Tag: feminism

Domestic Violence Is Terrorism, And The Problem Of Pete Hegseth

On By erintothemaxIn CommentaryLeave a comment

Domestic violence is terrorism. While anyone can be a target, and anyone can be a perpetrator, domestic violence’s primary form is the domination of individual men over individual women. But the individual stories that make up domestic violence are not one-offs, or even a pattern: they are a systemic expression of male domination. Domestic violence is patriarchy, most literally weaponized at the most elemental building block of society: within the human relationship of family.

I’m going to start with some definitions, and then discuss how they fall short. Finally, I’d like to examine how acknowledging domestic violence as terrorism further elaborates upon the dangerous, unqualified nature of Pete Hegseth’s nomination to be Secretary of Defense.

I do need to disclaimer these definitions of domestic violence and terrorism to follow, because at the time of writing (January 22), we are three days into the second Trump administration and it seems that any moment the Department of Justice will no longer have an Office on Violence Against Women, or if it does, this page will become really fucking weird. So, too, the FBI website is about to become a new outpost of RT or some such, and one can only imagine what definition of terrorism is going to slide onto this website when the top priority of the authoritarian president and wack-a-doodle FBI director is ‘RETRIBUTION.’ (And how long until someone is punished either directly by the state or by agents operating on its behalf for writing a paragraph such as this? Oh well, part of the way autocracy works is fear on the part of the people, including self-censorship, and I will be calling for free speech from the rafters until I’m hauled out!)

At the time of writing, here’s the definition of domestic violence from the Department of Justice’s Office on Violence Against Women, quoted, and with a screen shot below for posterity:

Domestic violence is a pattern of abusive behavior in any relationship that is used by one partner to gain or maintain power and control over another intimate partner. Domestic violence can be physical, sexual, emotional, economic, psychological, or technological actions or threats of actions or other patterns of coercive behavior that influence another person within an intimate partner relationship. This includes any behaviors that intimidate, manipulate, humiliate, isolate, frighten, terrorize, coerce, threaten, blame, hurt, injure, or wound someone.

And also at the time of writing, the definition of terrorism from the FBI before inevitably Trump 2.0 changes it, again with a screen shot to help future us remember ‘the way we were’:

International terrorism: Violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups who are inspired by, or associated with, designated foreign terrorist organizations or nations (state-sponsored).

Domestic terrorism: Violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of a political, religious, social, racial, or environmental nature.

The domination of men over women in abusive relationships is absolutely a “violent, criminal act committed … to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of a political, religious, or social … nature.” In fact, keeping women in line with rigid gender roles in which men reign supreme is one of the chief outcomes of domestic violence. It’s an ideological goal absolutely supported by a toxic culture. I’d argue the only reason why this no-brainer isn’t already recognized is because of, you guessed it, systemic sexism that has permeated societies for literal ages.

Which brings me to the latest news of Pete Hegseth, that allegedly alcoholic and misogynistic (both allegations backed by piles of eyewitness accounts and unsavory quotes that have been reported in the media!) television anchor who has never managed a large, sophisticated organization. He is incredibly unqualified to run the Department of Defense, and in normal times within our democracy, when both parties had a commitment to vetting nominees regardless of how much power they held, his nomination would not remain a going concern.

But these are not normal times within our democracy.

Now Mr. Hegseth’s former sister-in-laws says he abused his second wife. The other disqualifications were disqualifying. This is even more disqualification, and perhaps the most of the most disqualification. The Department of Defense is intimately engaged in the battle against terrorism. If we accept that domestic violence is terrorism (as we should), then it follows that these allegations, if true, mean that Mr. Hegseth has no place in a position that is at least supposed to fight for the ideals of freedom, justice, and security.

I Actually Have No Idea How Fast I Am Going

On By erintothemaxIn CommentaryLeave a comment

I write about running a lot, because I run a lot. Perhaps too much. It is entirely possible that my running is detracting from my writing. It used to be the case that when I got up early, I would write. Now when I get up early, I run. Or I start working on my job so that I have time to run when it gets light outside. If I’m being honest, I have too many [waves hands] hobbies.

But running gives me energy. That feeds my ability to write. And my ability to give my best thwack to fighting the hateful ideas behind gender-based oppression, which, tbh, is not an easy nutcracker to ballet.

I work out many ideas on my feet.

I am a middle-age recreational lady runner. For that demographic, I take it seriously. For years I’ve kept a daily journal noting time, distance, pace. I schedule my runs. I compete against myself like whoa. (The only person you’re ever really competing against is yourself, I’ve learned. All these lessons are for running and so much more.)

One thing I’ve been focusing on is my speed. Training myself to run faster is fun. In this process, I have realized that I actually have no idea how fast I am going. Sometimes, I look at my device and realize I’m going like a minute per mile faster than I thought I was. Much more often, I think I’m going fast, and I’m like slo-mo runner in actuality.

I think to the times in my life when I’ve crashed or burned out, and how this lack of self-awareness about self in relation to time and space chases me. Me chasing me without realizing I’m doing it. But also how there are times that I think I’m going fast when actually, it’s an illusion and I need to buck up to hit the mark.

To know oneself in relationship to an actual measurement of velocity is somewhat akin to the experience of seeing yourself on video. This is how I look from outside the blinders of my body? Really?

Sometimes I think I can understand others better than I can myself. And to be clear, I’m constantly confuzzled by others. Who is this me in the sneakers? How fast is she going? I dunno.

Another Semester Of Grad School Complete

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

Tonight, I finished my final “normal” semester of my part-time, low-residency graduate MFA program. By this I mean, I am done with my last regular class. This end came unceremoniously, in the parking lot outside my daughter’s gymnastics, with me hunched over my laptop in the dark in the passenger’s seat, using my hotspot from my phone. I responded to the required reading for the week. I have already turned in my final project early.

It is best to turn things in early when you’re a sandwich-generation student working a full-time job. You just never know when real life will blow up. In my experience it does all the time.

The more time I spend studying writing, the more I come to believe I have no business writing. Or that I have no business doing anything but writing. The absolutes come flying at me strong, and with feeling, as if by embracing the extremes I can avoid the dull reality of what it means to keep up with the work and the laundry on a regular basis.

Next semester, I start thesis. I will do this for two semesters. My thesis is a novel I have been trying to write for years.

I know I will emerge with this degree, and this novel draft, one year from now. And I accept that I’ll probably have to revise that draft eight times or more after the degree is over.

What I’m learning most of all in this program is that it’s not about writing, which I have always done. It’s about revision. It’s about ruthlessly staring at your own words and asking how they could be better. About excising the phrase you thought was so clever. About building the eye, and then the courage, to find and eliminate that wicked phrase. And to sharpen the next one. And to try rewriting the whole damn piece, again. A fourth time.

And it’s also about managing to do all that ego-whipping grunt work when the parking lot of your child’s activity is the only available option to getting it done. I’m continually struck, reading male authors, how little they talk about the needs of daily life, of interdependence, cohabitating with their precious writing time. This imbalance is part of what inspires me to keep going.

Me, Graduate School, Middle Age, The Big Box Store

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary3 Comments

Doing graduate school in middle age is strange behavior. No one is waiting for the graying to burst into our respective fields screaming, “I have arrived.” I am in the process of pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Mississippi University for Women. It is a strange choice to wallop homework into my life, and I stand by it, even though more appropriate behavior for my demographic (working mother, aging parents) entails flossing away what little time remains at the big box store.

But graduate school has not changed this fact. I continue to spend time in the big box store. I do a number of big box stores on a regular basis: the discount store, the book store, the sporting goods store that under the leadership of a woman CEO has made it harder for school shooters to buy their guns and ammo there. My daughter, who is ten, begs to go to any varietal of big box store with me because then she can beg that I buy her everything inside the store. Earlier tonight we went to the supermarket in the big box store complex and I caved. I let her get the Gingerbread House Cinnamon Toast Crunch on clearance. I am a sucker for a deal at the big box store. My daughter knows this. It is why she has a discontinued Harry Potter pen projection light from Marshalls, where I went last weekend to pick up a cheap blanket for the dogs.

The big box store in late-stage capitalism America bears similarity to middle age. Time accelerates and slows in perplexing ways, and I buy things that wouldn’t sell a few seasons ago at a lower price even though I struggle to close my chest of drawers. I am old enough to remember a time when it seemed flashy for big box stores to have soaring facades above their entrance not backed by actual levels/floors of the building structure itself. At 43 I am old enough, and moneyed enough, to have tried Botox on my forehead once. It was fine but it dissipated after a few months, and I doubt I’ll do anything like that again. Earlier tonight, in the parking lot by the shopping cart carrels, my daughter asked me why I said aging is a feminist issue. My voice shifted to its ‘spirited steed’ gear and I told her we could talk about that on the drive home. She then commanded I explain the concept in 10 words or less. I said, no.

Aging is a feminist issue because women and girls are subject to pressures on their appearance that are unrealistic, make us feel bad, and consume our time, I said. Aging is part of this, and especially for women, I said. My daughter told me that’s too many words. Fine, I said. I’ll explain it in two words: total crap. She squirreled in the backseat and we kept bickering about aging, feminism, and how many words I am allotted to express my ideas to her about politics. God I love her.

I find that to age out loud is a political statement. It is a statement I am making. I am not afraid of my age. I am proud and lucky to be here.

But it is a special type of lunacy to be in graduate school when time is as comparatively limited as mine. The reality of doing graduate school part-time in middle age while working full-time and doing sandwich generation as a fucking prickled verb looks like:

+ Me completing homework in the car in the parking lot outside of gymnastics practice

+ Me responding to emails from the school at the speed of crawling, from a baby who hasn’t learned to sit up yet

+ Me dashing off portfolio of work for the semester in the lobby of a hospital skilled enough to keep old parents old, rather than dead

I would like to revise my statement that it’s not lunacy, but rather optimism or maybe self-love that keeps me in graduate school. To believe that I can improve for the sake of improving, and to commit to doing it, is a gift. I love becoming a better writer. I’ve got a big box store of a brain full of stories and poems and essays I want to improve. I know time is precious, that it runs out. To acknowledge that and keep going in earnest as myself, this spirit attached to a woman with caregiving and professional responsibilities, is the sacrilege that interests me.