Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Yankee Talk

I work as a student employee at a medium-sized Southern University. Today, while minding my own business, I overheard a PhD and a department secretary having this discussion:

"I feel so pampered. I just got off the phone with a lady from Princeton and she was really nice to me!" Said the PhD.

"So, what's strange about that?" inquired the secretary.

"She's a Yankee!" responded the much-lauded professor.

"Maybe she was originally from the South?" offered the kindly secretary.

Now, I used to respond to this kind of talk thusly:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! People, people, people. You lost the war!!! Get over it!! "

However, I recently made the following realization. I was born in Baltimore, MD! That's south of the Mason-Dixon line. Which means, technically, I'm a Southerner! I am planning on using this tidbit to my advantage, the next time my regionality comes in to question. Until I move back North or out West, at which point I won't care anymore where I was born. Only Southerners care about that crap.

'CUZ THEY LOST THE FRICKIN' WAR!

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

My Barista Hates Me!

It used to be the most satisfying of relationships. Every bleary-eyed morning, I could depend on Trudy and J. to get me my short iced Americano. Every morning they had my drink ready when I walked up to the counter. I felt special and loved.

But, something changed last week.

I think it was when Trudy forget to get my baklava. I didn't remember until after I left the store and came back. I explained the situation to J. because Trudy was on break. Maybe she told Trudy, who thought I stole it? Or, perhaps I became too picky about my drink. You see, J. is the far superior barista. Usually she tends to the coffee and Trudy to the cash register. But, when Trudy makes the coffee, her drinks are too strong. She started putting them in a bigger cup to fit more ice. J. still used the small cup and it always tastes great. Today, however, J. used a big cup and made me a weak drink. I don't think they want my business anymore, for some reason.

Now, there is never any drink when I come up to the counter. Trudy just stares at me like she hasn't a clue in the world what I want to drink. I have to say "short iced Americano, please" just like all of the other schmoes. My one perfect relationship is over. I can't wait until I graduate and can try another off-campus coffee place. Maybe its all for the best.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Oprah Winfrey, You're Not for Me!

As feminists, we can talk forever about achieving equal rights with men and demanding gay, lesbian and transgender people fundamental freedoms. But until we stop accepting the systematic oppression of women in popular culture, we won’t get anywhere. There is a demonic presence sweeping across this nation today. This presence is an unflappable, funny, honest multi-multi-millionaire by the name of Oprah Winfrey.

I know what you’re thinking. Oprah! Not her! She is the darling of most American women, regardless of race, class or dress size. We have supported her in her struggles with weight loss and cried with her when she lost those battles. We think of her as “our Oprah”. Her shared life experiences and “you go, girl” matter-of-fact slang bring us closer to her each day during her talk show.

But over the past few years I have detected a change in her. I think she first fell out of favor after the movie “Michael” came out in 1996. There was Oprah, dancing onstage with star John Travolta, and going on and on about what a “wonderful movie this is” and how “y’all have to go see it”. Prior to the TV show taping, her entire audience was treated to a screening of this film about the Archangel Michael, who falls back to earth to do some good deeds and live a little life with a couple of reporters. The audience was as ecstatic as the host, beaming at Travolta and praising his work. Surely Oprah Winfrey wouldn’t steer me wrong about the quality of a movie. Well, naturally, I had to head to my local Cineplex and check it out.

What a piece of garbage! I nearly walked out of the film about half way through when I realized that it wasn’t going to get any better! I was infuriated at myself for wasting my good money on this formulaic Hollywood pabulum. I was even madder at Oprah for conning me into going to see it. How could she think so little of the intelligence of her audience to think that we would enjoy this? And, this wasn’t the last time she has showered praise on a mediocre Hollywood product. Just last year, I fell for it again when she had most of the cast of “Ocean’s 12” on for an interview. Now, granted I loved the original, “Ocean’s 11” and have seen it about 10 times. But when I went (on opening day) to see the sequel, I nearly fell asleep. All of the camaraderie the cast expressed on Oprah’s show must have been left off-screen. I had been duped again.

The latest trend that I notice (when happening on the show while channel-surfing) is how much Oprah has fallen into the trap of women and gendered identity. She has always had “makeover” shows, where a frumpy audience member is transformed into a high-fashion hottie. But now she is making me uncomfortable. Just recently, two British women from the TV show “What Not to Wear” were guests. Women from the audience were asking their ‘expert’ opinions on fashion. They went too far for me when they started discussing shoes. All the women who inquired about what kind of footwear to buy were asked to hike up their pant legs and expose their ankles. If the woman had a thin ankle, then she was advised to wear delicate shoes. If she had larger ankles, then “chunky soled” shoes were recommended. My first thought was “What about comfort? What about protecting your knees and spine?” Oprah lifted up her pant leg to reveal three inch stilettos on her feet. I hope she didn’t have to walk far or run, for that matter, in those masochistic devices. How can the most powerful woman in the entertainment business be that independent and successful and still be forced to teeter around on unreasonable, pointy-toed shoes? Why, as women, are we accepting this trap? Why do so many women consider themselves shoe junkies? We’ll never be able to keep up with men if we can’t walk as fast as them. Maybe that’s the point.

I see Oprah Winfrey subscribing to the gendered trap of reducing ourselves to a series of body parts, regardless of our whole being. I’ve seen her ‘dis’ her butt, thighs and stomach. I’ve watched her praise other women, like supermodel Tyra Banks, on their physically perfect faces and figures. This isn’t liberation. It is a sisterly bonding ritual that women have perfected, to keep ourselves in line for the patriarchy.

Oprah Winfrey could redeem her demonic presence to me by portraying more of the inner qualities of women as desirable, as opposed to just the outer package. I know she has her “Angel Network” that rewards the good deeds of schoolteachers, nurses, social workers and the like and perhaps this is meant to be a balance to the superficiality often portrayed on her program. But, the focus of her show always goes back to reinforcing the Beauty Myth (to quote Naomi Wolfe) and the gendered expectations that women have for themselves. Think of the powerful force she could be for most of us if she just became the “real girlfriend” she is professed to be. A real girlfriend, to me, would encourage my strengths, be concerned about my comfort and health and support my intellectual growth, not tell me what idiotic movies to see and what shoes look best, despite their comfort. When she becomes that kind of friend, maybe I’ll watch again. Until that time, Oprah Winfrey, you’re not for me!

Sunday, April 03, 2005

We Still Have a Long Way to Go

I was stunned last Thursday in my English Literature class. We are currently reading The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. In the book, two of the characters marry but their union only lasts for one year. In the class discussion prompted by the professor, I was astonished by the opinions offered up by the mostly female class.

“Well, I knew that marriage wasn’t going to make it because she didn’t take his last name” said one girl.

“Yeah, anytime that happens, you know the woman isn’t committed to her man” agreed another.

I couldn’t sit by quietly and let this discussion continue without my input. “Well, he could have taken her last name, or they might have hyphenated both names” I said, and then continued with, “When a woman gives up her last name, she is giving up part of her identity, especially if she is known professionally by that name”.

This logic was completely lost on the class. One young woman, a senior, looked at me with much hostility and retorted “That is just ridiculous! My last name doesn’t define who I am! When I introduce myself, I say my name is Sherri, not Miss Stone!” (Not her real name).

Another student tried to diffuse her anger by saying, “Don’t pay any attention to her, (meaning me) she’s a Women’s Studies major”!

The fact that my opinions can be offhandedly dismissed because my major course of study focuses on women, our rights, our histories and our place in society absolutely infuriates me! What it says to me is that the status of women is still not being taken seriously by other women and that despite all of our hard feminist work; we still have a long way to go. These young women have internalized societal oppression, accepted second-class citizen status and have no trouble defining themselves by their relationship to a man, instead of by their own individual merit. It makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Is it because this university is in North Carolina? Is the South really that backwards? Or do these women represent a larger portion of the United States population? The cultural messages that have been broadcast for decades still promote the fairy tale endings of the Cinderella story. Popular movies aimed at teenaged girls still lead up to a happy-ever-after ending, where the white knight (figuratively) rides up on his trusty steed to rescue a damsel in distress. Hell, even the liberated HBO series “Sex and the City” ended its run by having Carrie, the protagonist, rescued from a bad relationship in Paris by another man, the elusive “Big” who dragged her back to her beloved New York City. (Why she couldn’t do it on her own, I’ll never know). But these are the messages the patriarchy sends out in the media and darned if these women in my English class haven’t fallen for them, hook, line and sinker!

I wonder if women will ever truly gain equality with men when it comes to relationships. When our sisters are secretly whispering behind our backs and plotting for our demise, we cannot move forward. As a whole, we must stand together for the equal person-hood of our gender. If we don’t who will?

Friday, April 01, 2005

True Love

I've had a life without romantic love. Not that I haven't tried. My heart's been broken more times than I can count, and usually by men who barely knew I existed.

I've wasted my love on disinterested men, sarcastic men, gay men, reckless men and married men. I've cried over unfaithful men, and truly faithful men, wishing I could feel for them what they felt for me.

The purest love of my life has been my cat, Saturn.

We met on an early fall day in the parking lot of my old condominium complex. He was sitting on the hood of a Mitsubishi, washing his belly. I had never seen such a beautiful animal, silver, white and grey with big blue eyes and a cinnamon-colored nose. Like a cross between a Siamese and a big tabby cat. I remember my first words to him: "Hello, who is this?"

He dropped what he was doing and came right over to me, bumping his head against my calves. I gave him my special cat-scratch on his back. Soon, every time I went outside, there he was, waiting for me. I started bringing him little cat treats every day. He began standing up against my driver's side door, on his hind legs and looking in the window every time I got in the car to head to work.

One day, after much prompting from friends, I brought down my kitty-carrier and swooped him up into the box. He never meowed and never, ever wanted leave my apartment. Even when his owners, the loud beer-swilling neighbors behind my building, called out his former name, "Charlie", he never blinked. Never even looked wistfully out of the window. He was mine and I was his. His new name became Saturn, after the ringed-planet that reminded me of his tail.

He is the most affectionate cat I have ever known with a loud, rhythmic purr that rumbles across the room. Occassionally, his 18 pound frame sits on my chest and his warm glows radiates. It feels like the biggest and most satisfying hug on the planet. I feel so happy and content that I just melt.

He and I have lived together for 13 years in four seperate apartments (in 3 different states). Last year I almost lost him to a kitty virus. Thankfully, he made a full recovery. Saturn and I have endured in ways most couples never do. Certainly in ways I never have with a human man.

I guess the love of my life will be covered by fur, have four legs instead of two and eat his food out of a bowl. I think I can live with that.