What is Women's Studies?

Last semester I won a Women's Studies Writing Contest.

Before that, I had no interest in Women's Studies. I was raised by an emotionally abusive radical feminist and I try to stay far from anything that would interest her. I suppose I fear becoming her.

Anyway, I took Women's Studies, because I thought that it may be something I was "good at", you know, because of the winning essay. When people ask me if I like the class I never know how to answer. What is there to like or dislike? What is Women's Studies?

My class is an intro class, so the subjects are broad and brief. We've watched films that define "feminist", a film on advertising as the enabler of violence "Killing Us Softly", and a film on perpetuating the macho "Tough Guise". We read selections on everything from rape, to lesbian identity, to native American identity, and tattoos. We even spent half of a class period looking at pornographic cites.

This is a big chunk of media for a girl who has no internet access, no cell phone, and no cable, and hasn't had in ten years or so...

So what did I learn? What do I leave with?

When I reflect on the essays I only recall bits and pieces. The films I watched in other classes. Our discussions usually begin with trite comments from girls younger than me, and my older, wiser feminist professor clenching her teeth and pushing out some reason through the cracks.

I have noticed that over the semester I began to see things differently. How or why or when this change came about is unclear, but my awareness is strengthened, broadened, is altered. When I see an ad, I don't think of Kilbourne or Dr. Kerby, I think for myself, I think about why it looks the way it does, and what that company is actually suggestively selling. And I can't turn it off.

I get offended. I rarely was offended by porn, misogyny, or sexy imagery. I used to be the girl who defended it. I still defend my bff whose a stripper, mom, and aspiring rock star. What happened to my "open mind"? Am I more open or becoming closed? And God! Am I becoming my mother???

If only I could go back to "boys will be boys", but I can't. It's too late. I've opened a flood gate.

My abusive ex-boyfriend was addicted to porn. Why didn't I connect these two attributes when they're so obvious? I didn't because I was shaped in a world that tells girls they need to be "cool", laid back, and understanding of male "needs". But now it seems so obvious that by making his ultimate end and idea of love a physical act, he was incapable of emotional love. He could only imitate it long enough to keep his toy around. And that's what I was, a toy. I was an object, because in porn, and advertising, tv, radio, music, GOD EVERYWHERE, women are objectified. We are literally being transformed everyday from a gender to an object. We depend on fleeting youth, pretty skin, fake hair, fake nails, fake tans, and clothes that will make us the ideal image for someone else. We're starving, sleepy, bruised, battered, and beaten down all to impress someone who wants a blow up doll.

And now that I see this I can't go back.

So am I pissed off? Yeah!

Look, I'm not gonna burn my bra, quit shaving my arm pits, or join the football team. Not that there's anything wrong with those lifestyle choices, but they didn't appeal to me before, nor do they now. I suppose I'm still myself (not my mother) just a new breed. Am I enlightened?

Well, I definitely feel like I am. I feel like someone pulled the shades and I'm seeing parts of my world I've never seen before.

I'm not sure what I'm advocating either. Women's Studies I'm sure isn't for everyone. College is expensive so we should all take what's beneficial for us individually, and I don't even know what benefits myself, much less could I recommend anything for anyone else.

I suppose I'm advocated the loathed word "feminism". A word the moral majority hates. A scary word that Rush Limbaugh has forever tied to butch, wickedness. I am advocating awareness.

What are my plans after this class?
I think I'm gonna drop my Women's Studies minor. I have two majors and a family and I need to get out of school, but I can't drop being a feminist (even if I wanted to). I will blog, and yell, and read Bitch Magazine, and argue, and discuss, and protest, and teach, and learn, and forever advocate awareness. Because that's who I am now.

Honesty

The article that strikes me the hardest is Outspoken By: Alex Jabs. There are many people and changes in my life that related to the topic of this article. Alex Jabs describes her experience of coming out to her parents.

Initially, this reminded me of my boyfriend's grandma visit approaching closer each day. She wants to stay with us, in our crowed one bedroom apartment, on our skeleton of a futon. I think this is a ridiculous idea, because she could stay ten minutes away with his parents in the comfort of a spare bedroom. His grandma is a bible thumping, gospel singing, one hand raised Baptist. We are proud atheists. Our book shelves are striped with atheist topics and titles such as The God Delusion, God Is Not Great, and The Atheist Manifesto, as well as social topics like gay and lesbian rights, molestation, and philosophical topics like logic, truth, and justice. None of our interests could ever blend with the dogma of a Southern Baptist. He casually exhaled last night, "I guess we'll have to hide our books."

"No way!", I said.

"But you don't understand my grandma."

"And how could we ever understand each other if we never get to know each other?"

I went on to argue that she will love him unconditionally, if not because she is his grandma, then because it is a rule in the Christian faith. He is still hesitant, and I'm sure he'll find a way to avoid the confrontation. That's just not me. I've always told everyone in my family exactly what I thought, and yes, they think I'm a daffy, overly aggressive, "liberal", but big deal, at least we know each other.

To add to the drama, I'm pregnant!

I have my ultra-sound photos framed and hung on a wall in our living room. All of my family knows I'm pregnant, and they know that adoption is an option we're exploring.

None of his family knows!

When they come over, he hides the pictures! We have to become the "Ryan's family version" of ourselves for approval. But as Alex Jabs describes, it's more exhausting living a lie, than living your life. She says, "...I believe it would hurt me more not to have them in my life."

This is what I wish I could make him understand, but you can't "make" some understand, they have to come to understanding within themselves.

This article also inspired me to explore how I would feel about being the parent of a homosexual child. How should one react? How much information is too much information? How much do I want to know about my child's sex life?

I answered my own questions, when I told my dad about my pregnancy. It was difficult to tell him, and at first I couldn't figure out why it was so hard. Then it dawned on me, if he knows I'm pregnant, then he knows I HAVE SEX! Me and my father don't really talk about sex. That's never been a topic for us, and now here it is, there's no denying it. From this I decided I would never want to have closed subjects separating me and my child. I'm not saying I want every dirty detail, but I don't want that from my closest friends. I just don't want it to be some taboo, uncharted territory that we're forbidden to discuss. I want to be aware that my child is sexually active, so I can teach him/her about safety. So I can get him/her the health care they need. And so if something happened like pregnancy, assault, abuse, or an STD, I want him/her to be able to come to me for help and guidance.

My views are shifting, from the perspective of a child to a parent. Traditionally that would mean that the subjects of conversation would narrow, but I want to become more open, and embrace a more open life-style in my household.

How do you know there's something wrong

After reading the accounts of abused women, as assigned in class, I couldn't help but think of my boyfriend before Ryan. He was very abusive. He found ways to put me down without me realizing he was giving me a negative self image. For example, he would say, "It's a good thing I love you, because no one else would put up with...". One time I wrote an A paper, he hadn't gotten an A, so he said, "That guy just wants in your pants, he would give an A to anything with tits". Then he looked at the first line and laughed, shook his head, and said, "Obviously not an English professor".

Why would I date someone like that? It doesn't sound like me. Even the abusive boyfriend would call me a feminist, with negative connotation. I just fell into the relationship I suppose. At first, he was great. He even told me I didn't have to work. He wanted me to move to Bowling Green, where he would pay all our bills, and I could take some time off. When I finally agreed, everything changed. Suddenly he was out of money, and couldn't buy me things I needed like soap or tampons. He made me use a paper towel for my menstrual cycle. He would never let me see his bank account, but when he wrecked his car, he bought a new one off the lot with cash, so I know he could afford a box of tampons, but that's how he gained control.

Eventually I got sick of sitting around waiting for him to come home from work or school, and I wanted a job, and to continue my education. He took all of my checks; he said I owed him for the bills he had been paying. Everytime I wanted to meet with an adviser, we suddenly had to take a trip out of town.

He was sexually abusive too. He would pin me down when I was crying, and then make me feel ridiculous for crying. He would laugh in my face and say, "Why are you crying, girl, I'm not hurting you. There's something wrong with you."

He looked at me as an object, not as a personality with history. He didn't love me, he loved possessions.

Eventually I had enough, and so without a penny to my name I slept behind a hotel, where he couldn't find me. Eventually I enrolled in school, and took out a huge loan so I could get an apartment. He transferred schools, because he didn't want to run into me, and he didn't want me to "spread rumors" about him.

I should have known from our first argument, when he said, "Women and men get payed exactly the same in the military. I know I was there. That's a lie made up by feminists". But I didn't know. An abuser is a master at the art of manipulation. They can smell your weaknesses and your strengths and give you a dose of whatever they want you to have. The only way to break free is to regain an image of yourself as a person; remember who you were, and who you want to be. You have to see yourself as a person full of life and experience and not just a body. You are more or less just inside your body. The real you is something else.

Broken feet and Yuppies

Over the break, I fell off a twelve foot later and broke two bones in my foot. This especially sucks, because me and my boyfriend don't drive, and we don't have family in town, so I can't get around very far in my air cast. I slept all day today, because broken bones hurt, and finally decided I couldn't take it anymore. After all, I have papers to write and books to read. So I walked the short walk to Starbucks for a cup of joe. On my way a wealthy a family (highlighted momma, salt and pepper papa, and parted and gelled baby boy) zoomed passed me in their hybrid car, and honked their horn. The kid turned around and laughed. They got really close to me.

The car vehicle behind them was an SUV with tinted windows. A girl was driving. Her male passenger revealed himself from behind the descending black window. He was wearing over sized clothes, a gold chain, and lop side black beanie. He said, "Hey little Mama, you need a ride?" I told him thanks, but declined the ride.

I cross into the the Barnes and Noble parking lot, swinging my leg back and forth. To my left, a car full of women stop, and let me pass with their eyes on the parking space I'm hobbling towards, when from behind me a psycho mom in a mini-van whips around me. I fell back to avoid her running over my foot. From the asphalt, all I can see is a fresh white soccer ball decal that says "Soccer Mom" above it. The largest of the women, in the patient car, came with her chest out to soccer mom's window in my defense. She banged on the window, "I know you saw that girl in the cast, you were just too worried about this parking space, your time is more important than this little girl's health. You got to come out there sometime." The big woman crossed her arms and wait. The brake lights on the van flashed, I guess soccer mom wanted to double lock her doors. The driver of big mama's car yelled for her, "Mama, get back in this car. It is too cold out there." Big mama looked her bare arms. Her big floral dress was blowing in the cold wind. She mumbled under her breath as she waddled back to car the car.

Interestingly the two cars that were more concerned with time than fellow man were Caucasian, and the SUV who offered me a ride, big mama, and her car full were African American. Is this coincidence? I don't think so. I think that spoiled children beget spoiled adults who act like children. Those yuppies were so self absorbed. My leg was not the wound of another, but was offensive to them, it slowed them down, it was their hindrance. The people concerned for me were African American. As we all know, African Americans are not treated equal in this country even today. We know this from countless examples of racial profiling, police brutality, and employment discrimination. I think that the people who stopped were more capable of love and empathy, because of how valuable love and empathy is to them, while the people who tried to run me over place more value on time and self interest.

It's my skin and it's my ink

Not surprising, I was most interested in Revolting Bodies: The Monster of Tattooed Women By Christine Braunberger. I didn't get a feeling that Christine condemned, nor did I that she condoned tattoos. She discussed the history of women with tattoos. I am sure Christine does not have tattoos. I am not a fan of her writing style, and it seems she lacks experience. I wish someone else had written this article. I doubt that she's been to many tattoo conventions. She probably went to one for the sake of the article, or just interviewed people who had been to them. Two of my best friends are tattoo artists (both women) and my ex is a tattoo artist, so I've been dragged to many-- in Nashville, LA, Vegas, Tampa, Chicago, Atlanta, New Orleans, St Louis, and back again. Christine seems to imply that tattooed women are treated like the objects of beauty pageants, which is not the case. No one wears much (male, female, or a bit of both), because THEY WANT TO SHOW OFF THEIR TATTOOS! It's not a sexual experience, even my ex who is a horn dog, is his most respectful and professional at tattoo conventions. Everyone gets on stage baring most of their flesh so that photos can be taken of individual pieces. Most women don't have big breasts, blond hair, or any of the other pornographic fantasy attributes assigned to women. In fact, a healthy percentage of the chicks you meet at a tattoo convention are lesbians, and not at all interested in strutting their stuff to impress men. People are there for the art. They're there to feel comfortable for one day of their lives. Tattoos are personal, they are not displays. I, and everyone else I know who has tattoos, hate when people talk about them, or try to touch them, or ask questions about them. We complain about it all the time. Most of us try to hide our tattoos in public. I've noticed that people with tattoos don't grab my arm to examine, but the naked skins do. To me, people with tattoos are so much more attractive than those without, because they are individualized. They didn't get highlights or an Abercrombie tee shirt. They don't want to be themselves. They want to as much of themselves as they can be. They are all quite beautiful and unique and brave. It's hard to face the world of zombies day in and day out with your head up, proud to be as you as you can be. That's what a tattoo does. They don't make you less of a person, they make you more of yourself. Tattoos in America have gone from deviation, to iconic, to some personal blend of the two. I don't understand why the bare fleshed people want to touch tattooed people. We, probably more than any other subculture, don't want to be touched! How is that appropriate? If you have a cool t-shirt, I don't grope it! If I like your hair, I don't tousle it! Speaking of which, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a hair cut body modification? A cut and color is like a temporary tattoo, as is a dress, a pair of shoes, a bracelet... We want to know why we're conscious, why we're here... Our likes, dislikes, and experiences give us insight into who we are and how we want to spend our lives, and we're only going to live so long, so why not display yourself proudly? How could that be perverse? How could that be degrading? What could be more beautiful?

I hate how we treat youth

This is the t-shirt I will be selling all day today at my job in the mall. I sell this tee to ten yearold girls and their seventy yearold grandma's. This boy in the picture is SEVENTEEN! He is treated like a slab of meat, and what seventeen yearold would object? But why is this okay?

If Twilight were the story of a boy who is the object of desire for a nearly naked, overly developed seventeen yearold girl, and a sultry big breasted vampire, we wouldn't allow our ten yearold to watch and drool. We would rate it X, and forbid it. Because girls are swooning is this really okay?

Should mothers encourage their daughters to treat these kids like objects rather than people? Should mothers and their children be buying this t-shirt to match (I had two pairs yesterday buy this tee)? Should we teach our children that they must act weak, stupid, and nervous to get naked boys to fight over them? What are we doing and why am I a part of this? Why do I like Twilight? I see the issues in it, I hate how Bella is portrayed. I'm not watching New Moon, because I'm not interested in seeing a naked underage boy seduce an audience. Let's not be hypocrites ladies.

Gotta go to work... wander how many mother will shriek at these t-shirts as they wad up a pile for Grandma, big sis, baby sis, aunt Sue, etc. Geez

Clothes

In Article 3 of Part One, we explore other cultures and how women are represented in them. One particular topic stood out to me. Cynthia Fuchs Epstein writes, "Although men, with some exceptions, wear Western dress in much of the world, women's clothing is used to symbolize their cultures' confrontations with modernity, in addition to clothing's symbolic roles". I've seen this before. Don't images just rush to minds-- bits and pieces of things you've seen on Discovery Channel. Do you instantly think of women in saris beside men in jeans and t-shirts, or again in Africa men in t-shirts and women bright wraps with tall head wraps, and the same for any other culture. In performance, we dress women in time-period clothes, but men are looked down upon in time period clothes that aren't armor. As if it makes them seem more feminine... is costume a feminine tradition? There's so much emphasis on the way women look! A woman has to represent her heritage on top of her flesh, while a man can hold his within. Why? Why is this rule in place? Is it that whole "seen and not heard" rule. Is that rule universal?

Me Love You Long Time

Out of all of our reading thus far, When I Was Growing Up by Nellie Wong was the most compelling for me. I've never heard an Asian American woman complain about the stereotypes against her, and so somehow that made them true in a way. I believed that she would SUBMIT to such abuse, and so I became a perpetuater of her oppression. Me, of all people! It's difficult to admit when your wrong, but I have never even deeply thought about the way Asian American women are portrayed before reading this poem. I've always been concerned with myself, with women in general. As I was reading her reveal herself, I could only imagine all the pop-ups I've seen that say, "Do you like Asian chicks" "Barely 18 and Japanese" "Japanese girls and candy" or the horror stories of mail order brides. I hate that they're treated this way, like dolls and not people. I wish we could respect and admire Asian beauty as a delicate culture rather than poke and probe at it with barbaric perversion. I wish we could respect Asian women as women, and not treat them like children because Western body types are bigger and rounder than the stereotypical Asian body type. Why do we not stereotype Asian men the same way? Why don't we have male order husbands? I've never met an Asian woman who wasn't respectful, proud, and intelligent, and these are the attributes of Eastern culture. Nothing about the Eastern tradition is submissive or childlike.

September 16th

It was 1988, the year Reagan left office and the Bush family began their presidential reign, gas was 91 cents a gallon, and the little girl from Poltergeist died. I didn't know any of that stuff. I was in Bumpus Mills, Tennessee, a town that hasn't changed much since 1988. Those kids around me are my cousins. I'm the third oldest in my generation, so I probably knew all of the cousins there that day by name, but as they multiplied I quit trying. They filled our tiny apartment with reenactments of The Terminator or whaling like Tarzan. Trapped in such a small space with my cousins, aunts, and uncles, the sound would swell. Sweaty heads and elbows swarmed me. Only my grandmother and I were still. Sometimes my dad would look at me and then his mom, once he said, “Mama, Sami reminds me of you, ya know her mannerism. Ya'll are always so calm and quiet”. I can remember thinking, “I'm not an old lady!” Now I realize my grandmother wasn't an old lady then, and he was right. We were dreamy, lost in thoughts and fantasy. Had I been given the chance, I bet I could have spent an entire day staring, thinking about what was going on around me or dreaming of places I'd never seen. My best friend in fifth grade said to boy who asked if I had a staring problem, “She always stares”. Kids in Bumpus Mills don't have themed parties or tables of presents. I had a Rainbow Brite cake, Smurf plates, and Garfield hats. My aunts and uncles brought pieces of the party. The girl behind me is Kristen, she's a year younger than me. She's a nurse now at the Stewart County Hospital, and married to her high school sweetheart. The boy in the hat is Beau, he does electrical work in Stewart County, and he has kids, but I don't know how many. They were having fun. They were playing, telling jokes, swinging off the arms of men and begging women for something new every chance they got. I was there, but the only reason I'm in the picture is because it was my birthday. The world was happening around me, and I was discovering different ways to talk to people. I was finding my own way. I've always wanted to be like them. I've spent days wishing I could tell jokes and climb trees and be content in Stewart County forever, but when I see myself trying so hard I realize the life I inherited doesn't suit me at all. Was that what my grandmother was talking about when she called my humor dry? In the hallways of WKU, I feel exactly the way I felt on the same day twenty one years ago, like life is happening all around me, and I'm watching, thinking, dreaming. I meandered through my life to end up in same place I started, chewing on my lip with my head down.

Reality hit me tonight. Well... it fell on top of me in the darkness as I lay awake in bed playing all of the day's events over in my mind. I walked (again) into my professor's office. I listened to the highlights of our conversation, but this time I could see myself. I watched Me sit, with my hand near my mouth and my hair out of place. I told him I worked full-time, and he said something like, "Oh, not from a family with money, huh?" This time I walked into the hall, but unlike the first time I noticed my surroundings. I could see the passers-by, and in that second, I was washed under three years of that university. I could see the other students. I saw their clothes, their cars, their smooth round faces and tan skin. How could I have been so blind before? It's so obvious I don't belong. Why am I here? Every semester I take out another loan that I'll never be able to pay back, and why? I'll never afford graduate school, and if I do... If I do, I'll be the one they call ma'am. I will be the forbidden one. I may already be the forbidden one, blinded by the ease of maturation. I may not notice that everyone else notices my starter wrinkles. Why am I doing this? To write? I could write for free! The professor (the one I spoke to earlier today) always says, “You know what a Bachelor’s in English and a quarter will get ya?” He never answers his riddle, and I would rather not hear the rest. I love college. I do. I love the academic surroundings, so much so that I want to be a professor-- not selflessly. I don't want to be a professor to better my fellow man, but the surroundings motivate me to work and to learn. If I could be a professor, I could write forever, and improve until I die without the bullshit of other jobs draining my desire. It sort of goes back to what my Grandma used to say, “You are who you hang with”. Obviously, that’s not completely true, but the rule does have some merit. Your surroundings inarguably influence who you are. When I am in classroom, I’m still Sami, but I’m a different version. I’m the Sami I want to be, as opposed to the Sami at the cash register asking if you’d like to donate a dollar. So, I guess that's why I'm here. I'm here to earn the freedom to be myself. I'm buying my freedom to be happy. In a few years, when the reality of paying back
loans for the rest of my life comes crashing down, I’m sure there will be times, perhaps when I’m sealing envelopes of checks, that I question if the actual value of my time at Western, but I’ve made my choice. I've gone too far to stop now.