Today’s roundup brought to you by oh look a feather toy!

Oooooh boy, Dove, you have no idea what you’re getting into here, do you?

The subcontext here is incredible. Jess uses a wheelchair. She’s happy and perky and having fun. Katie is visibly healthy. She has low self-esteem and her self-hatred keeps her from even being able to greet Jess when she comes to the door. Instead, she slouches to the ground in despair.

There is a reason they put Jess in a wheelchair. In doing this, Dove sets up a contrast: the physically disabled girl who feels good enough about herself to go about her life; the able-bodied girl who hates herself so much she can’t even go out with the people least likely to judge her at all.

The only way this contrast is meaningful is if it rests on the assumption that the physically disabled girl has reason to think less of herself.

Dove, here, is deliberately driving home the message: It’s such a shame that the “normal” girl thinks less of herself than does the girl in a wheelchair!

The shame conveyed here is that each girl does not recognize her true place in the social order. The normal-bodied girl is pretty, but can’t see her prettiness in the mirror. The girl in the wheelchair does feel good about herself. This is out of order, backwards. The girl in the wheelchair should be the one who sees herself one step lower; the normal-bodied girl should recognize her innate goodness in being able-bodied and conventionally attractive.

The dissonance Dove deliberately draws here relies on the recognition that Jess is diminished by her disability, but Katie is so dragged down by her poor self-esteem that she ends up in an even lower place than Jess. This is not right! This is not how things should be!

How should they be, then?

Of course, the commercial is also contemptible for the simple reason that it uses the girl in the wheelchair as an object to develop the human character of the able-bodied girl. In this setup, Jess is not a character; she is a tool. We don’t see Jess’ character explored, developed, reflected upon. She is introduced for only one reason: to act as a foil to Katie. To demonstrate just how low Katie has sunk.

Because you know it’s a fucking shame when she falls even lower than the cripple.

DIsability, here, is set up as an awful tragedy, the lowest a person can sink in life. This is what the title communicates. Disability is a reason to be sad, upset, mournful, pitied. This is what Dove purports to save young women from — a life of suffering. This is the reason Katie is to be pitied: she has fallen into the state Jess should be in.

Finally, the issue of appropriation. I’ll make it simple. Never, ever, ever, ever appropriate another group’s cause. White folk, you are simply not allowed to flip a situation to make it on a black person to try to communicate how outrageous it should be. Abled folk, you are simply not allowed to purport yourself disabled to communicate how tragic something against you is. Period. (The comparisons are slightly different in effect and implication, but my point applies to both.)

This assumes that to be disabled (black, gay, female, etc.) should always be understood to be a bad thing. It assumes that discrimination against disabled/etc. folk, or other forms of oppresion against them, are always taken seriously. And the subtext in these comparisons just screams out: How dare *I* be treated like those people!

Like it or not, whether you were thinking it or not, when you use these tropes, you imply that wrongs against you are worse than wrongs against the other group, that people should be outraged that you have been lowered to their level. What you are protesting, like it or not, is that your privilege over them has been violated.

Seriously, there is never a good reason to use the comparison trope. So just don’t do it. Ever. Period. End of story.

Via Wheelchair Dancer

the big screen on flickr

The greatest thing to happen to the world of sports since the advent of the telecast.

During their run for the Stanley Cup in spring 2008, the Pittsburgh Penguins, teamed with Consol Energy and Trib Total Media*, decided to put up a giant LCD screen facing the grassy area outside Mellon Arena, so that fans without tickets to the game could stop by — or camp out — and watch the game. For free.

Every game (weather permitting), home and away, was shown on the Big Screen. And fans responded. The place was packed. The energy was incredible. Even better the chance to gather and watch the games that did not take place on home ice.

As entrance (such as it was) was free, the team collected no direct revenue. But they set up concessions — barbecue grill and so forth — and made a good penny off of that. But you could still bring your own food, non-alcoholic drink, your own chairs/blankets/accommodations, and so forth. It was an open and free atmosphere. The area was not roped off, not guarded, not ticketed.

And it’s the most freaking genius thing ever. Yeah, they weren’t gonna make a buck off tickets, but they drew a whole lot of fans to the arena. They fanned the flame of fandom, cementing enthusiasm for hockey in the budding fanbase of Pittsburgh — an area that previously cared only about its precious Steelers. (My husband, a Pirates fan, has quite the complex about this, and I actually share his distaste for antagonistic element of Pittsburgh football fandom.) They found a way to make money off of local fans even when the team was playing an away game. And for once, more people than those who could afford the price of playoff hockey tix were able to gather in support of their team.

It’s playoff season again in Pittsburgh. We never would’ve thought it two months previous, when the Penguins were in such a slump that they aspired to a tenth-place finish in the Eastern Conference, but their fortunes rose and here they are: first round against their bitter rivals the Broad Street Bullies. If there’s one way to draw a crowd to a Penguins game, it’s to play against the hated Philadelphia Flyers! (I think it betrays Philly’s inferiority complex: why would they care so much about little ol’ Pittsburgh if they did not see us as a threat? Ha.) And fortune indeed shone upon us: the Pens get the home ice advantage.

And the team was smart enough to agree to put up the Big Screen again this year! A fan can’t help but be excited. Having had my share of bad experiences with booking overlord Ticketmaster, and being newly unemployed, I can’t exactly afford the price of playoff tickets. But I can afford the two-dollar T fare up into the city. And indeed, we are planning to go to every game possible. Because it’s an incredible experience, one I wouldn’t miss for all the world. I will always cherish the memories of the games we were able to attend last season, when I was new to the city, settling in to my new home. Forming an identity.

And I’m glad someone had the bright idea to do it. I can’t wait til tomorrow night.

See scenes from the May 4, 2008 game against the Rangers pictured above in my Flickr stream.

* Yeah, I’m not happy that my hockey team’s fortunes were sold to** Big Coal. And I know progressives aren’t a huge fan of the Scaife media. But one out of three isn’t bad, right?

** God, I’m going to miss Mellon Arena. Oldest arena in the country, and the city sees that as a bad thing. I love that fucking place, inaccessible as it is (and O, is it inaccessible!). But I’m still both a hockey newb and a swPA transplant, so I don’t get to make that call. Unfortunately.

One day my husband is dragging me (who likes to play sports, but has no skill at playing sports, and had zero interest in pro sports whatsoever) along to a playoff game, the next thing we know I’m a rabid Penguins fan. I “accidentally” bought a six-game mini-plan last season (long story), which didn’t help matters. I got to watch Malkin step up the points race while Sid was down with a high ankle sprain. I developed a quick appreciation for Marc Andre Fleury, the deft and nimble crosseyed French-Canadian crack monkey, my one and only celebrity crush (seriously, watch that man move — the splits, the dives, the spins, the full-getup-and-skates hops — and watch his dark eyes dart around behind his face mask, always searching — and tell me that isn’t impressive as hell). I got to be a part of the incredible energy in Mellon Arena during the final games of the season. It’s a drug. And I got hooked.

I don’t know what it is about the game that draws me. It’s not for a lack of other sports in the household — hubby is a baseball stats geek, and also watches football, basketball, and NASCAR — none of which interest me much. (Surprisingly, the most tolerable of those four is the last one.) But for whatever reason, now, the sound of skates on ice, and the silly epic-sounding Penguins intro music, gets me in that same giddy mood children get in on Christmas morning.

One of the things I appreciate most about hockey is that it didn’t seem to have the exclusive atmosphere of, say, your football or basketball. There are no cheerleading squads or “dancers,” and the ads during the TV broadcasts tend to be pretty mild. No soft porn, GoDaddy, macho-man robots, local radio-sponsored hot babe contests, and the like. There is an element of performed masculinity, as in just about any mainstream pro sport. I mean, fighting is pretty much a central tenet to the game. But — and I’m having trouble articulating the distinction here — while there is definitely quite a bit of feminist analysis to be done on the game, the players, the culture, the advertising, and so on — there isn’t quite the same constant reminder to women that this isn’t for you.

It’s hard to watch football and not be bombarded with messages that are explicitly and enthusiastically geared for men. Not men as humans, but men as men. And not even men as men, in an affirmative, appreciative way — but men as not-women, in a taunting, exclusionary way. It is telegraphed quite clearly that women’s only place in the game is for men’s consumption.

I never much got that sense in hockey — or NASCAR, surprisingly, as I said. The culture was definitely geared toward men, but it didn’t shut the door on women. And I appreciated that. “Honorary man” still isn’t good enough, but it’s a hell of a lot better than “man’s property.”

In football, women are a part of the game as bikini-clad cheerleaders. In racing, women are part of the game as on-the-ground reporters. And while the latter sport is hardly innocent (trust me, I’ve hardly a lack of criticism for the sport), that difference does send a message to the fans at home.

All of this is a lengthy introduction to my home team’s latest marketing project: Hockey ‘n Heels.

I mean, the program itself doesn’t sound so bad, right?

One (1) game ticket in the Club Level Seating for three (3) games which includes event ticket, event premium item and buffet dinner

Locker Room Tour

On-Ice Demonstrations with the opportunity to sit in the Penalty Box/Player Bench

Attend a morning skate

Meet and greet with players after the morning skate

Limited Edition Framed Art Piece

Sounds pretty cool. And really, I don’t see how this would appeal any differently to women than to men, or children, or hockey-lovin’ aliens from outer space. At least it isn’t a hot stone massage and black-and-gold manis and pedis. It’s cool, exciting, relevant stuff. Actually hockey-related. Nothing any female hockey fan wouldn’t love.

Why, then, the stupidass name?

I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve never seen anyone standing in line to get in to Mellon Arena wearing four-inch Manolos. Pretty much everybody comes wearing some sort of Penguins jersey, shirt, jacket or sweater, possible a Penguins baseball cap or beanie. Most people are in jeans or shorts. The women who wear Pens gear tend to wear oversized men’s sizes. They look frumpy. They look “ghetto.” And they don’t give a shit! They’re showing team spirit, dammit.

I have seen a couple men in business suits, but I haven’t seen a single pencil skirt yet. And I’d say it’s somewhat impractical to mount the steep steps up to your seat inside the arena if you’re wearing shoes that double as an assault weapon.

OK, there’s nothing wrong with heels. I understand a lot of women love them. I love my skirts. I wear makeup (sometimes). I like getting all dressed up. I’m pretty cool with flowers and I like to bake. Hell, I actually like doing the laundry! All of which are trappings of femininity, some of those things perfectly harmless were they not bound to gender roles. And I don’t think it’s really feasible for most women to completely eschew anything that could possibly be “tainted” by the patriarchy. So this isn’t a criticism of heels themselves.

It’s just out of place, is all. I see a hell of a lot of women in those stands. Most of them are jumping and screaming and enjoying a beer just as much as the men.

But they needed a clever name that would capture female fans. Thus, heels.

When I see or hear an advertisement for this program, it just reminds me that I’m not a “real” fan. I’m not “supposed” to be making a damn fool of myself, shouting criticism from the sidelines, quoting stats in conversation with my husband, biting my lip when the game gets particularly tense, and jumping to my feet every time the horn sounds for a goal. That’s what men do. Women sit pretty, toss their hair, and giggle politely when men do something stupid. They’re not supposed to enjoy the game, because women don’t like sports for sports’ sake. They just get dragged along by their husbands. The only way to get them interested is to appeal to the girly things they actually like to do. Don’t cha know.

Ugh. I don’t know what else to say. I’m disappointed. If I had money to throw around, maybe I’d offer them a considerable sum just to change the fucking name. It’s patronizing. Shame.

I hear it in just about every political commercial now. What does it mean?

“He shares our values…”

“Family values”

“American values”

“Traditional values”

If nothing else, this election season makes one thing quite clear: in a sociopolitical context, the word “values” is nothing more than a code word for “white.”

My writing has fallen to the side as we go through something of a personal crisis. I hate declaring hiatus; closing off a door, any door, leaves me feeling cramped and constrained. But, yes, things are in a bit of upheaval at current time, and my participation in this amazing community will be limited for a time.

my body, and everything i use to take care of it.

Tomorrow is Love Your Body Day. The boundaries defining NOW, the sponsoring organization, are widely known to be drawn (conveniently) around the Western ideal of the financially privileged white life. But, much like feminism as a whole, I feel there is something of value at the core, something of use to all of us.

I find little use in campaigns and projects claiming to sprout from a respect and appreciation of the human body, which decry an unfair media ideal, but whose aim seems to be — not to deconstruct that ideal in an attempt to destroy any ideal whatsoever — but to deconstruct that ideal so as to replace it with one more conveniently molded to their own experience.

I do not want to replace the size zero ideal with a size six ideal. I do not want to look at the impossibly tiny waists and replace them with well-defined waists always significantly thinner than their accompanying hips and bosom. I don’t want to look at the airbrushed, overtanned, bleached blonde ideal and replace it with an ideal that includes pores and a range of hair color, but only on caucasian and white-skinned bodies, which are still skinny and perfectly toned, with smooth caucasian hair that’s allowed to be stick straight to a little wavy, and always the bright open eyes and blinding smile, always a smile.

Instead of an ideal, instead of merely shifted expectations — we need to blow that ideal to pieces, and in its place, put a purposeful lack of expectation, put a willingness to consider, put a confident knowledge that one may be faced with anything, anything, and put a curiosity, a sense of wonder, an ability to find beauty, rather than have it delivered.

Bodies, bodies, bodies. When we tell one person her body is beautiful because it is not this, or that, or that other thing, we tell another person whose body is one of those things that her body is not beautiful. When we tell one person her body is what we should be celebrating, we tell every other person whose body is different that they are still deficient — only in a different way.

(And as an aside: when we tell one person that real beauty is natural beauty, no modifications, no adaptations, no change whatsoever — we tell every other person on earth, every person who ever does any single thing to change their body, how it looks, what it does, how it feels — we tell them that they are not only deficient — they are committing a grave moral sin. Do you use mascara? Have you ever cut your hair? Why do you eat what you eat? Have you ever taken any sort of medication, for anything from a cold to cancer? Ever visited a doctor, therapist, or other practicioner? Ever injured yourself, and applied an antibiotic and bandage, or a set and cast, to make your body do something it would otherwise not do on its own? Do you wear glasses or contact lenses? Do you wear shoes? Do you shave? Well then.)

Instead, we should tell each person: you are a full, whole, valuable person. Look into yourself. Curl up deep within yourself, forsaking the outside world. And look around. What do you like? What feels good? What does good? What is it about your physical self that makes your life a little bit better?

Maybe it is how your body looks. Maybe it is what your body does. Maybe it is how your body feels. Maybe it is not any of these things. Maybe it is something else.

Look at your body, look at it, every day, look at it and think to yourself, and seek out that which is good. Good. Not good for them. Good for you.

What do you delight in?

What will you?

Body image is a question not only for just-under-average-sized upper class white girls and women. Body issue is a question for all of us. Women and men alike. People of color, mixed races, different cultures with different values. The fully abled, the disabled, the deformed, the deficient. Every one of us, as human beings, has to deal with the reality of our bodies as they are and how that conflicts with the expectations the rest of our society has of us. This is expressed in different ways for different persons and different society. But not one of us, not one, is unaffected.

So I invited everyone, even those who know they are not NOW’s target demographic — I invite you all to participate tomorrow. Seek peace with your body. After all, you can never escape it. But your body is not your adversary. Your body is you.

Love yourself.

This is a sign on the side of PA Route 19 heading south. First, an advertisement for McDonald’s desperate attempt to create a new product out of the same old ingredients. It is a considerable improvement over the ad formerly in that spot, featuring a giant cup of their lightly tea-flavored high fructose corn syrup water excuse me, sweet tea, which made me instinctively reach for the car door handle to spare myself the clean-up job when I vomited at the thought.

Second, a pair of legs. Legs that are: skinny, hairless, devoid of blemishes, white, shiny, and posed in an awkward and uncomfortable position. Oh, and don’t forget, as the photo doesn’t do the picture justice: airbrushed. Very much along the lines of something like this. (Or, of course, this.)

It’s hard for me to put into words exactly what the problem is with this billboard. Maybe it’s because varicose veins are used against women far more often than men. On a man, it is what it is, and who cares if it is? What’s it to you? Was he put on this good earth to make you feel a little wet? No, he exists for his own purposes, and if you have a problem with that you can kindly go fuck yourself.

But it’s understandable why a person would want treatment for them, much as I still wish I could get braces. I’ve had veins pop out on my hands at various times in my life, and it was always uncomfortable for me, and ultimately reinforced my sense of fragility — I was always afraid of how easily my bones might snap, or my veins ruptured severely by an otherwise mild cut or scrape. And, yeah, I was self-conscious.

But really: think of how you might possibly choose to advertise such a service. It’s not hard. We are positively soaked in marketing. Our economy exists on the back of advertisement. You’ve seen ads for similar services before. Stock photos don’t even need to come into the picture.

But they do. And what is the message it sends when this is the photo that is chosen?

Your legs should look this way.

But they don’t. Your calves have actual muscle to them. Or even fat. There is stubble, or considerable hair growth, which might be fine and downy and light, or might be red, or dark, coarse, frizzy, curly. Maybe your closest shave still leaves that slightly mottled look. Of course skin is not a single color; there is some mottling and mingling of different hues and shades; I can see a little blue and purple mixed in with a decidedly peachy color, but yours might trend more toward olive or plum. I have moles all over like freckles, little and flat, but dark and brown. Right now there are very deep red marks in about five places from shaving cuts over the last six months or so (my skin takes a long time to heal) and lines imprinted from the chair my leg was resting against — low circulation, low blood pressure will do that to do — and my bones stick out. My calves are rather skinny, but they’ve always been; even now that I have settled in at 175, my calves and forearms are like toothpicks — my wrist measurement is still 5″ rounded up. But there’s no muscle tone, so I still fall short of the photoshop standard.

So do you.

And when you look at that picture, you are keenly aware of this fact. You might not consciously think: “I don’t look like that.” But our minds are much more than what we consciously think. You are completely, mundanely aware of the fact that what you look like and what the ideal looks like are in two totally different realms.

You know that if you have varicose veins, and you receive treatment for them, and they subside, your legs will still not look like that. You may think they look better, but they aren’t going to look like that. Ever.

And that is the message you take away. You are not made of the right stuff for beauty. You are a totally different animal. You are fundamentally unfit. It doesn’t matter what you do. And that is a failure not of the standard, but of you, personally. You owe it to society to fit that standard. And because you don’t, you are personally slighting every person you ever come into contact with. Ever.