Quickie post:

A while ago there was a post on Alas about whether or not the use of birth control pills to suppress menstruation was pathologizing womanhood and moving women away from a more “natural” state.

I have irregular periods. And incredibly painful periods. So I’m with those who vote that no, using these pills to suppress mensturation is not pathologizing womanhood. Some of us have periods that really, really suck. And you can say we’re weird people, and that people with “normal” periods shouldn’t be worrying about bleeding in that way — and maybe that’s true. I believe that some people have lovely, normal periods that aren’t horrible and painful and debilitating, and there’s no reason why their mensturation should be treated as a disease.

But you know, I’ve known a lot of women in my life who, like me, are really knocked out by the pain and cramping of our menstruation. Our cycles may be abnormal and not representative of womanhood as a whole, but there are a lot of us, and consequently, I appreciate medical research that looks into alleviating our problems, even if it doesn’t feel natural to people who aren’t afflicted with painful periods.

Anyway, I didn’t bring this up just to harp on that particular old debate… I brought it up because, during that thread, I mentioned that I’d been informed by my gynecologist that it is necessary for women to sometimes purge their uterine lining, because the rapidly growing cells can become cancerous if they’re left to divide and divide. Someone, I believe it was Mythago, told me that I was wrong and had misunderstood what my gynecologist said. Well, I wasn’t wrong. I am currently under medical treatment to induce a purge for just those reasons.

I’m sure it’s fine if women don’t menstruate for the periods of time that are orchestrated by the pills under discussion. If you menstruate four times a year, I guess that’s fine. But if your uterine lining does seem to be growing and growing, but not purging, that’s not healthy.

I didn’t bring this up to bash on Mythago for mistakenly saying I was wrong, ‘cuz whatever. Old discussion. No big deal. But at the time, I started to really doubt myself and my memory. And just in case anyone else who has a weird menstrual cycle was reading and believed the incorrect medical information that was left in that thread — I just wanted to mention that Mythago’s claim was incorrect. The uterus does need purging, and even the so-called “fake” periods stimulated by birth control pills or progesterone pills will do.

Comments are feminist only, cuz really, some anti-feminist’s take on my uterus is the last thing I want to hear. If you feel moved to comment, please don’t be a jerk about my personal medical problems.

Can’t decide if I like or hate the backgrounds.

[This is a guest post, reprinted with Carmen's permission from the blog All About Race. Thanks, Carmen.]

In March of 1857, the United States Supreme Court ruled that people of African ancestry were not, and could never become, citizens of the United States of America. The Dred Scott decision asserted that blacks were property. And because no state or federal government could take a citizen’s property away from him, this decision meant that any slave who managed to escape to a “free state” would be hunted down and returned to bondage and his or her “owner.” This decision enraged many of the most vocal abolitionists and politicians in the North and was an important precursor of Abraham Lincoln’s election to President.

But still, even among those who philosophically opposed slavery, I imagine dinner conversations sounding something like this:

“That Dred Scott decision is appalling.”
“Yes, it’s simply awful.”
“But, you know, those Negroes who just up and run away? I mean, they are breaking the law.”
“Yes, and our country cannot tolerate law breakers.”
“Just to think, what if everybody just went about doing whatever they wanted to do?”
“The whole Union would collapse into chaos.”
“Absolutely!”

The issue of immigration in America is cause for this kind of conversation now. Many well meaning and good natured people are not critically examining what it means that the media uniformly and incessantly blares the term “illegal immigrant” as if the people who risk physical harm to get to America to work, are only that. The media would have you believe that these are not the same people America has welcomed to come to build and clean our houses, harvest, prepare and serve our food, and raise our children.

In the South, the American Civil War was termed “the War of Northern Aggression.” During the 1960’s, those who made the trip south to support Southern grassroots movements in their protests for an end to Jim Crow and racial terrorism, were called “agitators.” Now, it is all so clear. But, as the events of America’s Civil Rights movement unfolded, many decent people, with hearts in the “right” place, felt “Negroes are pushing too hard, for too much. These things take time.”

I support strong and secure borders, period. And with that, I believe that if we as a nation welcome people to come and clean our houses, harvest, prepare and serve our food, and raise our children, then I believe we must provide a path for those people to become full citizens of the United States sharing all of the rights and responsibilities that citizenship entails.

There was a time in America when it was illegal to gather and discuss independence from England. There was a time in America when it was illegal for an American of African descent to vote or own property or drink from certain water fountains. There was a time in America when it was illegal for Americans of Japanese descent to live in their homes. Instead, Japanese Americans were legally evicted from their homes and moved to internment camps.

So, I have a question for you. When you say “illegal immigrant,” other than relating a fact of American citizenship status, what are you saying? What do you want me to know about the people you describe in this way?

I’m going to retell a story I’ve written about before. A few years back some friends of mine dragged me to a feminist meeting at the house of a woman I didn’t know, although I realised when I got there that I’d seen her around.

Her face was all bruised, she had a broken nose and a black eye. She said it had happened in a play-fight with her boyfriend and that he didn’t know his own strength. She hadn’t left the house since it happened. She wanted to spend the meeting talking about men’s violence against women.

I don’t know about the other women at that meeting, but I knew, with absolute certainty, that there was no play-fight, that it hadn’t been an accident. Everything she did, and said, told me that her relationship was abusive.

I didn’t say anything. None of us said anything. It was a feminist meeting and none of us said anything.

I tried, I wanted to, I spent the evening searching for words and couldn’t find them. Gaps in the conversation came and went, and I left, having said nothing. I knew I was doing the wrong thing, that my silence was wrong, as I was doing it.

What I could have said, what I should have said, was really simple: “Just so you know, I don’t think he should treat you like that. If you ever need anything you can give me a call, here’s my number.”

Please don’t make my mistake. Practice a phrase in your head, have the words ready, use them.

I’ve written in the past about European countries being forced to confront racism and xenophobia, which is especially the case in nations where large scale immigration is making the countries more ethnically and racially diverse. One of the latest countries confronting discrimination is Ireland. Unlike many other Western European countries, Ireland was never colonial power. In places, like France, Spain, and Britain many immigrants are coming from former colonies, but since Ireland didn’t have colonies, Irish immigration is a little less predictable. Nevertheless, Ireland is facing some of the same problems as other European countries. Many Irish people do not accept the new immigrants, and this is especially true for Black immigrants, who come mostly from West African countries like Nigeria.

Traditionally, Ireland has been a country of emigrants.¹ Given this fact, it should be no surprise that there are more people of Irish descent in the US alone than there are in Ireland, but in a surprising twist of fate, the trend is beginning to reverse.² With Irish birth rates above replacement level and a new wave of immigrants from Africa and Eastern Europe, Ireland is actually gaining more people than it is losing. Some hope that this will contribute to growth in the Irish economy, which has been one of the weakest economies in western Europe.

Right now, there is little research on this trend, and the manifestations of anti-immigrant attitudes and racism come to light with stories this one. The gist of the story is that in a suburb of Dublin nearly all of the approximately 90 children who couldn’t find a school to attend were black kids.

The children will attend a new, all-black school, a prospect that educators called disheartening.

About 90 children could not find school places in the north Dublin suburb of Balbriggan , a town of more than 10,000 people with two elementary schools. Local educators called a meeting over the weekend for parents struggling to find places and said they were shocked to see only black children.

“That overwhelmed me. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. I just find it extremely concerning,” said Gerard Kelly, principal of a school with a mixture of black and white students in the nearby town of Swords.

The parents at Saturday’s meeting in a Balbriggan hotel said they had tried to get their children into local schools but were told that all places had to be reserved by February.

Almost all of the children are Irish-born and thus Irish citizens, under a law that existed until 2004.

There is no way this is merely a coincidence, especially when a neighboring town has mixed schools. It should be noted that they are not starting a school that only admits black pupils, like this poorly worded headline from The Times Online suggests. The school is made up overwhelmingly of black children because those children “mysteriously” were not allowed to enter many of the local schools.

Part of the problem is that the Irish government allows schools to discriminate on the basis of religion, which ends up being a form of indirect institutional racism.

About 98 percent of schools are run by the Roman Catholic Church, and the law permits them to discriminate on the basis of whether a prospective student has a certificate confirming they were baptized into the faith. Some of the African applicants were Muslim, members of evangelical Protestant denominations or of no religious creed.

Since many immigrants are not Catholic, these schools were allowed to not accept them without a Catholic baptism certificate. It is difficult to know how many black children who were Catholic were also excluded. I know many of the African children are Nigerian, and many Christian Nigerians are Catholic, so I’d be curious to see how much religious discrimination and racial discrimination overlapped in this case. Clearly, this is a great case for the separation of church and state, and this is an issue that the Irish will have to confront as they become a multicultural nation.

I suspect that the 2004 referendum changing laws that allow parents of Irish citizen children to also become citizens is part of an anti-immigrant backlash. It will also be interesting to see how the role of the Catholic church changes because of immigration. They may lose some power. Ireland can’t call itself democratic when 98% of their schools are run in an openly discriminatory fashion.

Over the next few years, I expect to see more stories on discrimination like the case in Balbriggan. Hopefully, we will see more pro-immigrant organizations developing from ethnic Irish and immigrants.

1. Emigration with an “e” refers to people exiting the country. This is how I teach the words in class: Immigration with an “i” means into and emigration “e” means exit. (back)
2. Unfortunately, this article is now a paying article, but I was able to read in my New York Times home delivery. (back)

The Stumptown Comics Fest (taking place in Portland, Oregon, September 29 & 30) is seeking volunteers to help run the fest! Volunteers will take tickets, help guests and attendees find their tables and events, watch entrances, help with AV equipment (if you have AV skills), and basically hang around being helpful. It’s easy and fun, and it comes with free stuff:

• Free admission to the entire Comics Fest!
• A free “staff” t-shirt, plus other to-be-determined swag.
• An invitation to a private pre-Fest party the night before the Fest.

If you’d like to volunteer, please fill out this form, or send an email to barry (at) stumptowncomics.com.

Sydney’s Aunt Chris, who took the picture, tells the tale:

The story with this is that Sydney wanted to open the door to the building by herself. It was a heavy door, but I said OK and let her stay on the outside to try it. As she struggled, and people began to arrive behind her, I opened the door from the inside and reached for Sydney. A man came up behind her and held the door, above her head. I looked up and was face to face with the governor.

He didn’t have a large entourage, and was wearing sunglasses, but I was pretty sure it was him. I sort of muttered,
“Oh…can I take your picture with Sydney?” He was very gracious and stepped over to pose with her. About that time I started to wonder if maybe this was just some guy who looked like the governor, but then I saw a body-guard type guy in a shirt with the state emblem.

Anyway, I told Sydney that this was a very important man - that’s when she gave him the “I’d vote for you look” in the photo. Actually, he’s pretty much a crook like most of the Chicago/Illinois politicians, but he does take a nice picture.

Later, I told Sydney his name was “Governor Blagojevich.” She said “Wow.”¹ I asked if she could say it, and she said “Governor Gabloblovech.” I said, close - try again, and Sydney laughed, shook her hands beside her head and said “Governor Blah Blah Blah Blah.”

I’m not sure that Sydney realizes that, as an Oregon resident, she doesn’t get to vote in the Illinois elections even if the age issues are resolved. Ah, well. Thanks, Aunt Chris!

1. It should be noted that Sydney says “wow” to almost anything –Amp. (back)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

At eleven, I’m the youngest of eight boys lined up along one row of lockers in the otherwise empty men’s locker room at the swimming pool to which the day camp I am attending takes us every other day. Normally, I’d be changing with boys my own age, but a mix-up back at the camp grounds landed me on the bus with these guys, who are all twelve and thirteen. I turn my back to them to hide the erection that has taken hold of my body and which I am having difficulty fitting into my bathing suit. Despite my best efforts to remain inconspicuous, however, my movements attract the other boys’ attention and one of them sneaks up behind me and looks over my shoulder. “Hey!” his voice  rings out metallically, “look at the size of Newman’s boner!”

The rest of the boys surround me in a tight circle. I stand there unable to move, my body pointing me into the air above the middle of the room, wishing I could vanish, that it would vanish, but no matter how much I will it, the damned thing will not go down.

“What are you, a homo?”

“Other guys’ dicks must turn him on!”

“Wanna suck mine, queer!?”

The taunts continue for what seems like hours, though it is probably only a few minutes, and then the head counselor comes in and ushers us all out to the pool. I can’t believe he didn’t hear what the other boys were saying, but he acts as if he didn’t, barely looking at me as he shows me where the boys in my group have spread their towels.

Later that evening, while I’m getting ready for bed, I stand naked before the full-length mirror inside my door and tuck my penis out of sight between my legs. I’m not trying to imagine myself as a girl, but I am intrigued by the possibility of a body that does not have erections.

///

The first time the old man who lived at the top of the staircase said hello to me, he stopped for a moment as we passed in the courtyard and looked at me as if he’d known me my whole life. I stood there, taking in the warmth of his gaze, wishing as he walked away that I’d said something to make him stay so I could tell him who I was. I was thirteen years old.

Over the next couple of months, a ritual of greeting grew between us. He would smile and say hello first; I would smile, say the same thing back, and then a long silent moment would pass while he looked at me and I stood there, too happily embarrassed to move.

Then, one late summer’s day, after our usual exchange was over, the old man did not keep walking. “When am I going to see you?” he asked.

“Soon!” I answered, figuring he was lonely, like Mrs. Schechtman had been when she lived in the apartment next to his and I used to go sit with her once in a while just to keep her company.

Not too long afterwards, as I was going out to play with my friends, the old man met me at the bottom of the staircase leading to the front door of our building. It’s possible that he’d planned it this way, but I don’t think so; there was no way he could’ve known when I stepped out of my apartment. He was probably just on his way out at the same time I was, and when I reached to turn the knob, he was standing right behind me, holding the door shut with his left forearm. With his right, he maneuvered me face first into the corner near the mailboxes where the door frame met the wall. Covering my body with his own, he ran his hands beneath my shirt and up the legs of my shorts; he groped my chest and belly, squeezed my butt, cupped at my crotch, and all the time, over and over again, he kept asking me that same question, whispering hoarsely into my ear, “When am I going to see you?”

I had no words for what he was doing to me, no training such as young children get now in how to scream no! to scare off an attacker. All I could do was stand there till he was finished. Then I ran. I don’t remember how far or how long or even in which direction, but I ran as if I could leave my skin behind, as if running would turn me into another person. When I finally stopped running, in the small park across the street from the Lutheran Church, where my friends and I sometimes hung out at night, I sat a long time with the knowledge that my running had undone nothing, that my body was still the body he’d touched, and I knew that he would want to touch me again.

I told no one what had happened, and when the old man passed me the next day and said hello, I said hello back the way I always did, pretending not to notice the ironic and conspiratorial twist he added to his smile. A few weeks later, he saw me sitting with my friends in front of our building and asked me to help him upstairs with some packages he had with him. I wanted to say no, but I didn’t know how, not without risking that my refusal would somehow lead my friends to the truth of what he’d done to me. So I took the package he pointed at from his shopping cart–to make it easier, he said, for him to get the cart up the stairs–and followed him to his apartment.

As soon as he’d shut the door of his place behind us, he pushed the cart to the side, took the bag I was holding and dropped it to the floor. The cans at the bottom of the bag landed with a crash that shook the whole apartment.

Snaking his arms around my waist, he undid my belt–all I could do was stand there, frozen to the spot where my feet had stopped moving–and then he unzipped my pants and pushed them down so they fell around my ankles. Then he took me gently by the hand and led me to the couch against the wall, where he sat down. Looking up at me with a wide smile–I have the distinct memory that he’d taken out his two front teeth–his eyes, at what I imagine must have been the fear in mine, grew tender, almost fatherly, “You’ve never had a blowjob before, have you?” When I shook my head no, his voice filled with concern. “But don’t you want me to love you?”

In the silence with which I responded, he took my penis in his hands–I remember thinking that his fingers were like a cage–and he told me how good my penis was, how beautiful and big, and then his own pants were down, I was sitting on the couch, and his own penis, large and purple, hung in front of my face, and his voice came from somewhere above me, urging me to play with it, at least to touch it, and I don’t remember if I did, but I do remember his hand on the back of my neck, and then I see myself walking wordlessly to his front door, unlocking it, closing it behind me, and then I am in my bed, curled in the fetal position, where I stay until my mother calls me for dinner.

The next day, he saw me standing by myself in front of our building and pleaded with me to go upstairs with him again. This time, he promised,would be different. He would move more slowly, be more gentle, but something in me rebelled. I said no, ignoring his further please until he walked away.

He never spoke to me again, and he eventually moved away, and I have no doubt there are other men in this world who had with him when they were boys an experience similar to mine. I remember only once trying to tell someone what he’d done to me. I was sitting outside with my friend Kim when he passed by. He ignored me and nodded hello to her; she nodded in return. When I knew he was out of earshot, I turned to her, tried to fill my voice with everything she’d need to understand what I really meant, and said, “He’s a faggot!”

Kim looked at me in honest confusion, “So what if he’s gay? So what?”

The blank stare I answered her with was as uncomprehending as the silence in which she waited for me to explain myself. I don’t remember being explicitly, actively, homophobic, but everyone knew–or at least I thought everyone knew–that it was only homosexual men who preyed on young boys. Now, of course, I know differently, but to have said anything else at the time would have risked my telling Kim the whole story, and that’s something I would not be ready to do for some time.

Cross-posted on It’s All Connected.