Ms. Dunham's Genius

"No, I am not a sexpert, a psychologist, or a dietician. But I am a girl with a keen interest in having it all, and what follows are hopeful dispatches from the frontlines of that struggle."

Lena’s new book, Not that Kind of Girl: A young woman tells you what she's 'learned,' is a comforting hug for all of womankind. Her stories meld together in a dry fondue of awkward sexual encounters, body dysmorphia, loving friendships, and general angst that encompasses the experience of young girls and women in our society. I found in her book a sense of comradery—which is certainly what she sought to forge. She reaches across the page like an empathic friend giving you the last bite of the chocolate croissant upon recounting a night of questionable consensual sex. Cause let’s be honest, all young women get ‘fucked’ by society in many ways, shapes, and forms. Ms. Dunahm, with her trademark wit and biting candor, unapologetically calls out said-‘fucking’ and breathes hope into the future of femininity without sanguine reverie or direct condemnation of patriarchy. Men and women alike, to give a unique insight into some themes prominent in young females’ experience, should read this book and honor a creative luminary of our generation, Lena Dunham.

She Goes Away From Me

 

She goes away from me.
We call it traveling.
We say it makes us grow to be apart.
Something is dull around my heart.
She calls me every night.
Though she left in the light,
in the morning I am formal
I make the day seem normal.

Women want to speak, to trust
with knowledge every loss,
to follow thread from the needle's eye
straight to the lucid sky.
Andrea speaks of sexual intelligence.
One to another we hold evidence.
Sewn in the corners of our samplers
we tell the underside of what appears.
Thus we grow together like grass,
wind singing and tuned, we are a mass.

Karin likens you and me to family,
our leaving like the failing of a village
without a name, and not yet mapped.
Or like a young death; infant wrapped
into the ground. What is this for,
this little life, nothing more
than brief breathing? And yet, it's not from pity
that mothers christen for eternity.
Women brought communion
to every effort in the West.
Men spoke of softening but this was less
than we intended. What we mean by root
is metaphor and real, buried essence, truth.
Somewhere in the circle of each mind
is every detail, bliss, suffering, kind.

She goes away from me
but someone in her does not leave.
And I am pulled out there.
This is called pain, called missing, loss.
But keeping this, one can go anywhere.
All I've lost is what I have not grieved.

---Susan Griffin--from Unremembered Country

Atmosphere--Susan Griffin

Learning to
draw tenderness, the
sky is full of
snow for her,
and she knows the
road curves around
her and the chill
of the air has no
fear, and she
sees her sorrow
gleaming in the
hardening river, she is
learning to take
tenderness from the
atmosphere.

---Unremembered Country pg 9

Masks that Kill

These are some previews for documentaries highlighting the nefarious undertones of Western gender roles. Both men and women are forced to embody an unattainable or destructive version of themselves to feel worthy in society. Awareness is the road to change.

Photo-cred---The Sartorialist

Inherited Insecurity

             Holidays bombard the mind--the sweets and meat sweats, the nog-fueled family games and consequential brawls. It is without a doubt, the most haywire time of any year. Everything seems magnified—feasts, gifts, love, loneliness. For anyone teetering on insanity, this is the time to go ham. I’ve surfed this holiday season high like a pro. But, as Newton assured us, there is always a come down; it’s science. 
             I write this at our breakfast bar on another bluebird Colorado morning. The parental units have made their exit to the daily grind in an agro-rush, to-do lists abounding, while I take my time with the morning, make another cup of coffee and let that feeling sink in. You know, the feeling when everyone else in your life seems to have a plan, a purpose, even if it makes them miserable and you sit, twiddling thumbs, eerily content yet maddeningly concerned. I wonder if the Germans have a word for this (they have a word for everything); I shall simply call it ‘postcollegiateangst.’

            If there were such a place in which this psychosocial state would be less of a burden, my hometown should be up there. In fact, I will admit that Glenwood Springs, Colorado is quite exquisite—with landscapes worthy of Ansel Adams’ praise for days and colorful people to fill the space between takes. Living in this high mountain valley of Colorado is a dream, for anyone but those who grew up here.

            You know how it is, coming home. It is the kind of place where everyone knows your name, and that of your parents, and grandparents. And the whole time you’ve been gone, some grand tale has been squeezed down the gossip drain of work-out mom groups and hockey dads as to what you’ve been up to. University is an easy scapegoat; it’s like a coupon for four years out of their microscope of scrutiny. But man, once you dawn that cap, get ready for the firing squad of interrogators. I suppose this—what I like to call ‘small-town syndrome’—and a mélange of my sociocultural upbringing is the reason why every time I come home, no matter what time or space in life I occupy, I feel like a failure.

            I have made the habit of jittering my way through daily tasks with the kind of subtle anxiety that follows hyper-caffeination. A few nights ago, my Dad arrived home from work and I was a veritable mess—cooking, crying, laughing, making excel spreadsheets to map out my life.

            “Hey Kendall Nicole,” he beamed, “how was your day?”

            I shrugged my shoulders and broke down, “I feel worthless Pops.” He enveloped me in a bear hug. I shared with him my fears of this space in my life—where everything is uncertain and responsibilities are endless. I had recently made the decision to move to Portland, Oregon. All prodigious decisions ensue rippling doubt in their wake—did I make the right choice, how will I find work, I don’t have a network—etc.

            My father quelled my discontent with a dose of perspective, as he always does, “Kendall, I can’t imagine much else in the world should scare you considering where you have been and what you have accomplished.”

            This comment really got me thinking about the unsettling aura that has taken refuge in the folds of my prefrontal cortex. It is a societal script of inadequacy that women internalize. We are taught to become smaller, grow inward not outward— never give ourselves well-deserved credit or the benefit of the doubt. There is a self-esteem epidemic among my fellow ladies of the West and I think it is insidiously impeding our progress as humans with incredible talent for change and success.

            How peculiar is that I am so much more comfortable being abroad? I am not afraid to make mistakes or a fool out of myself; I have faith that everything will work out because it has to. In harsh juxtaposition, my home environment makes me question everything—my future, my body, my life-choices. Granted, women are treated atrociously in India, but there is certainly something about our society that degenerates women’s/human’s confidence.

            Perhaps it is a matter of context and this space carries age-old triggers specific to my conditioning, while being in a foreign land allows one to form a new self-concept irrespective of place, people, and past. When you are participating in another society you can always distance yourself from the cultural problems you witness; you can throw up your hands in surrender and think, “this place is crazy.” But when observing social issues at home, it is not something so easily ignored because it is in our mother cultures that we see a reflection of ourselves.

            One aspect of our culture that I find pressures young adults into settling for a safe,  ‘correct’ life (by societal standards), as opposed to pursuing their unique passions, is the premium placed on absolutes. Whether or not we are willing to admit it, we are dualists who thrive on certainty. I blame the religion of science for this mode of thinking—and consumerism. We categorically organize our world because that is what our culture values—a box and complementary explanation for everything. This mental technique, although extremely efficient, doesn’t allow a space for revering the unknown. If us ladies don’t fit into the ‘box’ of perfection as laid out by advertising companies and pop-culture, we render ourselves worthless as individuals.

            Perhaps us Westerners have become accustomed to playing God, but one of many things I learned in India is that we have little control over our lives in terms of macro-level planning. We must submit to the moment and trust that this is exactly where we need to be. Isn’t it true that most genuinely good things in life come to fruition at the whim of what some may call fate? The trick here is learning to have faith in said fate.

            I believe that we only have control insofar as our attitudes, emotions, and thought patterns. Opportunities will only present themselves when the mind is receptive. Thoughts are not innocuous; they have immense energy, carving neural pathways in their wake. These patterns have the ability to create Grand Canyons of mental dysfunction, from whose valley belly we can no longer see the sun. It is truly an amazing magic trick—telling yourself something enough times that you become convinced of its validity—regardless of its basis in rationale. Only if we learn to bolster self-love and dam destructive alleys can we lessen the grip of toxic cultural bombardment. That said, the ability to control mental erosion is a talent of Buddhaesque proportions, although certainly a skill worth cultivating.

            No matter how ‘zen’ the mind, women can’t help but internalize the patriarchal scaffolding of our society. With increased spelunking into the folds of my prefrontal cortex, I have called forth the unsettling aura of self-doubt, interrogating to reveal its nascence. The cultural dogma that assigns greater value to masculinity and objectifies femininity quietly traumatizes female psyches across the world. It is a dialogue of inadequacy that women internalize upon comparing themselves to ‘what women should be.’ We are taught to become smaller, grow inward not outward— never give ourselves well-deserved credit or the benefit of the doubt. The end result is a chronic self-depreciating epidemic, fostered in a soil of shame, that is insidiously impeding women’s progress to be recognized (within and without) as humans who hold up ‘half the sky’.  

            Dr.Gershan Kaufman writes about the psychology of shame and its roots in three American cultural scripts of success, independence, and conformity. The success script values those who ‘pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. As Kaufman writes, “competing for success and achieving by external standards of performance are the clarion calls of culture,” and eventually, “achievement becomes the measure of self-esteem, of one’s intrinsic worth or adequacy.” Dr. Kaufman continues to elaborate on the idea that if individuals don’t achieve the American-dream level of success, they are immediately viewed as failures; “simply being average must seem a curse.” The independence script values the ‘lone-rangers’ who don’t burden others with issues or accept help. The ‘go-it-alone’ attitude hinders the expression of our very essence as social beings. The conformity script is simple enough to understand; our culture doesn’t accept people who are different, in the minority, or outside our high expectations of mental/physical/professional/emotional/familial perfection.

            If you noticed, the aforementioned scripts generating our shame-culture involve the praise of hyper-masculinity and condemnation of care, vulnerability, patience, trust, community, and empathy—all feminine attributes that psychologists believe are rudimentary to combating shame.

            Dr.Brene Brown, a social worker from Texas—a fantastic lady whose work I have been a fan of for a while now—is a shame reseracher. Brown defines shame as,

“an intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection.”

            We all know shame very well; that gut-feeling of “I’m not worthy” that can ruin your whole day. It limits opportunities of exposing yourself or taking chances at greatness due to a festering fear of failure or rejection.  Dr. Brown calls for women especially to start practicing authenticity in their lives—and the path to authentic living is through the forest of vulnerability where shame needs to be recognized, shared, and combated with genuine love for the self, as-is. She recognizes that,

“To love someone fiercely, to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”

            Dr. Brown’s call for humanity to live ‘whole-heartedly’ is liberating. I fully recommend reading any of her books, but my personal favorite is The Gifts of Imperfection.

            In the words of Ross Rosenburg , it all comes down to the question, “are you a human doing or a human being?” When we measure our self-worth by what we ‘do’ rather than who we ‘are,’ shame is bound to rule our lives because the proverbial carrots of our society are simply unattainable. We, as humans, must learn to embrace this culturally inherited insecurity as a condition of living a genuine life. Fear will always continue to lurk in the corners of our mind, and shame will burrow its way into our consciousness, but recognizing these emotions and thought patterns as part of the dark that attracts the light allows us to live genuine lives. As Dr. Brown so eloquently states: 

“The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It's our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows… To become fully human means learning to turn my gratitude for being alive into some concrete common good. It means growing gentler toward human weakness. It means practicing forgiveness of my and everyone else's hourly failures to live up to divine standards. It means learning to forget myself on a regular basis in order to attend to the other selves in my vicinity. It means living so that "I'm only human" does not become an excuse for anything. It means receiving the human condition as blessing and not curse, in all its achingly frail and redemptive reality.”

Shrinking Women-- Lily Myers

 A fellow female friend who struggles with the classic melange of body-image-food-guilt-shitshow shared this slam poem with me; I think it is raw and empowering.

Beautiful Women Unite

This day was full of firsts. I walked with trepidation to the Perambur Loco train station, clutching my purse and covering my head with my dupatta. I missed the first train because I didn't see any identification as to its destination--little did I know that trains in India hardly have physical cues for where they are going, most of the time you have to count on strangers to tell you the way. After riding to Central Station in a men's cart, seeing as I didn't know there were women only carts, I had my blank poker face on like I knew what I was doing, but there's nothing more unnerving than 100+ eyes following your every move when you aren't sure of where you are headed. I traced my zig-zagged way from Central to Park--the suburban train track, called Devi numerous times to make sure I was in the right direction, and finally found her at the Egmore bus stop. 

Cities can be so overwhelming when you have no earthly idea of where you are or how to get around. I am very pleased to say that I feel comfortable getting just about anywhere in Chennai at this point via public transport and if all else fails---there's always auto-rickshaws. And hey, even if you get ripped off, at least you aren't getting groped on an over-capacity city-bus. By the way, there is a women's side on the bus as well--when in doubt, find the huddle of ladies and they will most certainly be glad to protect you and help you on your way. Every woman in a saree will most likely treat you like a demanding mother, correcting your posture or removing pieces of jewelry she doesn't approve of, even if you are a stranger! That said, women's camaraderie extends especially to foreigners here. Most ladies are just concerned that I am so far away from home, my family, and they want to show me hospitality and ensure my safety. 

One time, on a bus, which looked like a mechanical centipede, with a melange of human limbs and carry-ons poking out of every door and window, I saw a woman being subtly groped by a greasy dude, who was taking advantage of the crowd to rub up against her. I tried to make room and motion for her to move closer to me, away from this dude. My attempts caught the attention of some ladies in front of me, who immediately understood the situation and seethed. They started shouting and beating the man off the bus with their tiny purses, shuffling the young lady under their silk wings. I've found this to be such a contrast to my society, where women see every other female as a competition or simply cast strangers off as 'dumb bitches' because of their outfits or mannerisms. 

This was my rumination as the 27D bus roared down Chennai's streets with unsettling speed. Devi put her arm around me, "I am glad Kand, to teach you these ways so you can go freely," she smiled broadly, turning up her Hindi-jams on her tiny Nokia and did a mini-shoulder dance, "I'll show you all the tricks, na? And when I come your place, you show me all the things. So we can go happily, isn't it?" 

"Without you Devi, I dunno what I would do," I said in between jarring stops, the bus slamming on brakes, missing pedestrians by a arms length.

"And me too, without you Kand. We make it a cheerful life, na?" She was interrupted by a lady who dropped her purse in Devi's lap, for safekeeping. "The women at the Vigilance Home will be so glad to meet you." 

The first time I went to the Vigilance Home, a woman's prison in Chennai, I was nervous. I was about to interact with women who had been arrested for sex work, most of them trafficked into the trade. I didn't know what to expect. I had prepared in my head a list of games and activities in case things got awkward. I spent the whole morning practicing my key Hindi phrases, since Devi told me many of the women come from North India. 

We walked down the tree lined driveway leading to a dilapidated building, with bars lining the walk-ways and cats everywhere.

"The warden treats her cats better than the women," Devi whispered, nodding to a gang of kittens devouring a giant plate of pongal. I smiled and observed some women peaking through the bars on the second floor, giggling. After taking my prints, passport sized photo, and letter from the Executive of MCCSS requesting my passage, the gates were unlocked and we entered. Devi led me upstairs to the common room, where the women spend most of their day doing crafts, sleeping, playing games, or primping each other. 

All of the ladies greeted Devi, a group of Hindi women fluttering around her, "Devi-didi! Devi-didi!" For many of these ladies, Devi is their sole hope, as the only social worker in Chennai who visits the Vigilance Home who speaks Hindi. They were all prying here with questions about court dates, petitions, if she could contact their boyfriends and babies. 

She introduced me, "Kendall se mi-li-ye." And they immediately flooded upon me, pinching my face, stroking my arms, asking me questions too fast for Devi to translate.

"Ye larkee bahut sundare naa? This girl is so beautiful, no?"

"Which country bahen?" 

"Tum ka kaam kyaa ho? What is your work?"

"Kyaa tum hindi le-tee ho? Does she speak Hindi?"

"Paribar? Family? Marriage? Boyfriend?"  

  They pulled me down and engaged me in a game--the Indian version of checkers. We all clicked immediately. Over the next few weeks, every Tuesday and Friday, Devi and I would bounce our way to Santhome to visit with these ladies. We would play games, share life-stories, teach each other songs, make up silly dances--sometimes I would listen to their pains as we held hands, sorrow never needs to be translated. They spoke of their babies left in the brothels, their boyfriends far away, their sex-work, their sicknesses, their girl-fights, their loneliness--how their broker calls them in jail, how their parents were murdered in religious riots, how they bribe the guards to use their mobiles to call home, how they hate the prison food, how they are beaten, how they feel like dying. 

"Life achaa naheen bahen, life is no good sister" one woman, Lakshmi lamented, "come prison, life stop." Lakshmi had been in the Vigilance Home for almost two years. She got into sex-work in Mumbai when she had limited options to help get her crippled father out of debt with some slum-goondas. 

Every time I came, she would have some new infection or scary high fever. She can't walk properly anymore and has lost half her weight since being there. Despite her problems, she was more worried about her pregnant sister, who recently joined the  VH and was due soon (no one knew exactly when). Lakshmi and her sister had to deal with their health problems on their own since doctors never came to visit. They would bribe the warden and guards to sneak them tablets; I would often inquire on their behalf, telling those in charge how sick these ladies were and how pregnancies need to be carefully watched over, especially in the last trimester, but to no avail. The ladies stayed sick, and the wardens stayed indifferent to their pains. Devi told me that Hindi girls are treated the worst in the prison because of widespread prejudice Tamils have against Northerners. 

One day when I was sitting with Lakshmi, she was telling me about her boyfriend in Mumbai, how he was the same color as me.

"He's American?" I asked, grinning. 

She smiled, "Amereecain naheen bahen. But white, bahut sundare! So beautiful!"

I continued by telling her how beautiful she was, and she shook her head in disgust,

"Naheen sundare, not beautiful" She tugged at her skin. "Me black-- you white. Black--bad, white--good." The women around her clucked in acquiescence. "Me, thin. I want be fat, naa? Thin naheen sundare. Thin isn't beautiful." 

At this point I called Devi over to translate for me. I continued to tell the ladies how women in the west try to darken their skin, and how they starve themselves to be thin--because they think this is beautiful. Giggles and tisks resounded; they would ask again and again, "Kyoo? Why?" They were incredulous as to how women would actually want to have darker skin or not love their curves.

On our way back to MCCSS, I couldn't help but ponder the true malleability in societal conceptions of beauty. Coming from a woman who used to have an eating disorder, and whose close friends and family members have also struggled with self-love/body acceptance/eating and weight issues, I was literally flabbergasted by the polarity of my culture compared to theirs. Think about how ludicrous it would sound to a group of 20-something American girls if you told them that being pasty-white, having love-handles, and wearing at least three layers of cloth over your breasts was considered exquisitely beautiful. Think about how much easier our lives would be if we wore moo-moos every day and eating carbs wasn't sacrilege. 

Every morning when I open the paper, over a pot of sweet chai and biscuits of course, I am fascinated by the ads and Indian tabloids. There are ads for skin-whitening cream and snapshots of hit-movies, with voluptuous dancers lined up around a greasy hero-figure. The articles speak of how Bollywood stars are hounded about being too thin. That this or that lady is always told by her producers to eat more. "She couldn't walk the catwalk because she was swimming in her saree. A woman has to have some substance." Don't get me wrong, Indians aren't into obesity, they just like a little substance on a lady. I have a theory that it is because this is a country where people still do literally starve everyday and having the means to have a little pudge in your belly is a signal that you are well-off. Plus I have heard personally from Indian men, who are all thin as sticks, that they want something soft to cuddle up to. "See Kand? Bones aren't beautiful," a friend, Dinesh once told me while we were watching a Hindi movie.

I recollect having a conservation about ideas of beauty with Rachel, a lovely lady from Arkansas who was working at Premavasem, the orphanage earlier mentioned. We were on the train to Bangalore, sitting across from a muslim family. The mother in her black dress with her head covered in a colorful scarf, her daughter fully covered except for her eyes, even with gloves and socks despite the tepid heat. We were talking about how some folks back home view conservative cultures or religions as oppressive towards women. And certainly there is a part of me that advocates free-dress for all! Come on, man. I'm a feminist, I'm all for owning your body and working whatever club-wear you rock. But being in a place where the more covered you are, the more respect you receive, I have come to appreciate the reasoning behind modesty. 

"I mean think about it, when we 'dress-up' in the West, we don't leave much to the imagination," Rachel mused amidst the roaring train engine and intermittent wallah-drawls for dosai or masala chai, "but women here, they keep parts of themselves sacred--its like their own beautiful little secret." She continued to tell me about an article she read where a burkah-clad woman was questioned about how it feels to be oppressed by her religion and she wisely replied,

"Frankly, I feel that women in the West are oppressed in that their are treated like sex-objects by their society. People view woman in terms of their bodies and clothes instead of who they really are as humans. I will take being modest in public any day over being objectified by those around me." 

At that very moment, the little muslim girl sitting across from us who had been sharing her hot-ground nuts with us and inquiring about our countries, lifted up her black overdress to reveal an vibrantly beaded hot-pink kurta, with chiffon and intricate flower designs. She pointed to herself with pride, communicating that she did the bead-work. She was startled by the conductor calling out the next stop, sweeping her fashionable secrets up in her traditional covering--she waved with her black gloves and smiled with her eyes, following her mother out of the carriage. 

Being in a culture where the norms and expectations of women and sexuality are so mind-bogglingly opposite, where women save the most intimate parts of themselves for their private life, and being around such amazing women in the Vigilance Home who inspire me with their strength and resilience, yet who are dissatisfied with the very skin and figure that would land them on the cover of Elle magazine in the states, has made me realize, however cliche this sounds, that beauty is something you create in your mind--it is something you own. If you look outwards for validation, you will always find something to dislike, because everyone is so unique and different. Random societal norms, which cause so many awesome women to hate themselves--literally loathe their god-given figure and form, should not be the fucking baseline from which you measure yourself. So many of the internalized beauty ideals are deleterious to self-love. You have to surrender to the idea that beauty is something that you live, and practice, it is not a goal or destination and has to be embodied by your very own unique self. 

Nature & Society--A Final Learning Synthesis

 
           

I just recently returned from a trip to Jackson Hole, WY—a place not unlike scenic Missoula, filled with outdoor enthusiasts, proud dog owners, and beer connoisseurs. In an effort to spark inspiration for this paper, a final learning synthesis, I inquired with individuals whom I encountered as to their choice in living locale. I was greeted with an almost unanimous answer— “uhhh, have you looked around,” pause for a smile or a swig; “the nature here man, I tell you it’s where the magic happens.” The environment of Teton County truly is magical— moose troll around your backyard in the shadow of insurmountable jagged peaks, while national forests, parks, and private preserves border the township. Yet what makes places like Jackson Hole so special is the vibe in which its inhabitants connect with raw nature.  

            On my drive back up to Montana, I was contemplating the similarities between Missoula and Jackson—the folk are likeminded and wilderness abundant. However, the most salient similarity I found was the deep connection people feel to the environment in which they live. Coming from Colorado, I have always defined myself as a mountain girl—there is something about the safety of deep river valleys nestled between rugged peaks that gets under your bones.  Perhaps it is the crisp air, or the fresh headwaters; maybe it’s the infinite trails less traveled or the encounters with forest creatures, going about their lives in no rush above 12,000 feet. Spending a smidgen of time in nature enlightens you as to its true intrinsic value.

            It wasn’t until I traveled a bit, poked my head around, that I recognize what a blessing my ‘home’ has been in the formation of my ecological worldview. I have always lived in a place where wilderness is accessible and life laid back. It is only through recurring jolts of historical contextualization and bare-bones reality checks that I can acknowledge the extent of my multifaceted privilege. I interact with my surroundings with a new consciousness, one laden with socio-historical breadth and geopolitical depth. And as I have found with many intellectual endeavors, once the pot is stirred, questions of contradiction arise: how is it possible that so many individuals, myself included, adulate their natural surroundings also participate daily in a system that is destroying the very object of their ardor?

            The drawing of these parallels, adjacent tangents from the relationship between nature and society were etched in a darker shade after exploring ‘the explaining story,’ as laid out in Professor Spencer’s course, instigated with the intriguing novel, Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn. The book Ishmael provided a framework of key terms and ideas to siphon through the convolutions of history, philosophy, religion, and science flushed out through the semester. Ishmael poses many critical questions whose nascence lies in the labyrinth of environmental thought and action. And while the depth of this tale will not be given due course within the confines of this essay, I will seek to identify the key turning points in Euro-American history that led us to our current ideological and behavioral setting. While contemplating and elaborating on the historical bricks laid in the path to our modern Western paradigm, for the sake of brevity I will fast-forward through thousands of years of humanities’ dynamic relationship with nature and focus on paramount shifts.

. Many revolutions mark the history of our species: Neolithic, urban, industrial, technological, globalizing, etc. What they all have in common is their ecological complexity that can be viewed through the sociological acronym, POET, which stands for population, organization, environment, and technology (Palen 76). To use the Neolithic revolution as an example: the technology of food storage allowed for a surplus of food, the surplus in food enabled an increase in population, which created a space for new social and political organization into hierarchal city-states, which all in turn had numerous effects on the environment such as soil degradation and pollution. This model is useful for examining the complexities between nature and society; where advances may occur in one letter may proliferate impediments in another. Such is the paradoxical nature of our world’s current predicament. Many people benefit from the current organizational system ruled by corporate monopolies; technological advances continually raise the bar on desirable living standards; population soars, providing a cheap workforce for the production of more goods for the privileged; the environment and ‘Othered’ individuals, rendered morally obsolete by the powers that be, are heinously exploited.

            Call it philosophy, mythology, religion, or pragmatic reasoning, it is essential to unearth the cerebral nuggets of the aforementioned system, which can be understood as an amalgamation of Judeo-Christian and Enlightenment rhetoric. I have come to understand Christianity as a mélange of Hebrew biblical values and Classical Greek philosophy. While it is difficult in modern times to recognize the extent of Christian influence on our worldview, many key themes persist— particularly those of dominion, transcendence, and dualism. One specific theme from Hebrew texts is the ‘p-story’ of the genesis—in which God entrusted man with the duty of dominating the earth (Genesis 1). This theme was reflected in Ishmael with the myth, “the earth was made for man, and man was made to rule it (Quinn, 61).” The notion of dominion is a prodigious base for our modern Western paradigm and will be examined through a feminist lens later in the essay.

Other contributions the Hebrew religion made to our Western paradigm were notions of monotheism and transcendence. Due to recurring displacement in various environments, the Hebrew people came to see overarching patterns in nature; this was reflected in their belief of a monotheistic god who was transcendent from the natural world. This separation of the ethereal from nature played out in numerous ways, most importantly casting anything reminiscent of the natural world in a pejorative light. Since nature was not of god, it was devalued as a mere instrumental object of satisfaction in the present physical world before eternal rewards in heaven. And due to contributions from Socrates and Aristotle, definitions of nature were expanded to include anything beyond pure reason, such as emotional subjectivity (an obvious micro-insult at feminine comportment), which was conveniently a capacity only possessed by privileged [white] men. Therefore, the mistreatment of animals and ‘beastly’ humans alike was morally legitimized by Judeo-Christian doctrine (Marshall 189).

This separation also inspired another influential ‘split’ as laid out by Descartes cogito, “I think, therefore I am.” Descartes’ fascination with reason finds its roots in the work of Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle. This dualistic mind-frame as reflected by Hebrew notions of transcendence is vital for understanding our Western ‘story’ because it defines humans in terms of the mind, as separate from the body. This step-back, to extol mind over matter so to speak, led to a deleterious logic well-articulated by Metropolitan John of Pergamon, a modern eco-theologian and priest; “Since the human being may be conceived without its relation to the natural world, in the final analysis it matters not at all whether or not the natural world surrounding him will be annihilated,” (Pergamon, 2010).

 Cartisian thought also contributed to the exaltation of objective truths, which brings us to the current arbiter of nature and humanity: science. The idea of an overarching god also segued into early scientific pursuits for absolute laws of nature. Science and technology quickly became the new religion as people sought to become masters and possessors of nature; this was due to the growing consensus that, in the words of Francis Bacon, ‘knowledge is power.’ Note nuances of the dominion story as articulated by the genesis; it was seen as human’s moral duty, “to improve and perfect fallen nature through…science,” (184).

With the advent of science, nature became something to be studied to further manipulate and control resources for the benefit of humans. This utilitarian view of nature is very Aristotelian, who attributed value to nature insofar as it could benefit the flourishing of humans; I daresay many humans would still agree with this statement. And even though Darwin significantly de-centered humans from the main evolutionary stage, notions of man’s superiority and right to ‘dominate,’ remain entrenched. Currently, the scientific paradigm is two-faced; science can be used for further destruction of the earth and each other, or science can realign humans with nature by enlightening us with new information and/or technologies for a sustainable future.

Despite histories’ tendency to bog down students in calamitous ruts, I will shift the focus of this essay towards great American thinkers to whom we owe our unremitting gratitude for cumulatively spearheading any notions of environmentalism. Thinkers such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau totally reshaped our vision of nature. It was made beautiful again, something to be appreciated, protected, glorified, and revered. One could even go so far to say that without Thoreau, environmentalism would have never emerged with such vigor, for all subsequent environmental students or enthusiasts surely quote his work: Aldo Leopold, Bob Marshall, Rachel Carson and the like made colossal progress to protect, promote, and preserve nature through top-tier interventions. These environmental advocates politicized the degradation of the natural world and put the value of nature at the forefront of generalized discussions of justice.  

            During the decades of consciousness-raising with the American public, as well as with elected officials, an ecological mind-frame emerged. Ecology as described by Nash, “enables [us]…to conceive of nature as an intricate web of interdependent parts, a myriad of cogs and wheels each essential to the health operation of the whole,” (195). This was particularly salient for Aldo Leopold, who took it a step further in extending ecology’s reach to the ethical realm, which this quote fluently encapsulates:

 “One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen. An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of science are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who sees the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise,” (Leopold, A Sand County Almanac).

I currently find myself in that ‘world of wounds,’ as Leopold describes— sifting and melding my personal ecological worldview to balance many tracks of consciousness. While I have a personal affinity for the promotion of social services, books like Ishmael, along with countless other readings from this course, have allowed me to recognize the ecological nature of my actions—that I cannot be concerned with the trials of humans without connecting them to the tribulations of nature. In the words of Peter Marshall, “[the earth] is a living whole,” and in an ever Gestaltian manner I must proclaim that the sum is greater than its individuals parts—that is, holism must be central to the way we identify, define, and approach social and ecological problems alike (Marshall, pgs. 391, 406).

Something to keep in mind while digesting this sweeping panorama of Western ideological history is that humans are a fairly young species in terms of Earth’s history. And although we act, as though our existence on Earth has been the headlining performance of evolutionary bravado, there is hope in humility (Quinn 56-58); we don’t have all of the answers, and there much to learn from the very forces we have been attempting to dominate. As our guest lecturer from BioMimicry Institute, Briony Schwan, related, “everything we need to do [to reverse the damage we have wrought] has already been done in nature,” (5-3-2013).

Thoreau once said, “in wilderness is the preservation of the world,” (Marshall 403). To follow this rumination, I look to nature for a metaphor to encapsulate my idea of what human’s relationship with nature should look like. There is a well-known biological phenomenon in nature called mutual symbiosis; this is a particular type of long-term interdependent relationship can be thought of as a ‘biological barter,’ in which each tradesman behaves as to enhance the well-being of the other. We need to find our mutualistic balance with nature. We need to transform our culture so that people organically act in sustainable ways. Having a little brother has taught me that if you try and tell him what to do, he may grudgingly partake, but if he is inspired to act, it is a beautiful thing. We need to be inspired to act on the behalf of the environment and our fellow humans. I think everyone has a particular chord that need to be struck. For me, it is the linkage between social and environmental oppression as illustrated by the environmental justice readings. 

To paraphrase the ever eloquent Jack Turner, who fortuitously echoes ideas in Ishmael, the current environmental crisis is one of character, not social or political crisis—and the paradox of this conclusion is that we have yet to determine what a ‘modern character’ is, “and since character is determined by culture, [we face a] crisis of modern culture,” (Turner, 1996). I believe this crisis to be institutionalized patriarchy in a society where the ‘highest good’ is equated with masculinity and masculinity is defined by dominance and control.

Yet, I believe many individuals are hesitant to recognize the connection between ecological, institutional, and interpersonal violence and our western conceptualizations of masculinity. Environmentalists and women’s advocates alike often confront defensiveness when they speak out about the crisis at bay; this is because humans do not see themselves as active participants in pernicious behavior and seek to separate themselves from the ever-insidious blame game often observed within petitions for change. Here I will once again take from Ishmael to reiterate that humans themselves are not the problem, it is the system in which humans operate and the ‘stories’ we enact that perpetuate men’s violence against women and/or ecological destruction.

            Taking from a lecture I attended last fall by feminist advocate Jackson Katz, we must recognize how norms go unquestioned. Katz articulated this in reference to the pervasiveness of men’s violence against women—that we have become to accustomed to hearing about a man committing an act of violence and don’t even pay attention to the gendered nature of the crime. Similarly, we have become desensitized to the atrocities committed against our natural world as a result of cultural norms. We experience the destruction of nature in a similar way we experience a bout of psychological illness—it is something statistically common, almost expected. We take a pill and continue with business at hand without ever stepping back to question a society that profits off pathology or condones the decimation of our mother earth.

Given the depth of philosophical frameworks for viewing nature, I suppose I am now equipped with the language to identify myself as a radical ecologist; as described by Marshall, I am calling for, “a fundamental reorientation in the way we think and act in the world,” founded on (what I would prefer to be) a moderately holistic view of the self as, to contradict biblical ideation as Ishmael does (John 17:6-16), in the world and of the world—not partitioned by Cartisian dualism or deemed superior by reasoning metabolics. We must also begin to shift our views of humans towards a more humanist understanding of individuals as inherently good. Simultaneously, to resonate with eco-feminist demands, we should seek to dissolve entities that promote the four pillars of patriarchy: sexism, racism, class exploitation, and ecological destruction.

I believe that for the human species to move forward, we have to start protesting what is normalized in seeking to build a world where social, political, and environmental justice is possible and in fact, quotidian. Martin Luther King once said, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”  I truly believe our society is capable of change; if anything, to name a few examples in a stupendous stockpile— courses like Nature & Society available at the University of Montana, bestselling books like Ishmael, Walden, Silent Spring, the mere exponential growth of farmers markets, and the coining of phrases such as ‘local is the new global,’ are all testaments to the fact that culture is capable of transformation and indeed is currently undergoing dramatic shifts.

The ‘explaining story’ is one of patriarchal dominance; much of the suffering we cause one another and to the environment is the result of systemic oppression and institutional violence. And while many psychological studies support the notion that violence generalizes, that is the violence we perpetrate against nature can be correlated to intra-personal violence, psychology also claims that violence is a learned behavior. There is hope in that all of our dysfunctional behaviors and worldviews can be unwritten and reconditioned in future generations to come. From Jackson Hole to Missoula, Montana, I sense a new ecological consciousness with which we towards the future, thankful for the current spaces we inhabit, yet invigorated to amass and contribute to a collective awareness that will prove the impetus for a final bend in that arc towards justice for Earth’s community.

References- (beyond course readings)

Pergamon, John. Address of Metropolitan John of Pergamon at the Sixth Ecological Symposium on the Amazon River, "Humanity and Nature: Learning from the Indigenous" Accessed May 7, 2013 http://www.patriarchate.org/documents/humanity-and-nature

Turner, Jack. (1996). The Abstract Wild. University of Arizona Press.

****ask me for the references to class texts if you are curious!!!

sex, psyche, & women

      

           Often times, when contemplating life’s many dynamic tracts, I will sit on my tiny apartment roof, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beverage (tea, 4loco? Who knows what kind of mood I’m in), watching college hooligans play golf on the course parallel to my building, perhaps reading a bit of Game of Thrones here and there, just for inspiration. Today one of my dearest single comrades joined in the vinostorm (its like a brain storm, but with vino). She was chastising me today for not having enough casual sex, “we need to get you laid,” she so sassily commented, malbec in one hand, Turkish royal in another. 

            This made me wonder, “why is it that I coach you on dating and you coach me on promiscuity? I just don’t get the point, it seems exhausting.”

            She waves her hand, “girl, (what women say when we really want to get serious) the fucking point is that sex is awesome.”

            “Yes thank you I am aware, but it’s like I don’t want to engage in a behavior that I know will end up fucking with my head. I know it will never be fulfilling to just ‘get fucked’ so therefore I don’t do it. How do you do it?”

            She raises her eyebrows, “I just give zero fucks,” pauses for a drag, “that’s the key to casual relations.” We both sip our stem-less glasses and watch some failed golf-swings.

            “I call bull-shit. You give so many fucks. You just repress them and one day you will have to fish out all that hurt, shame and blame when you finally find out you can’t open up to a man.”

            “Fuck you and your psych degree,” she smirks, “whatever I still think we should get you laid this weekend.”

            Why is it that sex grapples women’s psyches so? If I were to think of one thing that all women struggle with (what besides body image, blackheads, and that damn $8 nailpolish that only lasts 5 days. Yes, I use a top-coat) it would be sexual relationships. Let’s explore.

            First off, let me ardently refute a ubiquitous myth about sex: the idea that men are devoid of insecurities and emotions surrounding sex. Men give the same kinds of fucks we do, just in different flavors and magnitudes. I think men just connect to sex in such a primal way, they’re minds don’t fuck up the experience by over-thinking every little detail or scenario.

            I think this is where most all of us women go wrong: we over think EVERYTHING. We are so in our heads that we misinterpret the moment. And I know it is hard, because when you get down to it, it isn’t just you and your new-found-man-sauce who is in the room; it is all of the past relations, patterns, resentments, jealousies, insecurities, you get the idea. How do we let go and just ‘be in the moment’? *sidenote: I bet Buddhists have mad awesome sex.

            Well I suppose I shall end this snid-bit like any other cliché self-discovery story, live your fucking dreams and be present with your relations. Because its like, “hey, were all fierce little monsters. If you are not being treated in your sexual relationships how you deserve, then fuck him (not literally).” Our past selves constantly talk smack about how we always screw up; our future selves spit game about who we will become; but we have total control over our current selves. When we are present we can truly recognize whether this relationship, this behavior, this thought, this emotion is conducive for our overall awesomeness. I know it sounds crazy and is truly difficult to employ, but we do have control over every thought, every emotion, every sexual encounter; these are all choices in the amalgamation of choices that make up your unique phenomenal self. My eldest sister would always tell us youngins to, “make good choices!” and I guess this is truly the soundest advice one could offer.