sex without bodies: a response

There's nothing more illuminating than reading a piece of writing that you partially agree with--and partially vehemently disagree with. It throws into sharp relief those assumptions which inform and shape your own opinion, and the differing assumptions which inform and shape the author's. It becomes very clear where you agree--and just where you begin to diverge.

Andy Crouch's piece in Christianity Today, "Sex Without Bodies: the church's response to the LGBT movement must be that matter matters" is one of those pieces for me.

Crouch begins with an acknowledgment of the multiplicity and plasticity of human sexualities--the coalition of "LGBT" people is a coalition, not a monolith, and, as he notes, the increasing augmentation of this acronym to include "Q," "I," and "A" people is an indication of just how fluid expressions of human sexuality can be. And this doesn't even begin to consider the ways in which gender identity intersects with sexual expresssion in all sorts of ways: we simply can't take for granted that having a body part = gender identity.

So far, so good. 

And here's the part where I got lost:

There is really only one conviction that can hold this coalition of disparate human experiences together. And it is the irrelevance of bodies—specifically, the irrelevance of biological sexual differentiation in how we use our bodies... What unites the LGBTQIA coalition is a conviction that human beings are not created male and female in any essential or important way. What matters is not one's body but one's heart—the seat of human will and desire, which only its owner can know. 

On the contrary: it is precisely the relevance of the disparate, varied, multiplicity of human bodies that holds this coalition together. And here is that crucial point of divergence, which undergirds my disagreement with the rest of the piece.

Having diagnosed the LGBT+ movement as claiming "body-irrelevance," Crouch turns to the theological prescription for the church's response--that "matter matters."

And, oh my yes, matter matters. Amen and amen, but how? How does it matter?

It's worth quoting at length here:

Christians will have to choose between two consistent positions. One, which we believe Christians who affirm gay and lesbian unions will ultimately have to embrace, is to say that embodied sexual differentiation is irrelevant—completely, thoroughly, totally irrelevant—to covenant faithfulness. 

The proof text for this view will be that in Christ, there is neither male nor female. And as with all readings based on proof texts, upholding it will require openly discarding a vast expanse of other biblical material, the many biblical voices (including Jesus') that affirm and elucidate the significance of male-and-female creation. 

As this view gains traction in our culture, the created givenness of bodies must give way to the achievement of ascertaining, announcing, and fulfilling one's own internally discerned desires, with no normative reference to the body one happens to inhabit. It is no accident that as normative sexuality has been redefined, from an essentially exterior reality uniting male and female bodies to an essentially interior reality expressing one's heart, the charges of bigotry have been heard more fiercely against those who hold the traditional Christian view. How dare we Christians speak against any person's heart? 

The unspoken assumption at work in the above paragraphs is simply that to have a certain body means, always, to be a certain kind of human person, that is, a man or a woman. Because this assumption goes unacknowledged and unexamined, the conclusion is that people who want to break out of this gender essentialism must be actively ignoring their own bodies as irrelevant.

But the assumption that having a certain body means being either a man or a woman is (ironically, given the argument here), based on actively ignoring the particulars of the human bodies that surround us. There are so many people whose bodies, if we just paid sufficient attention to them, belie these binary gender categories that essentialists project onto them.

Taking embodiment seriously--really seriously--means understanding that biology is not Nature. "Nature" is a social concept, mapped onto our biology. There's nothing about having a womb that guarantees some sort of "womanly nature." There's nothing about having a penis that guarantees some sort of "manly nature." We learn these things as ways of interpreting our bodies but, crucially, they don't always fit the bodies we have. And so we do indeed face a choice--between denying bodily reality, or questioning the categories we've inherited that just don't do justice to reality.

For goodness sake, I've got a womb and a vagina and lactating--hell, leaky!--boobs, I've given birth "naturally" twice over, and I don't fit my church's notion of what a real woman is. Why? Because I think it's just fine to take this female body up to the pulpit and preach from it. My kind of body clearly can't do that. Except, y'all, that it can. And has. And insisting that it can't is a willful denial of actual embodied reality.

It's not the LGBTQIA folks who think bodies are irrelevant. It's those of us who think that having a certain body part--or not--is determinative for who you are, and who you can love, and what you can do with your body, and that those options can be neatly divided into A) male and B) female.

Yes, the church's response must be that "matter matters." But that means looking at human bodies in all their variety and specificity, and having the eyes to see the ways those bodies defy the gender essentialism we've been taught to see in their place.

Seven tomorrow

Clare turns 7 tomorrow.

I just read this short but lovely piece by Melissa Harris-Perry and her daughter Parker, and can't help but think about how closely this describes my feelings, too, as I watch Clare growing.

It's such a strange thing to see her, tall and strong and fearless, running or riding her bike or swinging from the rigged up bedsheet hanging off her bunk bed like Tarzan, and think, that little body used to fit in my lap--in my arms--in my womb. She's all legs and pointy elbows now, even if she does still have the rounded tummy of a little kid, and her sweet baby face looks completely different with her new, still overlarge front teeth.

She's learned a lot this year, my first grader. She's discovered that she loves reading after all, and that she's really great at math. She's had a revolving door of BFFs and even talked about her first crush though I think that was probably just the result of peer pressure and our unfortunate cultural inability to handle cross-gender friendships. She loves dancing and making up her own melodies on the piano. She loves the backyard, except for the mosquitoes, and digging for worms--the bigger and fatter and slimier the better. Yesterday she found a really good one, and announced proudly, "LOOK! It just pooped in my hand!"

She's an attentive big sister; sometimes too attentive, and I find myself repeating "give Zadie her own space, please" altogether too often. And yet Z shadows her every move with her own clumsy toddler version of whatever Sissy is doing, and her favorite time of day is 3:15pm, when we hop into the car to pick up Clare from school.

Sometimes I look at her and see the baby she used to be. Last night, after finishing our chapter in The Hobbit, I looked at her and saw the lovely, lively, intense and, I pray, still completely fearless woman she'll be. I don't know if she'll grow up to be the astronaut dirty-ologist theologian mother who takes her children with her to live on the moon that she's currently planning to be, but I do know, whatever it is she does, it will be magnificent.

thoughts on driving through Kentucky

So, instead of my usual route from Newark to Nashville I drove through Kentucky, to stay with friends in Lexington on the way down South. And then, also, on the way back up, a last minute offer to stay at another friend's home sent us back through Woodford Reserve country.

I have never before seen such hospitality--and I grew up in the South, y'all. But when we arrived in Midway we found that the caretaker of the house had not only gone to the store and stocked the fridge--with everything from toddler friendly snacks to Heineken--but had brought over toys from her house for Z, and a training potty.

A training potty. For people she'd never seen before or ever heard of. I'm still overwhelmed by it all.

After sleeping well and late, we got back in the car, now stocked with snacks for the road courtesy of our hostess, and got underway. A couple hours later, after gassing up, we were in a left turn lane waiting for a green light onto the entry ramp to the highway when a large, old diesel truck roared up behind us and camped out on our bumper revving its engines. Figuring they were in a hurry I accelerated to 80 on the entry ramp while merging but they zoomed past and I got the most baleful stare of my life from the dude in the passenger seat. I don't know if it was the NJ plates, the Obama sticker or just that I was driving a Prius. I've heard that some people have a manhood issue with that.

And that was Kentucky. Beautiful, hospitable, warm, lovely--but maybe not so universally friendly to Obama-loving Prius drivers from Jersey...

Mondays are awesome

Mondays are awesome at our house.

Mondays are Brent's real day off. (Saturdays don't count. Too much stuff happens and there is, inevitably, the sermon.)

Also, I get to take Clare to school on Mondays, because it's Brent's day off. The tradeoff for having to get up (remember, JTB =/= morning person) is conversation with Clare over breakfast and in the car on the way to school. Most of the time, with both kids, conversations consist of "hands to yourself" "get out of your sister's face" "what is this mess and when did it happen" "why is your underwear/socks/entire school uniform in the middle of the living room floor" and "what just happened and why is she crying about it." So getting to have a real conversation with my brainy and unpredictable conversationalist is a treat.

In the car she spotted a high school kid on the sidewalk, walking to school, smoking. "That boy shouldn't be smoking!" she said.

Discussion of smoking being bad for your body, etc. Then, "did you ever smoke, Mom?"

"Yes, honey. I tried it when I was a teenager."

"But why? Didn't you know it was bad for you?"

"Yes, I knew. But my friends were smoking and I wanted to try it too. It wasn't really fun. So I didn't keep doing it."

"You did it because your friends were doing it?! Maybe you should have told your friends it was bad for them instead."

"I should have! But I wasn't really a very confrontational person back then."

"Oh." Pause. "Are you a confrontational person now?"

"Um...yeah, I'd say so." Laughing to myself that this is seen as an unquestioned positive.

"Do you think I'll be confrontational when I grow up?"

"I'm pretty sure of that, honey."

that we may carry out our work

Give me, dear Lord, a pure heart

and a wise mind, that I may

carry out my work according to your will.

Save me from all false desires, from pride,

greed, envy and anger, and let me

accept joyfully every task you set before me.

Let me seek to serve the poor, the sad and those unable to work. 

Help me to discern honestly

my own gifts that I may do the things

of which I am capable, and happily

and humbly leave the rest to others.

Above all, remind me constantly that

I have nothing except what you give me,

and can do nothing except

what you enable me to do.

--Jacob Boehme

When I was in China (the second year, 2002), I found this prayer and used it every morning to begin my days. It was the first time in my life I successfully practiced the discipline of daily prayer. Going into it, I knew that I needed a routine that was simple, memorizable, and adaptable, because I was going to use it every day.

I can still remember going out on the little balcony with my cup of coffee and beginning my day with this prayer and my journal in hand.

When I think about what "giftedness" means, or being called, or being led into ministry or theology, I think of this prayer, and the humble shoemaker/philosopher/theologian who wrote it. I think about these lines, from the heart of this prayer:

Let me accept joyfully every task you set before me: making shoes, changing diapers, washing dishes, picking up toys and dirty socks--and theologizing. I suspect that Boehme, like me, chafed a bit at the daily tasks, the ones that interfered with the musing and pondering and writing. I suspect that like me he had a hard time figuring out how to joyfully accept the tasks that felt like distractions--and still make time to joyfully accept the task of articulating the ceaseless wonderings about the divine that is theologizing. 

Let me seek to serve the poor, the sad, and those unable to work: whether shoes or theology, what we do is in service to those around us. Some people need shoes. Some people need theology. Or maybe everyone needs both at some point--but whatever it is that we do, we offer it in service to answer a need. 

Help me to discern honestly my own gifts that I may do the things of which I am capable, and happily and humbly leave the rest to others: the flip side of understanding what you have to offer in service to those around you is knowing what you don't. The beauty of community, the beauty of the church as Paul describes it in the image of the one body of many parts, is that we may also trust that we may indeed happily and humbly leave the rest to others, others who are also discerning their own gifts so that they may do the things of which they are capable.

It is impossible to say how powerful, how transformative this prayer is for me, a woman in the Church of Christ. The humility of these words, the earnestness and openness of them, help me loosen my grip on the preconceptions about my own giftedness I carry around with me--the preconceptions I fight against and resent, and the preconceptions that I cherish in opposition. Save me from all false desires, from pride, greed, envy and anger.

After awhile, I can feel a new peace settle in, taking the place of an anxiety so built into my sense of self that most days I'm not even aware it's there. Help me discern honestly, and let me do the things I'm capable of. That, and no more. The rest is for others.

And if there are those who cannot believe that I do what I do as the result of honest discernment, and sincere desire to therefore accept joyfully the tasks set before me--well, what's that got to do with anything, really?

The opening and ending words of the prayer frame the answer to that. 

Give me, dear Lord, a pure heart and a wise mind, that I may carry out my work according to your will.
Above all, remind me constantly that I have nothing except what you give me, and can do nothing except what you enable me to do.

What gifts we have, sisters, we have been given by God. For we have nothing except what God gives us, and we can do nothing except what God enables us to do. And our prayer must then be, let us carry out our work according to God's will.

a communion meditation: Our Mother God

On Mother's Day, my daughters and I took a trip out to West Islip Church of Christ to visit dear friends there we had not seen in waaaaaaaay too long. West Islip is a special place for me. It is the first church ever to welcome me to the pulpit--an honest to God pulpit, up on a little elevated dais and everything--and they have done the same, and much much more, for many other women as well.

So when asked if I'd be willing to share a meditation for communion, I accepted, with joy.

me and my daughter Clare (peeking over the pulpit)

Our Mother God

delivered on May 12, 2013 at West Islip Church of Christ

Mother's Day is a day rife with the possibility of homiletical missteps. All week long I've been watching the preachers I follow on twitter post and converse about "how not to preach on Mother's Day." There are lots of pitfalls to avoid, among them, I was happy to see, an acknowledgment not only that not all women are mothers, but that being a woman doesn't mean that you want to be a mother if you aren't, or that somehow having a womb means you are "meant" to be a mother.

Even happier was I when I saw this post, which suggests that perhaps we ought to--as we often do, I'll note, on Father's Day--make the move into considering what the image of God as mother might teach us about God.

This post offered as illustration of what we learn about "God as mother" a touching story told by two daughters of an act of extraordinary self-sacrificial love from their mother; one which saved their lives and the life of their little brother. (You can see the video at the original post above.) In short, this mother literally threw herself in the path of the SUV about to plunge her children over a cliff. This act saved their lives and broke her back. And in this we see an echo of the kind of self-sacrificial love God offers us, as her children, on the cross. Greater love has no one than this...

And as I pondered this image this week, I had two thoughts: yes, and no.

Yes: being a mother myself, I can imagine that without hesitation I would throw myself in the path of an oncoming vehicle in order to save my children. Yes.

But--as I pondered this all week long, in the midst of feeding and clothing and ferrying and nursing and putting to bed and hugging and kissing, there were two things that began to bother me.

My husband would throw himself in front of a car to save our kids. Their grandparents would, I'm sure, and their aunts and uncles and, possibly, even a stranger, if it was the right kind of stranger.

This kind of self-sacrificial love isn't the exclusive property of mothers. Are we not all called, as followers of Christ, to aspire to the kind of love exemplified in his life and death? Greater love has no one than this, that they lay down their lives for their friends. And this is how the world shall know us, by our love for each other.

And finally, the kind of extraordinary self-sacrificial love exemplified in the horrible but heroic story of this one amazing mother, is not in the end the experience that defines mothering--at least not for me. Rather, it's the day-in, day-out presence with and joy in my children: the wonder that strikes me at the oddest, most mundane moments that these little people exist, to watch in amazement as they grow and become who they are. The way that my daughter's pride in another 10/10 on a spelling test and a comment from a teacher on her incredible gift for math makes her eyes light up. The way that a new word from baby Z makes me laugh out loud. 

When I think of God as mother, I imagine her watching us with glowing eyes, cheering us on as we struggle toward greater love and understanding, immeasurably proud and happy, just that we exist, as her children.

I invite you now to the table of fellowship, as God's children: children who are loved, day in and day out, by our Mother God, whose love is sacrificial, yes--and also, constantly joyful in our existence.

The girl who saved the world

Clare had a dream that the world was ending because the sun was going out.

This is because, months ago, she got on this curiosity kick about all the different ways the world could end. For weeks, as we would drive to church on Sunday morning, she would pester me for yet another global catastrophe scenario.

I'm still not sure what that's all about, but I know my kid: evasion and deferral weren not options. So, in kid terms, we talked about mutually assured destruction and nuclear war, the statistical probability of a meteor plunging the earth into another I e age, the sun going nova, and the eventual heat death of the universe.

So when she told me this morning that she'd had a dream that the sun was going out and that everyone on earth was about to die, I wasn't surprised.

What was surprising, though, was the calm matter-of-factness of her manner. It was a scary dream, a bit, she said, because, you know, everybody and everything was about to die. But it was also a superhero dream where everything was right in the end.

"Who was the superhero?" I asked.

"All of us!" she answered, "but especially me! I saved everybody on the whole earth!"

That's my girl.

"How did you do that?" I asked, expecting some sort of fantastic flying around in space shenanigans of some sort.

"Well, instead of sitting around being really scared and sad that we were all gonna die, I said, let's get a big bunch of rocks and put them together into a giant rock-ball, and then dig down to the center of the earth and get some lava and pour the lava on it, the make a big rocket and tie it to the rocket and take it to where the sun should be. And so we all worked together and made it happen and THAT'S how we saved the whole earth!"

Sounds like she's actually been listening to my constant remonstrance: if you have a problem, don't just sit there--do something about it. Think of a solution. Take action!

That's my girl. One day she's gonna save the world.

The face of gender justice

What's the face of gender justice in the church for you?

Like so many things, this topic is intractable when it is framed as a faceless "issue"--a matter of doctrinal dispute or hermeneutical correctness. Sean Palmer's recent blog post on "speaking the truth in love" as a thinly disguised form of justified meanness gets at this--when we think about things as "issues" we allow ourselves to be indifferent, rude, and mean-spirited. You know, for Jesus.

Time and time again, on the old gal328.org forum where so many different people connected with each other for the first time, the motif emerged: I never thought about this until I became the father/mother of girls; until I saw my daughter called to ministry; until my granddaughters were born.

Suddenly, the issue had a face. A beloved face.

And that changes things.

These are the faces of gender justice for me. Clare tells me she wants to be an astronaut, a scientist who studies dirt ("a dirty-ologist, Mama!"), the first woman President of the United States (personally, I hope we don't wait that long), a priest, a theologian and a mom. I want her to be any and all of these things, or something she hasn't thought of yet, and I want her never to doubt that she will be able to follow the call of God in her life to whatever strange territory it may take her. And I want her sister to watch her with those adoring eyes and see Sissy follow that brave path. Without anyone standing in her way saying "you can't, 'cause girls don't do that."

And there are other faces: faces of people I've thought of as heroes, people who've dared to be the public face of gender justice in the Churches of Christ: Micki Pulleyking and Kathy Pulley, Katie Hays and Lance Pape, Joe and Laura Hays, Stuart and D'Esta Love, Sara Barton.

Sara Barton at Pepperdine Lectureship 2013

What is the face of gender justice in the Churches of Christ, for you? Is it your own, staring back at you daily in the mirror as you wrestle with the impossibility of denying your own giftedness and call? Is it your baby girl's, still unaware of the extra hurdles she'll face in the world, and sadly, in the church, because of her gender? Is it your mother's, a woman who has gotten on with her work and calling and ministry without making waves but inwardly chafing at the restrictions placed on her that limited the effectiveness of her work? Is it your sister, your aunt, your wife? Is it that 6th grade Sunday school teacher you loved, but couldn't learn from anymore after your baptism?

If you can, share a photo of the face of gender justice for you when you talk about this.

And if you can, be the face of gender justice in the church for the people who know you, and love you.

It makes a difference.

1voice4change: taking the initiative for gender equality in Churches of Christ

People, it's time. No: it's past time. We've been pressing snooze on the alarm clock that's been ringing for forty years on this thing. It's time to get up, say a little prayer, drink some coffee and get ready for the day's work. We've been dreaming a long time. It's time to move from sleepy idealism into the hard slog of making it reality. It's past time. We've overslept.

So wake up sleepyheads. We've got work to do.

Keep your eye on 1voice4change.com. Already there are ideas and suggestions for actions that you--yes, you, dreamers, wherever and whoever you are--can take in your church, right now. And there will be more in the days to come. Count on it.

Get up and get ready. It's time to act. It's time to speak. It's time to challenge. It's time. It's past time.

a Clare story

The marvelous response from Clare's teacher to the letter I posted below has me remembering one of my favorite preschool-Clare stories...


[scene: Clare and preschool friends playing castle with some small fairy tale type figures. A princess doll falls on the floor near Clare.]

Teacher: "Clare, can you help the princess get up off the floor?"

Clare, calmly: "No. She can get up by herself."

in anticipation of the Fairy Tale Writing Unit

Sometimes activism needs to be proactive. I don't expect anything other than the incredibly supportive, empowering environment that my daughter's school has consistently provided for the last year and a half, but even the most alert of us can be caught off guard by the built-in expectations around us. And so, here's my letter.

Dear XXX,

Clare is super excited about the upcoming field trip to see Thumbelina and the Fairy Tale writing unit (and I'm sad to be missing it). I'm grateful as always for the ways you and the other first grade teachers inspire such genuine enthusiasm in my super-curious Clare!

I'm attaching a couple of pdf files, and want to give a brief explanation about what they are, where they're from, and why I'm bugging you with them. :) 

For the last few years I've been a fan and loyal customer of Melissa Atkins Wardy, of Pigtail Pals and Ballcap Buddies. She is a mom-preneur with a line of kid-affirming apparel and her mission is to "redefine girly" and "reclaim boyhood." The pdf files attached are letters drafted for use by the community that's formed around her activism, about the ways that gender stereotypes of both girls and boys are ubiquitous, insidious, and unfortunately, formative at earlier and earlier ages. 

I have not had any concerns about Clare bringing home unfortunate girly stereotypes from school--I just want to be proactive as the class begins the Fairy Tale unit, because fairy tales (especially Disneyfied ones!) are often particularly dreadful about gender stereotypes and feminine passivity/masculine aggression.

You and XXX and XXX are wonderful role models for all the kids of strong, smart, in-charge women, and you all can make a huge difference in the way the parameters of fairy tales are presented--so I am just writing to say how important I feel it is for Clare and her classmates to have the freedom to create their own fairy tales free of the classic, medieval gender role limitations. And don't be surprised if Clare rescues her own princess self! :)

Thanks so much for listening and for EVERYTHING you do, day in and day out!

Gratefully, 

Clare's mom

Person

A couple days ago, Zadie picked up one of her favorite objects, a Lego car, and started playing with it happily--till she noticed it didn't have a driver. "Person! Need person! PERSON!!!" she shrieked, with increasing panic. We happened to have a visitor over, drinking tea and chatting with Brent a.k.a. Father Bates, so I fixed things the quickest way possible: I dashed downstairs and grabbed the first Lego person from our inherited laundry basket o' Legos that I could find. Which was a dog.

Person the Lego Doggie

Not particularly caring, I dashed back upstairs and handed it to Zadie. "Person," I announced, quelling her panic, and she happily clicked Person the Lego Doggie into the car and zoomed around the floor completely content. Zadie knows Person is a doggie but Person is also a person, as far as she's concerned. Unburdened with the philosophical baggage and suspicious history this term carries she applies it inclusively. If Person the Lego Doggie can fit into the driver seat of a car, then Person the Doggie can drive the car. No biggie. And if this is something only a "person" can do, then clearly, Person the Doggie is a person.

I feel like my cyborg/goddess/dog-lover philosopher hero would be pretty happy with all this. I am. :)

happy V-day

This year I decided to get crafty with the school valentines.

It's unfortunate that I'm not one of those SAHMs with a predilection for craftiness.

Nevertheless, Clare was pleased with how her valentines turned out, despite the fact that the white chocolate seized up in the double boiler and had to be rescued, the Oreo pops had no lollipop sticks and the pretzel sticks didn't work out either, and the heart stencil we made didn't produce distinct heart shapes with our red sprinkles. So we have white-chocolate dipped Oreos with red sprinkles on them. But she's happy because we had pink ribbon to tie the baggies with. And, as she said to me this morning over breakfast, even when things don't turn out like we expect, it's okay. That's a nice lesson to get out of Valentine's Day.

She also revealed over breakfast this morning that she is planning to ask J to "be mine" at school today. "What does that mean?" I asked, tying pink ribbon #20. "It means like 'be my sweetheart,'" she replied. "And what is a sweetheart?" I asked, wondering what her 6-year-old concept of sweethearts includes. "It's someone who's sweet to you," she replied.

I'm not thrilled with the way boyfriend/girlfriend talk invades cross-gender friendships, starting earlier and earlier. This isn't new--I remember a certain little boy in my kindergarten class that I liked very much and that we talked about him as my "boyfriend." Clare's had plenty of friends of both genders and it's a consistent thing that friends who are boys get talked about as boyfriends. It's something adults find amusing, I think--something about the contemplation of our children's futures and all the possibilities ahead of them yet unexplored. But this talk gets heard, and its assumptions form our children's expectations for themselves--even when they don't understand what it all means.

The simplicity of Clare's reply to me this morning makes me happy. It especially makes me happy because Clare is about as well-educated on the subject of human anatomy and sex as I was in junior high--I made the decision to indulge her curiosity as far as it took her while pregnant with Zadie, and it took her pretty far indeed. She can say the words penis and vagina as matter-of-factly as a medical doctor. She knows that a baby grows inside a uterus after a sperm and an egg join together. She knows that one way a sperm gets to the egg is that a penis fits inside a vagina. And she knows sometimes it happens with the help of technology. She knows a lot, this kid.

And yet when she asks J to "be mine" she just means "thanks for being my friend."

And so the lesson I get out of Valentine's Day this year is a reaffirmation that innocence is not lack of knowledge. Innocence is not synonymous with ignorance. Innocence is something we protect when we teach our children what they need to know. And they need to know that boys and girls have different bodies, and that those differences will someday mean something, but also that those differences won't ever mean you can't simply be friends.

Someday sweetheart will mean something else. But not today.

Problem solving

"mammies"

Warning: this post is about my boobs. If this makes you uncomfortable...um, don't read it.

Zadie loves my breasts. Really, really loves them. I don't mean just that she loves nursing and shows no signs of being anywhere near ready to wean (though Clare self-weaned without regrets just after a year). I mean, she loves my "mammies." She named them. She pats them. She plays peekaboo with them. She pounces on them like a duck on a junebug, joyfully with abandon and utter shameless enjoyment. She occasionally gives them thank-you kisses after breastfeeding. Sometimes she says "thank you" to them. To them, not me; I'm not sure that she believes they're a part of me, but more like entities in their own right. She. Loves. MyHer. Mammies.

It's a little disconcerting, even for me.

But also? It's awesome.

Because I, too, love my breasts. Remember how Annie Potts in Pretty in Pink exclaimed, "I did! I LOVED my BUTT!" Yeah. That's how I feel. I love'em. They rock.

I did a thing recently for LoveBoldly where I talked about the ongoing process of learning to love my body. There, I talked about first learning to love my sexy body--learning to accept that sexuality was a part of who I am, but also, learning to see my body as sexy, a process which required seeing myself through the relocated gaze of a lover's eyes. And I talked about learning to love my postpartum body, not an easy thing in this culture which teaches us that it's great to have a baby but for goodness sake, don't look like you just did. Part of that is remembering this body is also sexy, and again, that means learning to see my body refracted through the appreciation of another. But sex is not the whole story here, and even within the context of a committed and loving relationship, seeing your body solely as desirable in that single way is to limit yourself and your notions of who you are and what your body is.

So part of this ongoingness is learning to love my breasts in a whole new way, in light of my daughter's fervent love of them.

It's partly analogous to the way that sports teach you to love your body for what it can do. I love my breasts in the same way that I love the strength of my maternal arms that pick up, carry, swing around, support and roughhouse all day long. I love my breasts the same way I love the way my legs can propel me around the park strong behind the new jogging stroller. I love them for what they do. It's what I learned in giving birth to both my kids "naturally"--I love what my body can do.

But neither is this the whole story, and this is my new discovery. From my perspective it's easy to love the nurturing milkmaking function of this body. But Zadie's appreciation goes far beyond the instrumental. And it's teaching me to pay attention to the ways that her love of my body is mirrored in the way I adore hers, and Clare's--not for what they can do, or because they're the cutest kids on the planet, but because they are who they are. I love their toes, their "belly-bees," their amazing blue eyes, the funny wispy baby hair, their snaggleteeth, their dimples, their stinky baby butts when I change their diapers. Because in loving all these things I am simply loving them. There's no separating the body from the person.

So, I love my mammies. Without reserve or qualification. Now, to work on the rest of me: the yucky feet, the growing collection of kitchen clumsiness scars, the spider veins, the stretch marks. This is me. 

my first review!

Wowee!

http://outofthedepths.blogspot.com/2013/01/we-are-becoming-posthuman-cyborgs-we.html

the Girl Power playlist

The Girl Power playlist keeps evolving. The original playlist was TKP's idea, a couple years ago, a gift of sorts to me and a couple other awesome women who, like anyone I suppose, occasionally need reminders of our powerfulness. I've been tinkering with my version of the original playlist ever since. And in case you would like an audial reminder of your awesomeness and powerfulness, here it is.

Just as a warning...some of my selections are a little, um, idiosyncratic. And not all of them are in any way "feminist." A couple of them may even seem anti-feminist, and indeed might be, in isolation. I enjoy irony. I also believe that empowerment is not simple or universal, and looks different for different people and in different situations. So I'll understand if you don't find "Bertha Butt Boogie" empowering (though I love the Butt Sistahs). Or, "Enormous Penis." For the record, I owe my baby sis for that one. Actually, for both of those. (Wow, she is one twisted powerful woman.) And I'd be happy to have a serious convo about some of the complicated things that this might raise, or...not.

I also am adding a disclaimer as to the, um, musical quality of certain selections...

I'd also love your suggestions! Share the power!!!


Amendment, Ani DiFranco
Superwoman, Alicia Keys
Tightrope, Janelle Monae
Happy Home (Keep On Writing), Kimya Dawson
Gorilla Girl, The Dead Milkmen
Not a Pretty Girl, Ani DiFranco
Bertha Butt Boogie, The Jimmy Castor Bunch
Respect Yourself, The Staple Singers
Sincerely Jane, Janelle Monae
You Don't Own Me, Lesley Gore
I Am the Best, 2NE1
She Works Hard for the Money, Donna Summer
Gonna Be an Engineer, Peggy Seeger
Smoothie, Kimya Dawson
Cold War, Janelle Monae
Stronger (What Doesn't Kill You), Kelly Clarkson
Which Side Are You On?, Ani DiFranco
Come Alive (War of the Roses), Janelle Monae
Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves, Aretha Franklin/Eurythmics
I'm a Lady, Santigold
Ladies of the World, Flight of the Conchords
Little Green, Joni Mitchell
If Yr Not, Ani DiFranco
Zoo, Ani DiFranco
Enormous Penis, Da Vinci's Notebook

is this modest?

Not sure? Don't worry, you can get a completely strange man on the Internet to tell you! 

"Where is the line that separates modest from immodest? — We're wondering that too."

Awesome. I'm so glad someone is tackling this deep and important problem, because women and girls need to understand their culpability in men's lustful desires and, unfortunately, even violent acting upon those desires. You can't blame a guy for raping you if you flashed your cleavage at him. Right? They can't help themselves, we all know that.

So, I really think we could use a jazzier tagline for this website. Something like, "because men don't have a rape problem, women have a modesty problem." I'm happy to take your suggestions...and won't it feel good to know that you too have contributed to the important project to making women's bodies the collective property of the male gaze all over again? Let's make Jesus smile! Just not at your boobs, please, ladies. Remember, he's a man too.

monster high

I'm a HUGE fan of Melissa Atkins Wardy of Pigtail Pals and Ballcap Buddies (there's even a widget in the sidebar; if you have kids, check out her really marvelous lines of kid-affirming, gender-stereotype-defying apparel!) and recently she posted a link to this article, about a new doll from a London-based company which (gasp!) decided to make a doll for girls that looked like, um, girls. They even went so far as to (oh my stars and be still my beating heart) "consult with academics" regarding the proportions of an average healthy 9-year-old. So these dolls don't have "breasts or super-skinny waists." Because, you see, your average healthy 9-year-old isn't (brace yourselves, now) proportioned like Barbie. (!!!)

Brava! Brava! Let's see more of this, thank you! Even if I'd like to nitpick on the details, I will absolutely applaud the impulse that says yes, marketing something other than childhood sexualization is a good idea, for companies, for girls, for boys, for parents, for the making of a better world, for everyone, all around.

But.

The end of the article, as Melissa pointed out, seems to take a weird turn. After celebrating this company for its deliberate attention to the issues of early childhood sexualization, the last two paragraphs turn to a spokesperson for the Canadian Toy Association who also happens to be VP of marketing for the folks who make Bratz:

"More traditional companies also think about self-image and have created alternative dolls, said Laura Wiese, spokesperson for the Canadian Toy Association. She pointed to ones that don’t resemble humans, including Monster High and Lalaloopsy dolls. 

“There’s a fine line between associating dolls and girls’ body images, we have to be careful,” said Wiese, who is also vice-president of marketing at MGA Entertainment Canada, which makes popular dolls including Bratz."

Here's the line that gets my attention, as an academic who does posthuman stuff: "She pointed to ones that don't resemble humans, including Monster High."

I'm sorry, what? The companies that have thought about self-image and body-image issues and early childhood sexualization have created alternative dolls, for example, MONSTER HIGH?!

Yeah, that doll bears absolutely no resemblance AT ALL to a sexualized human being, right. No one would ever call this a Monster-ILF or anything.

Here's what I wrote on Melissa's discussion thread:

Re the last 2 paragraphs--I think I just caught Claire McCaskill's whiplash. Monster High? What? I mean, I'd agree that they don't actually resemble human bodies--actual healthy human bodies. But to claim that as an intentional alternative to "traditional dolls?" Pure BS. As someone who actually theorizes on the monstrous/posthuman in an academic context...Monster High is the perfect example of the ambivalence of such figures. They have the potential to be subversive, but that potential can be unrealized and the power of the figures co-opted back into reinforcing the status quo. And that's exactly what the Monster High dolls are: there is no subversion of gender norms there, only reinforcement of them.

Monster High isn't posthuman in any sort of feminist sense. It is simply MILF with zombie makeup and platform heels. (The perfect companion, really, to the hyper-masculine Terminator-type posthuman with the blazing guns and bulging steel muscles and underdeveloped emotions; uber-feminine and passive and alluring but with the perfect waif-like paleness that says, I don't have the strength to resist you.)

[shudder]

Give me a monster doll that defies conventional norms of beauty, femininity, passivity, weakness, submission, sexuality--and then, maybe, we'll have a posthuman figure that can serve as an alternative doll to Barbie. But a Bratz doll in zombie makeup? That's just bullshit.

outside voices

Outside voices are loud.

Both my daughters seem to have been born with a mutant superpower--an internal megaphone attached to their vocal cords inside their bodies that amplifies every syllable to an eardrum-reverberating volume. They seem to be actually physically incapable of producing anything other than an outside voice.

A lot of times, this makes me want to clap my hands over my ears, close my eyes, and howl at outside volumes myself just in order to break through the constant audial chaos. It's a real trigger for my anxiety. Unfortunately.

In rare moments of quiet, when I don't feel battered by the overwhelming soundwaves, I am grateful that my daughters are gifted with loud voices and strong wills and brave spirits and, yes, even talents for defiance. They're going to need those things, in this world, which still prefers its women to be seen but not heard. My daughters, I predict, won't take that sort of thing quietly. They don't tend to take anything quietly, really. Not even Eucharist. (Zadie has an adorable and very loud habit of yelling, "daddy! daddy! daddy!" as we approach the altar.)

But mostly, I want to shut the outside voices out.

I've been pondering this on and off for awhile, as one of the take-aways from the discussion on my "James" experiment post and the kerfuffle that prompted it. There's a serious and difficult challenge in discerning which voices to listen to, and which to ignore--which critiques to take to heart, and which criticisms to let bounce off thick skin.

It's something of a truism, I think, to observe that prophetic critique must be offered from within the boundaries of existing relationship. The prophets were part of their communities; they spoke to their people as part of them, not as strangers or aliens or hermits. They were part of the group they critiqued, accused, even on occasion condemned. They spoke as a part of the "us."

This conviction forms a large part of why I have continued, stubbornly, to remain a participating member of the Churches of Christ, the church that I grew up in and which has formed me and my faith my whole life. I have a lot of criticisms to level at my church; I think they're fair, that they're needed, that they must be voiced, that they must be heard. And so I do my best to be heard, as one of the "us," because to speak from the inside is, I've long assumed, to speak from a position of greater privilege and therefore greater likelihood of being heard.

All this is probably true.

But what I've come to realize--slowly, slowly--over the last couple of years, is that this assumption also works to shut out the outside voices, when we assume that the only legitimate prophetic critique can come from the inside.

And that's not true.

I've spent some time over the last couple of years listening to a lot of "outside voices" in various forums. I am convinced that the Churches of Christ would be a stronger and truer body of Christ if more of the folks in power--those influential preachers with the blogs and the pulpits and the lectureship invites, those university admins, those editor-bishops, those elders at the local congregations--were hearing those outside voices too.

"Ex-CofC'ers" have a lot to say. It needs to be heard. It's rough, it's awful, it's heartwrenching, it's shameful, it's condemnatory, and it needs to be heard. And taken to heart.

Those outside voices are loud. They're grating. They're unwelcome and they are inappropriate and they are, frankly, pissed off. And as long as we write them off as over the top criticism from the outside, rather than legit prophetic critique from one of "us," we risk perpetrating the same behaviors and doctrines and attitudes that have so critically wounded a great many people.

We need to hear from the women who've left because the church that inspired their service told them "no." We need to hear from the sexual abuse survivors who have left because the church sheltered and defended the wrong people. We need to hear from the scientists and philosophers and intellectuals who've left because they were required to check their brains at the door in order to worship the God they wanted to believe in. We need to hear from the gay and lesbian and queer folk who left because they were taught God could only love them if they were someone else entirely. We need to hear from the disillusioned who saw that preaching and practice never quite matched up. We need to hear from the people who haven't "stuck it out" in the name of church unity or family harmony or whatever, from the people who see things differently because they are looking in from the outside.

If we're not hearing them, it's not because they're not trying to be heard. They're using their outside voices, and if we can't hear them, it's because we're choosing to listen only to the inside voices.