own it, please

My newest reading venture is a book entitled Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History. I picked it up because this is Women's History month and I happen to like the slogan. It is written by the woman that first penned those words, without the least intention of turning them into a slogan. She actually wrote the sentence in an academic paper focused upon the funeral eulogies given for Puritan women. Some ambitious undergrad discovered it and asked to use it on t-shirts. It just proliferated from there.
Anyway, Dr. Thatcher Ulrich examines the validity of her own statement, attempting to define the term "well-behaved" within certain cultural and societal contexts, and then looking at historical case-studies to determine whether or not well-behaved women made history. Surprisingly, some did.
I'm not intending to make this post into a summary of the book though. I mention it both to suggest it as a reading list item, and also to set up what I'm about to say about her Royalness, Hillary Clinton.
Doubtless, most are aware of another blood-letting incident in the life of Mrs. Clinton's campaign. As she has not had any illicit affairs, and has generally stayed away from prostitution rings, the media has decided to use other indiscretions against her. (Just as an aside, I should probably mention that I use the word "indiscretion" as an understatement.) Mrs. Clinton claimed that she came under sniper fire when landing in Kosovo; she and Chelsea were in grave danger. Actually, according to minutes of newsreel and the eyewitness testimony of tons of people, Mrs. Clinton schmoozed, posed for photos, and did not muss her coiffed blonde hair. Even if there were snipers, there were so many American military personnel around, they could have taken them out with relative ease. I thought the Clintons were supposed to be good liars. My nine year old brother would know not to lie about something that had been caught on tape.
However, I believe this incident not only indicates how trustworthy Mrs. Clinton is, but also confirms her conditional ownership of her gender. Supposedly she lied about the sniper fire to compete with John McCain's military record, and to insist that her foreign policy involvement did not merely consist of tea-parties. "Damn it, I was too Bill's controlling vice-president!" Why is she so hesitant to admit that she was a First Lady, emphasis on the Lady? By attempting to legitimize her experience by throwing in some sniper fire, she is, in fact, lending credence to masculine definitions of experience and bravado. I'm tempted to e-mail her, asking if she has read any Gloria Steinam recently.
Earlier in her campaign, she did the same thing, refusing to appear in Vogue because it would make her look too feminine. Well, Mrs. Clinton, you are a woman. Looking like one is no greater crime than one running for President.
As I mentioned earlier though, Mrs. Clinton pulls out her gender and puts it away, at her convenience, not unlike a make-up compact. When she is behind in the polls, failing in the primaries, she will allow some tears to well up, allow some grind in her throat to convince female voters that she feels their pain. I dare Condi Rice to try that next time she's negotiating with foreign leaders. Everyone knows how emotionally unstable women are; one reason why they are so unsuited to lead.

Although I don't plan to vote for either, I at least have respect left for Barack Obama. He's not using his minority, or underprivileged status like a weapon--something he can wield at will for personal gain.

revelation

Today I watched Walker: Texas Ranger for the first time. I now understand all Chuck Norris jokes.

happy accident

I'm learning that no one really cares when I write a serious blog. No one ever comments about them. It's as if my three readers simply say, oh, right, Elizabeth is in her alternate universe again, better leave her alone. Fine. I've determined to alternate serious blogs with fluffy ones, more or less. In other words, after I write about war, injustice, and the death of puppies, I will compose an exposition on the finer points of giving a manicure (although I shall have to do some research on the latter--I have no idea how to do one). So here goes with today's non-substantive post:
I was rear-ended today. For some reason, God decided to dump 6-8 inches of snow on Chicago. Why, I know not. He seems to plan these days of snow quite carefully. Right after a warm day when Elizabeth Tatum was able to go the Lincoln Park Zoo and enjoy the sunshine, He sends torrents of large snow flakes, just to torment the general populace. This snow creates hazardous road conditions, of which I was a victim today. Now, my '97 Subaru happens to have all-wheel drive--quite a convenience when living in the Midwest. Good ol' Stella (my car) pulled up the stop light, went smoothly to the left lane, and stopped to wait for the light to turn. However, the two fools in the Ford behind me were not able to stop. My rapping to a Sean Paul song was most rudely interrupted when the said gray car slammed into the back of mine. I wasn't sure what to do. I put my car in park, put on my flashers, and got out of my car. Um. Sir. You hit my car. (That was what I was planning to say.) I didn't get the chance to say anything right then, because he gestured for me to pull over. Slightly annoyed, I got back in my car, made a right, and stopped. And who should get out of the car but a beautiful twentysomething man, and his friend. Quite egotistically, my first thought was not, "Wow, what luck for me!" but rather, "Wow, what luck for them! They rear-ended a nice single girl." It felt like some kind of set-up when we exchanged phone numbers. I half-expected him to call me tonight saying something like, "Hey, um, remember how I hit your car today? Well, would you like to go get a drink?" But alas, it was not to be. The negligent Ford driver has not contacted me since. He did apologize for "slowing me down," however, and I do feel that those words were well-chosen. All in all, getting in a minor car accident really isn't a bad way to meet men. No one is hurt, there are a few laughs, the man can express some kind of care, and phone numbers are exchanged. Really, someone ought to tell e-harmony about this.
At any rate, it felt almost wrong to jump back in the car and keep going as if nothing had happened, but, what choice did I have? It makes for a good story, I suppose. Better than how to get rid of pesky cuticles, or how to perfect the best pumicing methods, or how to obtain the most effective anti-aging hand cream. For fluff, recounting a happy accident with a nice-looking stranger is really the best thing that I've got.

violence in american films

Right now I'm much too tired to write anything of recognizable coherence, but I feel compelled to slap something down. For some reason, blog-writing doesn't come easily to me in the morning or afternoon. It's only in the evening, when I'm alone and become truly sober about life that I seem to get up the motivation.
Tonight I started watching Apocalypse Now, a film I've wanted to see since I read The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad my senior year. But after Kurtz beheaded the man designated to call in the air strike (if the assassin/captain did not return by a certain time), I had had enough and decided to finish it tomorrow, where daylight might offer me some emotional oxygen.
This viewing makes the second violent, pessimistic American film for me in the past 72 hours. On Saturday I watched No Country for Old Men, the significance of which deserves a whole post in and of itself. I think tomorrow I had better watch Enchanted or something along those lines. However, to be fair, even though they sometimes disturb me, I seem to have a penchant for violent films. Now, I don't like slasher/horror movies. M. Night is about as much as I can take. But there is something about a war movie, violent drama, or well-constructed action flick that perpetuates thought and emotion in me, even if I do still hide my face during the most gruesome scenes. And with an eye on both Oscar-winners and box office sales, I realize that I am not the only one who is strangely, and often subconciously, drawn towards fatal, bloody fare.
I've been lazily pondering the significance of this since I spoke with a good friend from Europe a few years ago. It seems that, in Europe, sex takes the cake for the most prevelent, pseudo-objectionable material in movies and TV. My friend was confused as to why Americans always need guns and knives pointed at people in their moving visual media. Of course, it's not as if Americans are at all averse to sexuality on the telly, it's just that, if weighed equally, violence wins out every time. It's far more common to have a film rated R primarily because of graphic and disturbing violence rather than sexuality.
There are likely many explanations both for my personal, and our cultural, preference for violent movies. I'm only going to venture giving two.
As I watched Anton Chighur interact with Carla Jean before he murdered her in No Country for Old Men, I was reminded of the emotional intensity and intimacy that often accompanies portrayals of violence. When one individual looks at another, with the intent to harm them, for good reasons or evil, everything else just falls away. Anton Chighur tells the store owner, earlier in the film, that he should call the coin toss, with the understanding that he stands to win everything. If he loses, we as the audience will witness a man lose everything he was, is, and could be, both to himself and to those who know him. If he loses, we watch Anton Chighur play God.
The raw humanity of such a moment should not be lost, as Anton himself understands when he tells the store owner to keep the coin, to not let it get "mixed in with the others."
Sexuality is not the pinnacle of human experience, contrary to whatever the heck Freud said; people can live without sex. Relational connectedness and our fierce desire for life, whether or not we articulate it so, is what drives us. Watching the severing of the former while simultaneously seeing the struggle for the latter is often mesmerizing, even if it shouldn't be. Typically one human being wins out over another in this contest, and we as the audience are able to feel the razor sharp edge of what we know as the human experience when we watch violence. An intelligent, violent film is often that visceral. I can't remember a time when I have wept after a sex scene (although I generally try to avoid them), but this is not at all the case after a film that features violence portrayed with purpose and integrity--like Band of Brothers, for instance (I'm counting it as a film, yes).
The other reason for our preference for violence is not nearly so philosophical: the reality is that America was, and is, an extremely violent nation. When you take into consideration all of the wars, crimes, social injustices, under-the-table-we-will-help-your-evil-government deals, plus all the fiction and non-fiction books inspired by them, it's a suprise we don't have more fights/blood/guns movies.

I may add to this later as I watch more movies and garner more insight. This will have to do for now though, as I am tired and have separated myself from Apocalypse Now enough to go to sleep.

addition

I forgot about one other thing: finding a Joseph Brodsky poem at the public library after a long and arduous search. When I pulled out the anthology, I sat down in the middle of the aisle between the shelves and read it three times. Sigh.

top ten

Life has been extraordinarily good to me recently, and I feel that it might be beneficial to complete a top ten list as I complete my sixth week in Chicago. In no particular order, these are ten small, but beautiful, things that I experienced this week:

1. Multiple cinnamon crunch bagels from Paneras with lots of cream cheese on hand.
2. An 80 GB silver iPod that arrived in the mail on Wednesday.
3. Kisses from Bryce and Angelica.
4. A walk along Lake Michigan with Ruby, my aunt's dog.
5. Wandering into a sushi restaurant in downtown Chicago; I ordered spicy tuna and sweet potato tempura. It was off the hook.
6. Listening to Timbaland with the windows rolled down on a warm day.
7. Bryce asking me, "Do you want to marry a guy that thinks you're great and you're good friends and you like to spend time together?" Yup, that's the plan, son.
8. Cuddling with my (former) roommates in Indiana.
9. Actually wanting to present my senior paper.
10. Realizing God is gracious and generous in sparing good friends from sure injury.

Let's just say, I like waking up in the morning these days.

Reading material

As an English major, I'm more or less expected to be rather selective in my choice of literature. If one has a craving for a novel on romance/female identity development, it is always better to read Madame Bovary than chick lit. when your credentials include informal certification as a grammarian, literary critic, and possible bohemian. But let us be honest. A pro-gamer may enjoy Mario Cart every so often, and a chemist may like to concoct crude, imprecise explosions in his backyard, using aersol cans and a bonfire. Similarly, I am entitled to enjoy material that is neither well-written nor particularly inventive. For example, I tried reading Dostoyevsky in bed every night. I can't fall asleep unless I read, so I always have a bed book. But ol' Fyodor couldn't hold my attention. In my subconscious state, I would read four sentences and be unable to summarize their content. So I exchanged Dostoyevsky for Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, stories of the jolly, fat neighbor lady who helps all the suburban housewives fix their children's behavioral ills. The stereotypes and predictability are unreal, but I enjoy engaging only a quarter of my brain as I fall asleep to tales of traditional, conservative, restrictive values. "Reader's Digest" and "Guideposts" are also my magazines of choice while I am indisposed in the ladies room. I know the structure of these types of articles keenly. They begin with an exciting first paragraph, like, "Slam! Josh rammed into a mailbox as he swerved to miss a two year old girl standing in the middle of a quiet street in his Wisconsin neighborhood" (completely fictional). This is followed by an introduction to the people involved, the background of the situation, a build in intensity, a resolution, and then a parting analysis of the situation OR update on what has happened to those involved since the incident. It's quite delicious. Just like watching Law and Order or What Not To Wear. You know what will happen when, and it's positively comforting.
I like reading such trash occasionally. I'll admit that I have read too many "People" magazines in the doctor's office, and may have even been tempted to get a subscription, would it not put my intellectual and ethical integrity on the line. Why am I telling you this? Perhaps for self-exculpation, although I have no intention of changing, or perhaps to also give you permission to enjoy a children's book every so often, or a juicy read about Brangelina.

p.s.

If anyone is particularly interested in Romeo Daillaire's (sp?) story, it can also be obtained in the book that he wrote of the same title as the film. I plan to hit up the Evanston Public Library for it within the next few weeks.
Also, I apologize for the typo, which I have since corrected, in the below entry. Instead of typing "God," I typed "a God." I happen to believe in just one God, so I apologize for the misplaced article.

shake hands with the devil

My university has done a fabulous job of celebrating Martin Luther King Jr. Day the past five years or so. Previous to 2001 or 2002, I can't remember which, my school didn't even give students and professors the day off. I guess they're making up for it now, as they put on special programs, seminars, concerts, and invite such notable speakers as John Perkins and Efram Smith. This year, the day's events ended with a screening of the documentary, Shake Hands With The Devil, a film which follows General Romeo Dallaire upon his return to Rwanda 10 years after the genocide. Though I was slightly confused as to why such a film would be shown on MLK Day, I tend to be interested in all things African, and was therefore only too eager to attend.

Let it be known that I have seen a host of disturbing films. I haven't made concerted efforts to shield myself from the brutalities of life, unlike some of my family members, who protest that they cannot watch violence because "it's too disturbing." I've sat through Passion of the Christ, Schindler's List, Band of Brothers, Blood Diamond, The Constant Gardener, Hotel Rwanda, The Last King of Scotland (James McAvoy made this film so much more pleasant, however), and a host of other Hollywood portrayals of non-fiction violence, tyranny, and general mayhem. I write this not to sound callous, although I surely am so when compared to an individual who never exposes herself to such things, but to communicate that I am not naive and at least partially acquainted with the cruelties of the modern world. But none of those films prepared me for this one. There were a few points in the film, most notably when a senator from a country that abandoned and metaphorically handcuffed Dallaire criticized the General, when I wanted to stand up and tell the other viewers in the auditorium, "This is shit." However, I generally don't swear, and wanted to avoid ostracism that surreptitiously lurks in some corners of my Christian university.
At any rate, though this may seem like an exaggeration, it's quite possible that viewing Shake Hands with the Devil caused some psychological damage. I slowly realized this when I thought constantly about what I had seen for the next few days, and talked about it at length with anyone that would listen to me. The other night at a dinner I started to cry when someone compared the situation in Kenya with what took place in Rwanda. When I got home and began devouring news articles and videos about the situation in Kenya, I cried some more, almost in a panicked kind of way. Other than a few isolated weeks of my life, I've never been big on the crying scene, particularly in regard to events physically and emotionally distant from me, so I feel that these moments were somewhat significant.

One of the reasons that I may have been able to emotionally respond to similar situations likely has both to do with my viewing of the film, and also my limited exposure to Africa. Being in Ethiopia for a month hardly gives anyone authority to speak upon the scope of Africa, its beauties, along with its issues, so I won't attempt to. The one thing that I do feel I can claim are a few relationships with Ethiopian children and teenagers, which has lent me perspective on African identity
and allowed me to experience befriending the "Other," that extraordinarily pretentious label of the postcolonial literature movement. During my time there, I reached some seemingly obvious conclusions about the friends that I met in Ethiopia: they may be poor, they may have little to offer to the modern world, but they are just as full of humanity and spirituality as any white man, woman, or child. Their lives do not count any less to God. Although it is counter-intuitive to a materialist way of thinking, a poor, uneducated African child is of no less worth than an affluent, educated, white American child. The death of either should not be perceived differently, nor should such deaths garner essentially different action. And yet they do. Sonafkish, Dumbelle, Yosef, Yared, Zenash, Sefeyu--my friends--each face and name carries with it personality, foibles, beauty, and mystery which binds each of us to each other. I have thought about their homes being raided, their parents taken away, other acts of violence which I do not have the stomach to write about. Those who lived in Rwanda, those who live in Kenya, they are not so different than my Ethiopian friends. Each has a life within a complex web of relationships and events. Not one is a decontextualized poor African with no identity except that he is only one of far too many tragic black faces.