En-Couraging

Mary Daly died yesterday.

This wouldn't be my blog if I didn't write about her passing, and so here I am, doing my best to ignore the internal tug that would pull this blog out (waaaay out) of the sorts of things I usually write about and into the intense tension that is radical feminism. Yup, I could go there. Quietly, I do. Most of the people I know don't know that about me, that I could happily live and breathe the air of that discussion. I choose not to, probably because I am too sensitive to withstand the fight without crumbling, which does not mean I can't or don't or won't stand up for myself.

Most people know her as the woman, the theologian, who taught Feminist Ethics at Boston College, a Jesuit institution, and was eventually fired because she would not allow men to attend her course (she did offer them separate independent study). Actually, it's a little bit (or a lot) more complicated than "she was fired" but you can read the story yourself, so I won't belabor the details, except to say that the spark that lit the flame came from the hands of two male students who enrolled in her course not out of interest or desire to learn, but expressly to challenge her policy (neither had fulfilled the course prerequisite). One of the students was backed from the start by a right-wing conservative think tank, which proceeded to sue BC. 'Nuff said. And let's not even get started on the irony therein.

I thank her for her objection (vociferous, ever, always) to the term "forcible rape", as if there is any other kind.

I thank her for the deep humor expressed in Websters' First New Intergalactic Wickedaryof the English Language. I was a young woman when it was published, and I heard her read from it at Mama Bear's Books in Oakland, California. I was transfixed. Yeah, these days we all talk about "reclaiming" words, but I had never heard anything like it. Her discussion of dis-ease, gyn/ecology, and sin-tactics made me laugh, made me wonder, made me think. They still do. I gotta dig up my copy of that book.

Oh, yes, I know that she was and will continue to be immensely controversial, that many disagree with her, that she was criticized for her omission of people of color and for her negative statements about transsexualism. She wasn't afraid of critique. I admire her courage. As she said: "...courage is like -- it's a habitus, a habit, a virtue: you get it by courageous acts. It's like you learn to swim by swimming. You learn courage by couraging."

You learn courage by couraging. Who else could have said that?

The thing that strikes me most about her writing and thought is that it embodied a movement, an era, of which I was a part. A place that no longer seems to exist, or if it does, it is deafeningly quiet. She said unpopular things, but she said what she thought. That's what fierce means to me.

You know, we joke about "political correctness". We think we've transcended it, so many of us. We think we (and our politics) are progressive, sometimes even radical, and we are happy to flash our credentials through our use of "code words", our adoption of inclusive labels that reproduce like rabbits, our marches. And while all of that is going on, we have private conversations. I've been privy to many of them. Conversations that reveal that, individually, there are many of us that have problems with things we 're not supposed to have problems with. Few of us will say it out loud. We smile, we nod, we say "absolutely", we protest for the "right things" . We'd be outcasts, within our own communities, no matter how thoughtful the analysis or commentary.

Like someone else we know, eh?

Light a fire for her. And while you're at it, light one for truth and courage, too.

"There are and will be those who think I have gone overboard. Let them rest assured that this assessment is correct, probably beyond their wildest imagination, and that I will continue to do so."

More on Words

Yesterday, I wrote about words being too restrictive. About their inadequacy to communicate what we mean in the deepest sense.

Today, I want to talk about the flipside.

It seems to me that the whole mess is made ever more complicated by the power that words hold. The power that we give them. The right words in the right moment are priceless. The wrong words in the wrong moment can be devastating. Which brings me to something I don't get.

For one thing, I don't get the primacy of the physical body. As if it isn't commanded, engineered, and operated by the same organ (which I have to say we don't seem to know anything about, even as we know more about it than ever before) as everything else. Losing control of motor function in one's hand, for example, is really not all that different from losing word retrieval; yet, the former evokes sympathy and the latter, ribbing. Does that make sense to you?

Stick with me. This does have something to do with words. I promise.

Some years ago...well, a whole lot of years ago...at a time when I was struggling, someone said to me "Isn't it amazing? If you are physically sick, people send you cards, they bring food, they mow your lawn, they send flowers and cards. And if you are emotionally sick, people stay away from you.". So maybe there's an evolutionary purpose for somaticism after all, huh? I really don't get it.

Which brings me, albeit in a roundabout way, to my point (as Ellen Degeneres says, I do have one). I've been waging a bit of a campaign for years now, but I have to admit, it's been a little lonely.

It began with a professional (and yeah,okay, a bit personal) passion of mine, and the subject of much of my graduate work. Invisible children. No, not the Virginia Bruce or Claude Rains or even Ralph Ellison kind of invisible. Children who are not noticed, not mentioned, passed over. They're everywhere. Any teacher could tell you about them, as much as we don't like to admit it--when you get to the end of your day, there is always at least one child that you just can't say what they were doing, and sometimes whether they were even there. I know, it sounds sad. But it's true. Maybe it's a malady, maybe it's a strategy, maybe it's something else altogether. Whatever it is, it's not the only kind of invisibility.

There's invisibility in being different. In being gay. Or lesbian. Or gender nonconformist. Or being a child of divorcing parents. There's invisiblity in being shy. Or out of touch with the current media or electronic culture. And yes, there's that kind too. And by "that kind", I mean whatever kind you're thinking of. Yup.

But none of those are what I mean. (see what I mean about words?)

My interest is, and has always been, in children whose experience is overshadowed by the experience of others around them, most markedly those who are bystanders to violence and trauma. I am painfully aware of their absence, not only because of the lack of humanity in their invisibility, but also because of the way in which their omission translates into a nearly complete inattentiveness to their unique needs.

But the first step is in words. In changing words. In respecting the validity of other types of pain or violence other than physical. And the first step in making that happen is in changing our language. Words. Words. Words.

Like I said, sometimes it gets lonely. And sometimes I get tired. And sometimes I think I am the only person in the world who notices this stuff--or objects to it. And then I forget about it for a while. Because I have the privilege of doing that. I am both grateful and sorry that that happens. Fortunately (and yes, I mean fortunately), I can never stay out of touch with it for that long, because just when i get lackadaisical, it happens again. Like yesterday.

Perhaps you read the story of Byrd and Melanie Billings in the news yesterday. This is them, with their twelve children:


In case you didn't read about it, I'll give you the Reader's Digest version. Byrd and Melanie lived in Pensacola, Florida. They had 16 children, 12 of them adopted, six with Downs Syndrome, others with drug exposure and sexual abuse histories. On Thursday, both parents were shot and killed in their home, apparently as a result of a home invasion that occurred in the evening. News reports vary, but there were at least eight [possibly sleeping) children in the home at the time of the murders. Now, I'm not making any assumption about the murders--there is a lot of speculation swirling. It doesn't really matter. What I am objecting to are the following news reports:

"The children, who ranged in age from infant to about 11 years old, were unharmed"

Sgt. Ted Roy, Escambia County Police spokesman, CNN

"Eight children were in the home at the time of the shooting, but none were harmed"

Pensacola News Journal

"eight of the Billing's children were home at the time fortunately none of them were hurt"

WEAR-TV, Pensacola

(and just to put the requisite icing on the cake, the spokesperson from the chronically scandal-laden Department of Children and Families says that that DCF "will, in a little bit of time, after the shock is over, reach out to the caregivers of these children and offer them what we call post-adoptive services". Ah. After the shock is over. I see. Florida. Ain't it grand?

So, here's my question. Would it kill us--all of us, including the media--to put the word "physically" in front of the word "harmed" or "hurt"? Of course they were harmed. Of course they were hurt. Probably irreparably, especially for some of them. They just didn't sustain physical injuries.

Sure, you can say "Oh, we know that they mean that they weren't physically hurt". Well, sure we do. Just like the archetypal dismissal of feminist objections, "Oh, when we say men, we mean women too!". Yeah. Sure you do.

You can say "that's just nitpicking." But words are powerful. And knowing what they mean doesn't make it okay. We demand that people are careful with other words that hurt. Why not these?

It's one word, folks. Just one lousy word. "Physically". That's it. How much would it take for us to relearn how we say and write about events like this? We have taught ourselves to say "firefighters" instead of firemen. We have taught ourselves (well, a lot of us anyway) to use the word "disability" rather than handicap. We have taught ourselves to say "African American" rather than any one of the myriad of labels that have been used to describe the people of color whose ancestors are from Africa (which is kinda all of us, but that's a whole 'nother discussion). We do learn. We do change. Can't we train ourselves to put that word in there?

The primacy of physical well-being over emotional, spiritual, mental well-being has reached the end of its useful life. Let's put it to bed. With one small word. Could anything be easier?

Words Fail

I am not sure how to explain what has happened the last couple of days. I have been struggling to write here. It's not about time. I've had time. I haven't even been willing to begin.

I would love to say, I have thought of saying, that I haven't had words, I haven't been able to coalesce my meandering into collections of letters and spaces. But that isn't really true. I've had a hundred phrases, and nearly as many opening sentences. Still, they have not found their way to this space, this screen.

I am only just beginning to figure this out. So I am being patient with myself as I write, and I hope you will be similarly patient as you read. We'll figure it out somehow.

I think what I want to say--because if there's anything I know for sure, it's that I'm not sure--is that I am beginning to understand my attraction to visual art over writing (at least in a historical sense). Because it is odd to have as your primary tool something that limits your expression by its very use. In this case, of course, I'm talking about words.

The reason I have not written down even one of those openings is that the minute that I write it down, it's wrong. Not wrong, like judgment, but wrong like not what i mean. Words, words themselves, really the sole medium of this craft, feel as if they are intrinsically limiting. Worse yet, in many cases, words are braggarts, showing off their solidity as if they know what they mean, and so should we. But I don't. Do you?

So I've been thinking about what is behind this phase, this place. And, ironically, I think it came from a comment that I got, or maybe even a couple of comments. If you are one of the people who left them, I fear that you are going to think that I took them wrong. Please trust that I didn't, I don't take them wrong. It is that I am discovering that I am uncomfortable being named, and that revelation has led me into wondering if I am uncomfortable with all naming, which, in the end, means discomfort with words themselves.

I am a writer. It was in the comments. I wrote a response asking why it is so hard to identify as such. And that was the end of words.

It came in being led, once again, to the words and writing of Mary Daly, and her insistence that words be altered to more accurately reflect a unique frame of mind. I remember listening to her read at Mama Bear's bookstore in Oakland, hearing for the first time a new language, a refusal to use words as if we all know what they mean.

It came in identifying my blog as a "women's" blog or a "feminist" blog, neither of which I doubt, but somehow once I named it as such, I felt limited and restrained, as if I can no longer write about cupcakes, which I fully intend to do. And in that restraint--you guessed it--nothing. No words.

You know the old routine. You go to a party, or you meet someone new, and they ask "What do you do?". Some of us hate that, some of us don't mind, some of us don't really care--but they ask and they will continue to ask, so there it is. I have never had an answer to that question. I notice that other people do. I am a lawyer. I am a teacher. I am a doctor. I am in retail. I am a social worker. I am a mom. I build houses. I am an accountant. People have answers. I have never had an answer. I stumble around, I try to describe what I do for my work, for my life. And in the end, after making myself and the other uncomfortable trying to fish around for words and descriptions that fit, I usually give up, and change the subject. Because, really, what do I say?

Do I say I'm an artist? When I do, people ask me what medium, and then I'm stuck again.

Do I say I'm a writer? No. I don't. I am a writer. But that's not what I "do".

Do I say I'm a consultant? Now there's a word that doesn't mean anything at all. A few weeks ago, I met a woman and we exchanged small talk. We discovered that we both work from home, we are both "consultants". She introduced herself as a computer consultant. I nodded. I introduced myself as a child development consultant. She looked confused and laughed a little and asked what that could be. See?

Do I say I don't do anything, that I prefer being to doing? Yeah, I could. But it's not exactly well suited for small talk at the PTA dinner.

And then there's the thing about what sort of blog this is. What I write about. People ask me that too (not to mention the nearly constant requirement to "label" blogs when they are submitted for inclusion in blogrolls or other sites.) People want to know what kind of blog, they ask "what kind of things do you write about?" I don't have an answer for that either. Not because I don't know--I do. But because the minute I answer, there is something lost. There is a piece of me, of my writing, of my experience, that is made invisible by that descriptor. I am reluctant to offer up a word that introduces limitations, in any form.

I suppose it is true as well for visual art, too. One is bound by the limitations and properties of oil paint, for example, or by wood, or clay. I think the difference is that, at least in my experience, there is rarely an assumption by the viewer that they know precisely the artist's ideas, their intentions, what they are "saying". In writing, people think they know. When I write the word "feminism", people think they know what I mean--or they use their own definitions as they read. If I sculpt feminism, people will gaze, they will wonder, they will circle, they will be confused, they will walk right past, they will ask me about it, ask me about my intentions, about the piece, often in an open-ended way. While the medium may limit the sculpture, the product stands on its own, subject to a potentially less arrogant interpretation. Few would tell me I used the wrong brush stroke, that that brush stroke didn't communicate clearly what I was trying to say. Not so in writing. We think we know. We all know what I mean when I write "women". No. We don't.

Let's just say I don't care for that.

And yet words are what we have.

Collections of words and spaces. Such a poor approximation of sensation.

And that, my friends, is where I've been.

Words and other Picky Shit

"Stand before the people you fear and speak your mind--
even if your voice shakes" --Maggie Kuhn

Words are sacred to me. I am fiercely protective.

I am not so unlike those few people I have met in my life (and surely all those who I have not met) who respond with wounded and vehement outrage to the use of the word "God" as an expletive or even as expression. You know the ones. "Don't take the Lord's name in vain!!"

It's just like that. I'm a purist.

Call it what you will. Everyone does. Picky. Intolerant. Inflexible. Egocentric. Fine, all of 'em. Probably all true at one moment or another. I would say that I'm big on saying what we mean.

It is not elicited by a particular word. I mean, I'm not one of those who goes "nucular" at, well, that. It does annoy me, to be sure (can you tell I heard it again today, on NPR this time, no less) and makes me long to get those people in front of me, hold them firmly by the shoulders, and ask them to pronounce "new" as in recently purchased, "clear", as in transparent, and then to look them firmly in the eye and say, slowly, and with emphasis..."Okay. Now. Put. Them. Together." It's not exact, but it sure would be closer. But it doesn't bother me that much.

It is not about pronunciation or even definition. No, the place where my teeth start to clench and the hair on the back of my neck stands up is a whole 'nother kettle of fish. My issue is in the casual use of what I call "large" words, often in response to the popularization of them by others, from friends to the media. Let me explain.

Now this may come as a shock to you--it surely does to me--but I am apparently following a theme tonight. I've never done that before. What I mean is that in the three and a half months of writing daily posts (a la nablopomo), I have not once written on the suggested monthly "theme" offered by the nablopomo folks. It's not required or anything, just a friendly prompt to keep people writing or give them something to write about if they are grasping at straws--I haven't needed it, or, more to the point, it's just the kind of thing I rebel against. Don't tell me what to fucking write about, y'know? But here I am, through no intention of my own. Go figure.

This month, the theme is "heroes". This word--hero--bothers me. A lot.

It bothers me because of the way in which no one seems to have any idea what it means, becuase of the increasing cheapness of its use, and because we use it wildly, indiscriminately, and, worst of all (gasp) inconsistently.

It bothers me because like nearly all words that fall into popular usage, it is considered blasphemy to disagree on their usage or meaning, even if those using them don't, as I said before, have any real idea of their definition or appropriateness. Everyone's saying it, so you'd better say it. And you'd damn well better not question its use, either, for to do so would be to insult and degrade the very soul of the person or persons on whom others have bestowed the title.

Word bullies.

You know what they say, the truth is an absolute defense. So let's look at what it means, this word.

The word "hero" is originally derived from Greek mythology and folklore, and refers to the offspring of a human being and a deity. The literal meaning is "protector" or "defender", possibly associated with the goddess Hera.

A few more thorough and current definitions:

Merriam Webster: 1 a: a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or ability b: an illustrious warrior c: a man admired for his achievements and noble qualities d: one that shows great courage.

The Oxford English Dictionary: 1 a person, typically a man, who is admired for their courage or outstanding achievements. 2 the chief male character in a book, play, or film. 3 (in mythology and folklore) a person of superhuman qualities.

The Free Dictionary: hero - a man distinguished by exceptional courage and nobility and strength.

That seems like enough.

This is the point where it gets tricky. This is the point at which, in order to keep writing, I have to remember my invisible cloak of steel, not to mention Maggie Kuhn's advice. Because it pisses people off if you say that the people they are calling heroes are not heroes. I could just save time and energy and go right to the front of the "Ignorant-and-Heartless-Bitch" line.

Let's put it this way: If I say that I don't believe such-and-such person is a hero, it is presumed that that means that I don't think s/he did anything special or that s/he is worthy of praise. It means that I am not grateful for and/or admiring of the risks that s/he may have taken.

And now I'm angry.

I'm angry because it's a faulty presumption. It is possible to feel all of those things, and still have the word "hero" be incorrect.

Hey, this is what I was trying to tell you. Sacred. Fiercely protective. Remember?

(By the way, the old movie Hero, with Dustin Hoffman, is a marvelous example of exactly what I am trying to say here. I highly recommend it.)

As you probably have guessed by now, the most current subject of my dismissive nit-picking is Stephen Johns, the security guard at the US Holocaust Museum who, sadly, lost his life at the hands of a man who, by all accounts, probably should not have been out on the street, and who surely should not have been allowed to own weapons. Correction--he's not the subject. The media and all of us are the subjects.

Let's get this straight. I am deeply sad at the loss of this man's life. This is a terrible tragedy--for Mr. Johns family, for the museum, for all of us. I am grateful to the men and women who take their jobs and their training as guards for the Holocaust Museum seriously, and who come to work every day with the awareness that anti-semitism is alive and well and with the knowledge that some crazy might choose this day to stake his claim and act upon his rage with deadly violence. I am grateful for all of the officers who were sharp enough and fast enough to stop James von Brunn before he did any more damage.

At the same time, let's look at what he did. He opened the door for an elderly man. That was nice. The elderly man proceeded to shoot him in the chest at close range. He died of his wounds. So help me out here. In what way was he a hero?

For taking the bullet, which requires the assumption that had it not hit him, it might have hit a visitor? Maybe. I can see that, though by all reports, he did not "step in the path" but was the first direct target. For serving as a security guard in the museum, risking his life every day? I can see that, but then we need to be sure to give that honor and title to every guard who works in the Holocaust museum, whether they have ever been injured, and indeed, even if they were not working that day. Or...was he a hero because he died in the line of duty, and when someone dies in the line of duty, we call them a hero. Bingo. (Hint: It's the third one. Plenty of evidence to support that conclusion).

I know, it sounds cold. But it isn't cold. It's not about actions, not about Stephen Johns, not about right or wrong or tragedy or not. It's about words, about "big" words, about taking care with how we use words for fear of falling into a semantic version of "the boy who cried wolf". If anyone is a hero, then what happens to the real heroes? Or are they all the same? I don't think they are all the same (but then you might have guessed that).

And yes, I understand that I'm splitting hairs. That really all we're doing is trying to express the tragedy of his death, and our appreciation for his and his family's sacrifice. What does the word that we use really matter?

It does matter.

Words are like the principles of economics--the more they are used, the more casually they are used, the less they are worth.

Words are sacred.

Hey, at least I don't correct grammar. Now, THAT'S annoying.