Thursday 23 February 2017

Yankee-splaining as an analogy for Mansplaining (Trae Crowder this is for you, in hopes you can make a funny out of it and thereby reach more Mansplainers)


My compadres, guys and gals, chicks and dudes, ladies and gentlemen, men and women, and people of all genders, who often come from different regional backgrounds and norms:  Hear my plea.

Those of you from the South, who know how annoying it is for Yankees and Left-Coasters to come and tell us how things are, about our racism and our war and our Reconstruction, I would like to use that as an analogy/example of something else that many (not all) of you Southern guys like to do:  Condescend to explain to us women things that we already know more about than you do.

Like rape.  And domestic violence.  And sexual harassment.  And tokenism.  And reproductive rights.  And Title IX.  And all these other aspects of the social contract that some of you seem to think you know better than women.

You know how when someone from New Jersey or California proceeds to tell you all about MLK and the Civil Rights movement and racism and states’ rights and all that crap, it’s really, really annoying?  Because you know god-damned well that you’ve forgotten more than any Yankee/LeftCoaster knows about all of those things.  My oldest girlfriend, who happens to be black, finds it particularly amusing when white people from San Francisco “explain” Southern racism to her.

Just for the sake of the argument and the analogy, we’ll call that “Yankee-splaining”.

Y’all know how irritating that is.  As a white person, I find it particularly annoying; I daresay some POC would find it even more so, being the recipients of such condescension and—dare we call it, “Whitesplaining”, of racism.

Well, take all that, the levels of annoyance, and the fact that the more racism is denied, the more likely POC are to be attacked and killed with impunity, as a result of Yankee-splaining.

Mansplaining is the same, and even worse: Condescending Yankees who “’splain” things aren’t likely to engage in racist and violent acts against the people they claim to protect with their rich white liberalism.

By denying, ignoring and perpetuating misogyny, however, Mansplainers DO contribute to violence against women.

I love my good old boys who may not approve of my feminism or my Hillary 2016/Michelle 2024/Chelsea 2032/Malia 2040/Sasha 2048 bumper sticker, but who still nod, say “Ev'nin’”, and hold the door for me when I drop in at Monette’s to pick up a quart of milk.

There’s quite a few down this way who didn’t like Hillary Clinton, less b/c of her gender and more b/c of her class; but neither were they fooled by the Current Occupant, whom they recognized to be a classic conman.  We Southerners know conmen, like we know snakes.  And most of us feel safer with the latter.

Friday 10 February 2017

LLAN, part 2

Before I ever heard the word patriarchy, before I became a feminist, I was a Narnian.

Narnia made me a Bohemian.  I moved to Prague, capital of the ancient kingdom of Bohemia, Prague, and discovered an adult Narnia, at 30. Emperors' and Kings' castles dot the countryside, River Vltava wends between city walls and stone villages and medieval parks with their ancient trees—Stromovka in particular:  While its contemporary incarnation sites an amusement park next door and 1891 world’s fair exhibition grounds, Výstaviště, it was, eight centuries ago, sacred:  The game park  of King Přemysl Otakar II back when royalty were still believed to be the gods’ representative on Earth.

But most of all, Prague, like Narnia, is full of magic.  It breathes up from the cobblestones in the hours before dawn; the Charles Bridge fills with angels dancing to Jirasek, breathing in Dvořak, gossiping about Milena and Kafka.  Tinkles of defenestration and alchemy shimmer in the air.  The stone towers whisper as carp break the water at Lavka.

There is beauty in heavy old tables, laden with decades of hops and hopes, both gone stale.  Every doorway—every threshold—has a symbol, for a time before all people were literate.  Everyone knew the Tři kočky, though, or the bear at U Medvídků .  On a bitter January night, snow up to the window sills on the outside, you can find your path through the heavy doors, and the substantial curtains behind them, into a hot smoky room with a roaring fire, straight out of The Hobbit.  


Adršpach-Teplice Rocks, in the Narnia of Bohemia (for more:
 
http://www.praguemorning.cz/the-hidden-narnia-of-the-czech-republic/)


There are no pubs in Narnia.  There is Mr. Tumnus’ cave, decidedly neat and tidy.  The Beavers’ den, within the dam.  There is drinking of wine, and mead even, I believe, but in none of the books can I remember a pub scene.  Consequently, Middle Earth—most likely The Prancing Pony—will have to do.

Or, of course, the pub in Game of Thrones.  I’ve been in some that weren’t far off.  I have heard U spivačku compared to the bar in Star Wars. 

Generally, however, at the least offer to speak Czech, to banter a bit with the výčepní, don’t make a fuss, don’t expect more than what they have,  

At the same time, if you put the Shire and Mayberry, RFD, together, you’d have a typical Bohemian village.  Lots of beer, in generous mugs, starchy food, and a cast of characters.  

Narnia was where I belonged.  I felt the sting of Aslan’s mane when Susan and Lucy rode him after he returned to life on the Stone Table.  I stood on the deck with Lucy and Edmund and cast disgusted glances at the puling Eustace.  The dark tunnels of Golg, the sinister underground where Jill and Eustace find themselves at the mercy of the Green Witch and the mad Prince, terrified me.  When the children began to repeat, “No, there is no Narnia” and were, it seemed, in the witch's spell, I was utterly undone.  How could Aslan save them now.

But it wasn’t Aslan.  It was Puddleglum.  Puddleglum, who would probably be a Republican.  He’s definitely a good ole boy, but much more Barney Fife than Jason Stackhouse.  He’s a negative nancy who always sees and expects the worst. 

He puts out the fire (from which the witch’s spell emanates, in heavy, sweet odor) and fills the air with the smell of burnt Marshwiggle, which acts like smelling salts.

And he makes his declaration, to "Live Like a Narnian" (see preceding post).

This is what I must do:  Despite pessimism or surety of failure, still, Live Like a Narnian.



No matter how steep and slick the steps:  LLAN!


Thursday 26 January 2017

Live Like a Narnian

My blog has been the victim of "the perfect is the enemy of the good" and having seen what that kind of purism does over the last three months, I've decided I really must get beyond that.

My balm for despair is and has always been, since I was a bullied pubescent, to "Live Like a Narnian".   To acknowledge, like Puddleglum



Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all of those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones... That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live like a Narnian even if there isn't any Narnia.  (Lewis, The Silver Chair)



I vow to live like a Narnian:  To not give in to despair.  To stamp out the fire no matter the pain; to pull off the protective layer even when it “hurts like billy-Oh”.

To be as brave as Lucy and as valiant as Reepicheep and as loyal as Trumpkin and as thoughtful as Mrs Beaver but also as lighthearted as the Naiads and Dryads and Maenads or what’s the point?

As French notes, as Abbey points out, as Campbell lived, survival is not enough.  We must have pleasure, connection, and love.  We must recognize our role in the world and embrace it, take joy in it.

It is no coincidence that we turn to mythology when our very existence and understanding of the world is threatened:  Mythology is how we share and continue our values throughout humanity.  To paraphrase, if history is the record of human events, literature (mythology—so other arts as well) is the record of human emotion and even evolution.


So, Lewis and Tolkien, Atwood and Piercy, Walker and Baldwin, Hurston and Hughes—they have given us our baseline and our job, our role, is to continue the legacy and continue to make it relevant.