Friday Random Ten: hurrah for wrinkles edition

As I noted this week, I’ve become mildly obsessed with Rihanna’s “Umbrella”. I so rarely listen to contemporary pop music, and every once in a while, a song does it for me.

But this FRT is a real break from tradition. What happened to my feminist credentials? Eight of ten songs by men? The misleadingly misogynistic title of the great Neil Young track at #8? #2 is a fine cut off the new album from one of the fiercer young women in mainstream country, and #6 and #8 are off two of my favorite albums from my favorite musical decade. Most folks think Rod Stewart wrote #7, but it did indeed begin as a splendid song by the future Yusuf Islam. Gillian Welch’s debut album was perhaps her finest (not that her later work has been too shabby), and this is one of my favorite cuts off that recording.

1. “Abraham”, Sufjian Stevens
2. “Guilty in Here”, Miranda Lambert
3. “A Change is Gonna Come”, Sam Cooke
4. “Authority Song”, John Mellencamp
5. “Nothing is Ever Enough”, Derek Webb
6. “The Late Show”, Jackson Browne
7. “The First Cut is the Deepest”, Cat Stevens
8. “A Man Needs a Maid”, Neil Young
9. “Green Fields of France”, Dropkick Murphys
10. “One More Dollar”, Gillian Welch

Bonus Track: “Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards”, Billy Bragg

The Shirley Chisholm model: some thoughts on feminism and racism

So I’ve been thinking — hasn’t everybody this week? — about the intersection of race and sex and the broader feminist movement. As I mentioned on Monday, a debate over the merits of Jessica Valenti’s Full Frontal Feminism has metastasized into a painful and often bewildering discussion about the ways in which white feminists unintentionally marginalize the voices of women of color. I’ve linked to some of the posts on the subject; from more recent posts, here’s Brownfemipower’s, and here’s Sylvia’s.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time thinking about the intersection of race, class, and gender in American history and contemporary society. Though it doesn’t always show, I’ve read a book or three on the subject and sat through, gosh, dozens of seminars and symposia. I’m old enough to have read the first edition of This Bridge Called my Back not long after it initially appeared.

But I’ll admit that for most of my life as a pro-feminist man, I’ve worried that too great a focus on the Great Crime of racial oppression in this country meant a marginalization of what I grew up believing was the Even Greater Crime of the exploitation of women. My mother was a huge Shirley Chisholm fan, and supported the first black congresswoman’s famous 1972 campaign for the Democratic nomination. Chisholm, who died in 2005, was often asked whether she considered her sex or her race to be the greater obstacle to her success. She was unequivocal in her response, quoted from the New York Times obit:

I’ve always met more discrimination being a woman than being black,” she told The Associated Press in December 1982, shortly before she left Washington to teach at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts. “When I ran for the Congress, when I ran for president, I met more discrimination as a woman than for being black. Men are men.”

Bold emphasis mine. I remember reading the original quote from Chisholm in the early 1980s; I think my mother may have brought it to my attention. I can’t tell you how formative Chisholm’s frank discussion of the race/sex dynamic was for me. Though I ought to have known better than to allow one remarkable black woman’s words to form my entire world view on which “ism” constituted the greater oppression, I have to say that for the last quarter century, whenever the discussion of the racism/sexism dynamic comes up, I immediately quote the lines above.

Anecdotally, I will say that most of my female students of color nod their heads vigorously when I share — as I almost always do — the Shirley Chisholm story. Most of my students today were born more than a decade after Shirley ran for president, and yet their experience of both racism and sexism has left many of them convinced that while both have tremendous power to hurt, the latter has served as the far greater impediment to their full acceptance as human beings. Those who think Shirley Chisholm is describing a different era than our own (an era where Stokely Carmichael could say that the “proper position for a woman in the movement is prone”) ought to come and listen to the stories told by the young women of color I have in my classes.

I recognize that to be doubly or even triply-oppressed is difficult. On campus, all of our student groups meet at the same time each week: Tuesdays and Thursdays at noon. An aspiring white feminist will have less trouble choosing how to spend that hour; since her sex is the only source of her marginalization, she’s fairly likely to choose a women’s group. A young woman of color may experience more conflict: what to do when the Black Students Association or MEChA meets at exactly the same time as a feminist forum? The sense I’ve gotten is that many of my young women of color feel at times that they are being forced to choose between two parts of themselves, and that hurts. Their “brown brothers” are oppressed for their brownness, not their maleness; their “white sisters” are held back for their sex, not their whiteness. When you’ve got one single hour per week to spend with one single group, when you’ve got just one dollar to give to your club of choice, choosing between brothers and sisters is hard.

And yes, I know that well-meaning white feminists can be unconsciously racist. I can’t tell you how often I’ve had a young white woman in my classes make disparaging remarks about Latino machismo, for example. My Latina students frequently squirm; they recognize much truth in what their white classmate is saying, but they feel protective and defensive about their brothers, their fathers, their heritage. Too often, white feminists overtly or obliquely ask women of color to turn their backs on what white feminists assume is a culture so steeped in misogyny that it cannot possibly be redeemed.

What I’ve realized from the whole kerfuffle over Jessica’s book is that I continue to let my views on the race/sex/class intersection be formed almost entirely by the “Shirley Chisholm analysis.” I think Chisholm was telling the truth about her own experience, and I think that her experience is still that of the majority of young women of color in contemporary American society. 1972 and 2007 are far less different than some folks would have you believe. But where I’ve gone off track is in my insistence that we keep the focus of our justice work more narrowly focused on gender oppression, assuming that in the end, all women regardless of race or class or sexual identity or physical ability are marginalized and mistreated in more or less the same way. After more than twenty years of reading (and teaching) Anzaldua and Lorde and hooks and Moraga, I ought to know better.

Note: Comments that are either overtly racist or overtly anti-feminist will be deleted.

Thursday Short Poem: Levertov’s “The Thread”

I like this poem. I like reading it this week in conjunction with last week’s Donald Justice offering.

The Thread

Something is very gently,
invisibly, silently,
pulling at me-a thread
or net of threads
finer than cobweb and as
elastic. I haven’t tried
the strength of it. No barbed hook
pierced and tore me. Was it
not long ago this thread
began to draw me? Or
way back? Was I
born with its knot about my
neck, a bridle? Not fear
but a stirring
of wonder makes me
catch my breath when I feel
the tug of it when I thought
it had loosened itself and gone.

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A note on why Hugo hates getting massaged

For my birthday dinner last night, my wife took me out to a great little vegan place in Los Feliz. Before dinner, we went to get massages. And I was reminded, not for the first time, of how much work I have had to do in my life to get to the place where I allow myself to be massaged and touched.

Though I’ve been running and doing other fitness activities for years, I didn’t have my first massage until I was 36. For years and years, the idea of having a stranger — or even someone whom I knew well — rubbing me all over freaked me out. No matter how sore or achey I got, I preferred to treat my pain with massive doses of ibuprofen. (At one time, when I was more foolish in my training, I was doing 2400 milligrams of ibuprofen every darned day, before, during, and after workouts.) It wasn’t the expense of a massage; I felt the same way about allowing a girlfriend or buddy to rub my neck or back.

I’ve always been an affectionate person. I’m a hugger, an enthusiastic back-slapper, a comforting patter of knees and shoulders. And I was always quite willing to rub the aching shoulders or neck of a friend or loved one. I never had a problem initiating physical contact; as long as I was in control of how much contact happened and how long it lasted, I was happy. Receiving was, to put it mildly, a different story. I had zero ability to lie back and enjoy any kind of physically pleasurable experience, unless that pleasure was provided by an inanimate object. (I remember discovering a massage chair in an airport lounge many years ago. Though I still had some trouble enjoying the experience, I was at least willing to try it.)

What I came to realize, with the help of she who is now my wife, is that I had a very serious control issue when it came to my body. As someone who battled eating disorders for years, and still has to watch his exercise addiction, I’m unduly infatuated with my own physical autonomy, particularly when it came to pleasure. I was very good — during my various youthful hospitalizations — about putting up with various medical procedures. I used to joke that I had an easier time being catheterized or having my stomach pumped than being given a full-body massage. (The former two experiences happened entirely too often.) So it wasn’t just about losing control — I could accept losing control when it involved suffering in a way that I couldn’t when it involved pleasure. What I couldn’t accept was the overwhelming discomfort that came when someone else seemed single-mindedly focused on giving pleasure to me.

The strange mix of guilt and anxiety that I felt just at contemplating getting massaged (by loved one or hired stranger) wasn’t rooted in any early childhood trauma, nor — as far as I could tell — was it connected to a profound sense of guilt about my body. My massage phobia was alive and well during the most promiscuous times of my life, when I had no trouble being sexual with people I barely knew, as long as those sexual experiences didn’t involve me passively receiving anything pleasurable. I had no trouble undergoing medical exams either; I’ve never been one of those men who is reluctant to go to the doctor. It wasn’t about a loathing of the body, it was about a mistrust of other human beings rooted in something so deep that I couldn’t name or see the source.

My very patient girlfriend, now my wife, worked on me gently and lovingly. I finally broke down and gave into a massage on Valentine’s Day, 2003. We were out in Palm Springs together, and when we woke up on the morning of February 14, she hit me with a bombshell: she had ordered a “couples massage.” Two men would be coming to our room that afternoon with tables and oils and New Age music, and they would rub each of us. For an hour. And there was to be no arguing; I was to give it a try as part of my Valentine’s present for her. And I gulped, swallowed hard, and agreed. I spent half an hour in the shower before the masseurs showed up, scrubbing myself clean. Though at this point I had been off drugs and alcohol for five years, I found myself longing for a quick little drink, or better yet, a handful of benzodiazepines to cope with the anxiety. But I went through the experience stone cold sober.

The masseur was wonderful, gentle, strong. He found the sore spots in my lower back and my chronically tight hamstrings right away. About fifteen minutes into the massage, I began to cry. I kept on crying, softly, until the hour-long experience was over. It was an extraordinarily cathartic mix of profound emotional discomfort, intense pleasure, and psychological release. After the men left, I felt overwhelmed with nausea. All of the toxins stored in my muscles for so long were now flooding my system, having been released by the massage; I spent the rest of Valentine’s Day 2003 puking. It wasn’t very romantic, but my gal was thrilled, knowing that I had broken through this phobia about pleasure and control.

I still only get massaged a couple of times a year. It’s still often a difficult experience to endure, though I’m getting better and better at receiving pleasure and healing work while I lie passive. I know I’ve got a strong puritanical streak within me. Most of the time, I think that puritanism is fundamentally good — after all, it’s rooted in the conviction that I must not allow my own selfish desires to trump my ethical responsibilities to the earth and its creatures. But there’s a thin line between restriction for the sake of sharing with other living beings, and anhedonia, the aversion to pleasure in its own right. Learning to accept massage, learning to accept touch, learning to accept caress and care is an important, if incredibly difficult, part of this journey towards making that vital distinction.

All-female and all-male day

Most semesters (but not all) I hold an “all-female day” and an “all-male day” in my Women in American Society class. My “all-female” day was last Tuesday, and my “all-male” day will be this Thursday.

I got the idea from a group of students who took the class in the spring of ’01. That was a particularly strong group, and one day midway through the semester a small delegation approached me in my office. In a class that was 80% female, 20% male, they asked me to facilitate two separate days, one for students of each sex. Instead of a lecture, we’d have a structured discussion, sitting in a circle. The all-male and all-female days would happen late in the semester after students had had a chance to absorb and really think about a lot of the material. The single sex environment would, it was hoped, promote greater candor, greater frankness, and greater opportunity for same-sex bonding.

I checked out the legality of having a single-sex classroom for a day,and was assured by my division dean at the time that as long as I offered one day for each sex, I would not be violating college or state rules. And so, since the spring of 2001, I’ve held these all-male and all-female days in most of my sections of women’s history.

I’ll blog about the all-male day experience soon. I can say that the all-female experience is almost always an enormously positive one. Over and over again, I read in student journals and evaluations that that was their “favorite day” of the whole semester. Though I rarely issue sweeping pronouncements about what feminism is or isn’t, I am adamant that one can’t be much of a feminist if one is committed to the liberation of women as a class but one doesn’t generally like individual women. The whole “loving humankind, hating people” deal is thoroughly incompatible with every imaginable category of feminist praxis. And yet so many of my female students do struggle to bond and connect with other women. The “all my good friends are guys” contingent is invariably a substantial one.

A single day of sitting in a circle and sharing stories doesn’t create instant feminist community. But it sure as heck is a good start, and sadly, it’s often more sharing and listening in an all-female group than many of these young women have ever done before. I feel quite strongly that a feminist classroom has elements of the therapeutic as well as the intellectual; personal experience, while not a substitute for reason, is also a valuable source of information and knowledge. Tears are not uncommon on all-female day; tears of sadness, of exhaustion, of empathy.

Unlike at a major university, we have no “discussion sections” built into the course. I get 75 minutes twice a week to cover American women’s history (and contemporary feminism) from the pre-Columbian period to the present day. There is no other course on campus that surveys women’s history or offers an introduction to women’s studies. But as precious as the short amount of time I have is, it’s worth taking two days to reflect together, to retreat from the purely intellectual to the emotional. Laughter, tears, and authentic catharsis have their place in the feminist classroom.

It’s hard to be a Christian alone. It’s hard to be a feminist alone. Living out a commitment — whatever that commitment is based on — is more easily done with a community of the like-minded to encourage and nurture. Given that I teach at a community college that has an almost complete absence of feminist or pro-feminist institutional support for young men and women, I’ve got to try and create that institutional support in the classroom.

We had a great all-female day on May 15. I’ll have some more thoughts on working with young men in a feminist setting next week.

More on being forty, and why I like Rihanna

It’s 7:30AM, and I am several hours into my fifth decade of life.

After teaching last night, I headed home to a quiet dinner with my wife. We got caught up with “Sopranos”, and we sat and talked and opened presents. (My favorite gift from my wife: awesome seats for an upcoming Sparks game at the Staples Center; my favorite gift from my chinnies: really good vegan marzipan. I love my marzipan — my Viennese ancestry comin’ through loud and clear.)

I got up this morning and my first thought was to thank God for getting me to this age. I’m not dead, I’m not locked up in a state mental hospital or in prison, I’m not homeless and mumbling to myself. If you’d asked my family and friends ten years ago — or even twenty years ago — they would have quietly, desperately admitted to being profoundly worried about my survival. No one worries about this anymore.

Last week, I applied for a nice big chunk of life insurance. I never thought I’d qualify for life insurance, you see. Who would insure someone with my track record? But as anyone who knows life insurance knows, the medical questions they ask you when you apply refer to what’s happened in the last seven years. And for the past nine years, I’ve had a very clean bill of health (other than a nasty bout of giardia, a bug I contracted in rural Colombia a few years back.) A nice man came over to our house last week, took my blood and my urine and my height and my weight. He even gave me an EKG. He seemed to think all was in order, and unless there’s some problem with my blood, I’m gettin’ insured. Hugo Schwyzer is worth underwriting these days.

In a comment below a post yesterday, Treifalicious writes:

What does “40″ mean? Most of all, what does “40″ feel like, look like?

I just turned 35 last week. People tell me I don’t look like a 35 year old. What does a 35 year old look like?

A friend of mine asked how old I was at a little birthday celebration I had. I didn’t tell him exactly how old but said I was slightly older than he was (He turned 34 in February – I told him how much older I was than him last year but he apparently forgot). He said he was old. I said that I was not.

Personally, I think these ideas of what 30, 35 and 40 (or any age save early childhood when there are clear developmental goals people have to meet) are supposed to look and act like are arbitrary and ultimately meaningless.

Still, it would be good if you could elaborate upon what it means to feel 40. Granted, you don’t have so much experience being 40 as of yet but it would be good to get your imnpressions so that I know what to look forward to in 5 years.

I agree that the “rules” about what we’re supposed to act like at any given age tend to be arbitrary and meaningless. There’s nothing magical about the number 21, for example, that instantly gives folks the good judgment to handle alcohol that they lacked a day or week before. Society has to draw arbitrary lines in order to function, however, and I suppose we generally draw them in the right places.

I wrote a bit about growing older and closing doors last year. In that post, I was gently chastising men in my age cohort for continuing to chase young women. I wrote last October:

One of the most important doors to close is the door marked “everlasting youth.” Part of growing up is learning to accept that our choices are finite, that our youth is temporary, that the sexual desirability we may have had (or wished we had had) at 25 is gone, or at the least, significantly changed. Another door we must learn to close is the one marked with the unwieldy phrase: “constantly in need of validation and reassurance.” This doesn’t mean we won’t always need affirmation from others, but the kinds of affirmation we need will change. Whether we have “It” can’t matter anymore; whether we are loving, kind, safe, generous, and reliable will. The world doesn’t need us to be sexy in middle age. The world doesn’t need us to be “on the prowl”. The world needs us to close softly the doors to our past, to embrace our aging and changing bodies, to embrace our families (in whatever form those families come) and to embrace the great adventure that only promises to get better and more glorious. But it will only get better if we close those doors.

That’s what I think of as I turn forty.

But I’m clear on something else. I may be a Puritan preaching the gospel of radical self-denial on the part of the consumer as a tool for liberating the consumed. But this is not a joyless life. Indeed, I’m more playful at 40 than ever before. Yesterday, my office mate’s assistant was playing a song I found catchy: Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” I don’t normally like that sort of music, but the track worked for me. So I downloaded it last night and composed a small dance to it. Only my wife and my chinchillas will see this very special dance, of course. But I had a wonderful time last night bouncing around exuberantly, like a hippopotamus responding to the choreography of Irene Cara.

If you’re gonna be what Tennessee Williams calls an “ass-achin’ Puritan”, you’re gonna be an insufferable person to be around if that puritanism isn’t mediated by a goofy, wacky, sense of humor. And I’m afraid that sense of humor doesn’t come across on this blog. But if you could see me singing Barry Manilow songs to my chinchillas in a basso profundo or inventing dance moves that are both kinetically unlikely and aesthetically disturbing, you’d know I’m having a pretty good time.

After 8 hours and 17 minutes, being forty rocks.

And that “Umbrella” song is still in my head.

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Saying goodbye to Annika

I first started blogging at a now-vanished blogspot blog back in August 2003. I first posted the day Arnold Schwarzenegger declared himself a candidate for governor in the recall election. The very first blog I commented on was Annika’s, and the next day, she became the first blogger to link to me.

Annika is a conservative Republican lawyer who likes guns and jet planes. Other than sharing an alma mater, we have nothing else in common. But we’ve commented every now and again at each other’s blogs for four years. I got the idea for “Thursday Short Poems” from her Wednesday Poetry series. And in 2005, she did an interview with me over IM.

Annika is leaving the blog world for now. I’ll miss my first blog friend very much.

For those of you who blog, who was your first commenter? Who first linked to you? To whom did you first link?

Eugen Weber

Eugen Weber has died at 82. Weber taught history at UCLA for decades, and won the university’s distinguished teaching award in 1992. I was a TA at the time, but not one of his graduate students. Many of my friends worked under him, and had a near-reverential tone when they spoke of him.

His 1989 public television series “The Western Tradition” was a godsend to me when I first started teaching. My first year of teaching, I was terrified that I would run out of things to say after twenty minutes. My mother gave me all of the video tapes of his series, which covered the period from the Bronze Age to the Cold War. I used segments of them in both my ancient and modern history classes. Yes, students, I once showed videos all the time! As the years passed, I grew more confident as a lecturer and I began to incorporate Weber’s material into my own talks. I showed fewer and fewer episodes of “The Western Tradition”; I would guess that I last popped in one of Weber’s tapes in, oh, late 1998 or early 1999.

Over the course of my first five or six years of teaching, I must have seen each of his 52 half-hour episodes two or three dozen times. I knew his heavy Central European voice by heart, and was accustomed to his litle jokes (most of which flew right over the heads of my students). All those tapes have long since gathered dust, but I can recite the script of many from memory. Eugen Weber was a wonderful popularizer of Western Civilization, a first-rate scholar who was also a marvelous generalist. He was one of UCLA’s finest, and I deeply regret not having served as his teaching assistant or having worked more closely with him.

On turning 40

Today is my last day of of my thirties. A farewell note to the decade is fitting.

On my thirtieth birthday, I drove to Santa Barbara to spend the day with my Dad. We took lots of walks together, and he reminded me — teasingly — of my grandfather’s old maxim: “Thirty is when a young man stops being promising.” Though I was going through a turbulent time in my life, I felt excited to be turning thirty. I remember looking at my face in the mirror, noting the beginning of the crow’s feet and the smile lines, and feeling a strange mix of anxiety and anticipation. I was anxious about getting older, anxious about losing what I thought was my fleeting attractiveness, anxious about not living up to the expectations of others.

My twenties, frankly, were an extended adolescence. My second divorce had become final one month before I turned thirty, but I still felt awkward calling myself a “man.” I was acutely uncomfortable being addressed as “Sir”, “Mr.”, or “Professor.” The son of two academics, I always joked that when I heard “Professor Schwyzer”, I wanted to turn around and see if my father or mother was in the room. I cultivated the image of a slightly older peer to my students. I wanted to inhabit an in-between space, neither fully adult nor fully adolescent. (Cue that Britney song about “not a girl, not yet a woman.”) At thirty, most of my friends were considerably younger than myself, and I felt uncomfortable around chronological peers.

I grew up in my thirties. Mind you, I don’t think my adolescence needed to be prolonged as long as it was. I made a conscious choice to stay stuck, and I know darned well that I could have chosen to extricate myself from that mess much earleir. But regardless, adulthood finally happened to me in my thirties — and what a happy (if at times agonizing) growing up it turned out to be.

I’m going to be 40 tomorrow, and people have been asking me if I feel 40. I do feel 40, and I think 40 feels amazing. I’m fitter than I’ve ever been, happier than I’ve ever been, pushing myself harder than ever. The wrinkles are getting deeper; my face is well on its way to being deeply lined. I like seeing the wrinkles come. No botox or face lifts for this fella; bring on the outward and visible signs of experience, of hard work, of endless miles logged in sun and chill and biting wind.

I never thought I’d make it to 40. Many people in my family never thought I’d make it to 40. But the darkness did abate, the “black dog” of depression ran away, though I remain vigilant against his return. I’ve loved my thirties, especially the truly glorious second half. My friends in their forties tell me it’s going to get even better, and I can’t wait.

I am a very, very lucky man.

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Why I’m assigning Full Frontal Feminism: a follow-up

Anyone who’s been reading the feminist blogs in the past week knows that we’ve come dangerously close to forming the proverbial circular firing squad. The issue this time is Jessica Valenti’s Full Frontal Feminism.

For some background, see Jill here and here, and Piny here (both at Feministe). If you read Piny’s post, you’ll see that she has posted links to many of the most prominent negative reactions to the book. They’re worth a read.

I reviewed Jessica’s book two weeks ago, and gave it a enthusiastic endorsement. Indeed, I’ve made the decision to add FFF (as it is now widely abbreviated) to my women’s studies course syllabus beginning with the fall semester. I think it’s that good and that important.

The bulk of the negative reaction seems to focus on two things: some feminists are troubled by what they perceive as the “breeziness” of Jessica’s text. It seems too chatty, too informal, and too frequently punctuated by profanity. Others, more troublingly, accuse Jessica of ignoring or underplaying the important role of women of color in the feminist movement. FFF, it seems, comes across as too white. Blackamazon’s ringing denunciation came here, and I quote it because it seems typical of most of the criticisms I’ve seen:

As a 22 year old women reading this book , I felt disrespected. As a teacher of nearly 9 years especially of “at risk ” youth, I was appalled.

Young women do not need friends who reduce their problems with feminism to some issue with the coolness factor.

The definitely do not need it from people who would choose a very specific half naked torso and various approximations of Valley girl lingo .

I am a young woman who is NOT a feminist. I am a young woman who is one of many young women who has disagreed ,disengaged, delinked, and been disrespected by many of the feminist sisterhood.

I am part of a much longer line of women who has been caricatured, stolen from, and used.

So I reread much of FFF over the past couple of days. And frankly, I don’t think the criticism is warranted. Of course, I’m a moderately privileged heterosexual white man, so perhaps my ability to sense the “silencing” of women of color is inherently suspect. But Jessica has her numerous defenders among young women of color, not least among them her colleagues at Feministing like Samhita and Celina. Samhita has an anguished post up today, decrying the way in which some of Jessica’s critics have silenced her and other women of color who have embraced FFF.

I’m late to this battle, but I’ll weigh in once again with an emphatic defense of the book. I may be white and male and middle-aged and middle-class and married to a woman in blissful heterosexual privilege, but dang it all, I do know a thing or two about teaching young people of color. Community colleges are ladders into the middle class; they are intellectual reception centers for those who have no other gateway into academia. In my women’s history class, my students are overwhelmingly female (not surprising), and overwhelmingly women of color. The majority are first-generation college students. Few come to the class knowing much of anything about feminism, and what they have heard has left them suspicious and doubtful about its relevance to their own lives.

I do not expect my students to read Full Frontal Feminism and accept it as gospel. It has a colloqial, even confrontational style that invites debate and discussion. It’s feminist apologetics at its best, and as someone who is fond of good Christian apolegetics, I think there’s a lot to be said for a text that makes an impassioned (yet often humorous) appeal for folks to abandon their skepticism. I like to think of Jessica Valenti as the Max Lucado or Lee Strobel of contemporary feminism, and I can only hope that her work (both FFF and whatever she produces in the future) will have as powerful an impact on the cause of gender justice as the work of Lucado and Strobel has had in spreading the gospel. (I suspect I’m one of the few people out there who reads both Jessica Valenti and Max Lucado. All others, raise your hands.)

Why have FFF on the syllabus? My course in women’s history deals with both past and present; in the latter part of the class, we ask whether feminism continues to be relevant for young women. I don’t grade my students on their feminism; I do, however, expect them to be able to understand what feminism really is, distinguished from the distortions created by popular culture. The stereotype that feminism is a “white thing” is as much a misrepresentation as the notion that all feminists don’t wear bras. While it is true that the contributions and concerns of women of color have been marginalized in both academic and political feminism, we’ve collectively come along way towards integration. Feminism has never had so many powerful non-white, non-heterosexual, non-able bodied, non-middle-classes voices. Can we do better? Sure. Could Jessica’s book have done better? I don’t think so. It’s pretty darned inclusive as it is.

I gave a copy of FFF to a former student of mine last week. She’s 20, Latina, daughter of Mexican immigrants. English is her second language. She said she was a bit put off by the profanity, but otherwise loved the book. She’s getting a copy for her younger sister, still in high school. (And unlike me, she was utterly untroubled by the cover. While I wondered about objectification, she saw assertiveness and power.) She endorsed wholeheartedly my decision to assign the book to my future students. “It explains why feminism still matters for everyone”, she said. Good enough for me.

Part of being committed to social justice — particularly as a feminist and as a Christian — is learning to not only listen to criticism, but to really hear it. The left is famous for its internecine wars; in the feminist world, the most common accusations are of “privilege”, “insensitivity”, and “marginalization.” All of us who are committed to gender justice understand that an atmosphere of honest dialogue and accountability is important. As we build and expand a movement, it’s vital that no group gets left behind. But at times, as in any family, the criticism of our loved ones is harsher and uglier than the criticism of our actual opponents. This has been an ugly week in the feminist blogosphere, with many folks feeling exasperated, misrepresented and hurt.

Here’s hoping we can get our eyes back on the prize.

UPDATE: This thread is limited to feminist or pro-feminist commenters — or, at the least, those who are not generally hostile to feminism. When we’re having a family squabble, those who are generally our ideological opponents are unlikely to promote much healing.