Jan 11 2017

Women Discover Life on Mars

Should we fund a mission to Mars?  Sure.  Give us a bit of time and we can make that planet uninhabitable too.

That said, I thoroughly enjoyed watching MARS.   Why?  Because the three astronauts who walk out onto the planet’s surface at the end to discover life on Mars are all women.  Not a token one of three.  Not even a remarkable two of three.  But ALL THREE.  All three are women.

AND the bureaucrat back on Earth who makes the announcement?  Again, a woman.

AND none of this was presented as in-your-face feminist.  Not one line in the entire script made reference to their being women.  There was no male resentment, no resistance, no snide comment about quotas or reverse discrimination.  There was no undue praise, no celebration for having achieved the status of being the first humans to discover life on Mars.

They just were.

I can’t tell you how gratifying it would be to just be.  To be an astronaut if I wanted to be.  To be the one to discover life on Mars.  To be the head of a Mars mission program.  Just because I was qualified to do so and lucky enough to make it through the selection process.  And my sex had as little to do with it as my hair.

Furthermore, throughout the expedition, there was as much female presence as male.   Sure, okay, one of the women became leader only because one of the men died, but when the second crew arrived, its leader was a woman.  And if I’ve got this mistaken, it’s only because regardless of the actual hierarchy, women were as central, as important, as valuable, as active.

They were just living their lives. 

And yet, seven of the eight writers are men.  The director is a man.  All ten executive producers are men.  Even so, they had THREE WOMEN discover life on Mars.  Three women, all by themselves.  They didn’t need a man to go with them to protect them.  They didn’t need a man to go with them in case they got lost.

Amazing.  Truly amazing.

And so truly … gratifying.  To see this.  To actually see this.

Thank you.

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Dec 27 2016

Telling our Members of Parliament How to Dress

So I recently found this on the Parliament of Canada website:

While there is no Standing Order setting down a dress code for Members participating in debate, [84]  Speakers have ruled that to be recognized to speak in debate, on points of order or during Question Period, tradition and practice require all Members, male or female, to dress in contemporary business attire. [85]  The contemporary practice and unwritten rule require, therefore, that male Members wear a jacket, shirt and tie as standard dress. Clerical collars have been allowed, although ascots and turtlenecks have been ruled inappropriate for male Members participating in debate. [86]  The Chair has even stated that wearing a kilt is permissible on certain occasions (for example, Robert Burns Day). [87]  Members of the House who are in the armed forces have been permitted to wear their uniforms in the House. [88]

What could possibly justify this Speakers’ rule?

Could it be that our Members of Parliament can’t dress themselves?  The people we’ve voted into positions of power? Doubtful.  They’re adults.  Many of them even have a university degree.  (Okay, I know …)

Could it be somebody in a higher position of power is prioritizing appearance over reality?  What you look like is more important than what you are like.  That bodes well for, well, the world.

Could it be someone in a higher position of power is making a series of non sequiturs from clothing to behaviour and character?  If you wear a business suit, you must be honest, hard-working, mature – respectable.  Say what?

It is certainly that someone in a higher position of power is appealing to tradition and practice.  Philosophers rightly consider that fallacious reasoning.  Just because we’ve always done it that way, just because we do it that way, doesn’t mean we should.

And the other thing to note?  There’s no mention of what exactly female members must wear.  Because there’s no standard business attire for women?  No, that can’t be right.  To judge by the Speakers’ own criteria, tradition and practice, it is standard for women to wear shoes with high heels (that will be uncomfortable for standing, difficult for walking, and eventually cause postural pain), to wear a skirt or dress (that will ensure their legs are showing, because – men want to see women’s legs at all times?), and at the very least to not wear a jacket, shirt, and tie – because we MUST MUST MUST enforce the gender norms.  Our patriarchy depends on it.

(Oh, one other thing to note: “..male Members wear a jacket, shirt and tie” – what, no trousers?)

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Dec 14 2016

Christmas Elves

Generally speaking, I don’t do Christmas.  At all.  But when I see an ad in the classifieds for “Three female elves to work in a mall during the Christmas season”, well, I have to say something.

And the first thing I have to say is, I don’t think they’re going to find any – male or female.  They may find three women to play the part, but I doubt they’ll find three elves.

Which brings me to the second thing I have to say: why do they have to be female?  What must a Santa’s elf do that a man can’t do?

One, Santa’s elves are industrious; they’re notorious for being hard workers.  Well, men are hard workers.  (No, seriously, some are!)

Two, elves are pretty handy in the workshop, making all those toys.  Again, I think men can meet this requirement.  (Some men are even quite good with their tools, given a little instruction.)

But in the mall, Santa’s elves will probably have to stand on their feet all day long.  I must admit that I think women have an edge here.  At least they do if I’m to judge by all the checkout cashiers and bank tellers I see, all of whom are women, and apparently subject to some insane rule that prohibits them from sitting down on the job.  (I’ve never understood that one: surely their work wouldn’t worsen if they were able to sit down; in fact, it would probably improve – freedom from chronic back pain would have that effect, I should think.)

And, well, Santa’s elves have to smile a lot.  All the time, actually.  And I’m afraid women again have the advantage.  Unfortunately, smiling has become second nature for women; those caught not grinning like the idiots men like to believe them to be are often reprimanded.

Now I’m willing to grant that men, because of their much-publicized superior strength, would be able to handle the standing.  And the smiling (I suspect that it takes fewer muscles to smile than to maintain that tough and serious look so many men seem to favour).

But can they handle the subservience?  Santa’s elves get paid minimum wage, which is less than what Santa gets paid, and they pretty much play the part of Santa’s subordinates.

Despite that, Santa’s elves are really quite important.  Ask any Santa who’s had to work with an elf with an attitude.  (I can give you some names.)  A good elf intercepts the sucker that will get stuck in the beard; a good elf tells Santa the difficult names so the kid won’t start bawling because Santa doesn’t even know his name; a good elf has ‘pee-my-pants radar’ and uses it at all times.  And a good elf does all that while appearing to be merely ornamental.  I’m not sure men would be very good at that.  Most men I’ve known who are important act like it.  (‘Course, so do the ones who aren’t important.)

Lastly, let’s not forget that Santa’s elves must be good with kids.  And this one really makes me hesitate.  Men can make kids, with hardly a second thought.  But can they interact with them?  Can they pay attention to kids for eight hours at a time?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say yes.  Yes they can.  Oh I know they don’t, most of them.  I’ve read the stats on dead-beat dads who keep up their car payments while ignoring their child support payments.  And I’ve read the stats showing that fathers spend, what is it, less than an hour a day with their kids (their own kids – it hasn’t escaped me that Santa’s elves have to pay attention to other people’s kids – to phrase it in a way apparently significant to men, other men’s kids).  But well, just because they don’t doesn’t mean they can’t.  After all, if women can be lawyers and mechanics, why can’t men be Santa’s elves?

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Nov 27 2016

The Sci Phi Journal!

Check out the Sci Phi Journal: a journal about science fiction and philosophy!

Not just about though, there are many cool stories to read and think about…

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Nov 24 2016

Planning is Sinister?

In This Changes Everything,* Naomi Klein makes an interesting observation, intended to explain why we aren’t building the kind of economy we need: “… there is something sinister, indeed vaguely communist, about having a plan to build the kind of economy we need, even in the face of existential crisis” (125, my emphasis).

Is that why we don’t plan?

At the individual level.  People are so que sera even about creating other human beings.  ‘You’re pregnant?  I didn’t know you wanted to spend twenty years of your life looking after someone.’  ‘Oh, it just happened ….’

And at the community level.  If lakes were zoned, for example, everyone—jetskiers, and people-with-screeching-kids, and canoeists —could be happy.  But as it is, the first group is angry with the third, the second group is angry with the first, the third group is angry with both the first and the second.

This lack of planning—it’s all because it’s communist?  Because a pre-determined society is somehow against individual freedom?  

Not planning is against individual freedom.  Not planning is allowing yourself to be tossed about at random, by chance—and that’s not being free.

I wonder if there’s also a religious element involved.  To plan, to choose your future, is to reject, or at least challenge, God’s plan.  For you, your future.

Also, planning requires foresight, and foresight requires imagination.  Which, I’m realizing, most people don’t have.

Planning also requires strong desires, for X over Y.  Again, I’m realizing that most people—don’t really care.  (Which means they get in the way of those of us who do.)

 

*very highly recommended, by the way

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Nov 15 2016

Guest Posts Welcome!

Guest posts welcome; contact ptittle7 {at} gmail {dot} com.

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Nov 04 2016

Sterilization: The Personal and the Political

Ever since I’ve been old enough to ask myself ‘Do I want children?’, my answer has been ‘No’ – a rather emphatic ‘No!’  I consider parenting to be a career, and a very demanding one at that: twenty-four hours a day for at least fourteen years, you are responsible for the physical, emotional, and intellectual development of another human being.  And quite simply, it wasn’t a career I wanted.

So, I went on the pill three or four months before I started having sex (I find it incredible that people find that incredible: ‘You planned even your first time?’  Of course!  That time, most of all, was to be special!) (And it was – though not quite in the way I’d hoped, anticipated …), and eventually chose permanent contraception instead.  I have explained this to quite a few people, over many, many years, and I continue to be amazed at those who are amazed.  When I ask ‘Why did you choose to become a parent?’ (a fair enough question to someone who has just asked me the opposite), they sort of give me a patronizing smile and say something like ‘It wasn’t exactly a choice.’  Yes it was.  YES IT WAS.  Unless you were raped or the contraception didn’t work, it was a choice: you don’t accidentally happen to catch some ejaculate in your vagina.

And not giving that choice much thought is nothing to smile about.  Tell me, between the one who without really thinking about it, without really wanting it, becomes a parent, and the one who deliberately does not become a parent – who is the more responsible?  I ask this question because of the responses by both my own physician and the surgeon to whom he referred me (who then referred me to another surgeon).  One of them actually snickered and said ‘So you want the advantages of sex without the responsibilities?’  I didn’t respond, realizing only later that I was confused because he had asked the question incorrectly: yes I wanted sex, and no I didn’t want the responsibility – of children, not of sex; I did accept the responsibility of sex – that’s why I was sitting in his office asking to be sterilized.  I believe I was also asked why I didn’t want children.  When a woman comes to you pregnant, I said, do you ask her, before agreeing to deliver, why she wants the child?  And would you be asking these questions if I looked older?  If I already had two children, at least one of whom was a male?  If I were a man seeking a vasectomy?

Not surprisingly, the appointments reminded me of a Therapeutic Abortion Committee (TAC) hearing.  Are you married?  Are you employed?  Any congenital disease in your family?  Substance abuse?  Psychiatric hospitalization?  The ‘problem’ is that I am competent and qualified to be a mother.  In every way.  Except one.  I don’t want to be.  On that basis alone, a TAC should grant me an abortion.  On that basis alone, the surgeon should perform the sterilization.  But as always, the woman’s wants, her choices, are irrelevant.  (Do you believe, I wonder, that we’re incapable of having wants, of making choices?) They should be establishing my competence, not my incompetence.  And if I am competent, then my choice, my request, should be granted.  It’s as simple as that. (Of course, if I’m incompetent to be a good parent, my choice should be granted as well.  Which begs the question, why were there TACs in the first place?)  (‘Course, if I were incompetent, irresponsible, I probably wouldn’t be there seeking an abortion.  Can you say ‘Catch 22’?)

The other question I remember clearly is that of the third doctor: ‘Do you want a tubal ligation or a cauterization?’  That’s really about the only question that should have been asked.  I asked him to explain the advantages and disadvantages of each; he did so; I answered his question.  (As for ‘When would you like the surgery?’, how about Mothers’ Day?)

No, I don’t regret it.  I never have, not for one second of one minute of any day.  Sure there’s a possibility that one day I’ll want children.  There’s also a possibility that one day I’ll want to be a waitress at Hooters.  And anyway, I could always adopt.  (But it wouldn’t be your own!  Sure it would; it just wouldn’t have my genes.)  (And if that’s so important, you don’t want a kid – you want a smaller ego.)

It gave me control over my life, my destiny. In fact, it has been one of the best decisions I’ve made, and I wish more people would make it (whether they decide ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is less important than deciding – considering and deciding and not just letting it happen).

In fact, I wish being sterile were our default state: one should have to do something quite intentional in order to become reproductive (like take a pill, with not insignificant side-effects, every day at exactly the same time for six months – men too), rather than the other way around.

In the meantime, I hope those women who do choose permanent contraception can get it without the hassle I went through.  I am thankful, however, that I live in a time and place in which sterilization, especially for a young woman without children, is at least legal.  Had it not been, I may have chosen sexual abstinence.  (If I had to think each time I had intercourse ‘This could change – read “mess up” – the next fifteen years of my life’, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway.)

I am against sexism of any kind; I think that in a perfect world, one’s sex would be as relevant as one’s shoe size.  I don’t like any titles, but I like least of all, therefore, ‘Ms.’ and ‘Mr.’ because they differentiate on the basis of sex; being a female has always been near the bottom of my identity list (I’m a person, a dog-lover, a writer, a runner, a music-lover…).  So I love being neutered – it’s a bit of freedom from being sexed.

 

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Oct 27 2016

Calm down. Don’t think about— Don’t think.

One day when I was talking to a neighbour about something that I wished we could do something about—someone tossing their garbage out of their car onto the road where we walk every day, someone letting their kid drive a dirt bike with no muffler throughout the neighbourhood, someone burning leaves and sending toxic smoke everywhere—and she said something like ‘Calm down, your blood pressure’s going up!’

Well, it wasn’t (my blood pressure has finally creeped up into the normal range, ten years after I stopped running forty miles a week), but I realized then that she wasn’t distinguishing between my cognitive anger, my critical thinking—I was making a point about civility, and respect for others, and the difference between public and private space—and some emotional rant that might end in screaming and slamming doors.  I suppose the latter can elevate one’s blood pressure, and if it’s high to begin with, if you’re on blood pressure medication, like so many people are these days, then yeah—calm down.  So no wonder people develop a sort of blind and deaf veneer.  No wonder they just ‘go with the flow’ and never object.  No wonder they avoid thinking about—  Well, thinking.  It’s literally bad for their health.

But what this means—this inability to distinguish argument from rage, along with the increasing number of people with high blood pressure—is that the more we eat at McDonald’s, the less we’ll get angry about McDonald’s.  The more zombied out people are, sprawled on the couch in front of the tv, the more zombied out people will strive to remain.  Sprawled on the couch in front of the tv.

Not thinking.

 

 

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Oct 18 2016

The 100, Madam Secretary, Code Black

If you haven’t yet discovered it, check out The 100 (available on Netflix).

There are so many female leaders and principals!  Clarke, her mother, Raven, Octavia, the three grounder leaders…

And in one episode, not only does Clarke do something really difficult and really important with Finn, the camera ends with a close-up of her, not Finn.    How often does that happen?  (Men always get the last shot, the last word!  Their reaction is always the most important, the definitive one!)

And that wasn’t an anomaly.  Close-ups often end on Clarke’s mother and Raven instead of the other guy and Bellamy.

(Also enjoying Madam Secretary at the moment!)

(And hating what’s happening on Code Black now that Rob Lowe’s been added to the cast.  Don’t know whether to blame the actor, the writers, or the directors, but my god is he taking over.  As white men do.  Sigh.)

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Sep 30 2016

Hank

[Note: this piece was written a while ago; hence the low figures!]

For those who think it’s no longer a patriarchal world and women are treated the same as men – you’re wrong.

And I am so tired, so very tired of my sex getting in the way of my life, making every little thing so very difficult.

A while ago, I decided to afford an addition to my cabin.  (Sidenote: A man would say he decided to build an addition – but I didn’t build it, the people I hired did – so I don’t say I did.  I first understood this difference when a man asked how long ago I’d put on my new roof.  I replied that I didn’t put on the roof, I’d hired someone else to do it – unlike the gazebo and the lean-to, both of which I’d built myself.  He looked at me as if I’d made a joke.  I then understood that for men, he who pays for it takes credit for doing it.  This is not a trivial insight.)

Anyway, a while ago I decided to afford an addition.  So I asked around a bit, looked in the yellow pages, then selected and called five contractors to come out, see what I wanted done, and give me an estimate.  One didn’t bother returning my call.  And in this time and place, it’s probably not the case that he didn’t need the work.  A second spoke with me over the phone at some length, arranged a time to come out, but then didn’t show – and I never heard from him again.  The other three did come: they all got the tour and a full explanation of what I wanted done.  Of these three, only two submitted a quote.  The third, once more, I never heard from again.  By now, I’m wondering about this lack of interest, this not-being-taken-seriously.  Were they disconcerted by the absence of a husband, a man in charge, a breadwinner – did the came-out-but-never-heard-from-again contractor think I couldn’t pay for what I wanted done?

(Sidenote: Getting the money from the bank was a pleasure.  The loan officer, a woman, did not even ask about my marital status, let alone request a husband’s signature.  She asked only about the state of my financial affairs – current employment, salary, mortgage, debts, etc.  And when I briefly outlined my projected budget/plan for repaying the loan, she never questioned my ability to do so.)

So, while I’d hoped my options wouldn’t be quite so narrow, I decided between the remaining two contractors: I chose the one with the lower-by-$3,000 estimate who was just a little less formal and business-like; I wanted to retain input into small decisions along the way, so I chose the one who talked with me a little more and would, I thought, listen to what I had to say.

Things were generally fine – I say ‘generally’ because I was a little peeved at the sudden slowdown come September.  Work got done at full speed during the summer but as soon as the walls were up and the roof on, Hank (the contractor) started on another job.  I agreed that the interior stuff at my place could wait a bit – construction’s seasonal, you gotta take what you can get, winter’s coming, I know it’s not pleasant to be putting up walls when it’s so cold your face hurts – but ‘a bit’ turned into four months and I ended up having to prod to get the crawlspace insulated before the snow fell.  (Sidenote: I was also a little peeved that I was paying this builder $20/hour and he was paying his men $18.50/hour, while I, with three degrees, two of which are required for my job, am paid $17.10/hour.)

Anyway, things were generally fine until the new pump that Hank installed didn’t work properly.  First, he spread his four house calls over three weeks.  Clearly, other clients were getting priority – despite the urgency (most people would consider being without running water to be somewhat of an urgency).

This seemingly second-class treatment was true too of the plumber I eventually called (four tries in three weeks and I still had no water): it took him two days to make his first appearance and another two days to make the second.  (At $25/hour.)  It felt very much like they were coming out only when they had the time – as if they were doing me a favour.  (Is it because they’re so used to doing favours for women they can’t see us as paying customers?  Where does that come from, the chivalry tradition?  The history of women not having money of their own – with which to pay people?  The man’s blatant misunderstanding – like doing the dishes is doing a favour for the wife?)  This is just speculation, but I think that if I were a man, I wouldn’t’ve been put on the back burner like that.

More annoying was that each of Hank’s house calls seemed to last just a little longer.  I tried not to be rude, but I really didn’t want to chat with him all evening.  He’d linger, not taking the hint of me sitting at my desk with work spread out in front of me (it’s not like I was just sitting on the couch, let alone offering him a cup of coffee).

Then one evening, he asked, rather out of the blue in the course of a conversation I was trying politely to end (“…so I’ll call you tomorrow then if it’s still not working – “), if I’d heard about the Gwen Jacobs decision and what did I think.  I was a little surprised at this (Hank broaching a philosophical issue), but it’s a small community and he knows the guy who lives and fishes on this lake, who knows I don’t bother with a bathing suit, it’s no big deal, so maybe that’s why he asked.  Part of me really didn’t want to get into a discussion about this with someone who was bound to need a lot of explanation before he really understood the points I’d make (“I’m wondering about sexual assault,” he’d said, with a grin) (with a grin) – but part of me wanted to kill any undercurrent leer in mentioning the topic.  So I spent a minute outlining what I thought.

It wasn’t until later that I connected the dots: he had, on a previous visit, suggested that I put something (the pump line he thought was frozen?) wherever it was warmest – “what’s the hottest place in your cabin – your bed?”  I had responded that ten years of celibacy does not a hot bed make, hoping to indicate that I was not a sexual possibility.  (Did he take my response as a sexual challenge?  Or worse, did he not even consider that my celibacy might be my choice – did he think my comment was therefore a veiled ‘asking for it’?  Amazing.)  On another occasion, after a few inconsequential elbow or knee brushes, he actually did the bum-pat thing.

After the second protracted evening visit, I called when I thought his wife would answer.  If something was going on in his mind, I wanted not to encourage it; so I decided to leave a message with his wife rather than get into yet another conversation with him.  I swear I heard ice in her voice.  Unbelievable.  I thoroughly included her in the loop then, explaining in great detail the plumbing situation.  I even told her to tell Hank that the next house call could wait until Saturday, if he was available then, because I didn’t want another evening’s work disturbed that week.

Well.  Saturday he arrived.  He hadn’t called to confirm that he was coming, so I didn’t exactly expect him.  I certainly didn’t expect him to just open my door and walk in at eight o’clock in the morning.  My bed is right by the door; I was still in it.

I was, of course, enraged.  The nerve, the assumption of familiarity, the proprietariness – this is my house, you knock before you enter, and you wait until I answer the door; even friends usually do that, and we are not friends, you are my contractor, I hired you, you work for me!

Did I say any of that?  Of course not.  When you’re a woman, in a male-dominant society, and you find yourself still in bed, just awake, and a man is standing a mere two feet away, probably with a pipe wrench in his hand (hopefully he has come to fix the pump), you don’t tell him off.  (Not then.  But, alas, not later either.  And that’s what makes me really angry – I’ll never be able to set him straight.  Telling him what I really think would no doubt make him angry.  Angry men are to be feared.  He knows where I live.  One ‘accidental’ shot at Chessie (my canine companion) from the hunting rifle he no doubt owns and she’ll be dead.  So I let it go.  I smile it off.  And he carries on, oblivious to the damage he’s done, the danger he is.)

Now the question is this: would he have done this if I’d been a man?  I think not.  Nor would he have done it if I’d been in bed with my husband.  In fact, it’s probable that none of this — the casual touches, the sexual innuendo talk, even the extended house calls (not to mention the second-class client treatment) — would’ve happened if I’d been a married woman, and it’s almost certain that none of it would have happened if I’d been a man.  (I suspect that if I’d been a man, he wouldn’t’ve left all the clean-up work he left either – piles of sawdust for me to sweep up, handprints on the walls for me to wash off, etc.  Why is it guys always think cleaning up means cleaning up only the big stuff?)  (Men=big.  Women=small.  WTF?)

Things really made sense when my neighbour told me that when I’d hired a ‘handyman’ to fix the bathroom floor and put in a shower stall several years prior, his wife had called this neighbour to ask about me – did she have cause for concern?  I was flabbergasted to find out about this.  As with Hank, I had asked Bob to do the work, if possible, on the days I wasn’t there (I really don’t like the solitude of my days off to be invaded, so I usually arrange to be there the first time, to make sure Chessie is okay with the guy, and then schedule subsequent visits for the days I have to work).

Both wives seemed to think that a woman living alone would automatically be sexually encouraging.  As did Hank.  (Perhaps he thought my friendliness was an invitation.  Sad, isn’t it – you can’t even talk to a man without him thinking you’re coming on to him.  Why is that?  Because men don’t chat with each other?  Because in the man’s world, chatting is not considered part of normal friendly interaction, so when chatting does occur, it’s taken to indicate extraordinary friendliness?)  (No maybe that’s not what was happening at all.  That’s a woman’s take on the situation.  At one point in one conversation, I realized that he was giving me all this advice, about how to get business – I’m a disc jockey too –  and I thought ‘Wait a minute, did I ask you for advice?’   I had merely said that business was poor.  Why is it that when you say something’s difficult, women will empathize but men will advise?  So maybe what was happening was that he was seeing himself more and more in a ‘superior’ position and seeing me more and more in a subordinate position and that’s what led to the sexual stuff, sex being connected to power for men.  Downplaying my degrees as I did, so as not to appear elitist (or rich), wouldn’t have helped in this regard.)  At the very least, Hank and the others considered my sex to be primary instead of irrelevant.

And that’s how it gets in the way. I just wanted to hire someone to fix my bathroom, to build an addition, to fix my pump.  But being female got in the way: it restricted my choices, it affected the quality of the work I got, it limited my actions. And it made such ordinary stuff so very, very difficult: I had to deal with all this other shit – shit a man wouldn’t have had to deal with.

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