SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 8

Neither Lauren nor I were at the opening. She, of course, was still traveling west, having made it to Colorado by Friday night. I was down with a 24-hour bug of some sort, in bed most of the day. I stopped by the gallery today to check out the post opening state of things... All the fireworks are gone. Marilyn told me that they created a waiver for everyone to read (not sign). Lots of stars posted on the map. Nicely designed color commentary booklets to go with the pieces. Marilyn promises to pass on pictures of the distribution of the fireworks for posting later... More to come...

SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 7

Things are falling into place for Lauren's piece, even as the distance between her and Cleveland increases. I spoke to her friend Scott today, who said the process of working with her on the installation has been interesting, challenging, even with cell phone pictures and text messages. Despite these complexities, Lauren's friends made significant headway in 24 hours. All of the fireworks are fully assembled and displayed, the map has been moved from the west to the east wall of the gallery, and--most notably--the billboard/sign advertising the fireworks-spectacle now hangs in SPACES' vestibule. Still some clean up to do, but the amount of work left at this point seems to be negligible.

With the exhibition opening and fireworks give-away less than 24 hours away this is good news...

SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 6

Stopped by SPACES this afternoon at around 4 p.m. to check out the progress on the piece sans Lauren. Lots of evidence of change, but no friend assistants on site to talk process with (hoping to connect with Lauren's friend Scott, who called me tonight to see if we could touch base tomorrow at some point).

The pictures (right) detail the state of the piece/fireworks stand as it stood this afternoon. Lauren's friends/assistants still need to work out some minor details (i.e. will the map documenting participants' spectacles stay where it is currently hung?), and they need to finish prepping the fireworks/launcher packages (which look really great -- pics to come tomorrow).

Hoping to also talk to Lauren later tonight or tomorrow...

SPACES Detour: Comment[ary] 5

Lauren and I didn't talk today (Tuesday)... her day was no doubt very full with trying to wrap up what she could at the gallery, pack, and get on the road for a two-month cross-country trek.

I sent her a text at around 9:20 p.m. asking if she got everything done in time to leave today. At 9:27 p.m. she replied: "Yep, in Indiana."

I'll stop by SPACES tomorrow to see how the fireworks stand looks. We plan to talk more via phone about the process as she finalizes last minute project details from the road.

SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 4

Lauren's fireworks stand is coming along (see pics at right from 4:15 p.m. today).
Lauren went to the library and got a copy of Cleveland/Cuyahoga County so that firework participants could mark where they will be/were when they set off their fireworks. This component of the piece will be used in lieu of Lauren telling people where they should/could go to launch their fireworks. She decided on a date and time: June 4 at 9:30 p.m. She also claimed a domain name for the project (www.thespectacularcleveland.com) so that launchers can post documentation of their launch.
Lauren decided that the map element made for less restrictions on the project participants and left the interpretation more open and less connected to Cleveland and the initial idea of referencing the renaissance of blighted downtown neighborhoods/regions. "It can now be read as a positive gesture... you don't have to reflect on negativity to be hopeful," she explains.
I told her that I thought it's interesting that she's been charged to create a spectacle, yet she's not going to be at the opening when the spectacle is itself launched. Lauren said she sees herself as more of a facilitator. Her friend Jon Sommer from Chicago will be in town on Friday and she's asked him to work the fireworks booth (along with another friend, who's yet to be committed).
She wants some excitement around the distribution of the fireworks, so she'd like people to wait in line to get them. The plan is to have the fireworks stand open a half and hour after the gallery opens... the buzz will be that "supplies are limited."
She and her friend/assistants are packaging the fireworks in their PVC launchers, which they are painting sky/light blue with white bases. They've also scanned and printed the safety instructions from the fireworks packaging. "People may not be familiar with how the fireworks work, so the safety instructions will help," she explains. "Also, the packaging will help alleviate the temptation to light the fuses that night."
We talked about what sort of presence my commentary will have in the gallery. I tell her that I thought about having a laptop there with my blog up at the opening. And we also talked of just having the posts and photos printed and put in a binder. I think we're leaning toward the latter. Something nice about having paper copies of a blog, which is never static.
Lauren's leaving for a two-month trip across the country tomorrow at 12 noon. We plan to talk while she's on the road.

SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 3

Just off the phone with Lauren (10:03 p.m. Sunday)... she's been working at SPACES since 6:18 p.m. (she texted me: "In at spaces") and has several friends helping her build the fireworks stand. They got the frame done tonight and are planning to put on the awning and paint the top of the stand this evening.

Lauren has 96 fireworks and plans to test at least one, leaving 90-95 to give out to participants on opening night. She bought PVC pipe to use as the launching device for each of the firework units. This pipe must also be cut into 95 pieces.

She's swamped with work and leaving town on Tuesday ("I still have to pack sometime tomorrow," she tells me). But Lauren seems outwardly calm. She can sleep later in the week...

SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 2

Lauren's first shopping excursion is a success. I receive the following email message from her today:

"2 pics attached. I got buy 1 get 1 free, 8 packs, 12 shots each, total of 96 fireworks! big ones! from Prism in Edinburg, OH. $215 sorry pics are huge..."

http://www.prismfireworks.com/locations.html

(The cropped/resized images are at right.)

She visits SPACES again today to further assess the materials situation. Lauren tells me a trip to Home Depot may be in order. I plan to get the full report tomorrow...

SPACES Detour: Color Comment[ary] 1

Lauren Yeager's been charged with making artwork that is less subtle than her usual work (http://www.laurenyeager.com/)...she's supposed to make something spectacular, in fact. And whatever she makes is supposed to have a life beyond the week she's been allotted to make the piece.

So we met yesterday (Friday 5/7/10) to talk about the ideas she's been working on since the artists and commentators met on Wednesday night. I'd never met her before (I could not make the Wed. meeting because I had to teach my evening CSU class), so there was a lot of catching up to do. Lauren, I was told, doesn't like to talk publicly about her work, but she quickly opened up and told me (and Chris, Nicole, and Marilyn) about her desire to create something that was both spectacular and earnest... something that resonates beyond mere one-liner objecthood.

"Fireworks came to my mind immediately," she told us. Indeed, they are spectacular. Lauren wants to give fireworks out a the opening to a select group of people who will set them off at a given day/time during the run of the show. "Not on the 4th of July," she asserts. She explained that recipients could be screened and that they would either live in the midtown-downtown area, or would commit to finding a roof in that area on the selected day/time in order to set them off.

I asked if the symbolism of fireworks (associated as they most often are with nationalism, American pride, etc.) was at all problematic to her and she asserted that it wasn't. She's embracing the celebratory nature of the fireworks display. "It could be a celebration of the rebirth of the more blighted areas of the city," she suggests, "and a way for people to feel connected to one another."

She wants a fireworks stand at the opening (which will remain through the run of the exhibition), with billboard-like signage (like the Americana-baroque billboards that pepper the urban landscape in June and July, which advertise nearby fireworks distributors). She searched SPACES' backroom for materials, finding plenty of wood, paint, and even a tent (silver on the inside, grey on the outside) for the stand. She claimed her space in the gallery--the wall that faces the entrance at the rear of the front room (impactful, and, I point out, "it's next to the restroom--no one can miss it").

She, Chris, Marilyn, and Nicole discussed the legal ramifications of giving away fireworks, deciding to not worry much about it (to Marilyn's dismay, perhaps). They suggest that she talk to Jeff Chiplis about fireworks and Chiplis and Cindy Long about navigating abandonned buildings.

After about 75 minutes we parted ways. Lauren said she was going shopping for materials.

"Feminists We're Calling You: Please Report to the Front Desk"

It's a cliche to say that my students teach me things, I know. But they do and they have, particularly this semester as I teach five classes at three Cleveland institutions (CWRU, CSU, and Tri-C). My students are wealthy white kids, some of whom are products of private high schools from across the country; they are poor middle-aged African-American women who are in school to make their lives better, or simply to learn something new now that their children are grown; many are solidly middle class, practical types--the kind of people who work hard and believe that honesty is the best course of action, even when it means telling their professional sports-loathing professor that they need to miss class to go to a Cavs game. Sometimes they aggravate the hell out me (for whatever reason, this semester students at all three institutions seem to think nothing of texting their friends during class, surfing the internet during films, and leaving discussion to answer their phones), but most often they humble me, occasionally causing tears to well in the corners of my eyes.

During the last two weeks, the latter situation has been the case. I'm always on students to pay attention to the news, "current events show us that history is never 'history'," I tell them. Last Thursday I pulled out my notes on the case of the Governor McDonnell of Virginia to report to my African American History students that McDonnell was taking well-deserved heat for re-establishing April as Confederate History Month and--initially, at least--leaving slavery out of his official declaration. No one had heard about this, despite the fact that it was everywhere in the blogosphere and on national television news. "Where do you get your news," I asked them. "Anna" spoke up first--"From Channel 19," she said, continuing with: "did you hear about the woman's body that was found on I-90 on Monday?" I hadn't. All of the students in the class had, however, and they recounted with accuracy the details surrounding the murder, subsequent dumping, and misidentification of Angel Bradley Crocket, a 28-year-old African-American mother of three young children.

I brought the story up later that night in my CSU women's studies class. Most people in that class had heard about it, however, "Tasha" had not. As she processed what happened she asked, "Is this what we have to get used to now--black women's bodies being dumped along our highways?" Throughout the day on Friday I couldn't stop thinking about this response, it--as my mother would say--"made my heart hurt." In the aftermath of the Sowell/Imperial Avenue murders, where 11 poor black women's bodies were "stored" in a house that the city's mayor's niece frequently visited, this new grim discovery was infathomable. What else must young black women come to terms with and imagine as possible causes of death for their peers? Moreoever, how could police officers be so comfortably complacent in their jobs that they wouldn't think it necessary to stop and get out of their car to see if reports of a woman's body were accurate? Their complacency was as unfathomable to my students as the murder itself.

Thankfully, by Saturday morning police arrested a suspect in Bradley-Crocket's murder. This news did not quell the sadness and anger that met me when I arrived at Tri-C to teach my women's studies students. We spent more than half of the three hour class talking about the issue. One of the women told the class about her own experiences with police brutality. Again, the police officers were the target of their anger. "Someone has to hold them accountable," someone said. "We need to hold them accountable," I replied, following up with, "What can we do?" It took more than a half an hour from that point in the conversation for someone to suggest that we organize a protest. Many of these women are not used to being heard, much less speaking out against injustice, even when (or, more pointedly, because) they themselves have experienced abuse at the hands of the police. Once the protest idea emerged and I told them that we could do it on Saturday, April 17 during class time, they didn't want to stop talking it about and planning for it. Lists were made. Phone calls were placed to community leaders during class. Telephone numbers and email addresses were exchanged. All week my phone has been ringing, and one student even made calls and sent emails from bed as she suffers from a persistent illness that keeps her bed-ridden for days at a time.

It's going to be cold--45 degrees--on Saturday morning, but my Tri-C women's studies students and I will be in front of City Hall from 9-11 a.m. We're making signs, gathering written messages from anyone who shows up, which we will deliver to the Mayor next week. I watched Channel 19 news last week and in one of their reports on Bradley Crocket's murder, Mayor Jackson told a reporter that his office only received two calls on the gender/racial implications of this and other cases. He'll be hearing from more of us very soon...

Sleeping with Obama

I've been having lots of vivid dreams lately. Last night's installment of these lucid narratives involved my having an affair with President Obama. This dream was notable for a couple of reasons. On the most base, superficial level because for the first time in my life we have a president who is both attractive enough and smart enough for me to even imagine such a physical engagement. In a deeper sense, however, it gave me a window into the power dynamic inherent in any sexual relationship, especially (I can only imagine) one with an elected official.

While the sex part of the dream was less than interesting (even boring), what was particularly compelling were the dynamics of communication. My life intersected just as it is (children, work, spouse, degree, yoga obsession all intact) with the president's (at least as I envision it), though there was an understanding among his staff, the media, and his circle that he would have a "mistress." Even Michelle Obama took it as a given (she was more Jackie Kennedy than Eleanor Roosevelt in my dream), and we even exchanged knowing glances at one point.

After our initial meeting, Obama and I decided that we would get together again in two days, but he called a day early insisting that we meet that day instead. This change in plans meant that I had to re-arrange my schedule, bring my daughter and make up a spur of the moment lie to tell my spouse. I wasn't necessarily irritated by this, nor was I thrilled at the possibility of seeing Obama. I was mostly seduced by the intrigue--of being "the other woman" to the president.

Interestingly, when we met he also brought one of his daughters (it's unclear to me which one) and there were some dyfunctionally sweet moments of the two of us tucking in our daughters (in separate suites, of course). Afterwards, he told me about his daughter's fear of being labeled overweight and I asserted my expertise as a gender studies scholar, citing Joan Jacobs Brumberg's books on the body ("Fasting Girls" and "The Body Project"). Despite my less powerful position in the relationship, I took the opportunity to advocate for women and girls, telling the president that legislation should be put in place to empower women (the details of this are now fuzzy). I was confident as we spoke and excited about my new connection to this power. Yes, I thought in this dream state, I will continue to fuck the president if it means more rights for women and girls.

Then I woke up. In the aftermath of this interesting dream, I began to wonder why I never found extremely powerful men attractive. In high school I hated the football players, dating gay men who weren't yet out (to me, their peers, perhaps even themselves), artist-stoners, and losers such as Todd Manley, who is now in jail and "famous" for having 18 DUI arrests (http://www.wkyc.com/news/news_article.aspx?storyid=1844). Unlike Obama (at least what we know of him), most of the powerful men that I've come in contact over the years have been abusive in some way (literally and in, as artist Jenny Holzer writes, the "abuse of power comes as no surprise" sense). While I've never been raped, the closest I ever came to being violated in that way by a peer came when my friend Greg (who was friends with football players, but not one himself), refused to get off of me when we were making out because, he said, "You know you want it." I often wondered why he stopped and if his status in the power hierarchy of high school (though the incident happened in college), his being one step below the football players, played into it. I'll never know, I never asked and didn't speak to him again, though I did run into him at my tenth class reunion where he seemed surprised that I stopped calling him after our "date."

My Obama dream makes me wonder why so many of my straight women friends have opted for artists, outcasts, and other creative types in adulthood. Like Michelle Obama, we're all smart, attractive superwomen. Unlike Michelle, however, most of my friends wouldn't take their spouse's last names, nor would they settle for the role of first lady to the country's number one man. Part of this may be that you have to be willing to tone down yourself and your politics in order to work within the system. Perhaps it really would take a presidential mistress to bring radical feminist ideas to the White House.

As was the case in my dream, the irony is that the mistress would have to fuck the president to be heard.

Feminist Yoga: A Paradoxical Proposition?

I love yoga. I love the way I feel when I'm practicing it. I love going to the studio where I practice four or fives times a week, where I know at least a third of the people in the room at any given time/class. I love the teachers at my studio. I love that way the practice makes my body feel and look. I love teaching it and helping people along as they experience the practice for themselves, in their own beautiful, unique bodies. I've been practicing regularly for two years (and sporadically for even longer) and it's changed my life. It helps me keeps me calm and makes me happier, giving me a patience that I never thought I'd have.

I also love feminism and am an unabashed feminist and gender studies scholar. As I prepare to wrap up a six month yoga teacher training (YTT) program this weekend, I've been thinking a great deal about how these passions converge and diverge. Case in point: a few months ago the teacher/leader of my YTT program lectured on the mythical story to Rama, Seta, and Hanuman. Rama, the masculine figure, represents side of social or cultural side of humanity, and Seta, the feminine figure, represents the natural side of humanity. In the tale, Seta is banished from culture for an alleged sexual indiscretion, and Hanuman (the monkey), travels on Rama's behalf to reunite her with Rama. Hanuman is therefore the bridge between the natural and the cultural. After our teacher's lecture, one of my YTT colleagues commented that she was troubled that Seta--the feminine character--was banished. Another of my peers echoed these sentiments, saying something like, "Yeah, that didn't make the feminists in the room very happy" (I always love it when I [often the sole feminist/gender studies person in the room] am not the one who speaks up first). Our teacher (who is bright and fun and generally amazing) told us that we were reading too much into the story. But were we? Yoga and all of it's intricately complex traditions, as ancient as they are, was created by humans and reflects the social mores, ideals, and ideologies of the time(s). This said, it is wrought from patriarchal ideologies and power structures that are historically and contemporarily pervasive in culture.

Yoga is about "yoking," or uniting breath/prana and movement/asana, as well as uniting people and finding commonalities across gender, race, class, sexual identity, and a myriad of other individual experiences and realities. I have experienced this in ways that I never could have imagined, finding love and compassion for people I would never have imagined connecting with had it not been for yoga. These connections are very powerful and dear to me.

Yet, as a feminist, I am cognizant of the fact that many of the most famous contemporary yogis are men. Think Rodney Yee, Max Strom, and Rolf Gates, Baron Baptiste, and Bikram Choudhury, not to mention the godfathers of contemporary yoga like BKS Iyengar, Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, Sri T. Krishnamacharya, and Sri Swami Satchidananda, and rising yoga stars like Jonny Kest. There are famous women yogis, of course, including Lilias Folan, Shiva Rea, and Seane Corn, yet, given recent statistics on the gender of U.S. yoga practitioners--in 2008 72.2% of practicing yogis were female, 27.8% were male--the proportion of famous female yogis does not reflect the breakdown of yoga students/practitioners who regularly step on to their mats.* Moreover, while some cursory Internet research on the breakdown by gender of "ordinary" yoga teachers didn't provide solid statistics, it's clear (based on viewing numerous studio sites across the U.S.) that a majority of them are women.

This said, what should I--a Ph.D.-ed feminist historian/scholar and soon to be teacher of yoga--do about the imbalances inherent in the practical aspects of the practice? While conducting research for this post, I was happy to find that I am not the only woman yoga practitioner-lover to address its gendered dimensions (see for instance, yogasuzi's post from 2007-08 http://yogalikesalt.wordpress.com/2007/08/13/yoga-and-gender/).

Thoughts anyone?

*NAMASTA (North American Studio Alliance) provides 2008 statistics on yoga participation in the U.S., citing the Yoga in America Study (see http://www.namasta.com/pressresources.php#2).

Career Opportunities the Ones that [Always] Knock

Censored Letter to An Editor

Dear Eva,

I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to let you know that I've been unable to get the book proposal for Pop Culture: A History to you by the deadline that we established back in January. I am teaching five courses this semester and the workload surpassed my expectations. I am still interested in working on the revised edition of this text, however, I need more time to get my proposal together. I'd like to suggest moving the deadline to April 15. If this won't work for you and you need to find someone else to take on the project, I completely understand.

My apologies; please let me know your thoughts on this.

Thank you again for everything --

Best,

Lyz

Uncensored Letter to An Editor

Dear Eva,

I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to let you know that I've been unable to get the book proposal for Pop Culture: A History to you by the deadline that we established back in January. I am teaching five courses this semester and the workload surpassed my expectations. While I love teaching, and worked my ass off to earn a Ph.D., I am feeling stretched to my limit by more than 100 students who are spread across three campuses. In addition to the usual class preparation and grading, this semester I have a particularly difficult group of students in one of my women's studies classes. This situation requires that I plan additional conflict mediation activities and hold meetings before and after class with students who have significant mental and emotional disorders.

I must consider myself fortunate to have these five teaching gigs, as I have no idea how I am going to earn money over the summer. As an adjunct instructor there is no job security, nor do I get paid year-round like my colleagues who were fortunate enough to get tenure-track jobs in an era when such academic jobs existed. (I recognize that, according to American Historical Association data, my chances of getting such a job are four in ten.) Because of my situation, I must constantly search for work for the coming semester while teaching during the current one.

Ultimately, I realize that I may be screwing myself by risking this opportunity that you've given me--to revise another scholar's work for little or no pay. Despite my accomplishments and sacrifices (my family is nearly $200,000 in debt--in part because I only worked part time in the 6.5 years it took me to earn my Ph.D.), I know that I need any and all publishing opportunities, otherwise I am unmarketable as a scholar.

In addition to my work responsibilities, I must also care for my family of one spouse, two children (five and 18), two dogs, and three cats. Shopping and cooking for this brood is itself a full-time job. I'm not much of a cleaner (my spouse, fortunately, is), however, there are ever-growing piles of laundry scattered throughout my house at all times. Now that the weather is getting nicer in Cleveland, there will be the additional pressure to garden, clean up the yard (including the roughly 150 lbs. of dog shit that's been hidden under snow and ice for five months), put screens in the windows, and help my spouse repair the siding that fell off of our dilapidated home during one of the ten snow and wind storms the house endured this winter.

Of course, I must look good doing all of these activities, which means that I have to schedule regular appointments for hair cuts, purchase and coordinate clothes for my daughter and me (my son and spouse thankfully take care of their own waredrobes), and make sure that all hair on my body is appropriately managed by tweasing or waxing (though I must admit that I don't wax and refuse to shave my legs, which fulfills the stereotypes of many of my students who assert that all feminists are hairy and angry).

To be a good teacher and "respectable" academic, I must keep updated on news and current events, so I "relax" by watching news shows and reading political and feminist blogs. As a vegan and someone who is concerned with the environment, I also must keep up to date on what products are green and do not contain animal ingredients.

Amid all of these responsibilities, I do make it to yoga four to five times a week and, because there are no academic jobs, I am becoming certified to teach yoga to earn extra money. This is the one thing that I truly do for myself. I suppose I could take these six or eight hours this week and put them toward finishing the book proposal, but if I did that, I would probably be too stressed to work anyway. This unstructured time would also provide time for my guilt over the lack of "alone" time and my husband and I spend together to arise, because, along with our busy work schedules, we are unconditional parents, which means that our five-year-old daughter co-sleeps with us.

Having said all this, I should say that I am still interested in working on the revised edition of this text. However, I need more time to get my proposal together. I'd like to suggest moving the deadline to April 15, 2020. If this won't work for you and you need to find someone else to take on the project, I completely understand.

My apologies; please let me know your thoughts on this.

Thank you again for everything --
Best,
Lyz

[In]Visible Labor

My friend Cindy Penter curated an exhibition, "Referential: Homage. Montage. Sabotage.," which opened last night at Asterisk Gallery http://www.asteriskgallery.com/in Tremont. Lots of amazing artists/work in the show of video installations, including pieces by my spouse and many of my feminist friends. My spouse, daughter, and I went to the gallery on Thursday night to drop off an artist statement and witnessed the chaos that typically accompanies the eve of an art opening. As a former curator, gallery director, and art museum worker, I know the feeling very well. Artworks still need to be installed and lit, title wall signage and labels need to be hung (often still need to be written), and then there's the occasional artist who shows up at the eleventh hour demanding the prime wall space that's already been assigned to someone whose work is exceptional, or who has been there for the past three nights volunteering their time patching and painting walls. In the midst of all of this, the gallerist knows that the bathroom still needs to be cleaned, the pre-cut, pre-washed carrots, humus, chip and salsa, not to mention the beer and wine, still need to be purchased for the next day's opening reception. It's exhausting. I am longer an art worker/gallerist and this is the kind of work and drama I don't miss.

Curators and gallerists (in small art venues like Asterisk) stay up all night making all of this happen and on opening day, hordes of people walk into a pristine space with art seamlessly hung on freshly painted walls. Well-designed signage greets them. Carefully written and edited artist statements are there to explain the work to them. Snacks and cheap or free drinks are there for the taking. The artists arrive and their work looks better than even they imagined under the lights, on the pedestals, and against the stark walls. The work it takes to put an exhibition together is invisible to everyone except to those who do it. Like parenting, it's often thankless labor.

While I don't miss this part of the art world, I do miss writing about art. I wrote art criticism for a number of years, primarily at the now defunct Free Times. During those years, I'd walk into a pristine space, pen and paper in hand, and evaluate the show and the work. I was good at what I did, yet, even though there were years where I was also gallery director at Lake Erie College (which meant I was the curator, art installer, publicist, and fundraiser), I sometimes took the invisible labor that goes along with mounting an art exhibition for granted when I donned the role of critic. Being at Asterisk the other night reminded me of this work and of the times that I, the "art critic," contributed to obscuring it.

For the times I forgot (or ignored) the fact of this labor, my apologies (Dana).

Next time you go to an art opening, thank the gallerist. Better yet, offer to serve the drinks or replenish the snack table so that s/he can have a beer... or a catnap.

For "Maria"

The first time I saw her, it was already apparent—that unyielding look of stubborn determination. I didn’t become her mother until she was four months old, and by the time I first saw her face animated—on a 30 second video clip that I received via email—she’d already learned to make it, learned to hold it. It was an expression that told the world that she was in control, even though her 19-year-old, desperately poor, birth mother had given her up, courageously signed her life over to strangers. As I watched the video of my daughter—then called “Maria” after her biological mother—I searched her face for signs of distress and detachment; the former emotion was absent, but the latter was apparent. In an attempt to make the infant adoptee smile for her American parents, the Guatemalan adoption worker held her above her shoulders, lifting my daughter lightly up and down, up and down. Maria’s expression didn’t change for the first 29 seconds, making me nervously wonder what challenges were ahead, how I would breach her impenetrable façade. Though, in the last second, a look faintly flashed across her face—the corners of her mouth turned up very slightly, her eyes softened. It was nowhere near a smile, but simply a vague indication that she was capable of letting go, of letting someone in.

At almost six years of age, my child now laughs easily; she also readily dons the opaque mask that she conjured in her first months of life. It took years for her to volunteer her affections to her grandparents, cousins, and aunts and uncles. She is sensitive, her feelings are readily hurt. Emotional infractions are declared without warning, often for inexplicable reasons. She is nonetheless delightful, as, while her attachment to us came gradually, when it came the bonds were strong and deep.

I envision her returning to Guatemala someday, traversing the ground on which her mother walked when she was pregnant—when they were both “Maria.” I think of how her resolute nature will serve her if she travels those roads and sees the poverty and desperation of a people whose history is fraught with centuries of colonialism and oppression. I wonder how my mothering of this child fits into this history. Have I colonized her mind and body, making an “American” out of her?

Sometimes on days when she’s difficult—when she’s defiant, angry, and even hateful—I think of her ancestors and imagine that they are releasing an infinitesimal fraction of six hundred years of collective pain and angst over their past through this Guatemalan-American girl. Then, I come back to the moment and give her want she wants. And love her madly.

Rebel Girl You Are The Queen Of My World

My friend's mom died unexpectedly last week. This friend is a bad-ass, super-smart feminist--the kind of woman you want by your side when you're walking down the street on a cold dark night, or when you're arguing about abortion/reproductive rights with someone who's adamantly anti-choice (or frustratingly ambivalent about the issue), or, when you're shaking with fear, facing an enormous personal challenge (she was in the room the day I defended my dissertation).

The news about her mother came via Facebook. I waited a couple of days before I called. What do you say? It's her mom. There are no words for this; I ask about funeral services--her mom requested that none be held. "I think I'm coming to the consciousness-raising meeting on Sunday," she says. "Great, I can't wait to see you," I reply. "Let me know if you need anything...love you." A few more short exchanges. We hang up.

I can't know what she's feeling. Can't even fathom it. But she keeps busy. Keeps posting biting commentary on race and gender on Facebook. Writes a "call for entries" piece for an online journal about an upcoming performance project (on motherhood, nonetheless) that she began conceptualizing/planning before her mother's death. Finishes a video work and installs it in a gallery. Attends the opening reception. All while dealing with the drama that always unfolds amid the worst family crises.

My friend is one of a kind in many ways, but she is like so many of the women in my life. We don't stop. Can't stop. Are always doing, creating, saving the damn day. Practically, we rule. Structurally, we're at the mercy of a millenia-old patriarchal system that is perpetuated by images and texts that exist to put/keep us in our place. Disney princesses, MTV's "Jersey Shore," video "hoes," "reality" shows like "The Bachelor," airbrushed fashion photography, pornography, anti-choice murderers, serial killers, domestic violence perpetrators, rapists, and misogynists like Rush Limbaugh and Howard Stern.

I want a television show with my friend as star, director, and producer. About a real woman who picks herself up on the worst fucking week of her life, and continues to work on important, creative projects. She might break down under the sadness and stress by the end of the season, but I know at least fifty women who would be there to lift her up and pick up the slack if that happened. And not just to get on TV.