Recently in Personal Is Political Category

Stringer Bell is confused. "Whaddaya mean The Wire's not feminist?"

The Wire, the HBO series that ran for five seasons, will apparently live on, despite its shelf life, in a class at Harvard. And Professor William Wilson, the self-admitted "huge fan" who will be teaching the class, is high off of The Wire's Kool-Aid:

"I do not hesitate to say that it has done more to enhance our understanding of the challenges of urban life and the problems of urban inequality, more than any other media event or scholarly publication," Wilson told the audience before poking fun at himself, "including studies by social scientists."

As a racial justice advocate who loves politics and sexually diverse representations of people of color, one can't help but be a sucka for The Wire. (Also, I am not going to lie. I might have dedicated a Facebook status, or ten, to good-God-what-have-you-done-to-me Idris Elba.) But when you fasten your feminist goggles and take another gander, you are bound to get bamboozled, psyched out and sucka-punched by yet another attempt to be progressive -- hold the feminism.

Elizabeth Ault, a bad-ass feminist at the University of Minnesota, begins to sum up The Wire's gender problem in the title of her paper: "You Can Help Yourself, But Don't Take Too Much": African-American Motherhood on The Wire. At one point she states,

The Wire is quite capable of creating sympathy for the struggles of men... shows us characters like alcoholic police officer Jimmy McNulty, strategizing drug kingpin/real estate developer Stringer Bell, and corrupt (okay, maybe just stupid) cop Thomas Hauk, and doesn't dictate how we interpret their storylines; rather, much of the show is full of precisely the sort of representational ambiguity that obviates calls for "more positive representations" and earns the "authentic" plaudit--except, again, when it comes to black mothers, women without the social or cultural capital of those men.

Then she goes for the jugular:

The institutions that The Wire is so devoted to condemning have failed these women too. In order to make its damning assessment of urban politics within its own institutional context of Time/Warner-owned HBO, The Wire must make some compromises. In this case, black mothers' sexualities, their subjectivities, their desires, and therefore their fitness as parents is the price the show, like so many before it, is willing to pay.

Her paper has not been published yet. But it's chock full of good stuff about the director's decision to opt-out of "woman of color feminism" and her analysis of the director's reinvestment in "heteropatriarchal family." I don't know what Wilson has planned on the syllabus, but he needs to give our girl Liz a call. Because the urban inequality problem he rails on about is gendered.

Last night at our panel, Roxie bravely talked about a moment when she got into a big argument with her uncle about whether a woman had the capacity to be president. He was arguing that women were too emotional. She was arguing, of course, that emotion could be a fundamental tool in leadership positions. In the midst of this whole thing, of course, Roxie felt like she was going to burst into tears (she held it in until later).

Her brave admission reminded me of my own struggle within intellectual arguments, especially in my early 20s at Barnard and Columbia Colleges, to manage my own emotions. I remember one class, in particular, in which a classmate and I got into a fiery argument about the politics of language, ebonics, poverty, and education. I teared up in spite of myself and felt frustrated for the rest of the day that I'd let my emotions show.

Today I have more empathy for that 19-year-old version of me. I think that emotions, as Roxie argued, are a critical part of how I process the world, understand ideas and issues, and formulate my own arguments. In this still male-dominated realm of intellectual debate (just look at the op-ed pages of any major newspaper), the standard is still clear: emotions, and most certainly crying, don't have a place.

But the older I get, the more comfortable I am in my own skin and with my own ideas, the more I think that's a bullshit sexist paradigm. Of course it's important to be self-aware and manage one's emotions during an argument, but I think pretending as if the issue you're arguing about has no personal significance or emotional resonance is actually a disempowering and, of course, inauthentic place to come from. My power these days comes from combining both intellectual rigor with emotional authenticity.

I wasn't planning on writing much else about getting married because I figured folks were getting sick of hearing all about it. (If I'm tired of hearing about it, I can't imagine how others feel!) But over the last few days I've seen coverage of my wedding/marriage online - from Salon to Playboy to The Nation - with responses ranging from the congratulatory to the cruel. So I feel like I have to jump in.

When I first wrote about getting married the title of my post was, "Does the personal always have to be political? (And can't it ever be private?)," because one of the biggest issues I was struggling with was how to have a personal life that was well...personal. I was trying to figure out if it was possible to be public in some regards, while still maintaining a modicum of privacy. Apparently the answer is no.

Last week, around the first day of fall, this tweet was going around courtesy of Sinclair Sexsmith, sex blogger and gender writer.

RT @mrsexsmith: tomorrow is equinox; it'll officially be fall, season for which my wardrobe was made. Yay sweaters & jackets!

I agreed with his tweet (strongly) and have been thinking more about how true this is as the weather has gotten steadily colder.

I love fall. It is hands down my favorite season. I do love the leaves, and the feeling of cool crisp air, and the newness of the season. But the main reason I love it is that the fall wardrobe is so much more me than any other season.

Pants, jackets, sweaters, vests. I love them all, and feel super comfortable in my fall clothing. I know I'm not the only one who feels this way about the season and clothing it brings, but for me it is definitely about gender presentation. When I dress up, I mostly wear long sleeve button down shirts and pants. Not much variety on that, regardless of the weather, so when it's hot out I sweat a lot and am uncomfortable. I also don't wear tank tops really, definitely no skirts or dresses for me.

I feel most comfortable--most safe even--wearing layers, sweaters over long sleeve shirts, jackets and vests. It's also much easier to find clothing that fits with my gender presentation in the fall. Even women's clothing is a little more gender neutral (although I mostly wear men's clothing these days). The silhouette created by this wardrobe is also more comfortable for me, less tight fitting, more square.

Related:
H&M Tomboy Chic
Black Tie Blues

Over the past few weeks, I have been working with coalitions and groups of student activists, student government leaders, statewide student organizers, University faculty, graduate students, and union workers around a Day of Action today, September 24, against the severe budget cuts and student fee hikes.

In the 1970s, student fees were less than $100. The University of California extols the virtue of a free public education, and thus charges "fees" instead of "tuition." On July 17, 2009, the UC Regents, a board of decision-makers appointed by the Governor of California and including only one student, declared a state of fiscal emergency and granted UC President Mark Yudof emergency powers to make financial decisions. The Regents are now recommending a 32% fee hike, which would push UC student fees over $10,000 for the first time in history.

The CA state legislature cut the University of California system by $813 million. Some of the fault for crumbling access to higher education lies with California's Republican choke hold on state revenue, which has de-prioritized public education through de-funding and program cuts. And some blame should be attributed to the UC Regents, who have continued to make ill spending choices and granted themselves raises while academic services have been cut ("Execs still get raises as UC cuts staffing, pay"). Instead of disclosing their highly-guarded budget or devoting resources towards serious reform of the California policy on tax revenues, the UC has sought to fund the cuts on the backs of students, workers, and faculty.

Today, we stage a walkout, to show voters that public education is worth funding, to show the UC Regents that the fee hikes and denial of access to higher education are not inevitable, and to allow students to stand in solidarity with faculty, workers, and each other in this battle. At Berkeley, the day's activities will include picket lines, a rally led by students and faculty alike, and a march around campus, but each UC campus has many different actions planned.

I am a cat lady and I am not afraid of this title. I love my furry critters to pieces, but it has been an eventful few weeks and I am finally ready to write about it. Last week, my cat of 22 years passed. It was a beautiful experience for my family and I. We all came together to spend time with her in her last few hours of life. She was an amazing cat that I had since I was nine and to this day I am amazed that something so tiny could be with us for 22 years of her life. I know she is resting happy in cat heaven and I feel good in knowing we did everything we could to make her life wonderful. Thank you Kitty, we miss you every day. (Yes, her name was Kitty, I was nine when I named her, hehe).

Kitty's passing was anticipated, she was older, she has not been the source of my cat related stress. My other cat, Guillermo, the cat I brought with me to NY from San Francisco started acting very weird about 4 months ago. He wouldn't come out of the closet and if you tried to pull him out he would howl at the top of his lungs. We couldn't tell what was wrong with him, he had his rabies vaccine and all other shots, he didn't seem injured and he was still eating. What could it be? We took him into the vet and they found nothing wrong with him, after running every test imaginable including shaving his little butt to see if he had been bitten, since many of his symptoms were leading to paralysis in his lower half.

I'm in Colorado for a family wedding, so I've been hanging out with the bride-to-be, my amazing cousin. We have a really amazing relationship, in part because we are able to be so close despite a lot of ideological and spiritual differences. She's conservative, in most senses, very committed to Christianity, and focused on marriage as an essential institution. I am, as many of you know, politically progressive, still figuring out my spiritual beliefs (does kindness count as a spiritual belief?), and have a very complex relationship to marriage.

In any case, I went to church with her last Sunday and it was a really interesting experience for me. First and foremost, I was pleasantly surprised by how her pastor--a young-ish, very charismatic guy who uses words like "off the hook" and "freak out"--talked about gender roles. He told a long, funny story about cleaning his house--demonstrating that domesticity is no longer the sphere of the womenfolk in his mind. But even more interesting to me, he talked at length about this notion of women "having" their husbands and husbands "having" their wives. Hetero-normativity aside, what resonated for me was that this preacher, and this church, had begun to talk about marriage as an equal partnership.

The language is interesting--"to have." Of course, as a feminist, it immediately makes me think about the long history of marriage as basically a property transaction from father to husband. The language turns people into objects, capable of being possessed or owned. But another part of me thinks the language is sort of beautiful. Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age (I turn 30 soon people), but there also seems to be something sort of comforting about mutually possessing one another, as if the equality of it cancels out the objectification. In this light, "having" your partner means being responsible for them, empathizing with them, taking on the world beside them. I can definitely get down with that interpretation.

And here's the other thing that really struck me--this Christian church in the middle of the Colorado mountains may be one of the only places that the men in the pews actually feel free to express emotions. I saw a lot of very visible feelings from the cowboys, dads, and skier dudes in the crowd. The ugly side of that, of course, is when this opportunity for emotion gets parlayed into Promise Keepers and other misogynistic organizations, but in this case, it seemed like these guys were really reflecting on their lives, their integrity, their roles in their families etc.

So there you have it. We hate on religion a lot here at Feministing, and in feminism in general--and for good God damn reason sometimes--but I also think it's important for us to recognize the ways in which religion might actually support egalitarianism in some ways.

I was inspired by Miriam's great Personal Is Political post, Is that a boy or a girl?, to share some of my experiences of getting to watch others deal with gender through my body. I've talked before about my experience of street harassment as a trans person. This happens so often I barely notice anymore - friends I'm walking with will point out something I totally tuned out. But some street gender moments stand out as giving me a revealing glimpse of other people's gender process. In this post I want to talk about two recent experiences that have stuck in my mind.

I'm a clinic escort at the local Planned Parenthood. Sharing a sidewalk with antis who pray at and harass anyone trying to enter or leave the clinic is easily the most surreal experience of my life. My second week escorting was particularly odd for me personally. Dick, our main anti, had tried without success to engage me and another new escort in conversation the week before (a standard tactic to try to find escort's weak points so antis can get us riled up). I was a bit more femme presenting my second time escorting, and I guess Dick didn't recognize me. I was a little bit late and other escorts were already out on the sidewalk wearing big orange A shirts that say "Pro-Choice Clinic Escort." as I walked toward the path to the clinic I could see Dick eyeing me, confused (usually he jumps at the chance to preach at someone as soon as he sees them walking toward the clinic). I could see the internal debate raging as I turned the corner and started heading for the door. Finally, a few steps down the path, Dick jumps into action, running after me and shouting about how I don't have to let them take my baby, how I have other options. I responded with a simple, "I'm an escort Dick," and went inside.

It's a few weeks later and I'm still reeling from what I got to witness there. I got to watch a Catholic fundamentalist ant-choicer (and the most overtly racist person I have ever encountered in real life, but that's another post) have a gender moment! Dick's decision to pursue me as a potential womb-haver was particularly interesting. Male is usually the default assumption when we are confused about someone's gender. Dick's reaction shows a shift of assumptions in a situation where he is targeting women and trying to antagonize as many as possible. Better to be wrong and assume I'm with child than be wrong and assume I'm not.

Story number two:

I was walking toward the Metro (D.C. public transportation) escalators on my way to work, past a guy standing there eating a bag of chips. As I passed him the guy said, "Hey, how you doing." Apparently too tired to recognize an obvious cat call I responded, "Good, how are you?" I guess my morning voice threw him off. "Wait, I thought you were a girl, ma'am." I thought for a second that maybe he'd said "man," but no, definitely "ma'am." As I headed down the escalator he shouted after me: "What are you ma'am? Hey, I'm talking to you ma'am!"

I suppose I could take the guy's words literally. Maybe he was confused and couldn't tell if I was a girl or too much woman for him to handle (<3 Britney). Somehow, though, I don't think that's what was going on.

I was momentarily scared he would follow me. Straight cis men's sexuality is a major source of their self-perceived power. Heterosexuality puts them at the top of the gender hierarchy not just in terms of who they are but also who and how they fuck. Being betrayed by their own desire can throw them off, and those with power know they need to maintain it however possible. In this case I was lucky enough to just be shouted at, to have the blame put on me verbally. Allen Ray Andrade admitted to this same line of thinking and even tried to use it as a defense for the murder of Angie Zapata (trigger warning). For me this one incident can be a funny story. Angie wasn't so lucky.

I posted a quick link a few weeks back to the new documentary Food Inc.

I finally got to see it last week. In one word, it left me nauseated.

Ever since reading Michael Pollan's book The Omnivore's Dilemma a few years back, I became much more interested in the politics of food. It made me think more about ingredient lists, industrialized agriculture and the mass production of meat.

Well Food Inc took the whole scenario to another level entirely. The visual element, coupled with a really wholistic view of how our highly industrialized food system is impacting us, really hit me. They hit on so many issues: health, poverty, worker's rights, immigration, environment, big business, government subsidies.

The way we eat is not a small problem. In fact, its connected to almost every other problem we work toward solving. The message of the movie is that you can make a difference, and what you choose to eat matters. I take that to heart, not just because of how it impacts my personal health, but how it might impact the health of my community, my environment, my economy.

I'm privileged. I live in a city with plentiful access to farmer's markets during most of the year. There are Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) options, as well as a few co-ops and other locally grown natural food options. After seeing this movie, I've recommitted to buying exclusively from these venues. I can do it, because I don't live in poverty and because I don't live in a food desert as some do. Others can't make this choice, because they can't afford farmer's market prices, because they need to feed their large families. But I can spend the extra money to support food that is wholesome and ethically grown and raised. I can eat meat once a week, rather than a few times a week, and pay more for animals not grown in a factory or shipped thousands of miles. I can make more foods from scratch, rather than buying prepackaged mixes with preservatives and chemicals. I can try my hand at gardening, even in my urban environment. I can support local farmers, bakers, cheese makers.

It's amazing that something as fundamental as how we feed ourselves is only beginning to be scrutinized from a social justice perspective.

Do you garden? Participate in a CSA? Shop at farmer's markets? Is the way you eat part of your activism?

If you haven't seen the documentary yet, check it out. You'll never be able to eat the same way again.

I'm unlocking my bike at the Harris Teeter when a dad pulls up with his daughter on the back of his bike. While he's locking up she runs around the bike rack, singing to herself and pushing bikes over. She is standing probably a foot away from me when she asks her dad, "Is that a boy or a girl?" He replies, "Why don't you ask her?" She never directly addresses me and I stay silent. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asks again. He repeats his first answer again. Finally, as I'm getting on my bike to ride away (she still hasn't addressed me directly) he says to her "She's a girl."

Kids are usually the most honest, the least afraid to ask questions. But if these interactions don't reveal how entrenched the gender binary is in our world, I'm not sure what does. She was only vocalizing what all of us do internally, each time we encounter someone new. We size them up, and deciding their gender is a big first step.

Being called "it" didn't feel too good, but then again she's six and our language doesn't give her many other options. It was interesting that his daughter's questioning didn't phase the father though--he gendered me right away ("her") even before he answered her question directly.

I chose not to answer, first because she never asked me directly (it'd be hard to ignore a direct question) but also because I didn't know how to respond. It's getting harder and harder these days to respond to that question (which I get mostly on forms and such). These days I identify as genderqueer, if given the opportunity to write in my gender on forms, and kind of enjoy the rare moments when I get called "sir" in public.

Afterwards, while biking home, I contemplated what would I say to this kid if I could actually explain. Would I try and explain the idea of genderqueer to her? Would I give her my life story, complete with my thoughts about my gender identity and presentation as it's morphed over the years? Would I tell her I don't love pronouns, or answering which I prefer? There's no simple answer there for me.

My friend Alex told me about how she reacts in these situations, by asking questions in return. What do you think? Why do you want to know? Are you a boy or a girl?

I'm writing about this because in our recent conversations about gender here at Feministing, the topic of genderqueerness came up and some commenters asked for more discussion on the topic. I'm also working on a new series (title TBD) about gender in everyday life, kind of a way to talk about different examples of how gender difference is reinforced by society. So stay tuned for that to come in the next few weeks.

Looking for a definition of the term genderqueer? Try here and here for some definitions.

So when I recently decided to take a leap and quit my full-time job, I didn't initially realize how big of a deal buying my own health insurance would be.

I realized that it would be expensive, and probably not great coverage. But what I didn't know was that I would have to worry about getting denied coverage completely and wait more than 6 weeks for my application to be approved.

I was pretty much indignant when I decided I wanted to quit my job and try cobbling together a living in a non-conventional way. I had saved money for the three years I worked full-time, I had planned out some future sources of income to keep me going initially. The idea that I wouldn't be able to pursue what I wanted to do with my life because of health insurance just seemed silly.

I'm actually one of the lucky ones. I didn't get denied coverage. I did however, while I was anxiously waiting to hear back, hear stories from numerous friends who were denied for lots of seemingly ridiculous reasons. One friend told me he was denied because he had been prescribed anti-depressants once. Another was denied because of a long ago issue with ovarian cysts that was being regulated through birth control.

The bottom line is that we have no protections against the arbitrary and discriminatory policies of the health insurance companies. I was approved for coverage, but not until 6 weeks after I had submitted my application. That meant that in order for me not to have a gap in coverage I had to pay more than $500 the first month after leaving my job to stay on the COBRA policy from my organization.

Again, I'm lucky in all of this. I don't have serious medical problems, I saved some money to help me cover the high monthly cost of insurance. But there is no doubt the system is beyond broken.

Fingers crossed that the Obama administration can move forward on the fixes that we need so so badly.

For some more facts on the rising cost of health care and it's impacts, check out this fact sheet from the National Coalition on Health Care.

I'm sad to say I'm late on this news--Obama has eased the travel restrictions to Cuba to pre-Bush standards.

Don't pack your suitcases just yet--these are travel restrictions for Cuban-Americans with family on the island. Five years ago Bush had tightened travel restrictions and even people with family on the island could only visit once every three years, and for a restricted amount of time.

I'm the child of two Cuban immigrants. My parents came here in the 1960s, as young teenagers, because of the Cuban revolution and Fidel Castro's policies. I haven't written a lot about Cuba but it's become apparent in recent years that things are going to change on the island, which makes me want to write more about my experiences as a first generation Cuban American.

I wrote about my family history once before, and my story is a rather typical one of Cuban immigrant families in the US.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how people get around and what impact it has on their lives.

I grew up in a small Southern college town. We drove everywhere. There was a public bus but we never took it. Since leaving home I've mostly lived in big cities with public transportation--NYC and DC. The subway is amazing and almost everywhere was really accessible. It runs all night, hits all of the boroughs and is relatively affordable and fast.

When I moved to DC last year, I settled back into life in a smaller city. Still a relatively good public transportation system but it gets less places and closes at night. I started riding the bus, brought my car with me and used it much more than I had expected.

Then two months ago my car died. I then had to rely completely on public transportation, mainly the bus. When you take the bus everywhere, you have a lot of time to think. When you're waiting for the bus to come, stuck in traffic on the bus, walking to and from the bus stops. I started to notice how much stress it added to my life. Often running late to things, not being able to get around quickly, dealing with unpredictable and often unreliable buses. Often spending a few hours of every day just getting from place to place.

And I live in a city with a good public transportation system. I don't live far, I don't really commute a significant distance. I also started to notice more and more who was riding the bus with me. With the exception of rush hour times downtown, the majority of bus riders are people of color--in my area, Latino and African American folks.

I have talked a little bit about the process of moving and living at home and some issues it has brought up. I haven't in a while, but this article in the Huffington Post reminded me that my dad recently, concerned with my lack of romantic prospects in my life, offered, in the most friendly and optimistic way, to create a profile for me in indianmarriage.com or some such website like that. It was so amusing that I actually laughed, only to realize he was serious.

Although this article is about parents in India trying to set their children living in the US up with potential mates, it captures some of my same reservations, along with a brief discussion of mating practices in modern transnational South Asian culture.

Historically, evolution of matrimonial matchmaking in India can be traced to the late 19th century, said Rochona Majumdar, assistant professor at the University of Chicago's Department of South Asian Languages and Civilizations. Marriages arranged by family, both extended, or by the parent of the man or woman involved, usually were made on the basis of matching income levels, caste and the like. The process of finding a suitable partner went through many changes, said Majumdar.

"First it was through caste journals and caste magazines, gradually it moved to newspapers, now from newspapers to online sites," she said.

Modern technology, however, highlights the differences in expectations of parents regarding the age at which they think their children should get married and the speed at which they take that step, and, on the other side, the children's desire to take more time in choosing life partners.

"People who are on the matrimonial Web site probably want to get married soon, and I didn't want to get married to someone I just met," said Deokule.

Yeah, I am even more radical than that, I don't want to get married at all. Plus, I don't need one more social networking site to bog me down. Dating sucks we all know it and some feel they have to do it. I don't really do it, that is not because I am against it, but because it is generally a waste of time. But I definitely don't need my parents helping me out with it. Sorry Dad.

I recently interviewed Cate LaBarre, a life coach based out of Central New York, on her work -- especially during these difficult times. I hope her words are helpful.

Here's Cate...

I'm always interested in the ways in which feminists and other activists (myself included) struggle to make the leap between our ideas and our daily lives. Sometimes it seems like our intellects are so on fire that we forget to truly internalize, or more likely, we're simply unable to. It's one thing to realize that you are performing your gender when you shave your pits and that you don't want to do it anymore; it's another to cease to do it despite what your aunt might say when she catches sight of those black sprigs of hair.

Sometimes it's not as straight forward, of course. Just because I've realized that the thin ideal is bullshit, doesn't mean I don't sometimes feel less than glowing about my shape. The political and the psychological do not always line up. Here are five ways in which I'm still struggling to square up my ideas and my daily practice. (Note: this is not meant to be a feminist litmus test of some kind, just a list of things that I personally realize are counter to my own feminist ideas and behaviors that I would like to stop. You may be just fine with saying sorry by instinct or think that it's fine not to feel equipped to crunch numbers. The point is to reflect on your own gaps.):

1. I apologize and say excuse me far too often in public situations when I am just taking up a normal amount of space.

2. I get intimidated when math comes up in daily life situations--whether it's splitting a bill among friends or trying to focus on the specific allocations in the stimulus package when I'm reading an article.

3. I feel like I have to wear makeup in certain situations even when I don't want to. At first I chalked this up to an age thing...I'm young so I have to wear make up in certain circles to be taken seriously. I'm starting to feel like it's just an excuse. (Unless I feel like wearing it, which happens sometimes, and that's cool.)

4. I still say no to friends or loved ones with a lot of trepidation, even if I know that they are asking me to do something I'm not interested in or don't have the energy for etc. You might argue this isn't gendered, but in my family, it certainly was.

5. I sometimes listen to my guy friends objectify women and say nothing. It feels exhausting and killjoy-ish. Part of me feels like I should give myself permission to not be the feminist police all the time. Another part wonders if I just have a hard time doing the hard confrontation shit with my own buddies.

What are yours?

As a feminist I believe that the personal is the political. In other words, what you do is political, and yes, it is complicated. All of us at Feministing have bore our personal lives on this blog and they have been picked apart, reprinted, chastised and cherished. But instead of writing a really personal post about how difficult this process is (I will save that for another post), I want to focus on another internet phenomenon that is about sharing. Specifically, the "25 things meme," on Facebook where you share 25 random facts about yourself and tag people to do the same or at least read the ones you put together.

Last week there was an article in the NYT and TIME magazine about the 25 things meme. I specifically found the Time piece to be powerful. The author really hates the 25 things meme.

But it's just so stupid. Most people aren't funny, they aren't insightful, and they share way too much. Facebook is a loose social network; a "friend" on Facebook might translate to someone you'd barely recognize in real life. I don't care that my college roommate's sister is anemic or that my stepcousin's boyfriend gets nervous around old people (apparently he's afraid they're going to die)

My immediate reaction was pity for this woman, because it sounds like her friends are super boring. I had a completely different experience with sharing 25 things and reading those of my friends. Most of my friends are amazing, actually all of them are, they are interesting and amazing to me, and I found that reading about their lives gave me more insight into who they are and why they do the things they do, are passionate about the things they are passionate about. It was a story-telling tool.

But maybe, I have a different relationship with these lists. I have lived a very public internet life for the last few years. Who I am is what I do in many ways, that is how my identity plays out. I blog under my own name and you can easily find pictures of me. I have also had to make personal sacrifices with knowing that people that I know from all walks of my life have probably read about what I do, so I can't pretend to you know, not be a feminist or something. So my sense of personal privacy is different then someone who has a boss that might read their list.

But given that Facebook has really effective privacy settings, I find this hatred for 25 things really interesting. I find it an honor to be tagged in someone's note, that they wanted me to read these things about them. But other's find it to be a chore, embarrassing and difficult to manage. They would prefer to get to know people as they chose and in the real world.

I find criticism of oversharing to be complex. I think as women and as women of color it is hard enough to speak truths on our lives, so if we are doing it, we should be supported in doing it and say fuck you to internet standards and etiquette. I have never been one for etiquette.

On the other hand there are a lot of things I do not share on the internet. What is your experience with sharing on the internet? When is sharing, oversharing?

So remember awhile back when I asked for your advice on sharing space with a partner and not losing your mind? Well, I'm happy to report that it's been about three months of cohab-ing and things seem to be going along swimmingly. I think in my effort to make sure that my body wasn't invaded by sexist body snatchers (laundry, dishes, dinner oh my!) the second he moved in, I forgot how much fun he is, how much I adore watching TV with him, and telling one another jokes while we try to fall asleep. We just make a lot of sense, which, it turns out, is one major protection against stupid gender role defaults.

Having said that, I do have to admit that, from time to time, I'm watching myself fall into what feels like a pretty common struggle. Case in point: the box.

Nikolai left a cardboard box filled with "the etcetera" of his move sitting on the floor of our bedroom for awhile. It was on the floor on his side of the bed, hidden from view. If I was careful about it, I could almost forget it existed, even in our 700 square foot one bedroom apartment. But instead, I thought about it frequently.

I had asked him, with all the nonchalance I could muster, if he wouldn't mind cleaning it up. Sure, he said. Soon. We took the train to his mom's house in Brooklyn for a meat-filled Thanksgiving and returned. It was still there. We went away and visited my parents in Santa Fe for Christmas and returned. It was still there.

I felt anger at Nikolai creep up. I felt the urge to unpack the box myself but quickly slapped the impulse away. I expended Herculean energy trying not to say anything, trying to ignore the box and pretend it didn't matter. And, in fact, to him, it didn't matter.

He eventually cleaned up the box in anticipation of a house guest. And like that--poof!--it was gone. But I can't help feeling like I'm left with the first taste of a struggle I will be battling for years to come.

The box today is a baby tomorrow. He means to get up for the 2am feeding, but he's just so exhausted from work. Next time, he tells me, I should shake him harder until he wakes up. But I don't. He looks peaceful. I enjoy the time with the baby even if I'm catatonic. The baby tomorrow becomes a pimply tween in ten years. We were so determined to split parenting responsibilities 50/50, but his workplace is more traditional than mine; slowly my writing time gets eroded and we both shrug and fall asleep watching The Daily Show. I miss my work but I love the kid. I'm good at being a mom. The pimply tween in ten years becomes a know-it-all college kid in twenty. The empty nest is more like an echoing cavern. Twenty years of sacrificed sleep and shrugged-away work opportunities and lost autonomy wake me up in the night and I look over at him, sleeping soundly, and feel righteously angry. The kid is amazing--more dynamic and courageous than we ever could have imagined. But where did my--not ours, but my--life go?

I know. I know. It's just a box. As Nikolai rightly pointed out, he would treat an unpacked box far different than a living, breathing baby. But it's brought up new ideas for me about what I value vs. what he values and how we can negotiate common space and a common life when those contrasts get in the way. I want to learn how to let go when it doesn't matter. And how to own my choices wholeheartedly when it does. I don't want to resent him. And I don't want him to resent me. Is that possible?

Last week was an absolutely insane time to be in Washington DC. To be completely honest, if I didn't live here I never would have come for the inauguration madness.

One of the unusual things about being in DC during the inauguration were all the fancy events that were going on all week. There were ten official inaugural balls, and countless other similar black tie events throughout the week. I somehow found myself with tickets to two of them.

For me (and maybe many of you) the first thing that comes to mind when I think about a black tie event is what the hell am I going to wear? I even wrote a piece recently that was published in the latest edition of Sinister Wisdom: Latina Lesbians entitled Black Tie Blues.

What I've learned from my limited experience with black tie is that there isn't much in-between when it comes to black tie. It's pretty standard: girls wear dresses (fancy preferably long ones) and men wear tuxedos. Period. For me, a woman who hasn't worn a dress in almost three years and has no plans to in the future, it's a definite predicament.

This time around I decided to bite the bullet and rent a tux. There are so many criticisms to be made about these kind of events, about the standards created by "black tie," how they reinforce gender norms and we should get rid of the practice all together. How it's extremely classist. But the bottom line was that I wasn't willing to miss out on celebrating the Obama victory at these events (which I didn't have to pay to get into, thanks to my job) and I wanted to feel comfortable. That's what these kind of anxieties boil down to, wanting to feel comfortable in whatever I'm wearing and appropriately dressed.

Renting the tux was definitely an experience to remember. Unfortunately for me I don't know of any tux rental places in DC that cater to queer people so I had to go the conventional route. I picked the Mens Wearhouse near my job. I was pretty nervous about the whole thing, so I asked my girlfriend to come with me, which definitely helped. The employees at the store were overall more accommodating than I expected. I had to go back numerous times for different issues and by the last time I went they all knew me by name. For someone with my frame (I'm 5'2" and not skinny) it wasn't easy to find a good fit. What I ended up with was rather boxy/baggy but I felt good.

At both events, the most me and my girlfriend got were a few double takes and sideways glances. Nothing too terrible, much tamer than some of my previous experiences. The only other women wearing tuxedos were the servers. I found one other woman (shout out to Melissa!) at the second event we went to who was also wearing a tux and she awesomely came up and introduced herself, giving me props for also wearing a tuxedo. Solidarity!

Have any of you readers had similar experiences?

I have never been a fan of New Year's Resolutions. When I was younger they always had to do with losing weight or to quit eating cookies or some such thing that I was told if I do would unlock the secret to the life I always wanted. As I have gotten older and more in touch with myself and my feminism, I realize that negative self talk or putting myself up to tasks that are based on insecurity and hold the 'secret to everything I am missing' is rarely successful and never makes me feel good. So I moved to focusing on being as healthy and positive as I can be. But this year, I am coming out of my anti-New Year's resolution attitude with a few resolutions that have to do with things I want to do, not things I think I should do.

1. I commit to doing more video-blogging.
2. I want to get my personal website/consulting business up and running.
3. I will continue to write for Feministing, building on the work we have already done as we move to building relationships in the real world.
4. I will continue to not give a shit about my weight, but live a full, happy and healthy life based on self reflection, deep breathing and love.
5. I will finish my book. Hopefully. (Ha!)

Once I let go of resolutions that were based in self hate and things I didn't want to do, I realized that this is actually pretty fun, like a to-do list for the year, filled with positivity, aspirations and ways to move forward.

What are your New Year's resolutions this year?

Some of you may have read Anna Clark's fascinating piece in Bitch's last issue on women writers and ambition: "The Ambition Condition: Women, Writing, and the Problem of Success." In it, she looks at the broad and historical landscape of women writing, right up to our present struggles with blog visibility, the gap in op-ed bylines etc. Clark writes:

There's no simple gender indicator for the weird fusion of insecurity and ambition, of the feigned nonchalance and quiet competitiveness that's common in writers of all sorts. But these traits are complicated by the cultural caricatures of ambitious women and the uneven historical patterns that have dictated whose talent is rewarded and whose isn't.

For all of her young life, What Is This Light has been a secret blog or at least a semi-secret blog. A couple days ago I read Anna Clark's Bitch Magazine article, "The Ambition Condition: Women, Writing, and the Problem of Success" and it proved at once cathartic and terrifying. Clark says things I already know much too well but couldn't quite articulate...And so, I'm going public. I don't expect much to change around here, but I've mustered enough gumption to really take on this mental paradigm shift.

Thanks to Anna for inspiring women to cure their own ambition conditions.

This picture is from a series of very moving pictures that can be found here. This one was my favorite and has the captions: These two boys waited as a long line of adults greeted Senator Obama before a rally on Martin Luther King Day in Columbia, S.C. They never took their eyes off of him. Their grandmother told me, "Our young men have waited a long time to have someone to look up to, to make them believe Dr. King's words can be true for them." Jan. 21, 2008.

I have never been an overly patriotic person, maybe because I grew up in a South Asian household that dreamed of returning to India, but the role of the US military world-wide has always dampened any belief in the strength or character of the leaders of this "great" country. Despite growing up hearing, "well if you don't like it here, you can always go back to where you came from" more times than I would like to recall, I have always had a love hate relationship with this country that my parents decided to move to in the early 1970's. I claim a US citizenship, but have never felt like a real citizen as most of my life, no one has believed that I am. So yeah, it makes being patriotic for a country that doesn't really see you as part of it, difficult.

But despite my cynicism, I have always worked for the benefit of America, partly because that is the only kind of work available for liberal arts major, but also because I believe in the importance of civic duty. I was a school teacher in some of the most underfunded schools in America that are failing from neglect and racism, I have worked in non-profits and now I am a political writer. Despite my cynicism, like many Americans, I was still committed to making this country a better place. But as a result of the Bush Administrations regressive policies, irrelevant of my commitment to the public sector, I am in debt, I have no money to invest or buy a house or even think about raising a family and, oh yeah, I don't have health insurance. My country has betrayed me.

I voted for Barack Obama because all of these issues are ones that he has talked about and I believe he will change or affect in some capacity that will reinstall the good that comes out of civic minded work. I don't want to regret that I went to college, I don't want to be hateful that I worked for a public school district and I don't want to go into debt if goddess forbid something happens to me or a loved one and we don't have health insurance.

The American dream is bullshit and a ploy to ignore the actual conditions and struggles of people's lives in this country. My parents came to this country for a better life and we have lived a life of struggle and that struggle continues as my parents retire with no savings and limited social security. But even my cynical father said to me last week inspired, I am willing to give Barack Obama a chance because he on some level sees me and understands the struggle of immigrants. The election of Barack Obama will not be the end of our struggle for equitable rights for the people of color and immigrants in this country, but I do believe he is a step in the right direction.

I voted for Obama because I agree with his stance on reproductive justice and will fight to protect my right to choose, I think he will work to get people like me health insurance, I believe that he will fight for me to keep more money in my pocket and most importantly because he wants to begin to talk about stopping the illegal and expensive war in Iraq. I am also voting for Barack Obama because as a person of color in this country, I have never believed or felt that I belonged and I have watched young people of color through my work as a teacher never believe they have a shot. Is Obama's presidency going to all of a sudden solve racism in inner city and rural America? Probably not, but it will be much more effective working to hold someone accountable that at least on some level can understand where you are coming from. I, like many others, am not voting for Barack Obama simply because he is black, but it does mean something different and special to me, to my community, to my friends and to my students. I am still not feeling amazingly patriotic, we have a long way to go, and even writing this post is making me feel a little nauseous (where did radical anti-establishment Samhita go???), but I do think we have the chance to move this country in a better direction. At least I hope so.

Through EngageHer.org and documentary film Engage Her: Getting minority women to lead and vote, founder and CEO Mable Yee is working to get women to the polls -- especially women of color -- millions are registered to vote but don't cast their votes. So why do all those undecideds get so much attention?

Just 10 days to go till the big vote for the next prez. Here's Mable...

Ethar at Muslimah Media Watch calls out "shame cartoons" that target Muslim women.

So as most of you know I am taking some time off from the nitty-gritty of the 9-5, quit my non-profit job and am living at home to work on some writing. Now, I don't generally share a ton of personal stories, mainly because I don't want to be too self indulgent and I don't want to bore you, but this one I just had to share.

When I was 21 I decided the only hope for my personal survival was to move as far away from my strict Hindu parents as possible. My escape from NY was to escape from my parents and what I felt as the suffocating South Asian community we are part of and I found my freedom in San Francisco. Moving back 7 years later was a difficult decision, but I figured I am 30, I am who I am, what can they say to me now?

Before moving in, I set some ground rules for my parents. They were not allowed to talk to me about my lack of allegiance to our religion, my dating and/or marriage status and my weight. I got to give it up to them, they have definitely not bothered me about religion or dating (too much), but they have failed miserably at making comments about my weight.

It's strange to look back on the events of September 11th from such a distance now, and realize how much it has influenced all of us, both personally and politically. I was a senior at Barnard College in 2001, still possessing a sense of absolute invincibility, still pretty faithful in the innate goodness of politicians (even if I acknowledged some corruption), still pretty unabashedly self-focused.

The eerie vision of women bankers finally making it up to 116th with their high heels in hand, soot on their suits, the deep sense of shock and insecurity, the realization that I was so far from my family, changed everything for me--as I know it did for so many young Americans.

And when I think about the ways in which it changed government--pushing big daddy protector politics to the forefront and diplomacy and domestic welfare to the background--it makes me deeply sad. It prompted a whole new generation of violence, death, injury, mental illness, alienation. But it also led to such a chaotic, lost civic landscape, that it catalyzed the American people to hunger for real, bonafide change. And that's where we are today...a place of guarded hope, an ache for renewal, an earned belief in the need for peace.

The personal and the political in its most grave form. The day so many Americans, especially the young, were forced to reckon with our own power or lack thereof.

(Above pic from The New York Times.)

You know that scene in Juno where Ellen Page's character takes pregnancy test after pregnancy test at her local convenience store? Over on the community blog, Aly tells us how the reality can be quite different. She and her friend, both 15-year-olds, went through quite the ordeal trying to buy a simple over-the-counter pregnancy test.

We're in CVS, searching for a pregnancy test. ["Shouldn't they be over here?" "I can't find them! Are they by the tampons?" "Nah, if you're pregnant, you don't need those anymore." "Fuck, should we ask someone?" "Wait, no, I think I found them! No, shit, that's a yeast infection thing." "Aly!" "Sorry! They both make you have to pee on them, I think!" "No, you stick the yeast infection one up your snatch." "Ew, seriously? Sick." "This is not the time for commentary on the world of yeast infections!"]

As you can see, it was quite an adventure.

We finally find them in a small little corner marked 'Family Planning', and we search for the right one. An EPT boasts TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE! for thirteen dollars, so we grab that one: two tests means extra reassurance. C.'s hands are shaking so hard that the box is rattling, so I take it away from her and go up to the counter.

The woman in front of us has practically done her grocery shopping here, and is paying in dimes and quarters. We wait for five minutes, Courtney watching the door for my mom.[who is in the car, innocently thinking we are getting pads.] Finally the woman is done, and I plop the pregnancy test on the counter. The clerk is in her late forties, and looks at me, pops her gum, and says, "I'm gonna have to see some ID."

Read the rest. (It's official: I'm in love with our community bloggers.)

The following was written by a good friend of mine about her experiences with vulvodynia, otherwise known as really bad, unexplained pain in your vagina. She wanted to write this anonymously, for obvious reasons ... like the fact that her treatment involved something called the "Ballsy Supercock." OK, seriously, this is an important women's health issue, and I urge you all to read her words. --Ann

I was always prone to yeast infections, so when the vaginal pain started, about a year and a half ago, I assumed that was what it was. The opening of my vagina was too raw for sex, and riding my bike was painful, too; any pressure made it feel like there was a sharp blade under my skin. I bought Monistat and treated it and thought nothing of it - until it didn't stop. About a month later, I finally went to my gynecologist, who told me I didn't have a yeast infection, and in fact she didn't know what I had, but I should just keep wearing cotton underpants and washing after I swam or had sex. Time passed, while I spent an inordinate amount of money on CVS yeast infection medication, but the pain never went fully away. After another six months or so, I went back to the doctor, who poked at my vulva with a Q-Tip and, when I almost jumped out of the stirrups with pain, told me I might have vulvar vestibulitis.

Vulvar vestibulitis is a form of vulvodynia, the umbrella term for "unexplained but really bad vaginal pain." It's characterized by burning pain and inflammation in the vaginal region due to a hugely increased development of nerve endings, sometimes - but not always -- traceable to an initial irritant (like, for example, over-the-counter yeast infection medication). It is very poorly understood and commonly misdiagnosed. Of the 13 million American women (that's one out of six!) who experience vulvodynia every year, it's estimated that half don't even know what they have. These numbers are particularly maddening given how debilitating the condition can be: Women with really bad vulvodynia can become unable to walk, wear pants, or sit without pain, and it can last for years or even for a lifetime. Imagine, by contrast, how the medical community would approach a disorder that made any friction unbearably painful for one in six penises.

So I was sitting with one of my favorite 18-year-old superstars a few days ago at Cosi near Union Square, chatting about life, WAM, sexual politics, college, social change, when all of the sudden this guy posted up outside on the street and started starring at us through the window. I didn't want to jump to any conclusions so I just kept on talking with my mentee, and then he inched closer and I realized he was looking directly at our feet and rubbing his dick through the pocket of his jeans. Um, yes, he was masturbating to our feet. I got up and got a manager, at which point dude ran off.

This is the third time that I've been in a public place, minding my own business, and had a guy masturbate near me--the first time was when I was 16-years-old having a picnic in the park near my house, the second was at Smokin' Grooves Tour in the late 90s (yes, I'm that old).

When I brought up this experience to friends, just about every one of them had a similar story, but we all realized there's no real name for this kind of violation. It doesn't even get brought up that much, it seems to me. So I'm reaching out to y'all and asking...does this shit happen to you? Do you think we should name it? Or does it already have a name that I don't know about?

I know the Holla Back crew has created a great way to respond to being harrassed on the street, but this feels different, right?

Reader Deanna sent us a copy of this letter she wrote to Safeway about her experience buying groceries there with WIC (Women, Infants and Children) checks. I'll let her speak for herself:

I am a mother of two children, a full time student and full supporter of my family and because of that I have been on WIC to help with groceries. I have been on WIC for about 5 years now and have always gone to Safeway to purchase my items. I have run into amazing checkers that have been courteous and kind every time, but I have also had my share of checkers that seem outright annoyed with me due to having WIC and because it takes a little longer process to go through with my checks.

I have dealt with these rude people and have talked to managers, but I have never felt so hurt and embarrassed to be on WIC as I had on the day I showed up to your California store Wednesday, November 7, 2007. I had picked up my items and went to check out. I first noticed the bagger that just finished the person ahead of me and as soon as he saw me pull out my WIC checks, he left. I let it go until I approached the checker let him know that I had WIC. Keep in mind that because I know it is a longer process to go through, I make sure that all my items are in order and just try to do my best to speed up the process for you guys and the people in line behind me.

So, what it's like to be a woman who's over 6 feet tall?

To begin with, to be extra-tall is to be somehow more public than the average woman. Everybody sees me. Strangers on the subway peer upward and tell me about their childhood neighbor who was tall. Fellow grocery shoppers sheepishly request my help procuring items from upper shelves. Male passers-by mutter, "That was one giant woman." Men seem particularly inclined to register one characteristic: tall.

I'd add to that: Fratty dudes in bars will chant "6 footer!" or loudly make bets with each other about how tall I am. (Well, I've actually had restaurant wait staff and fellow wedding guests make bets, too, so maybe it's unfair to pin that one on the bros alone.) People stare openly, all the time, everywhere I go. There are some days, namely those when I'm wearing whopping 1-inch heels, that I feel like I leave a ripple of height comments in my wake. Small children point and say, "Mommy! Look at the giant lady!" Women who feel insecure about their own height will often say to me, "I wish I was that tall!" No, honey, you don't. Really.

But it does have certain benefits.