I’m on vacation in California, so I’ve got some simple beauty for today.
And below the cut, video blogging about 31 Cent Scoop Night.
I’m on vacation in California, so I’ve got some simple beauty for today.
And below the cut, video blogging about 31 Cent Scoop Night.
Every once in a while, there comes a time when society has to take step back and ask if its norms and laws really reflect the values of its citizens. After reading these startling statistics about our prison system in the New York Times and Washington Post, I can’t help but think that now is the time.
Did you know that:
*America has less than 5 percent of the global population but more than one quarter of the world’s prisoners;
*1 out of 100 American adults is now in jail;
*1 in 9 black men between the ages of 20 and 34 is behind bars;
*state governments shell out nearly $50 billion a year and the federal government pays $5 billion more to lock up our citizens
What the heck is our problem, people?
Is Hillary’s femaleness or Barack’s blackness a sole justification to vote for either leader? Absolutely not. Are the symbolic power of their respective identities incentive — in addition to their policy positions, their track records, and their values — to vote for them?
Of course.
As Katha Pollit put it so succinctly in The Nation, “It’s crucial not to get into an oppression sweepstakes.” We shouldn’t let the media pit us against one another so that we waste valuable energy defending our own victimhood. Instead, we should be doing the difficult work of coalition building, embracing multiple issues as critical to our collective liberal agenda to make America more just and equal on all fronts. We must focus on the more important question: is America ready to believe in its own power to overcome? If it’s either a white woman or a biracial man who walks into that White House, our country will never be the same. If McCain walks in, well that’s gonna just suck.
After the cut, check out this amazingly hilarious video from my boy Ramin’s show (aka The Daily Show).
Courtney Martin
Contrary to the sign held by a woman at a December 2006 rally, 50 shots + New York City cops does not equal murder. It equals not guilty.
I was sitting on JFK-bound Jetblue flight when I heard the verdict. The miniature TV screen streamed live footage from outside the court house, occasionally cutting to video of Nicole Paultre Bell’s car en route to Sean Bell’s gravesite.
Across the aisle, a balding man in khaki shorts was watching the same channel. He nodded affirmatively to his wife. Indicating that justice had been served.
Her name is Madeline. I didn’t expect to be writing about this, but it came up. I’ve spent the last 24 hours with her and today I watched her learn something new. I don’t have many growing babies in my life, but every so often I get to be Aunt to a friend’s new puppy. In this case, Madeline is a 12-week old St. Bernard dog, which means all fluff and paws. If you don’t know what these animals look like, look it up. I could be ga-ga-annoying about her cuteness, but I’d rather broach a simple topic–the importance of CONSTANT new challenges.
We just completed her first epic hike of 2 miles on a fairly steep uphill and then 2 miles back down. For a puppy, that’s a lot. On the way up, she refused to walk across the wooden plank over the rushing creek. She just shoved her rump into the ground–scared and un-budge-able. But hours later, on the way back down, she turned on the focus (her back legs quivering) and made it across the plank. Amazing. A hurdle. A confidence gained.
We should all be doing something daring every day. Why does this impulse fizzle when we hit adulthood? It doesn’t have to be crazy; you don’t have to spend your last nickel, get on a plane to the Congo and go trekking alone. I mean, you could decide to eat a banana even though you’ve hated them your entire life. You could be ballsy and say that thing you’ve always wanted to say to that person. You could pencil dive into that very high, icy cold gorge. It’s too easy to get on the train and coast. Let’s face it, the rut may be comfy, but wow it gets boring. Without some nerves (discomfort), we stop learning. Some people think sinking deep into the familiar is good. I don’t disagree. But I’ve always feel brighter after my heart races a bit.
Remember that joke from elementary school– “My dog ate my homework!” If only. My 175-pound dog has systematically destroyed my ibook. So you find me writing you here, from a library, with only 16 minutes left before I must relinquish my spot at a functioning computer. Long story short: Porter loves lattes. Perhaps more than I do. Which says a lot. And I left a latte unattended by my laptop, so I can go ahead and accept full responsibility. When I returned, the giant mug was empty and rocking on top of my keyboard. To add insult to injury, milky brown spots can be found splashed across the printer, the wireless mouse I just bought, my books, my notes, everything. It’s not the end of the world, but it does feel as though I might fade into obscurity as a writer without a computer in this tech age. That’s all I have this week, friends. Any sage advice for recovering computers or sanity would, of course, be most appreciated.
I love the wonderful way that I tend to discover new online voices — an intriguing post on one of my current RSS feeds sends me to a new blog, where I spend hours sifting through amazing new thoughts… then a click on a comment opens my world into another new direction… and suddenly my RSS folder is three times larger and I’m taking in entirely new brain-and-heart ecosystem.
In this case, my new reading has been both humbling and awe-inspiring. Despite having read and loved sites like Racialicious, Angry Asian Man, Kimchi Mamas, and Rice Daddies for several years now, in the past month, I realized that my regular blog-roll was blindingly white. I also realized that my perspective on, oh, pretty much everything was suffering for that homogeneity. Embarrassing, for sure, but it has been wonderfully fun and engaging to change my blog reading habits.
So today, I want to give some major link love to the new-to-me (mostly women) bloggers I’m enjoying: (alpha by site name, with their short bios)
The Angry Black Woman (which is actually a group blog of three women)
“Politics, Race, Gender, Sexuality, Anger”
***I cannot speak highly enough of their “Required Reading” page. Go there now.***
Somehow I’ve managed to insert myself at the center of a raucous intergenerational feminist debate in the last few days. I won’t bother you with the entire blow-by-blow, but if you want more info check out Jessica Valenti’s post on “my other group blog” (is that like “the other woman”), feministing.
Suffice it to say it’s got me thinking a lot about what it means to identify with a movement–something I’ve always felt quite comfortable and even comforted by doing. Feminism is a lens through which I can see myself and the world, a collective solution for personal pain, a legacy that I can inherit and build upon. It makes me feel like I “belong” somewhere, like I have a tribe, like there is a shorthand for my particular brand of outrage/intuition/wayofknowing.
But the flip side of that is the risk of subsuming one’s identity within a movement’s, the loss of complexity and nuance, caricature. Never has that been more apparent for me than during these last few days.
You knew that, eventually, I was going to write about this infamous YouTube video. By now, you’ve probably heard the story. About two weeks ago, eight Florida high-schoolers—several of them members of their schools’ cheerleading squad—lured a friend (also a cheerleader) over to a house and then proceeded to pummel her for half an hour. The friends were evidently pissed about comments the girl had made on her MySpace page, and orchestrated this beat-down to be filmed and posted on YouTube.
Do I think the making of this video had anything to do with the fact that some people involved were cheerleaders? Not at all. But I do think the fact that they were cheerleaders ensured that the story would blow up. Here are a few sample headlines:
Courtney Martin
Cristina Pippa
Kate Torgovnick
Rice used to be the bain of my existence. When my mother would say “it’s red rice and beans tonight,” I’d cringe at almost the exact moment my little brother clapped his hands in delight. He couldn’t get enough. The combination always felt like a gluey bomb in my stomach. And indeed it was–a nutrient-packed, long-lasting gut filler. My complaints grew from privilege; I don’t want to eat it is a rare phrase for most of the children in this world. Rice is one of the gods of all of our existences, and by “our” I mean most human beings on the planet.
I learned today that rice provides more that 1/5 of the calories consumed by the world. Rice– like all crops–depends upon water, a lot of water. The six-year long drought in Australia, profiled in the New York Times yesterday, has wiped the rice crop out by 98%, essentially whittling it down to nothing. Sure, the Aussie’s are practically off the world map, (and I can say that because I am technically an Aussie citizen), but their rice crops are exported and feed a lot of people. Welcome to the global market. What happens down under doesn’t stay down under. This loss chimes in with many other worldwide factors and we get chaos. Rice prices have risen. People are hungry. People are angry. It’s all over the news. Empty Bellies. Rising Anger. Hunger Pains.
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Kimmi
Therapy Thursdays
What Ethan and I are looking at on our laptops instead of working…

This Bohemian glass pitcher came from Bohemia, the last shipment from there before Hitler took it over in 1940. Bought by Mattie Crowe at Marshall Fields in Chicago.
On every trip to St. Louis (which have been frequent lately with the arrival of a new nephew! and new play), my mom finds more boxes in the basement which I must get out of her sight. I don’t blame her. Parenting shouldn’t have to involve possessing every earthly belonging that a daughter drops off on her way to or from this or that move or trip. Half the stuff should have been recycled or donated years ago, but going through it has been like time travel. I found a plastic vial, excessively wrapped in masking tape and labeled with the words DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 1998, which were immediately crossed out and replaced with the words DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2012.
While I’ve been out of the teen soap scene in recent years, I must admit that I’m a fan of Gossip Girl–it’s 90210 meets the Upper East Side with waaay better clothes and a great plot device. The narrator, the “gossip girl,” if you will, is an anonymous socialite blogger who provides regular omniscient voice-overs to spice up the drama. She gets tons of help from the kidz on the show, who are really “bad”–they drink, do drugs, betray each other, have sex etc.
Is this kind of show really appropriate for teens? I don’t have any kidz, so I am going to plead the fifth on that one. But I can say that it must be appropriate for 30-year-olds cause I’m digging it. Well, I was digging it until I found out that fiction mirrors real life for many students across the country.
Has anyone heard of a website called juicy campus?
As we face tax day, we shouldn’t just be scrutinizing our ailing bank accounts, we should also be scrutinizing the government that is spending our hard-earned money. After all, just as your money is your mouth, your government’s spending should be representative of your values and ideals.
How is the federal government repping you oh loyal citizen?
Leading economists estimate that we will end up spending $3 trillion dollars on war that 66 percent of Americans current oppose and 71 percent think is one of the reasons for our nation’s poor economy (according to a recent CNN/Opinion Research Corporation poll).
Woo hoo! As I predicted, the Stephen F. Austin Lumberjacks turned it around on the day of Finals. Check out their National Championship winning routine. Pretty slick, right?
Joie Jager-Hyman
Courtney Martin
Cristina Pippa
Kate Torgovnick
I just emerged from a weeklong meditation retreat with my brothers. Less than 72 hours later, I found myself leaning on a bar stool, sipping a gin & tonic and discussing Catholicism with two of my favorite colleagues. I revealed, much to their surprise, that my freshman year of college had been spent at the University of Notre Dame– that is, until I chose to leave. I couldn’t reconcile the proud Irish alcoholism of my peers with their fear of sex (not of the act but of the ramifications of doing the deed before marriage). You’ll get wasted to sickness EVERY night but you think sex at age 19 is a definitive sin? Good grief. I’m so grateful that my gut encouraged me to flee before getting yanked into three more years of the same. If not, the influence of the place would have inevitably pushed me towards either resigned conformity or a full-scale potentially ugly rebellion. I was not anti-religion–quite devout in my own spiritual way–but what that environment had produced in my peers scared me. So I traded that collective for