An existential crisis

As regular Island readers know, I love being a good citizen. When I say "good citizen," I don't mean someone who follows all the rules or never questions why things are the way they are. I mean a person who cares deeply for her community and country, especially when doing so is hard or the motivation is lacking. To me, a good citizen is someone who participates - by voting, protesting, paying taxes, getting involved, getting angry, crying while watching convention speeches and montages. It's also about small things like putting your cart back and not cutting people off in traffic. I'm the type of person who gets excited about jury duty, and then doesn't have to serve (side note: I have now served on a jury and it was one of the most heart-wrenching experiences of my life).  

One of my favorite "good citizen" activities has always been volunteering on various political campaigns. I've been doing this since I was 17 and handed out flyers for Mark Warner's first Senate run. It's fun, despite the horrible things old ladies in Southwest Virginia call you (rhymes with punt), and I like having the backstage look at what happens in state or local campaign offices. I was so excited in 2016 to campaign for Hillary Clinton. I canvassed, I phone banked, I registered voters, and I worked as a poll place greeter. I felt energized in way I hadn't felt since that first campaign 20 years earlier. It wasn't that I didn't feel like part of something bigger in other campaigns (Obama's first term comes to mind), it's that this race felt uniquely personal. 

And then I woke up on November 9th. 

I was gutted. I couldn't believe she didn't win. I knew I it was going to happen before I went to bed on Election Night; I stayed up until Florida was called, but I had this hope that I'd wake up the next morning and it would all be revealed as a horrible joke. And here we are, almost four years later, living in the most messed up timeline in a long time. Trump's America in 2020 is a disaster and he is an embarrassment. Existing in this country at this time is exhausting. As Governor Michelle Lujan Grisham (NM) said during the DNC, Trump's presidency is "an existential crisis." I don't think I've ever agreed with a statement more than this. I feel it in bones how exhausting it is. I have never in my entire life thought about the presidency more than I have since he was elected, and none of it is good. I'd like to return to a life where I don't spend so much time thinking about what disaster is going to happen next. Or what stupid, racist thing he's going to say next. Or worry that the Post Office is going to collapse and one of my neighbors won't get his medication on time (I'd go get if for him if I could, but that's not the point and it comes from the VA). I legitimately can't think about what another four years of this will do to all of us. 

And so I did what good citizen me does, I stayed up late on two school nights and watched nights three and four of the Democratic National Convention. I figured that the convention, which I've watched every presidential election cycle since 1996, would cheer me up a bit, or at least give me some hope. I missed the roll call vote from night two, but watched it on YouTube. It's amazing; take the 40-ish minutes and watch the whole thing. Then go watch Michelle Obama and Jill Biden's speeches from the first two nights. They're wonderful.

I opted to watch nights three and four so I could watch Joe Biden and Kamala Harris accept their nominations. There were times when I was moved to tears: Gabby Giffords's speech, the segment on gun violence victims, young climate change activists, domestic violence survivors discussing Biden's role in getting the Violence Against Women Act (which needs to be reauthorized now), anything about Beau Biden. Other times, the speeches and videos were energizing and made me so proud to be a citizen and a member of this party. Yes, I was annoyed Mike Bloomberg had any time and Julian Castro had none. I understood why some speakers had more time. Elizabeth Warren will always be my candidate (excellent BLM message in background). I loved President Obama's "fiery" (you know, Obama fiery) speech, and cannot wait for Vice President Kamala Harris. 

The moment I was most moved by and have been sitting with since Thursday was during Joe Biden's acceptance speech. It was probably the best speech I've ever seen him give; he wasn't a candidate, he was a President. I forgot what a having an articulate President looks like, what a leader looks like. It was overwhelming to watch (in a very good way). The part of the speech that hit me the hardest was when Biden offered his condolences to those lost to the pandemic. I started crying; that was the moment that did it. We haven't had any sort of national mourning or memorial for those lost. Unlike past national tragedies, we haven't come together as a nation to mourn. I could rationalize that because the pandemic is still raging in the US, it's hard to nationally mourn, but that's only part of it. The problem lies with the person currently occupying the White House. Biden did, in a few minutes, what the president should have done, but hasn't. The contrast between these two men could not be any clearer. 

I know I'm being a bit of a broken record these days, but I can't stress enough how important it is for everyone to vote. It's not just about being a good citizen; it's about fighting for the soul of this nation. I can't stress that enough. Please don't stay home or vote third party because Joe Biden wasn't your candidate. He wasn't mine either, but I understand, and I think a lot of people grumbling about him understand, he's the candidate we need right now. What I saw during the DNC was a unified party, something we haven't had in a long time. We need that to defeat the Impostor in Chief. 

I really want to go back to a time when I wrote about movies, my ridiculously handsome cat, and day trips to Dinosaur Land, but I can't do that right now. I hope that sometime in 2021, maybe around the middle of January, I'll be able to return to our regularly scheduled Island. Until then, this is what you get. Reminders to vote, be decent to one another, and wear your damn mask. 

(This photos are from an embroidery piece I finished a few months ago. One side is a song lyric, the other side is a graphic representation of the lyric. This lyric is from "People Have the Power" by Patti Smith.)

Your Resident Single Friend: You're not the cat's pajamas

Today is both Hug Your Cat Day and Old Maid's Day. I'll let that sink in for a moment.

Old Maid. Spinster. Cat Lady. To say that these phrases make me rage-ful would be an understatement. I've never been fond of the idea that the only way to value women is by their marriageability or fertility; this is not a new story just another day in the life of being female.

I've been called a spinster before. Not by anyone I knew personally but by the government of Hong Kong. Yes, the government of Hong Kong. A few years ago I traveled to Hong Kong to conduct training for a school district in the city. Based on the length on my stay and the work I was doing, the school recommended that I apply for a work visa. The application included a field for marital status. I most places, the options are usually "single/unmarried", "married', "divorced", and maybe "widowed." Not Hong Kong.

This is from my actual visa application.

They couldn't just use "unmarried" or "single" which would cover both of the options included in the box I had to check. I was told that it has to do with British forms still being used but I don't know that I actually believe this explanation. I'm pretty sure there's something else here. At the time I opted to make fun of it on the Island and move on because I was going to Hong Kong and that was pretty cool. It was the first and only time I've ever had to use that word to describe myself and it will be the last.

I've been reading Rebecca Traister's book All the Single Ladies. The book takes a look at the political and social power of single women. While Traister focuses on current events and 21st century women to tell their stories, she also presents a historical look at the evolution of single women and social change in the US. It's a great read; I recommend it to everyone, not just the single ladies out there. In one section early on, Traister mentions the historical meaning of the word spinster. In its original use, from roughly the 16th-18th centuries, it was used to describe women who were employed as spinners. These were women who spun fabric and thread for home and commercial use. Many were unmarried but their status was not as important as their profession. During the 18th century, the definition shifted, mostly focusing on women who remained unmarried and were beyond the socially acceptable age for marriage (their early 20s). And of course, from there, it becomes a terrible way to describe an unmarried woman. "Old Maid" is a sister term, coming about in the Victorian era and is also the name of a card game where players are supposed to get as many paired cards as possible. Unpopped popcorn kernels are also referred to as old maids. Traister discusses the more successful spinsters in one chapter, women like Mary Cassatt, Emily Bronte, and even Elizabeth I.

What I appreciate about Traister's book is her look at how women have bucked against these limiting terms, creating single lives and married or partnered lives, on their own terms. It's satisfying to read of the experiences of other women my age (or younger or older), famous and not, who feel the same as I do: that marriage and family is not the goal; it's one of may possible options that exist out there in the world. In my post last week, I mentioned how it bothered me that Muriel only thought she was worth something and successful if she got married. What Muriel failed to realize is that she was amazing regardless of her martial status. We need to be okay with this idea and teach this girls and young women (and boys and young men too).

I was thinking about all of these things as I returned to my apartment after a fire alarm forced us all out into the night. I was getting ready to go to bed when the fire alarm went off. Not knowing if it was a false alarm or an actual emergency, I quickly threw on shoes, packed Pumpkin into her carrier, and walked down seven flights of stairs to the front of the building with everyone else. As you can imagine, Pumpkin was not amused. It turned out to be a false alarm; someone hit the alarm on accident. Once we got the okay, we all made our way back into the building. That was when Pumpkin began meowing like she was being tortured (or singing the song of her people as I like to describe it). People were staring and making comments about there being a cat. Why wouldn't someone have a cat? Other people brought their dogs with them; it's the natural thing to do in the face of a possible emergency. One of my neighbors even asked me why I brought her downstairs with me. Those of you who know me well can probably picture the face I made at this guy. I politely responded that I wouldn't leave a living being to suffer in a fire or some other emergency. I heard him say "cat lady" under his breath as we walked our separate ways. Admittedly, I was shocked by that; no one has ever called me a cat lady in a vicious way before either. Had I not had Pumpkin in her carrier and was actually wearing real clothes (I too was in my pajamas), I would have followed him to ask this: What the fuck is your problem and why don't you like cats?

This experience made me realize several things:

1. I have now seen a fair number of my neighbors in their pajamas. I can never, ever unsee this. 
2. This is the reason most people who live in large apartment buildings don't know their neighbors. 
3. The words "spinster", "old maid", and "cat lady" need to be struck from our vocabulary just as "#(insert any word here)goals" and "bandwidth" need to be struck from our vocabulary.

This would be Pumpkin & my neighbor

I want to believe my neighbor is living the best life he can live and is a truly awesome human being. I want to believe that he was mad at the situation and the fact that he had to evacuate the building in his pajamas (again, can't unsee that) so he took it out on me. But I don't. I don't even think he was trying to be funny. By the time I got upstairs I was as mad as the time a guy standing outside the National Museum of Women in the Arts tried to grab my ass as I walked past. Outside of a women's art museum!

Yes, being called a "cat lady" is not the worst thing he could have done but that absolutely 100% does not excuse the behavior. I wish I had done something at the time to tell him that wasn't okay but I didn't. I forgot Ms. Norbury's words to us in Means Girls: You all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it ok for guys to call you sluts and whores. Never forget Mrs. Norbury's advice.

Up next on the Island: I'm taking next weekend off to celebrate my entry into my 37th year (my birthday is next Saturday). I'll be back the following week with a new UT Recipe and later this month I'll be sharing my adventures in yoga. You read that right - yoga. There might even be a new chapter from my novel to share. June is going to be one busy month!

Awkward Hug
Hug Your Cat Day
Old Maid's Day