California's Assembly Judiciary Committee and its Senate Judiciary Committee are holding hearings today to consider drafting a resolution suggesting that state's Supreme Court overturn Prop 8. A hue and cry went out across the "traditional marriage blogosphere" last week (Freedom to Marry week) and this weekend with the goal of packing as many bodies and voices as possible in front of the state capital in Sacramento.
The tug-of-war between the two sides in this emotional debate hinges on clashing studies (each side is quick to discredit the other's; you have to look at the studies themselves to decide which have scientific weight), anecdotal evidence, and very often an acquired or intrinsic sense of which side is "right." It is hard to change minds, in either direction. It is not impossible.
One basic slogan of the Yes-on-8 voters and supporters centers around "not redefining marriage." I'd like to ask: which definition is being protected? "Marriage" has more than one definition. It has about 10, actually. For each definition that specifically includes "man and woman" there is a definition describing something more universal and, you could say, natural. (Go look up the definitions for that one if you don't like my choice of adjective. I assure you - it fits.) You can see some of those "marriage" definitions here.
The meaning of a word, any word, changes over time. (Hey, look at the word "gay.") "Freedom" has taken on many nuances and shadings in the short history of this country alone. The word "slavery" continues to adapt itself with dark panache. Even when words' definitions remain static, they take on new meaning constantly. "Voting" took on drastically new connotations between 1850 and 1880, and again between 1910 and 1920. "War" has acquired a new emotional and cognitive timbre over the past six years, as it did in the 1940's and the 1970's. It is not in the nature of words or of language to remain the same because it is not in the nature of the human world to stay in one place or in one state of being for very long.
Nietzsche believed that "[t]hat for which we find words is something already dead in our hearts. There is always a kind of contempt in the act of speaking." That's a bit, er, bleak, but I agree in this: in that words are only symbols of realities our hearts and minds are straining to grasp, so how can we expect those symbols to remain stagnant? We are evolving and growing, as individuals and as a species, all the time, and part of the growth occurs in language.
Let us evolve. Let marriage grow.
2/17/2009
2/13/2009
Fock.
I forgot Theatre Thursday. How could I do that to myself? I blame Tammy Tantra. She was at it again yesterday evening [and last night], when I would have been getting in a last minute post. She was at it SO LOUDLY that I could hear guys on a neighboring balcony laughing and going, "oh, man!"
find in:
feminism
2/09/2009
Questions
I was on a locked psychiatric ward this evening visiting a family member.
While I was visiting, a new patient arrived with her husband. She was gaunt and grey and in her fifties, and she was clearly, painfully, achingly a longtime sufferer of anorexia nervosa. I immediately wondered what she was doing at this particular hospital, on this particular ward, since there are quite a lot (relatively speaking) of good inpatient eating disorder hospitals and wings in the New York area, or at least within two hours or so. I figured, "I'm not a psychiatrist; I don't know what's going on. She may have another underlying psychiatric issue that they have to treat here first." As I kept watching her in the corner of my eye or with the back of my attention, I just felt more and more pity for her.
I thought about the food that was being served for dinner and realized if she were presented it outside the bounds of a meal process group, she would, to put it nicely, lose her shit (and that she'd probably still lose it within the MP group, but that it wouldn't be as humiliating). For this dinner, the admitting psychiatrist had apparently ordered an Ensure for her, and some juice. All she wanted was her chocolate. (She said it like that: "my chocolate.") The mental health worker assigned to keep track of dinner brushed her off with a vague promise of seeing if the person who could bring up some chocolate had gone home yet. Understandable in a general psychiatric facility, but not the way an eating disorder unit would handle the request. (Not that they'd immediately procure chocolate, but a therapist or doctor would be at the meal itself to work through the strange request, instead of a nurse who gives off every impression of being in over her head.)
I thought about the fact that there isn't a nutritionist or registered dietitian on staff on this ward. Perhaps there's one for the hospital at large, but the meals are clearly not prepared with eating disordered patients or weight gain in mind, and not even really geared toward optimal nutrition for refeeding. (Two words: frozen. vegetables.)
I thought about how alone this woman is going to feel. None of the (few) other patients are in this ward for eating disorders.
I don't know why the doctor "sold her a bill of goods," as she put it, to get her into this particular institution and ward. I don't know why he didn't send her to Cornell, upstate, which has an excellent (if infamously strict) eating disorder unit. I don't know why he didn't send her to Renfew in Pennsylvania which practically invented eating disorder inpatient treatment. I don't know why he told her there would be a nutritionist on staff at every meal (according to her, anyway).
But I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to tell her about Cornell and Renfrew, but it wasn't my business, and she was so agitated that she'd probably have lashed out at me for eavesdropping. (Understandably. I was definitely being nosy.) I wanted to find the doctor and find out what the hell he was thinking. I wanted to ask if he knew from personal experience or prolonged ground-level observation what it might be like to be the only e.d. patient in an institution. I wanted to ask about his understanding of older e.d. patients and how they often feel an even more compounded kind of shame than do many of the younger women who make up the diseases' majority of victims). I wanted to ask if he understood where the lines are drawn between bulimic guilt and anorexic guilt and the guilty pride of the severely underweight. I wanted to ask what exactly his specialty was and if there was, in fact, anyone on staff on this ward who truly specialized in eating disorders, since most of the patients I'd met shared the same diagnosis, and it wasn't anorexia. I wanted to ask if my cynicism was spot-on in guessing that he wanted to get her admitted so he'd have another patient pouring money into this nearly-empty wing of the hospital (5 patients for 26 beds).
Clearly, I didn't ask any of these questions. I kept my mouth shut and I kept my hands to myself, even though I really, desperately wanted to wrap her bony frame in a bear hug.
While I was visiting, a new patient arrived with her husband. She was gaunt and grey and in her fifties, and she was clearly, painfully, achingly a longtime sufferer of anorexia nervosa. I immediately wondered what she was doing at this particular hospital, on this particular ward, since there are quite a lot (relatively speaking) of good inpatient eating disorder hospitals and wings in the New York area, or at least within two hours or so. I figured, "I'm not a psychiatrist; I don't know what's going on. She may have another underlying psychiatric issue that they have to treat here first." As I kept watching her in the corner of my eye or with the back of my attention, I just felt more and more pity for her.
I thought about the food that was being served for dinner and realized if she were presented it outside the bounds of a meal process group, she would, to put it nicely, lose her shit (and that she'd probably still lose it within the MP group, but that it wouldn't be as humiliating). For this dinner, the admitting psychiatrist had apparently ordered an Ensure for her, and some juice. All she wanted was her chocolate. (She said it like that: "my chocolate.") The mental health worker assigned to keep track of dinner brushed her off with a vague promise of seeing if the person who could bring up some chocolate had gone home yet. Understandable in a general psychiatric facility, but not the way an eating disorder unit would handle the request. (Not that they'd immediately procure chocolate, but a therapist or doctor would be at the meal itself to work through the strange request, instead of a nurse who gives off every impression of being in over her head.)
I thought about the fact that there isn't a nutritionist or registered dietitian on staff on this ward. Perhaps there's one for the hospital at large, but the meals are clearly not prepared with eating disordered patients or weight gain in mind, and not even really geared toward optimal nutrition for refeeding. (Two words: frozen. vegetables.)
I thought about how alone this woman is going to feel. None of the (few) other patients are in this ward for eating disorders.
I don't know why the doctor "sold her a bill of goods," as she put it, to get her into this particular institution and ward. I don't know why he didn't send her to Cornell, upstate, which has an excellent (if infamously strict) eating disorder unit. I don't know why he didn't send her to Renfew in Pennsylvania which practically invented eating disorder inpatient treatment. I don't know why he told her there would be a nutritionist on staff at every meal (according to her, anyway).
But I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to tell her about Cornell and Renfrew, but it wasn't my business, and she was so agitated that she'd probably have lashed out at me for eavesdropping. (Understandably. I was definitely being nosy.) I wanted to find the doctor and find out what the hell he was thinking. I wanted to ask if he knew from personal experience or prolonged ground-level observation what it might be like to be the only e.d. patient in an institution. I wanted to ask about his understanding of older e.d. patients and how they often feel an even more compounded kind of shame than do many of the younger women who make up the diseases' majority of victims). I wanted to ask if he understood where the lines are drawn between bulimic guilt and anorexic guilt and the guilty pride of the severely underweight. I wanted to ask what exactly his specialty was and if there was, in fact, anyone on staff on this ward who truly specialized in eating disorders, since most of the patients I'd met shared the same diagnosis, and it wasn't anorexia. I wanted to ask if my cynicism was spot-on in guessing that he wanted to get her admitted so he'd have another patient pouring money into this nearly-empty wing of the hospital (5 patients for 26 beds).
Clearly, I didn't ask any of these questions. I kept my mouth shut and I kept my hands to myself, even though I really, desperately wanted to wrap her bony frame in a bear hug.
find in:
eating disorder
2/05/2009
Theatre Thursday
Welcome back to Theatre Thursday. Today we're tying one on for all the crazy Russians in our lives, bless. We're looking at Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov.
The studio through which I honed my now-unused craft was heavy on two playwrights: Shakespeare (swoon) and Chekhov (eyeroll). You know my feelings on Shakespeare, and now you know my feelings on Chekhov. Look, I get it: Chekhov was a genius who trafficked in subtext and the subconscious like no one before him. Yay. But, for the most part? I find his plays mind-numbingly long winded (pot, meet kettle). Perhaps I feel this way because all productions I've seen have either been ham-handed or very, very underfunded. (And I'm sorry - it's tough to get into a naturalistic Russian play if the production couldn't afford to rent a good samovar, especially if the samovar is an important element, as it is in Three Sisters.)
Three Sisters is, as you guessed, about three sisters: Olga, Masha and Irina. Their parents are dead (their father died a year before the first scene), they're living in the country, they're all filled with annoying [to me] ennui, and everybody wants to move back to Moscoooowwwww *whine*. Moscow, Moscow, Moscow is all any of the sisters talks about (feels like it, anyway), because Moscow represents dreams, ideals, culture, perfection, etc. and so forth. The three sisters have one brother (Andrei) who managed to marry a real hellion (Natalya/Natasha) who systematically deconstructs the sisters' home life, destroying their insular life of dreaming of Moscow, Moscoooww, Moscooooowww.
Act Three is, to me, the heart of the play. There's a fire in town and everyone is rushing around to help. Natasha has taken over the house the siblings share and Olga, Masha and Irina experience the collective catharsis of Our Life Sucks, Huh? It's an interesting scene, since Masha (who's been cheating on her husband) is the only one of the three to seemingly realize that if she wants to be happy? She's got to make that happen. Here's Irina's big monologue in the midst of the madness:
IRINA. (Sobbing.) Where? Where has it all gone? Where is it? Oh my God, my God! I have forgotten everything, forgotten everything… Everything is confused in my head… I can't remember what is the word for window in Italian, or for ceiling… I am forgetting everything, I forget more every day, and life flies past and never returns, never, and we will never go to Moscow… I see now that we will never go… (Controlling herself.) Oh, I'm so unhappy… I can't work, I won't work. That's enough! That's enough! I worked in the Telegraph Office, now I am employed by the Town Council, and I hate and despise everything that they give me to do… I'm already twenty four, I have been working already for ages, my brain is drying up, I'm growing ugly and old, and nothing I do, nothing at all gives me any joy, and time goes flying by and all the time it seems as if you are abandoning real life, life that is beautiful, you are going farther and farther away from it, over some sort of precipice. I am in total despair, and how I am alive, why I have not killed myself before now I do not understand…
Olga shortly convinces Irina to become engaged to a man she doesn't love. Masha, hearing all of this, proceeds with this:
MASHA. I would like to confess, my dearest sisters. My heart is breaking. I will confess to you, and then to nobody else, never, never… I will tell you this minute. (Quietly.) this is my secret, but you all know it already… I can't keep quiet any longer…
(Pause.)
I love him, I love him… I love that man… You have only just seen him… But why dissemble. In one word only, I love Vershinin…
OLGA. (Goes behind her screen.) Don't say any more. In any case I am not listening.
MASHA. There is nothing to be done. (Takes her head in her hands.) At first he seemed to me to be so odd, and then I pitied him… and then I fell in love with him… I fell in love with his voice, with what he said, with his two unhappy daughters…
OLGA. (Behind the screen.) I am not listening, whatever you say. Whatever nonsense you talk, I have no intention of listening.
MASHA. You're just mad, Olga. I'm in love, that means, it's my fate. It is my destiny to love him… And he loves me… This is all terrible. Isn't it? Or is it wonderful? (Grasps Irina's hand and pulls her towards herself.) My darling Irina… How will we go on living our lives? What will become of us?… When you read a novel, any novel, then it seems that everything is so old hat and everything is easily understood, but when you fall in love yourself then it becomes obvious to you that nobody knows anything and each person must make their own decisions… My dearest sisters, my own dearest ones… I have made my confession, now I will be silent… I will now be silent, like the madman in Gogol's story… silence, silence…
You see how on one level (okay, several levels) it's achingly awesome, Chekhov, and how on another level it's "OMFG, get over it!"? That's my take on Chekhov, in a nutshell. And DON'T get me started on Uncle Vanya or The Cherry Orchard. I'll stick to Three Sisters and The Seagull, thanks.
I think I hear NYU creeping up on me to take my diploma back...
The studio through which I honed my now-unused craft was heavy on two playwrights: Shakespeare (swoon) and Chekhov (eyeroll). You know my feelings on Shakespeare, and now you know my feelings on Chekhov. Look, I get it: Chekhov was a genius who trafficked in subtext and the subconscious like no one before him. Yay. But, for the most part? I find his plays mind-numbingly long winded (pot, meet kettle). Perhaps I feel this way because all productions I've seen have either been ham-handed or very, very underfunded. (And I'm sorry - it's tough to get into a naturalistic Russian play if the production couldn't afford to rent a good samovar, especially if the samovar is an important element, as it is in Three Sisters.)
Three Sisters is, as you guessed, about three sisters: Olga, Masha and Irina. Their parents are dead (their father died a year before the first scene), they're living in the country, they're all filled with annoying [to me] ennui, and everybody wants to move back to Moscoooowwwww *whine*. Moscow, Moscow, Moscow is all any of the sisters talks about (feels like it, anyway), because Moscow represents dreams, ideals, culture, perfection, etc. and so forth. The three sisters have one brother (Andrei) who managed to marry a real hellion (Natalya/Natasha) who systematically deconstructs the sisters' home life, destroying their insular life of dreaming of Moscow, Moscoooww, Moscooooowww.
Act Three is, to me, the heart of the play. There's a fire in town and everyone is rushing around to help. Natasha has taken over the house the siblings share and Olga, Masha and Irina experience the collective catharsis of Our Life Sucks, Huh? It's an interesting scene, since Masha (who's been cheating on her husband) is the only one of the three to seemingly realize that if she wants to be happy? She's got to make that happen. Here's Irina's big monologue in the midst of the madness:
IRINA. (Sobbing.) Where? Where has it all gone? Where is it? Oh my God, my God! I have forgotten everything, forgotten everything… Everything is confused in my head… I can't remember what is the word for window in Italian, or for ceiling… I am forgetting everything, I forget more every day, and life flies past and never returns, never, and we will never go to Moscow… I see now that we will never go… (Controlling herself.) Oh, I'm so unhappy… I can't work, I won't work. That's enough! That's enough! I worked in the Telegraph Office, now I am employed by the Town Council, and I hate and despise everything that they give me to do… I'm already twenty four, I have been working already for ages, my brain is drying up, I'm growing ugly and old, and nothing I do, nothing at all gives me any joy, and time goes flying by and all the time it seems as if you are abandoning real life, life that is beautiful, you are going farther and farther away from it, over some sort of precipice. I am in total despair, and how I am alive, why I have not killed myself before now I do not understand…
Olga shortly convinces Irina to become engaged to a man she doesn't love. Masha, hearing all of this, proceeds with this:
MASHA. I would like to confess, my dearest sisters. My heart is breaking. I will confess to you, and then to nobody else, never, never… I will tell you this minute. (Quietly.) this is my secret, but you all know it already… I can't keep quiet any longer…
(Pause.)
I love him, I love him… I love that man… You have only just seen him… But why dissemble. In one word only, I love Vershinin…
OLGA. (Goes behind her screen.) Don't say any more. In any case I am not listening.
MASHA. There is nothing to be done. (Takes her head in her hands.) At first he seemed to me to be so odd, and then I pitied him… and then I fell in love with him… I fell in love with his voice, with what he said, with his two unhappy daughters…
OLGA. (Behind the screen.) I am not listening, whatever you say. Whatever nonsense you talk, I have no intention of listening.
MASHA. You're just mad, Olga. I'm in love, that means, it's my fate. It is my destiny to love him… And he loves me… This is all terrible. Isn't it? Or is it wonderful? (Grasps Irina's hand and pulls her towards herself.) My darling Irina… How will we go on living our lives? What will become of us?… When you read a novel, any novel, then it seems that everything is so old hat and everything is easily understood, but when you fall in love yourself then it becomes obvious to you that nobody knows anything and each person must make their own decisions… My dearest sisters, my own dearest ones… I have made my confession, now I will be silent… I will now be silent, like the madman in Gogol's story… silence, silence…
You see how on one level (okay, several levels) it's achingly awesome, Chekhov, and how on another level it's "OMFG, get over it!"? That's my take on Chekhov, in a nutshell. And DON'T get me started on Uncle Vanya or The Cherry Orchard. I'll stick to Three Sisters and The Seagull, thanks.
I think I hear NYU creeping up on me to take my diploma back...
find in:
drama major
2/04/2009
Hyperbole and Appropriation
I haven't gotten too political on here since November, and aside from the election I usually try to stay clear of "politics" unless it's directly related to feminism, women, mental health or theatre. (I can't really think of ever having to discuss that last one in a political frame. I suppose if Karen Finley ever managed to make news again I'd be talking about it here.)
That being said, the following isn't, to me, a political issue. At least, it ought not to be. To borrow a thought from WaltzInExile, I'm not trying to change minds here, but if you are so inclined, please visit the grounded, forceful new blog Christians For Equality.
That being said, the following isn't, to me, a political issue. At least, it ought not to be. To borrow a thought from WaltzInExile, I'm not trying to change minds here, but if you are so inclined, please visit the grounded, forceful new blog Christians For Equality.
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to opine or to STFU?
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