Feminism should not be fundamentalist, or A Feminist Manifesto Of the Rational Lower Class White Girl

Hello, My Name Is Ms Oread LadypersonOkWhatever and I am Here to Turn In My Feminist License.

I am done with you, all of you, every single fucking one of you, at least the ones on the internet.
Or at least the ones that post. Lurkers I might be OK with.

I have never felt so alienated, disenchanted, and like the only person who believes in things like prudence and rationality and careful thought tempered with objectivity in the Twentyish Feminist Age Bracket or Group.
I can't be the only one, right?

I can't be the only one who thinks, "Wow, that's fucked up that guy called some women a Ho in a rap song, but it's your responsibility as a parent/thoughtful human being to say 'I don't agree with that, and I am gonna turn this off now and not give you my money' ". Because what I see is people like Tipper Gore and her ilk trying to get FUCKING WORDS banned.

I can't be the only one who thinks, "Jesus, rape sucks and I never want to endure it. If I want to make sure I am not easy prey, I should do cunning things like run around carrying a switchblade/mace/sack full of oranges to keep on the offense and endeavor to avoid finding myself alone in town drunk with scanty clothing on. Coz, well, there's a lot of crazies out there, and I don't like to be vulnerable." I don't think that's blaming the fucking victim, I think that's being a fucking safe individual who understands how to take care of themselves. Have you no street smarts? Do you not understand we are all still animals and this is indeed the fucking wild, ladies? It seems that way, because when I attempt to advocate the role women have as responsible humans on this planet, I get blasted for being a Paglia incarnate (I like her, she's got vim and vinegar and gigantic fucking brass balls, so...whatever). I don't blame anyone, I advocate being smart and safe, because you just can't count on everyone to be sane.

I can't be the only one who sees a naked lady in a picture and goes, "huh, I wonder why that image is shown that way; why can't she look like Carmen Miranda or Stalin? what do we have here???" Instead, I see the knee jerk reactionary screams of OBJECTIFICATION and SUPPRESSION OF WOMEN. Really? Fucking really? Are you that big of a prude? What if this is a picture of a nude woman with a book title scrawled across her stomach? Does that make it better somehow? Hm. I might be more worried by women being suppressed by a culture that is geared towards giving the most money to those with dangly bits between their legs.

I can't be the only fucking one who says, "You know what, I refuse to be a one issue voter. I am willing to sacrifice one goal and meet halfway with a politician in order to make incredible gains elsewhere. I have been fighting my whole life for things, and narrowing the field at all is great." What I hear now is "I love him, but I can't trust him to give power back to the states to make decisions on abortion or wages or assfucking". You don't think you'll be able to yell and protest loud enough so a small, state gov't can hear you? Don't you think a small battle against a state is more easily won that one fought against the clusterfuck bureaucracy of the United States? Really, now. Grassroots means nothing, I guess.

I am tired of narrow mindedness.
I am tired of the lack of strategy.
I am tired of upper middle class white girls leading the charge.
I am tired of people equating degrees with smarts. Yes, ok. You pay for one, you do some homework, you get one. Brava.
I am tired of college "intellectuals" thinking they know how to run things, because they once took a class last quarter on it. You, and two hundred or more others, chick. Many of us are educated. We choose not to be pompous. We choose common sense, and you can't pay for that with college loans.
I am tired of women who did not grow up with feminism and equality as their religion. I didn't get religion, I got the mantra to go out there and kick some fucking ass intelligently.


Right now, I am avoiding Feministing, where the women are shrill. They come hard, they come loud, and they come without thinking things through most of the time.
They come with no fucking battle plan. They come scattered, they come scared angry shrieking. They come ready to be worn out in five years time from fighting so hard so quickly. They lack the femi-ninja fu it takes to infiltrate, to slide in the cracks and expand until the foundation cracks and the white towers come the fuck down.

I am avoiding Jezebel, where the readers - supposedly educated third wave urban women - are vapid enough to see satirical articles selling the "Poor Diet" ( ie: you're poor, you eat ramen, you lose weight and your health sucks!), and then bemoan that they gained so much weight since being dirt poor, or that they purposely eat shit food in small amounts to keep thin. I am avoiding the commenters who would rather squabble amongst themselves and stroke egos than get down to brass tacks.

Is satire beyond our reach?
Is the ability to think on one's own lost?
Is it too difficult to pick up a book from an opposing view and give it a shot, even if just to learn?
Know thy enemy, ladies.
I see that, like our mothers' generation, it will soon be ourselves.

sooooo. sew? sou.

Well.
There's this.
And there's that.

This being complacency and That being fear, if you're not aware.

I tend to swing wildly between the two. I am a sometime pendulum thrown off whack, undulating and spinning and careening into objects before my movements slow and my discontented, jangly-limbed-jig slows to a tired Minette in the corner, and I am back to the beginning, waiting to get going again, moving slowly between one end and another. The ends and their means, I think. Most likely.
The difference between static and chaos.

* * * * *

When I was younger, my artwork was never more than something I hoarded, something I hid, anticipating disappointment - that Spark of recognition would eventually fail to show, The Frown crept up slowly and pulled down at the corners of mouths like an insistent child yanking on a hand - and I would be worse off then before...
Before: a nervous wreck, finishing off a piece hoping someone would get it, someone would unravel it and thus me by immediately understanding the deeper meanings my zoned-out-zen-ed-out mind put forth.
After: a worse wreck, wretched and misinterpreted, misguided, apparently. Discouraged that an attempt to reach out in my own weird way was missed. Disappointed my quiet compatibility test was so horrifically failed.

By thirteen, I was accused of passing a friend's work off as my own...it was too good to be the bitchy creepy girl's, I guess. I refused to show anyone anything, ever. Under no circumstances.

At seventeen, I forced myself to enroll in a printmaking class. I gave myself stomach aches that lasted for days before class critiques. For what it was worth, I was satisfied to put forth a meaningless, empty and eventually mediocre effort, focusing instead on skill and precision. I was another student, mid level, not worth noting, not worth dissecting. I was OK.

At eighteen, I began a collage class that pushed and pulled in uncomfortable ways at my brain. I self medicated. I was thrust beyond my comfortable zone of Trite and Fail safe. I self medicated. I ended up making decent work, improving my skill, and unlocking that Bullshit Inner Artist. Because I self medicated, not because of the class. God, I hated that fucking class. Never learn assemblage from a weaver. Regardless. I created what was the best work of my life, seamlessly, and it was like breathing. I would "zone out" (ahem), get to work, and when what seemed like mere minutes would pass, I would look up, and know it was done. I gave the best piece of the lot to my fetus' sperm donor, hoping it would garner some praise. It did. In between bong hits and asking for money. I retreated again.

At twenty one, I picked up my x-acto again. I vented. I spewed forth bile on paper. I put down all of the anger and betrayal and unrest and let it go to the degree I was capable of. I heard, "obvious". I heard, "simple". I heard, "not very subtle, is it?". I heard, "that's uncomfortable for me". What was once on a wall was put into drawers. The bottoms of drawers, beneath the glues and pastes and torn-up Vogues and Flaunts. I tore up a 25 cent kid's book made out of tag board, peeled away the sugar-sweet tale and put my own down. I put down and chronicled, two pages at a time, my relationships. The "I like you, but not in that way". The ninety mile trips to Seattle to hear that I wasn't it. The mediocrity I settled for as a diversion. The brief sweetness, and my eventual dissatisfaction with being bored by it. I hid this in my closet, at the back, behind an amp and a box full of vintage faux fur and platform heels.

At twenty three, I dance around it. We tango without touching, we flirt and flick tongues across the room at each other. I meander close and sew a piece without a pattern, embroider freehand, crochet in wild colors in odd shapes and knit with bizarre texture and irregularly shaped buttons and baubles.
I don't touch my knives, my mod podge.
But I've been asked to.

How could I go back to that? After scoffing at myself, after driving my curvilinear talent into straight ruts to make it more acceptable, more palatable, less likely to be misconstrued? After I mock myself for even attempting to call what it is "artwork"?

Auggie, she chastises and quietly purses her lips. "DIY is not collage."
I know.

Notice

I am giving notice.

I am leaving for a cushy county job with benefits and everything, just like any human being deserves, along with pay befitting my skills.

I know this sounds ludicrous, as I am:

Female

Young

A mommylady

and last but not least

Not willing to shun my family for my work.

(Yes, my last talk with my boss, I was indeed criticized for all four.)
However, I feel that as a smart little cookie and hard worker with a child to support, I deserve all of those benefits and much, much, more. The sorts of "more" that were proffered as SSA bait, and then revoked. Yes. Things like raises and respect.

So long, evil aerospace entity.

I won't miss you, and you will be super fucked without me. Ta.

This is just the way it is most of the time.

When bad things happen to other people, however much it may affect you or annoy you or whatever, it just isn't about you. There seems to be a chronic case of This Is My Pity Party and You Will Bring Punch for everything lately.
Well, I have never liked punch, and I only bring booze to parties, and then only when they have good music or good...herb gardens.

Drafting standards not up to your standards? Well, it's a personal attack, innit? The Engineering Establishment has taken note of your crap drawings and written an entire 1.800 page tome devoted to tearing your personal style apart. Those fucking bastards.

Children at school misbehaving? Well, Teacher person, they're doing it to spite you. Of course. That must be it. Couldn't be they're cranky they can't have recess because of the veritable monsoons outside. No. It's you. They hate you. I think that's obvious.


This is The YOU Show, and no one else's bullshit could possibly take precedence over how you feel about everything. I mean, that's what we're being fed throughout the age of Gen X & Y: we are all special little snowflakes, no matter how idiotic, whiny, self-centered, or just plain fucking stupid we may be. Have an opinion? It matters! Automatically! Isn't a culture of white privellege fantastic? It's like Kindegarten every fucking day, all day, no matter what! I do hope we all still get gold stars. Ohhhh and nap, that was great. I do miss naps.

Point is: Sometimes, no one wants the clammy little two cents that you've been working over in your palm until they are good and slimy and gritty with sweat. You will have to learn to deal with this, suck it up, move on and behave like a god damned grown up.
Seriously.


I mean, the great thing about the interwubs and the tards who opine on EVERYTHING you could imagine is that you can click away to a more amusing page. Which is why Ms Oread don't read dem dere blogs mostly. However...in the meat world...in real life, in meetings at work, in conferences at your child's school, you have to stand there, interact, smile, and nod.
It's a load of bullfuck.

And that, hah, is my opinion on whiny little choads.