Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
No Smoking on Christmas
Growing up, both of my parents smoked. Even on Christmas. Back in those days, we had a tradition of video taping the unwrapping of presents on Christmas Eve. In one video, I am parading around the camera all giggles and smiles. In the background, dad lights up a cigarette, and you see my six year old face age thirty years as I start screaming at the top of my lungs, "No smoking on Christmas!". Silence. Then I continue to dance and smile in front of the camera. This was probably after the week-long "smoking-is-bad-unit" in Mrs. Pietz first grade class. Thanks to that unit, I had the knowledge that gave me the right to let the whole world know, on and off camera, that smoking is bad. I didn't care if you already knew it. I'd tell you again. Therefore, there would be no smoking on Christmas.
Now, in 2006, after a solid 35 years of smoking, my mom has just finished her first month of being smoke free. My dad, well, let's just say Dad's smoke free. We also don't celebrate Christmas together since the divorce, and these days dad's video camera is never charged when Christmas Day rolls around. No more smoking. No more videos. Looks like all that screaming got me some changes.
So that's changed, but my personality hasn't changed much since I was six. I recently spent ten weeks in my women's studies class reading, talking, writing and learning about how fucked up the world is. More importantly, how fucked up the world is in relation to women's lives. I spent hours upon hours learning about issues like forced sterilization, the Serbian-run Rape Camp in Bosnia, "U.S. Impearialism", "Imperealist Feminism", "Cunthatred", racist Feminists, white privilege. Oh friends, the list goes on. So here I am, back to the same feeling I had when I found out that smoking is bad for everyone. I find out all this shit about women and I want to tell the whole world about it, and then start screaming at everyone to start making some changes.
It's a cycle. Once this middle-class white girl finally found out that shit is not sugarplums and rice cakes, it's only expected that I explode. I also had to put two and two together: as long as everything has been fucked, there have been people who have been pissed about it. I found out shit was bad the easy way- I didn't have to experience it. I just read about it. That makes me annoying, but well-intentioned. But now I want to talk about it. I mean, who doesn't want to hear the college kid come home from her "liberal arts college" and tell everyone about how oppressive they are and oh shit, is she gonna start saying "I love my vagina" all the time? Does she hate men, now? Is she a lesbian?
In the whopping five days I've been in Mankato- I haven't really held anything back. I toss around terms such as "Yeah, these past ten weeks have changed my life", and "I'm obsessed with women" and "You should read this book called CUNT". In response, men and women have replied, "Oh, Feminism? Good for you!" "Actually, Wendy, women are perpetuating this shit onto themselves. Men have nothing to do with you hating your body." "Ok, so you don't hate your body anymore. Can't you, ya know, move on now?" "Is all of this "learning women are oppressed" going to get you a job?"
If you ask me to go in depth on something I'm ranting about, there's a fifty-fifty chance I won't be able to articulate a goddamned thing. Or, you might ask the perfect question that I can answer it in a twenty-minute rant. That's the curse of the college kid. When complaining of being unable to articulate anything, a mentor of mine at school told me that "instilling change is not something that we sprint for. We run long distance." I'm young, I'm excited, went into debt, and I fell in love with an area of study that has endless possibilities, and endless dinner table conversations. Although, everything has a time and place. I'll put my book "CUNT" away when the grandparents roll in on Christmas Day, and I'll gladly slide the "self-righteous college-kid soap box" under the couch for a while.
But just maybe, when we are all gathered by the fireplace, sipping on egg nog, Sam with her milk, I'll offer to read a passage from "Cunt." Maybe everyone will kindly remind me that there is no saying cunt on Christmas.
But I'll remember. It's a long distance run, baby. It's a long distance run.
Wendy Tougas 2006
Now, in 2006, after a solid 35 years of smoking, my mom has just finished her first month of being smoke free. My dad, well, let's just say Dad's smoke free. We also don't celebrate Christmas together since the divorce, and these days dad's video camera is never charged when Christmas Day rolls around. No more smoking. No more videos. Looks like all that screaming got me some changes.
So that's changed, but my personality hasn't changed much since I was six. I recently spent ten weeks in my women's studies class reading, talking, writing and learning about how fucked up the world is. More importantly, how fucked up the world is in relation to women's lives. I spent hours upon hours learning about issues like forced sterilization, the Serbian-run Rape Camp in Bosnia, "U.S. Impearialism", "Imperealist Feminism", "Cunthatred", racist Feminists, white privilege. Oh friends, the list goes on. So here I am, back to the same feeling I had when I found out that smoking is bad for everyone. I find out all this shit about women and I want to tell the whole world about it, and then start screaming at everyone to start making some changes.
It's a cycle. Once this middle-class white girl finally found out that shit is not sugarplums and rice cakes, it's only expected that I explode. I also had to put two and two together: as long as everything has been fucked, there have been people who have been pissed about it. I found out shit was bad the easy way- I didn't have to experience it. I just read about it. That makes me annoying, but well-intentioned. But now I want to talk about it. I mean, who doesn't want to hear the college kid come home from her "liberal arts college" and tell everyone about how oppressive they are and oh shit, is she gonna start saying "I love my vagina" all the time? Does she hate men, now? Is she a lesbian?
In the whopping five days I've been in Mankato- I haven't really held anything back. I toss around terms such as "Yeah, these past ten weeks have changed my life", and "I'm obsessed with women" and "You should read this book called CUNT". In response, men and women have replied, "Oh, Feminism? Good for you!" "Actually, Wendy, women are perpetuating this shit onto themselves. Men have nothing to do with you hating your body." "Ok, so you don't hate your body anymore. Can't you, ya know, move on now?" "Is all of this "learning women are oppressed" going to get you a job?"
If you ask me to go in depth on something I'm ranting about, there's a fifty-fifty chance I won't be able to articulate a goddamned thing. Or, you might ask the perfect question that I can answer it in a twenty-minute rant. That's the curse of the college kid. When complaining of being unable to articulate anything, a mentor of mine at school told me that "instilling change is not something that we sprint for. We run long distance." I'm young, I'm excited, went into debt, and I fell in love with an area of study that has endless possibilities, and endless dinner table conversations. Although, everything has a time and place. I'll put my book "CUNT" away when the grandparents roll in on Christmas Day, and I'll gladly slide the "self-righteous college-kid soap box" under the couch for a while.
But just maybe, when we are all gathered by the fireplace, sipping on egg nog, Sam with her milk, I'll offer to read a passage from "Cunt." Maybe everyone will kindly remind me that there is no saying cunt on Christmas.
But I'll remember. It's a long distance run, baby. It's a long distance run.
Wendy Tougas 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Welcome
Welcome to the official I'll Show You Mine, You Show Me Yours web log (or "blog" in some circles), the inevitable online offshoot of the Once Read readings.
Please feel free to post the work you've shared at the readings, as well as any other items that may be of interest: accomplishments, shout-outs, vacation photos or grocery lists.
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