I hate going places designated for poor people. When I do, I feel like my poverty is an open, public wound that everyone can see. I feel deeply inadequate, and very stupid that I hold a PhD and still can’t shop at Whole Foods. When I go to the doctor, I want to explain away why I am receiving care at the county hospital.
When the people around me who barely finished high school are dumping money into their retirement accounts as I put $6 in quarters into my gas tank and hope it’s enough to get to my research group meeting, I feel resentful and hateful and stupid. The time to write about this is now, because soon my situation will change, and because I know it will change, I feel safer articulating this reality.
I live below the poverty line. I qualify for Medi-Cal and for WIC. At the end of every month, my bank account is almost always in the red. I’m accustomed to account balances like $18 or $3 or $-167.
It’s Christmastime. That means presents. We tried to pare down the gifts this year, focusing on the kids almost exclusively and giving a few well thought out gifts to each other. I got Sam something big and I’ve been saving for it for months. I could barely make the purchase, but I wrapped it proudly. He loves it.
The other day I stood in a toy store, picking gifts for my nieces. I wondered how, even if I bought small gifts each under $15, I would pay for the diapers due to charge automatically and ship to me two days after Christmas? I figured that since my account wouldn’t be overdrawn, the bank would validate the diaper charge even though it’d put me into the red. I rationalized that there was only a week between Christmas and the first of the year, when my paycheck was due.
When those nieces Facetimed on Christmas, I saw how high gifts were piled under their tree. I listened to their excitement over enormous plastic dollhouses and wondered how many hours they’d spent unwrapping gifts. I witnessed the sheer amount of stuff they received, and I wondered if they’d even glanced at the activist girl books and little science projects I’d carefully wrapped. They did not mention my gifts. I wished I’d saved the money and spent it on my own sweet daughters instead.
There’s a disconnect here, between my impoverished state and the ideological values that drive me. I am pretty solidly middle class. I am typing on a MacBook Pro. I like to snack on organic hummus and despite my persistence in poverty, I believe it is only a temporary state. I have a very significant safety net and I know that my mom will deposit money into my in-the-red-account before I become homeless. I am aware of my extraordinary privilege in knowing- and being able to believe- these things.
It is still really f*cking hard to be constantly wondering how I’ll pay for new socks for my babies, whose feet seem to grow by the day. It is still really shameful to turn down conference requests and adventurous outings because I’m afraid I’ll need to use my ATM card and it will say insufficient funds on the screen. You know that wedding gift I told you I’d shipped that never arrived? I didn’t actually buy it but I was too embarrassed to explain I can’t afford the cheapest thing on your registry. I know you wanted me to give to your fundraiser, and I cared about you and your cause, but if I gave to your GoFundMe I was going to have to forgo a trip to the grocery store. When my college friends complain I never visit, I swallow hard but I do not explain that the cost of the plane ticket is more extra than I’ve had in years. Instead I pour cheap wine and change the subject.
Being poor is extremely stressful. Sometimes I’ve sobbed into my husbands shoulder, because I imagined a life where I could take him out for a surpise dinner, and that feels utterly impossible. Sometimes I stare at the crack between the floor and the wall in our bathroom, and hate myself because I know there’s spiders and mold taking up residence in that tiny space, and I feel powerless to fix it. I’ve cursed Facebook, filled up with people I used to know vacationing on beaches, and I’ve wondered if the only way to make do is to marry a synthetic-looking man. I’ve felt failed, inadaquete, stupid, and useless.
I know that in less than two weeks I’ll start a job at one of the nation’s most prestigious universities, and there will be a regular paycheck that is four times as much as I’m currently making. I can feel my partners’ shoulders relax when we talk about visiting his family, and our eyebrows don’t immediately furrow, trying to figure out how to gather the funds for plane tickets. We interviewed nannies the other day, and I felt in my bones when one of the nannies said, I just need to make enough to cover my rent. I didn’t explain how I knew, though. I just smiled kindly and said, Of course.
It feels imperative I write of these challenges and necessary to voice them aloud and make them known, rather than sweeping them away and forgetting how deeply challenging, horribly embarrassing, and utterly exhausting it is to live a life in poverty. For I am not the only one. Our soon-to-be-nanny, a fellow Ph.D. from one of the top institutions in the nation looked me in the eye the other day and said, “What Ph.D. doesn’t live in poverty?” My closest Ph.D. buddy, a brilliant researcher focused on global politics, queer theory, and media whispers across the phone lines when we chat, “I just want a grown-up salary.” And we’re not the only ones, though we may be the most educated ones. It’s really hard to talk about money, especially when there’s not enough of it to go around. It’s not just the Ph.D.s suffering in poverty- we are legions and legions of people, and our stories must be told.
I've been following Bana Alaban's posts lately. The seven year old, with support from her mother, has been tweeting about her life as a little girl in the midst of the Syrian war. She lives in Aleppo. In a matter of months, she amassed over 172k followers. Through her eyes, we consume the war, we make sense of extraordinary violence, we watch from afar, we feel our hearts ache. We wish we could do something more, change it, stop it. Bana is one little girl, and at the same time, she is all the little girls- and when she tweets about reading to forget the war, or that a bomb destroyed her home and killed her dolls, she is one little girl and she is all the little girls. The little-girl-ness of her observations tears our hearts out of our bodies. She is a little girl. Seven. She is seven. She is so little her mom helps her manage her tweets.
During the last forty-eight hours, Bana's home has been destroyed. She and her family are on the run. The explosions and bombs have killed many. Bana has seen people die. Her mother posted a farewell message on the 27th, that forewarned us of the intimate threat of death to Bana and her family. She wrote The army got in, this could be our last days sincerely talking. No Internet. Please please please pray for us. -Fatemah #Aleppo. That was followed by an even heavier message reading Last message- under heavy bombardments now, can't be alive anymore. When we die, keep talking for 200,000 still inside. BYE. -Fatemah. But Bana persisted. Since, she's continued to post, and the horror she is living in her seven year old body makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. She has posted pictures and videos, and they are utterly raw. She has reminded us she is a little girl when she posted about the way her dolls have been stollen by the war, how she has lost even the smallest shred of little girl innocence to this war.
It is surreal to sit in a coffee shop and sift through these texts, viewed already by hundreds of thousands of people, many of them American. I think of my own little girls, playing at home with their father. I have been bowled over lately by the misogynist we have elected to the white house, and the fear I have for my own little girls under this presidency seems entirely woven together with the horror I am experiencing about and with and for Bana and her mother and her family.
I cannot stop thinking about how we are watching something happen in real time that we have seen before. Something that is familiar and comforting in some kind of warped, twisted way. For we know how to relate to little girls. Little girls are innocent. Little girls have dolls. Little girls are not threatening.
There was another little girl, caught in the middle of a war, and it is to her writing we so often turn to understand the Holocaust. The difference is we did not read it as it was happening. Even so, its a safe bet for making sense of an utterly sense-less tragedy. Everyone can agree that little girls should not experience this kind of atrocity. There is nothing to argue over. We can rally together.
Or at least, we can sit in coffee shops around the world, and our jaws can collectively drop and our hearts can ache together as we witness- in real time- each shard of hope, every semblance of normalcy vanish from little Bana's life. We watch as her mother attempts to both be real about possibility, we read her one-liners about how terrifyingly close to death she and her family are, at every moment, and our hearts ache.
So I wonder, what is the role of social media in helping us to educate each other, how can social media be a site of witness, a space of connection, a place of hopefulness? What is the place of witnessing, connection and hopefulness in the life of little Bana?
Dear Baby Girls,
Yesterday I took pictures of you. I thought about the letter I would write to you, reminding you of what you were doing the day the most historic thing happened: I believed, deep in my bones, that you would grow up watching a Madame President lead us, and I believed that that would be the beginning of shaking misogyny loose. I thought we would be celebrating today with apple cider. I was going to teach you how to toast. Instead, we are grieving, and we are steeling our resolve.
Because we didn’t elect our Madame President. We did not pick Hillary. Instead, we elected a man who called Mexican immigrants rapists. We elected a man who bragged about “grabbing (women) by the pussy.” I am really freaking disappointed. Hillary did win the popular vote, which makes me know that there is in fact, more good than hate. But baby girls, today is a dark day.
It is a day that is so hard. It is a day that was completely unexpected, at least for me. It is a day that I wish you never saw. It is a day I wish I could protect you from. We wildly underestimated misogyny and racism and today our underestimation hits hard, home, and real. Our underestimation is shaping your world.
I want you to know we will keep you safe. We will stand up for our beliefs. I want you to know we still believe in justice. I want you to know we know how serious this is. I want you to know how much work we have to do, and how committed we are. I want you to know your voice matters, especially when there’s injustice. You do not have to agree. We will support your voice. We will make space for it. Your voice is valuable, and it counts.
No matter what they tell you, you are allowed to grieve and take action at the same time. You get to have both. That’s what is fair and real and necessary. I want both for you. I also wanted a Madame President for you. I am deeply disappointed. This morning we listened together to the should-have-been-Madame-President give her concession speech. I sipped a homemade americano. Papa organized your toys. Luna read a book called "The Shape of My Heart." Sienna burrowed her head in my shoulder and whimpered. She is right: this will be painful for a long time. She is right, little girls, do not doubt how valuable you are, how important you are, how deeply we promise to fight for you. We will raise you with our values, we will make sure you know what justice is, we will help you find your voice and follow your dreams.
So much heartache this morning, baby girls. We love you, baby girls. We love you.
Typically, when I tell people I'm doing research, they don't really have a sense of what it is I'm actually doing. For the most part, my work does not involve quantitative data collection or heavy stats analysis, and I suppose observation sounds fuzzy, and doing or making or even being with people sounds even fuzzier.
Yesterday, doing research meant gathering iPads and cameras and loading them into a brown paper box. It meant downloading images I searched for on Pinterest under the title documentary photography onto the devices. It meant thinking about how participants could look at images of everyday life- documentary images- that showed something new or interesting about the most common of everyday moments, and spin a story from that image. It meant then imagining how participants could take the cameras packed in the box, and venture out into their world and photograph something- anything, really- from their daily lives. It meant devising a writing prompt that could follow the capturing of images, hoping that they'd continue to engage enough to write something meaningful about the image they had taken.
And so we arrived, my postdoctoral supervisor and myself, to addiction and rehab support center yesterday, and we were greeted by folks at the steps of the building, lingering on the streets and having a smoke. Someone held the door for us- for our hands were full of digital devices and doughnuts and coffee, and we entered a big room with fluorescent lighting and lots of round tables that smelled faintly of elementary school cafeteria food and warm bodies. Men and women of all ages gathered at the tables, clutching paper cups of coffee and chatting. An art table in the corner was littered with plastic boxes of broken crayons and felt markers that I desperately wanted to organized into their proper bins. An older woman with a pair of glasses strung around her neck introduced herself, the director of the center.
I felt out of place, the way I often do in a new space. The difference between me and my pixie haircut and these people was wide. I desperately wished to make the difference disappear so that I could sit down with these folks and have a cup of what I was certain was bad, watery coffee, and talk about life. But of course the way I want to be easily accepted, the way I imagine the chumminess, the camaraderie- it's always all in my head.
This isn't exactly like most of my research, for I am stepping into my post-doc supervisor's project. She's been here, many times. People know her. Young adults greet her. They ask about previous projects. I am new here, and this is the only time I will visit. Typically, I spend lots of time with people I do research with, and time erodes the difference between me and my pixie haircut and the people with whom I work. But not this time. This time, I rely on the relationships built by other researchers to carry me through, to facilitate our research.
I meet some folks. We move downstairs, into a yellowed classroom-cubicle. We gather around a table, men and women of all ages joining us. I try not to stare at a man with a multi-pointed star tattoo adorning the skin around his eye, which, I imagine, was insanely painful to have done. A young woman who must be close to me in age slips into the chair next to him, her straight blond hair falling down her back. She folds her body up in the chair, nervously- incessantly- tapping her fingers on the table. She must be going through withdrawal.
The room fills and we begin. The iPads. The people sharing their opinions of the images. Scrolling through pictures and describing what they like as I silently wish I'd chosen images that more represented this group. My pinterest images- the ones that spoke to me, they are hopelessly tied to my middle class life, my new mom-ness, my academic nerdiness, my documentary photography obsession.
But there's no room to wonder what could have been, and soon everyone has shared and we talk about what makes a good photo and we traipse outside with cameras and iPads and phones and cell phones pulled from participant pockets and backpacks.
A man who was going to photograph characters at the centre as though they were Sesame Street characters takes pictures of leaves as well. Another man isn't sure what he's supposed to do. I explain again, trying to remove the metaphor from my language. The blonde woman has someone else hold her camera while she poses with a cigarette in her hand, and I'm drawn both to the flickering red light and the curve of smoke billowing into the wind. The guy with the eye tattoo searches for a spider. We find one, but it's shaking to much in the wind. We search for another, finding one in the rafters of an octagonal structure that seems out of place.
I wonder if this is going to work. If there will be something to write about. If this is good enough.
And then we head inside, and each participant writes about their image, and one woman narrates a story to me about where she used to play as a little girl around a totem pole that she photographed. She cannot read or write, and she seems embarrassed. She emphasizes the incredible blue sky of the images she took, proud of her pictures. She took them with her camera, and her camera takes amazing pictures, she explains.
People share. The blonde talks about routines and addiction and her smoking photo. The woman who shot the totem pole asks me to read the statement I wrote as she spoke. I do. The man with the eye tattoo uses an app to write something about not getting caught in the spiderweb of life directly onto his image, but then he emails me only the plain image. I want the other one, the one with the writing. A former Pakistani architect shares an angular photo, showing us patterns and how how the image radiates.
And then we are done. The people begin to drift away. We remind them to take the food. We gather the tech. We turn off the recordings. We say thank you. We go to a cafe, and over hot drinks in trendy cups we try to imagine what we will write about multimodality, how we will think about this time, which photographs embody theory. We do not yet know. We will write there, and then we will re-write, and maybe we will know some more, then, after we've had time to think with these images, to let them blur together with ideas.
That's research. That's what I mean, when I say, I'm doing research today.
In the 1940s, Anne Frank wrote a diary that would become famous posthumously, about her experience as a Jewish girl living under Nazi rule. You probably read it in school at some point, if you grew up in North America.
In September of 2016, Bana Alabed opened a Twitter account from Aleppo, Syria about the war from her perspective as a seven-year old girl. In one month, she amassed over 71k followers with tweets like “Good afternoon from #Aleppo, I’m reading to forget the war,” and "My brother really scared of being killed by one of the shells -Bana #Aleppo." In case you haven't caught onto Bana's posts yet (she shares the account with her mom, who sometimes posts as well), you can check it out here: https://twitter.com/alabedbana
Both of these girls belong to a group of young women who, in formats appropriate to their times, leverage their stories of atrocity to effect social change. Anne Frank wrote in a diary that only became public after her death, but which has come to be emblematic of the Holocaust and which is used in classrooms to inspire students to consider major atrocity and the role of an adolescent girl living at that time. Contemporary girls follow in Anne Frank’s footsteps, relying on participatory media platforms to allow them to intervene in global conversations about gender and persistent inequity in real time.
I'm really struck by the way these narratives about life in really drastic, really dire situations are being taken up by those of us in North America. How do we interact with these stories? Who are those seventy thousand people following Bana? I'm willing to bet- though I've yet to look at the analytics- that most of them are not in Syria. Most of them, I think, are consuming her 70-character messages about life as a little girl in a war from vantage points like mine. It's as though she provides an unfiltered view of the war, one unmetered by popular media. But then again, she's seven. I have a seven year old niece. She's concerned with what flavor ice cream is in the freezer and which rides she is going to pick to go on at the county fair. I cannot even fathom her tweeting about war. And yet- I consume little Bana's brief messages, interludes from her world, on the daily, and my heart grips. Reading to forget the war. Her brother is afraid. Boom, Boom, Boom.
And what of these narratives? What can be done with them? If I download all of Bana's tweets, and analyze where her supporters are located geographically, and watch all the videos, and think with her mother's perspective, what then?
Will Bana's words be used like Anne Frank's, an entre into a world so foreign, a story that helps us make sense of atrocity? Some people worry that Anne Frank's diary is merely a balm for normalizing the Holocaust, that it takes the edge off the sheer violence when it celebrates Anne's indomitable spirit, her hopeful words, her little-girl outlook.
How can we take up Bana's words in ways that move us to action, that connect young people globally, that inspire the urgent, urgent need that for peace that is communicated every time she connects and reminds us that somewhere, very far away, many little girls are trying to avoid dying from bombs?
I'm a bit worried. Today wasn't a school day, but tomorrow my seventeen year old niece, who lives with me, will go back to high school after a brutal few days of election campaigning. She is taking both US History and Econ. As of yet, there has not been any conversation about the presidential campaign, which is shocking to me, but she tells me no one likes Trump in the whole school anyway.
But now, now it seems like they must. They must discuss this in classrooms. In every classroom. With all the kids. They have to talk about the way Donald Trump normalized his "locker room talk," they have to help young people understand why it's not ok to "grab [women] by the pussy."
I'm not the first to write on this topic. As news of Trump's "locker room" conversation travels, and we read again and again any blogs have popped up over the last couple of days, reminding us of the urgency surrounding dealing with misogyny in a timely, clear, feminist way.
What really worries me, though, is that most of my women-friends are writing, posting, texting, and remembering the many, many times they've been assaulted- when she was grabbed by the pussy on the train, when she hid in bushes from cat-calling dudes in vans, when that man exposed himself to the little girl at the lake, when the boy next door forced her to be a wife and kissed her even when she didn't want to. Some of the stories are from last week, but so many of the stories are from childhood. And the girls and young women in middle school and high school, watching these debates, scrolling through the most tweeted election scandal, seeing the phrase "grab them by the pussy" in headline after headline?
They're on the front lines. They live in the world my women-friends are remembering. Their little sisters play with the boy next door. They go on runs and hide their faces from cat-calling men. They hear their teachers' snide remarks.
And right now, as this trauma that we know all too well will likely become life-long, we are splashing it across social media feeds, shining the brightest, most public light on their newly ripped wounds, watching as they take in this life lesson that patriarchy offers. You know what? It's our job to help them make sense of this misogyny. It's our job to teach them the word misogyny. It's our job to make sure they know we can talk about what happened- that we want to talk about what happened.
My niece said to me this evening, "So wait, what exactly did he say again?" We talked. I told her. She's a second language learner, so I broke down each comment. I told her I was angry. Our conversation ended abruptly when a baby started crying. And then dinner, and then bedtime, and then homework. We have more to talk about.
But I hope to all the goddesses I'm not the only one talking to her about this. I hope her teachers give her a frame for thinking about this public assault on women's bodies, I hope her peers are horrified in the hallway, I hope her after-school club leaders allow some time and space for this topic.
And then I hope we come together, and we shut down the locker room talk, and it's not allowed, and we are not remembering, collectively, the ongoing nature of violence towards women's bodies, towards our bodies- violence enacted even by one of the men vying for the presidency.
I have a friend who wrote a song about what its like to say no to ourselves, no to opportunities that speak to our hearts and no to moments that will nourish us. Lately I’ve felt my schedule so packed with details that it seems I’ve been saying no all the time, in all the small ways that add up into the big ways. No, you can’t write, you must make phone calls. No, you can’t dabble in craft projects, you need to check the budgets. No, you can’t go swimming in the sunshine because there are meeting notes waiting to be written. No, no, no. Until my heart got very few yeses.
I recently took a job with an organization I participated in as a little girl. The organization runs camping programs. I used to be a camp director. I love being outside. And so I thought, I can save this dying organization, which a board member described as “coming up from the ashes.” And you know, I could have. Except I quit.
I wasn’t getting much out of this part-time job you know. I took it in part because I was scared. Scared of all the uncertainty that cloaks academic and artistic life. It would be a paycheck. I could write and make in between, as long as there wasn’t too much mind-numbing work. But the promises made during the interview process started to fall away and the data entry became mind-numbing. Again and again, the big, fun, juicy pieces fell away and again and again, I found myself in front of a computer, attempting to madly answer emails, return calls, do data entry. You know what I hate? Administrative work. I’m not even good at it.
I felt committed. Like I owed it to this organization that was paying me less than I made as a teenaged lifeguard. Finally a mentor said to me, “I hear you telling me what you’re doing for them, but what are you getting out of this, Chels?” In that moment I realized I was getting nothing. I was squeezing it in at night, resenting the extraordinary amount of data entry eating away at hours I could have been playing peek-a-boo or writing with my postdoc supervisor about issues I love.
They wanted to move me into an Exec Director position and I knew it. I was flattered, even though it would be an Exec Director position that would pay be a salary below the poverty line. I thought I could fix it, be a grand savior, and everyone would celebrate me. I was wrong mostly because I don’t actually want to fix this sh*t. I wasn’t getting much out of saving anyone.
I mulled over it for weeks, trying to figure out how to decide if I should stay or I should go, counting the weeks on the calendar until the start of summer camp. My mentors’ words haunted me: “But what are you getting out of this, Chels?” I knew I wasn’t really getting much.
Saying yes to myself would mean quitting. It would mean allowing myself the time and space to write. It would mean slightly less income, but a ton more time to focus on my projects. So I said yes to that little voice. I gave my notice. I felt relief, and mostly, reorientation to what matters to me. I felt my whole body shift, back to creative energy forces and writing what matters and collaborating with people on social justice issues. I said yes. It was hard and it was risky, but I’m so proud of myself for saying yes to me.
I listened to Clinton’s historic speech, in which she declared herself thenominee as I put my baby girls to bed last night. I voted for her yesterday, even though I’ve got as many concerns as the next well-educated, feminist thirty-something. But when I heard that speech, the air filled my chest and I leaned my head back and I closed my eyes and I felt so… relieved. As the twins fell asleep, I read an article about the Stanford law professor Michele Landis Dauber, who is launching a campaign to recall Judge Aaron Pesky, Santa Clara County superior court judge. All I could think was, thank the goddesses for people like this professor. I stood next to a crib and flicked through headlines and photographs of Brock Turner in a suit standing with his father- the man called the rape Brock committed “twenty minutes of action.”
It feels hopelessly impossible to hold these two events together in my mind and in my heart. How can we possibly hold the hopefulness Hillary’s success generates together with the fear and white hot anger produced by the Brock Turner case?
These two events have been headlining simultaneously. I listened to both of them discussed on Democracy Now this morning and they both are dominating my Facebook and Twitter feeds. I listen to Hill, and I feel my heart swell. For whatever its worth, I’m deeply hopeful because when my babies learn about the judicial system in elementary school there will be a woman on the presidential rosters (the alternative is too frightening to mention). I feel a bit silly feeling so hopeful about this, especially because I know that Hill doesn’t exactly challenge too many gender norms. But then again, it’s a million percent not OK with me that there’s never been a woman Presdient. So it’s a baby step. A big baby step in the form of the first woman to be the Presidential nominee of a major party. It feels pretty freaking grand. So for a moment I allow myself to forget about fracking, to shrug my shoulders at her political decisions I disagree with- and I allow myself to revel in the fact that my baby girls will grow up in a world where there can be a woman President of the USA. It’s a chest-swelling excitement.
Except I can’t revel too long in that chest-swelling excitement. Because there’s Brock Turner, and the light sentence the judge assigned so that the rape he committed wouldn’t ruin his life. The woman he raped has said it most eloquently herself:
“Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.
A life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken.” Read the whole statement here.
I have two little girls. I’m a feminist with a penchant for research on gender, the patriarchy, adolescent and young adult girls, and educational equity. I know how wildly high the statistics are for sexual assault and rape, especially at universities. In so many ways, it’s a miracle Brock was caught by some bikers out for a late night ride. If they hadn’t happened to ride by, if they hadn’t seen him mounting a motionless woman, if they hadn’t chased him… there would have been no trial at all. For countless other women, this is the scenario. And Brock, like so many other young men, would be known for his fast swimming times, for his supportive family, for his Stanford education. He would most certainly commit more rapes. And I shudder.
Brock, Pesky, and men like both of them make it so that all women are at risk. Every single one. Judge Pesky made our risk extraordinarily clear when he made sure Brock- a white boy getting educated at one of the country’s most prestigious universities- got the lightest sentence possible because he was concerned for Brock’s well-being.
This case is racial privilege, this case is gender privilege. Pesky wasn’t concerned about the young woman who was assaulted out in the open, unconscious, on the ground, behind a stinky dumpster. It’s a pattern- the same pattern of misogyny we see again and again and again. It’s the same pattern that puts everyone with a vagina at extraordinary risk. It’s called patriarchy.
We finally have nominated a woman to the Presidency. My heart swells as I stroke the soft curls of my sleeping baby. She can do anything.
Except she can’t because men still rape women behind dumpsters, and judges still let them off easy so their lives are not ruined.
So, sweet baby girls, where does this leave us? You can be the President. You will get to see her walk out on stage in heels, and when you have to memorize the US presidents in elementary school, maybe you will be able to see a little bit of yourself in her. There will be one more crack in the patriarchy, one more space for feminist light to flood. But watch your back, sweet baby girls. You’re only ten months old, but we will need to teach you these rules. Travel in groups. Cross the street if there’s a man walking behind you after dark. Don’t take drinks from dudes. It doesn’t matter who the dude is. Don’t trust him. When you walk to your car alone, hold your keys in your fist, ready to punch out some creepy man. It’s more likely going to come from someone you know, though, so really- it doesn’t matter who he is, don’t trust him. Because you see, the old boys club is looking out for their own, making sure they are barely punished. You have to look out for yourselves.
I hate that I have to impart this kind of knowledge to these two little human beings. I want to impart nothing but possibility. Only hopefulness. But I know I must protect them too, for I am their mother, and in this world, protecting two baby girls means making sure as hell they know how to fight the man.
Tonight, we need feminism. We need feminism because we need more people who are not men in all positions of power. We need feminism because I want to be able to brush those little curls off that little forehead and smile because I’m not worried some dude is going to rape her behind a dumpster. We need feminism because I want to be able to brush those little curls off that little forehead and smile because her gender isn’t a f*cking liability to her greatness.
Finally, I can announce the news: I am the new PostDoc at the Social Justice Research Institute at Brock University. Brock is a big university in St. Catharine's, Ontario- (for my American dears, its in Eastern Canada- or at least, more East than Vancouver. Don't worry I had to have a geography lesson about this as well). I'll stay in the Bay Area for now, and commute a couple times a year.
And I will write. Oh gosh will I write. I will write and write and write.
I'm sitting in a coffee shop right now and I'm doodling about all the things I will write about. Multiliteracies and youth media production and digital worlds and social media and activism and justice and gender and girls and all the things. It feels like possibility has broken wide open again- like I cracked open a stone that I had given up on, and inside, there were those beautiful purple crystals just waiting to be discovered.
I cannot wait to really do a deep-dive into the way high profile girl activists are narrating gender justice issues in digital social networks, and to spend some time tracing how their creations move in across social networks. I cannot wait to sift through ideas and write back to the literacy research world about youth and media and digital.
I was just about to throw in the towel- to say, you know, I wanted academe, but academe didn't want me. But then this happened. Which is to say, when you reach what you feel like is the end of your own once-upon-a-time-vision, apply for that one last thing that probably won't work anyway. Because it might crack open possibility. (Also, note to self: take this advice yourself.)
This last application? I was really seen. My work was seen for exactly what it is: knowledge about youth, video and photo production, and social justice. I'm at the Social Justice Research Institute with a mentor (Canada Research Chair of Multiliteracies, Dr. Jennifer Rowsell) where I can, quite simply, do exactly what I love the most: writing on youth, media and social justice. That is good enough. That is inspiring. That is real. That involves young people and schools and literacy.
I'm also seriously looking forward to working with a prominent scholar who is also a mama, and who can show me the mama-academic ropes. I've often wondered how academic women with children do it- how do they manage to continue to think and write about literacies and digitality and youth even as they change four cajillion diapers and simultaneously feed babies in the middle of the night, cook child-friendly meals, and manage shot appointments and swim lessons? How do they show up as writers to think carefully and critically as much as they show up as mamas to love with abandon and protect sticky little fingers from getting into every single electrical outlet there ever was?
I am so, so excited. I'll be posting here regularly as I write- previews, working-throughs, ideas, happenings- and I hope you'll join me for this adventure!
Initially posted for Zavaleta Studios.
The thing is, raising young children is isolating. We've all hear that old and tired adage "it takes a village to raise a child." Now if only we had a dollar for every time we wondered where the hell our villages are.
When you're tired because you woke up at 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and then at 7 for the day, you need people. Maybe you have enough people helping you, but its hard for me to imagine and I've got a mother who washes bottles like nobody's business and an aunt who likes to cuddle on her days off and lots of friends looking as bleary eyed from babies as they did from vodka-tonics. I mean I do have twins, but I think I'd need a nap even if there was only one, and especially if one of them was a toddler. In truth, I like a good casserole as much as the next sleep-deprived parent subsisting on dehydrated yogurt drops their child rejected, but more than that, I need others who are debating baby led weaning, preschool enrollment, and the merits of books like "Go the f*ck to sleep." It seems weird, but this is exactly where music comes in.
For decades and decades, cultures of people have turned to the arts in order to understand how they belong in the world. We need the arts- music, painting, theatre, basket weaving, and the like- in order to make sense of ourselves. In worlds different than the one I inhabit, women came together and sang with their babies on their backs. I so often long for that kind of camraderie- just to know, that others are where I am, and others were where we are, and others will be where we are- just to know, there is a pattern to the madness, some kind of rhythm associated with dumping organic purple carrot-beet puffs onto my childs' high chair tray, only to have her discover that is she slams both hands onto the tray, she can bounce said puffs several feet in the air and sometimes the dog can catch them.
But in all seriousness, we need community. We need to feel like we're part of something bigger. For decades and decades, in villages and cities around the world, music has served as that connective tissue: the conduit for building community practices, cultures, and knowledges. In that tradition, we run our baby/child music classes: incorporating songs and sounds and instruments from Mexico, Cuba, the US, various African countries, and elsewhere, we play djembes and shake maracas, we sing in English and we sing in Spanish. The hopefulness of singing off tune (I promise to be horribly off tune and unable to keep a beat, so don't get nervous) bleeds into the conversations about child rearing and what it means to mother, to father, to raise children at a moment that is complicate and digital and busy like never before. So take a break. Come on down, sing, play, and explore.
Check out our classes: http://www.zavaletastudios.com/#!familymusica/osrd5
Chelsey is a digital storyteller, geek, mama, researcher and yogi. She loves to make things and her favorite food is artichokes.