And the home of the brave

One of my relatives, Peter Green, fought in the Revolutionary War. It's not much, but it gets us into the DAR potlucks. Three of my great great great uncles fought in the Civil War. One for the Confederacy and two for the Union. Two of my great grandfathers joined the army during World War I, but never got to Europe. Both of my grandfathers served in World War II. One of them has two purple hearts and tiny bits of metal, over 60 years old, in his lung to show for it. My grandmother's brother landed on the beach on D-day. My great uncle, Bill, died in Korea at the age of 22. Another great uncle, Elwin, died from cancer which was caused by the absestos he was exposed to in the Navy, working on the pipelines. Two of my grandfather's brothers, Jamie and Ron, were Marines during peacetime as were two of my cousins. My father spent ten months in Vietnam and the rest of his life trying to forget it. My uncle Bill was stationed in Korea during the Vietnam War. My father's brother, Richard, was in the airforce and recently retired after more than 20 years of service. And that is just what I can remember off the top of my head. I come from a small town (Henry, pop. 2600) and where I come from people are pretty patriotic. I guess I am too. I gave out poppies or Memorial Day weekend. I was little miss poppy in 1995. Oh yeah, I got the parade pictures to prove it. I've been to 4th of July parades, fireworks, memorial services, legion breakfasts, dinners, fish frys, etc., I was a member of the American Legion Junior Auxiliary until I was an adult and now am a member of the American Legion Auxiliary. So yeah, I guess I am pretty patriotic. And in keeping with my patriotism, I think it's important to say what I feel about the United States. I don't agree with people who are anti-American for stupid reasons or stereotypes they have heard about the U.S. or its citizens. Plenty of other and more informed reasons to hate the United States exist.

I guess what started me thinking about all this was the fact that one of my friends from University joined the National Guard and is, at this very moment, at boot camping becoming a government utensil. A machine capable of saving lives and taking lives. Two days ago my mother told me that a guy I graduated high school with just left for Afghanistan and will be in Iraq by January. A guy that graduated a year ahead of me just got back from Iraq.

I remember when the U.S. government decided to invade Iraq. I was at Red Lobster. The T.V. was on and everyone, customers, waiters, everyone was completely glued to CNN. Our waiter came up to the table and asked us what we thought about the government's decision to invade, he looked like an expectant child about to watch their first violent movie. My mother just looked at him. After he left, she got very quiet and said "he doesn't understand now, but he will." My mother is a registered Republican. Which has always suprised me considering Nixon was President when she registered to vote, but I digress. She isn't really that political. I don't even know if she had an opinion on the war in Iraq, but she knew something that I didn't know that night. She knew what it was like to see people you know, people you love, go off to war and never come back. She knew was it was like to see images of war on every news channel, everday for over 10 years. She knew what it was like to wake up to your husband's flashbacks. She knew those things. My grandmothers knew those things. Now I am going to know those things and it's not fair.

I have always said I support the troops and not the war. It just always made sense to me.

My dad joined the Army when he was 17, something my he believes is the biggest mistake of his life, my grandmother signed as his guardian, something she regrets to this day. He went to Vietnam. Saw his friends die. Killed people, including a adolescent boy at Christmas, and came home. It was dark when he got off the long flight home, so he didn't see any protesters, was never called a "baby-killer" but he felt it all around him. He wore his field jacket all the time (it still sits in our cedar chest, unwashed), he grew his hair down to his shoulders, he began a relationship with alcohol that lasted too far into my childhood to talk about, and he tried to forget about it. He still goes to the VA. He gets his hearing checked (he began to lose it when he lost his earplugs while operating a howitzer), he gets cream for the rash on his back caused by exposure to Agent Orange (he had a biopsy done last year, no cancer thank God), and he talks to a counselor that offers advice about 35 years too late. He is a member of the American Legion, a prestigous membership, that he never takes seriously. It's not that he doesn't care. It's just that he is not proud. He would never, never again go back to Vietnam. That is my dad's story.

My grandfather joined the Marine Corps when he was 22. In 1942, it just seemed like the right thing to do. He didn't have a formal education past 8th grade, but he was smart and strong and a good shot. He went to Guam, New Georgia, Guadalcanal, Okinawa, and other small islands in the South Pacific. He saw pretty terrible things. He did pretty terrible things (the picture of him holding a human head still creeps me out). He was shot twice and almost died once. He is a member of the American Legion, has been post commander, and still, at 87 years old, helps out in the Memorial Day festivities. And will still tell everyone he ever meets that he was a Marine Raider. The best of the best. And he would always always go back to the South Pacific. That is my grandfather's story.

These two stories impacted my childhood profoundly. I know my grandfather's stories from Japanese tea sets and grass skirts. From letters and pictures and rifles hung up in his gun cabinets. I know his story from his deep voice and big hands. I know my dad's stories from anger and silence. From nightmares and from alcohol. From bits and pieces and unhappy endings. Two very different stories. Two very conflicting ideas.

So that is why I have always supported the troops. Number 1: Because they deserve it. They fight for us, they die for us, and it is because of them that we are free. And number 2: Because it is not their fault. But this is a new war. This is a new time. And I can't help but wonder. How can I support the troops while still opposing the war? Doesn't it make me a hypocrite to oppose something and then lend my support to those directly responsible for it? I can oppose the government, it's policies, it's decisions to invade Iraq, but can I truly give my support to those on the front lines doing the killing? I don't know if I can anymore.

World War II was for a good reason. Hitler sucked. Europe was burning. Vietnam was for a shitty reason, but there was a draft. Iraq is a needless and horribly wrong war and people are signing up for the military like it's going out of style. It's different.

I don't want anyone to die. U.S. soldiers, Iraqi soldiers, Iraqi children. Anyone. Too much death and killing exists in the world today and too many people are desensitized to it. It's enough. But it's too late for that. Aside from my own person political opinion on the war in Iraq and aside from the bullshit reasons the Bush administration gave us for invading Iraq. And aside from the fact that the situation in Iraq will not likely improve anytime soon, we are in Iraq and that is something we all have to live with. And it's hard. Like I said before, people I know are volunteering for the military. They are volunteering to put their life on the line for some ideal, which I guess is commendable. But not when this ideal involves being trained to kill.

If the Iraq war is something I feel so strongly in my soul, that I feel so strongly is against nature, God, whatever you want to call the forces of the Universe, that I feel so strongly is wrong, then I can't possibly "support" the troops. But if I don't support the troops, then I am against them. If I say I do not support the troops, then that means I don't want them to succeed. I do not care if they acheive their given objective. I do not care if they die. Which I find hard to swallow. But what if their objectives are against my own moral and ethical code, which I know many of them are? What if my support overlooks the horrible prisoner abuse that soldiers inflict on Iraqi prisoners? What if my lack of support overlooks the U.S. soldiers' bodies mutilated by Iraqi soldiers and insinuates my apathy?

Right now I see no way out. Either way I'm fucked. I don't know how to express my views on the Iraq war anymore. I know that it is wrong. I know that I don't want the U.S. to be there and that I haven't wanted the U.S. to be there since April of 2003. I know that I don't want anyone else to die. But I have to pick a side. And that is what I hate about the United States today.

Hillary Clinton

Hillary Clinton is a remarkable person. I didn't vote for her in the primary. But she's still a remarkable person. People really love Hillary Clinton. And people really hate Hillary Clinton. I am sort of baffled as to why on both accounts. I can not comment on her background as a senator or her voting record in congress and because politics is far too important a stage for me to feign knowledge in this, I readily profess my ignorance. So to those who love Hillary Clinton for her senatorial record and various achievements, I commend you. For those who hate Hillary Clinton for her senatorial record and, in this case, various failures, I commend you also. Political conciousness of any kind is a worthy and attractive trait. Congrats.
But then there are those people. You know, those people. I'm not talking about Republicans or Democrats. Those people are bi-partisan. They span across the ages, races, and religions. They can be either sex. They are just those people.
Those people are the people that don't like Hillary Clinton just 'cause. I'm not naming names, but I recently heard a young woman say "I just don't know if a woman can be President." Upon hearing my audible gasp of dissent she cushioned her statement with the following "I just don't know if America is ready for a female president." And of course, once the young, wannabe radical feminist driven burst of testosterone and estrogen finished coursing through my body and I no longer felt the need for blood, I started to think about that statement. Although I have heard it before and, I am ashamed to admit, even said it myself at 17 when I was still reeling from a Bush administration re-election and had lost all hope in the democratic process, I had never actually heard that sentiment verbalized by a young woman. The sentiment that maybe it is just because she is a woman that those people don't like her.
One of the young women I know from University was talking with me about politics, something in which we are both very interested. And while she is very informed about politics and current political situations, she could not give me a concrete reason why she just didn't like Hillary Clinton. It was just something about her, she said. Something that just didn't feel right. A hunch. An irksome feeling. Well, what about her policies, I said. Her stance on the environment, the war in Iraq, her current plan for healthcare reform, her stance on same-sex marriages, her views on illegal immigrants. What, WHAT about her do you not like. And she just could not do it. It was just not there. She just had a "feeling."
I have been feeling this sentiment from many people. The common "icky" feeling that Hillary Clinton inspires. Although I will admit her speeches are lackluster and her looks, made important through our televised and wireless society, may not be those of a supermodel, I certainly don't feel something about her. If so many people, from so many different backgrounds, can feel the same "ickyness" about the same person what is the common denominator? What is it about her? For some reason, I think the answer may lie just below the belly button and just above the kneecaps. You guessed it, Hillary Clinton has a vagina.
That must be the reason. I can think of no other plausible explanation. An illustration, if you will. I recently saw a bumper sticker on facebook that made me angry. It said "Hillary Clinton: Not good enough for Bill, not good enough for America." That seemed curious to me. Not only was it curious that someone could take a horrible experience in a person's life, that of a woman's husband cheating on her and lying about it, and make it fodder for a joke, but it was also curious that Hillary Clinton's personal marital woes would be ground for her dismissal as a presidential candidate. Now, I know the sticker was in jest and I know that the person sending the bumper sticker probably doesn't believe that mistakes a woman's husband makes reflect negatively on her, but the fact remains that it was said in the first place. The saying implied firstly, that Hillary Clinton was "not good enough" for her husband and that was the reason he had an affair with another woman. Implying that it was some sort of character flaw within her that caused her husband to stray. But that is not all the phrase is implying. It is implying much, much more about U.S. views on gender roles and politics. There are deeply divided gender roles still in the United States today and women are continually categorized by these gender roles. If Hillary Clinton can't be a "woman" in the traditional sense, if she can't fit into the gender roles in our society, then she can't do much else either. Because, after all, isn't it a woman's job to satisfy her husband? Isn't is what women are supposed to do? Look after home and hearth. And if a woman can not do that, how is she supposed to run a country?
People, those people, should describe their funky feeling about Hillary Clinton as an "uncomfortable" feeling. U.S. citizens, as a whole, are intimidated by women in positions of power. It goes against hundreds of years of Western political thought. The foundation of democracy, the foundation of our government has been built upon the writing and teachings of the great thinkers such as Plato, Aristotle, Rousseau (thanks Prof. Taylor) and countless others and nearly all of them have views about traditional gender roles and how they define women's place in politics. These ideas, which I could not even articulate in a semester course, much less a blog, have created our ideas about women. Politicians and members of U.S. society have perpetuated these antiquated theories about the feminine "nature" and the women's "natural role" as wife and mother.
Women have a delicate nature. They are too soft for politics. Educating women will not help them perform their wifely and feminie duties. According to Roussea, the very presence of schooling will hurt a woman's chances of fulfilling her womanly duties of conceiving a child. It all goes back to gender roles. It even goes back to the Bible and Christianity. Women suffer during childbirth because Eve showed Adam the Forbidden Fruit.
Hillary Clinton is calling bullshit on this....well, bullshit.
She is a strong woman. Who is a wife. And a mother. And someone who does portray the traditional femininity on the outside. That woman is queen of the pantsuit and the matching necklace and earrings and she has to use AquaNet like it's going out of style. Yet she is a politician. She is running for the presidential nomination. And it is a close race. And this is so unfamiliar, so intimidating, and so damn scary.
The United States likes ruts. We like our tradition. Our happy little medium where everything ends like a full house episode. Unfortunately, real life isn't like that. Change happens. Revolutions happen. Hillary Clinton happens. And people are afraid. But it is only through this "uncomfortable" feeling and this "icky" period that women can break through in the realm of politics.
We have done it before and we can do it again. Can I get an Amen?

Laundry

The night before we left El Salvador, my professor told us that it would be a good idea to jot down some ideas, thoughts, etc. about the trip while it was still fresh in our minds. Although I didn't do it right then, I keep having this vision, this one memory that I can't get out of my head. I had to write it down. It seems to haunt me in both positive and negative ways. Usually when I blog, I don't get that personal. I know I talk about a lot of personal things, I talk about my life, I even talk about my period blood. But this is something that is different. And nobody, but the 11 people that went to El Salvador with me will understand.
I can still see her hands. Rythmic. Washing. Almost as if to music, but the only audible sounds are those of Spanish words my brain has to strain to make out. I can't take my eyes off her. She has it down to a science. Water. Soap. Clothing. All mixed together to create a single everyday task that both impresses and murders me. She is young. Maybe not even my age. Yet she has come a long way. Figuratively, not literally though the path to the stream is rocky and steep at times, ripe with loose dirt that will delightfully give way without warning making even the toughest shoes feel like socks sliding across a freshly waxed floor. Forcing this motley group of travelers to hold hands and stumble down the well worn trail. But she is wearing sandals. Her hands are fascinating, her arms strong as she kneads the cloth back and forth against the hard rock surface. Back and forth. Back and forth. Stopping intermittently to apply soap and water. But the water serves more than this purpose. It is to drink. Plastic wrappers float in the stream and curious children jump from one rock to the next. It is hot and I feel the beads of sweat running down my spine and the moisture collecting in between my fingers. I want to leave, but I am just watching. She seems to sense me starting and she turns, never pausing in her task, and smiles. White teeth against brown skin. I want to cross the few feet between us, take her wet hands into my own and kiss them. I want to kneel down at her feet and beg her forgiveness for my selfish materialism. I want to tell her everything I know. Somehow link hands, connect myself to her and show her hopes, dreams, and everything that could be. I want to tell her how much I want to help her. How much I want to change things for her. How horribly impossible it all seems at this moment. I silently lift one corner of my mouth in a shy smile and she turns back around. Never breaking her cadence of washing.

Tengo miedo de las cucarachas y otros cosas aprendí en El Salvador

So I got back from El Salvador on Friday after being there for ten days and have been putting off blogging about it for a couple days now. Before I left I thought that blogging would be the first thing I would do when I got back, but I just haven't been motivated. Because the thing is. No matter what I write, how much I say, how many adjectives I use, how many stories I tell, and how many pictures I upload no one will ever know what it was like besides the people that were there. It's tough. Everywhere we went. In the countryside and in the urban areas, the people we met with were so happy to see us. Bursting. And they were glad to tell their story, no matter how painful it was, because we would be able to carry their stories back to the United States. That was the task given to us: tell others about what is happening here and maybe it will get better. The sad thing is, most people in the U.S. don't care about El Salvador. It's small, the size of Rhode Island and it doesn't make a big impact on the world, economically or politically. The twelve year civil war, which killed over 75,000 people, made many afraid of the country. I don't even know that many Americans would be able to point out El Salvador on a map or even tell it's general location. So I don't know what to say about El Salvador. I was there for ten days. I got two mosquito bites on my ass and many more elsewhere. I went to villages labeled as having "extreme poverty." I stayed with a family who only had running water for a couple hours out of everday. I went to the bathroom in a latrine. I saw bugs I didn't even know existed and did things I never thought I could do. I hiked up a hill over 1,000 meters high and made it to the top panting and sweating and on the way down saw where the guerilla army hid during the civil war. I was in the forsest where the Salvadoran government had napalmed the guerrillas with U.S. leftovers from Vietnam. I met the woman whose daughter had been brutally murdered for standing up for human rights, a spike shoved up her vagina, as a last cruelty to her sex. I took a picture of the hills and river that villagers stumbled and raced across, in hopes that they would survive another massacre by government death squads. I cried. I listened to a woman as she cried and told of the pain she still feels when she thinks of her two and a half year old daughter being killed by a soldier. When she spoke openly of her faith in God and forgiveness, I felt free. I prayed for her husband, father, mother and 70 other members of her extended family who also died at the hands of the military squads. I felt relieved to get back into an air-conditioned van. I ate beans....a lot. I met some of the bravest people I will probably ever meet. I was inspired. I laughed. I saw babies and children who will never know what it is like to grow up without poverty, violence, and struggle. I walked over the broken shards of metal and the burnt bits of tin that was once a woman's house. I felt anger when I learned the fire could not be put out because the town only has running water two days a week. I was helpless as she lamented the fact that she lost everything. I stank. An old woman looked curiously at my notebook and told me my handwriting was well-made. That she wished she could read the English letters. I was humbled. I gave hugs. I received many more. I complained. I rejoiced. I ate fruit straight from the tree. I ate the national flower of El Salvador. I saw monkeys in cages in a backyard. I stuck my toes into the black sand. I saw the clothes Archbishop Romero was wearing when he was assassinated for being a defender of social justice and human rights. I saw blood gushing from his mouth on the altar. I saw the altar on which he was sacrficied. I took pictures. I talked. I slept on a bed and I slept on the floor. I talked about poop, my own and others, a lot. I took my malaria pills. A doctor at the Pan-American health organization told us there was no malaria in El Salvador. I saw kids walking miles to school without complaint. I met people who desperately wanted to go to college. I was ashamed. I felt lost in translation. I walked in a cloud. I met people so beautiful that their spirit shone from the inside out. I heard lies from the government. I ignored the barefoot and homeless begging for a dollar on the streets of San Salvador. I marveled over the number of Pizza Huts in the city. I heard famers in the countryside tell of their struggle to make a living. I watched a Latin American version of Dancing with the Stars. I talked about American Idol. I sweat. I felt hope. I saw beautiful beaches and houses made of plastic. I watched Troy with Spanish subtitles and saw women washing their clothes in a stream. I wondered how I would ever tell others about what I'd seen. I wondered if I wanted to. I tried.

Period Blood

Ok so last blog I was talking about how I got a mooncup and how I was totally excited to use it. Well I started my period today and I was actually in the library so I had to make do with a tampon. But I put the mooncup in tonight at about 11 and since I was planning to stay up and do homework (or blog) I decided I would empty it before I went to bed and then wear it overnight. The mooncup is probably the most amazing feminine hygeine product ever to be invented. I actually don't like the words "feminine hygeine" I think it makes women feel that there is something dirty or wrong about their vagina if it doesn't smell like a summer breeze or spring rain or whatever the douches (literally and figuratively) tell you a vagina should smell like. Anyhow, after practicing putting it in and getting it out (like I said before tight pussy) I was super excited to try it. After a false start and my little shimmy shake it dance I always seem to have to do after I insert it, I finally got it in and I couldn't even feel it which was awesome because it sits waaayyy lower than a tampon (the very bottom sits JUST inside the vagina, but nothing actually sticks out). So I was actually super duper excited to empty it even though I was having a pretty light day. Now, this may sound weird, but I was actually fascinated at what my period blood would look like. I have had my period for almost almost 8 years so I have seen my period blood before, but it's always been in pad or a tampon and it's always beeen something I was eager to throw away or hide or make sure had not leaked anywhere. I've used tampons for the last 6 years and I have never really taken the time to look at my tampons before so I was actually kind of curious to see what it would be like unabsorbed, straight from the source. I sat on the toilet to remove it because I was unsure how full it actually was and I didn't want to spill it out everywhere and when I took it out and poured out the blood into the toilet, I was totally fascinated. It was almost like I reached in and took out a part of myself and could look at who I was and where I came from. A lot of people think period blood is gross, but it's not. It's beautiful. It's life. It's not like any other bodily fluid, it's not like urine or the blood that you encounter when you scrape your knee or any other type of fluid people usually hesitate to come in contact with, it's so much more than that. As the blood began to swirl around in the toilet bowl, I actually looked at it. It wasn't like normal blood, it was heavier and there were particles of tissues like little red spiderwebs floating in the clear water. It didn't gross me out. In fact, for the first time I actually wanted to celebrate the fact that I had my period. I wanted to celebrate the fact that I was a woman and that I had such an awesome gift inside me that was capable of this amazing feat of nature. I have never condsidered my period beautiful. I have come to not mind it as much over the years, but I have never considered it a desirable thing. While I would not want to have more than one a month, I no longer think of it as an inconvenience. I do not agree that women are just uteruses waiting for a baby to be made so they can fulfill their ultimate role as a female, but seeing the way my body creates and rids itself of something so vital to my identity as a female human being is truly amazing. In some way, seeing my period blood has made me appreciate myself as a woman. It has made me become more in touch with my own body. It has made me appreciate my body and how amazing it is, how it works all according to some plan of the universe. Anyway, yah! period blood

My Vagina and other things

In accordance with my new earth mother/hippie vibe I have been, well, vibing to for the past few months, I decided to take another step towards making my body one with nature and buy a mooncup (like I would ever go off the pill!) What is a mooncup (www.mooncup.co.uk) you ask? It's a silicone cup that sits just inside the vagina and is held in place by the vaginal wall muscles and collects menstrual fluid. Basically I shove it up my cooch to catch my period blood. It's reusable, less expensive, less risky, and totally cooler than tampons. I had to order it from the UK and I just got it in the mail today after waiting for a long three weeks. Opening the package was better than when I got my easy bake oven for Christmas when I was five. So I decided to try it out. At first sight it looked big. And this was a problem for me because, to put it in the best terms possible, I have a tight pussy. And I like it that way. So even though it was silicone and very bendy I was still scared. But it worked out pretty good. I got the size B which is for women who have not had a baby and are under 30. You have to fold it first and then once it is inserted it opens up inside you sort of like a tampon absorbs, but it doesn't go as far up as a tampon, which actually might be a good thing considering I had a scary experience with a tampon applicator last period, but that is a whole other blog. Anyway, it was a little uncomfortable inserting it, but once I got it in it was fine. I have to trim a little of the stem (the part you hold while you put it in), but I think it will work just fine. The only problem was that I had to take off both my jeans and underwear and squat to put it in, which might prove difficult if I am in a public bathroom, and at the very least grounds for arrest for indecent exposure. The only other problem I can forsee is possibly the suction. The suction also holds it inside the vagina, but like I said before, I'm tight and I don't necessarily need the suction. But when they say suction they mean suction and for a few seconds I was afraid I had aborted something, but I was able to ease it out and my vaginal walls remain intact. I am skipping my next period because I will be in El Salvador with limited facilities, so I will officially break in the mooncup in June. Very exciting indeed. Oh and not only did I help the environment by buying such a environmentally friendly product, but I also found my g-spot in the process. Al Gore was right all along.

I want to see Socrates vs. Plato in a Celebrity Deathmatch episode

The tip of my flip flop got caught on an uneven part of the sidewalk today and I almost fell flat on my face when I was walking back from main campus. I thought I had broken my flip flop at first and I am glad I didn’t because that happened to me when I went to Olive Garden last summer. My shoe broke under the table and I had to walk out of the restaurant and through the parking lot in my bare feet (I thought I would look stupid if I was just wearing one shoe, plus I would have felt lopsided). I am also glad I didn’t fall because it would have been like the time last year when I fell into the elevator and was sprawled out with my books on the floor as two innocent bystanders stared at me until the elevator doors slowly closed. Or the time when I was walking with a bunch of groceries and I fell right on my face and smooshed all my groceries underneath me. Or the time when I fell outside the Fine Arts building, but still managed to save the cupcake I was holding from damage. Or the time in high school when I fell in the parking lot at work and one of my co-workers say me lying dazed on the pavement and thought he had run me over with his car whilst backing out of the garage. Today I had to go turn in my London study abroad forms and my $500 deposit, but Pat wasn’t there so I went back a second time and the doors were closed. So I tried to open one, but it wouldn’t work. Three girls were inside on the other side of the glass doors staring at me. Yet no one really seemed to care that I obviously was fighting a losing battle with the door and as a result no one came to my rescue...I think you had to push.