Over poor Spanaway

I'm not a particularly warm person. I tend to run hot or cold. This is one of those flaws I pretend to be proud of, as though there is some honor in snapping from fury to dispassion at the drop of really any kind of headgear. I think writing is frequently how I explore this tendency, and also something I rely upon to temper it. I've written my fair share of hot-headed letters (or emails) and sent them before I had the good sense to calm down, but usually the act of putting words into sentences cools me down (or thaws my sub-zero side) before I do any real damage.

So instead of going to bed angry or in tears, instead of sulking silently, I am writing. Tonight I wanted to write about Libya, in part because while I'd like nothing more than to see that little despot in the sunglasses brought to Holland and marched through the streets of Den Haag, (I think this might be a little residual conquer-lust from reading Cleopatra,) my love for international law as an academic exercise and my red-hot fury at the murder and human rights abuses have unexpectedly combined to make me kind of wary. I want to see the Libyan people free of Gaddafi, and I would think seeing him face charges wouldn't be out of line. But freedom (in the pre-Bush administration sense of the word) shouldn't be imposed upon a people externally. This tweet (yes, I know I'm not on twitter but I can't avoid it when it shows up elsewhere) caught my eye today: "To all those celebrating the UN resolution on Libya, so-called "humanitarian intervention" filled our graves to their limits. Love, Iraq."

Now, there are a number of reasons why the invasion of Iraq is not so much oranges to an intervention in Libya's apples as it is an entirely separate food group all together. Those differences aside, am I ultimately more comfortable with a military intervention now because our commander in chief is less cowboy-crazy for explosions? I'll admit, I probably am. President Bush was a scalding/freezing type and I'm frankly more comfortable with these decisions being made by a President who thinks things through. Furthermore, (and most importantly) I think the support for intervention in Libya is greater internationally and within Libya itself is much greater than it was in Iraq. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have so bankrupted this country (of actual money and of moral credibility) that we simply can't commit to that scale of intervention in Libya, so maybe that's a small comfort as well. I don't like the idea of President Obama or any one going in and telling the Libyans how to run their country, but clearly Gaddafi's people have had enough of him and I have no problem if President Obama or the UN wants to do whatever it takes to get their backs.

And just to mix things up a little more, I'm going to bring up the No Taxpayer Funding For Abortions Act (HR 3). I want to know why the "pro-life" Republicans don't bring up a "No Taxpayer Funding For Executions Act" or a "No Taxpayer Funding For Predator Drones Act". A great West Wing quote about taxpayers paying for things they don't like is coming to mind, but TV-references aside, I understand why people respond so emotionally to this. I get it, I do. It isn't an easy thing to talk about and it isn't easy for most hardliners on either side to see past their own position. But it is hard enough already. Unwanted pregnancy, (and, I'd imagine, particularly the kind that result from rape, incest or that threaten the life of the mother) are hard enough. It is the worst place most women can find themselves, and we should commit every effort to see that fewer do. The only way to prevent abortion is to prevent unwanted pregnancy and de-funding Planned Parenthood will only increase it.

But more importantly (and here I'm not going to resist the temptation to quote West Wing) if we're about freedom from tyranny, then we're about freedom from tyranny, and if we're not, we should shut up. What greater tyranny could there be than the suggestion that my body (in any condition) be subject to some one else's control? We've got to make sure abortion is safe, and that means making it legal and accessible to every woman (not just those with a spare $650). Even if you're married or too old to have kids or a Lesbian or a man, this issue directly affects you. It speaks to the very health of our society and to the sincerity of what we call American values. Our bodies are our bodies and no one and nothing (not religion or law or even economic circumstance) should allow some one else to claim sovereignty there.

See, I'm feeling calmer already. I don't mean to be so coy about why I'm having such trouble breathing lately, I just want to be careful about telling secrets that aren't my own. I have a friend who was in a tough situation and who made her choice and got her way out of it. It was unavoidable that it was going to bring up some old issues from my own past, but we're Iraq and Libya on this. I was a disaster, there were lots of complicating circumstances that made a tough choice for me into a complete nightmare. She's Libya, in this metaphor, and she's got a difficult road ahead but she's got a much better support network, a much better head on her shoulders and I think she's going to be OK. I can't pretend that we're in the same shoes just because it makes for a snappier 140-character quip.

With that, I am calmly off to bed.

PS

The title of this post comes from a song that keeps running through my head every time I check my blog stats to see who's reading. I guess sometimes warning shots across the bow just don't work like they did in the days before they were metaphor. Anyway, here are the lyrics for the song, but if you haven't heard Neko Case yet, you should do so right away:

"The Needle Has Landed"
Neko Case

Here I am in traffic's slow flow
Where the needle touched down
Carbon planes draw a cage round the air force base
Where the needle touched down
My foot on the brake it's ok to fly low
Over poor Spanaway

An eagle swooped down from a semi-trailer
Took the name of your town from a sharp-toothed freighter
The needle's the same that recorded and played
When you left me at the greyhound the year I moved away
And if I knew then what's so obvious now
You'd still be here baby
My baby, baby

So that's why I never come back here
That's why they spit out my name
Your ex's have clawed up the bible
Trying to keep me away
With the sledge of tectonic fever
The needle has landed again
Let it play

And the needle touched down
The needle is landing
And the needle touched down
The needle is landing

An eagle swooped down from a semi-trailer
Took the name of your town
From a sharp-toothed freighter
And if I knew then what's so obvious now
You'd still be here

Ugly nights and Cleopatra

Last night I finished reading Cleopatra: a life, Stacy Schiff's beautifully-written attempt to set the historical record straight (or at least straighter) about "the most wicked woman in history." I loved every word. I've long had a weak spot for even the bawdiest sorts of Cleopatra-related historical fiction, but this biography is even better. (I may be watching the super melodramatic 1999 Billy Zane and Timothy Dahlton miniseries on youtube right now. I'd certainly never admit it.)

So any one who knows me has heard me complain about how men (specifically Mark Antony) ruined EVERYTHING. After Antony's final defeat in Alexandria, he rides back (apparently) shouting that Cleopatra had betrayed him. Schiff doesn't outright dismiss this as apocryphal, and even suggest a few reasons why such a betrayal might have been in the young queen's best interest. She ultimately leads the reader away from this version of history, however, pointing to several flaws in the logic of these accounts and other circumstantial evidence to suggest that Cleopatra was, even to her detriment, loyal to her love until the end.

I have to admit that whatever feminist rage I'd been having 30 pages before seemed to vanish. I didn't want Cleopatra to have betrayed Antony in the end, no matter how foolish or weak he was. Maybe I relate best with a woman when I believe that she, too, would love a man like that even if it meant her ruin. Maybe it comforts me to think that if some one as powerful, intelligent and cunning as she can be consumed by love in such a self-destructive way than I can forgive myself for doing the same from time to time. Maybe I'm just a romantic sap who likes love stories and deeply tragic endings.

Romance aside, what Octavian hated and feared (and probably admired) most about her was her audacity to think herself the equal of a man. It's hard not to see the connections between the ancient Egyptian feminist and her steely, tough-as-hell descendants (in nationality if not by actual blood) in Tahrir square. Other things in this book seemed surprisingly relevant to the modern day. Particularly the evidence that, even a couple of thousand years later, the West still thinks of the East in sexualized, emotional terms. But I think what engaged me most about this book was not the epic view of history or orientalism or even feminism but the way Schiff takes but snatches of detail and whole stretches of silence to paint a picture of a real human being.

Tonight is an ugly night. I am trying to rise above my small, personal emotions and think about more important things. Instead, I feel like I'm drowning in memories. All day long I have drifted between rare moments of crisp, coherent clarity- trying to translate for an Arabic-speaking customer, catching a minor shoplifter, dispensing with thesis-related errands- in a sea of blind panic and anxiety, barely able to force air into my lungs. I want to put the past behind me. I want to breathe steadily. I want to rule my kingdom and wage my wars and not have to think about all the heartbeats in between the great events. Which is not to say I need to be important or great or even all that special, just that I'd like to be more a person and less a tempest of emotional turmoil. It is not Mark Antony's weakness that bothers me tonight, it is just my own. I know it will pass. And should historians ever record my life-love me, or hate me- they will not waste any words on nights like this one.

Let's clear up a few things about rape...

Thanks to SLOG writer Cienna Madrid for posting this story about the NYT article covering the attack.


The New York Times is basically my favorite media source to criticize. Not because I think they are the worst, by any means, but because I think, unlike FOX news or the NY Post or most other mainstream media sources, they have the potential to rise above the orientalist, racist, sexist, sensationalist tendencies of the American press. So when I'm calling them out, know that it is not out of rage or disdain or even disgust (though I may feel all of those things), nor is it out of a desire to see the newspaper shut down for good; I believe the New York Times is better than the type of reporting I'm about to criticize it for.

An 11-year old girl in Texas was gang-raped. The NYT story on the rape is here. Notice the inclusion of unattributed comments by residents who claim that the girl dressed inappropriately or provocatively. Then remember that she was 11 years old. Ask yourself if there is any outfit an 11-year old could wear, any outfit at all, that would justify or explain a 27-year old man (not to mention high schoolers and middle schoolers) raping her.

Even worse, the NYT is refusing to apologize after being called out for this. I have written a letter to the editor and I encourage all of you to do the same. Letters can be e-mailed to letters@nytimes.com. Here is my own:

To whom it may concern,

The 3/8 article on the gang-rape of an 11-year old girl in Texas is appalling. The inclusion of remarks about the girl's dress ("They said she dressed older than her age, wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s.") perpetuates the belief that what a woman wears justifies or explains brutality against her. This 11-year-old girl is a child, regardless of how mature she looks, dresses, or acts, and for a newspaper to imply that her brutal gang-rape was somehow caused by her outfits (or to dignify the opinions of those who would suggest this by including their unsubstantiated comments in the article,) is the worst kind of irresponsible journalism. Your paper ought to be above this sort of archaic notion that a woman's (or, in this case, a girl's) manner of dress is linked in any way to rape. Rape is a crime of power, not a crime of sexual desire. The reporter who published this story under his name ought to be ashamed of himself.

In a statement issued in response to objections about this article, your spokeswoman declares "This story is still developing and there is much to be learned about how something so horrific could have occurred." Something horrific did not occur- earthquakes occur, hurricanes occur, floods occur- rapes are committed by rapists. The men who raped this girl perpetrated a horrific crime and there are no circumstances that could justify or explain their behavior.

Sincerely,

Kelsey Pince
Seattle, Washington

Seriously, NYT. You're better than this.

The complete ineffectiveness of an official trespass

O the illusion of anonymity,
O the illusion of safety,
O the illusion of escape.

Today I was discussing my job with a couple of classmates who expressed the oft-repeated sentiment that they don't understand why people return to a my store once they've been trespassed. I try to keep the humor in my voice as I remind them that a trespass, even a written, official, from-the-city, from-the-police trespass doesn't actually constitute a magical force-field that repels a person from setting foot on the property. For as long as I have been in loss prevention, I have heard this amazement from others. I love them for it, this honest, naive belief in the visceral power of the symbolic. A trespass (or a restraining order) is not just a document to these law-abiding types; they are as binding as the magic spells of books or movies.

I don't remember when, exactly, I stopped believing these things. Maybe I never did. But I have long known that telling a person to stop or to stay away does nothing. There is no magic in these words. People cannot be cast out of your life. They find you. They watch you. They read your blog. Years later, years after they should have disappeared entirely, there they are, eyes and IP addresses that I can feel as distinctly as hands upon me. This inability to control who got to be in or even witness to my life used to bother me. It used to prompt all kinds of tedious hiding and flight. Once I learned there was no running far or fast enough to get away, I learned to stand my ground.

I think this is why I work the job that I do, why I take it so seriously when I screw up or some one gets away. I'm never going to stop worrying, I'm never going to believe some one is gone for good. So, instead, I get to keep them out. I get to watch them. I get to stay calm, to stand my ground and they have to go. I do not begrudge others the illusion that this is permanent, I want to believe every time that it is.

But those eyes teach me to know better. I see you out there, looking inside. So, go ahead, try the door, it's unlocked. Just know that, these days, I'm watching you right back.

Beautiful Skin

This is my next tattoo. I would like to get it as a full sleeve on my right arm. Justifying spending the kind of money this will cost (Probably upwards of $1,000) is difficult, and it will probably be at least another year before I'm in a financial position to do so.

Today I was discussing tattoos with a coworker who had a very negative experience while getting her first tattoo. Many women (and a few men) I know have complained of the same condescending, rude treatment by tattoo artists, particularly if it is their first tattoo. I've certainly experienced this myself, though now I go to the same artist each time and am always pleased with both the quality of his work and the way he treats me. (If you're in the Seattle area and want a tattoo, I can't recommend Deep Roots on University highly enough. The artist who I see is named Jason, and I think the other tattoo artists at that shop are great as well.) I've brought my friends in for matching tattoos, I've sent my sister and my co-workers to him, too. The only reason I even met Jason was the terrible rude woman at another tattoo shop on the same street. After being belittled and told flat-out that my tattoo had too many words for her to do, I went a few block south to her competition. I am so glad that I did. I've gotten three tattoos from Jason so far, and he's got a customer for life (or, at least as long as he's in Seattle.)

I love my tattoos, all 8 of them. Even the ones I don't like very much any more, the ones that get me in trouble in airports, and even the one I got with a person I'd rather forget entirely (at least it isn't his name, right?) Each one has a story (usually no deeper than "I like stars and the color blue" or "Laura wrote this on a napkin in a Thai restaurant so I wanted it tattooed on me.")

People frequently suggest that tattoos will prevent me from getting "a real job." This may be correct, but, as my parents' generation retires, I think this will be less and less of a problem. I certainly appreciate my current job's policy on tattoos (no one cares) and find that, in general, if a company doesn't like my tattoos, I probably won't enjoy working for them.

I gave up on my skin a while ago. It's temperamental. I have a number of scars, it breaks out every five seconds and wavers between pasty pale and tomato red with nothing in between. That's fine. I have other good qualities. I remember once, after a group of friends had met my ex-boyfriend's newest girlfriend and found little kind to say about her, one friend diplomatically reached for whatever he could grasp. "She has beautiful skin." He proclaimed, gesturing that the conversation was over. He might well have said "She has tiny, feminine hands." And, while I would spend a year after that comparing myself to her, wondering what he saw in her, I think I knew at that moment that she had something I never would. Even as he kept inviting me into his bed, I would be the shameful secret, she would be the one he married. Do I think this is really because she has beautiful skin and I do not? Of course not. But I have reflected on this conversation every time I get a new tattoo. My skin will be beautiful in its own way.

I suppose vanity is not the worst of my sins. I don't spend a great deal of time or effort on my appearance (If Jessi wasn't such an awesome hairdresser I'd probably still have 3 feet of snarls in 3 different colors.) My tattoos are definitely a source of pride, a small part of a body that often feels like a punishment or a curse for some past-life misbehavior that I truly love. It may seem frivolous and vain (and, I admit, it is) but I will continue to get more until I run out of room or will (whichever comes first.)

Dear Rachel,

Dear Rachel,

They've been doing roadwork on 15th in the U district for weeks now. Every morning I walk past bulldozers and other vehicles. They're all made by the same company, Caterpillar, Inc. These bulldozers are not outfitted with special armor, they are not designed with the destruction of homes in mind, but they are roughly the same size as the bulldozer that killed you 8 years ago this month. That's all I think about when I walk beside them, when I hear the grumble of their engines.

The size of these machines is overwhelming from my 5 feet, 7 inches above the sidewalk. Never mind the blades they're wielding, the size alone is enough to make my hands shake a little. How did you stand your ground in the face of these things, Rachel? How did you stare them down right until they killed you?

I'd like to think that I could do what you did, but walking by these machines as they engage in nothing more provocative than road repair, I have to wonder. I have long thought of you as terribly brave, but these days I'm getting a more visceral sense of your courage. As a freshman in college, I returned one day to my small-town high school to visit some teachers. I ran into my history and government teacher and I told him I was studying Arabic. He asked if I was "going to go to Gaza, like that Corrie girl, and die helping terrorists kill Israeli babies." It was not the first time I've been called a baby killer, nor the last. That is what those who hate call you, a baby killer, an accessory to baby killing, and I can't help but think it is because your courage makes them afraid. Those are the words of men who live their small lives in fear.

I met George. You know George. George helped recruit you to the ISM. Meeting some one who had met you, had seen you when you were alive and still just a girl who liked Pat Benatar, it made you real to me in a way that reading your journals and seeing you on the news had not. Walking by these bulldozers has made the way you died real for me, too.

I have often thought that those of us still fighting for a saner US position on Palestine are like you, facing down the metaphorical bulldozers of US opinion and The Power That Be. I apologize for ever having this thought, Rachel. Walking to work each morning I am reminded that your bulldozer was literal, was all steel and sound, and that you must have been so scared to be so small beside it. You died standing your ground in a way that no metaphor can touch.

Sincerely yours,

Kelsey

Research Paper Draft 1

Hey all,

I wrote a paper on coverage by major US newspapers of Wafa Idris, the first female Palestinian suicide bomber. Some of you have mentioned that you'd like to read it so here it is (be warned, it is long.) Since this is the first draft, I'd appreciate any feedback/corrections/pointing out glaring mistakes you might notice:

First (as requested) the (very early draft) abstract:

I don't have a title yet

            On January 27, 2002, 27-year-old Wafa Idris left her family home in the al-Amari refugee camp outside of Ramallah. A few hours later Idris detonated a 20-pound bomb inside a shoe store in Jerusalem. The first female suicide bomber of the Palestinian conflict, Idris quickly became a subject of the American media’s fascination. In the weeks following her death, Idris’ family, her life story, her final act and her legacy were discussed in vivid detail.

            Wafa Idris’ story did not exist in a vacuum; the American conversation about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, about women’s roles in the Middle Eastern societies and about terrorist suicide attacks had been informed by media coverage of these stories, especially since 9/11. While it is difficult to say precisely how, and to what degree, one is shaped by the other, it is clear that American public opinion, (and, as a result, the policies of the American government,) and the American media influence one another.

            For this research project, I will look at the language used in the American news media’s coverage of Wafa Idris’ death. I will attempt to answer several questions about this coverage. First, was the coverage of Wafa Idris’ story different than other suicide bombers because she was female? What were the differences (if any) in the coverage and what effect do these have on the perception of those consuming it? How did depictions of Wafa Idris relate to public opinions of Palestine and of the Palestinians?

            In order to answer these questions, I will examine the language used in print articles from the five American newspapers with the largest circulations. For background information and context, I will rely on books and scholarly articles examining existing media narratives about women in the Middle East and Palestine, as well as the history of suicide attacks. 

            My research so far indicates that Wafa Idris was primarily depicted in one of two ways. Many articles highlight possible emotional causes for Idris’ suicide, implying that her death was not a political act but an individual reacting to personal struggles. These articles tend to focus on Idris’ divorce and infertility, de-emphasizing or outright denying her political and religious inclinations. Additionally, references to September 11th suggest associations between Idris' attack and al-Qaeda's. Idris is frequently referred to not as Palestinian but as "Arab."  These depictions are not mutually exclusive, and seem to point to the same conclusion. Consumers of these news stories are encouraged to believe that Wafa Idris acted either out of personal despair, as a result of the larger Arab/Muslim oppression of women, or as an Arab, (rather than Palestinian,) Jihadist opposing not just Israel but the entire Western world, much like al-Qaeda.