SAHM Guilt

 This article got me thinking about the role of the mother and especially society's conception of the stay-at-home-mom. The article, and many like it, works off of two basic assumptions:

1. People should cling to their individuality. It seems like the biggest fear of people, especially women, these days is to lose themselves in the role of the mother or wife. Going one step further, it makes the assumption that a woman's identity is held within her sexuality. In order to maintain her identity a woman should exercise, wear make up, do pelvic floor exercises, and basically maintain the flirtatious, vixen attitude she had before having children. She must be a woman first, and a wife or mother second. It says very little about her being a human first, and a woman or wife or mother or whatever else in whatever order she prefers. 
2. SAHMs should feel privileged to be able to stay at home. They should not compare their labor to "actual" work, and they should feel guilty that they do not contribute financially. Most of all, they are not allowed to complain about their duties, or claim that they feel stress. Taking this further, there is the subtle claim that work within the household is worth less than work outside of the household, and that money is the biggest contribution you can make to your family. 

These assumptions, and all of the advice that comes out of them, continually irritates me. Truthfully, I usually click right past these blog posts and move on to something that isn't tinted with anger and/or guilt. But sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes I stop and read these and wonder if this is really what people think about life. 

First of all, I want to say that I do feel extremely privileged that I will be able to be a SAHM. I realize that for many mothers now days that is not a choice, especially all of the single mothers working hard on every front. However, I think it is a choice for more people than recognize it as so. The idea that a family NEEDS two incomes to survive is absurd. There is the option to move some place cheaper, to cut back on expenses, to curb the consumer lifestyle and to get your basic needs covered through one income. Yes, not having the latest Apple products, or not sending your child to a summer camp may be a difficult choice to make, but it IS an option. From what I read this is becoming more difficult in America, and perhaps changes are needed on the societal level. If we are a society that still values the nuclear family then we should allow for basic family needs to be met through a single income. If we no longer value the nuclear family then we need to start making other arrangements for the raising of children so that everyone can continue providing just enough for themselves. 

With all of that being said, just because I recognize my position within the home as a privilege (which should be a right) does not mean that I intend to feel guilty about it, as if working within the home is less difficult than holding a job outside the home, or as if I am somehow worth less than working mothers and fathers. I refuse to agree that a homemaker does not know what stress is. Balancing budgets, creating family schedules, learning about nutrition and gardening are all fun things, but they can all be stressful. If you dislike your job so much that all you feel is stress and anxiety towards it, perhaps you should look into a different job instead of claiming that those who enjoy their societal role don't know what stress is. However, here we come to the big question: Is being a mother an actual societal role anymore? 

It seems like it isn't. Adults are identified by their jobs, and jobs are narrowly defined by the money they make. It is valid to be a housekeeper or a nanny, looking after someone else's children, but it is not valid to claim working within your own family as work. Perhaps it isn't fair to claim "mother" as a societal role. After all, there are plenty of single individuals struggling to make ends meet on their own, with no one to share household duties with. These people seem to hold a disdain for, "breeders," who would dare to claim that one income should support not just one person, but four people, while one adult does nothing except manage a home. Maybe they have a point. Maybe we have equalized ourselves right out of the definition of family. If so, I am quite sad. 

The other part, that a woman must at all times maintain her individual identity outside of her familial roles, just seems tiresome to me. People keep claiming that a woman should be able to support herself, in case her husband leaves her. She should not get lost in the relationship with her husband, and she should not get lost in her role as a mother. As an extreme there are women who have c-sections just because they do not want to change their sex lives. Perhaps a bit more normal is the idea that a woman needs to keep separate bank accounts, have a source of income, and maintain her sexuality through fashion and makeup so that her husband always wants her and she will be desirable if he leaves her. 

To me it seems like this is just operating from a stance of fear, constantly planning for the worst case scenario. When I got married I gave up my life as an individual. It was scary to consider before I met Nikola and yet it is the most relaxing, wonderful sensation now. We agreed that we would love and support each other forever, and I choose to believe in that. That means I have no problem combining finances, working to support his income efforts, or earning an income while he manages things at home. We decided to form a household, and to put that first. That means that I honor our household before my own fears and insecurities. 

Finally, I have to ask when being a woman meant being sexy and made-up. I feel like so much more than a piece of fashion. If I never have sex again I will still feel like a woman. Bearing children is a part of being a woman, for some people. Cooking is. Painting is. Writing is. Living, breathing, loving is. Being a woman is not about high heels and a fancy bag. It is not about wearing make up. It is not about having a tight pelvic floor. It is emotions and desires and interactions. "Be a woman first, so you can be a better mother," is just bad advice. Instead, allow being a mother to become part of your identity. 

I was wasting time on the internets and I decided to look for advice on how to pare down my overflowing closet. I figure that this whole pregnancy thing is a great time to get rid of the clothes I don't need, seeing how I don't fit in them in the moment anyways. This is everything that this woman left out for the season. Instead of being impressed by the minimalism of it I was struck by the second shirt from the left- the blue striped fisherman's shirt.

Immediately, I was swept into memories of high school, specifically of reading The Garden of Eden. Sometimes it seems like the only really important thing I ever did in high school was to read that book. There were a few days, towards the end of my junior year, when all I wanted was to live in that book. Spring had caught up with me and I was itching to be outdoors. That book expressed a certain feeling of freedom and lightness, and I carried the story in my heart as I walked down the ever-enclosing halls of my high school. Surprisingly, my obsession with the book had little to do with the sexuality of the characters. Although it was supposedly risqué, I found it completely normal. Nor did I care too much about the insanity of the main characters. (Although that was much more significant to me than the sexuality). Instead, it had everything to do with the writing. I was sucked into the story, roaming around the Spanish countryside, swimming in the sea, drinking cold beer, and living my entire life in a fisherman's shirt. Of course, I didn't have a fisherman's shirt back then, and I was too frightened to cut my hair so instead I pinned it up. But now I think about the rough texture of the shirts when they bought them, and how they washed them until they were soft, and then wore them everywhere, and it makes me indescribably happy. Interestingly, what I thought was a minor detail that I had latched onto is a common theme discussed when people review the book... apparently I wasn't the only one caught up in the story of that fabric.

I like alternative writing. I really do. I like things to get a bit descriptive and experimental. But the thing is that I constantly come back to Hemingway- a writer who did not rely on tricks or flowery language to make an emotion felt. He wrote so simply and just let his work be a sounding board for the human soul to resonate with. I always come back to him... when reading, when writing... when living. Can it be healthy to be so influenced? 

Don't Touch Me

The other day Nikola and I were in the center. I went to wait in line for a breakfast roll while he looked up where we were supposed to be going on my tablet. When I got to the shop it was packed, with a line snaking around in its small hallway. There was an older man, possibly mentally ill, possibly drunk, walking with the assistance of a cane. He was talking loudly to the man in front of me, obviously making everyone in the room uncomfortable. As I entered and took my place in line this man's focus shifted to me. He started reciting some traditional Bulgarian line about red and white cheeks on a young maiden, that I have heard all too often from older men. The entire time I was having the usual mixed emotions- the feeling of responsibility to listen when another person talks, the defiant wish to ignore him so he goes away, and a slightly panicked plea to the others in the small area to say something so he would stop.

When it comes to people I don't know approaching me on the street, for attention, for money, for anything, I tend to be cold and ignore them. It makes me feel quite guilty. I remember a friend of mine once saying that they are people too, and everyone just wants to be recognized, and part of me wants to take the time out of my day and the fear out of my heart and just recognize them. Partake in their delusions, ask them how they are... but they don't want a conversation... they just talk and talk, with no respect for me. Why, then, do I owe them respect? It is a never-ending circle of guilt I have in my heart.

But then he crossed a line. His old, wrinkled hand, thick and heavy, came down and rested on mine. I recoiled. I tried to end the conversation with a curt, "okay." I looked desperately to the other people in the room to just say, "Move along, leave the girl alone." No one did, and his thick leathery hands stayed on top of mine as I struggled to find a polite way to move them away. Polite. I didn't want anyone there to think I was a monster, not giving proper respect to a poor old man. Polite. Luckily the line moved forward and he was separated from me. I was saved by a technicality.

When I went out to meet Nikola I told him what had happened, and how I am so frustrated with people touching me. He has learned to accommodate my needs when I am frustrated, and instead of trying to fix it, or tell me I was overreacting, he allowed my emotions to flow. I asked him how many times in the past year someone he didn't know had invaded his personal space and touched him.

"They talk to me."

"Yes, they talk to everyone. How many of them touched you?"

"I dunno. None, maybe."

"I dunno how many have touched me either, but it is definitely a lot more than none."

It was such a simple interaction. It was almost meaningless, but it wasn't. For me it was nearing the final straw that makes me snap- that women are allowed to be touched and men are not... that not only individuals think this, but groups of people will allow that discomfort to continue in front of them, and they expect the woman to deal with it with grace and poise and politeness, even as the man (or woman) clearly follows no social rules. They expect a woman to accommodate. Always, always allow.

When I came home a friend of mine had posted on her facebook wall,

"A woman is not written in braille - You don't have to touch her to know her." 

And I wondered what had happened to her that day... 

Travel in Style

I have been thinking a bit about travel recently, and the different types of travel people engage in. There are the short vacations, site-focused trips or people-focused trips, the around the world putzing, the summer holiday, business trips, study abroad, etc. Over the past three years I have been able to do more travel than I ever imagined.

Even though I spent my childhood floating back and forth across the U.S., it never really felt like travel. When I became an adult my travel consisted of moving between San Francisco and Tucson, with the occasional weekend trip to the woods or beach. Occasionally I would take a flight to Denver to see old friends, but never places. I never travelled to cities (except for one business trip to Missoula, and a job interview in Chicago), and I rarely traveled for pleasure. It was more that I was smart enough to take advantage of the times when I had a need to travel, and fill it with little bits of exploration. My most luxurious trips included a night of camping in Yosemite, and a road trip up to Oregon. Then I started branching out. I moved to Guam for work, and I thought about traveling in Asia. I went to Tokyo for a week with my friend, and although we stayed on the floor of another friend's apartment, and kept to mostly unpaid attractions, it was the most extravagant trip of my life.

When I joined the Peace Corps and moved to Bulgaria everything I knew about travel changed. Because I was used to living a basic lifestyle I was able to save up money from my living stipend and fund a few weekend trips. Although I didn't have the time or money to see much of Europe, I began what I like to call, "Marathon Tourism." Because I had no idea how to go to a city just to be there, I found marathons to run, giving my trip a sense of purpose. Through marathon tourism I was able to see Athens, Rome (with a side-jaunt to Venice and Skopje), and Paris/Cheverny. However, I find myself watching travel shows on the history and science channels (now that we have a television) and I realize that I have never, and will probably never travel the way most other people do.

When I travel I am always concerned about money. I find the cheapest hostels to stay at, and I research how to eat cheaply. I avoid taxis and walk as much as possible. I budget to splurge on one meal in a decent restaurant, and perhaps buy a small souvenir for under 10e. Yes, I can afford to buy the plane tickets to get to places on occasion, but I cannot afford to view them as a tourist. I cannot jet from one site to another, pay admission fees, rent beautiful apartments, and eat where ever I happen to be passing by. I somehow doubt that will EVER be in my budget, and perhaps that is why I have never had much fun exploring cities. Everything costs, and I have been trained to feel each slight cost. I can't afford to get drunk and blow 200e on a single evening, monetarily or emotionally.

This makes me consider the way that travel has opened up to a lower class of earners. People who cannot afford to be tourists are traveling. It is almost like travel has become a right instead of a privilege. Everyone needs to make it off the continent. Everyone needs to have an adventure. Websites like couchsurfing and workaway make this even more possible, but they tend to either connect people who have a lot of money and want to meet new people, or people who have no money and want to be part of the traveling scene. I find that I am neither of those. I long to be able to travel how they travel on the television shows- renting cars, going on cruises, not having to ask three times how much something is before making a purchase... part of me can't help but imagine what it must be like to be able to book a weekend in Paris and go out to any bar or restaurant, walk into any museum, and not have to sacrifice another part of your trip to do so. I have traveled, but I feel like I have still not breached that upper-middle class experience of being able to travel in style.

Of course, I would not trade my marathon weekends for anything. 

The Third Trimester

Nikola and I decided before we got married that we wanted a kid, and soon. We weren't sure exactly when we would start trying. Part of us wanted to be responsible- set up our life together, get me moved to Bulgaria (or move for a few years to the States together) and enjoy a few years of play and travel. At the same time a biological time-bomb had exploded in me. Not even a week before I met Nikola I had been planning a completely single life of flirting and adventure. Within a month of meeting him I suddenly had these strange urges to get married and have a kid. It was whiplash to say the least, and I was tugged along by my late-twenties hormones- through marriage all the way to the exciting process of conceiving a baby (Which is so much fun when you are actually trying to do so).

So then I was pregnant, my time-bomb was satisfied, and I suddenly realized the reality of the situation. I spent the first trimester slightly freaked out. Even though we wanted a baby we weren't financially stable enough to be having one. We hadn't built a house, saved for emergencies, or explored much of the world on our own. How could we possibly raise a child?

The pregnancy progressed (Thankfully this thing is 9 months long, giving me plenty of time to get used to the idea) and during the second trimester I felt much better. My anxieties started to slip away, my energy levels returned, and I started nesting. Crocheting baby clothes, sewing cloth diapers, and researching basic baby care got me excited about the baby on its way. It was no longer a huge, overwhelming force in our life, but an actual person that we would come to know. I started taking yoga, practicing breathing, and began to feel the baby move. That was an amazing sensation.

When the baby moves it is sometimes a gentle tickle. It is sometimes a forceful, awkward jab. It sometimes feels like a nuzzling roll. I lay in bed at night, before falling asleep, with Nikola's hand on my stomach. The baby moves and Nikola squeezes back. They would happily play this game for hours, if I let them. When I feel the baby move the aching ribs, and painful lower back don't seem so bad. Issues with digestion and urination fade away, and the fact that I can't sleep more than six hours at a time, but need twelve hours of sleep during a day, feels worth it.

Now I am well into the third trimester. I am beginning to think seriously about birthing. How, and where, and when... We are painting furniture, buying necessities, and learning how to change diapers. Once again I am realizing this little fluttering in my stomach is eventually going to come out of me and be its own person, and I am scared.

I begin to realize how mother's fall into depression after birth even when their baby is right there. Right there doesn't seem like it will be close enough, not after having carried it inside me for nine months.

I am also becoming anxious about my skills as a mother. I am terrible with children. Honestly, they kind of freak me out until they can have intelligent conversations and realize cause and effect. I am reading about discipline and training. I am recognizing all of the social pressures for women to be the perfect mother while having the perfect body, being the perfect business woman, and remaining the perfect wife. It seems completely unattainable, and it is hard to sort through the mess of everything to figure out what is important.

I read how to care for a baby. It seems that everything is known to cause SIDS. Everything is known to kill babies. Reading these books I wonder how any of us ever survived to be old enough to make babies of our own. It's times like these that I begin thinking maybe the internet isn't such a good idea, and the expertise of science is really crap when it comes to choosing how to actually live your life.

One way or another, ready or not, we are having a baby in two months. Will I be a good mother? Who knows? But I will definitely be a mother. 

A Never-ending Relationship

Last night my husband and I were watching the L-Word. We were laying in bed and I all I could think was that every single character was absolutely insane. I had remembered some of them as insane, but this time around I realize that they are all dramatic and weak and basically have issues. I was also amused by the absurdity of every single kiss on the show. Every kiss they show is basically the same kiss, between different characters and in different settings, but it is a slightly rough, passionate kiss with immediate progression to boob grabbing. Here's the thing. In reality, lesbians have all sorts of different styles of kissing, just like strait-folk, and they don't usually grab each other's boobs in public, especially during their first kiss. But, maybe LA lesbians are different?

Anyways, the first time I watched the L-word I identified with Jenny. Absolutely crazy, barely able to function in the real world, and obsessed with writing. The only thing I was missing was some major guilt over my sexuality. This time around I can relate to her, but I definitely do not identify with her. It makes me realize how much I used to identify with my insanity.

I was an insane young adult. I suppose that many people did not realize how deep that issue went because I was also quiet, shy, submissive, eager to please, and basically likable. Even my friends who knew I would go for days without eating (not because of image issues, but because I couldn't remember that food was important), occasionally cut myself, and stay in bed for days at a time completely frantic in my fears thought it was something cute and manageable. I wasn't mean. I wasn't cruel (although at times I was so self-involved that I hurt others). I have no urge to be dominant and no sadistic tendencies, which made me safe. Unfortunately, this meant that I stayed wrapped up in the identity of insanity for much longer than I needed.

Identifying as insane is more than just having aspects of your life that are different. It is beyond having various treatable conditions. It is when you accept the craziness as the basic unit of your self. It got to the point that in my early 20's I clung desperately to my self-image of insanity. It was all I knew how to be, and if I wasn't insane then I would be nothing.

Luckily, things have changed for me. In my mid-twenties I moved away from the city. I no longer attended huge, hedonist parties on a weekly basis, and I got out into nature where things were quiet. I took a leadership role. Having other people depend on me made it so I couldn't sink into despair and anxiety. I am sure aging helped the process as well, as most people have a balancing out of their hormones around age 25. The combination of factors worked, and I slowly unwrapped myself from the identity of insane. That was perhaps the scariest time in my life. Screaming, pinned to the bed by nightmares, or waking up in the hospital was easy compared to the hard, daily work of telling myself that I was still a person even though I was not a dark, twisted creature.

Now I feel like I more or less have it under control. There are times when I just want to sink and dissipate. There was such power in the release of insanity, but for the most part I am happy being in control. I am beginning to build an identity that is so much more than what many people consider a disease. When I watch these insane characters I no longer identify with them. I understand them. I relate to them, but I am not them.

They say an alcoholic is always an alcoholic- always struggling with their relationship to alcohol. It is like that for me with insanity. The relationship will always be there, but it no longer needs to consume me. I, for one, am happy to no longer identify with characters like Jenny. For starters, she was a crappy writer. Who uses eviscerate in every single piece of writing? 

Thanksgiving from Scratch

This was the first year that I really made a Thanksgiving dinner. Although I love the idea of ritual and tradition I have never been much for holidays. Thanksgiving has always been another holiday with a murky meaning for me. I would much rather celebrate the ending of harvest, or the beginning of winter than a vague day called Thanksgiving. For many years I was anxious about celebrating the story of the pilgrims. Strangely enough, when I went online this year to find "alternative" ways to celebrate Thanksgiving no one even mentioned the pilgrims. They have long-since dropped out of the holiday and people don't even remember that fifteen years ago, along with turkey hands, we were making pilgrim hats and tying feathers to our heads for Thanksgiving day plays. Oh well, I like that it has progressed to a general day of thanks, although the irony of black friday nipping at its heels is not lost on me.

When I moved out of my parent's house I began to celebrate Thanksgiving in true college style. This meant vegetarian meals that concentrated more on pies and alcohol than turkey and gravy. In fact, I had never made a turkey until this year. For some reason, around ten years after my last traditional Thanksgiving, I decided this was the year I would revisit tradition. Perhaps it is because I am married with a kid on the way. Perhaps it is because my Bulgarian in-laws are willing to share so many of their holidays with me. Or maybe it was just because I knew my mother-in-law would be totally awesome at pulling off a full feast, even if the entire menu was new to her. Whatever the reason, I went in at full force.

Living in a foreign country I have learned the fine art of substitution. Bulgarian yogurt is substituted for sour cream. Chopped up bars of chocolate are stand-ins for chocolate chips. But for this meal I wanted to go as authentic as I could. I am happy to say that I did not have to make a single substitution. Of course, this required that everything be made from scratch, as Bulgaria is not famous for having canned pumpkin pie or cranberry sauce. Instead of being overwhelming this just added to the experience. A friend of mine commented the other day on how satisfying it is to make a pie crust from scratch. It is a very physical, creative experience. I agree with her wholeheartedly. I think many people have wandered far away from the creation of food and it was extremely satisfying to make a tasty, decadent feast from scratch. It somehow felt empowering. Overall, though, I was amazed at how easy it was. Whether it was because I waited to make this large dinner until I was thirty and already had plenty of years cooking experience under my belt, or because it really isn't as hard as people imagine it to be, I was surprised by how few mishaps we had.

Here was our meal:

Turkey. In Bulgaria people tend to use smaller ovens, and since Thanksgiving isn't a big holiday it was difficult to find a large turkey. For that reason we bought two 7 pound turkeys. We rubbed them with salt, pepper, crushed red pepper, and olive oil I infused with homegrown rosemary. We stuffed them (despite the warnings against stuffing I decided it can't be as dangerous as they say) and baked one the night before (which ended up as a test-turkey, pre-dinner treat, and let us know a little bit more water in the pan was necessary for gravy) and one the day of. They were both fully cooked, tender, and full of flavor.

Stuffing. I went with a very classic recipe of croutons, celery, onions, spices, and white wine. My mother-in-law baked the bread and toasted the croutons the day before, and the wine was made by my father-in-law. It turned out very satisfying.

Gravy. I used butter, flour, pepper, and the drippings from the second turkey to make a gravy. I was petrified because people are constantly warning of lumps but it cooked fast and tasty without a single lump.

Mashed potatoes. We used bulgarian yogurt, garlic, and butter to mash them and then garnished them with green onions cut from the growing boxes still hanging out our bedroom window.

Cranberry sauce. Unfortunately our cranberry bushes already dropped their fruit, so we had to use dried cranberries. I used a dry peel from a mandarin, red wine (made by my father-in-law) a couple of apples for pectin and a bit of cornstarch to help it set. The dried cranberries plumped fantastically and it was slightly sweet and tart. I have never really liked cranberry sauce from a can so I was hesitant to make this, but I am glad I did as I really enjoyed it.

Sweet carrots and parsnips. Simple carrots and parsnips coated with brown sugar and honey from my husband's uncle's bees.

Macaroni and Cheese. This is where I accepted no substitutes. I know Bulgarians make baked macaroni with sirine. I know it is good. However, I went ahead and splurged on some cheddar. Although no one was particularly impressed with the dish it tasted JUST how I remember it as a kid and was well worth it, to me.

For desert we had apple pie and pumpkin pie. We cut up and boiled the pumpkin, and I blended it with milk and spices to make a super creamy filling. The crust was a basic flour and lard crust, and there was a layer of candied walnuts from the walnut tree out front. The apple pie was topped with a crumble crust that was too sweet for my liking, but my husband seemed to like it.



Was it a lot of work? Yeah, I was in the kitchen for a full day. Was it a lot of fun? Absolutely. Was it worth it? It was more than worth it. Of course, eating the dinner was also a large part of what made it worth it. My mother-in-law set up a great table for the meal, and my brother-in-law and his girlfriend came over. We watched Miracle on 34th Street, dubbed in Bulgarian, and they all seemed to enjoy the movie and there was great conversation. All in all, I would call it a successful tradition.

The Travel Checklist

I sometimes get sucked in by these little checklists:

I have been to 30

I am not really sure why. When I was younger I used these common travel destinations as a jumping-off place for my dreams. I wanted to travel. I was never really sure why I wanted to travel, but I was a wandering spirit and surely that meant that I had to pick up and go to exotic places. Somehow I got the idea that I needed to go to Southeast Asia. I had no reason for going there, and so I based my trip around Angor Wat. I never made it there though. I never made it further than Guam. I still wonder what would have happened if that one fateful night my money had not been stolen and I had started a three-month backpacking trip. Would I have returned to the US? Where would I be today? Based on my current situation it is hard to believe that I would have made my way back. I tend to just let momentum carry me through pseudo-adventures of distance.

Six years later I have discovered that I do not actually enjoy traveling. I still think I have a wandering spirit. It isn't that I have any deep roots holding me in one place. I have just realized that I have no real reason to go anywhere. People constantly say that you have to see this and that before you die. You have to experience a particular holiday or culture or festival... I am left wondering why. Why do we feel a pressure to go see all of the things that other people have seen? There are pictures, there are books, and there are interactive maps online. But my hesitation is more than the idea that I can "see" something from the comfort of my own home. I feel like traveling used to be reserved as something difficult that few people could accomplish. Now it seems like every young person has some global trip planned for their future. The world trades on tourism, and travel has become a form of consumerism rather than a right of passage. Maybe I am wrong about that. Maybe I am just jaded. Maybe I am just past my traveling days.

But I have been to hostels over the past three years and in every one there are people glued to the internet, planning their perfect itineraries, not really interacting with anyone. The people I meet traveling seem to be most concerned with how to get drunk, or high, or laid. Secondly, they are concerned with taking pictures of themselves or writing blogs to prove that they went somewhere and did something. With a weekend here and an overnight there it is nearly impossible to meet people and create true friendships. It all seems impenetrably shallow. Then there is couchsurfing, which I used to think was a good idea. Now it just seems like a place for people to meet up to get drunk, and the posts seem quite selfish- "Show me your town. I can't be bothered to do any research or try to meet people when I am there, so take me out, show me a good time... do everything for me. I'll cook dinner in exchange."

Yep. The more I type, the more I realize I am extremely jaded when it comes to travel. I just don't get the point of it. Perhaps travel is the new cannon. Once upon a time we all read the same books so that people would have something to discuss when they met. Today we all travel to the same places so that we can say, "Yes, I have been there too! Let's discuss it." I think I would rather stick with the classic books. Although, there is a tiny romantic girl in me who still dreams of hot summer mornings in spain, drinking coffee and looking down over busy streets... 

43 Things

I have an account on 43 Things. It was the bucket list before the bucket list became popular. I look at the list maybe once a year, just to remind myself of things that I want to do. This time I signed in and looked at the list and realized that not only was I no longer working towards any of the things on the list, but I don't think I really care about them. Here is my undone list:

1. Get my BA
2. Perform at an open mic night
3. Learn to partner dance
4. Keep a garden
5. Participate in a roda
6. Complete an aquathon or mini-triathlon
7. Give boza an honest try
8. Learn to play gaida
9. Bungee jumping
10. Complete a through hike
11. Contact staff and cartwheel
12. Work in wilderness therapy
13. Flash a v2
14. Write a book of short stories
15. Know at least two little things that make 5 different people happy
16. Do a solo
17. Scream at the ocean
18. Choreograph an awesome fire show
19. Go check out hutches
20.  Live a minimalist lifestyle

Hmmm- perhaps it was good that I just typed them out, because I realized I actually do care about some of them, or at least the sentiment behind some of them. I am happy to say I am close to completing the first. It only took me 12 years, but I finally will be receiving a worthless piece of paper stating that I can follow through on four years of higher education this winter! That makes me happy. Other than that... some of these have to do with interests I had when I lived in the states. I no longer spin fire, and I am not overly interested in dance these days, so contact and choreographing are pretty much out. Solos have been replaced with thoughts of traveling Europe with my family. Through hikes have been replaced with through-cycling. Overall I think I have changed a lot.

However, what is unsettling is that the past two years have been so chaotic that I am happy to be in Bulgaria, settling down, having a kid... and I don't really want anything beyond that right now. I am not overly filled with whisps and dreams (okay, I wouldn't say no to a summer in Barcelona). THAT frightens me. I am content right now. I remember the disgust on my best friend's face when she told me that I seemed content oh so many years ago. I wondered then, and I wonder again right now- is being content such a bad thing? Do we always need to be striving for the next, the bigger, the better? For something that is outside of our lives? Or can we maybe just live... breathe in the moment? Is that such a bad thing? 

Privilege and Opportunity: Generational Issues in Capitalism

I spent the lunch hour in debate with a friend over my growing disdain towards capitalism. He is highly influenced by Ayn Rand and argued for the benefits of a free market system including pure capitalism and egoism. My thoughts are pretty jumbled these days so I didn't argue much of anything, but I do know that something just doesn't feel right about capitalism - the welfare capitalism the US practices today, or the potentially pure capitalism he was advocating for. Eventually we got stuck on a certain point: privilege and opportunity. We posted round and round it until the debate got stuck. So here I am, trying to figure out how to move forward with my ideas regarding privilege and opportunity.

My main concern was with inheritance, except that when I say inheritance I do not mean only what someone gets upon the death of their parents. I mean everything that an individual receives, at birth and on, without earning it. How I see it that capitalism, combined with our current system of nuclear families, sets some people up with way more opportunities than other people. My friend argued that the opportunities were the same, only the starting points had changed. Basically, even though it is easier for someone who has time to study, belongs to a higher social class, and has money to become a CEO, someone who doesn't have those privileges still has the OPPORTUNITY to become a CEO, just not an advantage. I see it as a marathon. You set up someone 10km from the finish line and someone else 100km. You give the one 10k away access to race support such as water and food. The one 100k away has to carry and forage for all supplements. Yes, they have the same opportunity to cross the finish line, but, unless the 10k guy decides he has NO interest in the finish line he will get there first, and in better shape, and he will be able to use limited resources such as massage therapists or food at the finish line that just wont be there by the time the person 100k away makes it there.

My main concern was education. In a capitalist society there is nothing that encourages equal education opportunities. Schools would become businesses (having no other way to fund them) and only children who could afford to go would gain marketable skills. My friend argued that everyone has marketable skills. Manual labor does not require an education. To me it sounds like slavery- where the people who are born into privilege will always get positions of power and those who aren't are expected to not complain because there are no laws preventing them from refusing to work at whatever prices the families in power set and finding another way to contribute to the market. What capitalism fails to account for is that opportunity is not based on the freedom to do something, but the set of circumstances that create possibilities. Yes, a poor boy who can not read and right has the freedom to become a multimillionaire, but he has much less opportunity than the son of a millionaire. My question then becomes- what makes some people more deserving of opportunities from the moment of birth than others?

The problem with capitalism is that people favor their families and so there is no equality of opportunity. There is privilege and inequality. My friend argued that you can't make people equal. Some people are born smarter than others, more creative etc. Why should they suffer or be held back because the rest of the world can't keep up with them? Well, they shouldn't, but why should they start out 90km ahead just because their parents were smarter? He asked if I was jealous. Yes. I am jealous. I am jealous of people who did not have to turn down their first choice university because they couldn't afford it. I am jealous of people who own a house. I am jealous of people who are able to take internships in university because they don't have to work at the cafeteria to make ends meet. I am jealous of people who have never had to wonder where their next meal is coming from while they were a child. I am jealous of people who feel comfortable in museums and business meetings because they were raised in those environments. And I wonder- what did they do to deserve that experience, and what did I do to deserve mine? (Honestly, not a bad experience, comparatively, but not as privileged as some).

The more I look at it capitalism, as a long-term solution, is a system that is based on favoritism, privilege and competition. It has very little to do with merit or ability.  I would prefer a system that advocated for cooperation over competition. 

Critique and Spirituality During Pregnancy

During the first 5 months of my pregnancy I was a bit... smug? No, not exactly smug, but confident. My body was going through a lot of changes- I was going through a lot of changes, and more or less I was taking them in stride. I had a healthy dose of excitement about the pregnancy and I thought that all of the focus on our changing bodies as a negative, scary thing was a bit frustrating. Sure, I missed wearing the clothes that I had once been comfortable in, but I thought the expansion of my body was... relieving, in a way. I wasn't afraid of growing- gaining weight, changing shape. Over the years I have learned to love my body, and I wasn't about to let the pregnancy websites change that.

But maybe I was just in the easy part of it all. Maybe this lack of confidence is something that everyone goes through at some part of their pregnancy. I still don't think it is necessary, and I still blame the external social pressure for fear-mongering, but I am there, too, wondering if I am a bad person because I am gaining too much weight. Wondering if I am putting my baby in danger. Wondering if I will ever get my pre-pregnancy shape back.

It started at the end of last month, when I went in for my monthly checkup. The first thing they did was weigh me, and the midwife was quite disappointed in me because I had gained four kilograms (that's almost 9 pounds for those of you back in the states) in one month. That is a LOT of weight, and she told me it was too much, I should not be gaining more than 2 or 3 in a month. From that moment it was like a black cloud settled over me. I hadn't realized how proud I had been each month when she told me that my weight gain was exactly on or just under what it should be.

Before that appointment I had been taking a very intuitive approach to my pregnancy. I trusted my knowledge of nutrition and the thirty year relationship I have with my body. I know which vitamins and minerals I tend to be low in, and I was eating accordingly. I ate when I was hungry, and although it is hard not to overeat occasionally (with my mother-in-law's cooking skills) I was doing pretty good, I thought. After that appointment I tried to justify my weight gain. I told myself that women gain different amounts of weight in their pregnancies. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that according to the doctor both my baby and I were healthy and doing well. I even justified the weight gain with the idea that I had "popped" that month (I finally got my belly!) and surely the next month my weight would go back to normal. I thought I dealt with it and moved on, but I didn't. It seeped into my brain and body.

I weigh myself almost every day now, and sometimes twice a day, secretly hoping that my weight stops growing. I find myself stopping halfway through a meal, even though I am still hungry, because I don't want to be shamed when I return to the doctor's office. I spend too much time looking up ideal weight gain patterns for women my age and height. Any day I don't go for a walk, or bike-ride, I feel bad- not just because I am missing out on fun outdoor activities. No, I don't just feel bad. I feel guilty. All because the "specialist," told me that I am doing it wrong. I thought I was stronger than that, but apparently one offhand comment in a doctor's office is capable of sending me spiraling into obsessive self-critique.

Perhaps the thing that is most frustrating about this is that it has seeped into my yoga practice. I am not 24/7 spiritual, but I would consider myself an avid seeker of the spiritual, if not a full believer. Yoga definitely has a spiritual side for me, and I was really enjoying exploring the changes in myself through my practice. One of the best pieces of advice I have read was towards the beginning of my pregnancy, when I was still in hyper-active, "IS THIS SAFE TO DO!?!" mode. One website said that, yes, yoga is great for pregnant women, but you should know that as your body and energy changes you will have to adapt your practice. Pregnancy is a good time to concentrate on patience and acceptance of your self, and you should not try to grow or improv during pregnancy. I took that advice to heart and I was having an amazing time just exploring exactly where I was at- what hurt, what felt good, sometimes just lying in meditation for half of my practice. It was good. :-)

Then came this crash of confidence. Last week at yoga I found myself thoroughly frustrated with myself. It was a new sensation for me, that I usually only get when I have a bad run and have NEVER gotten while in yoga. I was frustrated by my tight hamstrings and calves. I was frustrated by my large belly getting in the way of potential poses. I was frustrated that I could no longer elegantly shift from one pose to another. I was frustrated that my balance and strength are suffering. Yes, plenty of this is my, "fault," for not practicing during my first three months of pregnancy, but ultimately it is where I am at now and I need to be able to accept it, understand it, and move through it. I don't need to hate myself and beat myself up over it. I definitely do not need to look in the mirror and feel disgust towards how my body compensates for the changes. But I do. I feel all of those things and more. It makes me wonder how I am going to get through the last three months of pregnancy, when the weight will keep coming, the doctor's will put on more pressure, everyone will feel they have the right to comment, and my body will continue to become unfamiliar to the standards I demanded of it before. I guess this is what they mean when they say that pregnancy is a perfect time to practice patience and acceptance. Accepting myself when it was easy was nothing more than an easy ego boost. Now, when accepting myself is no longer something to be taken for granted I can sink deeper into my practice of patience and see if I cannot learn anything, and to grow spiritually as well as I am growing physically.  

Why We Don't Need a Female President

For some reason the debate on whether or not our next president should/will be a woman has been springing up all over facebook and pulse for me. I used to think having a female president, or at least a female VP, was an important step for the US. Now I am not so sure that gender matters. Well, of course gender matters. Gender is a huge issue, but it can also be a distraction. That our political system is unrepresentative of half of our population is not fair, but it is just a sliver of unfairness among an entire unfair, broken system.

Women wait eagerly for the day when they can have a role model- someone who has broken through that final, impenetrable door of gender inequality in the US. Women can be doctors and lawyers, senators and businessmen, and even the president of the United States. I get that it is important- to have someone to look up to- proof that we are capable of everything that men are capable of. But people act like it is important to have anyone who isn't a white male in the white house- a black, a hispanic, a woman... in the end it doesn't matter. Feminists say that we need to position the election of a woman president not as a woman's issue, but as a human issue- that a woman would provide perspective in leadership that would challenge and progress the system for everyone, not just women. But let's be real, a woman will not lead the country any differently than a man would. Female CEOs work within the structure of white, male business. They do not change the working world. Female doctors are educated in the realm of male science. They do not change healthcare. All it would prove is that women have learned to play the game of privilege and politics by the same rules and rituals as men. Women work so hard to have equality in an antiquated system that they end up supporting the system. In order to be "as good as men," and, "as free as men," they end up acting like men instead of working to expand the options of how men and women can act.

I was watching a video on Upworthy the other day, and I noticed that at the end (Around 3:15) when H. Clinton finishes, it is announced, "The gentleman's time is up." I poked around, and apparently female members of the house are supposed to be referred to as gentlewomen, but in practice I am not sure how often that happens. If a woman wants to be respected by her fellow politicians she has to become a gentleman. But what bothers me is not so much the gender of the world- gentleman, gentlewoman... they are both very old, class-based words that create an environment of assumption in American politics.

I am beginning to think a female president would do more harm than good, because it would make people feel that we are "progressing." It would be yet another lie that politicians could hold up to justify clinging to an old system that no longer meets the needs of the people. It doesn't mean I wouldn't vote for a woman. I just don't see it as the big deal I once thought it was.

I looked into the eyes of my unborn baby

When he was 6 or 7- 

They were clear, fresh, excited, 

So much like my husband's, so foreign to me. 

His lips parted, breathless, 

And he said-

"Mom! I'm going to be president!" 

Oh, son, what did they teach you in school today? 

If I had known today was the day

They would teach little girls they wanted to be brides, and mothers, and maybe nurses... 

And little boys they wanted to be soldiers, and maybe president... 

I would have kept you home. 

We would have finger-painted and played in the falling leaves. 

You wouldn't have said you wanted to "be" anything. 

"Mom, I am happy!" you would have said. 

But now you look at me and you say you want to be president- 

- To enter into a system broken with corruption, greed, and privilege. 

- To enter a world based on status, lies, and bureaucracy. 

You tell me, and you wait. 

You are still breathless, 

Less from the run home and more from the prospect of possibility. 

As a mother it is my job to nourish your hopes- 

We collect tinder for your dreams when you are young 

So that you can grow up to be passionate. 

- A man on fire. 

I see the way you take the dog for a walk, hug your little sister, give your friends equal slices of the pumpkin pie I baked for you. 

You are fair, and kind, and too responsible for your age. 

I wish you were an anarchist, like me, 

But I hold you close and I whisper- 

"You'll make a great president." 

And I believe it. 

A Scrambling Consideration of Biopolitics

"They" say that when you are pregnant it can feel like your body is no longer your own. Not only is there another life leeching your nutrients, kicking at inopportune times, and squishing your internal organs into such a puzzle that your bladder becomes magically nonexistent, but for some reason other people feel that they have the right to comment on how you look and your habits, and to touch your body without asking. It's true. But more than MAKING my body not my own for the duration of pregnancy (and breastfeeding?) I believe the experience has brought into focus the fact that my body is already not my own. The medical gaze is intensified during pregnancy, but it does not begin then.

Did you watch Stargate SG-1? Being pregnant sometimes feels like the trial between Skaara and Klorel in season 3. I am not saying that I feel like a slave to a hostile, evil host, with no control over my body. The relationship I have with my little alien is a lot more like the positive symbiosis of the Tok'ra- I would do almost anything to make sure that the little one inside me is comfortable and growing healthy, and yet I feel like I am constantly on trial for my actions. Society views the pregnant condition as a shared condition, and as such a woman surrenders many of her personal rights. An external court decides what is right for the voiceless fetus, and since a baby is viewed as helpless, blameless, and the epitome of potential, the court almost always rules in favor of the fetus. Of course I am speaking of the social court, not the legal court, although the social court is trying to sway the laws. This is not a question of abortion. It is instead a question of how a woman chooses to direct her pregnancy. Society does not trust women to want the best for their growing babies, and to know what that might be.

In Bulgaria, where social healthcare is the norm, this is emphasized. A Bulgarian woman is expected to go to the doctor as soon as she finds out that she is pregnant. Immediately they draw blood, run tests, and insert the fetus into the modern medical system. From that moment until birth medical decisions fall into the realm of "expertise," and out of the control of the woman. The fetus becomes the responsibility of the state and the mother is seen as a barrier, or an inconvenience, to that responsibility. Monthly checkups are standard- including sonograms, the drawing of blood, and other types of less-invasive monitoring. None of this has really bothered me because I enjoy the sonograms and I know that with a history of anemia I am at a slightly higher risk to become anemic during pregnancy. I suffer from severe depression connected to my anemia and it is nice to have that extra warning system in place for when my iron levels begin to dip. I realize that many women may not appreciate the monthly checkups at all, but they haven't been too unsettling for me. What has me bothered, and is beginning to open my eyes, is the actual birth process.

Everyone I talk to seems to approach the topic of birth from a position of fear. They are quick to assure me that it is not so scary, I shouldn't worry, and it will be okay. They assume that I am frightened of the pain associated with giving birth- with all of the things that could possibly go wrong. What they can't seem to understand is that it is not the process of giving birth that scares me. I am EXCITED about birthing. I think it is going to be intense and overwhelming, but beautiful and unbelievably good. I also think that with my psychological preparation in the realm of BDSM, my personal beliefs and understandings towards pain and pleasure, and my relationship with my body, I stand a good chance of having an orgasmic birthing journey. I realize it will be difficult, but I believe that women are built with the capability to give birth, naturally. However, I must admit that these people are right to assume that I am afraid. What I am afraid of is not the birth. It is the very thing that is supposed to make me feel secure and protected: the hospital experience surrounding the birth.

If I lived in the US I might elect to go with a home-birth, but probably not. I am on the same page as my yoga instructor, who said last week, "It's not that I don't believe a doctor should be there. I just think he should be in another room, drinking a coffee unless there is an emergency." Ideally, I would probably choose to find some sort of birth center that doesn't have the appearance or immediate medical interventions that hospitals seem so eager to give. But I don't live in the US. I live in Bulgaria, where mid-wives do not have the legal right to practice without a licensed doctor, and home births are rarely heard of, unless they go badly. The other day I read an article about a woman who chose a home birth in Sofia. The article was about a single baby that died during a home birth. Of course, home birth was painted very negatively and the woman as irresponsible. Ultimately the article ends with a comment on the high rate of mortality during home births compared to hospital births, which is probably true in Bulgaria. I wonder how much of that has to do with being at home, and how much has to do with the fact that stigma and laws against home birthing CREATES an unsafe environment by taking away any at-home options for medical assistance. Here I feel the need to point out that babies also die at hospitals, sometimes due to negligence on the doctor's part and sometimes just because they do. However, it is much more difficult to find an article blaming a mother or doctor for a specific death that took place in a hospital. That would be considered poor taste against a grieving mother or professional slander. But society has no problem demonizing a mother who went outside of the system to do what she though best for her baby. Society seems ready and eager to blame women who refuse to surrender to the medical gaze.

And just what is the medical gaze they are refusing to surrender to? It involves a dehumanizing hospital experience where the patient is separated as a body, on which actions are performed, from the patient as a human with rights and desires. My only experience being admitted to a hospital was a gruesome experience. It was in the United States and it involved a suicide attempt when I was twenty. The first night was terrifying as I was connected to IVs and pumped full of drugs to clear my system. No one was gentle with me. At one point I shied away from a particularly large needle, and a nurse roughly informed me that I had no right to complain or resist. I had surrendered my rights to refuse any treatment when I had chosen to try to commit suicide. I understand the anger she felt. It makes sense for medical professionals to feel a bit of frustration and disgust for suicide patients when they are trying so hard to prevent death on a daily basis. What doesn't make sense is for doctors to feel the same impatience and disdain for pregnant women, but from what I have been reading, pregnant women in Bulgaria are not given any more rights or respect than I was given in the hospital ten years ago.

At the time of birth women are separated from their bodies. They are almost treated as an inconvenience of birth instead of an active participant. I am sure that doctors would appreciate not having to deal with a screaming woman who has fears, desires, and urges. It is no wonder that 40 percent of births are c-sections here, scheduled months in advance. I am afraid that signing the admission forms here will be similar to giving away my rights to refuse treatments. I do not want an IV. I have an intense disgust towards needles and I do not think it will be emotionally or physically helpful to have a needle in me for such an intense process, but IVs are standard practice. I do not want an epidural for the same reasons, but epidurals are pushed like candy here. They want everyone on an epidural because it is, 'more comfortable for the mother.' I am wondering if it is the comfort of the mother they have a concern for, or the comfort of the doctors, nurses, and other patients who do not want to be around the messiness of pain and intensity of an undiluted birth experience. I am very concerned with time limits. If a labor is not progressing, then drugs can be given to help it along. It seems like 12 hours is the standard before doctors loose their patience, and I am not sure that I am legally able to refuse those drugs here. I would prefer to give my baby 2 full days, if it is needed (But I really hope it wont). Perhaps most unsettling is that in Bulgaria it is the general practice for a woman to go into labor alone. They have to pay extra for the husband to be there, emotionally supporting the woman. It terrifies me that the system WANTS the woman separated, on her own, with no one to advocate for her desires at a time when she might be at her weakest. It all adds up to a system where the doctors supposedly know best, and the patient being a sentient being is a mere inconvenience. Additionally, the woman is required to stay in the hospital for at least three days after birth. During that time she has very little control over her baby and again there are severe limits on visitors, including the father. I find the three day stay kind of nice, because you get basically free, trained nurses to care for your baby while you are recovering, but I wish that it existed as an option instead of a law, as I  would much rather be together with my family as a whole during that critical bonding time.

Of course much of this is here-say and fear. I have not had a full discussion with my doctor about all of it, as I was told to wait until my 8th month so we would see how my pregnancy was progressing before we started to discuss options for birth. I realize now that I need to be much more demanding about that conversation taking place now, because I have a lot of mental preparation to do if I want to take as much control as possible and not have this be a traumatic experience for me, including possibly changing my birth center and finding a place that will accommodate me to the fullest extent that they can within the laws. I have also read stories of women who were pleasantly surprised by their birth experience in Bulgaria, who did not feel dehumanized and punished by their doctors. So there is hope. But I wish I had more control and did not have to rely so much on luck. This really does bring into focus the extent of the medical system and the power that others try to exert on the body of the individual.

In Bulgaria enrollment in the national healthcare system is mandatory for all citizens and permanent residents who have jobs. When I first moved here I thought that socialized health care was a great thing. For a very small fee I have access to doctors, nurses, and dentists. The quality of care might not be the best in the world, but it is far from the worst either. However, with that option for care comes a certain expectation for people to utilize that care. Vaccinations are free, but they are mandatory. Prenatal care is nearly free (not for me, as I am not yet in the system), but expected. So is dental care and regular checkups for children. This has me thinking about the Affordable Care Act, and moving (however slowly) towards a single payer healthcare system. Single payer healthcare is great, in that it drives the prices down into a range that is affordable for everyone. But people are pissed off that they are being told they HAVE to purchase insurance. Yes, it is great to be insured in case something goes wrong, but to what extent does that insurance force an individual into the modern medical gaze? I realize more and more these days that I would much rather work with nutritionists, herbalists, and other "alternative" forms of preventive medicine than pay to be able to go to a doctor when things get bad.

I was checking out an herbalist website that happened to create a comparison between herbalism and modern medicine. Modern medicine is great at dealing with emergencies. If you cut yourself deeply, or get into an accident, or are in the middle of a severe allergic reaction a doctor is probably going to help you much more than an herbalist. However, as far as preventive medicine goes, an herbalist can be much better at educating an individual about understanding their bodies and creating a healthy, strong baseline.

Apparently, if you go back far enough, the word 'doctor,' did not mean healer, but teacher. It was the role of the doctor to teach the village about the spiritual realm and their bodies. Allow time to progress and the focus shifted from a doctor being someone who teaches to someone who has been taught- or an expert in an area. That is where we are today- doctors do not spend time teaching patients. They do not spend time investing in preventative care. They are experts, who know what is best, and spend most of their time putting out fires rather than empowering their patients to maintain themselves. Because a patient is not a doctor, they are not, "taught," and since a doctor is no longer a teacher there is a gap in the education of the common man regarding his own health.

So yeah, paying for insurance for emergency care is okay, but what if I would rather invest that money in preventive education for myself? Ideally I would like a single payer system that is affordable, optional, and focuses heavily on education instead of the sterility of modern medicine.

I feel like this has been a ramble, but I think that there are some important ideas in here. Perhaps some day I can thread them out. Maybe others feel the same way as me- tired of our bodies being pawns in the areas of power and politics. Maybe some day things will change. 

Revolution

The other day I watched this video because it was spreading like wildfire (uncontained wildfire without the a wildland crew in sight) across Facebook. I usually find Russell Brand to be amusing, engaging, intelligent, and sexy in his sarcasm and wit. However, this video left me WANTING something more. It is all well and good to call for revolution and to point out the unfairness of the current system. In fact, I would even say that is important: awareness and enlightenment is the first step. However, I think that we, as a society, have moved beyond that first step, and to keep reiterating the first step (the "call" for revolution without concrete plans for action) can stall the revolution as much as any type of pacification with the current system. by continuing to call for action people feel like they are contributing to something, feel like they are being heard, feel like they are organizing, but nothing is actually being DONE to make changes. This is nothing more than a safety valve that releases the frustration of the general population, rendering them harmless against the current patriarchal capitalist system. I believe that Paxton had every right to ask what Brand suggests we actually do, and I would have loved to have heard a strait answer from Brand. But I didn't. He stated the problems several times: economic inequality, generational systems of hierarchy, the general population not being heard, and the natural environment being destroyed. We KNOW this. This is not new information. What we do not know is how to act in a way that will bring about change to the current global and national systems that are so unfair. Brand's answer seemed to be to not participate in the current system (by not voting) and to just wait until a clear plan comes out from someone smarter than he is. He also pushed the problem back onto the people with the power, saying it is their responsibility to fix things because they have the power, when their having power is a direct result of a broken system. Okay, Brand, I get that you are a comedian and not a social theorist, but you have a strong following and I would like to see you using that to advance a social revolution instead of stirring people up into simple foam and froth, to be blown away with the next interesting call for action. He doesn't have to be the one making the plan, but perhaps he can use his fame and position of celebrity to point people in the direction of others who have valid plans for revolution.

That being said, I thought I should not be a hypocrite and offer up my plan for how we, as a group, could gain power and effect social and economic change in the world. Some of these things I am doing, some I am working towards, and some I know I will never achieve. I also recognize that most of them only work if a large majority of people agreed to act together, and that by doing them as an individual you are exposing yourself to risk of exploitation and poverty.

1. Buy local. I don't mean just use a mom and pop store that imports its goods from who-knows-where. I mean buy honestly local as much as possible. Buy food from local farms. Buy textiles made in your state. Learn what the natural resources are near to you and learn to live your life utilizing them. If you can't buy local, then buy second hand. If you need to buy globally then establish a personal relationship with your supplier and understand their economic ethics. 
2. Don't buy. Seriously. Begin a minimalist lifestyle. Assess what you really NEED in your life as opposed to what commodities serve to pacify you. Buy less. Do we really need the latest computer, tablet and phone? Do we need to update these every year? Do we need new clothes every season? The latest baby gear? Honestly, no. We are taught to shop to keep the economy running, but the current economy serves the interest of a select few, so go ahead and bring that economy to a grinding halt. Grow your own garden. Knit and sew your own clothes. Trade with your friends, not department stores. Ride a bike instead of driving a car. 
3. Take the money you save by not buying things and reduce your hours at work. Does a family actually need two full-time incomes to flourish? Do you actually need to work 45 hours a week? Current American consumer trends say, yes, working that much is necessary to buy all of the things we "need." I say we don't actually need most of those things. Cut your hours back to at MOST 40. Cut your family incomes down to at MOST 1.5. Cut more if you can. Try to get down to living off of 20 hours of work a week. The world would still function if we all worked just 20 hours a week. Of course, I realize that is not a reality for most people as 40 hours are necessary for health care and other work-related benefits. Petition your employer to change their policies to accommodate part-time work more readily. Change your employer if they refuse to work with you. 
4. Take the time you save by not working and work on building your community. Spend time with your neighbors. Move out of the city. Host parties. Say hello to everyone you live near. Trade with your neighbors. Teach each other skills. Go on vacations that do not concentrate on spending money. Chaperone a field trip. Lead a scout troop. Volunteer your time and attention to others, and let others volunteer to help you. Start a community garden, an adult skills-trade. Engage and get to know each other on a personal, economic, and political level. 
5. Engage in grass-roots democracy. Perhaps you realize that our global and national level of representation sucks, and you want to change that. No matter who gets elected at those levels that system will not change UNLESS there is pressure on the candidates from people organized at the local level. Organize a neighborhood council, and participate. Use the weight of your neighborhood council to pressure your city council to actually represent your wants and needs. Let that force trickle up to the state and national levels. 

So, yeah, that is the life that I am trying to live right now: one that does not worship commodities and values relationships with people over a sense of security and the latest techno-gadget. What are YOU doing to participate in the revolution? 

New Humans and their, "Gender"

I have been sitting on this post for about a month because it is a delicate subject for me to needle around. Add in the shame, confusion, and frustration I feel about gender in babies and it has been easy to keep saying, "I will write about it tomorrow." Well, I guess tomorrow has come.

We know the sex of our baby. We've known for about a month now. Occasionally we let it slip, but for the most part we are keeping it just between us. Part of me wanted private time to prepare for raising a child in a gender-stereotyped world, and part of me fears that the imposing of a gender from external sources is going to start as soon as I reveal the gender publicly. I am not ready for gifts in Blue or Pink. I am not ready for other mother's to tell me how my son or daughter will be, and what I need to prepare for. But it is the one and only question people ask.

"We are pregnant."
"Oh, congratulations, do you know if it is a boy or a girl?"

The reaction is that quick, that standard... it is like a social script that everyone received copies of. It is considered a "safe" question. They don't ask, "Is it healthy?" or even, "How far along are you?" No, those are too personal, but the question of whether the baby has a penis or vagina is the accepted go-to. As if it even matters. Except apparently it does. Apparently people have no clue how to interact with other people without knowing their sex (and assuming their gender). Little boys get tossed into the air and told what a "Strong little man," they are, and little girls get stroked and cooed over, told that they are, "Oh, so pretty and delicate." From age 0. They look the same. They really are the same, except for a bit between their legs.

The other day my father-in-law was looking at pictures of a set of twins. One was dressed in blue, and the other in pink. His first question was, "I thought they were both girls...?" Yes, they are both girls. Girls can wear blue too. Later, I was showing off my crochet work to another friend of the family, who seems irritated that I "don't know" the sex yet. When I showed her the blue-grey suit with purple and pink trim she decided that it MUST be a boy, because there is too much blue for it to be a girl. These little comments terrify me about raising my kid in such strong gender-stereotypes. It is enough to pull a Storm.

(For those of you who haven't heard about it, Storm is the baby in canada whose parents are raising gender-neutral. Click here to read about it. )

In reality I wouldn't raise my kid with a private sex. Once (s)he is born, people will be able to know h(is)(er) sex. I don't think gender is inherently evil, and I think that there are worse consequences for a child (as they grow) if people feel uncomfortable interacting with them because they don't know their sex. I think gender is (per)formed as a reflection of society. People toss out expectations in their interactions, and the person either accepts or refuses them, creating their gender. I do not think that all people with a penis are naturally, "masculine," or people with a vagina are "feminine." I would like the gender-dichotomy to dissolve into hundreds of adjectives that actually describe a person's actions and interests. But I know that is too much to ask. I know my baby will be gendered, and all I can do is raise h(im)(er) with the tools to deal with it and create a true exploration of their self.

Okay. That is the rant people have expected from me. Everything falls in line with my semi-feminist, sociologically driven nature. Yes, of course little hippie-Koji doesn't want to raise a boy or a girl, but a human being. Of course. But there is a little twist.

When I found out the sex of our baby, I had what is commonly (but not so publicly) termed, "Gender disappointment." Gender disappointment is what mother's feel when they learn the sex of their baby and they really wanted the opposite sex. I hadn't known that I wanted one sex or the other, but when the doctor told us which our baby was, I didn't feel excited. The color drained from me and I tried to smile, and I just continued with the ultrasound without much comment. I felt TERRIBLE, not because of the sex of our baby, but because of my reaction to it. I went online and typed in, "I don't want to have a ____ baby." To my surprise hundreds of hits popped up, and I started to learn that this was a common sensation and even had a name. MANY people experience gender disappointment, but it is not considered appropriate to admit it or talk about it. The internet allows enough anonymity so that mother's can finally admit their fears and disappointment without fear of appearing like a bad mother, and the stories range from gruesome to almost sweet.

Most of the articles have some reference to sex-selection in China, and the death of thousands of female babies. There is usually some mention of zygote selection in IVF, and how parents are able to manage the sex of their babies more these days. Then the comments come. Hundreds of comments from women who don't want to have a, "nasty boy," or don't feel like they will be able to relate to a, "girly daughter." Women planning abortions because they cannot deal with the sex of their baby. Women who just needed time to adjust to the idea. Women who were afraid that they wouldn't love their baby. The articles tend to emphasize that gender-disappointment is common, and it usually goes away once your baby is born. I realized that what I was feeling was completely light and manageable compared to some of these other women, and I started dealing with it. It took me about three days to get over the disappointment, but it has taken me a month to work on the guilt of having felt it.

I think about the fact that a hundred years ago women didn't know whether they were having a boy or a girl. Sure, there were traditional methods of casting wedding rings and looking at how the bump was held that they engaged in, but they didn't know until the baby came out. There was no preparation in blue or pink. This lack of knowledge allowed the baby to be rather gender-free for the first few months of h(is)(er) life. Now a quick scan can tell us the sex of our baby by the 4th or 5th month of pregnancy (a blood test sooner), and we immediately feel the pressure to start preparing for that sex without having ever met the person and learned WHO they actually are. No wonder this causes anxiety. (I prefer the term gender-anxiety, because really, I don't think I was as disappointed as I was anxious.) Secondly, we live in a world where we have control over the stylization of almost everything. Our clothes reflect us. We have unlimited choices of telephone covers. We buy a tablet to our specifications. We paint/wallpaper our rooms yearly. We are used to having CONTROL. With a child you don't get to make the decisions. You don't order a child to your specifications. "I would like a smart, semi-athletic baby who will grow up to love the outdoors and shun consumerism." Umm, yeah, parents can influence, but they don't get to DECIDE these things. I think learning the sex of the baby is the first solid smack in the consumer-driven face that the baby WILL be what it wants to be and is not necessarily "yours," the way your car or new love-seat is. Lastly, I think it comes from those gender-stereotypes and a narrowing of options. I honestly don't think that I specifically WANTED a boy or a girl. Then why was I shocked and disappointed? Because I learned the sex at all. Before that day I had four months of wondering and guessing. Then, it was like Christmas morning... I unwrapped the gift, and sure, I liked it just fine, but the mystery and POSSIBILITY of what it might be was gone.

So there you have it- I am afraid of gender-stereotypes, bracing myself to deal with them, and feeling completely guilty that even I apparently am ruled by them. Poor little baby- you have no idea the gender-battle you are being born into.

The Ever Slow and Painful Metamorphosis of Romance

I have a confession. I love smoking. I do not smoke, and I appreciate the laws that keep the rooms I am free of second hand smoke. I would never encourage smoking, and I actively admonish my loved ones when they smoke. Yet, deep down I love smoking. It isn't the actual act of smoking that tickles me so. I find nothing appealing about the postmodern, Neo liberal form of smoking in-which arguments over personal rights and public space have pushed smokers to frantic, quick puffs. There is no time for indulgence. There is no space for indulgence, and along with the indulgence, the romance of smoking has been squeezed out of public space. I am not saying that before the smoking bans everyone who smoked was leisurely and romantic about it. Nicotine creates habit, and the need for it creates a desperation, which has its own romance, but it just isn't what I envision when I say, "I love smoking."

Tonight on our way into town a car cut us off. It was an older, beat-up car very similar to our own, and we were both irritated by the inconsiderate driver. After we passed through the round-about the car slowed again and Nikola prepared to pass him. I turned to my husband and asked if I could flip him off. I know, it is a gross and vulgar action without a lot of real meaning, but every now and then I am irritated enough to consider it. Especially now that I am pregnant, I find myself wanting to flip off the entire world a bit more often than usual. While I was explaining the unfamiliar term to Nikola the anger faded and I decided against it. I still glanced over at the driver of the other car as we passed, just to get the last of my anger out. What I saw was absolutely beautiful. The driver of the other car was an older man, but I wouldn't call him exactly old. His face had wrinkles, but they were obviously more from a life of hard work and loneliness than age. He was slightly small, and there was a wide space between his thin frame and the steering wheel. He wore a thick, black wool coat with the collar pressed down. With one hand he lightly gripped the steering wheel and with the other he held a cigarette to his lips. I caught him in the moment of exhale. He parted his lips delicately and slowly, with measured precision and years of practice, pushed a long, thick stream of smoke from his lungs. The smoke filled the space between the man and the steering wheel with thick tendrils that hovered for a moment before beginning to fade. By then our car had passed his and as far as I am concerned that man is still frozen in that perfect moment of exhalation, with smoke curling deeply around his face.

My first reaction was a continuation of my irritation. Perhaps if the man concentrated more on his driving and had fewer distractions like his cigarette he would not go around cutting other people off. My anger couldn't stick though. The image was too perfect. The man seemed so alone, and so distanced from the entire world. He was separate, creating a world of his own in that car. That is the romance of smoking.

You just don't see that anymore. I thought to myself, and let my mind wander to dirty phrases like, "The death of romance." Romance has always occurred in dark, smoke-filled bars. It is a lone man who has a story to tell. It is the amber of a glass of whiskey. These moments seem to be pushed back by the demands of society. What are the chances of me finding that perfect moment of exhalation in a bar these days? Very little, almost none, and if not there, where will I see it?

I realize I am being melodramatic. Romance doesn't die. It quite simply can't. Romance isn't dependant on the cigarette, the smoke, the alcohol, or the dive bar. It is any moment of separation. It is any moment when a person is alone, and that loneliness, instead of consuming them, creates a completely consuming reality around them. It is painful to admit that the 'easy' catches of romance I have come to depend on for a quick, happy buzz are going to be harder to find, but I will always find romance in new and exciting forms. I can't wait to see how it shows itself next.