Category: Random Rants

History, Random Rants

Inky Adventures & Scribbling Women

Tina Stewart Brakebill

The phrase “Inky Adventures” reminds me of Nathanial Hawthorne’s famous 1855 diatribe on female writers: “America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash-and should be ashamed of myself if I did succeed.” Admittedly I’ve always found his work a bit too heavy-handed on the moral symbolism scale, so saying “screw you Nat” wasn’t hard for me. Plus, his hissy fit seems a bit ridiculous given that he was a highly celebrated and successful author at the time. But his whining does provide a great example of the extent of the fragile male ego. He was horrified by the idea that “his” space as an author should be shared (or even slightly usurped) by a woman. He saw it as an affront to HIS definition of the craft and by extension himself. Of course, he wasn’t (and isn’t) alone in that view. This male-centric attitude continues to shape the writing world in a variety of important ways including who gets published, who gets reviewed, and who writes the reviews. Statistically, the answer to all three of those “who” questions is MEN, despite the fact that more women exist, women read more, and studies show that women prefer to read books by women. Doesn’t seem like a smart marketing strategy to me. But what do I know, I’m just a girl. (Sarcasm detector BLARING!)

But I digress. I was ruminating on inky adventures and Nat Hawthorne’s scribbling women. Good ole Nat didn’t intend it to be a compliment, but like “bitch” and “slut” I choose to reclaim it as an empowering phrase. I love the images it conjures in my head. Women—all kinds of women—grabbing moments to scribble down their thoughts. Spending their days and nights working and then staying up a bit longer to write by the light of a single flickering candle. Or rising before dawn to plot out a story by the lone gaslight while the dough rises or before it’s time to milk the cows. Making a space. Putting their hopes and dreams and imagination on paper. Finding the perfect words to convey an image or a narrative or an idea. In this age of technology and relative freedom, it’s easy to forget that simply having the ability or the tools to “scribble” wasn’t a given for many women. Masters denied enslaved women the right to read or write. Poor women often didn’t have the funds to purchase paper or pencils. Middle-class women feared stepping across the boundaries dictating women’s “proper” conduct. “Scribbling” was an act of defiance. It was (to bring this conversation back around) an Inky Adventure.

When I was a practicing historian (instead of a “used to be”), I spent a lot of time researching and writing about ordinary women defying expectations. Women like Celestia Rice Colby. As a (sometimes) hopeful writer, she wanted to be one of those “scribbling women” disparaged by Nat. But like many women of her time, she was only allowed to scribble in the rare down moments of her very long days. This reality weighed heavy on her mind and spirit. “Have done nothing of any account. Made cheese and finished my dairy work, got Rose asleep and sat down with my pen but the thoughts that kept bubbling up when bending over the cheese vat, would not come. So I could not write…. So the day has passed. I have read none, wrote but two pages; the rest has been work, work. But it is one of the days of my life, and has passed as most of my days do; yet it saddens me to think it is gone, and that thus the succeeding ones will go and leave no worthy trace behind.” (Circumstances are destiny by Tina Stewart Brakebill)

It’s a timeless thought: that idea of a “worthy trace,” a legacy. I don’t know if any of my writing will stand the test of time but I do know that I find inspiration in all those “scribbling women.” I too want to leave a “worthy trace.” But their stories also remind me NOT to take my luck for granted. I was born here and now. I get to do what I love. And the people who love me support my efforts. I still complain and doubt myself. But when I’m having a particularly bad day, I remember Celestia Rice Colby. If I had been born in another place and time, her words could have been mine: “I can only muse and dream impossibilities.” But I am here NOW in this place, so I mentally shake myself off. Then I sit back down with my notebook and I scribble, while I muse and dream POSSIBILITIES.

 

Thanks for the inspiration Putting My Feet in the Dirt

 

Haiku & Other Poetry, History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

Musings on Mangy Mutts & Milkmen

Tina Stewart Brakebill

i wax poetic ~

on mangy mutts and milkmen ~

musing on times past ~  

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

When I was a kid, dogs freely roamed the neighborhood. No leashes or fences to keep them tethered. The whole world was their dog park! That sounds wonderful in a naïve nostalgic way. But, in reality, it meant they were free to travel in packs and chase cars and dump over garbage cans and poop everywhere and terrorize children or the mailman or the milkman. Most owners made some sort of effort to keep their pups under control, but there was always at least one neighborhood dog that the other neighbors condemned as that “mangy mutt.” No doubt, the children had enthusiastically picked out Fido or Queenie at the “pound” (as we called it back in the day) with the sincerest intentions. But then school or baseball or choir practice or cheerleading or debate club or innumerable other things grabbed their attention. Queenie or Fido became an afterthought. If someone remembered, they set out food and water but mostly the dogs seemed to revert to their instincts (Call of the Wild style) and take care of themselves. This was not a great solution for the dogs or the neighborhood. Resentment would build. Sometimes vague (or not so vague) threats would be made: “If that damned mangy mutt bites my kid, you’ll be sorry!” And eventually something bad would happen. Fido might get hit by a car or Queenie would bite the milkman (or a kid) and then overnight they’d disappear. Where? Off to a farm where they could roam and play (at least that’s what my parents would tell me.)

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Photo by SplitShire on Pexels.com

And speaking of milkmen, “what’s that?” the youngsters may ask. Well …when I was a kid, a man in a truck (and it was always a man because women weren’t allowed to have jobs driving trucks) brought bottles of milk to the house. He put them into a metal box on the front porch early in the morning, so they were there when we woke up. Again, sounds great. Fresh milk every morning! No trip to the store needed. No human interaction required. It’s a millennial’s idea of heaven. (If the milk is soy or almond or not milk at all but kombucha or kava.) In reality, it wasn’t always so great. If you were gone and forgot to cancel a delivery then the milk would spoil. DISGUSTING. Or if you slept late in the summer, it would get warm (YUCKY!) because that metal box wasn’t magic. Or the milk could get stolen or the bottles could be used as a tool for vandalism. Plus, speaking from painful experience, if you fell off the box (even though your mom has yelled repeatedly to “Get off the milk box. You’ll break it!) then the lid’s jagged edges rip your leg into bloody shreds. (Scars still visible 50 years later.)

Still … it’s sometimes tempting to think of those times fondly. Neighborhood puppies and fresh milk: it’s like a Norman Rockwell painting. But, like most things idealized about the past, it’s only pretty if we ignore the poop and the sexism and the neglect and the bloody shreds. No thanks. I’ll take leash laws and store-bought (almond) milk.

close up photography of french bulldogs
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

Thanks for the writing prompt Putting My Feet in the Dirt

Haiku & Other Poetry, History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

The American Way

Tina Stewart Brakebill

Is This the American Way?

Enough is enough!

But Freedom Ain’t Free They Scream

Now Ready Aim Fire

And Slaughter Just One More Child

It’s the American Way 

Yesterday, the March For Our Lives: Road to Change Rally  came to town. Students from local Pinellas County high schools joined with students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas to demand their voices be heard. They spoke eloquently about their continued anger, sorrow, fear, and frustration. They reminded us that guns kill nearly 100 people a day in the United States. That’s 13,000 people a year! Every day we lose seven kids and all their potential. Each month fifty women are shot and killed by their intimate partners. And it’s not just homicides and avoidable accidents. Over 60% of gun deaths are suicides.

They also reminded us that the vast majority of Americans support gun control in some form. They are rightfully angry and frustrated because they understand that money and politics and money IN politics has stymied efforts for change up to this point. But they also know that they are the future. They believe that their voices and their will to change things is stronger than the NRA’s stronghold on policy. They warn policy makers that if their demands for change are ignored, they have the numbers to vote them out. Their passion is undeniable. They rally like their lives depend on it.

And I want to believe change is coming! I am moved by their passion. But my cynicism has proven to be remarkably resilient. I want that cynicism to be washed away. I want to have that just-dunked-evangelical-cleansed-of-my-doubts-oh-so-fresh baptismal feeling. But dirty thoughts keep rising to the surface. Like, for example, the horrifying reality that between 1998 and the fall of 2017, the NRA spent over 203 million dollars on political activities. And that spending has spiked significantly since 2012 (in the wake of the Sandy Hook massacre). Dirty thoughts about a lot of dirty influence.

Those dirty thoughts lead me to doubt and the doubt tries to lure me into apathy because, if nothing is going to happen then why try. Right? But then I look at a picture of the young people fighting. Or I think of the seven kids that are going to die today. Or I wonder how many of those fifty women that were gunned down last month would still be alive if guns weren’t so easy to get. These thoughts demand attention, so I push back against the apathy and cynicism. I pledge my support to the kids, my vote to the least NRA corrupted politicians, and my money to forces for change.

administration america art banner

This is My American Way

Enough is Enough!

Freedom Claims A Road to Change

So March for Our Lives

And Save Tomorrow’s Future

That’s the American Way

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Stats courtesy of Everytown for Gun Safety and Politifact

Thanks to Hello Giggles for a great article on gun control organizations, if you’re looking to donate your time and/or money.

And finally thanks for the “Enough is Enough” Writing Prompt Putting My Feet in the Dirt

Haiku & Other Poetry, History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

Haiku & History: In the Summer Following My Birth

Tina Stewart Brakebill

The World Changed In The

Summer Following My Birth

Nothing Changed at All

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In the summer following my birth, the world changed.  

  • Marilyn Monroe sang “Happy Birthday Mr. President.”
  • Marilyn Monroe died.
  • Adolph Eichmann was hung.
  • Spider Man was born.
  • Sam Walton opened the first Wal-Mart in Arkansas.
  • Doctors inserted the first silicone breast implants.
  • Diane Nash’s defiance forced a Mississippi court to back down.
  • Cpl. Roman Ducksworth was murdered by a Mississippi policeman.
  • Andy Warhol opened his first solo show.
  • William Faulkner died.
  • The Rolling Stones played their first gig as a band.
  • The Shirelles hit number one with “Soldier Boy.”
  • Court ordered Ole Miss to enroll James Meredith.
  • Ole Miss blocked James Meredith’s enrollment.
  • The Jetsons premiered.
  • The Beverly Hillbillies premiered.
  • The Red-bellied gracile mouse opossum became extinct.
  • The Earth’s population hit 3 Billion.

In the summer following my birth, nothing changed at all.

Writing Prompt Thanks to Putting My Feet in the Dirt

Haiku & Other Poetry, History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

This is Not a Haiku

Tina Stewart Brakebill

Haikus Calm my Mind

Structure and Form Soothe My Soul

With the World Gone Mad  

OK. I lied. That IS a haiku. But this post is not just a haiku. It’s about writing. Specifically it’s about how creating haikus is helping me practice self-care in a chaotic world. As a control-freak, I thrive on structure. I’m not as bad as I used to be but, at best, I’m in semi-recovery. And the current state of the world has not been good for that semi-recovery. Every day—or more accurately—every hour something deeply upsetting is revealed, uncovered, announced, posted, tweeted, or shouted from the rooftop. Children ripped from their asylum-seeking parents. Oh wait, it’s worse. They’re being kept in pins. Kennedy is retiring. Oh wait, it’s worse. His son was involved in a billion-dollar deal with trump. Trump gave Kim-Jong Un a photo op and got nothing in return. Oh wait, it’s worse. North Korea is expanding its nuclear capabilities. If I listen very carefully I can almost hear Heather Locklear telling me: “and so on and so on and so on ….” (Oops, showing my age. What ever happened to Faberge shampoo? Is it still a thing? Note to self—google it.)

[Side note for your pleasure: Still don’t know if Faberge still exists, but this gem is still out there! And so on and so on …

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Where was I?

So in the midst of this non-stop horror train that we’re on, I am trying to find equilibrium. I’m setting mind boundaries. I’m staying informed but I’m not immersing myself in the 24/7 cycle. I’m reading a variety of sources, but I’m no longer trying to keep up on the Fox “News” or Infowars-style version of events. Their distance from reality and constant reverence to Trump, as if he is some sort of god-figure, is too surreal for my brain to process. I will engage with people seeking to have an informed discussion but I no longer engage with people that just want to argue or want to insist that “being civil” means that we should ignore the blatant racism, misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, and classism that underlies much of this administration’s actions.  I have chosen to protect (control!) my space for the sake of my sanity.

Because sometimes, on bad days, I’m afraid that we have gone through the looking glass. The Mad Hatter has taken control. Too many people have drank the tea. On good days, when I’m feeling optimistic I want to believe that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” (As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. so eloquently noted when he paraphrased a sermon by the radical abolitionist, Theodore Parker.) But I’m also an historian (and I can do basic math!) so I know that arc has been bending for a damn long time! Too long. It’s been 165 years since Parker’s 1853 speech and over 5o years since Dr. King’s 1965 Selma speech and justice still seems far in the distance. And if we continue to ignore the very real social, judicial, and economic effects of that delay in justice, it will continue to be only a fuzzy idea, always out of reach.

I’m going to get back to haikus and writing. I promise, but as long as I’m quoting Theodore Parker, I’ll throw another one into the mix. “The domestic function of the woman does not exhaust her powers… To make one half of the human race consume its energies in the functions of housekeeper, wife and mother is a monstrous waste of the most precious material God ever made.” And another one: “But I confess I mourn that where her work is as profitable as man’s, her pay is not half so much. …. It is so in all departments of woman’s work that I am acquainted with.” Once more I remind us, this was 165 years ago! These are not new ideas people!! And again I say, if we continue to ignore the very real socio-economic effects of the mindset that prioritizes women’s roles as wife & mother to the exclusion or marginalization of all others, then true equality will continue to be only a fuzzy idea, always out of reach.

So … I’ll hop off my soapbox for now.

And come back to the supposed subject of this post. Haikus. The deceptively simple haiku. To comply to its rules while still saying something has become a process that calms me. If feeds my need for control and it forces me to think big and small at the same time. I must be concise. I must convey meaning. Bringing those two things together has become the perfect writing challenge to balance my shaky equilibrium in this time of twitter wars and infowars and real wars. So thanks to Matsuo Basho and Ezra Pound. Perhaps I should apologize for diminishing the art form with silliness and politics, BUT …without apology, this is a haiku.

Haiku as Self Care

Might Sink Art for Ego’s Sake

But I Plead the Fifth   

What calms your soul??

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