of dislocation & graceful unravelling

(postcard from my Inspiration Corkboard III;  photo by Gregory Thorp, 1997)

Things I Almost Majored In:

Studio Art (2002)
Religious Studies (2002)
Philosophy (2002)
Graphic Design (2003)
Child & Family Studies (2003)
Liberal Arts (2004)
Library Technology (2006)
Art History (2008)
Art Education (2009)

“Close only counts in horseshoes & hand grenades.” — Dad(s everywhere).

Un/related note: When I was a kid I once joyfully & obliviously ran straight across a horseshoes court mid-toss and narrowly missed getting my skull smashed in. Parents who yelled at/scared the shit out of me for being a dumbass created Daughter who is stubborn and needing-to-prove-something to a fault. And some day I will be the best worst anti-attachment mom ever.

Art of Not Sitting Pretty (by Jessica Hopper)

I had seen Andrew Neel’s documentary about his grandmother, Alice Neel, so I knew a bit of the arc of Phoebe Hoban’s Alice Neel biography already, but even so it didn’t make it any easier to take. Neel’s long road to popular success, her triumphant acceptance into the art world in the mid-seventies is a wonderful story—inspiring, and untypical. For every Alice—and there was only one—but for every bigger female art world known name, there were still many, many than languished, but Neel’s talent was singular and she painted for fifty years with hardly anyone noticing and giving a shit.

Then there is Neel as mother. Neel who stayed with a man for 16 years that beat her, and worse, tortured and threatened her young son that was not his. Her children loved her, love her, miss her. It is hard to reconcile, as a mother, that she often subverted her role as a mother, that her art always came first. You think, for a slim second, there is something brave in that—it is manly, for vision to come before duty. It defies “motherhood”. It uncomfortable to read, to consider—the neglect and willfulness, staying with someone who hurts your kid because he supports your art, and/or because you are sick and twisted up in all manner of dysfunction. Or losing her first two children, her daughters, one, perhaps, in part because she was too poor to afford heat—the other shipped off, relieving her, freeing her to dedicate herself again to painting. But then, as it is now, you are presumed to be giving up yourself and your life—however it existed—for your babes. And she didn’t. At all. She is perhaps no different then Keith Richards dragging his little son on tour for years to live off room service ice cream and wake him up when he nodded off with a cigarette; loving your kiddo—but your artful pursuit always a given. How bad of a parent does that make you?

I thought of art-making as instinct until I had William, and now, I think of it, like everything else, as a choice. It would be easier, much easier, to be only a mom—not to write, not to fill his every nap and night time with work or trying to keep up on music or reading or ideas. I think when you become a parent, everything outside of that relationship shifts to being a choice, even the things that seemed immutable, automatic and absolute before—those are secondary, or at even further down the list. Your old hours seem a luxury, you cram where you can—your inner artiste has been deputized to other duties.

To have both—“a life”, or a job, or a modicum of creative fulfillment—and a family is to “have it all” though, right? Really, just to feel human and a continuing participant on Earth—BOTH seems the minimum. That choice of making art is choosing to live, choosing to continue your existence—beyond being a vessel, a minder, a milkmaid and a parent. But as moms, we are supposed to begin and end there, in that purpose. Reading about Neel, haphazardly balancing art and motherhood, demanding to live to fulfill her singular purpose all else (kids, lovers, friends) be damned—I feel empathy and something like contempt. I feel angry for those kids, now old men, that suffered so the world could have their mom’s brilliant, important work.

—Jessica Hopper/tinyluckygenius

Last week, I witnessed a birth. I know that it happened at 11:59 am on February 21st, 2012, that her grandmother made her a pink elephant blanket, and that she arrived an “overly punctual” three days ahead of schedule. I know this because she was tagged in seventy-three photos on Facebook; images that linked to her very own profile, created by her parents. Her birth is the first major event on her page’s timeline, and she “checked in” at the hospital about eighteen hours prior to her birth. Madeline’s birth can be observed and verified thanks to a user-friendly platform that archives and shares everything she does for an interactive audience. Those actually present at Madeline’s inaugural breath were ready with cameras and smart phones, uploading photos of her before she was even free of her umbilical cord. We witnessed her delivery through the eye of a camera, or an illuminated screen – documented via the best angles and speediest of status updates. Supposedly, this means the event was real, its verisimilitude acheived through its digital artifacts, its online chronicle – its meticulous documentarians. The world is no longer experienced through rapt attention, but rather through multi-tasking surveillance and a cache of preoccupations. Has the fixation with recording our every exploit replaced our emotional awareness of an actual experience?

(via Caitlin Moore at DailyServing)

One of my most serious concerns about some day being a parent is How to Explain Social Media to My Child.

Mommy what are you doing?

Oh, just… constructing, performing, analyzing, and documenting my identity/life and commenting/reacting/validating the identities/lives of others via this electronic device.

But WHY?

I DON’T KNOW. I don’t really get it, honey, it feels important and meaningless at the same time.

“The Library” by Sarah Richards

On March 9th I brought my two young children to the Marlborough public library to pick out some books and DVDs and to play with some of the wonderful games and activities they have there. After spending perhaps an hour browsing, coloring, playing with trains, and otherwise enjoying ourselves, we went to the desk to check out. One of the books I had selected for the children was a cute story about penguins I thought they would enjoy. Beyond that, I hadn’t paid much attention to the details when I plucked it off the shelf. When the librarian scanned it, she cheerfully asked me, “Are you familiar with Tango?” I replied that I wasn’t. She then explained in a sweet voice with no hint of judgment that “Tango” (And Tango Makes Three by Richardson and Parnell) was a book about a same-sex family, and some people like to know that in advance.

“Oh.” I said. “Well since we’re a same-sex family that’s not a problem for us.” But I was thinking to myself: This woman has just told me that my family is offensive to some people. She just told my children that their family is offensive to some people. Now, frankly, I think it probably went over their heads this time. But what if it didn’t? My daughter is almost six and very precocious. The librarian just informed her that her family is something that people need to be warned about “in advance.”

When I think back over my ten years as a member of a same-sex couple, I can think of plenty of things I would have wanted to know about in advance. Like the time some parents of my middle school students told me I deserved no respect because of my sexual orientation, and if the students acted out in class it was my fault. Or the time my partner was accused of wanting to steal someone’s purse because “you just never know about you people.” Or the time we were loudly called dykes by young kids in a restaurant with their parents sitting nearby, saying nothing. Or the time the librarian sweetly informed me that my family was something other families needed to know about in advance. But the trouble is, I never have the advantage of knowing when these blows are about to hit. I have to roll with them when they happen.

I am not upset with the librarian who helped us check out that day. I assume it is a library policy that this book comes with a warning. But I have to wonder: Is it really the library’s job to vet books for parents? Aren’t there hundreds of topics that could be upsetting to some people? Don’t the books in the library represent hundreds of cultures and perspectives? Isn’t that what makes the library so great in the first place?

In my experience, it is generally a minority group that needs to be protected from the majority. But this library’s action clearly does the opposite. They want to protect the heterosexual majority from being accidentally exposed to ideas about people like me. They want to do this even though the story about Tango is a true story, and even though the book mentions nothing about human sexuality whatsoever. My family is the one that had to pay $6000 dollars more in federal taxes for 2011 than identical heterosexual families, even though we have a legally issued state marriage license just like everyone else. My family is the one that has to scratch out “father” and write in “mother” on hundreds of school and medical forms every year. My family is the one that needs protection. Why do I flinch, blink, and look down at my feet each time I meet someone new and they ask about my husband? Because even though the vast majority of people are kind, occasionally someone is mean. Because I never know when a moment of judgment is coming. Because too often it seems like there is no safe place for my family, not even the children’s room at the public library.

"There is a crucial question missing from the conversation — what about the parent’s needs? Do these not count? With attachment parenting and gentle discipline it seems that I must be omnipresent in my children’s lives, and that leaves little room for me to be present in mine."

Rhiana Maidenberg, “Attachment Parenting, Please Don’t Take Away My Time-Outs!”

Some day, I am going to be the best worst Mom ever, because I only have these two guidelines:

1. Oh shit, sometimes in life, your needs are going to be left unmet! & guess what? You’ll live.
2. NO CRYBABIES.

"On a somewhat serious note today because of a conversation the other day:

I am sure every girl can recall, at least once as a child, coming home and telling their parents, uncle, aunt or grandparent about a boy who had pulled her hair, hit her, teased her, pushed her or committed some other playground crime. I will bet money that most of those, if not all, will tell you that they were told “Oh, that just means he likes you”. I never really thought much about it before having a daughter of my own. I find it appalling that this line of bullshit is still being fed to young children. Look, if you want to tell your child that being verbally and/or physically abused is an acceptable sign of affection, i urge you to rethink your parenting strategy. If you try and feed MY daughter that crap, you better bring protective gear because I am going to shower you with the brand of “affection” you are endorsing.

When the fuck was it decided that we should start teaching our daughters to accept being belittled, disrespected and abused as endearing treatment? And we have the audacity to wonder why women stay in abusive relationships? How did society become so oblivious to the fact that we were conditioning our daughters to endure abusive treatment, much less view it as romantic overtures? Is this where the phrase “hitting on girls” comes from? Well, here is a tip: Save the “it’s so cute when he gets hateful/physical with her because it means he loves her” asshattery for your own kids, not mine. While you’re at it, keep them away from my kids until you decide to teach them respect and boundaries.

My daughter is `10 years old and has come home on more than one occasion recounting an incident at school in which she was teased or harassed by a male classmate. There has been several times when someone that she was retelling the story to responded with the old, “that just means he likes you” line. Wrong. I want my daughter to know that being disrespected is NEVER acceptable. I want my daughter to know that if someone likes her and respects her, much less LOVES her, they don’t hurt her and they don’t put her down. I want my daughter to know that the boy called her ugly or pushed her or pulled her hair didn’t do it because he admires her, it is because he is a little asshole and assholes are an occurrence of society that will have to be dealt with for the rest of her life. I want my daughter to know how to deal with assholes she will encounter throughout her life. For now, I want my daughter to know that if someone is verbally harassing her, she should tell the teacher and if the teacher does nothing, she should tell me. If someone physically touches her, tell the teacher then, if it continues, to yell, “STOP TOUCHING/PUNCHING/PUSHING ME” in the middle of class or the hallway, then tell me. Last year, one little boy stole her silly bandz from her. He just grabbed her and yanked a handful of them off of her wrist. When I went to the school to address the incident, the teacher smiled and explained it away to her, in front of me, “he probably has a crush on you”. Okay, the boy walked up to my daughter, grabbed and held her by the arm and forcibly removed her bracelets from her as she struggled and you want to convince her that she should be flattered? Fuck off. I am going to punch you in the face but I hope you realize it is just my way of thanking you for the great advice you gave my daughter. If these same advice givers’ sons came home crying because another male classmate was pushing them, pulling their hair, hitting them or calling them names, I would bet dollars to donuts they would tell him to defend themselves and kick the kid’s ass, if necessary. They sure as shit wouldn’t say, “he probably just wants a play date”.

I will teach my daughter to accept nothing less than respect. Anyone who hurts her physically or emotionally doesn’t deserve her respect, friendship or love. I will teach my boys the same thing as well as the fact that hitting on girls doesn’t involve hitting girls. I can’t teach my daughter to respect herself if I am teaching her that no one else has to respect her. I can’t raise sons that respect women, if I teach them that bullying is a valid expression of affection.

The next time that someone offers up that little “secret” to my daughter, I am going to slap the person across the face and yell, “I LOVE YOU”."

You Didn’t Thank Me For Punching You in the Face « Views from the Couch  (via wewantrevolutiongirlstylenow)

(via recklesschants)

feministfilm:

sunneinsplendour:

So this is a post that has been a long time coming, ever since I started tracking the Betty Draper tag basically and was exposed to a whole new level of vitriol that I didn’t think a fandom - whom I always used to consider pretty classy - was capable…

I just started watching Mad Men and I’m only in the middle of Season 3, so I’m not sure if my opinion would change as Betty’s character is further developed. Also I have not explored any Mad Men fandom type forums at all and only had a few discussions about Relevant Issues regarding the show.

That being said, in re: item #1, “Betty Draper is a bad mother” - as yet in my viewing experience, I haven’t labelled her a “bad mother.” Partially this might be due to my own childhood; I was raised by parents who were not necessarily opposed to shouting at or spanking a kid for disciplinary purposes. It didn’t happen often, but it was a thing that happened. (At the same time, my mom raised hell when she found out my Kindergarten teacher was smacking me around.) And although I wouldn’t spank my own kids, I don’t personally feel that what I experienced was all that detrimental in the long run, despite the fact that it would be defined as abuse nowadays, technically. (And also despite the fact that surely some people will say I’m messed up for thinking what happened to me is not messed up, when taken as a whole. Whatever, unabashedly confessional y’all.)

So far as I’ve watched in the series, there have been many tense moments where Betty is mean, cold, or curt to her kids. I actually thought this was kind of a brave thing to be showing on TV (though I am loathe to describe a television program as “brave”) because I read it as a kind of authenticity. I mean, you have the cheerful 50s mom Leave It to Beaver-esk stereotype — all of which is covered in the linked commentary. But still today, regardless of our privilege of 20/20 hindsight into how messed up the past was, this stereotype of the happy mother joyously sacrificing everything for the sake of her angelic children is still all the rage.

Motherhood-as-a-concept is made out to be this life-changing experience where despite all the sleepless nights and poopy diapers and stained clothes and hurty tits (not to mention finding time for the rest of your life and maintaining sanity and being an individual person with thoughts) — you are so happy, so so overjoyed, and it is The Best Thing That Ever Happened To You (tm). Which I wouldn’t argue with per se. I have experienced the feeling of overwhelming love for one’s child and it is a thing that is real. But then there are the other realities of cleaning up messes and crying and losing your mind and being exhausted and also at the same time, making sure to always have something grateful to say about the joys of parenting and always have a happy face. These are the things I haven’t experienced and this is part of what terrifies me about eventually raising a kid… what happens when I mess up? There’s a lot of pressure to Not Mess Up around your kids because if you get angry you will RUIN THEM FOR LIFE.

So to me, Betty Draper’s character as a mom offers glimpses into a kind of parenting that can be a real thing. Not the kind you’ll see on cutesy Facebook posts or photo albums. There are going to be days when the parent is tired and snaps at the kids. There are days when the parents can’t take it anymore because as precious and beautiful and amazing as children are, they can also be hellish. I know this because I used to be a kid and I was kind of an asshole sometimes. Parents don’t become perfect and infallible after having kids; they’re still human and they still have to deal with their human shit while also being responsible for a smaller human. Life doesn’t stop being difficult forever simply because something allegedly miraculous happened to you once or twice.

I once read a story — I think it was in Breeder but I will have to go and search to confirm because I’m not totally certain — that was about how when a woman gives birth, she will undoubtedly (due to emotions as well as the rush of hormones) feel this overwhelming, universal rush of perfect love for her newborn; this helps in the initial attachment and bonding process. The author of this particular birth story wrote that after hours of laboring, squatting and on all fours, when her baby was finally born, the mother’s first thought was to eat her child. Like some kind of atavistic wolf instinct. I’ve never read another birth story like this. You don’t want to tell people about that feeling; that shit is weird and inappropriate. The mother was troubled by these feelings and regardless of her doing all the right things and being a good mom/caretaker, she still felt like a freak because Parenting is Hard and it wasn’t all cupcakes and rainbows. She loved her kid fiercely, but raising an infant for her was a lot of craziness. I loved that story because it was honest as shit. I don’t want to hear about how having a kid made your life perfect and amazing and everyone should have teh babiez it is the best!!! I want to know about the real human shit so that I don’t have to constantly fear that I will totally fall short of this unattainable magical standard of motherhood simply because I am a lady who can caretake and feel beauty and joy and overwhelming love but also who sometimes feels tired and sometimes gets angry and sometimes just doesn’t have time for the bullshit and needs to be left alone every now and then to think. Is there something wrong with still wanting to be a person while you’re caring for another person?

/TV SHOWS THAT MAKE ME THINK ABOUT SERIOUS ISSUES.

ETA: Case in Point: WHAT HAPPENED, MOMMY?

teaandtheatre:

whatthekluck:

Teach them to do it for themselves. 

When our daughter was 15 months old we enrolled her in survival-type swimming lessons via Infant Swimming Resource.   Maybe you’ve heard about this - children as young as 6 months old learning to roll in the water and float? (See more about ISR here).

We had a marvelous instructor who on the very first day, after seeing the fear in our eyes, said to us:

“If you don’t believe she can do it, then you should leave now.  Because I know she can. She needs to know that you believe in her.”

That struck a chord right away.  She was exactly right.  If we didn’t think she could do it, what were we doing there?  I admit I wanted to snatch my daughter out of the water at the very first sign of discomfort.  What I didn’t consider was that my behavior was sending clear signals to my daughter that I didn’t think she could do it.   Of course as parents we wanted to protect her.  The goal of these lessons was to enable her to float, saving herself, if she ever accidentally fell into a body of water. Did we want to sabotage her success?

We trusted in the instructor and in our little girl, and cheered them on through the entire process (which admittedly was at times difficult to observe).  At the end of 7 weeks, my daughter completed the course by ”falling” off the edge of the pool, fully clothed.  After sinking down into the water, she immediately rolled over and floated.  At 15 months, she did this all by herself.

I realized that my children are more capable than I give them credit for.   

Allowing children to do things for themselves is integral to the traditonal Montessori methodology.  A a very young age Montessori students participate in practical life exercises that enable them to do various things for themselves.  This includes what we might consider mundane tasks like getting dressed (buttons, snaps, zippers), cleaning up (washing dishes, sweeping, mopping, laundry), baking, and *gasp* cutting with a knife.  This is done for various reasons.  Read more about it here.

Our daughter made banana bread in class yesterday. She had been watching other children do it.  She knew not to touch the materials or the oven because she had not yet had a lesson, but she was very interested.  The spark in her was ignited.  First she was given a lesson on it by her teacher. Then she partnered with an older student (5 years old) to watch and assist. After a few weeks she is doing it all by herself.  She just turned four.

At home she is delighted to help prepare meals and fold laundry.  She can dress herself, brush her teeth, comb her hair, and toast her own waffles.  She sweeps the floor, and cleans up her own messes.  She is showing her younger brother how these things are done. Without the experience with the swimming instructor,  I would still be “protecting” my kids from things that they are clearly capable of doing. 

It just goes to show you - if you believe in them and show them the proper way, they can do it for themselves. 

This is awesome.

(Source: iheartmontessori, via blake500)

jacindamagnolia:

Echolilia

All parents love their children. But what do you do when you can’t connect with them? In my case, I started making photographs of, and with, my son Elijah, who has autism spectrum disorder. This series—the title is from “echolalia,” a clinical term for the mimicking aspect of his condition—shows the bridges we’ve built on our shared journey of wonder, discovery, and understanding.

We began this project when Eli was five. He was doing well at school but fixating on odd things, lashing out, speaking repetitively. My wife and I couldn’t figure him out. Then I started taking pictures of him around the house. It was an instinctive act for a photographer: Point your camera at something in order to make sense of it. But a curious thing happened. As I documented what Eli was doing and creating, he became interested in the images I was making. I was learning how he thinks; he was learning what I like and value.

We soon had a system. Eli would do something unusual, one of us would notice, and we’d make a photo of it together. The pictures we took over three years were more raw and feral than anything I’d done as an editorial or advertising photographer. And more personal. This is, after all, the story of a father and his son.

Timothy Archibald’s book, Echolilia: Sometimes I Wonder, was published last year by Echo Press. See more of his work at timothyarchibald.com.

(via katydidnot)