Problem Chylde: Learning & Writing

There. I’ve just taught you the whole of Women’s Studies in six words.

The first step is making cake: making a living. Making money. Pointing out all of the hard work of the pink collar industry that is deliberately underpaid. Lamenting the difficulties of leaving the home and family to hit the streets and provide for that same family. Cursing the fact that in order to realize potential, the sacrifices pile up until they appear to outweigh the benefits because you’re pushing a boulder uphill by yourself in sexy 4-inch heels and an apron. You fight for ingredients and you want the right to use those ingredients to make your cake without someone cutting the gas line on your oven or stealing your sugar or forcing you to choose between making a cake or pancakes for your family.

Then you have to have cake: you don’t want to make cake you can’t keep. The world reaps the benefits of your work and there is no time for you to rest on your laurels or anyone else’s. Being taken care of when you’re old has become a liability. Being taken care of when you’re young has become passé. Being taken care of because you’ve traded something of yourself is portrayed as high treason because what you can do still isn’t viewed as an action with earning power. All you do is an investment in someone else’s future, and when that person fails, all the blame comes back to you. You cannot keep your cake if it is a good cake; you cannot keep your cake if it is a bad cake. You make cakes and you put them on display, and no matter what people think of what you produced, the product is no longer yours to control. So you want to keep whatever cake you make, regardless of what it is worth to others, because it is yours.

Lastly, you want to eat cake. You want to enjoy what you do and not be ashamed of enjoying it. You want to walk down the street looking sexy and beautiful without someone raping you. You want to walk into a room with something you’ve completed without hearing people wonder who held your hand through the process. You want to bargain and buy and sell, and you want to take all the proceeds home. You want a dollar on the dollar. You want your kids and you want to decide when you don’t want your kids. You want to speak for yourself and not as an afterthought of men realizing you’re not really in the conversation they’ve had for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few years. You want to eat your cake. You want to swallow whatever consequences you’ve doled out into the world, to enjoy your spoils and your splendors, and you want to take your good old time. You want to enjoy the beauty and wonder of you without reprieve and setbacks.

Make Cake. Have Cake. Eat Cake. The trinity of capital-F Feminism. Frightening in its naive scope, especially when you realize how dull each prong of the trident truly is.

There is no such thing as an idle cake, unless you are used to seeing a finished, dressed-up, multitiered cake divorced of its processes and commitments.

A cake does not start with the ingredients you buy at the market. There were women, like those of my family way back when, who had to pick the eggs from the chickens and milk the cows and mill flour and harvest sugar and tend vanilla fields. Making cake took them considerably longer and they often never saw the pretty pastry on the table. Never mind the problem of obtaining the land and the animals those ingredients need to survive. But it’s not about the environment or the laborers bringing the ingredients to the shop so you can buy the ingredients for the cake. It’s about cake. Cake has its own layers; it doesn’t need more.

Then when you have the cake, you need it to be presentable. You could carry your own cake; but why would you do that when other people can bring it in for you? You can show it off. You can ask another woman to bring in your cake. Another woman who doesn’t have the time to make her own cakes for her friends to see because she’s busy carrying yours. A woman who ran from her horrible life to cross borders and brave bigots and withstand abuse, just so she could carry your cake on a pretty stand made by her relatives back home for pennies and never have a piece. But at least you don’t have to carry the cake; you can just have it there because you did coordinate the shopping and find a recipe adapted from the backs of other recipes. Your cake, sort of.

Now, eating the cake. Cakes are finite. There are only so many pieces you can cut of a cake, and not everyone will get a piece. So you think first come first serve will be fair. Fine. You hop onto your turbo bike to get to the dining room table first, passing women with babies on their backs walking on calloused feet. You drive past large looming buildings with women with fast tongues and quick wits who are hungry and exhausted but can’t leave because her male co-workers have no obligations and can get cake delivered to the office whenever they need it and they’ve never really given a damn where it comes from. You drive past little girls who play on fake plastic ovens and make dry mini cakes. You watch them deny pieces to other little girls who don’t do as they say, and laugh at their arbitrary decision making. You run down a few women who plan to do the Looney Tunes trick: cut a slice of the cake and take the remaining large chunk for self. But you can’t run down all of them. You see the idea lingering in too many eyes, and by the time you reach the cake to take your bite, there’s only a crumb left.

You touch it to your tongue. It’s unsatisfying and empty, and you’ve wasted your entire day, your entire life, and the lives of your mothers chasing it.

Yet you know that if that cake were whole again, you’d drive for it again if you could, and you’d go a little faster and work a little harder. But you’re uncertain if you’d change anything about how that cake happened to be there. You’re uncertain about what would happen if you were eating that cake off the dirt. You’re uncertain if you could understand a world without a cake sitting there waiting for you.

Hm.

Wonder if Feminism is ready for a diet change. Welcome to Women’s Studies. Pay no attention to the dusty recipes, the worn-out appliances or moldy ingredients, my friends. You’re here to speak to the world about a cake…

This is who I am. This is me.

I am thoroughly and completely afraid. I feel too weak to keep wearing the masks. All the masks are fragile and tear-stained. None of the masks reveals who I am.

So this is me.

I’m frightened. I feel incapable of doing anything. I feel as if I am constantly walking near black holes, and I don’t realize I’ve walked near them until the next time I see daylight. And when I see the light, I realize I had been moving through darkness for a long time.

This is who I am.

I can’t sit in front of people and honestly say that sitting in that chair, in that room, in an uncomfortable suit, with two sheets of paper meant to encompass my entire life’s worth and contributions, waiting for a question that is answerable about my experiences, and hoping that my entire existence is passable for a job that will take all my time and yet barely cover all of my bills is where I expected to be in five years. I can’t say that was the path I envisioned that would lead me to the work of my dreams. And yet here I am.

This is me, and I am all I have left.

I don’t know who the Joneses are, and I don’t know what they have. I only wish that I didn’t pretend I knew when I completely ruined my credit chasing after specters of fulfillment. I wish I didn’t sit regretting every gift I sent people, every decadent meal I ate, every allowance I made so I could have safe transportation to and from school, and every time I capitulated to a completely arbitrary need. My space is full of absentminded “needs” that were rudimentary ethereal “wants” once upon a time. And now, when what I really need is quickly becoming elusive, simply “wanting” it instead is still not enough. I can’t swipe a card and get stability. I can’t write a check and feel healthy. I can’t eat my worries and call it survival.

This is me, and I am laid bare.

I am a writer, right? I like writing. I like words. I love reading. I have a sense of syntactical order. I can put together coherent sentences. I synthesize complex concepts while skimming cereal boxes. I try to fill my head with important topics. I want to be a woman of the world and not a woman of the dirt on which I’m crawling to ask for something. Everything. Food. A grant. A job, an extension, a scholarship, a lead, an invitation, something that makes me feel like these words built up inside me matter. I want to bring my words to the altar and feel as if they’re good enough for sacrifice. I wouldn’t lay a hand to my brother over them; but I would nurture resentment if I couldn’t make some living from the gift I’ve had since conception. First thought, first read, first recognition of the thousand words interconnected in a picture. I’m fearing the vacancy behind my stares. I wonder what happened to the natural inflection in my voice and when I started to resent the world that has borne me for nearly 24 years.

I’m learning slowly that age only works as a measure of years and not of perspective. Every setback sends me to an old time, reminds me of every skinned knee on the gravel-topped playground. I remember I would either stand up and keep running, or I’d see the blood welling up and start crying. The scrapes hurt the longer I stared at the pain. But I still looked for them, watched them sting and swell until they formed fading marks on my body.

Perhaps I’m a bad writer. This isn’t relatable. This is me, and this is how I talk myself out of staring at my own pain. This is who I am when I’m watching my reality sting and swell around me, except I worry I’ll suffocate as it starts to heal.

I’ve never wanted to be a woman. I resented a lot of my friends and peers who were in such a hurry to be adults, to be grown. Everyone wanted to get grown and I loved the moments of just being me. I didn’t change; time changed. I did things to accommodate time; but I felt unchanged and unsympathetic to this idea of running away from my girlhood. But now time and grownness are slapping me in the face. I now understand why so many of my friends find and create worlds of imagination in the slivers of time allowed them. They are grown, and I am lucky because they are waiting for me to join them. They are there to help me, and I love them fiercely.

I no longer feel proud of my wants because now I need to be grown. I need to join that clan of adulthood and responsibility or I’ll be eaten half-alive. But this anachronistic circumstance stares back at me in the mirror. When I am crying and I am scared, I look the same way I did when I was 3, 4, 5, 7, 11, 14, 18… My body grows to accommodate new worries and demands of time. But when I dream, I watch movies of other people’s lives, just like I did as a kid. Not my own. I don’t belong in there, not me. When I tried to place myself in a dream, I developed panic attacks that kept me from sleeping. I endured sleepless nights until I returned to the default of movies and dramas and costumes and firelight.

But now this is who I am. This is me. And I have to place myself firmly into a dream. And I am terrified. Me. Just… shaken with this realization that I can’t say when I grow up anymore because the world doesn’t have time to wait for me to grow. It doesn’t care about the growth of people like me. It just wants its time on its schedule and in its way.

I have to resolve to give it time on its schedule and in its way. Every exhalation feels like a quit. Not a release, just a quit. A rhythmic resignation to a demand to grow. Realizing that even though I was never meant to survive, the point is I did. I do. I survive.

Now I have to thrive. This is who I am.

This is me.

A Sunday morning tribute song to Billie Holliday is a great way to begin and to end your week.

Tonight on MSNBC from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m., they are telecasting a panel called “About Our Children.” The panel will discuss “poverty in America, focusing on the parenting, education and health issues facing the poor in the United States.

If that didn’t make you cringe, here are the panelists:

[Dr. Bill] Cosby, along with panelists including Ben Jealous, President of the NAACP, Terrie Williams, author of “Black Pain” and Randi Weingarten, president of the American Federation of Teachers

Some nights I thank Jesus I do not have cable; this night is one of those nights. I don’t know what to expect exactly; but I DO know that Dr. Cosby has a track record of making points by ridiculing poor African-Americans — or should I say, ridiculing stereotypes of them. Us. I’ve been poor all my life despite my current academic pedigree, and I still am.

I do like Ben Jealous, though, after reading about his plans for the NAACP and seeing evidence of those plans taking shape. Now after my incident with Julian Bond (where he gave me the meanest look after liveblogging his visit to UB… in the front row), as well as many other situations I don’t care to dig up and recount, I thought I should keep my mouth shut about any skepticism about anything controversial until I find a job. My blog is now linked to my name after suggesting a fundraising campaign for The Nation, and it’s forced me to rethink the ways I present myself and how they’re read professionally.

But in the end, I can’t help what I think. Even if the thoughts are dead wrong, controversial, or meandering, they’re my thoughts. And if I can’t advocate for what I think and believe, what good would I be entering the legal field advocating for others on any meaningful level?

Now I’m a fan of Mad Men, despite criticisms that it doesn’t do enough for identifying racial animus and people of color’s perspectives in the sixties. (I think the silence speaks volumes; but that’s another post.) There’s a scene in one of the episodes in which Don Draper instructs two developers of the soon-to-come Madison Square Garden project that if they don’t like what’s being said, they need to change the conversation. So, taking that advice and adapting it to my own ends, I decided to send in two questions to the panel and throw caution to the wind. Both issues bother me and I hope that the panelists will address them without any of my suggestions being involved. If they’re not, so be it. I tried.

Question #1:

If you want to understand why so many people of all ages turn to the streets after a history of committing crimes, it’s due to the fact the streets are the only places that meet them where they are and get money in their pockets. When will people in higher echelons of society turn their attentions to prisoner health care and effective reintegration? The prison system is where opportunities to change lives are lost. Our current system of incarceration does very little to rehabilitate socially the people it captures. The prison population has high rates of disease and poor health care. The non-profit organizations that are dedicated to helping prisoners have to fight an uphill battle against the stigma of being in jail. This society has little respect for the idea of prison sufficiently paying a debt for crimes committed against it. And the private prison owners profit from the ineffectiveness of reintegration and the absence of true rehabilitative efforts.

How do we set up a system in which the streets aren’t the only options for people leaving prison doors and in which they can receive proper care after serving their sentences?

Question #2:

When I was growing up, going to the library was the best cultivator of my imagination. Having access to so many books — and reading them regularly — helped me shape my dreams and pushed me towards higher education in the long run.

My heart broke when I learned recently that the entire Philadelphia public library system was planning to shut down due to lack of funding. Free public libraries are where so many children develop the desire to learn. What investments are people making to ensure threatened closures of public libraries, like the hold-up in Philadelphia, will not happen in the future?

I don’t have cable; but I highly doubt they will reach the panelists and if they do, they won’t merit an answer besides “PRISONERS NEED TO PULL UP THEIR PANTS-AHHHH.” Or “people need to spend less money on the IPODS AND JORDANS and more money in the BARNES AND NOBLE!” Because we know poor people need help dressing themselves and sit as unaffected by consumerist culture as those higher up on the economic food chain.

Cynicism aside, I highly encourage others who plan to watch “About Our Children” to send questions, too. So much so that I’m linking the question box twice. It’s the best way to hold people accountable for what they’re advocating.

I am excited.

There is going to be auditions for for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf by Ntozake Shange at my alma mater.

And this colored girl sorely misses acting. I haven’t done anything like performance art since leaving undergraduate school. It’s been three long years, and I think I supplanted acting for blogging and writing. I have to have some type of creative healing in my life. It’s my best way of sharing my truth.

The only problem is while I’ve read for colored girls before, and I’ve even performed one of the monologues — I’ve never seen the full play onstage. It helps me sometimes to see plays when I have trouble visualizing how to dramatize them. My mind has always been all over the place with for colored girls.

The audition isn’t until the end of October, and I’ve checked out a copy from the library. But I need you guys to tell me about performances of the play. What drew you to go see it? What do you think of all the ladies? What stood out for you in some of the monologues? I have my own thoughts, and I think I’d be best playing the lady in blue. And I’m a little overwhelmed by my excitement to do this play!

I may try to read a few excerpts and record them… get some feedback. I don’t know. I’m just excited! It’s something other than job hunting to look forward to doing.

Unspoken completion of that title: “because he has expressed political views and Republicans are going for broke.” According to the Washington Post, Jones has signed a petition claiming suspicion that the Bush administration had more involvement with 9/11 than most suspect, and for using “a crude term” to refer to Republicans in a speech. (I am curious about which one; there are many.)

I am upset to see Mr. Jones resign from these accusations, though I understand he does not want to distract from the cause of making America greener and cleaner. Politically-involved Republican spokespeople and politicians too often think that by attacking the promoter of important causes and goals for America, they are striking at the heart of the issue’s success. Jones is a stronger and better activist by stepping out of the way and hopefully returning to the trenches of bettering America’s environment and paving the way for creation of more green jobs.

As for the people who have caused Jones to retire, I hope they have a better candidate and better plans for the country as a whole. Crude terms are appropriate if people continue to treat politics as a game of noisemaking and do not consider the lives and well-being of the country and its inhabitants.

Great fellowship opportunity via Carmen at All About Race. There’s a very close deadline, though (September 6); so get your paragraphs in fast!

The Progressive Change Campaign Committee (PCCC) is an organization dedicated to helping better, bolder progressive candidates get elected. We provide candidates with the tools and knowledge to hit the ground running from Day One, skipping the learning curve that can cost so many campaigns months of lost time and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Our staff includes senior organizers from top-tier congressional campaigns and progressive movement organizations. We’re a not-for-profit, one-stop shop for progressive candidates at the state and federal levels.

We also run online advocacy campaigns on prominent issues like the public option. In the last couple months, ABC, NBC, CNN, Politico, Washington Post, New York Times, Associated Press, Huffington Post, and others have reported on our work.

On any given day, our work might include: recruiting a great candidate to run for office; managing a field team; designing the next generation of campaign software development; tracking competitive races nationally; writing a press release or blog post; planning a fundraiser; and more!

We are now launching the 2009 Fall Fellowship Program. From September 14 – December 11, our Fall Fellows will have the opportunity to take responsibility for high-level projects, matched to their unique skill sets and interests, while working remotely from their own homes. These projects might include:

Designing and building a website for a congressional candidate.
Outreach to national bloggers and analysis of key congressional races.
Working on field targeting for a top legislative race.
Learning the world of campaign finance and fundraising.

In addition, we’ll offer monthly “brown-bag lunches” via webcasts with senior organizers and congressional staff, and periodic seminars on different skills associated with political campaigns.

Interested? Send your resume and a one-paragraph statement about why you consider yourself a progressive to pcccapplications@gmail.com. You can read more about the PCCC at http://www.BoldProgressives.org.

Deadline for applications is Sunday, September 6 at 5pm EST. Fellows must commit 15 hours a week. The Fall Fellowship is unpaid at this time.

And a really cool fellowship for filmmakers, screenwriters, and animators…

IHS Opportunities in Filmmaking, Screenwriting, and Animation

Dear M-,

Because you indicated an interest in film & fiction when you signed up at TheIHS.org, I thought you might be interested to know you can apply now for an MFA scholarship or a summer production internship. The scholarship provides well-deserved funds to complete your degree and the internship allows you to learn the best production methods from industry professionals.

Our Film & Fiction Scholarships are awards of up to $10,000 for students pursuing a Master of Fine Arts degree and who share an appreciation for the potential and promise of a free society. MFAs in a variety of areas are eligible: film directing, production, screenwriting, playwriting, and fiction writing. Apply by January 15.

The IHS 2010 Summer Production Internship Program includes a paid internship at a production company making films, documentaries, animated features or an online video series, and our summer workshop with talks by filmmakers and policy analysts. You’ll receive a $2,000 stipend plus a housing and travel allowance. Internships are available during the spring, summer, and fall, and we’re currently accepting applications for spring and summer. Apply by November 15 for spring and February 15 for summer.

To learn more and apply, visit: www.TheIHS.org.

If you know aspiring filmmakers or novelists who share our commitment to advancing freedom, please forward this email to them.

Cheers,

Keri

Keri Anderson
Student Coordinator
Institute for Humane Studies

Almost makes me want to go for a MFA early…

Nah, too soon. I’m tired, y’all.

The first is a piece I’ve written for Global Comment on hair, race, beauty standards, and the media:

I have been blessed to know many black women who wear their hair in many different ways. From completely bald to locs to weaves to braids to wigs to the simple wrap style, the women in my life and around it have found a myriad of ways to keep their hair unique and true to their individual styles. Colors and cuts are no strangers to our heads, either. So where are all the ideas that black women are not living and surviving with the hair they have (whether bought, sheared, or homegrown) coming from?

Not us. We are as “have hair; will travel (whether you like it or not)” as anybody else.

The ideas and myths come from the outside, of course. Our battles with the white establishment over our presentation stem partly from a backhanded discussion of our “conflicts” with our hair.

The second is Glenn Greenwald’s latest in Salon on the so-called American “meritocracy,” widespread political nepotism, and the lies we’ve been fed about advancement and bootstrapping:

Just to underscore a very important, related point: all of the above-listed people are examples of America’s Great Meritocracy, having achieved what they have solely on the basis of their talent, skill and hard work — The American Way. By contrast, Sonia Sotomayor — who grew up in a Puerto Rican family in Bronx housing projects; whose father had a third-grade education, did not speak English and died when she was 9; whose mother worked as a telephone operator and a nurse; and who then became valedictorian of her high school, summa cum laude at Princeton, a graduate of Yale Law School, and ultimately a Supreme Court Justice — is someone who had a whole litany of unfair advantages handed to her and is the poster child for un-American, merit-less advancement.

I just want to make sure that’s clear.

Check them both out; drink them in; process; enjoy.

I love the guitar to this song. RIP Michael. You had the stuff that we wanted; you were the thing that we needed.