"You happy now, bitch?"

a rebuttal

Another typical unschooling-defamation piece makes its way into my Tweetstream. I was inspired to make a little something I will picture in my mind every time this happens. Call it my personal moment of Zen.

"You happy now, bitch?"

This little bit of Photoshoppery has nothing to do with unschooling. It has everything to do with being awesome. For instance how awesomely I LOL every time I read or hear some other persnickety, tired-out, anti-child, parent-dissing pearl-clutching screed recommending enforced child-class institutionalization.

***

In other news: I wrote a new post at UB, but it’s kinda grouchy, fair warning. I had a good day today though, honestly.

there have been setbacks

I grab my son’s arm and drag him to the register. “You have my wallet, we’ve been waiting for you. You held up this nice lady,” I scold him.  The “nice lady” doesn’t hear me and/or can’t speak English but I smile at her anyway and say, Lo siento. She smiles back. Even though it’s busy as fuck in the store.

My son, having wandered off with my cash just before we got rung up. LE SIGH. These days though despite misbehavior (mine! I mean) I don’t feel murderous rage. I can stop right where I stopped, which was too far. Then I can apologize. And even these episodes are rare. And when they happen I don’t loathe myself. Mostly. I just dust off and try again.

The cashier is a young white man and he’s not quite right. He’s on something. He takes a long time ringing me up, then un-ringing me because they don’t have fancy registers that can do a postpone, then ringing me back up again. “Next time you should hang on to your wallet,” he tells me as a parting shot. Like seriously I am old enough to be his mother and he’s giving me a PRO TIP on family life.

I stop, my hands full of bags and kids and my afternoon just packed with errands on a payday (for everyone else) Friday. “Thank you for the suggestion,” I say clearly, but in a completely neutral tone. I am not going to mention my internal monologue.

It’s been rough these last couple days. I’ve been swallowed up by something. Tonight my son comes in where I’m in the sewing room, where I’m finishing something up. He’s packed with suitcase and all, in a fedora and a blazer and his long blonde hair and he’s off to stay the night somewhere besides with me. He and his sister are catching up to me in height and from where I sit he has to lean down. He puts his arms around me and I start to cry. Just so you know, I cry about twice a year. So Nels says, “I’m sorry, mama. I won’t stay the night anywhere for a month after this.” (he pronounces it, monff). “No Nels,” I tell him, “You gotta go and stay any time you want, it’s important. I’ll be okay.”

I don’t feel like I’m going to be okay. I haven’t felt well the last few days. Indescribable fatigue, like tired in my blood. My faithful readers know I’ve written about this before, over the years. And I’ve sought many kinds of medical help and even made some major life changes. But still it returns. My bloodwork always comes up perfect and my physicals do too. What is wrong? I don’t know. I get sleep. I eat. I don’t get it. I don’t know where it is or what it stems from but it when it surfaces it is quite debilitating.

I’m not as rugged as I have come to expect of myself. Things are getting to me. The news of the mother who lost her children on Staten Island, the details and the whole story, it’s been like a personal nightmare I can’t shake. I keep picturing what that would feel like, the moment they were swept away. Screaming for help and no one comes to aid, doors shut and lights off, spending the night alone and tortured. Then the agonizing wait for two days, fearing the worse. I am tortured by this. You know that cry twice a year thing? Well I get this twisted up over something about as often as that, too. Something’s up, I don’t know what.

In the meantime I can meditate, cook, clean, sew. Make my husband a pot of tea and listen to my children’s hopes and dreams. I can do all that. I won’t fall off the earth.

EXTREME

*grows extra tits to breastfeed EVERYONE, then does some sick BASE jumping*

Homeschool Swim. @stuffnelssays In The Cat-Bird Seat

Today after Homeschool Swim I spent a good part of my day taking a community elder somewhere he needed to be. He has limited funds and transportation and we treated him to dinner as well. Originally I’d planned on taking the trip without the kids, but it turned out the kids needed to come along. It was a good trip but somehow on the drive back I was on my last nerve.

Anyway. A few pics.

Olympia:

Vanilla Salted Caramel Creamcheese At Bonjour Cupcakes In Olympia

A cupcake shop. A CUPCAKE SHOP. Yes, this is a real thing. Yes, it’s just a wonderful thing. My kids were so pleased. Between that, and the “beautiful”/”amazing” Westgate mall, and a large squirrel, and a playground, they were super-happy. Everyone should be this easy to please.

Playground In Oly

Playground & sunshine & weird Gollum-like mouth-expressions.

Today: Time magazine aired a magazine cover with an incredibly annoying headline and tagline – while purporting a premise I feel entirely skeptical about (i.e. a supposed fair and balanced discussion of “attachment parenting”, perhaps not so fair and balanced considering the cover frames it as as “exteme” and in the most mommy-warmongering manner).

ATTACHMENT PARENTING – SO EXTREME!!!11!

EXTREME

Anyway, Arwyn from Raising Boychick had already been musing this “AP=anti-feminist” argument a while back before said polemic cover asploded onto the internet, and I’m honored my online comments were included in her post, since she’s got her shit together when it comes to anti-oppression work.

This mama’s a bit cranky. Time for some snuggling and B-movie time with the husband.

A cat named Mustache

a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives

The last few days I’ve thrown myself into new work with addicts and alcoholics, giving rides here and there, buying breakfast for the flat-out underemployed, caring for other people’s kids, teens and pets, taking a friend on a birthday date, and helping those who have a hard time making ends meet.

Plus all that other stuff of caring for my own kiddos and husband and pets and household as best I can. And having a bit of a social life, and a sewing life, to boot!

So, I am behind on both writing here, and responding to comments. I apologize.

One thing I want to point out is the few people I’ve helped recently, or a handful of them, have given me a valuable lesson. A friend I took a dozen eggs to yesterday because she didn’t have food money until today, the difference between she and I (back when we couldn’t afford food and utilities and our lifestyle, and were bouncing checks and igorning collection bills because it was all so overwhelming), is this friend asked for and accepted help. Asking for and accepting help, in appropriate ways and from appropriate parties, has been a new(-ish) cornerstone of my life. Let’s face it, without help I was flailing at best and often a Toxic Asshole either running from, or attempting to selfishly dominate, many of life’s challenges.

The Toxic Asshole part of me is still live and kicking and surfaces more often than I’m proud of, but there’s another presence within that I like a lot more. She’s like a Baby. Baby Awesomesauce. Baby Awesomesauce is growing up just fine, but things take time.

Of course giving back gives me immense rewards so it is in itself a selfish activity of sorts. One of the hardest things going right now is to know when to give freely to others, and knowing when if I were to do so, it would rob my family of something I should be giving them (time, groceries, mostly).

I put my faith in the path set before me and I know that one day I’ll look back and see with clarity where my life is heading, and why.

***

In lieu of Friday links I have two pieces of local interest:

First, Ralph and I put together a collection of my sewn pieces for sale at the On Track Art Walk tomorrow. I would love to earn money for my craft, to have my pieces find gleeful homes, and – most of all, to find a sewing community. If I had a dream it would be to be involved with a community center/studio where I could create, and help others do the same. I don’t have the resources to start this myself, but perhaps someone out there does. In any case, I’m ready to be Out There a bit more.

Second, our local town’s annual festival came out with their official t-shirt. Many HQX residents do not endorse the shirt and are taking actions, including boycotting, writing letters to the editor and City etc, and printing a better shirt and donating profits (you can read more about it here, if you have Facebook).

From my G+ post here are some of my thoughts:

“I love my town and I love my country. One thing I love about both is the right to protest ideas and products that are violent, offensive, and bad for children and grownups and probably even small puppy dogs. Yay local Jokay Daniel who’ll be selling the alternate shirt & donating profits; also J. for being instrumental in creating alternate shirts.”

Reading the comments in the Facebook group is pretty darn cool and makes me proud of my HQX peeps.

***

And finally, something to ponder:

A cat named Mustache

We cannot control the evil tongues of others; but a good life enables us to disregard them

Outdoors

I am not as strong spiritually as others may think. Case in point, it is still alarming for me to hear adults’ negative opinions of our lifestyle through the commentary of these grownups’ children. This can’t be avoided, really, for a lot of reasons – one of which is our lifestyle and parenting philosophies are different than many families – and many people respond to perceived challenges with attitudes and positions of fear, judgment, or anger. Also, many families struggle with a variety of issues and doubtless lash out; they are truly in some sense miserable enough to do so. I can understand this on a cognitive level, but try telling my heart it’s all Okay.

For me, who I am today, the friend or “friend” who is unsupportive or speaks ill of my family is a painful party to consider. Given my weakness, I would rather they just ignore me than shit-talk, back-talk, or judge. And this is made all the more odd as I have little or nothing to hide and life is good in our home. It’s something about others harboring Hate, however tiny, directed at myself (or perceived as such), that makes me feel about a quarter-inch tall. As I told a couple friends earlier tonight, its’ not the subject matter itself at all. When it comes to living without compulsory schooling, even the familiar and repetitive questions by strangers (“But what about socialization?”*) seem at least direct and (usually but not always) put forth in good faith. It’s something else to consider a friend actively holding a resentment.

But the occasional times I receive a negative bit of gossip, or hear our life and our parenting drug through the muck, my response shows me I haven’t yet learned the lesson – you know, “What other people think of me is none of my business.” And I note as well I’m not sure what special privilege I seem to think I deserve that I should be immune to people’s Assery.

Daily I evaluate the life we live: myself, our family, my friendships, my role as a citizen and friend to the world. I do the best I can with what I have. Pondering the pain I feel today, I am glad for something recent in my life: see, a while back it became obvious to me I needed to stop speaking ill of people, even when “safe” or near someone who would not dispute nor challenge this sort of behavior (or even someone who themselves would feel relief in a few moments of gossip, that delectable dish). This life is lived not to be “good”/”nice” nor to try to bargain karma, or even to be a good friend (although it does make me a better person), but to quit making myself Sick, because Sick indeed I have been. Even with my husband I counsel him to be cautious what we say, for our own sakes’ as well as that of our children who stand to learn our attitudes. Even in the privacy of our own home.

For much of my life I have not lived this way. Months ago I would not have thought this was a possible way to conduct myself, nor even relevant. But today it’s a major cornerstone of my life.

“Never speak disparagingly of others, but praise without distinction… Pollute not your tongues by speaking evil of another.”

I do take this seriously, as hard as I find to live it sometimes. I thank my life’s experience and my Higher Power for the lesson.

* More awesomesauce here.

ropa y la frugalidad

I buy from thrift stores not to augment my wardrobe but out of familial necessity.* That is, we can afford some stuff new but we could not come near clothing all four of us in entirety that way. There’s a matter of how often I want to have to buy things, too, because the “new” we can afford is often something that will need to be replaced soon. I’d rather spend one hour hunting through a good thrift store than commit to repetitive trips to buy from Walmart, Target, or Old Navy (the retailers in our price point) for two reasons: one, I buy used when it is no loss of quality to do so, to lessen the environmental impact of consumerism and production, and two, I can often find longer-lasting items than anything otherwise affordable.

Outfitting oneself in clothes when there isn’t enough to make it easy is a bit of an art. Clothes can be very cheap at some retailers (competition with sweatshops is one reason my sewing skills aren’t instantly a major source of income) but there is often a risk of poor construction, poor performance, or poor longevity – or all the above. Case in point: last winter I bought a coat from Ross – originally marked $130 but showily price-slashed to $49 (this coat, but fat-size). Upon my purchase I was pretty happy to have a “warm” coat but as it’s turned out, even though there is wool content the coat is not very warm at all; it’s also showing rather threadbare only a year later. In contrast, the Pendleton wool I bought Ralph a dozen years ago (when I was working as an engineer), even through his very rough and frequent usage, looks almost brand-new and performs wonderfully.

Why not just “save up” and buy the good stuff? Yeah, right. When it comes to clothing and a single and/or limited income, the curation of well-made items is quite tricky or impossible when at any minute several members of the family have needs. For example, recently during a period of clothing deprivation – I was down to two shabby bras, a pair of too-small jeans and a pair of torn jeans for pants, Ralph needed pants and socks and the kids needed socks and underwear – I purchased Nels’ current sock supply from Walmart. They’ve not lasted six months, but it was all I could do. I remember a few years ago buying the kids higher quality socks which lasted years. There’s some fancy economics term for short-term buying out of necessity, but it escapes me.

In recent months I’ve had even more interest in self-educating regarding fabric and clothing construction. I’ve also observed after years and years of purchasing or making clothing, mending it (or not), and passing it along (or not), that the clothes I make are almost uniformly much longer-lasting than anything I’ve purchased new. If you include the wear they receive by both my children then the wear they receive in other homes they are a good investment indeed. Not that I particularly need to justify my deeply-loved craft, but it feels good to know I’ve got something you can’t buy just anywhere. And most importantly to me at least, it feels like the mystery of Well Made is something Knowable and Workable. This is exciting for me.

I am painfully aware that people in my own community, and certainly the larger world, lack for clothing. I remember a snowy bus day a couple years ago when I was rather shocked at what everyone else on the bus was wearing – soggy cold jeans with holes in the knees, many layers of polyfill coats, and cheap or bedraggled footwear while I sat in my waterproof Keens with homeknit balaclava pulled low. In other words, “making do” means different things to many people, and in describing our process and our clothing I don’t mean to pull my mouth down about it; we are certainly in a position of ease and privilege when compared to many.

Today at Thrift City I purchased the following: for Phoenix, an Italian merino sweater, a cotton zip-hoodie, pair of striped slacks, and a pair of dragon-screenprinted Converse sneakers (seriously. Is there anything better-designed for my girl?);  for Nels, two t-shirts and a Patagonia shirt that will be sacrificed for a homesewn Christmas present (shh!); for myself, four t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a pair of Ralph Lauren 100% wool trousers, and a 100% wool blazer.

I brought all of this for a little under $40. The converse, Patagonia shirt, three of my t-shirts, and striped slacks were all brand new; the rest were in excellent condition. The coat is a particular thrill for me – yes, it’s a bit “old man” in style (OK, like 100%), but if good clothes are hard to find they are very hard to find if you’re a lady of a certain height (not me) or larger than about a size 10 (I’m a 14/16). This coat buttons across my chest and is light and tailored and toasty warm. It shows signs of well-made as well: the undercollar is understiched at collar seam and handstitched at neckline and the expertly-applied satin tag reads: Daniel’s Department Store Inc. Moscow Idaho. The wool trousers, too, fit perfectly and are delightfully wool-itchy. The two seriously winter-savvy garments were about ten dollars together and I certainly couldn’t have sewn them for less (and it would have taken me hours). I’m looking forward to a lot more comfort out in the cold and wind.

In sewing news I’m currently planning some more projects to perhaps display in a maybe-fiber arts show at the Guild. I’m mostly a garment-maker and pattern-follower, so stretching a bit to find my artistic voice is exciting indeed. I’m currently working on a super-warm bunting and fashioning the shell on my old Singer, my trusty vintage machine that makes the best buttonholes and sews more pleasingly than any I’ve worked on. Both my sewing machines were gifts as well; it occurs to me one of my most treasured and loved occupations is a community effort; I owe so much of my craft and inspiration and materials to friends and family who’ve helped me along the way.

So far, my craft of garment-sewing and my job (among many) of clothing a family has truly been a blessed and humbling experience.

* Argh… this reminds me of an incident in Thrift City not that long ago. A couple very well-heeled hipster young ladies breezing through the store and looking for vintage frocks, talking loudly. I was admiring their style when one of them dropped one of the pieces of clothing they were thumbing through and either didn’t notice or didn’t care; my son Nels ran over and picked up the item and tried to hand it back to her. “EXCUSE ME,” she honked at him, clearly irritated he was “in her way” but not at all seeing what he was trying to do. She irritably moved a few inches away, continued to ignore him, and said, “Go back to your mom” without even looking up. Fuck! I wish I didn’t have this memory of Asshattery etched into my mind! Someone send me a link of something egregiously charming or silly so I can wash my brain out.

a letter

Trigger warning for a link containing homophobia, transphobia, sexism, ageism, and disablist language.

“Look around – see any Mexicans? Nope. They’ll be here later for the cleanup.”

Editor, The Daily World and management, D&R Theatre:

Today I was shocked to see the D&R Theater had engaged comedian Gallagher for a performance on October 16th. Whatever you may remember from the 80s of gleeful watermelon-smashing, the man brings much more to the stage. His act is soaked in racism, homophobia, sexism, transphobia, and inappropriate sexual references to young girls (amongst other offensive content). In one example of many, this summer at the Admiral in Bremerton Gallagher poured a can of fruit cocktail into a tin plate, added a canned Asian-grocery supply vegetable, then yelled “This is the China people and queers!” before smashing the whole business. Other commentary on gays, Muslims, and Mexicans are not fit for print.

I could go on and on but I won’t; you can see more verbatim content in Lindy West’s article in the Theatre section of The Seattle Stranger, June 29th, 2010.

The D&R should have vetted this act but they didn’t.

I would encourage anyone who has purchased tickets to exercise caution, do not take children, and/or seek a refund if possible.

Kelly Hogaboom
Etc.

Do you know why it took a lot out of me to write this (even though the writing only took a few minutes)? To anticipate (if it gets published in the paper at all) those who will respond telling me I should figure out better things to do, or that it’s all just a joke, or that people are too sensitive these days, or that the Thought Police are going to make no one be able to say anything, or twatever completely incorrect and boring and painful responses I’ve heard – so many, many times. For some reason it never gets less depressing to hear it again. It always hurts a little. It always gives me that twinge of Why do I bother?

So if you in any way think this is important enough to warrant action, or if you like my letter, or if you support standing up against vile racism and homophobia, or if you think the world is getting too small to afford things we never should have tolerated in the first place – I could use some support. If you have the time. I know you’re busy! I know.

And you know, normally I’m kinda a balls-out activist in written form but reading that Stranger article, and seeing this act being supported here in my neighborhood, it really, really hurt.

P.S. No Grays Harbor/Aberdeen bashing. Go do that somewheres else.

safety

Trigger warning: this post contains discussion and links regarding bullying, homophobia, racism, and suicide.

I didn’t know the phrase “bullycide” before yesterday, but reading the stories of Asher Brown and Tyler Clementi I immediately understood what such a word meant. And I had never heard the phrase “ching-chonged” either but immediately “got it” while reading the Disgrasian piece on Asher Brown (and resultant comments) (h/t to Jim for sharing this via Twitter).

It is not easy nor trite for me to read and then write on these stories. They are devastating for me to consume. I feel such sorrow for these suicide victims and their families; I feel such sorrow for the other children who victimized these young people and now have to live with their role (if they even know enough to feel it); I feel such sorrow for the adults who could have done something to help and did not, figuring the problems were not that bad or not a big deal or just the typical stuff that happens amongst kids, or even thinking it is funny after all to make fun of a gay man for being, you know, gay, c’mon, admit it.

I feel some anger but mostly – a deep sadness. I think of my own children when I read stories like this.

Today Lesley at Fatshionista published a moving, at-times graphic personal account of bullying: “Sometimes we fight back by merely surviving: A missive for the bullied”. In fact if you’re pressed for time you should read this piece instead of mine as it’s probably better than anything I’ll have to say.

But if you’re here reading, still, and you do care what I think, I do have some ideas.

I am fortunate in that growing up I was not routinely or regularly bullied by adults and children. This is not to say people were not occasionally unkind, destructive, abusive, or wished me harm; this happened and some of these incidents are quite specific in my mind. And perhaps more relevant to my relatively privileged life, it isn’t so much that incidents felt isolated but that bully culture affected me very much; of course it did. It’s one thing to not be the target of focused or endemic efforts (like Asher was), but to know exactly the many behaviors or traits that might be used as fodder for violent or social reprisal, to also know the randomness in some bullying choices, to live in the fear of slipping up or being exposed or just being turned against by the alpha-whomever of the group?

Yeah. It affected me.

Bully culture changes those who don’t remember being afraid, although sometimes we’ve grown a nice thick skin over our past instead of coming to terms with it. Those of us who followed the influence of the ringleaders, or those who did not speak up when we saw it happening (I think we all have membership in this club) – this hurt us, too. We have the shame and sorrow and confusion of having participated – having made the jokes or written the cruel note or laughed into our hand in gym class while throwing glances and smirks at one another. We tell ourselves we just ignorant, or we didn’t really mean it, or the intended victim laughed it off. But we know deep down we committed wrongs.

All of this leaves a mark, sometimes an indelible one.

Most people reading here would claim and believe they are past all this. They do not support bullying behavior; they would never stick their head out of a car and yell at an Asian youth nor spit on a fat high school girl’s jacket. A denunciation of cruelty with a claim we are outside the Game is simply not good enough. We need to speak up, and we never know when we’ll see it next, and we will at times fail to do the right thing. Yeah, it is often not easy to speak up, not for most of us. Sorry, we don’t get a “pass” just because we don’t like to feel Awkward.

We need to grow our compassionate space. We need to re-gain touch with our empathy and understand many victims and perpetrators are damaged, hurt. We need to quit thinking – let alone saying – victims are “whining”. We need to stop reflexively giving them adjuncts to “get over it” or grandly offering our Smiley-Face Stories of the things we’ve gotten over. This is so profoundly wrong-headed and illogical and harmful in aggregate it almost fills me with despair to type it out, as I’ve seen it so much.

Bullying and abuse are not solved by our loud proselytizing of victim-charging stratagems like “turning the other cheek” or “walking away”. While I have employed both tactics successfully – and if you have too, good for you! – that cannot be our primary response and prescriptive to victims. Victims need to be heard, to be listened to; they need our presence and witness and compassion. We can do more active, loud, vocal work elsewhere. There’s lots of that to do out there, too.

It is our job, those who can do the work, to protect other people. It is our job to stand up for those who lack the strength or the resources to, or those who have internalized the messages already (as these two young men who eliminated themselves did), or those who tried to fight back once, or twice, and were beaten down so severely they have been traumatized (big or small, for five minutes or fifty years). It is our job – those who can – to protect these people even if they aren’t in the room in that moment. It is our job to address the bullies; starting with ourselves.

None of this is easy; if it were, we would not have these problems because (I do believe) most people want very much to do right. It’s hard to make change because we do-gooders, even we, are scared and unsure. Yet bullying and xenophobia are not problems relegated to small towns and they are not always coupled with overt, Afterschool Special music scores nor will we be guaranteed that “plucky” hero that sticks up for him/herself and then lives a life free of tormentors.

As if.

We need to stop thinking of bullying and aggression as outside our world, our families – as living somewhere else.

Have you apologized to those you bullied?

Have you apologized to those you did not protect?

Have you confessed to someone your mistakes, or admitted them to yourself, that you might move on instead of defending your past?

Have you made terms with your own fears, if you can?

Have you asked for help if you don’t feel strong, or safe?

Have you asked someone else if you can help them, if they seem scared, or unsure?

It’s rough out there sometimes. Like Warren Zevon said, “Life’ll kill ya.” But I don’t like thinking about death and destruction and torture all the time. I like to live, even joyfully when I can. Maybe we can help someone who needs us.

Maybe we can provide for them even a little bit more than we did yesterday.

i tried looking up quotes about failure but they were all depressingly bootstrappy

Today my many failures smirk from the corner of my ill-lit kitchen, leaned against the wall with arms crossed, sarcastically raising their eyebrows at my futile attempts to simply keep going. I’d been ignoring them for some time, primly folding fabric and wiping down counters and using my cheerful voice and washing and cutting up vegetables and all those typical things I do. I’d been thinking if I just kept working then pretty soon the failures wouldn’t seem so bad, and I’d have my little proofs at my competence and goodness and merit, and I’ll sweep these narratives out the gap like the dust from the back porch, close my door/mind and they will be gone.

Yet the failures stack up perfectly and make an airtight case. Many are small, incidental; some are large, oppressive. Perhaps no one wants to hear them enumerated here but I need them out of my mind, their crushing and entirely accurate little proclamations about my character and failings, their circular arguments that get louder and more tangled and mar my speech and thoughts while others around me have simply no idea how much I am preyed upon.

I’ve spent the last better part of a year ruminating on a particular encounter and unsatisfying and distressing conclusion with an acquaintance-friend. I have not given myself license to write about this freely here for fear of causing someone else pain or risking a reader taking my very vulnerable thoughts and using them against me with gossip and speculation. It is not that I assume the worst about people, it is that when I write or speak vulnerable words I do not wish to be re-traumatized by those who receive them. These are the very, very brief times I wish I had a private journal – the times I cannot synthesize my painful thoughts and speak in ways I that feel safe enough.

Yet the interaction is like a sore tooth, prodded, acutely painful, even months later. Before the final sundering took place I’d created a gift for this person. For months after dissolution I carried the gift and willed myself to send it – I believed like Thich Nhat Hanh instructs that when one is angry, one should give a (non-creepy or passive-aggressive) gift to this person, and the anger will dissolve and forgiveness ensue (this has worked for my relationships in the past), but I couldn’t bring myself to do this. I simply could not. I realized after a time I wasn’t Angry; I was (and am) Hurt.

I am hurt because at the close of our arrangement this person was a complete bully, yelling over my attempts to restore balance and discussion, bringing forth wrongs I’d committed that I’d had no concept were being experienced as such. Many of these sins brought against me were both unfair and inaccurate and at the end of this conversation the person admitted this (although did not offer apology nor attempt amends), but the words rang in my ears and are still rattling around all this time later. During our acquaintanceship this person had conducted themselves with a quiet uncomfortable evasion when I’d tried with every fiber of my being to be clear; in fact the exact misunderstanding I hoped to avoid is exactly what exploded forth in the end. This haunts me. I am not scared of bullies as a rule but when the person chooses to abuse me over the very thing I was scared might happen, my strength leaves my body and I have nothing, I am completely cowed and hurt and Done. They have Won in every sense of the word.

I know someone who must resort to bullying is a fearful person; either entirely damaged (as I do not believe in this case) or simply adhering to needs of Control and little depth of compassion. I know this. But it does not make me feel better.

Smaller and more exacting nonfulfillment on my part stares at me apace, even today while my hands busily handle my duties in false confidence.  I spent much of my Friday making foodstuffs for company (and many for storage, as we have quite the farm bounty) and in the end analysis I feel I first of all did not impress anyone unduly with my cuisine, and secondly although in my mind I realize my efforts to cook for family and friends and prepare good, whole food, these are wonderful exploits, I cannot stop the cynical voice in my ear saying I’m a silly person, a self-demeaned woman for standing at the sink and scrubbing and peeling and slicing and then sautéing and mixing and straining and gently stirring and setting aside and doing the little math in my head about feeding Ralph this or that or the children or family or company this exact thing I think they’ll love. And even though I know I feed not only my family but others, and so often (not always) my food is experienced as delicious and healing and restorative and nourishing, there’s this terrible voice telling me what I do is Nothing, it is Drudgery, it is unpaid and unmerited and not cared for. This voice makes little sense to me from a logical perspective but it has been powerful these last eight years I’ve been home doing the Work I do.

And this morning I’ve spent quite some time feeling terrible because I was requisitioned to do a sewing project and I failed. I did my best and worked hard and thought I’d done well but it turns out I’d done a few things wrong. While I tell myself Anyone Can Make Mistakes it would seem my mistakes are so much worse than others, the pain I cause others seems so much larger than I would ordinarily assume, I begin to wish I had not Tried at all, had not said Yes I Can Do This For You, had not tried something that wasn’t a guaranteed success, and I am reminded of how little my skills really are, in every way, and anything I’ve done before I was proud of recedes into a pathetically small pile, it is actually not real but rather Wishful Thinking, and every compliment others have delivered were only false platitudes, and I was a fool to enjoy them.

My previous experience of relatively rugged self-esteem was rather an attempt on my part to think I’m someone I’m Not.

I sat down to write this precisely after cooking breakfast for my daughter and before writing an overdue email to a friend. The breakfast preparations were necessary because no, not ONE MORE thing could I do incorrectly, I could do one thing right, if I was struck dead on the way back to my bedroom I would at least have fed my daughter.

The breakfast and the email are not much. But they are things I want to do, things I can do.

That will, in the end analysis, have to be good enough. Because it’s all there is.

inter-netz asshattery roundup

Here  you all thought I was only going to post sweet little stories about my family life and swimming and how awesome things are around here. But guess what? I have this other life, which is called Reading and Digesting and Writing about our culture, devouring feminist and womanist and rad fem and anti-racist and PWD blogs and… well, lots of stuff. I thought I’d post a little roundup of the variety of asshattery I’ve found in the last couple days so you could share in the fun!

(Warning for sexist language, child-hate, mother-hate, classism, and anti-homeschooling / unschooling sentiments)

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So first: who can find the sexist language in this (otherwise quite interesting) article at WebEcoist on “bevshots”?

Didn’t find it?  Let me break it down for you with a quote:

“Beverage art is one way the more macho members of society can get in touch with their artistic side, and the unisex appeal of BevShots’ presentation makes it far more likely to be accepted by spouses who may balk at framed Budweiser posters hanging in their living rooms.”

Right. So, in no way should a man feel bad about being “macho” (i.e. objectifying women’s bodies) but he is free to augment his living room with artsy-fartsy. The whole “unisex”/”spouse” gibberish is also subtly coded heteronomrative, i.e. of anyone who might like a beer poster there are two sexes whom are straight and married. And I’ve saved the most glaring ass-tidbit for last: a heterosexual DUDE won’t have an objection to Budweiser girl posters (Duh! Why should he? Booooing!), it’s the spouse that won’t want it (eyeroll delivered to those sensitive wimmin folks, amirite?).

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I’d stopped reading The-F Word.org although the title subjects – food, fat, and feminism – are passions of mine. No, I stopped reading because there are plenty of awesome FA sites that don’t pick on kids (which always, always translates to picking on mothers). Now the owner/author of this site has no children and wants to keep it that way which is great, because I support those without children (just like I support those with children!) and I specifically feel for people who don’t have children by choice (especially women), given they are constantly second-guessed and despised and sneered at (maybe someday I’ll link to some of those anti-childfree* nastiness examples to illuminate and analyze). But like so comments I read online (both from those with or without children), the anti-child sentiment is so prevalent on this site – and goes entirely unchecked within comments – it was just sapping my energy so I’ve concentrated on other FA locales.  However feeling amiable the other day I visited the site to discover the latest post, “Open Thread: Talking to kids about fat comments”. In it blog author Rachel posts a story about family and a child who made many direct and not-nice-sounding comments about her weight and size. Rachel put together an email to her family (which was a good email) so that was pretty cool.  But then… it started with the sentence, “I don’t have children (thankfully) and I can usually only take kids in small doses before they mentally and physically exhaust me” and went on from there. Most of the comments were pretty cool and offered sensible support: we should openly discuss this topic with our chlidren. But pretty soon the parent- and child-snark started, and it REALLY started when I (had the gall to!) put up my own perspective – that I thought Rachel’s email was fine, that Adult Privilege was showing in the comments, and that parents have an uphill battle in combating larger social norms and the attitudes of children’s peers.

Four comments weighed in calling my points “ridiculous”, the list a Parody, that I didn’t support or understand “manners” for children (strawman! especially considering I’d commended Rachel’s email), and that acknowledging Adult Privilege would result in children getting killed. I am too exhausted to take apart “Jackie’s” comment (I’ll bet you one MILLION dollars this person has no child, since she gave the longest prescriptive laundry-list of “THOU SHALT” to apply to ALL parents). Of course the only thing these people (one person posted twice) paid attention to was the posted Adult Privilege Checklist – none of my other points nor my support of Rachel’s email.  A little bonus bit of awesomeness, one commentor sneered at the APC author who clearly didn’t know how to raise a child, even though, sshhh! this author – and myself! are raising children!

One commentor posted: “Kelly, thanks so much for posting that link, and for giving me a term for the set of attitudes that has made me deeply uncomfortable on otherwise wonderful websites.” (Yay!)

(As a sidenote, it’s funny how unapologetic child-hate – which is often mother-hate – always, always involves the kid-screaming-in-restaurants HORROR. It’s almost comical how routinely this comes up – the trump card and TOTAL PROOF of how much kids and parents suck! And how parents and kids can’t have a bad or emotive day in public, or how we should parent in some Magical Way or according to Their Standards, or how kids should always be seen and not heard! And many literally think kids should not be in evidence at all! Because having them in school most their waking hours and then at home in bed for a third of their lives is NOT ENOUGH! No really many people still believe this!)

I’d love to talk about the Adult Privilege Checklist and soon because I think it is brilliant (Thanks, Anji!) and challenging to many if not most USians. Most who read it – the very fact of its newness in a time when privilege checklists are So hot right now! is telling – are definitely going to be challenged and splutter, “But, but, but!” and bring up points of Safety and how kids can’t raise themselves and then paint really gloriously well-rendered pictures of kids going all Lord of the Flies and Running (Ruining) Everything while their Lotus-Eating parents sit back and smile benevolently.

Of course I am in fact raising kids with the APC firmly in mind and it’s going well, and my kids are just fine and normal and pretty damned awesome (according not only to myself but to many we run across). Such tish-tosh beneath-notice detail escapes those who’d want to shriek about the implications of considering kids as People.

Because that’s the thing. Refusing to even consider how kids experience their own lives (which you note says NOTHING about how a particular parent/carer should handle a particular challenge nor the vast landscapes of other-care) perfectly illustrates just how subhuman people consider the class of “kids” (keep in mind, “KIDS” are from ages 0 months to emancipated 18 years, I guess they magically turn human after that).

Or as Twisty Faster at my beloved I Blame The Patriarchy (oh rad fem… is there anything you can’t do?) says:

“Kids” are a class of people around the discrimination, domination, indoctrination, and abuse of whom entire cultures, industries, pathologies, and oppressive social systems flourish. Youth is temporary for the individual, yes, but a youth class persists; there is a constant supply of replacement children to keep this class well-stocked with hapless victims. Furthermore, the damage inflicted by expertly administered adult oppression techniques hardly vanishes the moment a kid turns 18.

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Finally, and I’ll keep this short: Homeschooling and Unschooling are being dissed in a recent Free Range Kids post, including Amy who says: “I fully support your right to ‘unschool’ your kids. After all, someone’s going to have to change my kids’ oil and make their burgers someday.” (Amy wins the Ass-Hat First Prize for brevity whilst displaying ignorance, classism, and good ol’ fashioned nastiness!). Donna conflates homeschooling with being uncool because it isn’t living in the inner city or something? and weighs in on the majority of intelligent, educated parents being terrible teachers for their children (aw how sweet! I must have missed that day she came in and audited us personally!).  Sky compares my personal expressed joy in unschooling to something about collard greens (I can’t tell if she’s supporting or insulting me, there).

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Believe it or not it can be personally exhausting at times to take on the subjects of social justice in America (and seriously? Tonight we got to hear a loud, racist rant from a patron while out at dinner, and my husband almost physically engaged this man, which was more bonus). Being able to take a critical eye to random asshattery and bigotry and such is a skill – and it’s a skill earned by a commitment to the self-work and takes no small amount of my time. One thing I learn: the work – social and Self – is never done (as an example, a recent post at Native Appropriations entitled “The Potawatomis didn’t have a word for global business center”? exposed my ignorance regarding Native languages). I do it because I think it is right but also, even when it tires me out, I do like to do it.

To those who read here in good faith, thank you so much for joining me.

Fortunately I know my readers here are awesome, awesome people and going to Blow My Mind in the comments.**

* Both “childfree” and “childless” are terms others dislike or find offense with; I effort to say “people without children” but sometimes I use shorthand.

** I usually just put up my personal journal here; for more of my social issues stuff you can read Underbellie (once-weekly posts, just about) or follow me on Twitter at either kellyhogaboom or underbellie – the latter more skewed to activism and posts from activist sources.