Tag: Feminism

Haiku & Other Poetry, Random Rants, tutto e niente

a new day

Tina Stewart Brakebill

a new day begins ~

unfurling a path to choose ~

hero or coward ~

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Every day we make a million little choices that define who we are. Those choices built on each other and create a picture of “self.” It’s tempting to assume at some point that our picture is done. We confidently or defiantly (or sometimes with shame) declare “what you see is what you get” or as Popeye would say “I am what I am.” Or is it “I yam what I yam”?

Of course some things can’t be changed or even be easily altered, but that doesn’t mean your picture of self is finished. Every day offers us an opportunity to make a change. It may be so tiny that no one notices or so big that the world takes notice. Not everyone will like it. Not everyone who likes it will agree on its merits. Some people will care too much. And some people won’t care at all. And some people will think you don’t have the right to make the change at all. But regardless what other people think or say, your choice means that your self-portrait will be different from yesterday. To me, that idea is daunting but ultimately wonderful. In a world where so many things are beyond my scope of immediate power, it is empowering to believe I CAN change my self-portrait.

To KNOW that my choices can change MY PATH!

With that sense of Wonder Woman like empowerment I should be making great strides towards a better me. And that better me should be on the forefront of the resistance kickin’ ass! Right? And in my perfect world, every morning I would think about my choices. What do I want the world to see when they view my portrait? What do I want to see? What path am I choosing today? How will I make a better world today? But, of course, it’s not a perfect world. And I’m terrible at self-reflection! And the path towards a better world gets cluttered with Twitter rants and despair. And. And. And…

Some days, choosing to be kind to myself and others is the best I can do. (And really isn’t that the very least we can do for ourselves and humanity!)

So today, I’ll try to practice what I preach.

Tomorrow I plan on looking for a golden lasso or maybe a pair of cuffs!

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Thanks for the Prompt RonovanWrites

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

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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