I am knackered, and as much as I want to writewritewrite, I just don’t have any energy to put together something grand.
Alas, thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt.
I do, however, have one thing to say.
I have written in the past about the amount of time I have spent in the United States, and how these trips have been for a myriad of reasons – be it sports, school, pleasure, or what have you.
For instance –
I got engaged in Hawaii.
My older sister lives in New York.
My dad lives in Palm Dessert six months of the year.
Seattle always feels a little bit like my home away from home. (A city from another missy?)
In short, I have never had a bad experience in any of the places I have visited.
So while I have no qualms at all about the outcome of last night’s election, (I am in fact elated) I would also be lying if I said that I didn’t find the political and ideological divide that currently exists in America to be incredibly disconcerting.
Versipellusfenris over at Unnecessary Words wrote a great op-ed today, reflecting on this (growing) disconnect and the future (but also the past) of the Republican Party. I urge you to read it, as it is excellent food for thought.
In this vein, I want to leave you all with this quote from Jack Layton, the late leader of the Federal New Democratic Party (and official leader of the opposition) here in Canada.
I feel as though his words are very fitting for not only Americans, but indeed all those struggling to find common ground in our world today.
So, as many of you know, I take great pains to work against institutionalized misogyny every single day of my life (much to the chagrin of both my lifespan and mental health.)
Last night I went to a special screening of the movie Miss Representation, a film that, according to its website:
“Explores how the media’s misrepresentations of women have led to the under representation of women in positions of power and influence.”
Now, being the hardened, calloused feminist that I am, much of the information presented in the film was pretty old hat – it wasn’t shocking or disturbing – instead it just served as a means to reinforce truths of which I am already (much too) aware.
That the patriarchy exists. That both men and women actively engage in the perpetuation of this system.
That the media makes millions of telling women that they are not good enough, and that they will they ever be good enough.
(And that they are worth nothing more than the sum of their physical parts – a conceit continually advocated by media conglomerates, advertisers, and the like.)
HEY LAIDEEZ! We even have chick chocolate now! Eat this and be a SEXY CHEEKY HOT FLIRT BECAUSE THE MENZ LUV IT.
This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy the film. (However I actually don’t think it’s really a type of film that you “like” or “don’t like.”)
I believe that it puts forth an incredibly important message – and one that should be talked about by all individuals, regardless of gender, which is that in order to change these destructive, social (and political, and cultural, etc., ) institutions we must, MUST work to empower both young women, and young men.
This is a two-pronged process.
If we hope to move ahead from the place where we find ourselves today, we must start promoting both agency and literacy amongst our youth, as these are crucial factors in terms of not only advancing the position of women in North America (and of course in other areas of the world) but of advancing our society as a whole.
Honestly, so much of it comes down to education.
And reading.
And the stories that are told.
Stories about humanity – not necessarily stories about “men” and “women.”
I mean, how else are youth going to engage with the idea of equality?
How else are they going to develop the critical thinking skills required to operate within the social systems that openly advocate and reinforce inequality?
My husband (who is one of the coolest feminists I know) is also an educator, and one of the hardest battles he wages with his students is trying to engage many of them in literature they study.
Seriously, he will tell you point blank: not many kids reads anymore.
And because of this, young people are less and less likely to dissect the different messages that bombard them twenty-four hours a day, through an ever growing number of media – be they traditional or new.
They are less likely to deconstruct the stories – the tropes, the stereotypes, the norms, the systems – they are exposed to each time they flip the channel or open that web browser (let alone question then!)
Because when we watch television, use the internet, listen to music – these are passive media. We are letting these things happen to us.
With reading you are problem solving, forming hypothesis, and working through content – (yes I am aware that this is highly dependent on the material you are engaged with – but on the whole, I’m apt to believe that reading is a much healthier intellectual pursuit that ye olde boob tube or the interwebs.)
And the great thing about reading is, you get to find out what you like, and then make informed choices from that experience – as opposed to being told what you like (which is basically the main reason that TV exists, and increasingly more and more the internet) and making decisions based on what you think is right for you, and not what you know is right for you.
(I honestly have no other explanation as to why anyone would ever sign up for reality TV.)
Now, I’m certainly not saying that as long as every kid grows up reading a book a week, engrained sexism is magically going to disappear.
Nor am I saying that TV AND INTERNET ARE BAD.
(I have made my feelings quite clear about that sometime last November.)
It’s just that when there is nothing to balance out, or neutralize so much of the awful messaging that plagues those two platforms, (platforms that are owned and controlled predominantly by old, white, men – a group I would wager is predominantly adverse to change) it is incredibly difficult to evolve.
Instead, these norms are recreated and reinterpreted in perpetuity.
And that, as the movie successfully points out, is something that is hurting us all.
And this, unlike the movie, is something I don’t like.
Tonight has brought cool spring showers, and warm toasty fires.
I had the pleasure of speaking at a Big Sisters fundraiser today after work.
I’ve been a Big for three and a half years, and recently signed up to be a media program ambassador. Basically I get to go to different events and extol the virtues of this seriously amazing, life changing organization.
The tank top I made for the half-marathon I ran to raise funds for Big Sisters.
This role is great fun, and is rad as heck. I love working with this association, and want to do whatever I can in my power to raise awareness and funds for their different initiatives, while at the same time stoking, or perhaps piquing the interest of potential Bigs.
It was such a pleasure to chat with the attendees after I had given my speech, and relay a bit more about my relationship with my Little, and what is required of all prospective volunteers.
After a long day at work, and then participating in the fundraiser, it is pretty nice to be sitting here with Ms. Nymeria and Mr. M.
The fam.
We’re watching Serenity while working, and purring, and writing, and planning.
Boy do I ever love me some Captain Tight-Pants. (For those of you unsure as to what I’m talking about, I promise you, it’s not my husband.)
And I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of the Oaty Bar theme song either.
NOT MANDATORY.
Also, Nathan Fillion re-tweeted me the other day, which was pretty darn fabitty fab in the extreme.
Today I went back to Club Monaco to purchase my sparkly, pleated beauty skirt. Of course, since I’m a complete broomhead, I forgot my student card, so I ended up having to put it on hold for purchase tomorrow.
And you better believe that I will be there with bells on (along with the proper funds and student ID requirements.)
It will be mine, oh yes.
My precious.
One Skirt to rule them all; One Skirt to find them; One Skirt to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.
Soon. VERY soon. Preeeccciiiiooouuussss.
I mean…
What was I saying?
Oh yes. I will keep you abreast on this story (and my madness) as it progresses.
Also, I am very proud to say that I ate a healthy breakfast this morning.
Or at least healthy by my standards, Mlle. Beignet au Pomme.
Granny smith apple and organic crunchy almond butter? Cor, I am in absolute heaven.
Nommers.
(Just for the sake of full disclosure, I want to stress that I didn’t eat the entire container of almond butter. I may have wanted to, but I’m proud to say that restraint was exercised.)
So there you have it.
Today is Tuesday.
There is a new government in Alberta, with the first female premier elected as head of the province; Ontario remains just beyond the cusp of an election, and Quebec may soon be heading down the same road.
Also we’ll see what happens in France as they move into their next phase of voting.
Oh, and Yertle the Turtle, a great picture book written by DR. SEUSS has been banned from B.C. Classrooms for being “too political.”
Erm.
HEAVY STUFF. Like, this and the Satanic Verses are basically the same thing.
It would seem the phrase, “I know up on top you are seeing great sights, but down here on the bottom, we too should have rights” is too contentious a topic for the province’s youn, impressionable, and highly malleable minds.
Someone get me a fainting couch, because I’m clutching my pearls for all of Canada.
What do you all think, my lovely readers? Have we finally crossed the line?
Much has been written about Miss Universe Canada’s decision to remove Jenna Talackova from the Miss Universe Canada Competition.
According to the organization, Ms. Talackova was barred from competing because, “She did not meet the requirements to compete despite having stated otherwise on her entry form.”
You see, in order to qualify as a Miss Universe Canada contestant, individuals must be:
• a Canadian citizen
• between the age of 18 and 27
• neither pregnant nor married
• a “natural born” female (also a requirement of every other Miss Universe pageant).
Natural born females, eh? Sounds like an Oliver Stone production that never made it past the drawing board.
Now, the absurdity of these rules isn’t the main reason I am writing this post.
That I believe Ms. Talackova should be able to compete in the pageant is a truth – not only does she identify as a women (and has since the age of four) but legally (like – BY LAW PEOPLE) she is a woman.
Period. (No pun intended.)
Hence, she should qualify.
The fact of the matter remains that we, as a society, are missing the much bigger problem at hand.
The real issue is the fact that we’re living in the twenty-first century and beauty pageants are things that actually still exist.
I don’t know if I can think of anything more ridiculous, antiquated and painfully sexist that marching a bunch of women across a stage and marking them on how well they model a bikini.
Or evening gown.
And don’t even get me on those events that try to promote some level of “legitimacy” because they have a talent component.
You’re going to tell me that some washed up NBA star, or some hate-mongering gossip columnist is going to be able to (competently!) judge between a Mozart-penned aria and a baton twirling routine? A Schubert fugue in A minor and a rhythmic gymnastics programme?
Give me a break. No, give me all the breaks.
To me, the choice to include a talent section and then market the event as progressive is basically akin to the organizers trying to frame their competition as the Diet Coke of beauty pageants.
Let’s call it “sexism lite.”
But it’s not like they’re any better than the original product (which would be Coke, or “sexism original” if you will.)
Both are still responsible for reinforcing highly destructive, prescriptive, and dangerous gender norms.
Or, to go back to the drink analogy – having some kind of special skill component in your competition might spare you from contracting diabetes, but don’t kid yourself, you’re still going to develop that brain tumor.
I mean come on. At the root of it, both propagate the socially accepted, (nay institutionalized) notion that all woman everywhere must first and foremost be judged on the way they look.
Good thing because goodness knows that’s a movement that needs all the help it can get.
For more information please see:
I am of the mind that we should just make it so that no women EVER are allowed to enter these contests.
Because then, finally, we could add them to that special collection in our planet’s attic (you know that trash bag labelled “what the hell where we thinking?”) along with Lysol douching products, lead based makeup (which I’m actually afraid isn’t so much a thing of the past), and shoulder pads.
Another reason why I loathe these competitions is the (always brutal) question and answer component of the evening.
The women stand there in their bedazzled gowns, smiling as if their lives depended on it, calculating how they will be able to answer a question without really, you know, answering the question.
It’s like a bloody political debate all of a sudden appears and sets up shop on stage. Afraid of alienating voters, the contestants must find creative ways of filling up their allotted thirty seconds by not really saying anything.
And as such, none of the contestants ever give a real, heartfelt response.
This, I imagine, is in part due to the fact that they know that 1.) Unfortunately, the majority of the audience has no interest is what they really think, 2.) should they go out on a limb and speak their mind, the chance that this choice would come back and bite them is huge (both during the competition, or throughout their careers post-pageant, and 3.) the rule of the game is please everyone, so try your best not to rock the boat, and just give an answer that is non-threatening and easy to digest.
Now, I take great issue with all of these points. But just thinking about number three makes me feel like tearing out my hair and setting fire to my entire wardrobe.
Because, these notions of having an opinion, but not being pushy about it; about pleasing others before yourself; of not rocking the boat with your convictions; about worrying about how others will perceive you and your ideas (and how they could impact your career) – these are behavioral mechanisms force fed to women, all around the world, all day, every day.
And to see them glamorized, (and celebrated!) on a local, provincial, national, international stage – well, that just demoralizes the heck out of me.
We should be celebrating actions over aesthetics; convictions and passions over rhetoric and clichés.
In the end, wanting world peace isn’t wrong.
But a system that dictates that one need qualify this want by looking good in bathing suit and providing proof of their “natural femininity” on national television IS wrong.
A competition that buys into this system and (dangerously) sells itself as some kind of measuring stick for femininity IS wrong.
And I know that as of this moment, I am really ready for something that is right.
That they exist I am sure – that our entire social (nay global?) make-up is dependent on them I am convinced.
They are malleable, overarching scapegoats, (or get-out-of-jail-free cards) that limit the scope arguments, constrain the parameters of research, and stop each and every one of us from ever diving into the very deepest depths of self-analysis.
And try as I might to do away with them, they are almost impossible to get away from, let along ignore.
The reason that I am thinking about this, is because the events of the world have got be feeling pretty blue.
Seriously dudes, I am bummed out.
If I have to hear one more time about how Syria (or Somalia, or insert “disaster-prone war zone here”) is on the brink of a humanitarian crisis, I am going to go ballistamungus (my code word for BAT SHIT CRAZY.)
On the BRINK of crisis?
If these catastrophic situations are looked at (by zee experts) as teetering on the verge of collapse, well then, I think their rating system is just a tad out of whack with reality.
No joke, I really want to get on the blower with the UN and have the following exchange:
United Nations (UN): Hello, United Nations.
Ethel the Dean (EtD): [thinking to myself] Woah, that was easy.
UN: Hello?
EtD: Yes hello! I’ve noticed that lately, your organization has been reticent as-all-get-out about describing the situation in Syria as an actual humanitarian crisis. This whole “will-they-won’t-they” game you seem to be playing has got me awfully curious.
UN: Oh?
EtD: Yeah. You see, I’m wondering what actually has to go down in that country for you to determine that it is undergoing a legitimate crisis, you know, in your expert opinion.
UN: Erm…
EtD: Because you guys also have a pretty solid track record of not doing squat when it came to other emergency situations – most notably (off the top of my head) in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia – so I’m wondering what’s got to give, for the Syrian people to maybe receive a little love from either Ban Ki Moon, or if he’s too busy, maybe Navi Pillay.
UN: […]
EtD: I mean, isn’t it time that we all just come out and said it? That your organization, as a global actor, is basically impotent, incompetent and incontinent?
UN: […]
EtD: WELL, CAN’TCHA?!
I assume that at this point I would be hung up on. But you get the picture.
Urgh.
(p.s. that’s a really long video, but it’s one of my all-time faves. Plus I’ve been feeling super Daffy-esque today.)
Adding to my overall malaise, is the overwhelming sense of unease I got from watching the film “Inside Job” last night with Mr. M.
If I wasn’t sure that Wall Street, government, and academia is dominated by a small, incestuous group (of heavily recycled) money-hungry sociopaths, well, I definitely am now!
Plus, I cannot even begin to describe how heartening it was to read this morning on the metro that Vancouver is getting its very own edition of The Real Housewives franchise.
That sound you’re hearing is me barfing in the CEO of Bravo television’s shoes. Oh, and my heart breaking.
Also, the hoof steps of the horses ridden by the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
What a swell crap-storm of cacophonous bile! Bring out the conductor and play on maestro!
To try and lift my spirits out of the giant dumpster of doom, when I arrived home from work today I decided to make my terrific, and tantalizing banana bread.
Bananas! In pyjamas! Are baked into this bread...
I have a couple of recipes that I would classify as old hat (but in a non-pejorative sense) – more so that I’ve made them so many times that I have committed them to memory.
When Mr. M and I first moved in together, I couldn’t cook for the life of me, and the only recipe book we had was “Loneyspoons” and The Joy of Cooking. Often times the only ingredients we had in our pantry fit the bill for the book’s banana bread, so I became an expert really quickly.
We never had anything for The Joy of Cooking. Seriously, who cooks squirrel?
(As an aside, M received the The J of C from his parents as a high school graduation gift and he would like to reassure them that we have used it many, many times since its appearance of his bookshelf.)
Oh yes, we have no bananas...except we do and they will make something delicious!
Anywho, my banana bread is pretty healthy in comparison to other recipes, using yogurt instead of oil, and it doesn’t call for too much sugar and butter.
Plus it tastes bloody good.
Whip it! Whip it good.
Two summers ago, I got many of my work mates hooked on the stuff, and would often have to parcel out the goods a little at a time in order to ensure that everyone got a chance to have a piece, lest the greediest goons took all of it on the first go (or plating).
(In my opinion, it’s that little pinch of cinnamon I’ve added to the ingredient list that just might push it right over the edge.)
So coming home, I quickly assembled my ingredients and got to work.
Hard at work.
I was all excited to listen to some sweet, sweet CBC as I worked, but unfortunately the news proved to be far too depressing for me to make it longer than three minutes.
Instead, I settled (and by settle I mean happily took part in) a hilarious conversation with M that revolved around photographs, dish towels, cat food and sushi orders.
Bake me a cake as fast as you cake...
What proved even more delightful was that the outcome included some tasty, tasty treats from Okonomi sushi, just up the street from us.
Now we are sitting down to another night of Netflix documentaries – tonight we are watching “This Film is Not Yet Rated.”
I know that the subject matter will probably make me think, cringe, laugh, squirm – but hopefully not cry.
But even if I do, I just need to remember that it’ll be okay.
Because there’s always banana bread, sushi, and fake phone calls.
Rant and Roll 