I'm fine with saving the ta-tas, if possible, but I'd rather focus on saving the women attached to them.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and it’s just around the corner. Which means pink be-ribboned items are popping up everywhere and everyone is looking for donations for their Relay for Life teams. I don’t have anything against that. But last night, walking through the academic building where I have class, I saw all sorts of flyers stuck on every classroom door imploring me to SAVE THE BOOBIES! This immediately struck me the wrong way. “Save the boobies? I thought we were trying to save women’s lives.” I said to a classmate as we both noticed the signs. “Ugh, have you seen the save the ta-tas bumper stickers?” she asked, “Usually they’re on cars driven by women!”
Whatever happened to, y’know, saving WOMEN? Sometimes, in the great big battle against the evil that is cancer, breasts are a casualty, but WOMEN can be saved. And aren’t they more important than the sum of two of their body parts?
Dead human beings of the female persuasion = meh. Lost tits = crisis!
I have watched family members and friends suffer the ravages of breast cancer. And as they braved chemo and radiation and surgery, I can tell ya, they weren’t just fighting for their boobs, they were fighting for their LIVES. Sometimes, mastectomies took their breasts, but they kept on fighting. And when we try to get others to join the fight against breast cancer, we shouldn’t trivialize their struggles and pain and losses by making it all about boobies. Breasts are nice and all, but WOMEN are the ones we’re fighting to save.
I think an overwhelming portion of the intensely demonstrated animosity toward President Barack Obama is based on the fact that he is a black man, that he’s African American…And I think it’s bubbled up to the surface because of the belief among many white people, not just in the south but around the country, that African Americans are not qualified to lead this great country.
A friend posted the following as her Facebook status this morning:
“When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.” – Jonathan Swift
And, while I’m less of a Jonathan Swift fan since studying “A Ladies Dressing Room” in my 18th Century Women Writers class, Swift’s line just got me thinking of something I’ve been mulling over as I watch the people protesting against health care, and, seemingly, Obama’s presidency and entire agenda. These are the dunces. And I don’t just mean the people waving signs. I’m talking all the way up to Joe Wilson, who screamed “you lie!” after a statement which was in fact A FACT, which I pointed out in a previous post. These people seem, in large part to be afraid of a monster in the closet which isn’t there. And yet they keep insisting it is, even after “dad”, whether he take the form of Politifact or the president, has opened the door, pushed back the clothes, and shined a flashlight in the corner to assure us that there is really nothing to fear.
And I’m sure some of my readers are already irked that I used the title dunces in reference to protesters. I’m not saying that ALL people who oppose health care reform are stupid or ignorant or dunces. I’m not even sure most of them are. But a large, large number of people seem to be moving into the willful ignorance category. What else can you call it when people insist on believing scary myths, even when confronted over and over again with the truth? When the truth is just one Google search away? When organizations like FactCheck.org and PolitiFact have read the entire health care bill and are handily debunking myths and distortions from BOTH sides (seriously, at the time of writing this, PolitiFact’s front page features statements from Obama and Howard Dean which fall on the wrong end of the truth-o-meter)? I mention the evenhandedness of PolitiFact for a reason: many love to talk about how the media, all of it, everywhere, with the exception of Fox News, is biased. Clearly there are sites out there, like PolitiFact, which are taking care to monitor the statements of people on both sides of the political spectrum. There’s really no excuse for believing or perpetuating easily-disproved lies.
One such example is the “death panels” trope, the idea that “Obama wants to pull the plug on grandma,” when in fact, the section of the bill Sarah Palin and others were attacking were about empowering patients like grandma to make their end-of-life desires known, so that the patient’s wishes would be followed in those times, rather than doctors or family members or anyone else deciding how a patient should die (not to mention when!). But through the fun-house-mirror of the opposition, empowered patients becomes government bureaucrats telling people what to do. And despite vigorous debunkings of this myth, it persists! Here’s some photographic evidence of the persistence of this lie, from last Saturday’s Tea Party Protest in Washington DC:
8 years ago two towers fell and it seemed the entire world came crashing down. 2,751 innocent people lost their lives, and millions more of us lost our innocence.
I was a junior in high school, sitting in chemistry class, when someone ran into the room and told our teacher, Dr. Cravy, to turn on the tv, because our country was being attacked. The bell rang and we went to our next class, for me AP US History with Mr. Quattlebaum. He already had the tv on. I saw the second tower hit on live tv. We all sat, stunned. Dazed, shocked, and saddened, we watched the coverage all day long. We saw ash raining down on a city, we saw smoke rising into the sky, we saw our nation’s illusions going up in smoke, because we weren’t so safe as we thought we were, things that happened to other people in faraway places, like Israel, were happening to us. Here.
During my journalism class, just before lunch, there came an announcement over the intercom. Our school had received a bomb threat and were to report to the football stadium and await further instructions. A fearful day got even more terrifying as what was happening in New York and Pennsylvania and D.C. became connected to our small town. We sat in the bleachers, oddly quiet for a group of high school students, because so many of us just didn’t know what to say. Ironically, construction was underway on a nearby highway, and they were blasting that morning. When we heard the blast, we were sure our school was being blown up. We screamed and ducked and covered. We heard a second blast. Soon the principal received a call on her cell phone and announced via a bullhorn that the explosions were on the highway, not our campus. A little later we received the all clear from the bomb squad and returned to our hallways. Despite the all-clear, it looked like a bomb had gone off. They had opened and searched all of our lockers, and the doors hung agape, our things scattered onto the floor. School was dismissed early and I honestly can’t even remember how I got home.
That night, I watched with my family in stunned horror. The images of people jumping from windows to escape the fires inside reappeared in nightmares for many weeks. We kept watching every day after, looking for an explanation. A why. I’m not sure we’ll ever understand that. Somehow I managed not to cry until the news came that Daniel Pearl, the American journalist whose story I followed so closely because at the time he held my dream job, foreign correspondent, had been beheaded by his terrorist captors. As those images flashed upon the screen, I, a 16-year-old, collapsed into my mother’s lap and sobbed into her shoulder as she stroked my hair. I wept for my country. I wept for the people who lost their lives in planes and sky scrapers and the Pentagon. I wept for Daniel Pearl. And I wept for myself, because I could see that my innocence was over.
I don’t pretend that I have even the slightest understanding of that day 8 years ago. It was not my city. It was not my building. It was not my mother or sister or friend. But it was my country, and I and it will remain forever changed.
On this day, I pray for those who lost their lives, and for those who loved them. On this day, I pray for those who, as a result, fought and died on foreign soil, and for all those who loved them. On this day, I pray for my nation, that we may lead the way for peace in the world. On this day, I pray for those who are still innocent, who did not see that horrible day, that their lives may never know that kind of tragedy.
Here in the South, there’s not much to brag about, but one thing we generally have a lock on: good manners. Southern hospitality. That’s not to say we can’t turn a nasty phrase, but we’ll do it with a smile and a Bless Your Heart.
But last night, bless his heart, Congressman Joe Wilson apparently lost his breedin’. As President Obama was addressing a joint session of Congress, Congressman Wilson shouted out “You lie!” (for video, go here), heckling the President of the United States on the floor of Congress. It was an outburst which revealed Congressman Wilson’s lack of respect, decorum, or decency. It’s perfectly within his *rights* to express himself, but it should be beneath his office to express himself in such a way. The president gave a speech, the GOP had another Howdy Doody fellow rebut it (why do they keep choosing Louisianans?), and surely the next day members of Congress would be free to issue statements, appear on news programs, write op eds and otherwise express any disagreements they had with things the president said in his address. All are appropriate ways of participating in political dialog about this often contentious issue. Yelling in the middle of a speech in what should be one of the most respected houses of government in the world is NOT an appropriate means of expression.
“There are also those who claim that our reform effort will insure illegal immigrants,” Obama said. “This, too, is false – the reforms I’m proposing would not apply to those who are here illegally.”
According to Politifact, it is WILSON who is the liar, as Obama’s statement, that health care reforms would not apply to illegal immigrants, was true. Politifact writes:
We read all 1,000-plus pages of the health care bill and were struck by the fact that it is largely silent on health care for illegal immigrants. Keep in mind that experts estimated there were 6.8 million uninsured illegal immigrants in the United States in 2007, out of a total of 11.9 million illegal immigrants. Right now, most states have laws on the books that require hospitals to treat severely ill people who arrive at the hospital, regardless of immigration status, and we didn’t see anything that would change those laws, either.
Most illegal immigrants are also now excluded from Medicaid, the government-run health care for the poor. We didn’t see anything that would change that.
One place where the bill does mention immigration status is for “affordability credits.” These are tax credits for people of modest means need to buy health insurance. The credits would help them buy insurance on a national health insurance exchange. The bill specifically says that people in the United States illegally are not eligible for tax credits, on page 132, section 242….
The best argument that we find that health reform would help illegal immigrants is that some might be able to purchase the public option — if it passes, and it might not — on the new health insurance exchange. They would purchase that at full cost. Obama’s said “the reforms I’m proposing would not apply to those who are here illegally,” which Wilson said was a “lie.” Actually, Obama can make a pretty thorough case that reform doesn’t apply to those here illegally. We don’t find the public option argument enough to make the case that Obama “lied.” We rate Wilson’s statement False.
Perhaps a Member of Congress could be bothered to do some research before getting so fired up about health reform’s effect on illegal immigrants that he completely loses his mind on the floor of Congress with the entire nation watching.
And yet, Wilson has STILL not done his research, because, while he apologized for the outburst, he still says he disagrees with the president over the issue of illegal immigrants and health reform. So he clearly still misunderstands the bill. I would also note that Wilson apologized to the president, but I feel he should also apologize to the people of South Carolina for embarrassing us in this way on the national stage. He should also apologize to the other members of Congress for dishonoring the office.
And as for health reform, Obama’s speech seems to have won over many independents and undecideds, whereas Wilson’s heckling decidedly turned them off. The only people who liked his shouting are the kind of folks who were already doing the same kind of thing at town hall meetings. Final verdict: JOEWILSONFAIL.
As for me, I’m hoping someone in say, Mississippi can do something lame and take the focus off South Carolina for a while. I’ve had enough of the embarrassments for a while.
About two and a half years years ago, Jon and I were in the car together when we heard an NPR report about a strange guy who had decided to turn his life into an experiment in green living. Specifically, we heard the voice of this man who was disappointed at the time that a security guard had not let him walk up 19 flights of stairs to the studio in which he was being interviewed, because electric elevators were not part of his experiment, who had decided to try to live with as close to zero environmental impact as possible for a year, despite living smack in the middle of New York City. It would be an experiment to prove that it was possible, even in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities, to live a green life, and to suggest to others the power of small, personal choices in effecting change. He called himself No Impact Man.
After two and a half years of following No Impact Man and his family, my husband proudly tells people that he “changed the way we think about everything.” And it’s true. We compost. We bike. We use public transit. We try to grow some of our own food. We try to buy local food. We try to buy ethically raised food. We avoid processed foods. We eat less meat. We recycle. We bring our own bags. We use all natural cleaning and body care products. We try to produce less trash. We got a low flow showerhead. We’ve made our home more energy efficient. We’ve made all sorts of small changes in our lives, and we can honestly say most of them started because of No Impact Man.
A more honest title for Beavan’s book would have been “Low Impact Man,” and a truly honest title would have been “Not Quite So High Impact Man.” Even during the year that Beavan spent drinking out of a Mason jar, more than two billion people were, quite inadvertently, living lives of lower impact than his. Most of them were struggling to get by in the slums of Delhi or Rio or scratching out a living in rural Africa or South America. A few were sleeping in cardboard boxes on the street not far from Beavan’s Fifth Avenue apartment.
Ah yes, there is nothing like criticizing someone who has done a good thing by wondering why they haven’t solved all the problems in the world in one fell swoop. SURE YOU ARE LIVING GREENER, BUT WHY HAVEN’T YOU SOLVED HOMELESSNESS OR GLOBAL POVERTY, HUH, BUDDY?
Elizabeth Kolbert also writes:
The real work of “saving the world” goes way beyond the sorts of action that “No Impact Man” is all about. What’s required is perhaps a sequel. In one chapter, Beavan could take the elevator to visit other families in his apartment building. He could talk to them about how they all need to work together to install a more efficient heating system. In another, he could ride the subway to Penn Station and then get on a train to Albany. Once there, he could lobby state lawmakers for better mass transit. In a third chapter, Beavan could devote his blog to pushing for a carbon tax. Here’s a possible title for the book: “Impact Man.”
This is where I wonder if Kolbert even did her research at ALL. No Impact Man has frequently used his blog to urge wider activism, even as his experiment remained largely focused on small, personal choices. He has highlighted political discussions, urged readers to contact their political leaders, and even spoken to some political readers themselves. His posts on these topics are easy to find if you visit his blog and click the line in the right sidebar marked “Activism.” I’m not sure how much more the New Yorker can expect from one man.
Yes, Colin Beavan, aka No Impact Man, conducted an experiment in living, which some ungenerous folks might call a “stunt.” The sequel to the story is played out every day on his blog, as No Impact Man has returned to some of his old impactful ways, having decided they were too much of an inconvenience, but kept many of the practices that he took up during his year of living greenly. He has a book and a documentary film coming out this month. And if he changed OUR lives so drastically with just his blog and an NPR interview, I can only imagine how many others will be “impacted” through the book and the film.
And that’s when the criticism of this “stunt” breaks down. It’s not an either we all change the way we live OR we enact huge sweeping societal changes. It’s a BOTH AND. Because there ARE lots of us out there who have changed our lives largely because of this man. And if more and more of us begin to change our lives, and make ourselves and our planet happier and healthier in the process, and in turn inspire others around us to also change their lives, then this No Impact “stunt” will have quite an impact indeed. Because those of us who have changed our lives, even in small ways, are also the ones calling and emailing our Congresspeople and signing petitions and carrying signs. And we know from first-hand experience that if we can change our own lives, we can certainly change the world.
Here’s the trailer for the film, which I can’t wait to see!
Image via Flickr user pheabear, under a Creative Commons license.
This evening, my bus was a little late, but I didn’t mind too much because the weather has cooled off enough for me to dare to call it gorgeous. My enjoyment ended about two stops later.
He was already yelling as he got on the bus. I am a bit sketchy on the details, because I don’t speak fluent “enraged middle aged white man,” but I gathered that he was pissed at the bus driver from before because he had tried to get on the bus when it was going the other direction, and was told by the bus driver that he’d either have to get off or pay two fares. He seemed to believe that his particular bus pass granted him unlimited rides. He continued to yell all the way to the back of the bus, his bristly white moustache practically blowing in the wind of his hot air as it exited his windbag of a body, as he called our bus driver a bigot. Oh poor persecuted white man! I bet he watches Glenn Beck, so fervently did he seem to believe that our black, female bus driver was bigoted against his white male ass, for we all know that white males are a persecuted minority group.
The bus driver attempted to say something to him, and he came yelling back up the aisle of the now-moving bus. It was along the lines of “ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?” The man sitting next to me said, “Sir, can you please stop yelling? I’m just trying to get home here.” The man turned to us and started yelling. “Sir, can you please stop yelling?” I said. I should probably not have said anything, given that this poor persecuted patriarch probably had a gun in his suitcase. The driver told him to sit down or be quiet or he’d have to leave the bus.
He did neither. She pulled the bus over and told him he would have to get off. He refused. She radioed a supervisor and we waited for a bus bouncer to arrive. Yes, they have bus bouncers. Within a few minutes (I think we were near the main office) a burly white man arrived, boarded the bus, and walked to the back where he asked the resolute hothead to get off the bus. He complied, although continuing to yell about filing a complaint against the bigoted bus driver all the way off the bus.
The rest of us breathed a sigh of relief as our journey got back underway.
Still, I couldn’t help but smile at the irony that the irate fellow was wearing a Jimmy Buffet t-shirt stretched across his belly. I think of Jimmy Buffet as mellow, beachy music for people who like to drink margaritas and smoke weed. Clearly this dude could have used some mellowing. But for all I know, he’d just busted a flip flop, stepped on a pop top, and cut his heel on the cruise back home, and so was pissed off. One thing’s for sure, he seemed convinced there was a woman to blame, but *I* know, it’s his own damn fault.
So, three years after graduating with an undergrad degree in English and political science, I’m finally back in the classroom and loving it. I fear that my one “non-degree student” class may indeed lead to a degree, though I can’t make any decisions on such things until after December, when I find out where we’ll be spending the next 3 years of our lives. Anyway, the class is ENGL517: Sex, Power, and Science in 18th Century Women’s Writing. With Sex and Power in the title, I went into the class pumped to talk about feminist and gender theory, among other things. I may have even geeked out a bit and pulled out my old Crit Theory text from undergrad to brush up a bit. What can I say, I’m a nerd! Anyway, apparently not everyone in my class expected to spend much time talking about gender, sex, and power.
Yesterday at The Pursuit of Harpyness, a blog I frequent, my friend Sarah.of.a.lesser.god did a post called “You Don’t Need to be a Woman to Study (Women’s) History,” about the dearth of men taking women’s studies classes. On the first day of my class, I noticed that the room was filled with women, with one lone male student. I hoped that he would be intelligent and willing to contribute a well-reasoned male perspective to our discussions, as I enjoy some good pushback in an academic discussion. Ok, more accurately, I enjoy a good debate or argument. However, after the second class, I’m pretty sure my high hopes for this guy were in vain. Not only is he too timid to really share (which, really, is understandable, it’s intimidating to be the ONLY ONE), but when he does share, he pretty much reveals his ignorance (which, maybe this class is just the eye-opener he needs!). Continue reading “talking about gender in a class on women writers? CRAZY!”
Yeah, I'm such a tourist that I even snap photos in the subway. So sue me.
I’m going to blog in more detail about my big New York weekend at some point when I have the time to sit down and detail such a whirlwind properly. But for now I just wanted to share one perfect moment.
The subway is hot, smelly, and crowded. It’s not a happy place, much as I love public transit (and I really love public transit!) And yet, Saturday night, after a perfect perfect dinner at Supper, and a stroll through Times Square that ended in a downpour, we found ourselves in a subway stop and despite the heat, despite wet feet, found ourselves lifted while simultaneously underground.
At first he seemed like any other busker, a man with a guitar in a subway. He stood out a bit, I guess, because usually you see skinny white guys with acoustic guitars, not old black men. But somehow, maybe everyone had, like us, had a little bit of wine with dinner and was feeling the love, maybe they were all just tourists, or maybe, in the rain, we were all just looking for some sunshine on a cloudy day, slowly everyone started singing along. Within a couple of minutes, he had everyone at the stop singing along to “My Girl.” And not just sorta singing either. Real, spirited, practically church singing. I guess you say, what can make me feel this way? My girl, my girl, my girl….
Toward the end of the song, trains pulled up on either side of the platform and the singalong dispersed with raucous applause as we all got onto our trains with smiles on our faces, many humming to ourselves.
We may not have had time to toss a dollar in his guitar case, but I wish I had. If you ask me, that man should be on the city payroll for performing a public service– making wet, tired, foot-pained, cranky commuters stop for a few minutes and just sing along. It’s almost like the month of May.
erniebufflo's south & west kitchen 
