Friday Funny: Fundamentalists, don’t fuck with ‘Frisco

Merry pranksters holding silly signs and blasting Lady Gaga vastly outnumbered the sad Westboro Baptist Church demonstration in front of the Twitter office in San Francisco last week. Fuckhead Phelps and brood subsequently cancelled their scheduled protest of Fiddler on the Roof (ha! ha! ha!) at the Golden Gate Theater, but that didn’t stop the music - the counter-protesters turned up anyway with signs and rick rolls. Brilliant.

Photo by sandwichgirl at the theater.

Photo by Rubin Starset from the Twitter protest.

Iranian women

Only a few years ago, we had to watch “the news” on TV where we heard “the latest” about stuff like the Iranian election many hours after it actually happened. And if we were lucky, a few photos or video made it all the way to the studio without being confiscated or censored.

Now all we have to do is surf the net to see events happen practically in real time.

Gone appear to be the days when everything we saw could very well be manipulated by someone (powerful politicians, greedy network execs, etc) with a vested interest. Still happens, no doubt, but when anyone can hold a video camera and broadcast the action to the world within minutes, chances are good that what you see is what went down.

This is great for debunking popular myths, such as the one about women (especially middle eastern women) being the weaker, more passive sex.

In case you’re wondering what prompted these ruminations, it’s this excellent article by Mariam Aryai Rivera about how amateur coverage of the election protests in Iran are proving Iranian women are hardly the docile creatures we think they are.

But now, with the help of modern-day technology and amateur video footage, you can catch them drop kicking the cops and the Revolutionary Guard, and in a center-stage tragedy, taking a bullet to the heart. The women of Iran are in the house, and they’re in the front row.

This front-row female participation in social change has been way more typical than is commonly understood, mainly because men have written most of the history books.  Women’s contribution has been trivialized and ignored, like their vastly important role in shaping human evolution (hint:  it ain’t just gathering nuts).

But whatever - the internet to the rescue. It’s helping us all see the truth, one Youtube video at a time.

I don’t call this a revolution. Nor do I call this C.I.A.-backed interference. I call this a civil-rights movement, and there is no civil-rights movement in the history of humankind that excludes the power of women. Women in Iran are giving birth to something historic, and it’s not just with their wombs.

Word.

Technorati Tags: Iran, Iran election fraud

Banning burqas is stupid

The spokesman for the group of lawmakers behind banning burqas in France says that “wearing the burka is a submissive act, and that… is contrary to republican principles.”  Clearly they hope we’ll interpret this to mean the ban is about gender equality.

Je ne le pense pas.

I do not see anything in their statement about supporting women. At best, it is just ego, a la “What will the neighbors think?”

At worst, its a non-too-subtle attempt to oppress and intimidate a subculture.

Yes, we all know Islam has sects that treat women as inferior to men (kinda like Roman Catholicism, the primary religion in France).  But the burqa is a symptom, not a cause. That’s what makes this so transparent.

If the French were really worried about upholding their “republican principles,” they’d work on fixing the legendary sexism in their dominant culture.

Technorati Tags: France, sexism, Islam, xenophobia

Well, it goes against MY conscience to fund illegal wars, but I pay my fucking taxes.

Remember the “conscientious objection” card the anti-choice pharmacists play so they don’t have to give out Plan B?

I guess it was only a matter of time before the hetero-bigots got into that game. A proposed policy in Iowa would “protect” the rights of those judges who don’t want to perform marriage ceremonies for same-sex couples. Says the Alliance Defense Fund:

Forcing [judges] to participate in offensive acts contrary to their deeply held beliefs in order to remain employed is unconstitutional.”

Words cannot express how utterly, horrendously, and irredeemably hypocritical I find religious conservatives.

Sure, they want to protect your “foundational rights and liberties” such as “the right of conscience” - but only if your conscience whispers the same bigotry as theirs.

These idiots who are “defending their right” to live the way they want are the same control-freaks who have fought tooth and nail to keep that same right out of the reach of gays and lesbians.

Jiminy bloody Cricket, won’t they ever just STFU.

Technorati Tags: bigotry, hypocrisy, gay marriage

Free-baggers Unite: National GoTopless Protest Day

DECENT:

OBSCENE:

I’ve always thought the “man tits are fine, women’s are naughty” rule is one of the most blatantly gynophobic of all double standards. It sends a very clear message:

Ladies, your boobs exist solely for men’s sexual enjoyment and thus must be controlled, like everything else uniquely female and “sexual.” If you resist said control, it is obscene and you will be punished (though not before the guys at the station have had a good look).

If you want to support a woman’s right to free-bag but don’t want to get arrested alone, go to LA, NYC, Miami, Chicago, Honolulu, Austin, Berkeley, Santa Fe, Omaha or Bloomington, IN, where GoTopless.org has organized protests taking place today.

Sisters, set the girls free - but please, wear sunscreen.

Technorati Tags: GoToppless.org, sexual double standards

Unsubscribe me, Uncle Sam

They tell me to strip and put on a flimsy gown. They have me lie on my back on a slab with my head in a vice-like cradle. I am told I may not move a muscle. They stick me in a tube that blocks my vision, then assaults my ears with a series of unbelievably loud noises. Some are so loud the slab trembles.

As the seconds go by, the panic begins. My heart races; I can feel it pounding in my chest and my throat. I struggle to control my breathing. Bile rises in my throat and I fear I will vomit. Stars burst before my closed eyes. I fight fainting.

This goes on for twenty minutes. It is nearly unbearable and I almost squeeze the emergency alarm they gave me before the ordeal began.

To my insurance company, this was an MRI on my brain.¹ To my central nervous system, this was torture.

Coincidentally, a few days prior to this procedure, I heard a news article on NPR about the on-going debate in Washington (DC) about the use of torture by the military. To be precise, the newscaster said it is a discussion “about the use of torture, versus those interrogation methods that sometimes result in the death of the prisoner.”

Talk about nauseating spin. If the latter isn’t torture, what is it?

As I was lying in the MRI machine, hoping I wouldn’t throw up in my mouth, I remembered this broadcast. I thought to myself that anyone advocating the use of “enhanced” interrogation methods on prisoners should have said methods tested on themselves to help them decide whether or not they are torture.²

Well, I read today that journalist and Iraq war-supporter Christopher Hitchens literally took the plunge. He allowed himself to be “water-boarded,” the Bush Administration’s current interrogation method of choice at Guantanamo Bay. Unlike some of the Gitmo detainees, however, Hitchens lived to write about it.

His description of the experience sounds all to familiar to me, from the racing pulse to waves of nausea to near fainting. And guess what he concluded?

Well, then, if waterboarding does not constitute torture, then there is no such thing as torture.

So, enhanced interrogation supporters, let’s just stop the spinning, grow a pair, and call a spade a spade, shall we?

Righteous Ribs, in honor of our country’s birthday this year, I ask you to put your foot down and Unsubscribe.

Unsubscribe is a movement of people united against human rights abuses in the ‘war on terror’. The threat of terrorism is real, but trampling over human rights is not the answer. From Guantanamo Bay, rendition, torture and waterboarding – we unsubscribe.

Tell the government they cannot continue to torture people in your name.

“No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.”
—The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Article 5 (1948)

1. Alright, alright. I’m having problems with muscle fatigue, and my doctor wants to rule out a lesion-inspired multiple sclerosis since there is a history of it in my family. To quote Ahnold in Kindergarten Cop: It’s not a tumor. [↩]
2. Not likely to happen in Washington, given politicians’ history of hypocrisy, such as getting handy deferments for themselves and their children from wars they start. [↩]

Not a dry eye in the house

I know I had to get out my hanky just reading about it.

Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon made history - again - at 5:07 p.m. Monday when they were declared “spouses for life.”

At that moment, standing next to each other in the mayor’s office in San Francisco City Hall in front of cheering friends and relatives, the couple of 55 years became the first same-sex newlyweds in San Francisco and among the first in California under a new right bestowed by the state Supreme Court.

In a now-famous speech from 1995, Hillary Clinton said “Women’s rights are human rights.” Verily, I say, gay rights are human rights, too, and few people alive have done more for both than Del and Phyllis.

I am so happy for these heroines that gay marriage has been legalized in their lifetimes.

Technorati Tags: gay marriage, human rights

Bar Girls: An offer they can’t refuse

After 9/11, Kevin was deployed for a few months to Thailand.¹ He says one of the most disturbing things he saw there had nothing to do with the military operation.

It was the local watering hole and its female staff, young women known officially as “hostesses” and euphemistically as “bar girls.”

One look at Kevin’s uniform and these gals were on him like white on rice. When he demurred, they would always say, “Ah, you good man.” Which was immediately followed up with eyelash-batting and “I wish I had good man.”

Funny… until you realize that most of these girls were sold into their jobs by their own families, and that their nasty, brutish and short lives will most likely end with AIDs.

Human trafficking is very lucrative and thus epidemic in poor countries; Thailand is only one among many.

Most (70%) of the 600,000 to 820,000 people trafficked across international borders are women and children. Though they can be forced into everything from organ donation to religious cult membership, most are forced into prostitution. ²

And since most of the trafficking is done by organized crime, if the merchandise complains, they just make her an offer she can’t refuse.

But don’t go thinking this horror is all happening “over there.” An estimated 14,000 people are trafficked into the United States and 600-800 into Canada every year.³

I can’t believe that almost 150 years after Lincoln freed the slaves, people right here in my country are purchasing other human beings.

So every year, I donate to the Amnesty International campaign to end human trafficking, and today, I’m proud to join other bloggers as we Unite for Human Rights.

All of the non-governmental organizations below work to end the suffering. Act Uppity and donate. It may not seem like much, but I promise you — every little bit helps.

After all, if we don’t speak for the voiceless, who will?

• The American Anti-Slavery Group
• Resist Exploitation, Embrace Dignity
• Transitions Cambodia
• Ansar Burney Trust
• Anti-Slavery International
• Project to End Human Trafficking
• Free the Slaves
• The International Justice Mission
• HumanTrafficking.org
• Shared Hope International
• Not For Sale
• Stop the Traffik
• Love 146
• The Redlight Children Campaign
• The Red Light Movement
• The Salvation Army - Human Trafficking
• Project Rescue

Technorati Tags: human trafficking, Bloggers Unite for Human Rights

1. For those who don’t know, Kevin is an Air Force reservist. And yes, he does make me call him “Major.” [↩]
2. Source: Wikipedia. Because of the nature of trafficking, exact statistics are difficult to get. [↩]
3. Source: Human Trafficking & Modern-day Slavery - Canada [↩]

Because thirty-six years ago, “choice” was just another word for nothing left to lose.

I couldn’t find the place at first. I drove around and around, checked my directions a dozen times, but it wasn’t there.

At the spot where the clinic was supposed to be was a building that looked exactly like the 1970s-era apartments I lived in when I was a kid - the kind of building that looks like a motel, with stairways on the outside leading to each floor.

Not knowing what else to do, I parked and walked over to the building. The doors all had numbers on them, but no signs. Windows were closed.

I checked the suite number I had been given, then followed the doors until I found the one marked 213. It was tucked far back from the street. I tried the door handle. Locked.

I must have the wrong directions, I thought. I was just about to leave when I saw a sign in the lower corner of the window, so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it: Women’s Health Clinic.

I pushed the door buzzer and a woman’s voice answered, “Yes?”

“I’m here for an eleven o’clock appointment,” I said, and gave her my name.

The door knob clicked and I pushed it open. The waiting room was tiny, empty, and eerily silent. No patients wandered in and out. No sounds of sick kids crying in exam rooms or medical personnel talking in the halls. Not even any musak playing.

The rather grim-looking woman behind the reception desk looked up as I entered. She handed me paperwork to fill out and return. Soon a nurse called my name and we went through a door into the bowels of the clinic.

In another tiny white room with two chairs and a rack of literature, the nurse and I discussed the purpose of my visit. She asked me a few questions, but it was clear early on that I was well-informed and had made up my mind, and she didn’t try to dissuade me. She actually seemed a little relieved and I could tell she was skipping entire sections of a well-rehearsed speech.

Finally she explained the procedure to me briefly, then told me the doctor would see me now.

We went to a tiny exam room, where she handed me a paper gown and left. As I undressed, I looked around. The room seemed over-stuffed with furniture and equipment, but that was probably because it was so small. There was nothing unusual about the room’s contents, I thought, until I noticed the contraption in the corner.

It looked like an alien, with a dull green reservoir and a long tube snaking out the side, and I admit I did not relish the thought of playing Ripley.

The doctor entered a few minutes later. He was short and stocky, with dark hair and mustache. He spoke very little to me and made no eye contact. His movements were brisk and he performed his exam at lightening speed (compared to others I’ve had, anyway). He confirmed the diagnosis, turned on his heel and left.

I got dressed and after a few minutes, the nurse came for me and we went back to the reception desk so I could make my next appointment. I told Grim Lady I wanted to have the medical procedure.

“You are just in time,” she said. “One more day and you’d have to have the surgical.”

I nodded, remembering the alien.

She clicked her pen and scribbled on her calendar. “August ninth.”

I smiled at the irony. My birthday.

Grim Lady gathered up some paperwork and handed it to me. I took it and turned to leave.

“Wait, one more thing,” she said, handing me a bulky manila envelope. I looked at her quizzically, but she dropped her gaze and busied herself with her work.

As soon as the door shut behind me, I opened the envelope. Inside was a VHS tape labeled “From Conception To Birth, A Fetus’s Journey.”

On the way to my car, I dropped the tape into a street corner trash can.

—

Two days later, on my birthday, I came back to the clinic and got a shot in my hip. I returned a week after that for the final step: two tablets placed as close to my cervix as the doctor could get them.

As I sat up on the exam table, the doctor took me by the shoulders and for the first time, he looked into my eyes. I saw compassion in his.

“OK?” he said.

I smiled and nodded. He let go of me and walked out.

—

Not so long ago, the health care clinic I went to and the procedure I paid for were illegal. In a town like Salt Lake City, with its uber-conservative origins, they are still at risk of annihilation in some way or another.

A sobering thought for me, a thirty-something Seattlite who took for granted her shiny liberal bubble until she left it.

What would it be like to be an unhappily pregnant kid living in a community so filled with misogyny that its “women’s” clinics must be hidden to keep from being bombed?

What would it be like to go to work each day knowing that you could be shot at with jihad-like zeal by people who pledge to love thy neighbor?

What would it be like to be a doctor whose patients often have such guilt and fear that you must distance yourself from them, allowing only a brief moment at the end to show you care?

Today I’m Blogging For Choice in the fervent hope that these questions will someday soon be made unthinkable, just as 35 years ago, “Pregnancy or jail and possibly death?” was for me.

Never forget how precarious Roe v. Wade really is. Use your vote to make sure a woman’s right to sovereignty over her own body remains the law.

Technorati Tags: abortion rights, Blog For Choice

Smile

I spent many of my formative years in small towns, being raised by small-town women who’d led small-town lives. It was then I learned the small-town custom of smiling at pretty much everyone.

In a small town, you smile at people because you know them, and if you don’t know them, they must be guests in town which makes you their host, so smiling is your job. And people usually smile back, even if the weather sucks or they’re late for work or they’re just travelers stopping over in your podunk small town.

Now I live in a big city and few people smile back. In fact, you are much more likely to be viewed with suspicion than goodwill. I don’t know you - why are you smiling? What are you selling? What do you want? Only the nuts or the needy smile at strangers.

But old habits die hard and even though I know I run the risk of having security called on me, I still tend to smile at people. And once in a blue moon, I smile and they smile back and for a brief shining moment, we see a glint of recognition in each other’s eyes. We share a secret, we belong to the same tribe. Greetings, fellow smiler. Keep calm and carry on.

The other day I was exiting a Starbucks, my usual soy latte in hand, when my glance fell on a baby stroller on the sidewalk. In it was slumped a tow-headed kid, sitting perfectly still, staring off into space. He looked almost too old for a stroller, and certainly too young for the lifelessness in his eyes.

Standing nearby was a man I assumed to be the boy’s father. He was young, skinny and unkempt, with a two-day blond stubble on his chin and a faint, scraggly mustache. He looked at me, looking at the boy.

I smiled.

“Hey lady,” he muttered, rolling the stroller toward me now. “Do you have any money..somethingsomething…get something to eat?” His voice was so low I could barely understand him.

I spoke reflexively: “I’m sorry.” I smiled again, dropped my eyes, and began walking.

He followed.

“I’m just trying to….” he continued muttering. The stroller wheels squeaked as they rolled over the pavement behind me.

I walked faster.

His voice grew hard. “Oh well. I guess I’ll just go steal something then.” The squeaking faded slowly away.

I thought of all my unreturned smiles.

Later I tried to assure myself that the man and the boy with the haunted eyes had somewhere to go. There are many shelters in my area, and there’s the YMCA. I imagined them there, where smiles come with a meal and a bed, and everyone is part of the same tribe.

Technorati Tags: homelessness