Which Western feminist icon are you?
You are Audre Lorde! You were one of the first wymyn to write love poems to other wymyn, long before it was safe OR cool. You put the “rad” in radical feminism, but somehow still managed to create a cult following in people who would never identify as radical themselves.
Take this quiz
I read a little bit of her work in my [
Women’s] Wymyn’s Studies classes- she kicks so much ass:
I did not fall from the sky
nor descend like a plague of locusts
to drink color and strength from the earth
and I do not come like rain
as a tribute or symbol for earth’s becoming
dark and open
some times I fall like night
only when I must die
in order to rise again.
Thanks, Eden, for the quiz linkie. If only I had the hair…
Well, it’s not a swampland but there is actual rain and it feels like a steamy tropical paradise in comparison with the insane drought we’re in.
I spent, since dawn, 6 1/2 hours in bed today. This explains zombie brain. Emsy slept in with me then we had two two hour naps (!) which is just nuts. At least 45 minutes of each nap was nursey time, but still. I’ve been doing some serious sleeping on my days off, after the less than stellar sleep-nurse-sleep-nurse-sleep-nurse patterns of my nights. Napping + rainy sounds (after ages of no rain) + a snuggly nursing baby (after a day of fussy weird refusal to nurse) = amazing.
The only marginally productive, and this is debatable, thing I did all day was venture out to the mall with Bu & Boue. We got new cellphones. They are Razr’s which makes me feel uncomfortably trendy, like when we got the Outback and I had to get used to beeping the alarm system and feeling yuppish.
Mine’s a shade of pink that pretty much doesn’t make me wanna puke. The black one looked too Matrix wannabe or something (but Bu got it) and the blue one was boring. I spent too much time and money downloading this Buffy ringtone, and figuring out how to install it.
We ate lunch at the mall at a sit-down place outside. Ems was unthrilled and did not like spinach dip or Daddy’s chicken but did enjoy [
drinking out of the kid’s cup] dumping ice water all over herself and me.
And to round out the random flava of this post:
1. Apotheosis’ O Fortuna, a dance mix of Carmina Burana, is fucking wicked.
2. Hot dirty mean-sex dreams about my husband’s cute friend are fucking wicked.
3. Toddlerhood sucks; She made my nose bleed sticking her evil little talons up there.
4. My cute pixie cut is a hot mess of grown out shaggy chaos.
I love you, little one! Emsy and I can’t wait to come visit you. Happy Birthing Day, ‘Veeta! I love you so much, and you are such a great mama:)
Thanks, Stu, I totally needed that:)
And I’ll add: it’s a collaborative art, not a solo thing. And that’s good.
Back in my actual practicing days, when I took classes in magic (and later helped teach one,) I my favorite local bookstore/cafe/art gallery was featuring a book signing of The Witches’ Magical Handbook by Gavin & Yvonne Frost. I mentioned that my friend Rhainna and I were planning to go, and the teachers gasped and regaled us with horror stories of how disgusting these guys are. They’re from WV and have, or had, a Wiccan school. Rhainna and I had already developed a craving for lattes and hanging out, so we went anyway, and met the Frosts, and bought the book.
The Frosts are creeeeeeeeepy. They both had the most unsettling and off-putting wrongness about them. I’m not a psychic or anything, but I have a tendency to “read” people who are pedophiles. It might just be something anyone would pick up; not claiming supernatural stuff here. Anyway, my mom said she had this ability too and I suppose mine’s connected to hers maybe. Whatever it is, I’ve been proven right before and that always makes me want to vomit.
The Frosts have that aura.
They also, I found upon reading the book, think that a girl should be physically, actually deflowered by her father (or a high priest acting in his stead) ritualistically with some kind of specially made rods or something. I’m not kidding- this is in the book, at least it was in that printing.
I’d completely forgotten about the Frosts until I was reading The Wild Hunt and saw that AJ Drew’s holding a symbolic burning effigy of the Frosts. Rock on, AJ.
It’s just lovely to know that pedophiliac tendencies happen in all religions.
The disconcerting part comes when Ms. Siegel, in a spot-on moment, calls us the “I’m-not-a-feminist-but” generation. As the daughter of a radical-feminist writer, I was so comfortable using “feminist” that I wasn’t even aware of the word’s stigma until my teens. But some of my girlfriends—who take anything from birth control to women’s sports teams as a given—don’t know the first thing about feminism’s history, and don’t seem to care. Ms. Siegel’s analysis of third-wave feminists is accurate: Their relationship to their mothers, real or metaphorical, is thorny. But what of the scores of American women who are afraid of the “F” word? The scariest reality is not the tension between feminists—at least they exist!—but the untapped resource of strong, independent women who are feminists but don’t know it.
This is exactly what I’ve been heartbroken about for years My mom wasn’t the politically active flavor of hippy, so I can’t claim a generational legacy as a feminist, but I as long as I remember knowing the word I identified as one. Too many other women my age and younger? Not so much. I remember being floored when an LJ blogger who was, to me, a poster child of neofeminism- she likes to print stickers with slogans about the dangers of commercial menstrual products and sneak into stores and plaster them on tampon boxes- derided the feminists from some other community for their anti-porn stance. ‘Scuse me? Feminists can’t like porn? Wha-huh? I honestly didn’t know that the girls and women I’d label feminists were infighting and splintering over crap like whether or not porn’s empowering or exploitive. (How ’bout both?)
So, above, I’m quoting Nona Willis-Aronowitz who’s reviewing Sisterhood Interrupted: From Radical Women to Girls Gone Wild, by Deborah Seigel. (Second link’s to her blog.) The review (in the New York Observer) is formatted appropriately enough, with two reviewers- Nona’s the “daughter” and Linda Hirschman, WHOM I CANNOT STAND, is the “mother.” I’ve GOT to read this book. I need to hear this idea explored and supported. I also need to read something that doesn’t rhyme, contain bright pictures, nor is accompanied by (my favorite) blinky lights and bleepy sounds (thanks Grandies. Really.) Or something that’s not copy for a billion different product descriptions for the packaging company catalog. No, it’s still not finished…