Category Archives: Musings

My crazy thoughts.

“Clicktivism” vs. “real” activism – everybody needs to just sit down.

Ever since the internet discovered that it could be used For Good, people have railed against the phenomenon now known as “clicktivism.”

Clicking a link/signing an online petition is not nearly enough (goes the argument) — and worse than that, doing these things gives people a false sense of achievement. Having re-tweeted some punchy hashtag (the argument continues), people think they’ve “helped,” and move on to their reality-TV-watching, double-cheeseburger-eating lives, now freed of any sense that they might need to do anything truly useful.

Inevitably, any social campaign that goes viral leads to a great deal of such handwringing — as one headline recently put it: “Is ‘clicktivism’ destroying meaningful social activism?”

But the question is far from new: I recall the wrath of an old friend when I had the temerity to suggest many years ago that folks could help raise funds for hunger relief via The Hunger Site (where I still click, by the way, on a nearly daily basis, along with all the other clickable causes that GreaterGood Network now supports).

Here’s what I don’t understand about the question, though: What world do these people live in? Or, alternatively: What past are they remembering? Did they once live in a world peopled with passionate social activists burning with a sense of mission, ready to chuck it all, or at least the occasional evening, for the sake of repairing the world?

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Melissa Harris-Perry has Margaret Cho on Her Show, and a Strange Thing Happens

Longtime Angry Black Readers know I am fond of Alan Rickman*.  What you may or may not also know is that Margaret Cho is one of my role models – I want to be her if and when I grow up.   When Zandar (@ZandarVTS on the Twitter Machine) tweeted to me that she had been on the Melissa Harris-Perry show…this morning?  Yesterday morning?  I don’t know.  I run on asiangrrlMN time.  OK, fine.  Sunday morning for those of you not running on asiangrrlMN time.

Anyway, when Zandar tweeted me saying I would be sad I missed it, I immediately scrambled to MSNBC and found the clip.  It started with Melissa, who, in and of herself is pretty damn amazing, talking about a YouTube thing of kids (I’m assuming mostly girls) posting vids asking if they are pretty or not.  Margaret responded as to why this is not a good idea and how women are still being judged on looks alone.  In a bit, Melissa brought on Jennifer Pozner, the founder of Women in Media and News.  The three women started talking about, yes, women in media, news, and how women are constricted in general, whittled away into nothing, while men are allowed to expand.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

(Click for more musings on gender)

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Miracle Baby Still Doing Just Fine

I remember reading the original story, and sniffling then.  I was so grateful that I stumbled upon the follow-up, because happy tears are a good thing.

It all started with every parent’s nightmare.  A mother knew her babies were in danger when they came early (even for twins).  Then, in what must have been a surreal moment of anguish, doctors came and told her that her son had died, and there was nothing more that could be done.  They put his body in her arms so she could say goodbye.

“I wanted to meet him and to hold him and for him to know us,” Kate Ogg told Ann Curry in her interview. “If he was on his way out of the world, we wanted for him to know who his parents were and to know that we loved him before he died.”

But then something surprising happened.  He began to move.  Nurses told her this was reflex, and should not be misinterpreted as signs of life.  Then he opened his eyes.  Then he began to breathe regularly, and took milk.  Her son is still with them, and is just as healthy as his sister. Continue reading

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Framing The Debate: POTUS, Derrick Bell, And Race

The word “racism” doesn’t mean whatever the right says it means.

The winger right has been losing the argument on race for quite some time now, culminating in 2008′s election of Barack Obama as President of the United States.  It’s driving them insane, too.  ABL talked about the idiotic Derrick Bell “hug-troversy” yesterday, and the right is gleefully pointing to young Harvard Law Review president Barack Obama speaking about diversity and Harvard faculty as proof he’s a “racist”.

This is because the right loves to reframe the definition of anything bad as “something that applies primarily to liberals.”  It goes something like this:  “We’re tired of being called racist by you people, so we’re going to define racism as ‘including race in the consideration of anything’ and therefore that means all liberals are racists.  We win.  What are you going to do about it?  You can’t deny that liberals are aware of race in differing points of view and take them into consideration through diversity and inclusiveness.  That means you’re defining people by race, and that makes you racists, Q.E.D.  Oh, and we’re done talking to you about this, because we don’t talk to racists.”

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A house – in memory.

Two years ago today, a beloved and wonderful man died. I wrote this for him and his daughter, my oldest friend in the world, and I post it again today in his memory. I miss his laugh, the laugh that would fill rooms and call over strangers. I miss his words, his stream, his rushing river of words. I miss his whistle. I miss him. He didn’t believe in heaven, but I hope that he has found whatever rest any of us may find after this world.

There’s this house.

It’s at the bottom of a hill, to the left and in a small valley, as you drive north on Wisconsin State Highway 23. If you come over the hill at night, you’ll see the lights in the windows, an amber glow under more stars than you’ll ever see in a Chicago sky.

The house is small. The kitchen floor is rough and unfinished, the wallpaper torn here and there. There’s a terrible Christmas clock hung on one wall because it met a need and now serves to amuse. The house smells of wood stove heat and cooking, and of the earth that washes off vegetables fresh in from the fields.

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"Theirs is a land with a wall around it" – Ta-Nehisi Coates and Fridays with Billy.

If you ever read my more rambly posts, you probably know that I’m a great admirer of Ta-Nehisi Coates’s work, and am very active in the community that has grown up among his readers — and though lately I don’t have as much time to hang out there as I have done in the past, I’m still taking it all in.

Yesterday, for instance, Ta-Nehisi wrote not once but twice about the essential cruelty of America’s right-wing. In the first post, he wrote:

[An] embrace of cruelty is arguably the dominant feature of the present conservative movement. It has been repeatedly expressed in alleged “humor.” The assertion of a right of judgement over the First Lady’s physical person, for instance. Or watermelon patches on the front lawn. Or Obama waffles.  There is little distance from that kind of cruelty to aspirin between one’s legs and from aspirin between one’s legs to transvaginal probes.

In the second, he discussed Rush Limbaugh’s execrable treatment of a law student who had wanted to testify before the House of Representatives on the issue of insurance coverage for birth control, writing:

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Viola Davis, and a white woman’s thoughts on black women’s hair.

Best Actress nominee Viola Davis did a thing that shocked the world on Oscar Night – she wore her hair.

Not hair she’d purchased or fundamentally reshaped, but the hair that had grown out of her head. Given the enormity of the shock, and subsequent discussion, I decided to re-up the following, in which I consider what seem to me to be the very painful facts surrounding black women’s relationship with their hair — but please also click through to this essay in Essence, by Demetria L. Lucas (“I don’t need to recap for any ESSENCE.com readers the love-hate affair that many Black women have with their hair”).

*****

I’ll start with this: This is not my business. Not.My.Business. I know that, and if any African-American readers want to tell me as much, I won’t be able to argue.

But last night, I watched Chris Rock’s documentary about black women and black women’s hair, called (very pointedly) Good Hair. And when I find something that profoundly disturbing, that’s usually a sign that I need to write about it, and so here I am.

I’ve known for years that the concept of “good hair” exists in the black community, and that it translates to “not nappy,” or (as I understand it) “as close as possible to white hair as black hair can get.” I have always understood “good hair” to be a statement of deep, internalized criticism, one that teaches little black girls (and little black boys) that there is something essentially not-good — or, in other words, bad — about black hair. About having black hair. About being black.

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Valentine's Day.

(to make your own paper heart: http://www.instructables.com/id/Heart-Note-Fold/)

“We accept the love we think we deserve.” ? Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I’m hoping to post for real today, but I just saw that quote on Twitter (tweeted by no less a figure than Newark mayor Cory Booker, who I follow and if you’re on Twitter, you should, too) and it just punched me in the solar plexus.

For all the reasons that everyone else like me is not much into Valentine’s Day, I’m not much into Valentine’s Day: It’s a corporate construct, romance is not a matter of flowers and chocolate, why should one day be more about love than the other 364(5)… etc, etc, ad nauseum. At dinner, I’ll give my beloveds handmade cards in which I tell each of them something about them that I love, and we’ll decorate homemade heart-shaped brownies together. I don’t generally get much of anything from anyone on Valentine’s Day (though last night the husband did get me some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups), but I’m kind of cool with that — it’s my day to make my family heart-shaped brownies.

But that quote, man. That quote! That’s a thing to ring in your ears and shape the way you live your life.

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In which I blaspheme: Monotheism’s biggest failure.

Ok, that’s kind of a grand statement. Maybe I shouldn’t claim to have uncovered the single biggest failure of the world’s monotheistic faiths. But for my money, it’s certainly right up there.

As readers of this blog are surely aware, I believe in God.

I furthermore believe that God is loving and good, and that when we say that we’re made in His* image, we mean the best of us. “Our better angels” are, to my mind, those parts of the human spirit that fly up to meet their Creator and attempt to express His love, His goodness, on this earth.

I also believe, in what I take to be a very Jewish sense, that God is everywhere and yet nowhere. We are not God, but reflections of Him. He can be found in our homes and in our hearts, but He is neither in the heavens nor in the depths. He is not corporeal, and when we speak of His arms, or His voice, we are only making use of the only tools we have to imagine the unimaginable — yet should I call upon Him, His is the still, small voice that is as near as my child’s breath, as she whispers in my ear.

God is ultimately unknowable, because He is so entirely Not Us. Bigger, Grander, More Powerful beyond measure — how can it be otherwise, when He created the world and all that’s in it? And yes, I believe that the Big Bang was an act of God, and I honestly cannot understand how the one could possibly contradict the other.

What is God not, then? Where did monotheism get it wrong?

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