Not Going Back, Nu-uh, No Way

When George W. Bush was re-elected, some people in the Pacific Northwest expressed a longing to secede from the Union, perhaps incorporate with British Columbia and form a new state:  Call it "Cascadia." 

We were joking.  Kind of.

A recent post by The Practical Conservative reminded me that the impulse to break away from the mainstream and form utopian communities is an enduring theme in American history.

My mother's family were Mormons, my father's were Anabaptists, so I come from a long line of people on both sides who were utterly convinced that there was "one correct way" to live, and I was weaned on tales of the hardships they endured, the sacrifices made,  to achieve their utopian visions.  I am the offspring of two people who escaped from religious-based communities governed by rigid patriarchal ideals, and who never looked back. And I don't want to go back either.  In fact, I would be willing to sacrifice everything to maintain my individualism.  And if I had to be dependent on a community where people like SSM or the Queens set the standards of socially acceptable behavior, I'd take my chances on surviving in the wilderness.

This I believe:  There is more than one way to be a human being on this earth.  There is no one "correct way" to live. 

It's the Economy, I Tell You

In case you didn't see this excerpt from the upcoming book Marriage Markets: How Inequality Is Remaking the American Family, authors Naomi Cahn and June Carbone find that working class women (in contrast to upper middle class women) do better economically as single moms.  I didn't find the authors' conclusion in the least bit surprising: I see evidence of it all around me, every day.  

In today's economy, many working class guys can't get or maintain jobs that allow them to contribute much in the way of financial support.  Marrying such a man makes the woman responsible not only for providing for the child, but also her partner, and gives the man parental rights (i.e., shared custody) or control over her life that he wouldn't easily enjoy if she did not marry him.

Under these circumstances, choosing not to marry the father of her child is kind of a "no-brainer," especially if a woman has parents or other family members willing to help out with child care. 

Is it possible this phenomenon is fueling the backlash that the "manosphereans" represent?  Their fear of obsolescence is, after all, not unfounded.  As the middle class continues to erode, and the former working class slip into chronic, inescapable poverty, the trend of mothers unwed by choice is unlikely to reverse itself, however much they are berated by the religious right wing.  And the impotent efforts of the New Misogynists to shame these women are less menacing than pathetic, for they know and we know that those women they call "sluts" or "feminists" not only don't want them, they are better off without them.

Sloth

The webmistress of Return of Queens has promised that readers will be treated to an exposition of each Deadly Sin in the near future.  So far the Queens have tackled "Envy" (that is, the envy of feminists women of other women), and "Gluttony."

Now, looking at me, you would naturally assume that I was most afflicted by the the sin of Gluttony.  It's manifestly true that I eat too much and too often.  I joke that a day doesn't go by that I don't consume something from each of the Four Major Food Groups:  (1) chocolate, (2) cheese, (3) caffeine, and (4) alcohol.  

It isn't that I don't know better, either.  I have a college education I watch enough television to know perfectly well that a "proper" serving of meat is the size of a deck of cards, not a 12 ounce slab of tenderloin (Make mine rare!).  But who wants to eat a deck of cards?  I know that an array of fresh, lightly steamed vegetables should be adding the color to my diet, not a random bag of Skittles.  I know nuts are an excellent source of protein, but seriously, who can confine a serving of those to "five almonds" (unless they're really stale)?

"Ladies, obesity isn’t pretty.  It isn’t lady like.  Its not Queen like.  Obesity is (among other things) a disease of gluttony.  Gluttony is my pet peeve because it indicates a lack of self control.  We as women should be known for self control, and the ability to monitor our urges."  

The problem is that as soon as someone starts admonishing me to exercise "self-control" over my various "urges", my Inner Child digs in her heels and begins to howl vociferously in protest.  

Look, I've lost over one hundred pounds.  Twice.  So I am not incapable of extraordinary self-discipline for months at a stretch.  What I can't figure out is how to sustain the desire to exert that degree of self-control every day for the rest of my life.

I just sat through a lecture, part of the "Six Weeks to a Healthier You" that my school sponsors every spring.  Of course, there was not fact or figure (BMI, calorie counts, longevity tables... zzzz) that was new to me (nor to any of the other anxious Baby Boomers filling the hall).  I was there to pick up my free water bottle, grocery coupons, and discounted athletic club membership.  What I need is to want to do the things I already know will make me "healthier."  No dietician or personal trainer can give me that kind of motivation.  I guess that's what shrinks and clergy and lovers are for.

As for obesity not being "queen like," may I introduce you to Catherine the Great?

She was not crushed by a horse.

How about Queen Victoria, then?

Even in her youth, you could see the fat lady waiting to emerge.

ROQ's notion of "queen like" figures may be based on Disney fantasies and "Game of Thrones," but history shows us that plenty of fat gals have commanded nations in their day.  It's only in the past 100 years that a svelte physique has been the hallmark of class and status.  

All right, I'll concede that "obesity isn't pretty" even though a lot of fat women are.  And it's rough on one's knees.  I'll concede that I suffer from the sin of Gluttony, big time.  (There, are you happy now, you sanctimonious twats?)

However, I steadfastly deny that Gluttony is my worst offense.

My worst sin is Sloth. 

Now, by "sloth" I don't mean mere physical laziness, although it's generally true that I would much rather curl up in bed with a pile of magazines than do... well, just about anything else you can name.

By "sloth" I mean "dejection and listlessness."  In other words, probably what a lot of people nowadays call "depression."  Sloth, then, is a manifestation of a kind of despair and helplessness.  It causes me to withdraw from others because their presence makes more demands of me than I am able willing to respond to. It causes me to internally shrug at the bazillion brain cells I am blithely killing with each martini I imbibe.  The boredom I often complain of is just another word for "sloth."

My friend's death last weekend, last night's foray into "activism" are reminding me that Sloth really is My Worst Deadly Sin.

Of course, I'll have to wait to learn what the Queens have to say when they weigh in on the subject.

Free Tilly

Looking good for a centenarian, isn't she?

My happiest childhood memories were formed when my dad took us out to the San Juan Islands on our little pink cabin cruiser.  We trolled for salmon, back then so abundant that they were easily caught in view of the downtown landscape.  Sometimes we were lucky enough to sight orcas.  Once -- to my mother's mortal terror -- one of those orcas swam so close to our boat that I was able to reach out and stroke its back. 

A typical Seattle native growing up in the sixties, I took these casual interactions with the natural world for granted.  The orca, like the salmon, are still our totem animals, and we hold them in reverence, and feel that they somehow "belong" to us.

Of course, the Pacific Northwest has changed a lot in my lifetime.  The middle aged "natives" grump about these changes endlessly, and are always taking stands on what and what is not a "permissible" development, as though our disapproval made one iota of difference in stemming the relentless tide of "progress."  How pathetic and self-righteous we can be!

For example, as a typical Seattle native, there are some places I never will go.  One of them is the EMP (Experience Music Project), Paul Allen's architectural monstrosity controversial contribution to the Seattle Center.  I still haven't visited the museum, but last night I did go to a concert there to raise money for the Orca Lab.

If you have been following the aftermath of Blackfish, you probably are aware that a number of big-name acts pulled out of performing at the Florida Sea World last summer in protest of its captivity and exhibition of orcas (killer whales) and other marine mammals.  And several of these acts got together to put on a show last night.

I was happy to fork over $200+ to take my place in the standing room only crowd.  For three hours we rocked out to Country Joe McDonald, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, Heart, and others.  I was most looking forward to Joan Jett, and she didn't disappoint,* but surprisingly it was Graham Nash who made the biggest impact.  It had been a long time since I heard those Crosby Stills and Nash classics, rendered so sublimely fresh and sweet with harmonies provided by Ann and Nancy Wilson and Jami Sieber's cello accompaniment.

Paul Spong, director of the Orca Lab, spoke about his lifetime commitment to studying orcas in the wild, recording their language and music, analyzing their complex culture and family structures.  He talked about the rehabilitation of Keiko ("Free Willy"), a project that proved orcas can be successfully returned to the wild.  (Although Keiko was not able to rejoin his family of origin because they were not identified during his capture, he was able to swim free for five years after his release before succumbing to pneumonia.)

It's perhaps too late for Tillicum, the whale featured in "Blackfish" who has killed three humans over the course of his imprisonment, and now spends his time in isolation, listlessly floating, staring at the wall of his tank for hours at a time.  But it's not too late for Lolita and others.  Lolita, who has been circling a concrete tank the size of a hotel pool for 44 years, is considered healthy enough to be released.  Her mother is still alive, and there is every reason to believe her pod will recognize her and welcome her back when she is repatriated to her home waters.

Sea World lies and lies and lies.  It lies, for example, when it claims orcas in captivity outlive free orcas.  Granny, the matriarch of J2, is 100 and is still the leader of her pack.

It was easy to summon the spirit of the 1840s abolitionists last night.  The capture, enslavement and exploitation of animals that rival us in intelligence and social complexity is clearly indefensible to anyone whose heart is not made of stone.  It must stop, and it will stop... The only question is, How long will we allow these creatures to suffer in order to fatten the shareholders of Sea World? 

What can we do?  For starters, refuse to go to Sea World or take kids to any aquariums that feature performing marine mammals.  Challenge the message these corporations are sending children about our rightful relationship with nature.  Resist the temptation to "swim with the dolphins" on vacation (so much fun for us, not so much for the dolphins who have no choice to interact with us in those environments).

Come to Washington State during whale watching seasons.  There are several local charters that will take visitors out to observe killer whales from a respectful distance.  If you're a regular reader, shoot me an e-mail and I may even accompany you to the top of the Space Needle (I have to go some time, I guess). 

* OK, I was a teeny bit disappointed she didn't play "Androgynous," so I'll just play it right now:

An Agnostic at Easter

As anyone who has read my blog can readily ascertain, I am not a religious person although I would not define myself as an atheist, since even that label implies a measure of certainty I can not claim.  

I see no reason to believe in an After Life, at least not one in which I will exist as a conscious being.  This lack of belief is not a choice on my part.  Indeed, I would much rather believe, for I imagine it brings great comfort to those who do.  Some of the people whom I most love and admire are Believers, and it would be presumptuous, even cruel -- not to mention pointless -- to challenge their faith.  I once tried to explain this to a friend: how I envied her gift of faith!  She sharply reprimanded me, explaining that faith was not a gift: rather, it was something a Christian had to work at.  I've often thought about that; maybe she's right.  But trying to convince myself that something I don't believe is true is like trying to pretend you're in love when you're not.  I'm not willing to lie to myself or others in that way.

Yet, I try to keep my heart open to all possibilities.   

When I look out upon the grass growing lushly, the daffodils and tulips blooming, I wish I were reminded of the Resurrection and the promise of Eternal Life. Instead, I find myself remembering my father's premature death twenty-five years ago.  He died suddenly and unexpectedly the Saturday before Easter, and his death was so shocking and terrible to us that Easter has become an anniversary of this event, a day of remembrance and some sorrow for both my sisters and me.  As the years pass, I am more inclined to contemplate the great gifts he gave me, the occasions of joy we shared, his wisdom and humor, but there is always a part of me that mourns his loss afresh on Easter Sunday.

And this Easter, I learn of the death of a friend, only a few years older than myself, and I am reminded of the ephemeral nature of life.  This is a woman who I thought would live to be very, very old.  Both her parents had lived well into their nineties, and she seemed cut from the same enduring Norwegian peasant stock.  But more than that, I have never known anyone who had more zest for life than she.  I have never known anyone who laughed as much, gave as generously, took more pleasure from this world.  How could death defeat her unassailable energy and boundless cheer?  I used to gently mock her, call her goofy and giddy, but honestly?  I was always a bit envious of her capacity for joy.

It really seems impossible that we will never meet with her again in some cafe, to be regaled with tales of her latest adventures or admire her latest thrift shop acquisitions. 

What kind of woman was she?  She was the kind of woman who wore unusual hats, and carried a handbag with a clock embedded in it (because she was chronically late).  She made krumkakke every Christmas.  She hired a belly dancer to entertain her guests at her sixtieth birthday party.  She spent every penny she had (never much) and dealt with her lack of medical insurance by cheerfully resolving never to get sick.  She had a series of (scandalously) younger beaus, and then settled down with a much older one -- who died in her arms.

Tonight some friends and I will gather, a sort of informal wake I expect, and reminisce.  I will probably drink too much wine and I am sure that I will cry.  I will try to take comfort in the fact that she spent the last two years of her life with the people she loved most, and lived long enough to hold her only grandchild.  I will try to learn from her example how to embrace the life I have, and not to squander another moment of whatever precious time is left -- be it counted in hours, weeks, or years -- in misery or despair.

Mary, Mary, Mary!

Over at Return of Queens, a lady with dubs herself "Charity Love" (without apparent irony) has written a piece about "Envy."  This is part of the Queens' series on the "Seven Deadly Sins," and I cannot wait to read each and every one.  Miss Love is specifically targeting the indisputable envy that fugly "feminists" have of beautiful feminine women (like the gals at Return of Queens no doubt). 

And guess who has popped up there in the comments section, not two hours ago?

"What I find is that gossip and unsubstantiated accusations are tools that women sometimes use against other women of whom they are envious. I suppose if we are honest, nearly all of us have engaged in such behavior at one point or another, so we probably all have some room to grow in this area, and I'm not too proud to say that I certainly need to ask God to set a guard over my mouth sometimes." [italics mine]

Pardon me for taking the Lord's name in vain here, but Jesus H. Christ, it appears that SSM is blaming her recent (re) doxxing and character assassination on the envy of other women!  

Proving, in case anyone had any doubts up to this point, that, as one parody blogger observed, "SSM has the self awareness of a taco."  And I think the taco could sue for defamation in this case.

Heavier Than Heaven

The fact that I can still vividly remember where-I-was-and-what-I-was-doing the first time I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (and also where-I-was-and-what-I-was-doing when I learned of Kurt Cobain's suicide) is a measure of how powerfully the music of Nirvana moved me.  I may be a "baby boomer," but I've always identified, culturally at least, with the Generation Xers.

I've been observing the twentieth anniversary of Cobain's death by reading Charles Cross's "definitive" 2001 biography of Cobain, Heavier Than Heaven.  And trust me, this book is "heavy" in every sense of the word. 

There are no great revelations here:  Cobain was a sweet, sensitive child with artistic inclinations who grew into an incorrigible, depressed adolescent who was a complete pain in the ass to everyone who cared about him.  What ultimately (and narrowly) saved him from becoming a professional homeless person was his commitment to his music.  Cobain was, in fact, extraordinarily ambitious and driven.  He was cunning, manipulative, conflict-avoidant, self-mythologizing, and had no qualms about taking advantage of anyone who lent him a hand. 

None of which diminishes his musical legacy of course, or even makes this reader dislike him personally.  In fact, I am in admiration of his monomaniacal quest to achieve popular success.  The fact that this success did not, in the end, make him happy is the most tragic aspect of his life ("answered prayers" and all that).

Part of the reason I am finding the book an interesting, albeit predictable, read is that I have spent a lot of time in the places Cross describes.  In the early nineties, I even considered moving to Aberdeen -- probably because the rents were so incredibly cheap there and I briefly fancied the romance of living in a modern ruin.

Anyway, I'm developing a lesson built around Nirvana for one of my classes next week.  One of the perks of being a teacher is that I get to inflict my musical and literary tastes on my students (most of whom have never heard of Cobain, but all of whom will recognize the opening bars of "Smells Like Teen Spirit").