DIGGING UP WHITE ROOTS- HOW HISTORY GREW MY MIND.

I would like to propose that we create for the American people a month dedicated to white history. I know... Morgan Freeman says history is history, but I can’t help but feel that white people need some special emphasis, like a dedicated 30 days out of an already white year of history, to explore the inception of what a white race is.

Our eyes come into focus as we sift through the very familiar stories of a collective past. We unveil those tarnished gems that many have not heard. The revived luster of this forgotten history could illuminate the dark corners of those bleached hearts; ones that may beat even as this sentence is written, or as it is read; stories responsible for stripping the common, pink color once present in all of our collective chests.

Let’s start with the impressive narrative of our nation; it is an account claimed predominately by the pale hands of Englishmen. Our history was written by European colonists. They documented the stamina required to create a country, ensuring that future Americans would always be aware of the labor involved in tinkering and thinking; lofty hobbies when one isn’t confined to toil and starve.

The great ideas of the past are enshrined by god-like descriptions of Christian men. Valiantly our forefathers wrote rules to a game that they could win. While writing our constitution they determined that a future America could perhaps live without slavery; but the idea of abolishing it would not even be open for discussion before twenty more years of free profits had been extracted from the lives of their current enslaved people. The framers conspired and compromised and created a country, while the most severe foundational work was achieved by nameless humans called servants and slaves.

 Black History is American history. Deeply entrenched in this too often unexamined story is the birth of an institution that we continue to  brush off as a long begone belief; that “white people are superior to those of all other races, especially the black race, and should therefore dominate” (first definition given for ‘white supremacy’ with a Google search). This measly definition sets the stage for any half decent human in our society to shun the very idea. ‘I don’t “feel” that way, therefore my conscience is absolved from giving any further thought to the matter.’ But what unresolved issues surface when we read a complete definition of white supremacy?

“...an historically based, institutionally perpetuated system of exploitation and oppression of continents, nations and peoples of color by white peoples and nations of the European continent; for the purpose of maintaining and defending a system of wealth, power and privilege” (Sharon Martinas 1995 CWS Workshop)

This definition is packed full. Without history, we can never get all of its contents out of the bag. What nations were exploited? What historical figures were oppressors? Who were the beneficiaries of this privilege? What have we internalized from our history?

At first I asked myself, what wealth and power did I have while my mother was waiting for the food stamps to arrive? We were car-less and often homeless. I couldn’t wrap my head around any extra that my whiteness had given me.

I remember vividly what the stereotype towards twentieth-century, ragged white, welfare kid, felt like. I was poor, but I could get my dad’s side of the family to buy me an authentic Stussy T-shirt, and during recess, when that well-to-do kid reached in my collar and flipped out my tag, I could have a victorious moment basking in what it felt like to be a whole person. Not being poor was an attainable dream  It was something I could work hard to change and prevent that stereotype from attacking me in the future.

Now imagine that I can’t alter my poverty. Let’s pretend that poverty is a skin color and no matter what I do; the clothes I wear, the goals I obtain; a whole society only sees the poverty of my skin. Generations of children grew up with this stereotype called racism. It hacked into who they were, and who they could become.

But let’s get back to being white. This “Institutional racism” that you hear about has been around since the beginning of our great nation. It is credited with taking a motley crew of immigrants and renaming them “white”.  In this way, our ancestors who struggled (but chose) to sail to a land not native to them; who lived by the skin of their teeth, and died to give birth to new ways of thinking; were promised a monetary gain in the form of a thought:

‘You may be poor as your lawmakers grow rich on your labor; you may toil so relentlessly that you and your children and your children’s children will be unable to attain an education; you may not have the means to afford a voice in determining the laws of the nation you die for, but as consolation, you can be white.’

And the rest is white history, written through each decade with a firm grasp on the so called prize of superiority; while the majority of white Americans were poor, disenfranchised and uneducated, twenty percent of the American population was considered ⅗ of a person; the white American owned his squalor, whether it be in the north or the south, while at the same time black Americans were coerced into “the largest and most rapid mass internal movement in history” (Nicholas Leeman, 1991).  A thirsty White American, poor as she may be, could still drink from the same fountain that her wealthy lawmaker drank from. While each class shared the common watering hole of the rich, segregation ripped across the hearts of black men and women and children.

Our own Supreme Court denied any discrimination with ‘separate but equal’ policies, in Plessy v. Ferguson. This was the precedent for the next 60 years. Finally Brown v. Board of Education declared, “To separate [children]... solely because of their race, [causes] a feeling of inferiority...that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely ever to be undone…”

These are the words from our own Judiciary system, recognizing that the damage done to black Americans would be insurmountable to mend; that the unwillingness to embrace the history of a people who built a nation, would not be undone, even 60 years later with the exultant election of a president whose skin was brown.

White supremacy lives like a silent floating cell, passed down through generations to each person who has never known better and as such, cannot do better. To me, February is a moment to focus on learning and teaching a history that hasn’t become mainstream. I don’t agree that to end racism we need to stop talking about it. Sorry Morgan Freeman.

Talking about race is scary. I hope that by celebrating black history with emphasis this month, and with passionate interest for the rest of my life, that my kids won’t feel that fear. I live in a society where no one has ever judged me for my skin color. I don’t have to fear that my children will be detained (or worse) by the law based on their skin. When I drive by 3 consecutive streets in the town of Oakhurst named: Black, Spook, and Hangtree, I can identify that if I had black skin I would be tormented by this. There was a time where those streets meant nothing to me. But I know better now.

-Emily

SEXUAL PRESSURE. WOMEN DO IT TOO.

He’s laying on his side. I inch over to him and push my body up against his, hands wandering and groping, as I graze my cheek gently along his back. He doesn’t move, whispering something about having eaten too much at dinner. It’s a line I’ve heard many a time before. Sometimes I push harder, verbally chastising him for not being “normal,” in an attempt to scrape what remains of my ego up from the floor. But, it’s been nine years of rebuttals, and I’ve gradually given up. Tonight, I roll over, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to create closeness from within, and silently weep into my pillow, feeling the cotton beneath saturate with tears, the rest of my face dampening as the moisture spreads. I’ve committed forever to this man, I struggle with how to serve a life sentence devoid of the physical intimacy that sex extends.

But, I chose to marry him, already acutely aware of this deficit. We were “normal” in the beginning, and in my youthful naivety, I told myself things would eventually remedy. He says it’s not me. He says he thinks I’m beautiful, sexy even. Maybe I believed him years ago, but I’ve lost my emotional footing by now. I’m lonely, and I doubt myself. We’ve got other problems, and I wonder if he’s lost interest because of the tension and mounting contempt, or maybe I suck in bed, or maybe his hormones are whacky, or maybe…. I could go on forever.

I pressure him consistently, laying guilt whenever I can, undoubtedly making it worse, but I’m desperate and feel physically abandoned, so I justify it. We’re incredibly affectionate in every other way, always touching, to a point of excess, which only adds to my confusion. I crave affirmation that nothing is wrong with me, more than anything else. It never comes. And, eventually our marriage ends, problems snowballing year after year. I’m left only able to speculate where things went wrong and how much I had to do with the unfolding.

I’m eager, upon our split, to confirm that I’m not unattractive or broken. Friends agree I should go out and “get some” as soon as possible. That’s all I need to hear. A short-lived relationship ensues that serves every purpose it needs to. Purely physical in nature, it lays the foundation for me rediscovering myself as a woman. Maybe I do know what I’m doing? Maybe there isn’t something wrong with me after all? But, I’m still terribly insecure. It wouldn’t take much to reduce me back to the pile of flesh and doubt that I was a mere month before.

I meet my current husband while in this space, feigning confidence via short hipster sundresses, a killer tan, and long, flowy hair. He’s unaware of any self-doubt on my behalf because I’ve mustered up an attitude, born of self-protection, that reflects a woman who gives no fucks. Of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

He doesn’t fit the mold of “stereotypical guy”, a fact of which I am still unaware. He’s not looking to put out. I’m crushed in every way when he denies my advances to go further, painful emotions reminiscent of my marriage flooding in. I’m that lonely, less-than girl all over again, unloved and unworthy, searching for acceptance the only way I know how. It was never about sex, just a feeble attempt at reclaiming confidence. I can’t let myself go there, the wounds still too raw. My ego steps in to do the dirty work. I admonish him for not being manly. That doesn’t work. I guilt trip him for hurting my feelings. Nope. I try to be as hot as hot can be. Uh-uh. I’m rude, inappropriate, disrespectful, and I don’t take no for an answer, a total asshole. Nuthin. We eventually part ways, and I swear him off. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

But the truth is that I do like him, more than I’m willing to admit. He’s smart. He has values. He knows how to communicate. He knows who he is. He’s interesting. He’s stubborn. And, he can’t be manipulated (by boobs or otherwise). So, a couple weeks later, when he seeks me out (Who even knows why? Maybe it was the killer tan, or maybe (for sure) my hard ass act was completely transparent), I relent from my anger and reconnect with him. He’s decided to lend me the Flight of the Conchords DVD’s that I’d previously been denied, for fear of them never making it back home, an obvious ploy to see me again. His version of this story doesn’t cast me as a total jerk. In fact, he hardly remembers these moments I refer to. My insecurities colored my perceptions into an individual tale, riddled with pain and rejection. Spoiler alert: He put out, but he did it on his own terms, when he was ready. Unbeknownst to me, I required that momentary pause (whether I wanted it or not) to stew in my feelings, to recognize that my value to him, to myself, wasn’t just in what my body could do. Years of being rebuffed had skewed my worth. He was in it for more. Although, we’ve never grappled with sexual issues or disparities in desire, recovering my self-esteem has been a long road, because I came in with lots o’ baggage, but here we are, and I feel very loved. I have a marriage with connection, on all fronts. My trust wasn’t built in a day. It took a lot of demonstration on his behalf, to create safety, and emotional vulnerability on my own. None of it came naturally. It’s a daily choice to be present and naked (emotionally, this time).

I share this because life is tricky, life is grey, love is complicated, ego is a force to be reckoned with, and sexual pressure isn’t exclusive to the male variety. There’s a story behind every heart and every reaction, sometimes even every asshole.

Now, let's read this story with he and she interchanged. I encourage you to take note of your difference in interpretation and shifts in sentiment. The revised version follows.

She’s laying on her side. I inch over to her and push my body up against hers, hands wandering and groping, as I graze my cheek gently along her back. She doesn’t move, whispering something about having eaten too much at dinner. It’s a line I’ve heard many a time before. Sometimes I push harder, verbally chastising her for not being “normal,” in an attempt to scrape what remains of my ego up from the floor. But, it’s been nine years of rebuttals, and I’ve gradually given up. Tonight, I roll over, feeling dejected and alone. I’ve committed forever to this woman, I struggle with how to serve a life sentence devoid of the physical intimacy that sex extends.

But, I chose to marry her, already acutely aware of this deficit. We were “normal” in the beginning, and in my youthful naivety, I told myself things would eventually remedy. She says it’s not me. She says she thinks I’m handsome, sexy even. Maybe I believed her years ago, but I’ve lost my emotional footing by now. I’m lonely, and I doubt myself. We’ve got other problems, and I wonder if she’s lost interest because of the tension and mounting contempt, or maybe I suck in bed, or maybe her hormones are whacky, or maybe…. I could go on forever.

I pressure her consistently, laying guilt whenever I can, undoubtedly making it worse, but I’m desperate and feel physically abandoned, so I justify it. We’re incredibly affectionate in every other way, always touching, to a point of excess, which only adds to my confusion. I crave affirmation that nothing is wrong with me, more than anything else. It never comes. And, eventually our marriage ends, problems snowballing year after year. I’m left only able to speculate where things went wrong and how much I had to do with the unfolding.

I’m eager, upon our split, to confirm that I’m not unattractive or broken. Friends agree I should go out and “get some” as soon as possible. That’s all I need to hear. A short-lived relationship ensues that serves every purpose it needs to. Purely physical in nature, it lays the foundation for me rediscovering myself as a man. Maybe I do know what I’m doing? Maybe there isn’t something wrong with me after all? But, I’m still terribly insecure. It wouldn’t take much to reduce me back to the pile of flesh and doubt that I was a mere month before.

I meet my current wife while in this space, feigning confidence. She’s unaware of any self-doubt on my behalf because I’ve mustered up an attitude, born of self-protection, that reflects a man who gives no fucks. Of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

She fits the mold of “stereotypical woman”, a fact of which I am still unaware. She’s not looking to put out. I’m crushed in every way when she denies my advances to go further, painful emotions reminiscent of my marriage flooding in. I’m that lonely, less-than man all over again, unloved and unworthy, searching for acceptance the only way I know how. I can’t let myself go there, the wounds still too raw. My ego steps in to do the dirty work. I admonish her for not being sexual. That doesn’t work. I guilt trip her for hurting my feelings. Nope. I try to be as hot as hot can be. Uh-uh. I’m rude, inappropriate, disrespectful, and I don’t take no for an answer, a total asshole. Nuthin. We eventually part ways, and I swear her off. “Who the fuck does she think she is?”

But the truth is that I do like her, more than I’m willing to admit. She’s smart. She has values. She knows how to communicate. She knows who she is. She’s interesting. She’s stubborn. And, she can’t be manipulated. So, a couple weeks later, when she seeks me out (Who even knows why? Maybe (for sure) my hard ass act was completely transparent), I relent from my anger and reconnect with her. She’s decided to lend me the Flight of the Conchords DVD’s that I’d previously been denied, for fear of them never making it back home, an obvious ploy to see me again. Her version of this story doesn’t cast me as a total jerk. In fact, she hardly remembers these moments I refer to. My insecurities colored my perceptions into an individual tale, riddled with pain and rejection. Spoiler alert: She put out, but she did it on her own terms, when she was ready. Unbeknownst to me, I required that momentary pause (whether I wanted it or not) to stew in my feelings, to recognize that my value to her, and hers to me, wasn’t just in what our bodies could do for each other. Years of being rebuffed had skewed my worth. She was in it for more. Although, we’ve never grappled with sexual issues or disparities in desire, recovering my self-esteem has been a long road, because I came in with lots o’ baggage, but here we are, and I feel very loved. I have a marriage with connection, on all fronts. My trust wasn’t built in a day. It took a lot of demonstration on her behalf, to create safety, and emotional vulnerability on my own. None of it came naturally. It’s a daily choice to be present and naked (emotionally, this time).

I share this because life is tricky, life is grey, love is complicated, ego is a force to be reckoned with, and sexual pressure isn’t exclusive to the male variety. There’s a story behind every heart and every reaction, sometimes even every asshole.

-Angi

A GIRL, AND A COLLISION WITH WOMANHOOD.

Blonde, ragged hair trailed down my naked back as I left the house shirtless once again. I shoved off hard on my bike and into the long, straight street ahead of me, eager to create the whirl of wind in my ears. It was the end of summer and the air was filled with ladybugs. I swerved through the speckled light as I stood tall atop the pedals, coasting in and out of the shade provided by tall, swaying pines. I was 8.

That year I would hit a bump in the road and knock out half of my left, front tooth on my handlebars. That year my mom would give me a haircut with bangs and I would leadingly ask everyone I met if they thought I looked like Aurora. That year I would walk backward together with the neighbor-boy, dragging our feet as we danced to Michael Jackson... his dad would overhear me saying there were dead bodies in the vacation rental across the street, and promptly send me home. I was a little kid, carefree, with big ideas and an abundant imagination- and by the beginning of the following year, I would be wasting my time trying to mimic what the world told me a girl should be.

As autumn approached, my mom and step-dad would get divorced.  We three girls would lose our home. Poverty would push us into the arms of anyone who would take us. And I would lose myself pretending that I was an orphan like Annie, escaping my woes through song and dance; placing all my hopes on magic and miracles.

Just before the weather turned cold, my sister and I were sent out on our bikes to the last place we had couch-surfed, in an attempt to collect our forgotten winter clothes. We could make it safely there by taking the back roads and staying off the main street.We retraced the same route on our way back; plastic shopping bags filled with coats and pants, banging against the tires as we pedaled hard uphill. Panting heavily at the top of a particularly steep hill, with a long distance still to go, I resolved to feel that freedom from worry again. I wanted all those simple moments back, I wanted to feel the ladybugs pelting against my face, as I tore through that dappled light, making my own wind. I shoved off. Pedaling fast.

“Emily… Emily Stop! You better stop!! I’m going to tell!! ...Emily!!”

My sister's cries became a murmur as gravity pulled me faster towards the quiet intersection at the bottom. The trees blocked any oncoming traffic from around the corner, but it didn’t matter. I was wind and light and I never even slowed down. If danger existed, I would narrowly escape it. Nothing could stop me.

And then a truck ran me over.

A concussion later, with a cast that ran clean from the top of my thigh to the tip of my toe, my mom stood beside the hospital bed recalling how I had eyeballed a girl with crutches just one week before. “I wish I had crutches” were the careless words that had left my lips.

Now I lie awake in my sleeping bag, an incessant itch behind my unreachable knee; my ankle bruised on my good leg from each bump against the tough, white exterior of the cast. I relearn to sit, and pee, and bathe and it feels like the damn thing is on for years, even though it is only a few months. My mom can’t say no and allows me to go swimming with the thing on, and afterward, the mildew stench creeping up from the dark confines of my leg are revolting. Coat hangers become my best friend, as I push the bent wire down between my irritated skin and the cast.  

Finally, the doctor cuts it off. I am horrified to find my leg shriveled. Curly black hairs have evasively strangled out the blond. I can’t stand the way it looks. I am not Aurora. I am a monster with a skinny, smelly, hairy twig of a leg. That night in the bath, I shave off all of my leg hair. The clouded soup of bath water laps around me. My removed hair hangs on the inside of the white tub. No one can know how gross this is. I just need to be like everybody else. But my leg hair never stops growing back black, and so I begin the social conformity of shaving off my own body hair, before the age of 10.

Later, when puberty is on the brink, and my body flourishes like a weedy garden, my best friend’s older sister informs me that shaving from the knee down will not suffice for me. We three lie in a row on her back porch, bellies down as we sunbath. I twist around, propped up on my elbows to see her scrutinizing the dense hair that coats the back of my thighs. The sunlight bounces off each hair, creating a matt of texture over the smooth brown contour of my leg. Hideous.

At some point, I must have wished for body hair. It comes in droves. I am constantly monitoring my bushy laden privates, barely hidden behind the fabric of my bikini. I shave it off whenever I can that summer. Tiny red bumps riddle my skin, itching, burning. The older sister gives me Nair. The smell is enough to singe the hair from my nostrils, but I endure the sting, the mess, and nothing; my hairy coat of armor doesn’t budge.

I blame God for doing this thing; giving me hair where normal girls don’t have any. I pluck it from beneath my belly button so that my boyfriend won’t know I’m a wooly ghoul. The roots are deep and thick and I watch as my skin is yanked up with each hair. One painful hair down, an innumerable amount to still go, for as long as I am a girl, for as long as I am supposed to be hairless.

This whole routine happens behind the veiled curtain of “woman”. We are hairless. That’s what the world portrays us as. There aren’t many Frida Kahlo's walking around to defer a second opinion to. And hairlessness is just one of the legs supporting the weight of what we should be. Maybe shaving and plucking, and resorting to waxing on occasion, is your cup of tea. But I personally find it taxing, saddled alongside the need to be thin and pretty and always smiling as the world judges your worth.

It takes consistent effort to remember how whole I once felt as a girl, wild and free, before the pressure to conform to something sideswiped me. It took years to even consider if I wanted to shave all these parts of my body.

Eventually, I stopped because, fuck you, Gillette! And because my body constantly revolted by responding with repeated ingrown hairs and razor burn. I let the hair beneath my arms grow because I knew my daughter would soon grow hair beneath hers, and the last thing I wanted is for her to begin her journey into womanhood acknowledging that she must make herself less.

I will be her Frida, even when I still feel embarrassed by my own natural, God-given, mammalian hair; I will recall the strength and the joy of being that little, shirtless girl. I will give my own girls permission to make trusted, conscious choices about their own changing bodies.

Realistically, tackling social conformities takes time. I just recently wore a bathing suit with full fledged body hair but it was with my closest friends. I can’t say I won’t ever shave again. But It’s worth it that my girls see me question and even struggle, rather than blindly shave because I’m a “woman”.

-Emily

I WENT TO THE WOMEN'S MARCH. NOW WHAT?

I dragged all three kids to the local Women's March this weekend. As we were driving, passing uterus hats by the dozen and searching for a parking space like it was Christmas time at the mall, I tried to explain why we were there.

The best I could muster was that women deserve equal pay, should be able to do what they’d like to with their bodies and sometimes are the victims of men doing things to them that are unwanted. While articulating this, all I could think was that we inherently deserve these rights, but don't we already have them? Was I missing something?

Is abortion illegal? More difficult in some states, but still our right.

Sexual harassment. That’s not legal.

Equal pay. Well, you gotta ask for it. And it’s pretty likely you’ll get it if you appropriately self-advocate, cus discrimination n’ stuff.

Maybe my own confusion as to what this march truly represented made for a lame conveyance. The conversation was admittedly puny in comparison to our talks about racism, the Nazis, gender, and sexuality. Those topics garner a lot of questions, but this one fell flat. I could tell the kids weren’t impassioned by my spiel, and neither was I. In all honesty, I didn’t feel the pull to show up for myself. My motivation was purely parental in nature. I want my children to be politically aware and empowered, interested in whatever issues are relevant when they come of voting age.

I had to go home and Google what the hell I was marching for, because I thought maybe I'd left something out, but my search query didn't offer up any new cause I was previously in the dark about.

I felt disappointed that, as a woman, I couldn't drum up more enthusiasm, that the intent of the march felt indefinable. None of it seemed actionable and this left me unsure of my place in it. I needed to know, what next? 

The place I've arrived at is that continued progress, on all fronts female, is going to have to be an inside job. The legislation is in our favor, but we've got to utilize it to feel its function. This involves pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps and getting a bit uncomfortable. T-shirts, hats, and signs aside- it’s time to do battle. Laws are in place that will offer a veil of protection for our endeavors.

We aren’t going to get raises if we choose to stay in our cubicles and pray for them while stewing about the inequity. We’ve got to march into the boss’s office, make our well-informed arguments, and demand that shit.

We aren’t going to end sexual harassment by all wearing black dresses to the Golden Globes. What the hell was that anyway? Did someone’s third-grader suggest matching outfits? Impact=zero. Cheese factor=off the charts. Thank God Oprah was there to say some real stuff.

The longstanding silence of women (and men) in Hollywood, who were assaulted (or made aware of it), by Harvey Weinstein, etc. (and quite frankly didn’t need the money- Gwyneth, et al.), didn’t help anyone’s cause. It’s going to take a little more grit if we want our rights to work for us. Like, I dunno, maybe all the multi-millionaires could ditch their black gowns and agree to boycott the film industry until leading women are guaranteed equal pay to leading men? It would last about 12 minutes- problem over.

If we’re going to make an actual impact, we need to pick a thing and cause some disquietude. Risks need to be taken. Civil rights didn’t happen without an upheaval and civil disobedience. Women and disobedience? Don’t get all squirmy on me, cus that’s gonna have to happen. Holding hands, carrying quippy signs, wearing pink, naming names, and singing Kumbaya will only get us so far.

It’s all well and good that we are “making men aware” of our plight (and maybe instilling fear, guilt, and confusion as to what is acceptable?), but we don’t need to be rescued. That disempowers us, robs the movement of its efficacy and fundamental message of equality. Ladies, we’ve got to be our own heroes. Isn’t that what Girl Power is all about? Not needing any Prince Charmings to ride in on white horses and save us? Even if there are a lot of men (and women) who don’t “get it,” does it really matter? We live in an incredibly divisive country where people are on vastly different mental planes at all times. If we all wait for each other to agree before we feel supported enough to act, we’ll die unrequited. It’s up to us to teach men how to treat us, or at the least, get used to the new normal. They aren’t going to do this for us, whether we’ve been socialized to surrender or not, because ultimately, it’s not their battle, and let’s not give it over to them, even if, historically, they had a major hand in causing it. We got this. Feminism.

While recognizing that discussion has to happen and explorations must occur to prevent further bigotry, raise awareness, and give voice to victims, I’m pretty weary of hearing about the whys of it all. I’ve never been much for psychoanalysis or empathy in lieu of action, preferring not to waste too much time on disproportionate excavation and fruitless tears or anger. More of a cognitive behavioral fan, I advocate for changing some shit to get the ball rolling and moving forward. The more we hide behind the whys, waiting for apologies and understanding, changes in everyone but ourselves, the longer we stand victims. So, what now?

-Ask for what you want, again and again. That’s what men do, and it works. Yeah, I know, society has sculpted us into appeasers. How’s that working for us? As a whole, we’re going to have to take some major responsibility here and muster up some big ole’ guts.

-Teach our daughters about sex, relationships, their bodies (which don’t exist solely for male pleasure and objectification) and all of the confusing stuff that comes along with that, through open conversation AND personal demonstration. (Read: Your Daughter's Bedroom by Joyce McFadden). Teach them how to say no, how to ask for what they want, and that our personal power comes from choosing our responses to the shitty things that happen in our lives. Let’s show our girls that anger isn’t enough. It is the oft-born agency that anger breeds which institutes progress. Don't donate your power to your oppressor by embracing paralyzing enmity or fear. Keep moving, be better. If someone tries to pull rank on you at work, take a stand, file the complaint. Quit the job, be broke, keep your dignity. Fight. Not for the faint of heart, I know, but if enough of us do it…..

And if enough of us don’t, then nothing changes, even if we keep wearing our uterus hats.

-As a privileged, white, educated, American (I can't even scratch the surface of the injustices occurring to women outside of our country) female, I am better off than many of my sisters. The responsibility, therefore, falls upon me and those in a similar position, to stand even taller when given the opportunity, because there are many among us that cannot afford to do battle. They are hanging on by a thread, and we can ask no more of them. For those women, we fight.

Your day in the sun may never present itself (we're fortunate to have had many courageous predecessors do the dirty work). You don’t even have to go out in search of it. Just be ready. If we’re all prepared to rally ourselves or our friends and daughters, change will come.

-Let’s march for improved maternity coverage and subsidized child care. Then we can be better mothers with less worry. We can reduce our work hours and spend more time parenting our future voters. Many of us won’t need to get those abortions we’ve had to fight so hard for the right to. How many days do you think we’d have to strike to pull that off? According to the Department of Labor, we account for 47% of the workforce. Even if just the people who marched on Saturday, nationwide, went on strike, the impact would be so grand as to be almost inconceivable. It would send a message to government officials pretty quick.

-Acknowledge our differences from men. We aren’t biological equals. We make babies and require time off from work to do so. That may result in climbing the corporate ladder at a slower rate. That may also result in some hard choices about whether to continue doggedly pursuing career aspirations or to reel it in for the sake of quality parenting. This is a fact inherent to being a woman, and it’s not going to change. Men will always be at an advantage on that front, unless we choose to be childless, or Dad stays home. But, we do have the choice, and cheers to that!

-Recognize that we can’t end rape or domestic abuse. The curse of our smaller stature will always leave us preyed upon. We cannot stop it any more than I can keep my 8-year-old from wrestling my 5-year-old to the ground to confiscate the LEGO that probably wasn’t rightfully his. Walking alone at night will never stop being scary.

-Keep marching. Teach our daughters that women are proud and worthy and can yell just as loud as men. That we can gather en masse, creating an inspiring energy, but remind them that is only the beginning of change. We must carry that inspiration with us and use it when needed to plead our case, to take what’s due to us. My tirade isn’t about whether or not these problems exist. They’re undeniable. This is about self-empowerment and the courage to elicit real change. It’s about breaking from stereotypical female responses to find our inner heroines if and when the opportunities present themselves.

It may feel like my sentiment lacks compassion, but I submit that the greatest gift one can give to self and others is belief in the capacity to move forward.

Commentary and disagreement are welcome. This is a personal subject as much as it’s a national issue. School me- discussion grows us. Unrest from recent events has opened up this rich dialogue, and I have absolute deference to that process and the unfolding thereof. I hope the ephemeral nature of humanity doesn’t fan the flames too quickly.

-Angi

Included below is the inspiring biography of Jo Ann Robinson, a real-life heroine who changed the face of civil rights with one courageous, uncomfortable decision.

Jo Ann Robinson
Rebecca Woodham, Wallace Community College, Dothan
Although not as well-known as Rosa Parks or Martin Luther King, Jr., Jo Ann Robinson (1912-1992) was perhaps the individual most instrumental in planning and publicizing the 1955 Montgomery Bus Boycott, proposing the idea more than a year before it was implemented. Robinson was also active in the Montgomery Improvement Association and the Women's Political Council and was an English professor at Alabama State College (ASC, now Alabama State University).

Jo Ann Robinson
Jo Ann Gibson was born on April 17, 1912, in Culloden, Georgia, the youngest of 12 children of Owen Boston Gibson and Dollie Webb Gibson. Unusually well-educated at a time when educational opportunities for African American women were limited, Gibson was valedictorian of her high school graduating class and became the first person in her family to graduate from college, earning a bachelor's degree from Fort Valley State College (now Fort Valley State University) in Fort Valley, Georgia. Robinson then took a teaching position in Macon, Georgia. While there, she was married for a short time to Wilbur Robinson and had one child who died in infancy, prompting her to end the marriage. After teaching for five years in the Macon public school system, Robinson earned a master's degree in English from Atlanta University (now Clark-Atlanta University) and later completed a year of doctoral study in English at Columbia University in New York City. In 1949, Robinson accepted a teaching position in the English Department at Alabama State College and moved to Montgomery, where she joined Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, later pastored by Martin Luther King Jr. At ASC, Robinson befriended professor Mary Fair Burks, who had founded the Women's Political Council (WPC) in 1946 to inspire African American women to become more politically active.
Robinson's awakening to the realities of racial segregation occurred in 1949, at the end of her first semester at ASC. Preparing to leave Montgomery for Christmas vacation, Robinson boarded a city bus carrying only two other passengers and sat in a section reserved for whites. Lost in thought, Robinson was startled to find that the driver had stopped the bus and was standing over her, yelling at her to get up from her seat. She left the bus in tears. Robinson had shown little interest in the WPC prior to her ill-treatment on the bus. When she returned to Montgomery and discussed the event with other WPC members, however, she was shocked to find that they considered the incident unremarkable and commonplace in segregated Montgomery. In response, Robinson resolved to improve the treatment of African Americans in Montgomery. She met with attorney Fred Gray, who was also eager to challenge the city's segregated bus system. As she came to know Gray and his wife, Bernice, Robinson began to think more about ending segregation in Montgomery. Robinson became president of the WPC in 1950 and began urging women of the organization into more activist roles.
In the early 1950s, Robinson and other members of the WPC met with Montgomery mayor William A. Gayle and several of his staff. The WPC members found the mayor and his staff responsive to their request for dialogue on various issues affecting African Americans in Montgomery until the subject of integrating the buses arose. Robinson and others wanted drivers to be more courteous, to stop more frequently in black neighborhoods, to allow blacks to pay and board the bus at the front, and to reserve more seats for black patrons. With little cooperation from the mayor's office, and few African Americans able to vote in the city, Robinson came to envision a boycott by the city's many African Americans, which would severely affect the bus company's finances and perhaps prompt integration.
After Rosa Parks was arrested on December 1, 1955, Robinson and others saw their opportunity to take action. She authored the text of a flyer calling for African Americans to boycott city buses, and she and friend John Cannon, who was chair of the Business Department at ASC, in addition to two of her students, mimeographed thousands of flyers calling for a one-day boycott to start the following Monday, December 5, and distributed them throughout the city.
The success of the boycott convinced local civil rights leaders that it should continue until conditions improved, and that evening local civil rights leaders formed the Montgomery Improvement Association (MIA) to oversee the boycott, with Martin Luther King serving as its president. Robinson did not take an official position in the MIA for fear that doing so would endanger her job. She was, however, appointed to the executive board and, at the behest of King, wrote and edited the weekly MIA newsletter. She also participated in the carpool system that made the boycott possible.
Despite Robinson's efforts to maintain a discreet role in the boycott and the MIA, she was arrested as one of the boycott's leaders (but never stood trial) and targeted with violence. In early 1956, a police officer threw a rock through her window, and shortly afterward, acid was poured on her car. In the late 1950s, Robinson and other instructors at ASC who were rumored to have participated in the boycott were reportedly investigated by a special state committee, and state evaluators routinely attended classes and observed instructors to intimidate faculty. In 1960, when ASC students staged a sit-in at a segregated snack bar downtown, Robinson resigned her position rather than face the continued tensions at the institution, later accepting a position at Grambling College (now Grambling State University) in Grambling, Louisiana. After teaching there for a year, she moved to Los Angeles and worked in the public school system until her retirement in 1976. In 1987, Robinson's memoir, The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It, was published by the University of Tennessee Press. She remained actively involved in her community and in local politics until her death on August 29, 1992.

Additional Resources

Robinson, Jo Ann Gibson. The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It: The Memoir of Jo Ann Gibson Robinson. Knoxville, Tenn.: University of Tennessee Press, 1987.
Walker, Robert J. Let My People Go! Lanham, Md.: Hamilton Books, 2007.
Williams, Donnie, and Wayne Greenhaw. The Thunder of Angels: The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the People Who Broke the Back of Jim Crow. Chicago: Lawrence Hill Books, 2006.

WOMEN AND SEXUALITY- The Pressure to Reciprocate.

As a younger woman, I have had my “Margo” moment. I have had my “Grace” moment too, where I didn’t have to hate myself so much the next day and could just focus on what a prick he was. Aziz’s date got away…but was it from him?

The curse of being a vulnerable woman in a sexual setting befalls any dame who was raised on this perpetuated myth: you are less than a man. This lie raised me from the time I was a little girl; stuffing my Barbie into tiny pink stilettos so she could get Ken’s attention; I’m 8 and impressionable, idolizing Jessica Rabbit in her provocative red dress, displaying her only real power over man, a sexy bod; I’m worshipping Han Solo as he grabs himself a mouth full of Leia whenever the mood strikes him. Later in school, the lessons on US government and US history confirmed what I was starting to sense: parts of women were valuable; as a whole, we held less worth. The rights and stories of our people described as only “men” disregarded the potential for “women” to feel equal and to have a voice; as if words don’t have power.

No, in my opinion, “Grace” didn’t get away from Aziz; she got away from that huge, ugly, universally relatable monster that women are just beginning to identify: ORDASA… or, obligated reciprocity during a sexual advance. That’s a fucking mouthful (no pun intended Grace… sorry not sorry because, humor). Unfortunately, this topic has not been opened for discussion. Defining the girl that got away as something other than a “tease” or a “slut that won’t put out” is still new to us. Yes, in case you’ve forgotten high school, the girls are just as mean as the boys. I don’t ever recall one of the guys being called a slut, and if he was, it wasn’t derogatory.

So who is Grace? An attention seeker? A girl gleaning power from another’s fame, or worse...a confident female with a healthy sex life? This probably really pretty girl, who was holding out until maybe the second date, went through a yucky experience but continued allowing a lot to happen. And that would have been fine. But now she is talking about it. Unfortunately, the focus is on what Aziz was doing (badly and probably not soft enough) because we can’t wrap our heads around the idea (Grace included maybe) that this time it’s a story about a woman who chose not to relent when penetration was repeatedly presented. Insert BBC birds of paradise video here.

She vocalized the challenge that we as women come up against; to put-out even when we don’t want to. Because as educated and as feminist as we strive to be, in the dark, in a sexual embrace, we have already sealed the deal. It’s all in, otherwise, a stigma of gargantuan proportions is going to fall from the height of man and squish you; you don’t have to go all the way to be a slut, all you have to do is hurt his ego. The fear of criticism or retaliation to follow, that’s where the submission comes in.

I hear those who are saying that “Grace” shouldn’t be airing this encounter for all to hear, and I get it; we don’t talk about this. It wasn’t rape. It wasn’t violent or physically aggressive. It definitely wasn’t sexy or sensual… but that’s also not a crime, and so what’s the actual story here…?

It’s a woman walking away; to some, an unworthy story: nothing happened. Only the #metoo movement has not only exposed the vulgarity that powerful men thrust at women, it has peeled back a curtain on women’s sexuality. We are identifying the very common skeletons in our own closets. ORDASA is one of those shameful things we have sought to hide, thinking we were alone in our fears to walk away. But we aren’t alone. Having unwanted sex as a woman is not unique. Someone who's fended off this unwanted sex and has given it a platform, for other women to identify the problem and discuss solutions; that is unique.

We are the ones who will learn and grow from this experience. Aziz and the like can change too; read some “what women like” self-help books or something. But ultimately this particular lesson is for women. You can want sex, you can stop wanting sex, and you can leave; all on the same date. Put it to practice. Preach it. Make it a norm for a generation of girls who will someday read Roupenian’s brilliant short story Cat Person, and hopefully find zero of it relatable.

-Emily