The Brooklyn Museum of Art

I had an unexpectedly intense day.

I went with my friend, B, to the Brooklyn Museum of Art this afternoon as part of our New York Museum Tour. A friend of hers had tipped her off to the fantastic and provocative exhibition of Yinka Shonibare MBE's work (an amazing exhibit, that you should make a trip to see), and so we trudged all the way (phew!) to Brooklyn, a rare venture for Manhattanites.

Upon paying our preferred donation of $1 (BMA is a suggested donation venue, Goddess love them, as we are quite poor), we attempted to get our bearings by perusing the pictorial directory. At this point B became very excited by something in a picture- 'The Dinner Party' by Judy Chicago. I looked at B with my customary blend of curiosity and ignorance. B has an excellent background in Art History and Museum Studies, so I am quite accustomed to her vast knowledge surpassing my own, especially in the art world. However, there was shock on B's face when she realized that I did not know of Ms. Chicago.

'The Dinner Party' is the single biggest piece of feminist art ever acknowledged, B informed me with a look tinged with disbelief and, perhaps, a bit of horror. We then skipped over the Shonibare exhibit, heading directly to the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art.

Let me coo for a moment- How AMAZING is it that an art museum has a permanent gallery dedicated to feminist art? I've never heard of this before, and in the wake of such an experience I'm a bit saddened by this. Ideally feminist art would have a role in art of all types and in many galleries and there would be no need for a specially designated 'feminist section', but this is not yet an ideal world. I wish I had had the opportunity to visit a Center for Feminist Art before I was 24 years old, but I am grateful for today, however hurtful it may have been.

I was utterly unprepared for this installation. How could I have expected it? The catalog itself reports it as consisting of:

39 dinner place settings of porcelain flatware (fork, knife and spoon), porcelain chalice, and decorated porcelain plate. Each setting is laid out on a separate embroidered textile runner. Thirteen place settings are on each side (48 feet long) of a triangular table draped with a white felt cloth, with a triangular millennium runner at each of three corners. Each of the settings represents one of thirty-nine historically significant women. The table sits on a floor of 2304 porcelain triangular tiles (in 129 units) inscribed with the names of 999 significant women.

Ok, so it's a big table set for dinner and there are lots of women's names. Cool. This will be interesting. Right. How can I tell you what it was like walking into that room? Rather, walking into the room was just what I expected. Each setting is quite particular, and placed in a mostly chronological order. First? 'Primordial Goddess'

Ok. That makes sense.

Next? 'Fertile Goddess'

Sure.

Of note, the plates at each setting are decorated in personalized floral/butterfly/vulva patterns. I add floral and butterfly to the description mostly because the plaque at the exhibit did so. My impression of the plates was overwhelmingly linked to feminine power, to clitoral and sexual potency, power, depth, mystery, and strength. There were cunts all over this table, each beautiful and different. Each cunt-plate brought its own sacred history to the table.

Next? 'Ishtar', 'Kali', 'Snake Goddess', 'Sophia', 'Amazon', 'Hatshepsut', 'Judith', 'Sappho', 'Boadaceia', 'Hypatia', 'Marcella', 'Saint Bridget'. . .

By this point, I had finished one third of the table, and I was starting to get worried. The women who earned a place at the table were assumedly at the top of the list, a list that involves more than a thousand names. Only 39 received special settings, and I guess I assumed that of those 39 I would know a vast majority. I was discovering how naïve that assumption had been.

'Theodora', 'Hrosvitha', 'Trotula', 'Eleanor of Aquitaine', 'Hildegarde of Bingen', 'Petronilla de Meath', 'Christine de Pisan', 'Isabella d'Este', 'Elizabeth R.', 'Artemisia Gentileschi'. . .

I recognized two of these names, and I could tell you about one of them. The names continued almost in defiance of my ignorance. A grief I had never experienced began to overwhelm me, and I felt tears begin to well up. I have never before cried because of a piece of art. Art has moved me toward thought, toward debate, toward laughter, toward anger, toward many things- but never tears. Of the more than thousand names celebrated in 'The Dinner Party", I would recognize a perhaps generous figure of 100.

Less than 10%.

'Anna van Schurman', 'Anne Hutchinson', 'Sacajawea', 'Caroline Herschel', 'Mary Wollstonecraft', 'Sojourner Truth', 'Susan B. Anthony', 'Elizabeth Blackwell', 'Emily Dickinson', 'Ethel Smyth'. . .

I realized even more so, that at least 50% of the names I recognized belonged to women about which I knew nothing. For example, I could not have told you yesterday (I am very sorry to admit) who Mary Wollstonecraft was or what contributions she had made. A horrifying thought occurred to me: should a similar celebration of man's historical contributions be constructed in such a manner, I would easily recognize at least 50% of the names. I would probably also be able to explain in depth the contributions of at least 15% of them. Of course, that's just a guess.

I don't remember at what point I began to cry, but I know it was after I had left the table settings and had moved to the Herstory Board section- a chronology/brief description of the contributions of every name on exhibit. I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut. Somewhere, deep within, something had been stolen from me. My education had failed me. My culture had failed me. I had failed myself. How could I know so little about the power of the feminine? How had I missed my own history so succinctly? Who was Margaret Sanger? Natalie Barney? Virginia Woolf and Georgia O'Keefe were names familiar to me, but they provided little comfort after the onslaught of the unfamiliar.

I cried. I cried for myself. For my culture. For the education that I and my sisters and brothers were missing. It was a quiet cry, privately witnessed by an almost unending row of names.

I sat down on a bench and tried to center myself, attempting to pull myself back from the brink of destructive self-pity, searching for the redemptive righteous anger that I knew must be on the other side of such a deep wound. While I waited a man came over to the lady sitting next to me on the bench and commented on the 'fascinating' board of names.





. . .





Fascinating.





Even now I am filled with an anger and a hurt that is beyond my ability to capture.





Fascinating.





I understand how a board filled with the history of influential women one has never heard of could be a fascinating concept. I understand and respect this man's ability to recognize a resource he had not previously encountered. I understand to a certain extent.

But it goes so much deeper than the cognitive whimsy of a 'fascinating' history display. This is personal. It is my mother, my great-grandmother, my as-yet-undreamt-of-daughter. It is me. It is the mantle I inherited by being born into this body, or rather more so by living in it. It is the lie that has been perpetuated by silence. It is the gaping holes in my history. In me. It is the lack of acknowledgment of those holes- my previous inability to even conceptualize how many holes there might be.

I knew, of course, that there was much of the history and contributions of women that I didn't know, but I had never before been confronted so tangibly by the vastness of the unknown of feminine beauty, strength, thought, and power.

I am enraged.

I am crying.

I am crying, and I am enraged by the bleeding hole where my knowledge of my grandmothers should be. I have been robbed. So have you.

We, all of us, have been robbed by patriarchal thieves bent on silencing the brilliance of half our forebears. This cannot stand, but who will stand with me?

Why do we allow such silence? What do we do about it? How can I turn this wounded-ness, this anger, into a vehicle for change?

How can we?

Weekend Events

I thought I'd share about my weekend, seeing as I had been feeling quite melancholy/pensive/gloomy about New York during much of my last week.

My weekend was pretty fantastic, actually. Friday night my housemate, Doug, came home from Michigan. In case I haven't already explained, Doug is from my hometown. With him came Amber, a very lovable canine who shares our apartment. There was a dramatic thunderstorm that night, which kept me from sleeping. I stayed up until around 6 am, surfing the internet and listening to rain. *yawns* Saturday I had a required piano placement exam, which completely embarrassed me and emphasized the fact that it has been 10 years since I studied instead of the fact that I studied for 10 years.

The MOST EXCITING THING that happened during the day on Saturday, though, was that I got my. . .



. . .



(wait for it)



. . .

Library Card!!

I was standing amidst the cd collection stacks in the library on Broadway at 113th, and I got so excited that I actually had a little pinch whenever I breathed. I think that this may have been the turning moment for me in New York.

I love the library so much. It's a deep, supreme sort of love. Besides that fact that I get to take things home and use them for free, which is awesome, the very concept of the library is absolutely radical. Libraries provide free knowledge to the public. Access to any available knowledge- Completely free, without regards to class, creed, orientation, gender, age, ability, etc. Libraries are funded by the state for the betterment of the people. God, I love the library. I'm so excited about the library at this moment that I can't even construct a clear description of why I love the library so much, on an ideological level. Therefore, I'll leave it at that.

At any rate, I got my library card and proceeded to borrow some cds and movies (I'm in the middle of a book already). Movies: Bollywood/Hollywood, La Chinoise, Talk to Me, and Persuasion (which happens to be one of my favorite Austens). I immediately watched 'Persuasion', which I of course loved. I then set out for Brooklyn for dinner, wine, and a movie with my friend Candace.

I brought two bottles of Recession Wine, Candace bought Vegetarian Chinese Take-Out, and we sat on the floor of her new apartment, watching 'Talk to Me' with frequent breaks for cards or talking or more wine. We ultimately stayed up until around 4 am listening to music and discussing everything from our moves (Candace is a friend from the Bay Area, who also just moved to NY) to romantic entanglements to Jay-Z.

In the morning, I trekked back to Manhattan, which I must say is quite a trek. At least to the upper west side. Getting from my apartment to Candace's was similar to the commute I was used to in SF when traveling from SF to Oakland. Saturday night my timing was awesome, and it took about 55 minutes, but Sunday morning, it took much closer to 90. I had intended to visit ABC No Rio on the Lower East Side to join in Food Not Bombs, but after showering, getting ready, and running to the Subway, I discovered that I had left my Metrocard in my jeans pocket. I was to meet friends by 3, so I decided to wait until next weekend to try FNB.

At 3 my friends Richard and Hilding came by in their trusty Volvo and picked me up for an afternoon at the beach. We drove out to Fort Tilden and Breezy Point, a drive that took maybe an hour? It was amazing, as these places are part of NYC, but they are so remote and so removed that one feels as though one is far, far away, in some beach resort town. We picnicked on the beach, H & R went swimming, I dipped my feet in (surprisingly warm!), and then we headed back to the city.

We ended up driving all the way through Brooklyn instead of taking the Highway, which was very scenic, in terms of orientating oneself to a new area. Brooklyn is so unbelievably huge. When we got back to Manhattan, R & H invited me over for dinner at their apartment.

Richard cooked a delicious Swiss pie sort of concoction- filo dough filled with Cheese, Cheese, Heavy Whipping Cream, and Egg. Mmmmmmm. . . And we had a salad and a few beers, after which we proceeded to discuss such things as whether prostitution ought to be legalized, what the purpose of its illegality is, victimization, the difference between homosexual prostitution and heterosexual prostitution in personal opinion, rape and its definition, a possible re-framing of consent as seeking active consent and its implications on the legal definition of rape (much of this within the confines of the Swedish legal system), and of course, our respective summer vacations.

I had a brilliant time, and left to go home around 11.30. At this point, I saw the M4 pass a block and a half away. I ought to have run after it, but I stupidly assumed there would be another one in due time.

After 50 minutes of waiting on Madison at 64th, I gave up, and began an alternate and tedious route. I took the following: M66 to the 6; the 6 to the M96; the M96 crosstown. I then walked 10 blocks home. Grrrrr. . . it was after 1 AM by the time I reached my apartment. *grumblegrumble*

Which brings me to one final rant. As I was walking home last night, I felt generally safe. It was late, but I knew where I was, the neighborhoods I was in were all relatively safe, and I was awake and aware of my surroundings. That being said, I was quite pissed off by a group of young men in my neighborhood. On Columbus, about 5 blocks from my apartment, I noticed three guys standing on the sidewalk, hanging out. I actually prepared myself in case they decided to have a friendly little chat with a single woman walking home at 1 in the morning. (I'm learning that every time I pass a man, especially a group of men, on the street, I must brace myself. It is incredibly irritating, and I'm sure I'll blog about this some other time)

Sure enough, I pass by and one of the guys steps out and says,

"Hey there, Big Girl-"

"Fuck you."

Now, I have never responded to someone I don't know in such a manner. However, the rules of this world definitely imply, and he ought to know, that he has no right to talk to a single female walking down the street at that time of night. I'm in self-preservation mode. I'm going to tell him to fuck off.

"I see you've got your determined walk"

"Yep"

It felt damn good to respond with a bit of fire, I have to say. Damn Empowering.

I made it home, finished some computer things, and went to sleep. This place is beginning to feel like home.


Currently Reading: Male and Female

Internalized Misogyny

I have spent far too much time removed from the company of mid-west middle-aged women in the last few years. In no way do I mean that I ought to fully immerse myself in that culture, but rather that my tolerance, my immunity to such prattle, is far below the standards required for prolonged social encounters.

I want to be clear: I am not referring to every middle-aged woman living in the mid-west. I am referring to a very specific set of creatures that I have encountered in abundance during my recent and extended experiences in the mid-west. They have all happened with women of a certain age (middle), with a certain family situation (in a heterosexual marriage with somewhat-grown children), and some sort of job (varies from part-time to full and from unskilled to highly degreed). For these reasons I have lumped together a group in my mind, though to be fair, this group is not exclusive and could include any variety of self-hating people from anywhere.

I have had lunch with a group of these women all week, and the number of times we have discussed dieting makes me want to rush out and buy all of them a copy of Kate Harding’s Lessons from the Fatosphere. If I weren’t absolutely broke (and absolutely a chicken) then I might do just that. Instead, I made a few unnoticed comments about eating what one wanted in balance and left the rest of the conversation to those who preferred its repetitive tracks.

I felt supremely uncomfortable in these conversations. Uncomfortable and quite agitated. In the most recent years of my life I have cultivated my group of friends and urban family rather specifically. I have surrounded myself (and been surrounded by) those who seek to be at peace with themselves- their bodies, their emotions, their place in the world. I have grown so accustomed to the concepts of Fat Acceptance, Self-Love, Feminism, Trans-Alliances, and general acceptance that it is jarring to sit like a sponge in their blatant self-hatred.

Is self-hatred too harsh a term? Perhaps it sounds a bit sharp on the tongue, or maybe it sounds self-righteous. It’s easy to fall into a self-righteous dynamic in these situations, and though I can’t claim complete innocence of that particular quality, I’d like to ignore it for this moment, because the issues at root here are bigger than my predilection toward pretension.

What these women do to themselves on a daily basis is a slow but potent form of self hatred. I remember what it was like when I was on a perpetual diet. The constancy of my self-dissatisfaction and self-shaming along with my utter lack of balance and nutrition were the only things constant about those behaviors. So much of my energy was sapped by my blatant inability to love myself for all of me, to accept my thighs and my stomach and the wrinkles that developed as a result of my fleshy curves. I am appalled when I think of all the things I could have accomplished with that lost energy (literally years robbed by shame) I am deeply saddened and angered. And those feelings are inexpressibly magnified when I consider the collective creative and intellectual prowess that is being spent on belly-shame. There is no question that this self-hatred, a perpetual and derisive self-hatred.

It doesn’t end with the dieting, either. After lunch one day one of the above women was talking to her husband on the phone in front of me. The end of the conversation was annoying to her. It seemed to me that her husband was expressing some insecurity, and when the call ended, she shook her head and said to me, “He’s worse than a woman.”

She made this statement with such general disgust. I was mortified. I have since been told that “worse than a woman” is a saying that plenty of women use as a description often enough, but I could not recollect its ever having been used around me. Think about the implications of a woman describing a man as “worse than a woman”. Does that mean that men are, by definition, better than women? That her annoyance was the result of her husband’s departure from the status quo? That it is unacceptable for a man to reach so low as to be worse than a woman?

Does she realize that she is a woman, and that by invoking such a misogynistic phrase she is putting herself down? Or does she see herself as an individual and not part of the group ‘women’, so that her condemnation of femininity is not as potent a form of self-hatred? I don’t know, and I doubt that she’s ever stopped to question that colloquialism.

Of course at the root of such a statement is the basis of sexism and one of the greatest disservices our culture does us. This statement further defines and separates the concepts of man and woman. Two separate entities, they are, with the ability to be ranked (man always above woman, with all the associations of the ever-cliché missionary position). I would even say there is a cultural obligation to rank them. Male and Female, so definitively different. To be male is Supremely Superior, but to be a male who traverses the definite lines of separation is abominable. No man can express the feminine and continue to be better than the feminine. We must uphold our system of superiority!!

What a corrosive concept to perpetuate. It seeps into everything in our culture until you don’t even realize what you’re saying. Until you find yourself berating your male sons for crying over a scraped knee. Or giving your teenaged daughter a talking to about how ‘nice girls’ don’t talk like that. Or you start putting your husband down by saying that he is worse than a woman.

Women are bad because they have no choice but to express their femininity(?), but a man, a Supremely Superior being, who indulges in expressing parts of his femininity is by far worse. After all, he has a choice, right? Supposedly to choose to embrace a male's femininity is just plain stupid and shameful. This is the lesson we are taught so deftly that we can not even distinguish the moment it begins.

This type of thinking is always subconscious, which is why it is so insidious. It infects so rapidly, because we spread the contagions without ever thinking about it. I don’t know how to engage this woman in an examination of internalized misogyny. I don’t even think it’s my place to do so. I can only be present, live my life as it is, take whatever lesson I’m supposed to absorb and pass it along.

And perhaps next time I will feel a little braver. Perhaps I will ask what she means when she says that her husband is worse than a woman.