Category: Ranty McWah-wah

So, a lot has happened since writing last. The 12 of you who read this blog probably know most of it. My daughter had surgery to remove the last of the big bits of tumour from her spinal cord. She passed through that with flying colours, and is now in dance class. My primary client for the first 6 months of 2012 took a break from my services to attend to other matters, and I squeaked by while helping another person, whom I can now call a friend, close her business and attend to another chapter in her adventurous life. I now work out of 2 studios, or at least that’s the idea, now I have to get to the getting of work to carry on there. To that end, I’m re-launching my business, Artemisian Studios, soon. More in another post about that.

On to the meat of this post: Several incidents over the past year have challenged both my daughter and I, and reinforced the necessity of raising this girl to be self-reliant and both emotionally resilient and physically capable of defending herself at the very least. She’s petite, a quality which is an advantage in clothes-shopping, but a huge disadvantage in dealing with predators and bullies, the latter two having cropped up more frequently than the former. Another challenge is that she is naturally “cautious” in her physicality. She’d march across a street without looking, but jumping off the curb is reason to pause and consider the potentially painful ramifications in their infinite entirety. She learned early that gravity is a tough mistress. Increasingly, she is afraid of creepy-crawlies, an acquired phobia (among many behaviours and ideas) from some of the other girls on the playground who react to a common centipede like I do to the cinematic human variety (shudders). I understand the desire to fit in, the adoption of social norms that are at odds with my nature for the sake of blending where difference is met with disapproval and ridicule. I get that. But secretly, though I guess not anymore, it pisses me the fuck off that other parents observe and condone these burgeoning weaknesses in their own children. I said weaknesses, because being paralysed by fear of a bug or slug or the stigma of not being afraid of them is a weakness. “Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice – that’s what little girls are made of.”

But I’m not raising a little girl; I’m raising a future woman. Most of my female identified friends were socialised to be the girlie-girls with bows in their hair, and dreaming of their dream wedding, flowing gown, the dashing man they would walk down that isle to, and their eventual 2.5 children. We’ve all spent hours listening to the dashed hopes and dreams of friends from Jr high to this day as they try to reconcile the supposedly ideal world they were sold as reality in youth from peers and society, with the often swarthier truth of bugs in the house, abuse, complex relationship issues, interpersonal power politics, conflicting desires, and the need for economic stability. Why? Because those “shoulds” of our forgotten pasts get in the way of our acceptance of the is that we eventually experience. The shoulds of girlhood (and boyhood, but I’m addressing my daughter’s development) become the foundation of our expectations as women. I want to change that for her. I want her to build upon the backs of her fore-mothers’ hard-learned truths. What’s the adage? “The smart man learns from his mistakes; the wise man learns from others’.” But we’re just repeating the same ones over and over.

“Girls will be girls” is another one of those old sayings, but this one is untrue. Girls will be women. Well, most of them. But they get the start that our patriarchal (aww, shit! I just busted the “P” word out) culture wants them to: namely, they are trained to accept their infantilisation from an early age. Please excuse my generalising, I realise this is not every girl’s experience, but there are trends and norms within groups that define the culture. So the value of a woman is still primarily revolves around youthful attractiveness, whereas intellect, athletic development, political involvement, personal ambition, and opinionated outspokenness are negative traits in girls and women while being the positive characteristics for boys and men. Those latter traits, the ones that rise from the developing mind (even the athleticism, as it a discipline) of all people are sold as undesirable and dangerous to the programmed goals of finding Mr. Right and becoming his dependent inferior. “Guys don’t like smart/strong/dominant/ugly/mannish girls.” How many times have you heard that? Have you said that? Do you still believe that? Boys are trained in that thinking, too. “She’s too much like a dude.” “What a dyke/bitch/cunt.” “You just got beat by a girl!” And this shit perpetuates itself.

Early this summer/late spring, a little boy called my dear daughter a bitch because she wouldn’t let him take something of hers, and he felt entitled to it. Now, I have heard her be imperious, strong-willed, opinionated, and controlling at times to this same child (age 5), mostly in response to his trying to take her things and tell her what to do while screaming over her protests as if to drown her out, to dominate her. I can understand her frustration and unwillingness to deal with this kid, but his older and much less grabby and abusive brother is her friend, and an advocate for her in his younger brother’s presence. But what possessed a 5 year old to call my daughter a bitch – apart from poor examples at home and in the immediate community – is his butt-hurt over not being able to control her or her things. How early this drama begins! I heard the exchange outside the front door, and I was enraged. I was enraged at the kid, his parents, and the whole of Western civilisation back to the Mycenaean invasion of Crete. What my daughter said next gave me pause and quenched my fury, somewhat. Without missing a beat, she told him “Nobody talks to me that way, and I will not accept that language!” This, from a seven year old (nearly seven). This is what I want for all our girls, for all women to feel. There’s a Roseanne quote floating around Facebook, and whatever your opinion of her is, this line is powerful: “The thing women have yet to learn is nobody gives you power. You just take it.” Hell to the yes, this.

Religious, and therefor, legal texts codify inequality. Fathers and mothers, friends and neighbours, and social institutions reinforce the idea of inequality in the minds of the young and old. It’s written into the DNA of our current paradigm. My strong-minded daughter is under attack every day. By her nature, she wants to fit in, and abhors confrontation. Her peers are falling into the traps set out before them like generations before, and we think it’s adorable. Her school seeks to break down that mindfuck, and I appreciate that oasis, and the great examples set by the staff, but the kids go home to their families and places of worship and after-school extra-curriculars. The change has to be on the macro scale. Social re-engineering on a massive scale, much like the digital revolution. Indeed, I was hopeful that the advent of the internet and its ability to transmit and share information would make it easier for this to happen. Maybe it is, slowly. Looking at websites designed for women, though, I see the same content as the 1886 copy of a local mid-western women’s magazine, which was written and edited exclusively by men. Family, home, cooking, entertainment, horoscopes, advice for coping in a man’s world. More reinforcement of acceptable ambitions. Young women eat this shit up, only to realise later in life that it’s all just a pink smokescreen spread to hide our disenfranchisement.

We need to think critically about our world, not mindlessly accept it as it has been presented to us. We need support our assumption of the power that is ours and not give it away to someone else. We need to provide real-life examples of great women, instead of the radically self-absorbed and shallow caricatures portrayed on TV and in music and fiction books and mirrored by their consumers. We need to create a world in which our children assume equality and respect for each-other instead of assuming it must be fought for tooth and nail. We need to pass down our proverbial Wonder Woman Underoos – the gift of wisdom from our experiences and lessons from our mothers – to the generations coming up, and start early.

So how does this change occur? Who even cares? What’s Snookie’s weight at today? I heard that Tasha blew the whole football team – what a slut. Calculus is stupid, I dropped it. I think Shane’s going to pop the question, finally! Mom is really putting on the heat for a grandchild. I’m such a terrible mother. Ooh, watch Chastity dance in the talent show just like Beyonce! We don’t discuss those topics, it’s impolite.


A girl at Bloomington North high school committed suicide on Tuesday. Her mom said that she was being bullied, the principal said that he found no evidence of it. I’d just like to say this about that last bit with the principal.



There. As an administrator, you have a pulse on the trends at the school, you may even have a rapport with some of the students. Boffo for you. But here’s something that you and the teachers, and the parents are usually not privy to: anything said in the halls, bathrooms, lunch lines, locker rooms, busses, and class rooms. You are ignorant of the realities that swirl and collide before you every day, or you had better be, because if you actually know what is being said and done within the walls of your institution, you are complicit in the activities that are ruining lives. So, please, Principal Henderson, STFU before you say something else stupid. Shut up and listen. Listen to the kids, the talk in the halls when you’re not noticed, the niggling cruelties between each-other that eat like acid through the developing identities of your students. All of you, just listen, then, put a stop to it.

Kids will be kids, but they will be the kids they are guided into being. By ignoring or dismissing one act of bullying, you are condoning it. Nip that shit in the bud. Anyone seeing that, call it out for what it is – psychological and/or physical abuse.

I applaud Dynasty Young’s mom who tried official channels to curb the torment her son faced at Arsenal Tech high school in Indianapolis. She could get no help from the school, so she gave her embattled child a stun gun. Not a taser, mind you, which shoots out barbs, but a handheld device that produces a high-voltage but low apm shock that temporarily incapacitates someone. So Dynasty took this device (some call it a weapon) to school and one day gets enircled and threatened with a good sound beating, oh, forgot this, because he’s “flamboyantly gay.” So in a moment when he is fearing for his safety, he pulls out the stun gun, holds it in the air, not at anyone< and presses the button which makes an impressive spark and snapping sound. His attackers back off, and Dynasty goes to class, only to be apprehended by school police and suspended. He had an expulsion hearing where he was kicked out of school, and his tormentors, who had threatened him regularly and even followed him home, throwing rocks and bottles at him, are still at school. Some people get hung up on the defensive weapon being taken to school, but this child was fighting for his life. His grades fell from As and Bs to Fs, he was physically attacked, stoned no less, and repeatedly targetted at school, and the principal (sensing a pattern here) when asked about stopping the bullying, chose to blame Dynasty for being too flamboyant. Victim blaming. Nothing better to build up the student's spirits.

But, Melanie, why are you so emotional about this? Well, funny you should ask. You see, I was suicidal for about 8 years of my life, much of it due to hiding my intersex/transsexual nature, but largely because of the abuse I received every day at school for six years. From 7th grade through graduation, I was tormented and harassed and faced down an older kid with a switchblade whose intent it was to save me the bother of suicide. There were petitions, weekly questionnaires, a daily chart of what I wore, songs, pranks, daily verbal abuse, false accusations, attempts to get me in trouble, and graffiti in my honour. Those who were my friends had to be the best characters in the world to be associated with a pariah like me. It would have been easy for me to believe that I was the only one to be bullied, but I saw it everywhere around me. Rumours, whole concocted mythologies about some people, name-calling and small assaults when the teachers' backs were turned. Two kids at the high school reportedly had HIV, but a hundred were accused of being them. Even I participated on a counter-attack on a group that had hurt a friend of mine.

Screw love, Pat, school is a battlefield. I survived, not everyone does. Years of therapy, alcoholism, drug abuse, ruined relationships, eating disorders, and the smattering of suicides are the casualties of this war. Even nearing my 40s, I know peers who are still trying to recover from the emotional damage they took in high school. This is not something new, it's just coming into the light with the interconnectedness of our world, we know within hours of another child lost to inattention and callous reactions. But still, reaction is the norm, and its effects are only local. Someone has to die before the problem is recognised and discussions about bullying begin. We're not a very proactive species, as a whole, and American culture is quite cold to those who suffer emotionally, two very horrific realities.

My daughter has some physical problems that she will have to live with perhaps all her (hopefully) long life. They are already a source of shame for her in first grade, and I worry about how she will react to kids that may latch onto that and poke fun at her for it. Bullying even goes on in her school, though teachers and administrators are quick to respond when it is brought to their attention. Yet even in this very conscious environment, children find time and opportunity to bully. It may be as ubiquitous as book bags, but so too was tuberculosis, and look what we've been able to do with that. For starters, I am teaching that everybody deserves respect from the start, and that she should accept nothing less in return. I do add that once respect is lost, on one side or the other, it may never be regained.

That's one concept I find missing from many people I meet these days. Respect seems to have been retired sometime in the 60s from the general culture. Oh, everyone may demand it, but it is rarely given, and when it is, it is usually in short measure. Like sex-ed, I think that the burden has to fall on schools to teach it to the kids, because like sex-ed, the parents alone are not always sufficiently versed in the subject enough to adequately instruct their children.

I'm tired, the clothes are dry, and I'm ending this here. I've taken to rambling, but I do want to hear a discussion about this instead of a bunch of "it gets better" stuff. Obviously, the message isn't reaching enough kids.

Stress is teh suk. Between the anxiety I feel now every time my baby goes for a weekend with my ex, said daughter’s health issues and impending surgery, money, hormone/transition problems (see money), diabetes, neuropathy, slipped discs, scleroderma, weight, lack of health insurance, wearing the mantle of Marketing Chair for the school fundraiser, and needing to touch up my roots, I’m a wreck. Not that I can’t handle it, but I get flustered easily. Somehow, I cannot sleep at night anymore. I’m not taking advantage of this gift of wakefulness, the house is great one week, the next it could be mistaken for a ring straight out of Mr. Dante’s Inferno. I’m behind in just about everything, and artistically frustrated to boot.

Does this stuff ever stop? Can there be a week or two without BS? Why am I asking you? One woman I know was bitten on her cheek by her dog and the developed a matching hive on the other, just for balance, like her immune system is OCD or something. How can you beat that shit? Another friend’s daughter had two epileptic seizures in short succession, with resultant injuries requiring trips to the hospital and stitches. Really, what have I to complain about? Everyone, including the more affluent of my acquaintances, is broke. I’m not the only one with problems, and yet I am so narcissistic that I believe everyone needs to hear of my woes. Maybe you do, just to know that someone else has to deal with their shit. Let’s continue. American culture is a festering bog of ignorance and apathy drowned in sex and drugs. My drug: Cherry Coke Zero, or at least two of the bottles I had, showed elevated levels of radioactivity according to my Geiger counter. No, not like the artist, H.R. Giger, why would I have a machine that counted those, and why would Cherry Coke Zero contain H.R. Giger? You ask weird questions.

I’m reading more news, which just serves to make me weep, piss me off, and then I just go back to the weeping because I can’t do a thing about the crap I read about. I’m an idealist, dammit! I need to believe in the ability to make this world a better place, but I can’t. Not in the face of all this greed and oppression with not a thing to my name and a daughter to raise. And speaking of, how exactly can I foster her own idealism and keep a hope in her for a good life when she’s already faced all she has in her nearly 7 years. I want her to be tough, yet able to laugh. I want her to assert herself and be thoughtful and giving. I don’t want her to take any shit, and I want her to be able to back herself up in that, if need be. And I want her to be a little girl who dances in the dandelions and makes faerie houses and is a vampire queen and witch queen and is a hampire which is a vampire hamster (though not all at the same time, mom! duh). She wants to be a singer, artist, rock star (somehow separate from singer), mother, puppy, Goddess, vet, gymnast, photographer, jewelry designer, farmer, fed, and in my lap all in about 2 hours (see earlier bit about the ring of hell my house becomes). How do I facilitate all of those things together? Hell, I have a hard enough time making something that she’ll eat for dinner. Gah! Oh, and I am a terrible playmate. I never really got into that whole play thing, before, and I was hoping that I would be challenged to do that with her, but my inner fuddy-duddy is too powerful.

I’m feeling a tad overwhelmed and despite several people telling me that I’m doing a great job, I’m not so sure I won’t screw the whole thing up and Kat will become a teenage mom/serial killer/hedge fund broker/Kardashian wannabe/Appalachian snake handling Wall Mart shopper because all she will eat is mild Slim-Jims, macaroni and cheese, Taco Bell, chicken and potatoes in their various guises, burgers from the Trojan Horse, a nice salad with Italian dressing only, corn, ice cream, and eggs sunny side up with toast, but only the yolk she can sop up with the toast, at least on days she hasn’t decided to be vegan. Oh, and candy. If it falls outside of this list or has any flavour or if it comes in a soup, deal’s off. I used to hold my breath to show displeasure with parental authority until I passed out, she will not eat for a day to protest my choice of food options or lack of planning around her dietary choices.

How the fuck do you people with multiple kids and partners do it? Am I missing something? Well, in the mean time, as I’m figuring out how to do that supermom transformation, I’m going to tiptoe around the 12 science experiments, art projects, a huge freaking radial arm saw, and costume change piles to the staircase 8 feet away to attempt a toss and turn before the alarm signals another solar period of juggling badgers.