Archive for June, 2007

Tuesday Search terms

Without much comment, here are the best search terms of the past week:

sentimental moment or why did the baguette cross the road?
morphed genitles (Well, they started out as Jews and became Gentiles later?)
how to write a glowing evaluation about a not so glowing person (Start by refusing to write said eval.)
my daughter is 16 how can i keep her as a virgin? (She — and her virginity — aren’t yours to keep, Bubba. Take two xanax and call me two mornings from now.)
masturbation camps and schools for men (Aren’t advertised in the back of Town and Country)
social manner car seating arrangement (OKOP know how to do it right.)

More on feminist teaching

One of the things I like best about blogging is that I get to blur the line between the personal and the professional, between the academic and the confessional aspects of my writing. My favorite blogs tend to be those that refuse to make distinctions between the private and the public. Too much of the former reads as navel-gazing, too much of the latter is usually dry.

But the problem is that folks like me build up a web persona that attracts some and alienates others. As a result, I think some folks confuse the message with the messenger. I realize I contribute to this through my blogging style, but it troubles me at times. Anthony wrote below this post:

By asking them to “throw off the chains of repressive gender roles and that insidious, multi-generational guilt foisted on them by those who love them.”, you’re asking them to a) buy into the idea that they are, in fact, chained by “repressive gender roles” and “insiduous, multi-generational guilt”; b) buy into the values you espouse - to become “our kind of people”; and c) to replace their their culture with your culture as their source of identity. That’s pretty powerful stuff, and it *is* an exercise of power, if it is successful. While you may derive no monetary benefit (you’d make the same salary if you didn’t do that), and no sexual benefit, you are getting to exercise power over other people in a way that goes somewhat beyond the normal exercise of power in a teacher-student relationship. Does a math teacher get to have the sort of influence over her students the way you do, even though they are imparting perfect universal truths to their students?

What troubles me is that Anthony is linking my various posts about class and OKOP (our kind of people) with my commitment to “raising up young feminists.” I suppose that’s a natural association to make, but I want to be adamant that the feminism I’m trying to instill in the young women (and young men) with whom I work isn’t about encouraging WASPiness.

When it comes to “multi-generational guilt”, I’m not teaching my students anything they don’t already know. Feminism isn’t indoctrination in a foreign ideology. Good feminist teaching gives voice to what is already inside the student; good feminist teaching liberates students from the fear that the thoughts they think are alien, strange, disloyal, unique. Over and over, I hear from my students that when they read feminist literature for the first time, when they encounter feminist analysis for the first time, it’s like “coming home”. It’s less shockingly new than shockingly familiar.

It may be true that autonomy and individualism gained an earlier foothold among upper-middle class European-Americans than they did in other socio-economic groups. But OKOP are hardly always model feminists, for Pete’s sake. Read John Cheever. Read some Marilyn French. Being a “perfect lady” can be as repressive a straitjacket as being “a good Chinese (or Mexican or Armenian) girl”. I teach to a largely non-white demographic, and I tailor my feminism to them. But it doesn’t mean that I’m taking on the role of the Kind and Benevolent Great White Father leading His little brown daughters to the promised land.

One thing I’m very big on doing is identifying mentors to serve as role models for younger women. This semester, one of my favorite students is a 26 year-old from a very conservative Armenian home. She has stunned her family with a series of brave rebellions, and after years of increasingly assertive independence, is transferring to college out of state. Many of my younger Armenian female students are told that if they want parental support for college, they must live at home and continue to put up with a double standard that permits their brothers to stay out all night but forces them to be in by ten. These young women are excited by feminism and by what it offers for their lives; they are inspired and challenged by what I’m teaching. But they see no way to apply this within the context of Armenian culture. In this case, my WASPy OKOPness (not to mention my maleness) prevents me from showing them how to extricate themselves from a repressive home life. I can’t show folks how to do what I’ve never done. But I can hook my students up with each other, and that’s what I’m doing this week (and have done many times before): arrange for groups of young women (often from a similar cultural background) to meet together off-campus. I always ask a slightly older peer of theirs, from that same background, to act as a mentor. Sometimes, the most important work I do as a feminist instructor is create opportunities for women to challenge, support, motivate, and inspire other women. It’s damn sure not all about me.

Home

My plane landed at Burbank Airport at 2:35. I was in my office here at PCC by 3:35, and I am besieged by emails and students and papers.

The key today: give each student 100% of my attention. And combine affirmations and exhortations, and do so very, very fast.

Friday Random Ten: the “why can’t chinchillas do my grading for me” edition

Despite a huge load of grading, we’re off to Northern California for the weekend. A family wedding Saturday, and my mother’s 70th birthday on Sunday. Regular blogging will return on Tuesday. A good mix here; #4 is off one of my favorite ’80s albums, #5 became known to a new generation of fans through “Love, Actually” — but has always been a masterpiece. 2, 8, 9 are all covers of classics, each offering a radical new interpretation of a much loved song. #10 is one of those worship standards of which I am at least still periodically fond.

1. “Jerusalem”, Steve Earle
2. “House of the Rising Sun”, Be Good Tanyas
3. “For a Dancer”, Jackson Browne
4. “Queen of the Slipstream”, Van Morrison
5. “Both Sides Now”, Joni Mitchell
6. “Lullaby”, Loudon Wainwright III
7. “Breathe (2 AM)”, Anna Nalick
8. “John Henry”, Bruce Springsteen
9. “Strawberry Fields Forever”, Richie Havens
10. “Better is One Day”, Matt Redman

Bonus Tracks: “Did You Mean It”, Third Day; “Avila”, Wailin’ Jennys

A mentor, not a guru

Below my post this morning on “Fat, slut, selfish”, Flippanter comments:

Ironically, a great deal of power tends to accrue to the person, usually a man, who encourages people, usually young and often women, to do what they want and not necessarily what their parents and families would like, in the name of liberating them to realize their potential, live life to fullest, etc., etc., etc. It occurs to me that one could get attached to that sort of power.

I don’t think Flippanter is trolling here.

I make no secret of my desire to be an inspiration to my students, to be a role model in my public and private life. I am quite open about wanting to be a “change agent.” But I am absolutely emphatic that I am not trying to be a guru. I put this in the comments section after Flippanter’s remark, but I’ll repeat it here:

This is why I distinguish, as best I can, between being a mentor — who encourages a person to find herself, and a guru — who suggests exactly where she will be found.

In the process of finding that “still, small voice” within us, we need guides to help us on the way. I didn’t get to where I’ve gotten by myself; I had sponsors and mentors and spiritual directors. I still have them today. I try, as often as possible, to check in with folks who are farther down the road than I; with friends who are more or less where I am; and then and only then to offer encouragement, advice, and exhortations to those who are coming up behind.

Do I like teaching? Do I like strutting and fretting my hour on the stage of my classroom? Damned straight I do. I take pleasure in it because I know in my bones I am doing what I am called to do. It’s not power I’m attached to, Flippanter, it’s the tremendous sense of excitement about working to inspire transformation in others. I’ll be the first to admit that I do get a strong sense of gratification from watching that change happen. I just know I’m not the one making it happen.

If I were encouraging these young women to “discover” their repressed sexuality through an affair with me, that would be grossly manipulative. But there’s no hidden payoff for me in inspiring young men and women to change their lives. There’s no selfish agenda on my part when I gently, firmly, call on my students, mentees, and youth groupers to throw off the chains of repressive gender roles and that insidious, multi-generational guilt foisted on them by those who love them.

I do monitor myself assiduously for signs I may be slipping into “guru-hood”. I have accountability partners in all that I do, including my teaching. Most teachers — especially ENFPs — have a slight tendency towards megalomania. With humor and humility (two words related in more ways than the obvious), I try to keep that tendency well in check.

“Fat”, “Slut”, “Selfish”: a note on the three great fears

I’ve been teaching women’s history here at Pasadena City College for more than a dozen years now, and throughout that time, have made journals a critical part of the course. It’s a lot of reading for me, but I remain convinced that my own teachers were right when they told me that putting my words down on paper is the single best way to figure out what it really is I think, feel, and believe.

Over these twelve years or so of teaching gender studies, of meeting with countless students in office hours, of listening. of reading student journals and reflecting on what I find there, I’ve noticed some fairly clear patterns. And the pattern that’s in my head this morning is the ubiquitousness of self-doubt and self-criticism that I see in so many of my female students (and youth group kids).

As my students will confirm, I’m fond of insisting that there are “three key points” to be made about virtually anything. (Too much Trinitarian Christianity; too much of the “three-column system” in Kabbalah; too much Hegel… or three divorces. Take your pick.) And if I were to try and sum up all of the negative self-talk I encounter from my students in just three words, it would be easy:

Fat, Slut, Selfish.

Let me be very clear that I’m not claiming that most women regularly beat themselves up with all three of these. For most of my students and youth group kids, one or two of these three words is particularly haunting. The fear of fat is much commented upon, and in looking back over the last twelve years of journals, the best that I can say is that that crushing anxiety about the body has, at least, not gotten significantly worse. Of course, it couldn’t get much worse. (I do notice more of my male students admitting to body dysmorphia and a desire to lose weight or change their shape.)

If the label “fat” still has tremendous power to wound, there are signs that at least among some young women, “slut” is losing at least a little of its force. From what I can tell (and to generalize enormously), we’ve done a marginally better job of helping young women claim ownership of their sexuality. Compared to what I was seeing, hearing, and reading in the mid-1990s, I see slightly more acceptance among young women (and their male peers) of the notion that women have the right to be sexual subjects rather than objects. Of course, as many feminists worry, when it comes to “sex talk” it’s often difficult to distinguish between false bravado and a genuine embrace of erotic agency. One role of feminist mentors (and youth group leaders) is to provide a safe environment where students can get honest about sexuality. It’s in these safe environments that those who are merely “talking big” about their comfort with their sexuality can begin to acknowledge that some of that apparent confidence is a facade; it’s also in these environments that those who are anxious or confused about their own sexuality can begin to unburden themselves.

The epithets “fat” and “slut” have great power to wound. They sting young women when another person slaps them on, but they do far greater damage once they worm their way into one’s own internal conversation. But as awful as these words are when they are used to hurt another, or when they are used in relentless, ugly self-deprecation, they aren’t as debilitating as “selfish.” When it comes to what incapacitates (or at the least, handicaps) so many of the girls and women with whom I work, it’s the tremendous fear that by following their own bliss, by carving out space for themselves, by seeing their own happiness as a fundamental good, they are disappointing others and thinking too much about themselves.

There’s a class and race element to this. First-generation female college students, particularly from immigrant families, often are more likely to get that awful “After all we sacrificed for you, you owe us” speech. What a young woman from this background owes is usually to major in something that will lead to a stable, lucrative career; while pursuing this course, she’s often expected to remain a virgin. Among folks from these lower socio-economic backgrounds, the fear about pre-marital sex is, of course, partly that it could damage a gal’s reputation and turn her into damaged goods. But it’s also a fear that if a young woman gets into a sexual relationship, her academic life will get put on the back-burner. Worse, there’s fear that if she gets pregnant, she’ll keep the baby and drop out of school, and with that decision, her parents’ hopes for upward mobility will be dashed.

Many of these families look to their dutiful daughters to establish beachheads in the middle class. Once established, these dutiful daughters are expected — somehow — to take care of everyone and their brother (literally). Many of these women were raised by mothers who taught their daughters that they needed to perform traditional female duties (cooking, cleaning, nurturing) while also engaging in what was once classically male behavior (earning a degree, getting a “good” job, providing for their broader family). When a daughter’s education is part of a long-term family plan, and when a daughter’s propriety (sexual or otherwise) is keenly connected to that same plan, it’s not surprising that a great many of these young women feel as if they’re “being selfish” when they deviate from the brutally rigid script that they have been handed.

But that fear of selfishness is hardly unique to any one social group. It is, as I said before, ubiquitous. And in the end, it may be the most debilitating of these three “key words of negative self-talk.” While the fear of fat can lead to disordered eating (and concomitant misery), and the fear of the slut label can lead to shame and repression, the fear of being selfish can divert a young woman’s life trajectory. Women from one background might believe that they’re being “selfish” when they major in art history rather than pre-med. They might believe that they’re being “selfish” when they don’t give their parents grandchildren on a pre-set timetable. They might believe that it’s “selfish” to want to go to college far away from home, in order to escape what is often an alternately smothering and alienating environment.

“I’d love to do that, but I’d feel too selfish.” Oh, how rich I’d be if I had a single dollar for each time I’ve heard that from one of my youth group kids, or read it in a college student’s journal. And it’s not just a fear confined to the young; I hear older female students regularly confess this same anxiety — that by placing themselves ahead of others around them, they are somehow betraying the obligation to be endlessly self-sacrificing.

This anxiety is often particularly acute among women from traditional religious backgrounds. And while it is true that Christ calls us to the cross and to sacrifice, too many of us confuse service to family with service to God. Too often, we tell women that by pleasing their parents (or husbands, or children) they are engaged in Christian service. But female subservience is very nearly a cultural universal; Christianity at its best is always countercultural and subversive. The great subversiveness of authentic Christianity lies in its privileging of Mary over Martha, in its insistence on mutual submission in marriage, and the stern reminder that Christ came to divide rather than unite the family.

I don’t like the words “fat” and “slut”, and see no reason to apply them to other folks (or myself), regardless of their appearance or behavior. I do think we are all capable of selfishness, if we define selfishness as ignoring the genuine needs of others in order to focus on ourselves. But most women who feel selfish aren’t. They’ve mislabelled their basic desires for autonomy and independence as selfish. They’ve confused genuine selflessness — which is a commitment to serve the truly needy — with people-pleasing. For the believers, they’ve confused following God’s call (which is frequently to leave loved one’s behind) with meek acquiescence. They’ve mixed up goodness with obedience.

There is no bigger battle that I fight as a pro-feminist educator and mentor than the one against this incapacitating anxiety about “putting themselves first.” There is no greater gift that we can give our daughters and our little sisters than to remind them that following their bliss isn’t inherently selfish.

And someday, my students won’t write in their journals that they loathe themselves because of what they ate, because of who they slept with, because they dared to divert from the plan laid out for their lives by those whose love is so genuine, so intense, and, almost invariably, so crushingly burdensome.

Thursday Short Poem: Sexton’s “For my Lover, Returning to His Wife”

I try and limit the number of very famous poems I put up on Thursdays, but I like to slip in a few. This Anne Sexton classic is devastating; the final two sentences are utterly unforgettable, and painfully recognizable.

For My Lover, Returning to His Wife


She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let’s face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter’s wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission—

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound—
for the burying of her small red wound alive—

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stockings,
for the garter belt, for the call—

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

Dodger dogs

Just passing through the house today, I turned on Fox News (a rare event indeed). Saw a story on the attempt by animal rights activists to get the Los Angeles Dodgers to stop selling the eponymous hot dog made by Farmer John; the pigs who are slaughtered to make the franks are kept in tiny cages that are considered more than unusually inhumane.

One Dodger fan was interviewed as he munched on a “dog”; he was entirely unrepentant:

“I’m going to keep on enjoying these”, he said. “Because if you started thinking too much about it, you’d be vegetarian.”

Word, my dear brother, word.

All I ask people to do is think about how what they are eating was made. If they could cheerfully kill and butcher the meat themselves, that’s one thing. But if their enjoyment is contingent upon willful ignorance or denial, that’s something else altogether.

Wednesday overwhelm

It’s a fairly frantic Wednesday morning. Wednesdays have turned into my busiest days of the week, and I only seem to have enough time to post in order to explain why I’m not posting.

While it’s true I’ve been spending time tracking down my cousins on Facebook, the real source of the time crunch these days is a combination of upping my running mileage (this week, we’re going over 60 miles for the first time this season); grading student journals and final exams; writing notes to graduating seniors; buying gifts for a plethora of birthdays; getting ready (this isn’t certain yet) to rescue still another chinchilla in trouble; and designing a sexual harassment and boundary workshop I’m going to teach next week at a friend’s business.

Coffee is my friend.

I have two posts I hope to write soon: one on why so many on the religious right prefer to focus on abortion rather than other social issues, and one on how ceasing to be a rescuer or a white knight in one’s romantic relationships liberates one to be a rescuer of the truly vulnerable and needy (like chinchillas and children).

But that needs to wait.

Some more thoughts on All Saints, youth ministry, and making choices at the crossroads

Another year of youth ministry at All Saints Pasadena came to a close this past weekend. Another group of seniors heads off to college. Once again, I’m awed by how fast “my kids” grow up. Four short years ago, they were beginning ninth-graders, wriggling and squirming in hyperactivity and anxiety and awkwardness. Today, they are (mostly) legal adults, increasingly poised, increasingly confident, increasingly compassionate and empathetic. Kids I towered over in 2003 now have blown right past me — and I’m not merely referring to height.

Two days ago, on Trinity Sunday, we had our annual “youth service.” The teens serve communion bread and wine, the teen choir handles the music, and two teens help design the sermon. One young woman who preached on Sunday has been dear to me for many years. She spoke of how she’d been a member of our church since the womb, of how she’d grown up safe and loved in this large, unruly, vibrant community.

She spoke of how she’d gone through our Seekers confirmation program (which I co-led from 2001 until this year) as an agnostic who flirted with atheism. As she put it, she got confirmed at the end of her frosh year in order to honor the eight-month process of Seekers, not out of any newfound certainty in her faith. Interestingly, she reported from the pulpit on Sunday that she has — at last — begun to experience a sudden openness to God. After years and years of living by the All Saints creed of the “gospel of social justice”, the creed that suggests that “Jesus was a heckuva nice guy and an important advocate for change”, she’s begun to find a more evangelical faith. She found it through her school’s gospel choir, and in the rhythm and emotion of gospel, she’s opened herself up to the possibility that Jesus was and is more than a human role model.

It was a brave thing to say from the All Saints pulpit. It contained both praise and a rebuke for All Saints. This flagship church of American Anglican liberalism is very, very good at encouraging individual exploration. We are very good at raising awareness of suffering in the broader world. We are very, very good at teaching young people how to ask the right theological questions. We are very, very good at instilling suspicion of any person or institution who cllaims to have The One True Answer. We are, most of the time, pretty good at loving kids “where they’re at” instead of where we think they should be.

But we liberal Episcopalians are often not so good at helping kids to come to certainties. Too often, when a young person in pain asks “where is God when I need Him?”, the institutional response is to say “Ah, my child, that’s an excellent question, one asked by many people over the centuries. We invite you to pray and reflect on God in His Mystery and His Apparent Absence, and know that we support you as you wrestle with the Great Dilemma of Faith.” We’re really good, we Episcopalians, at encouraging a process of discernment. (Heck, is there any word we love more than “process”?) We revel in “acknowledging dichotomies” and “appreciating uncertainty” and “holding apparent contradictions in simultaneous tension”. This is great, heady stuff, but it isn’t really helpful to a teen wrestling with the suicide of a friend, an eating disorder, the decision to terminate a pregnancy, their parents’ divorce.

What I try to do in my youth ministry — and what I see at least a few folks trying to do as well — is fuse an evangelical passion for Jesus as Savior and Best of Friends with an appreciation for theological pluralism. In other words, Jesus may not the be the Only Way, but to live in relationship with Him is certainly One Way, and I am unashamed to proclaim that for me, He has turned out to be the Best Way. It’s healthy and right and good to ackonwledge a multiplicity of equally wonderful choices, but at some point (particularly in a time of great existential crisis) it’s helpful to make one choice.

We all know Frost’s poem about the road less traveled. Too often among my fellow liberal Anglicans, I sense a real delight in remaining permanently stuck at the crossroads. One of the penchants I really dislike among some of my friends is the tendency to see the refusal to make any theological commitments as evidence of great wisdom. Some elevate “analysis paralysis” to the level of a high virtue. That’s fine for adults, but it’s not helpful for most teenagers, who, despite their natural suspicion towards authority, really need at least some certainties, even if the primary certainty that a good youth leader can provide is that they are loved.

When you’re a child, you take the path your parents tell you to take. When you’re a teen, it is right and good to become aware of options, of choices — and the church ought to point out that other choices exist. But after we acknowledge that there are other paths, perhaps just as worthy and good as ours (the ocean refuses no river, after all), we need to say definitively: this is our path. This is our way. And we will walk this path with you.

“Death by Veganism”: cheap alarmism at its most repugnant

Two weeks after people first started sending it to me, let me respond to the infamous Nina Plancke op-ed in the New York Times, Death by Veganism. Commenting on the report of vegan parents in Georgia arrested after the death of their infant son, Plancke opines:

I was once a vegan. But well before I became pregnant, I concluded that a vegan pregnancy was irresponsible. You cannot create and nourish a robust baby merely on foods from plants.

Indigenous cuisines offer clues about what humans, naturally omnivorous, need to survive, reproduce and grow: traditional vegetarian diets, as in India, invariably include dairy and eggs for complete protein, essential fats and vitamins. There are no vegan societies for a simple reason: a vegan diet is not adequate in the long run.

The breathtaking lack of logic in the last sentence reminds me of classic anti-feminist arguments: there are no truly egalitarian societies (and never will be) because women are, in the long run, inferior to men.

Who is this Nina Planck person with her sweeping arguments about nutrition? Well, she has no medical degree or nutrition degree. Here’s her website, and there’s no mention of any professional certification in any health field. She writes cookbooks and advocates for farmer’s markets, both worthy activities — but she writes with the authority of someone who ought to have initials after her name. She doesn’t.

Who does say you can have a healthy vegan pregnancy? The medical advisory team at Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine, which includes pediatricians, nutritionists, and gynecologists on its board. Here’s a letter to the Times from vegan nutritionist Dr. Amy Joy Lanou. An excerpt:

I am a nutritionist who testified as an expert witness for the prosecution in the criminal trial of the parents of Crown Shakur. As the lead prosecutor in this case told the jury, this poor infant was not killed by a vegan diet. He was starved to death by parents who did not give him breast milk, soy-based infant formula or enough food of any kind.

Well-planned vegan diets are healthful for pregnant mothers and their infants, as well as for older children, according to a large body of scientific research. Contrary to Ms. Planck’s assertions, there are healthy plant-based sources of docosahexaenoic acid, or DHA; calcium can be absorbed about as readily from soy milk as from cow’s milk; and soy does not inhibit growth.

Studies have found that vegan children are within the normal ranges for weight and height, and I personally know vegan mothers and vegan children who are healthier than many of their omnivorous peers.

When my wife and I attended PCRM’s gala fundraiser in D.C. in April, we met several couples with young children who are being raised vegan. The children laughed and played and ran around, looking slender and healthy and cheerful. One woman we talked to had been vegan throughout her two pregnancies, with smashing success. Though I may not know as many folks as Dr. Lanou, I can certainly — anecdotally — think of many kids who are growing up vegan and healthy and happy and fine.

I assume Nina Planck is not a shill for Big Ag. But her misrepresentations of the vegan lifestyle (which she suggests is fine for adults but irresponsible for children) has already done serious harm. Those who are committed to veganism as a multi-generational way of living, those who are committed to raising children from conception without food sourced from any animal other than a human mother, deserve to have the full story told.

My wife is committed to a vegan pregnancy. We are committed to raising vegan kids, with careful medical supervision from doctors and nutritionists who are committed to the welfare of children and the well-being of the earth they will inherit.

For more on vegan pregnancy and children, go here.

Loving the look, ignoring the sport: some thoughts on Allison Stokke: UPDATED

It was a busy weekend. My wife and I were able to spend some excellent time together, and on Saturday night — before heading out for some vegan Nepalese — I got some of the live coverage of the California high school track and field championships. I got to see the future Golden Bear running back, Jahvid Best, show some awesome speed in the 200; I got to see the remarkable Jordan Hasay (whose career I’ve been tracking since she was an eighth grader) lap most of the field on her way to another easy victory in the two-mile. Hasay is only a sophomore, and if she keeps her composure and stays injury free, she’s going to be a household name outside of the track world very soon.

Track doesn’t get much coverage in the mainstream press, even in the sports section. But Friday’s LA Times featured a front-page piece on Allison Stokke, a high school pole-vaulter from Orange County. Allison’s a fine vaulter (though she finished fourth at state on Saturday), and I’m happy to say she’s a future Cal athlete. But the article was about the attention Allison has drawn for her looks:

…intelligence and athletic ability aren’t what made her the most-watched athlete at the state high school track and field championships in Sacramento on Friday.

It was the Internet.

Stokke happens to be physically attractive, with shiny dark hair; flawless olive-colored skin; a wide, bright smile; and the toned 5-foot-7 frame of a well-trained athlete — and that’s why her name has become among the most searched on the Internet, making her a flashpoint for debate about 1st Amendment rights and who can post what about whom in cyberspace.

One day she was just another accomplished high school athlete. The next, she was the topic of media reports from London, Spain and Italy; her YouTube video got nearly 200,000 views; and photos of her were posted on college message boards around the country and linked to by bloggers around the world.

Keith Richmond, chief executive of Break.com, has a term he uses for the instantly famous: “e-lebrities.” His site bills itself as an “entertainment channel for guys fueled by user-created media.”

The Times, helpfully for those who don’t follow the sport, offers two pictures of Stokke, one vaulting, one just smiling for the camera. The latter is captioned “head-turner.”

On so many levels, this is so infuriating. For starters, it’s one thing for the Times to report on the unseemly obsession that many men (who probably know damn all about field events, and couldn’t name one of Stokke’s competitors) have with a high-school aged female athlete. It’s another thing for the Times article (written by Diane Pucin) to label Allison a “head-turner” and rhapsodize about her “flawless” skin. A whole lot of folks who didn’t know about Stokke before surely did internet searches for her after reading the paper last Friday. And how the heck can Pucin be sure that Stokke was the one all the fans were focused on? Can she not draw a distinction between drooling middle-aged men on the Internet surfing for T&A and serious aficionados of T&F?

I’m angry about the way in which the attention paid to Stokke marginalizes the many other athletes in the sport. Stokke is a great vaulter, but as any T&F fan will tell you, the best in the country right now is Palo Alto’s marvelous Tori Anthony, who this past weekend became the first high school girl in the United States to clear 14 feet in outdoor competition. Anthony has been consistently ahead of Stokke all year — except in camera attention. (To be fair, Stokke is no Anna Kournikova, the Russian tennis player who never won a significant tournament but made a fortune off her looks; a better comparison might be to Maria Sharapova, another Russian player who gets tremendous camera attention for her physical features but who also has two grand slam championships to give heft to her credentials.) Thirty-five years after Title IX, and women’s sports still get far less media attention and financial support than do boys’ athletics. Paying attention to one bright and talented athlete among many, merely because she is judged beautiful, isn’t healthy for women’s sports. And it certainly doesn’t leave many of the women who are competing in track and field feeling good.

I’m also angry about the way in which we legitimize the eroticising of adolescents. I’ve spent a fair amount of time at track and field events over the years, and I’ve noted not insignificant number of creepy lookin’ guys with cameras who seem unduly interested in taking pictures of just one or two female athletes. A few years ago, I was at the big Arcadia Invitational meet, watching the high jumpers. One girl was wearing a particularly tight outfit, and as she flopped over the bar, a man a few rows behind me frantically clicked his camera with its long lens. “Ve-ee–ee–ry ni-ii-ii-ce” he muttered excitedly at one point, studying the digital images he had just taken. Like the guys at football games more interested in snapping a photo of a cheerleader’s kick pants than the action on the field, there’s a small cadre of these characters who make the circuit at track events. They aren’t generally asked to leave unless they make trouble, and most of them don’t. (I’ve gotten into it with one of them, and nearly got myself thrown out of the meet for my trouble). The pictures they take do end up all over the internet, and they are usually much the same. (You can imagine what body parts they like to focus on.)

All things being equal, there are more white girls than young women of color doing vaulting and high jumping. While events like the long jump and the triple jump tend to be dominated by young African-American women, pole vaulters and high jumpers are largely drawn from the ranks of former gymnasts. Gymnastics lessons are priced for the middle and upper-middle classes, of course, and thus there ends up being an economic and even ethnic component to women’s track and field competition. We live in a culture that tends to erotically fixate on tall, slender, pretty white girls — and in track and field, they are disproportionately found in the pole vault and the high jump. Thus, there’s a classist, racist, and sexist element in this focus on Allison Stokke.

I like Allison Stokke. I’m a fan (especially since the smart gal has chosen to go to Berkeley). But I’m also a fan of Tori Anthony. I’m an even bigger fan of Hasay, and of Jamesha Youngblood, who brought home two state titles this past weekend. The latter is probably the most dominant female athlete in the West right now. But her pictures aren’t plastered all over the internet.

Straight men don’t love their male athletic heroes because they’re sexy. Teenage boys are quite capable of idolizing LeBron James or Peyton Manning without fantasizing about them. They fantasize about being them, which is very different. But we live in a culture where a great many men can only identify “hot” female athletes. As a sports fan, a teacher, and a mentor, I find that exasperating, disappointing, and even enraging. I can idolize a female athlete as easily as a male one. Growing up, Martina Navratilova and Bjorn Borg were my tennis heroes. I wanted to emulate both of them, and I was sensible enough to see that I had no reason to identify with Borg more merely because he was male. I had no more chance of being as good a tennis player as Borg than I did of waking up one day as a woman; even as a child, I knew that much. And so I could look up to, be inspired by, and want to emulate athletes of both sexes equally. And though as a lad I certainly had my athletic crushes (even a few with a sexual component), I never picked who to root for — of either sex — based on looks. Surely, I’m not that unusual a bear.

So google Allison Stokke. But then google Jordan Hasay, and Jamesha Youngblood. And remember that whatever they look like, they are simply young women of extraordinary ability and talent who deserve to be recognized on the basis of what they achieve alone.

UPDATE: Twisty at I blame the patriarchy has a long post on this subject with over 100 comments; she posted on Saturday, and I ought to have done a search to see who else had touched on the issue first. As usual at IBTP, the language is raw and eloquent. Twisty and I have, in the end, much the same view. Read it.

Tearing up

There are a few hymns that are guaranteed to make me cry, every time. The spirituals like “Oh, Freedom” tend to do it. “Great is thy Faithfulness” can do it, depending on the orchestration (it can soar, or be very tendentious.) “Guide me, oh thou Great Jehovah” is great, and makes me think of Welsh rugby. “Lift Every Voice and Sing” frequently makes me a bit teary. But for some reason, I always come undone when we sing “St. Patrick’s Breastplate.” The tune is murderously hard (makes “Lift Every Voice” seem easy), but cripes, it just flattens me. And it flattened me today.

Every dollar is a vote: some thoughts on fashion, veganism, and Kate Goldwater

That post about veganism and infant diets is coming. Just not this week.

I’m thinking about fashion this morning.

I’ve cared about clothes for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories of my father — before he and my mother divorced — was of watching him get dressed in the morning. Like many small boys, I idolized my daddy, and wanted to look just like him (I am pleased that with each passing year, the resemblance does seem to get stronger and stronger.) My Dad was never a clotheshorse, but he wasn’t a rumpled professor either. He did have some pretty splendid cardigan sweaters with elbow patches, and I do remember trying to fit into one when I was very small. It resembled a mumu on my tiny frame. (After my father died last year, my stepmother offered me some of his clothes. Alas, my Dad was all of 5′7″, and I’m 6′1″. Very little fit.)

In my high school years, fashion really started to matter. I was never happy staying with one particular clique; though I liked preppy fashion, I quickly tired of it. Honestly, in high school, I liked the cowboy look (very popular in my school) much better. Levis or Wranglers, often carefully pressed, with the obligatory Skoal ring on the back pocket. I soon found that cowboy boots didn’t mix well with my desire to walk everywhere.

In my adult life, I’ve gone through brief periods where I spent a fortune on clothes. I read GQ and W, and for a while, tithed my income to Bloomingdale’s. Becoming a serious Christian brought that portion of my life to an end, particularly when it became clear to me that God would rather I give 10% to building His Kingdom than to Neiman-Marcus. I still have a number of items in my wardrobe that I bought between 1996-1999, the years in which I spent the greatest amount of money on staying fashionable. If I spent that kind of money on these things, I’m going to wear them out.

Today, of course, I find that my fashion choices are increasingly limited by ethics. My goal is to buy sweatshop free, sustainably-produced clothing; I don’t want to buy any more clothing sourced from animals. (Farewell leather, farewell silk.) As I’ve written before, I’m still wearing old silk and leather products; I don’t intend to throw them away, as that would be wasteful. But as they wear out, they are being replaced. And trying to make buying decisions that honor both animals and human workers is, well, time-consuming and at times tiresome. But my wife and I have turned it into a game. We’re doing pretty well so far. (And thank God, there are so many excellent running shoes on the market that are made of synthetic rather than real leather.)

I’m thinking about all of this because of Jill’s post yesterday about her friend Kate Goldwater, who runs AuH2O (goldwater, get it?), an environmentally and socially conscious clothing company in New York. A lot of what Kate designs is recycled, which I really appreciate. And some of her men’s shirts (one in particular) really appeal to me.

Jill tells us about Kate’s two unsuccessful attempts to get on the hit show, Project Runway. Here’s Kate’s letter to the producers of PR. While there may have been other reasons not to take Kate, it’s fairly clear that her vision of careful hand-crafted fashion that is environmentally responsible was too disconcerting for the Project Runway folks to accept. Having Kate on Project Runway would be like having a strict vegan cooking on Top Chef; no matter how talented, a designer who refuses to use sweatshops and exploitatively sourced cotton would, like someone who cooked delicious meals without any animal products, stand as an obvious rebuke to those who produce their food and their fashion without regard for the impact on other living creatures and the earth.

I’ve given myself a three-year deadline to rotate all of the animal products out of my wardrobe. I want to know where every single pair of boxer briefs, each pair of socks, each shirt, each baseball cap was made — and by whom (I don’t need names, just working conditions). This will be tough sometimes; I often rent tuxedos, for example,and I may have to bite the bullet and find complete black-tie (and white-tie) outfits that I know were made by well-paid workers without the use of animal products. (And I haven’t yet seen the vegan version of patent leather tux shoes, but I’m sure they can be found.)

Is this Pharisaism? Is this an obsessive legalism? No. My grandfather always said “Every dollar you spend is a vote.” I remember that more and more now, as I gradually have more dollars to spend. Every time I pull out the credit card or pass over the bills and coins, I’m voting on what kind of world I want to live in. The fact that most of us can’t afford to live with radical purity doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be trying to move in the direction of greater justice, greater kindness with each dollar we spend and each bite we eat. When we support the Kate Goldwaters of the world, we match our language with our life choices, and when we match our language and life choices, we move closer to the Peaceable Kingdom.

This is the shirt Kate made that I want. And darn it, it was one-of-a-kind, and it’s gone now.

If we can’t get Kate Goldwater on Project Runway, can we at least have the designers who do get chosen asked to do at least one project that uses recycled, justly-sourced vegan materials? And can we get the folks on Top Chef to make one incredibly awesome vegan meal? Can we start a campaign to make it happen?

Friday Random Ten: the month begins with goodnesses

Oh, I do like this FRT. Joan Armatrading is still another of those wonderful, underappreciated ’70s singer/songwriters, and #3 is one of my favorite of hers. I don’t think she’s come up on an FRT before. With #2, I’ve got one of my favorite CSNY songs, and though I’m hardly a huge fan of the Dead, one couldn’t go to Berkeley twenty years ago and not get around to hearing them. #5 is one of their most popular tracks. I went through a Concrete Blonde phase in the early 1990s, but rarely listen to them anymore — #7 is a nice exception. I can never decide if I like Welch’s version of #9 as much as I like Emmylou’s, so I listen to them both.

1. “Massachusetts”, Bee Gees
2. “Helpless”, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
3. “Willow”, Joan Armatrading
4. “Josephine”, Brandi Carlile
5. “Ripple”, Grateful Dead
6. “In Spite of all the Damage”, Be Good Tanyas
7. “Tomorrow, Wendy”, Concrete Blonde
8. “The Hardest Part”, Allison Moorer
9. “Orphan Girl”, Gillian Welch
10. “In God’s Country”, U2

Bonus Track: “Alleluia”, Dar Williams