Where Have All the Feminists Gone?

“Demi,” she said in an incredulous tone, “do you really think there are any feminists anymore?”

I’d just returned from a conference and was telling a colleague what my panel had presented on. The word “feminist” in the title made her roll her eyes. How foolish of you, Demi, to think that such a thing exists.

I told her, of course, there are still feminists, and she challenged, “Well then where are they? I don’t see them anywhere.”

I started pulling out examples as fast as I could. Women like Neda who was shot for advocating freedom in Iran. The Egyptian women who were attacked in Tahrir Square because they protested for more political rights. The Afghan women pursuing their education even at the risk of death.

And I had some bad ass feminist friends in the States. Really, I did.

**************************

I was at the conference with two of those bad ass friends. I mean, here are two women who, for as long as I’ve known them, might as well have had “Fight-the-Patriarchy” as their middle names.  Smart, strong, assertive, carrying out their discourse with action. I’ve always respected the ways they’ve been able to stand so strong in advocating change.

One of those friends spent almost the entire time on the phone with her new husband.

And it wasn’t love-dovey talk. He thought it was “inappropriate” for her to stay out late drinking with her colleagues on the first night of the conference. That night they were on the phone until 3AM, him castigating her, her trying to defend herself.

I was just dumbfounded. Here was this woman who used to be the kind of person to say “fuck you” and hang up if a boyfriend tried to tell her what to do, and yet here she was, wasting hours listening to her husband judge her choices.

What had happened?

But at least my other friend would strongly maintain her feminist principles. I knew it. But then she started saying some strange things. She told me about how she and her boyfriend had been fighting all week because she was going to the conference. She asked me if I was “allowed” to smoke weed now that I’m with Nico (weed is very important to her, lol), and I was taken aback. Why would Nico’s views affect my personal choices? Why would he control me? (As it was, the question was rather ironic because if Nico’s job didn’t forbid it, he’d *totally* be smoking weed.)

And then, as we were coming back from a giant corporate party, this same friend started waxing about how much she wanted a wedding, and all the presents, and the bridesmaid dresses, and the wedding dress . . . you know, when she’s always been very staunch in her position that she would never get married because she is ideologically opposed to the institution.

What happened to my friends?

*******************

I was just on Facebook before I came over to my blog. At least there were some strong feminists over there. Like C. She’s bad ass. Very active in the gay community, volunteering her time to an organization that helps young adults when they are first coming out. She has always challenged patriarchal institutions. Like marriage. Like monogamy. She lived out her politics in her life choices.

Today she had a new profile picture. Of a disembodied hand wearing an engagement ring.

She started dating a woman a couple of years ago, and as that woman made the move from being called “she” to “he,” the dynamic started to shift. My bad ass friend started to become more dependent upon her “boi” the more manly he became. She deferred choices to him, starting arranging her life based upon his wants. And I guess, technically, she was giving up her lesbianism for him because of the sex change . . . but that’s a murky line, I know.

Now, here she was, once the staunch anti-monogamist, making her engagement ring her profile picture.

***************

I know we are not static; our life experiences continually reshape us. I like that we’re always changing. Truth be told, I’m changing too. Here I am with a man who doesn’t mind if I’m out late drinking with my friends at a conference because he trusts me, a man who is proud of me for being at conferences and sharing my work because he loves my “big brain.” Being in an egalitarian relationship like that changes a person, and Nico and I have had some conversations about the possibility of marriage . . . someday.

But what unsettles me is seeing friends give up the principles that have always mattered most for the sake of men. I’m standing here looking at my friends, wondering if my colleague was right about all the feminist being gone.

My Condolences

(Honey, if you know who I am writing about, shhhhhh.)

It was just supposed to be sex.

And cliché sex at that, the graduate student carrying out a secret affair with a junior professor. But it wasn’t supposed to be more than that. Just sex.

My friend was a jaded feminist after all. After a failed marriage and a failed attempt at living with a boyfriend, she had sworn off heteronormativity, sworn off the institution of marriage. It was a patriarchal invention designed to subjugate women.

And yet I had the invitation to the bridal shower. Two and a half years later the affair that was supposed to be nothing more than hot sex was acquiescing to heteronormative forces (yes, of course, going on the market in search of a spousal hire was a factor in the choice, but still).

I was at Hallmark, scanning the rows and rows and rows of cards, trying to find the right one. And my eyes came across the “In Sympathy” cards. Without a hint of sarcasm or humor, I thought it was an appropriate choice.

I know I am a bit jaded. I confess it freely. Yet I still mourned for my friend because I felt she was losing something. The defiant feminist principles she’d passionately embraced for years, her disdain for marriage and all it stood for, were lost in the wreckage. She seems to mourn it, too, and voices doubt of the institution while embracing it because it’s the best thing for them professionally.

I’d like to think that there is such a thing as a feminist marriage where both partners can be equals, but I wonder if such a dream naively overlooks the power of ideology. As much as I’d like to think that with all of my training as a feminist scholar that I’d be able to make marriage something different, I wonder if someday I would find myself conforming to habitus, getting pissed at my husband because he hadn’t done the “manly” things like mowing the lawn.

I hope still that my friend can find that sort of feminist marriage, even while she doubts it herself.

We’d like to offer you the job . . . maybe

In February I got myself a new job at Giant State U. They called and offered me the job, then sent me an offer letter, too. I was happy. I found a kick-ass school for my kids not too far from Giant State U and started searching for a place to live, started lining up my friends with trucks to help me get my stuff two hours north.

Yeah, but I didn’t have a contract.

And our state is in a financial crisis.

I got an email yesterday from my would-be new boss saying that if a new tax doesn’t pass in the upcoming election, I won’t have a job there. Me, and all the other contract instructors in the department.

Fabulous.

So I’m scrambling around, trying to line up other work.

This sucks ass.

My love affair with the Universe continues

I was sick as fuck. My lungs are my Achilles’ heel, and once they get a whiff of the tiniest bug they are done for.

But the Universe has decided to be my friend, and it never brings me bad without bringing me good.

I got an interview with the giant university in Metropolis . . . and thankfully it was a phone interview. Throughout the whole thing I was sipping tea that I’d dropped cough drops into and using an inhaler as needed . . . and my interviewers were none the wiser to my gross sickness behaviors. Yay!

A week later I was still sick, but not as miserably so, and the giant university called to offer me the job. Yay!

The best part is that it has full benefits . . . which means my new job will pay my tuition as I finish up my PhD at another state school. Yay!

Here’s the thing I love: I’d broken up with Nico. Which means that when I took this job I knew, without a doubt, that I was taking it because it was the best thing for ME. I wasn’t doing it to be with some guy (I’ve made mistakes like that in the past); I was doing it because it made so much sense for my life and where I want to be.

So far I love my new employer. They asked me when I wanted to teach, and then immediately worked up a schedule that fits very neatly into the hours my kids will be at school. So cool! I’ll teach three days a week and then have the other two days for writing. Yay!

So thrilled, so excited to start this new chapter. Thanks, Universe!

The Universe, My New BFF

I’ve given up my faith in a god, but I have this strange faith in the universe’s omnipotence.

I mean, the universe has to have a sense of consciousness, or else there wouldn’t be such artfully-composed ironies in my world.

I break up with my boyfriend, and then . . . awesomeness finds me.

-I lost six pounds. I was up to 138 (this is heavy for me since I’m about as tiny as Tinkerbell), and today when I stepped on the scale I was down to 132! I don’t think I’ll get back to 118 any time soon, but I’m super happy to be closer to the mid-120s.

-I got a freelance gig yesterday! I was sooo excited about it. I can do it on my own time and bring in a nice chunk of extra money (which will help with paying my new lawyer to finally get my divorce finalized and over!).

-I got called for an interview today at the giant state university in Metropolis! Even more excited about that than I am about the freelance gig!

-I am on my way to have drinks with the Clooney-esque Ryan.

Yeah, life is good 🙂 Thanks, Universe.

~~~

I did hear from Nico last night; he sent me a text that simply said “I miss you.” I read it and thought about how Nico-like it was. He always wants me when I’m a touch unattainable. When we were 16 I remember sitting in my boyfriend’s car with Nico (my boyfriend was out of the car, talking to one of my friends), and Nico talked about himself in third person, something about loving me and not being able to have me. And then I thought about how, twenty years later, when he and I began dating and I was heading out for a night of dancing and drinking with my girls (OMG, there would be *men* there!), that HE brought the word “relationship” into our lexicon.

But once he had me, really knew he had me, the thought of us being in a relationship threatened him. Huh.

I guess that’s another one of the universe’s ironies . . . and what I love about this one is that it isn’t bothering me. I’m completely okay with letting go of someone who only wants me when he has to reach for me.

And that’s why the universe in my new BFF.

Um, seriously?

I applied for a job at Giant State U, and I made sure I had all my materials in well in advance of the deadline. I really wanted the job at Giant State U.

Then yesterday I got an e-mail from Giant State U. My file was incomplete . . . I didn’t have the required number of recommendation letters.

The application deadline was yesterday so of course I was panicked. I e-mailed all the people who had ecstatically agreed to write phenomenal recommendation letters for me. I masked my freak-out in professionalism but basically said, “Hey, if you haven’t mailed in your letter can you fax it RIGHT NOW?”

I heard back from two of the three, the two who said they’d already sent their letters. Which made it pretty obvious who the non-sender was.

That person still has not replied to my e-mail yet, but they have found time to comment on both my Facebook page and my (other) blog. Which means, of course, they have been online but not responding to important messages.

The funny thing is that they were *so* excited to write the letter for me. You know, when I asked them to two months ago. And during all the conversations we’ve had since then.

I heard from the admin. assistant at Giant State U. today, and still no letter from the third person. Sigh.

So now I have to go into work today, and try not to strangle my boss.

No, I’m not moving to Metropolis . . . except, I am

Since Mr. Nico and I started dating, I’ve had to listen to more than my share of people’s presumptions about how my new relationship will affect my future.

“So, will you be looking for a job in Metropolis when you finish your PhD?”

“When are you moving in with Mr. Nico in Metropolis?”

“You should marry him.”

Ugh and ugh and ugh. I’m glad everyone seems to think that our relationship is a good enough thing that they want to plan out my future with Mr. Nico, but geeze, people, as much as I love him, I wasn’t about to give up all the goals and dreams I had for myself just to move myself to his town.

Except, funny thing–now I am planning to move to Metropolis.

My children are exceptional; they share the same developmental disability (one mild, one severe). The city I live in now is a horrible place for someone to have their disability. Just to get into a developmental specialist to get an initial diagnosis was a nine-month wait. There are wait-lists for speech therapists and occupational therapists and feeding therapists and sensory integration therapists. On top of that, the schools here, for the most part, pretty much suck when it comes to dealing with students with special needs.

But Metropolis has resources. I’ve driven up there many a time to take my sons to developmental specialists. Their speech therapist is based out of Metropolis. And one of the leading research and resource centers for their disability is in Metropolis.

I still wasn’t planning to move there, though, until I started doing some serious investigation about my sons’ schooling. Their current school district is rather unenlightened about how to work with kids who have disabilities. They tossed my older son in a mainstream classroom WITH NO SUPPORTS, and they tossed my younger son in a self-contained classroom with no opportunity to interact with typical peers. The district seems to only see two black and white choices rather than seeing inclusion as a continuum.

I want my children’s school experiences to mirror the diversity they will see in our culture. You know, there just isn’t a self-contained Walmart for people with disabilities. My sons need to learn social interaction skills for the world they inhabit, and they need supports to learn how to function in that world. And, research shows that inclusion leads to higher performance for all children–those with disabilities and those without.

So I did more research, and three places kept  popping up as exceptional models of inclusion: one in Michigan, one in Oregon . . . and one in Metropolis.

It’s actually the school district I used to teach in, back when I got my first teaching job out of college. Five years ago a visionary came in and radically redesigned the district’s approach to students with special needs. Institutional change is difficult, and it got so challenging at times that a pile of manure was actually left on his desk once. Yet he continued to push for change, and the result is a school district that values diversity and refuses to place children with disabilities in the category of the “other.”

I want that for my kids. And because of that, I’ve noticed my dreams starting to change.

I thought I wanted to end up as some bad-ass scholar at a Research I school. You know, somewhere where I could be extraordinarily brilliant. But being a bad-ass scholar just doesn’t seem as important as it was before. Other things seem more important.

Like having access to great doctors for my children.

Like ensuring my children have the best education possible.

Like using my scholarship to make a difference for my children and others in the disability community.

Metropolis is the best place for me to do all that. So I’m moving 🙂

And being able to have sex with my boyfriend on a regular basis will be a fabulous fringe benefit.

How sad

I stabbed my new boss.

Okay, maybe “stabbed” is too extreme of a word, but I went to meet with the dean from another college who I’m teaching a class for this fall, and when I shook her hand, I inadvertently stabbed the side of her hand with a freakishly long pinkie nail. The kind of long fingernail that was beginning to remind me of the coke nail that hippie science teacher in junior high sported. Great, not only did my untended fingernails make me look like a coke whore (which, I’ve never tried coke . . . although I suppose it would’ve made me more productive in grad school), but they were also a safety hazard.

Without passing go, I went straight to the nail salon for a mani and pedi.

I sat down and Helga slipped off my flip flops and lowered my feet into warm, bubbly water. She got to work . . . and so did I. I pulled out some 19th-century historical research for my dissertation and began to read away.

When I settled back into my car when my appointment was done, I was unbelievably psyched about all the work I got done during my pedicure.

That is just . . . WRONG.

(I’ve been working waaaaay to much. And so I think I’ll blow off working for the rest of the afternoon and hit happy hour with friends instead. )

The Academy: Kinda Like Junior High but with Bigger Books

I had a meeting this morning with Bad Ass Administrator. I’m one of the couple hundred people who work for her, so it’s not a big shock that I haven’t had much of a chance to work one-on-one with her before now. Since I really respect Bad Ass Administrator, I was super-excited for the opportunity to work closely with her on a project (thus our coffee meeting this morning).

BAA is a super-star academic, but she’s also a mom. Maybe that’s why it happened, why talk shifted away from the project early-on in our conversation. She was asking me about how I was managing childcare and if the DH was helping at all with the kids since the split. She offered her support and encouragement.

Then we returned to the project . . . but my mind was still hanging back on that first part of the conversation. As I said, BAA and I really haven’t had the chance to work together at all. And I know that I certainly wasn’t chummy enough to have chatted with her about my marital demise during any of the ten-second greetings we exchanged in the hallway.

Um, how the hell did she know about my domestic situation? It was kind of creeping me out.

The intellectual side of me was thinking, well, this is a department that studies communication, so it would make total sense for people to be communicating about one another. The stay-out-of-my-shit side of me, on the other hand, was thinking “what the hell!”

It’s not that I was mad at BAA for bringing up my personal life in a business meeting (though that IS kind of weird); I was annoyed at whomever decided my domestic dramas were interesting enough to share with BAA . . . and god knows who else. Heck, maybe the provost and president know all my shit.

It made me wonder about all the other secrets, the ones my friends thought were safe. I wondered if BAA knew about the affairs (carnal and otherwise) that seemed to be so very-well concealed. Perhaps she does know the secrets of all two hundred-something of us. Because, apparently, there’s as much gossip going on in the academy as in a junior high school hallway.

Dang, I guess I need to catch up on my gossip game!