Where it all began

Let's go back in time to the nineties...where it all began! This is the story of how Alex became a feminist! I have been a feminist since the age of six. I know you're probably thinking "Are you kidding me?," but it is true. When I was in first grade, one of my classmates brought in a Susan Anthony coin for Show And Tell. I didn't even know who she was! When my dad came to pick me up in his blue Ford Escort, I was really excited to tell him that my schoolmate had showed us "a coin with a girl on it!" On the drive home (remember, we lived around twenty-thirty minutes north of the school), he told me all about who Susan Anthony was and about the fight for the right for women to vote. I didn't know what surprised me more--that there was once a time when they couldn't vote or that she got jailed for trying to! Whenever it was Election day, my parents would always tell me how important it was that everyone should vote, and they'd give me their little "I Voted Today" stickers. I was really surprised but completely intrigued by the story.

So I found out all that I could about the feminism. My tiny school library had those illustrated biographies of historical figures and I remember having as a kid this collection of biographies called the ValueTales (which told the story of a historical figure and a certain aspect of their life, often through the eyes of a historically-inaccurate anthropomorphic animal sidekick). I read and read. I was a total anomaly. In my hyperconservative WASPy grade school, I was one of the only liberals (not to mention non-WASPs). In fourth grade, I read more stuff about first-wave feminism and the suffrage movement. In sixth and seventh, I learned all about the ERA and second wave. I kept going. You couldn't stop me. Not that anyone tried.

...And here I am now....
See what a little lesson on a car ride home fifteen years ago can do?

My tale is a great story and one worth telling. And I have no problem with telling it. What's amusing to me is that it always really surprises or impresses people to know that it was a man who taught me about feminism. And actually, the dad is the one to identify himself with it--much more than any of my relatives. I'm serious!

And it's just one of these days...

Some times I just wish I had someone, anyone here when the flashback occurs. I don't care who, I don't care what they are or what they do, but just someone there to listen to me and let me know that they're there.

And then there are other times when I just don't want to be around anyone because I really fear that they'll see me in a moment of weakness, and I try my hardest not to be weak. I know I am an advocate and that I work at two crisis centers, both of which have the slogan "Asking for help is a sign of strength." But sometimes I just want to handle absolutely everything on my own and not drag other people into it or appear that there's something I just can't take.

Oil to the World

I was watching a news report, and it really made me aware of the huge power the oil industry has over this whole world.

The US Government decides that it should invade Iraq, saying that the people need to be "liberated" and that they need our help. In reality, we've only managed to protect the oil fields and not the people or any semblance of order.

In the Sudan, there is a real and actual genocide (this is a real crisis--one that's been ongoing for far too long) going on, and no one steps in or does much of anything. Why hasn't anyone stepped in? The Darfur region is full of (you guessed it) oil that much of the world needs.

Oil's well that ends well, I guess.

Who says you can't go home?

With summer starting within a couple of days, I figured it was appropriate to make note of something I've been feeling pretty strongly these past couple of weeks. It seems like the places that are the most like home to me are the places I've sought out myself and/or created for myself. I don't mean to diss my family. My family is lovely, and I am certainly looking forward to seeing them. ALL of them!
But it seems as though I've felt the most welcome and been the most accepted in places where they know me and me alone/first. I haven't been very good at keeping in touch with high school friends. Many of us have kind of grown apart, or I've been the only one keeping the friendship alive. The place where I'm working is incredibly cliquish. I'm not trying to whine or be bitchy, but it really annoys me when it seems as though I'm making all of the effort to reach out and be friendly and no one reciprocates. I know I'm not shy anymore, and I do my best to remember important things about people. The weird thing is, when I'm back up north, I feel as though I'm just putting on a performance for people. It just feels kind of wrong...shouldn't your home be the first place where you feel like...well...you? I can't discuss many of my activities around certain relatives or high/grade school friends and certainly not around coworkers. If I told some of my coworkers that I was the Feminist Majority co-president for next year or that I participated in the Day of Silence, you can bet that they'd go out of their way to avoid me. If I told some extended relatives (not immediate ones...more like the ones you don't see as often) or high/school friends about the Ayyam-i-hah party I went to in February, they'd look at me like I was speaking Latin or something (although, technically the word "Ayyam-i-hah" is Farsi, not Latin). Even my own parents have asked me to tone down what I talk about, like my advocacy work or declaring. Topics like those are outside of the mainstream and outside of people's comfort zones, I guess.

Maybe I'm overreacting.

I just think that my experience in college has completely made up for all of that. Here, people know me for me. Not because they know my parents and by default know me because I'm their kid. Not just because I've lived there 10+ years. Not just because I obligatorily have to go there. People like me because they want to, not because they have to. I know that I'm not the most "ideal" friend--I can be a pretty polarizing and opinionated individual, and I can be a total bitch when I want to be (hell, I used that in one of my campaign speeches! I said, "I can totally bitch at people to make them vote. I'm a real live bitch!" when I ran for outreach director. I lost, but I did make 'em laugh!). But the communities I've either enjoyed being a part of or formed have all accepted me for me. Not for anything else. None of my professors know the rest of my family. They like my work because I do my best and it shows. They respect me because I put in a lot of hard work and talk my head off in discussion section (it's not unusual for a professor to tell me to let someone else talk for a change!). When I started attending devotions, I didn't know anyone there when I went the first time. But the people in the ECI cluster like me because we've taken the time to get to know each other. I didn't become friendly with them because they knew one of my relatives or lived near me, and they're just as nice to me as a declarant as they were to me as a seeker. Every club that I've joined is accepting of me because they know me and they know my work. I felt more like myself among my monologists (and that WAS a REAL performance!). At the Spring Social in April, I had a blast going around the teamster hall and introducing myself to all the other activists and talking with them. (And I didn't know anyone outside the planning committee! By the end, I had met all these cool new activisty people, and they gave me great suggestions for getting my word out!)

They say that home is what you make of it. I say it's what you make for yourself. I've found so much more respect and acceptance when I've been the one initiating it or making the opportunities for myself. While I am certainly looking forward to vacation and my lovely family and of course the fabulous concerts, I also am looking forward to the next school year.

Keep on rockin' in the free world

I've been checking my concert-venue sites recently.

I don't believe in an afterlife of any kind, but by late September, I think there's potential for me to be convinced that there is a heaven.

Why?
SO MANY CONCERTS! Summerfest, Harbor Fest, local shows, shows in the city, Pygmalion music festival...
So when you see me in late September I will be nearly deaf, have used up more body glitter than the entire pantheon of glam rock bands, completely broke because I used up my savings to buy CDs and merch, singing all the songs I heard at the shows, and flashing the "rock on" symbol.
And I'll be loving every minute of it!

Just a question, nothing more

If May is Asian history month, and September is Latino/a history month, and November is Native American history month, and February is Black history month, and March is women's history month, what happens during the rest of the year?

I'm not saying I disagree with designating the months. I love (with a capital L-O-V-E) all the cultural events my campus puts on for each of these months because I like to learn all about history and culture. Goodness knows I go to a hell of a lot of them.

The thing is, why do we need a specific month to turn our thoughts to diversity and tolerance?
Why can't it be the whole year?

A woman's place is...Anywhere she wants to be!

The above quote is a pearl of wisdom from one of my professors, and it will do very well for the title and topic.

My horrendously huge history paper was turned in today.

I finished it two days in advance.

I actually enjoyed poring over two decades of Look magazine to analyze representations of women in advertising. My teacher told me that if I could stand researching that thing and scrutinizing it to death, it would make a very good dissertation project. Seriously, I liked it. It was like a treasure hunt to find and scrutinize the ads in a way only the most militantly radical-feministy GWS students can do...

In sixteen pages (not counting works cited) of pure feministy goodness that is guaranteed to satisfy.

Is there something wrong with me?

I actually enjoyed said paper!

You have got to be kidding me.

So I was out on the Quad today. I spend a hell of a lot of time on that Quad. Being in the glorious college of LAS, I have most of my classes there. Today was a really special day because the Art In Public Places class had their pretty statues displayed out there, and I decided I would take pictures of them. I do that every time they're out. So I was out snapping pictures and looking like a tourist (only a very stylish tourist, not some Sloppy American Tourist (or my nickname for 'em, the SATs)). Then I ran across these kids who were doing some kind of a promotion for Wrigley gum. They were handing out bags with gum and school supplies on them. Now being a poor cheap student, I like free stuff, so I grabbed one of those bags.

I went through my goodies when I came back to my room. Not a bad load--a pen, two packs of gum, a notebook, and a free downloads music gift card. THEN I saw it. The message.
Printed on an index card-size paper were the words:

Wrigley's is the Official Sponsor of Finals Week. Have a nice Finals Week.

Are you kidding me?? I couldn't believe that either. I had thought companies wanted to sponsor something good, something people liked. I mean, what part of their marketing director's useless brain thought that finals were good and "nice" and something people enjoyed? Seriously! Who in their right mind would want their product affiliated with something that caused so much pain and suffering? If they really wanted to put something meaningful on their promo, wouldn't it make more sense to have study tips or something slightly hopeful message like, "The Nightmare's Almost Over" ? Does anything about being holed up in your room or the library poring over text after text and trying your hardest to stay awake AND remember everything sound a bit "nice" or like fun?

I am guessing that either their marketing director is a recent college student and is trying to prove that she can make it in the big bad corporate world. Or it is an old fart with absolutely no memory of college life or finals week, and she just doesn't remember that during finals, colleges are just crawling with overstressed desperados in sweatpants. Or perhaps it is one of my worst fears. An English major with a terribly evil sense of symbolism. The gum is a symbol for the student. Like the gum, the student gets chewed up and spit out on the sidewalk or trash or wrapper--by their exams!

Have a nice finals week.