Halloween

So a few weeks ago, I got the breakup haircut. I convinced myself I could pull off Bettie Page bangs and off went my beloved hair.

Luckily, it worked. It's definitely the best haircut I've ever had and I love it.

Well, when researching my bangs, I came across this picture of Bettie Page and I knew instantly (with the encouragement from many friends and my roommate) that it needed to be the inspiration for my Halloween costume.

To put the ensemble together, I used lingerie from Hips & Curves, borrowed some gloves, found a whip for a few bucks at a Halloween store, and applied the perfect pinup makeup. Here's the final result!

(Barack Obama approved, clearly.)

Fierce Fashion

So last week, in a sadness-induced online shopping binge, I bought two fierce dresses fromFaith 21. (I HATE the name, and worry that Forever 21 still uses unethical labor practices, but I was having a moment.)

Anyway, they arrived earlier this week and they are both pretty fabulous.

For your viewing pleasure:

I already bought a pair of fierce pink peep-toes to go with this one.

Me thinks this will be my Pride Prom dress :)

Also, apologies for the photo quality. I'm still working on the kinks of taking full length pictures of myself.

Embarking on New Journeys

My life has been in a transition state as of late, and as an effect, I often find myself feeling sort of directionless and unsure of where I want to go next. I’m torn by a devotion to being a passionate advocate of too many causes, some of which contradict one another, and I’ve been looking for something into which I can focus my energies.

I think I’ve found that something in doula. A doula is trained in everything from massage techniques to ease the pain of surges (aka contractions) to breastfeeding to helping a birthing mother exercise her rights in a hospital setting. A good friend of mine and I have discussed for a good long while becoming DONA certified Birthing Doulas together. It’s something I’ve wanted to do since I first learned what a doula was and is something that is required for her on her bigger journey of becoming a midwife. Said most simply, a doula is an advocate for the pregnant woman and the birthing mother.

Today, we really committed to the idea. We bought the books we have to read, scheduled out when we were going to accomplish certain aspects of the training over the next year and a half or so, and made our commitment more concrete. It’s a long process that involves books and papers and workshops and trainings and character references and attending births and a million other hoops through which we’ll have to jump, but it’s one that I’m so excited about.

The idea of reclaiming birth is something about which I care deeply. I can’t tell you exactly why, though it probably stems of my intense desire to birth and mother children one day and the rejection of the fact I need help from doctors to do what my body is literally designed to do. I hate the idea of pregnancy and birth being seen as a medical condition or problem. It makes me sad to see birthing mamas hooked up to IVs and surrounded by a stressful and fear-filled hospital environment. Let me insert here that I am not opposed to hospital births or obstetricians or C-sections or pain medication-I’m simply opposed to women being raised to think that this is their only option when it comes to birth. I would be happy to work as the doula for a woman who carefully examined her options and decided that a hospital birth was still best for her. One of the biggest roles of a doula, in my eyes, is to help women realize all the options they have when it comes to their birth plans and help them navigate through any problems that arise.

As I move through this process over the next few years, I’ll be sure to share my journey and what I learn about birth, mothering, and myself.

The Whistles

I’ve been trying to write this post for a few days, but each time I tried to explain how I felt in an even-toned, well thought-out way, it devolved into rant.

And then I realized I was treating my ranting as though it wasn’t an appropriate response to the situation, when instead, I should be focusing on the power my outrage holds.

Here’s the situation. It’s a Friday evening. I look killer because I have a date later that night. I’m walking home, and out of nowhere, I hear the yell. The “Hey girl. Looking goooood. Want my number?” yell.

Later that night, whilst walking around the downtown area of my college town, I hear the sound that I can only describe as a “whistle-grunt.” Anyone who has been cat-called knows what I’m talking about.

I was alone the first time it happened. I turned up my iPod, hurried home, and tried to shake the incredibly disgusting feeling that kind of thing always leaves me with. The second time it happened that night, I was with my date. I had already talked about what had happened earlier and how much I intensely dislike being yelled at by strange men in passing cars. When it happened again, I screamed back “my short skirt is not a fucking invitation” and my date tried to figure out the best way to support me. I said there was no right way. I just needed to be angry for awhile and sort it out.

The next day, I discussed the situation with one of my best feminist friends. When expressing my disdain for cat-calling, she said something to the effect of “I know. It just takes away all your power in that one moment. It’s such a sudden and powerful shift and it’s an awful, awful feeling.”

I couldn’t agree more. When it happens, it’s like all at once, the years of work I’ve put into loving my body-seeing it as a temple I am lucky enough to live within, means nothing. It feels like no matter what I do and how hard I fight for the kind of justice I believe in, to some, my body will always be some sort of public domain upon which they have the right to comment.

It’s also made me analyze the different things that get yelled at me while I’m walking down the street depending on who I’m with. (The whole cat-calling/slurring happens to me on a way too frequent basis) When I’m by myself, it’s almost always a traditional cat-call and the same when I’m with a more masculine looking date/friend/partner. When I would walk around with a former partner who was more feminine presenting, however, we always got the “DYKE” slur yelled from cars of anonymous white men. My real point, however, is that no matter what the situation, it seems my body or my life is still something that people (read: white men) feel it is their place to speak about.

I know there has been a real movement to reclaim cat-calling and I think the women who can turn random comments from random men into something that affirms their beauty and self-worth are truly radical. But I can’t. At least not yet. When it happens to me, I still feel like the 12 year old I used to be. The one who hated her body and didn’t know how it fit into this great big world. I’m not her anymore, and I’m tried of people trying to bring her back.

New Beginnings

I've realized over the past few months I miss writing for a (real or imagined) audience. I've been relearning the skill and devotion necessary to writing for myself, and maybe through boredom, or perhaps ego, I feel the need to push my limits.

Most likely, this blog will be some strange balance of longer, (hopefully) well-thought-out posts of my experiences as a queer, fat, and femme feminist. Let's just see how this goes.