Recently in Personal Is Political Category

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?