Lots of comments on articles against the HPV vaccine mention that doctors surely have more knowledge than us moms, so we should trust them.    

Let me get this straight.  We often get second opinions when we’re not sure a doctor is right or when we feel more eyes are needed on the situation. We remain wary of C-section-happy doctors.  Why, then, should our trust be blind when it comes to vaccines?  As in all occupations, even those which require much schooling, there are bad doctors.  Ill-informed doctors.  Stubborn doctors.  Asshole doctors. 

I really love it when I find an article on vaccination that is reasonable and rational.  Sharon Begley wrote a great one at The Daily Beast, which actually argues for the HPV vaccine, but acknowledges the opposition’s concerns instead of writing skeptics or anti-vaxxers off as ignorant or selfish.  Over at Evil Slut Clique, you can find two separate blog posts with information about Gardasil.  Check those out, because that’s what a real conversation about the HPV vaccine looks like.  I just don’t have any use for articles that slam doors and hurl insults.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with asking questions about Gardasil and every vaccine and medication—actually, it seems just the opposite to me.  I find Gardasil’s statement on the website telling:  “Only a doctor or health care professional can decide if GARDASIL is right for you or your child.”


This article is cross-posted at The Vaccine Machine. 

Why I Married Charlie Sheen...

In being a part of this blog, I have become more aware of what is going on in the world. Not just because I feel I need to find things to respond to, but I am just more engaged in the cycle of news and happenings in the world which can be ignored if you avoid news sites, don’t have cable or say, have spent the last two years immersed in an MFA program.

So, being more plugged into politics, I find I am more in tune with personal politics as well. Take for example this article from the Huffington Post Style section. Tracy McMillan has written a not quite satirical piece entitled “Why You Aren’t Married.”

McMillan addresses a specific set of women in the article when she states she is addressing a ‘you’ who has “never dreamt of an aqua-blue ring box.” Those of us who have always dreamed of a “real” wedding day are not included.

But then, a shocking turn occurs when McMillan says this about herself:

“I was, for some reason, born knowing how to get married. Growing up in foster care is a big part of it. The need for security made me look for very specific traits in the men I dated -- traits it turns out lead to marriage a surprisingly high percentage of the time.”

McMillan has been married three times and the advice that follows her backstory is aimed to tell the women who are dying to be married why they aren’t.

Ready for why?

They’re shallow, slutty, lying, selfish bitches who think they aren’t good enough.

It’s enough to make your head spin, right? Because 1) how dare she? and 2) whoa, wait lady…you’ve been married three times and hence, DIVORCED that many times…couldn’t the finger be pointed right back at McMillan? In an article titled “Why You Are Divorced?”

As a woman who has been married and divorced…and perhaps, would like to get married again someday with a pretty dress this time, not 8 months pregnant and with some dancing afterwards, I took offense.

Let’s just look at some quotes:

“But I won't lie. The problem is not men, it's you. Sure, there are lame men out there, but they're not really standing in your way. Because the fact is -- if whatever you're doing right now was going to get you married, you'd already have a ring on it.”

Yes, McMillan, because men are PERFECT and INFALLIBLE beings that women must serve? I think not. And they are ALL just waiting for a non-bitch, wholesome woman to walk into their lives. Again, I think not.

Marriage is a two way street where yes, you are going to have to put up with farts and belching (from both sides of the fence perhaps), the bad mood he gets in when he’s hungry, the way she snaps when you interrupt her concentration, kids complaining about homework and being too tired for sex. But that is MARRIAGE. It isn’t some sort of play where the woman tiptoes around so their husband doesn’t leave them.

“You've seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man's fear and insecurity in order to get married.”

99% of American women are not Kim Kardashian. And I have been pissed off since I was 13 and I am pretty sure it was a part of my charm to my ex-husband. I am not going to stop ‘being angry,’ what I assume is reference to the Feminist stereotype, for anyone. If some man thinks I am ‘too angry’ for him, then he best just move along. Compromising my self isn’t the deal. And I wouldn’t want any potential partner of mine to do that either.

“This thing called oxytocin…it's why you can be f**k-buddying with some dude who isn't even all that great and the next thing you know, you're totally strung out on him…And since nature can't discriminate between marriage material and Charlie Sheen, you're going to have to start being way more selective than you are right now.”

Whoa. Who said we were all sleeping with Charlie Sheens?! Can we not be seen as capable of having a casusal relationship without going all gaga over some sort of chemical cocktail? I say we all lay off the booze and call it good.

“Which is also to say -- if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly. Motherhood has a way of weeding out the lotharios.”

Haha. Ok, that one was funny.

When we get to McMillan’s last point (and after I had read the article six times) it struck me that she may be writing this list to herself. That she, as an American woman, has fallen prey to what everyone (men, family, media) has ever said to her.

Perhaps, it’s a sad diatribe on the harmful words spewed from the angry soon-to-be ex-spouses, who have been pointing out faults for years before the split. I could feel bad here, but I guess I am thankful in a way, to think McMillan is just telling her story.

She’s a little angry.

Miss Representation ala Brighid & Bess

I am but a young feminist. Like Thomas Jefferson’s declaration “I am but a young gardener” I feel there is so much I have yet to learn though I have been one since well…I’m pretty sure I was born a feminist.

The documentary Miss Representation talks about a ‘tipping point’ in 1980 when Reagan took office, which also happens to be the year I was born. And while the Republican machine was working during the 1980s, I was growing up in a loving lower-middle class home where my Dad worked 12-14 hour days and my mom ran everything else.

My mom is a feminist role model. Some would see staying at home to be anti-feminist (esp. back in the 1980s) but the dynamic in my home showed me how women can be viewed by the men in their lives: as smart, determined and strong. My family has always been matriarchal.

So, while Miss Representation names the 1980s and the ERA backlash as the tipping point, I myself see that tipping point as being Britney Spears.

See, as a teenage girl in the late 1990s I looked to 7 Year Bitch, L7, Team Dresch, Sleater-Kinney and Ani Difranco as role models. Perhaps, I was an exception but there were other girls like me in high school, some even more fierce with army jackets and severe, sharp haircuts. Think of Claire Danes and friends in My So Called Life. I ran around in men’s cargo pants, thrift store granny sweaters and the non-revealing t-shirt. I felt no need to be sexy. I wore what I wanted. I wore makeup for me or to cover a really bad zit. I told many a boy ‘no’ without any qualms about if he would still like me or not.

I wish the movie had pointed to the late 90s and early 2000s assault of pseudo girl-power in Ms. Spears, X-Tina, and the Spice Girls. At the time, the media even labeled these performers as “girl power.” The girl power I knew was spelled differently (its Riot Grrrl, sheesh) and DEFINITELY didn’t include push-up bras or being a ‘slave’ for anyone.

But what Miss Representation did do was call to light what is going on today, which is a long deep slide away from the power I felt as a teen. Women are to be sexy or not worth anything except the pleasure they can bring to men. Media in all forms: music, television, internet, movies and TV shows rarely depict a strong woman that is less than ‘sexy.’

I don’t want my son to grow up thinking women need to be a size 4, opinionless and great arm candy. I generally try to keep him away from what I can in this respect but, in the public schools, it’s going to trickle down. Hell, even in a private school it would.

The questions with the panel after the film tended to focus on What can we do NOW? And I think the answers are 1) to speak up when demeaning portrayals of women show up in media, not only shutting it off but also taking action with a letter, email or phone call; 2) supporting your fellow women. So many women today come down on their fellow female counterparts so they can feel better in a world where no woman can be ‘good enough.’ Extending kindness and acceptance to other women can have a huge impact on the social dynamics of womanhood and; 3) Show this film to the people, especially the men, in our lives. Men need to be informed of the degradation of women which infiltrates our lives. They may not even be aware.

Make them aware.

And a few words from Bess as well:


Sometimes, you watch a documentary to learn something, or see something interesting. And sometimes you watch a documentary because you want to be fired up. You want to curse at what you see in the film, and you want to feel inspired again. I think Miss Representation is a film like the latter. The statistics frightened and appalled me, and the deregulation of the communications industry, resulting in a very few groups controlling virtually everything we see, actually causing women in the media to backslide, really caught my attention.

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, we had shows like Golden Girls. We had Grace Under Fire with Rhett Butler. We had Roseanne. And those women didn’t have it easy in TV land, by any means. Somehow, though, we had them. We had five older women living as roommates. We had a struggling single mother who had been abused by her ex-husband. We had a down-and-out couple with a strong female lead, a couple, I might add, who made it on TV despite the fat paranoia pervasive in all of American life today.

Can you imagine a show like Golden Girls on television right now? Because I can’t.
Instead we’re inundated with beautiful, thin women married to chubby men, even in animated shows. And listen, nothing wrong with a chubby guy. But do you ever see a chubby girl and a hot guy? I certainly can’t think of any examples. I like the show Raising Hope, but it’s portrayal of poverty is more polished and unreal than Roseanne. Dan and Roseanne Connor struggled with job loss, business failure, and keeping their home with that couch and afghan we came to know so well. In Raising Hope, the couple mentions that they’re broke all the time, but in a flippant way that’s not realistic, making it seem “folksy” to be poor, and like life as a maid and a pool cleaner is somehow delightful with no pesky aching legs or backs, no arguments about working late or how they’re going to buy their kid’s prom dress.

And when I think that today, the powers that be would never allow a show like Roseanne or Golden Girls on the air, I don’t feel that women have made progress in this area, and that’s what Miss Representation points out. As per Jane Fonda, “Media creates consciousness, and if what gets put out there that creates our consciousness is determined by men, we’re not going to make any progress.” Well, shit. Yep. Brighid’s right, we have to call that crap out whenever we see it. Just today I learned through a Facebook conversation that a cousin of mine had no idea that “cankles” is a derogatory term reserved pretty much exclusively for women. And I believe he had no idea about that, strange as it seems. I’m guessing my cousin learned something today, and I’m hoping that one cousin at a time we can change this landscape.


Watch a preview of the film here.