It’s been a fews weeks since my last post, and that’s because work got busy while I also happened to be nearly immobile on the couch trying to get through the exhaustion and nausea of the first trimester of pregnancy. I’m happy to say that today marks twelve weeks. If you were reading this blog a year ago when I wrote about what led to my long-term writer’s block, you’ll know how much that milestone means.
We’re still adjusting to this new reality, which is thrilling and terrifying. Now that I no longer feel like an alien is sucking the life force out of me (thought IT IS), I’m happy to get back to feeling the wind in my hair as I run or bike, the soil on my fingers as I pull up dying tomato plants (not really because I have to wear gloves to avoid toxoplasmosis, but you know what I mean), and the spark of a new creative idea.
Many years ago, when a good friend had her first child, she said that pregnancy made her extra creative. She wrote and wrote and wrote.Until recently, I cursed her blissful experience because I was so tired that even my brain didn’t want to function, but now I’m starting to get it.
I’ve noticed that I started thinking about my grandparents a lot, which I suppose makes sense because I’m adding to a new generation in the family. My dad’s parents, both deceased, kept showing up in my dreams. Apparently, dreaming of people dying and people already dead is a thing that can happen in pregnancy. (Other things no one told you: stuffy nose, leg cramps, blurred vision that, oh, no problem, will clear up two months after the baby is born! I haven’t had the last yet, just got freaked out when I read about it the other day.)
Dreams get weird in pregnancy, and I’m a little nervous because I already have weird dreams. But apparently dreams about birthing animals instead of humans and bizarre things happening to the baby are totally normal. The other night I dreamt that my husband had drunkenly stashed the baby in a drawer, and we opened every drawer frantically searching for it, only to discover the baby in a pile of drawers we were throwing out. Whatever that means.
Anyway, death dreams. They make sense because death symbolizes major life changes, rebirth, etc. In one dream, my deceased grandmother was taking me through her old house and showing me all this antique furniture that had been passed down through her family. She said, “Here this is for you,” and pointed to a crib.
So my grandparents have been on my mind, and all sorts of memories have been leaking into my daydreams. I found myself writing poems about them, conjuring up the feeling of my grandmother’s smooth cheek against mine and my grandfather’s generous smile and the comforting smell of their house. I discovered a poem I wrote in grad school about a visit to my great-grandmother, the last time I saw her, when the refrigerator door kept bouncing off of her as she dug around inside for the jam cake she had made. I spent some time with the poem and made it better, and it felt like, in some magical way, I was connecting her to this little peanut (that’s what it looked like on the ultrasound) that has some of her in its blood and skin and bones but will never her know her except through words and pictures.
I’ve already had to pass up two amazing work trips (to Turkey and South Africa. Really? They couldn’t have asked me before this?), but I feel like I’m on an adventure that doesn’t end when the plane lands. Every day I learn new things about my body and this creature it’s growing, and my mind is like a cauldron brewing with ideas and dreams. A dream is an idea, no? An idea, a dream.
Take this: there is a heart beating in my body that doesn’t belong to me! And suddenly I’m thinking of Edgar Allen Poe and floorboards and all the places hearts could be secretly thump-thumping.
I know that women have been having babies forever, but it’s like I’m the only person who has ever been pregnant. The other day I was reading a book about it and said out loud to no one, “This thing is going to pee inside me?! Wait, how many pounds am I going to gain?”
I mean, how can these things not get your wheels turning? No wonder when I went to look at monsters on Wikipedia to find a costume idea for my parents’ monster-themed Halloween party, I was bombarded with a disturbing list of birth defects that long ago inspired the idea behind a lot of monsters and demons. (Seriously, Wikipedia, thanks for ruining my day. I just needed something more creative than a vampire.)
But my point is that pregnancy is a weird and wild time, so there’s bound to be a lot of weird and wild notions that come out of it.
A few nights ago we watched David Lynch’s Eraserhead, whose meaning people are constantly debating, and my partner said, “I watched this so many times as a kid. But watching it now, I’m realizing it’s about parenthood.”
Those of you who’ve seen the movie surely know what he means. If you’ve never seen it, well, don’t watch Eraserhead while pregnant. I was worried about the crazy dreams it would give me, but somehow my slumber remained free of skinned dinosaur babies. The lesson, Lynch might say, is to just stop being fearful, right? The difference between wonder and worry.
Here’s to letting go of fear, even in dreams.
A lot of the stuff I think about, however, is really normal and pleasant. Like how much I miss my deceased grandparents and wish I could know them now, adult to adult, and see the joy in their faces at the news of this pregnancy. How people who barely know us react so delightfully when they find out we’re having a baby. How wonderful the world can be when you’re pregnant with a child you want and nothing has gone wrong so far and you read that it already wriggles around in response to your hand on your belly and all your tears are happy tears and outside the weather is glorious and everything you love about fall is on its way and feels like it was made especially for you.
Fresh out of college, I moved to Philadelphia and joined AmeriCorps. It was easily one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life.
I found myself–a young, middle-class, white woman–walking through the toughest neighborhoods of Philly on my way to improve literacy rates among kids. It was daunting. I imagined all sorts of crazy scenarios, but I quickly learned that no one cared about me. No one was going to bother the white girl in her pickup truck, and the schools all had strict security protocols. Funny where your imagination can take you if you let fear guide it, but recognizing that fear and where it comes from makes all the difference.
Every day for the first couple of months, however, I came home feeling sick. The kids I worked with lived in terrible circumstances, and while I got up close and personal with their daily struggles, I got to walk away from them every day. I got to return to my quaint brick building and eat sundried-tomato hummus from my local co-op.
I wasn’t used to being around extreme poverty, and it made me ache. One of the elementary schools I visited regularly was surrounded on three sides by projects and the fourth side by derelict buildings full of squatters, as evidenced by sheets that hung in random windows. There was a high fence all the way around the building, and inside that fence, at one end, was a small playground that was nothing but blacktop.
One sunny afternoon a boy cried when he learned that it wasn’t his turn to work with me. He had told me the previous week that he watched his mother die of an overdose. He was eight. He was black. He had the sweetest heart you can imagine, but just a few years later you’d probably see him as a thug. Because that’s what happens to black boys. They hit puberty, and we decide they’re dangerous. That may as well be the end of their lives.
At Benjamin Franklin High School, the ninth-grade class I worked with read on a third-grade level, yet they all had passing grades. They weren’t being taught; they were being kept off the streets. There were three pregnant girls. One of the boys who’d done the impregnating strutted around the room while the books provided for them sat in plastic baskets in the back, books about Arthur the aardvark, little boys learning how to play baseball, and monsters eating homework.
When we worked on a project that required us to walk around the neighborhood, drug deals went down right in front of them and they didn’t bat an eye. Maybe they were busy thinking about what Arthur the aardvark might be up to.
Every Monday I spent the afternoon with a group of middle-school and high-school Latinas at a Catholic community center. It was my favorite part of the week despite always needing to go out and move my truck closer to the building before it got dark because a car down the block had been set on fire with a person in it a month before I started. One evening when I went out to move my truck, someone was stealing the car in front of mine. I just pretended I hadn’t seen anything.
The girls were lively and fun and full of ideas, but they were also full of the most heartbreaking stories. One girl told me that her uncle had molested her since she was eleven. I had this idea that two super-smart sisters could do well in school and get out of there, but then I learned that they had no concept of getting out of there. They’d never left their neighborhood. Their mom was an addict who lived and worked on the street, and they lived with their dad and his girlfriend, who was always threatening to kick them out. The older one, in eighth grade, lost her boyfriend when he was shot in the head because he had the best corner.
All of the girls wanted to be Jennifer Lopez, but other than that, they had no thought of moving beyond their neighborhood. It was what they knew. So I tried to nurture their inner JLo. I helped them write about their lives, taught them about acting, and choreographed a dance performance. Every Monday they got a little break from their daily struggle to survive; they got to laugh and sing and dance, which is what living is about.
That was fifteen years ago, and I have no idea what happened to any of those kids. I don’t know who made it, who’s dead, who’s in prison.
I think about them a lot, especially when yet another unarmed black teenager is shot by the police.
I probably didn’t do very much for those kids in the long term, but they did a lot for me. They showed me the reality of poverty and racism. They showed me how the justice system didn’t (and still doesn’t) work in communities of color, how authorities and the media have let down communities of color over and over again. Sometimes I knew about violence that didn’t make the news for some reason. Sometimes it made the news in a way that was utterly different from the story I’d heard from people who were there.
I will never stop fighting for racial and economic justice because I know the lives of kids depend on it. But sometimes it’s difficult to know what to do, especially if you’re white and middle class.
If there are demonstrations in your city, go to them. Connect with the people there to work on real change for the future.
If you work with low-income kids, find ways to nurture their creativity, which can give them solace from the difficulties in their lives and effective ways to work through those difficulties.
If you lead camps or workshops for kids, find ways to make them accessible to low-income kids. Make sure your group is diverse in terms of economic background and race/ethnicity. Get white kids accustomed to diverse environments so they question situations where everyone is white.
If you’ve got some time to volunteer, find an organization or collective that works with kids in low-income areas. Read with kids. Let them sing and dance and paint.
But don’t go in thinking you can save them. They don’t need to be saved, especially by a white person. Think of it as skill sharing or knowledge sharing. You’re going to share what you know with them, and, in turn, you’re going to learn a hell of a lot about the rest of the world.
And then share what you’ve learned with other people. Apply it to your work. Use it to change systems that have long been mired in racism and aren’t doing anyone any good. Use it to increase diversity among decision-makers. Don’t let kids get out of third grade without meeting appropriate reading levels. Question why law enforcement is mostly white in a mostly black city and the effect that has on both police and those being policed. Use strategic creative action.
When I look at pictures of Michael Brown, the young man shot in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, I see that eight-year-old boy crying because I don’t have time for him that day. What do you see? Don’t let fear drive your creativity and overrule your empathy. Look beyond the characteristics you have been taught to fear. Imagine that little boy and how different his life could have been.
I’ve written before about the need to do something creative every day. It’s how I take care of myself, how I keep from getting stuck. If I’m creating something — whether writing an essay or singing while making dinner, knitting a scarf or turning an old drawer into a nightstand — I’m giving instead of taking, building instead of wasting or wallowing, meditating instead of worrying. What I create might be for someone else or for myself, but the time I spend working on it is all for me. I’m giving back to myself.
The current issue of TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism features Monica J. Casper writing about exhaustion in “Toward a Theory and Praxis of Sustainable Feminism.” We work and tend and advocate, and even when faced with grief and disappointment and health problems, we keep working and tending and advocating. We keep going because that’s what we’ve been trained to do. We take care of everyone but ourselves. There are women in my life who are unable to slow down even though they are getting older. They aren’t interested in humoring the increasing limitations of their bodies because they’ve spent their lives taking care of everyone, so they push through.
At 22, I was at a young women’s leadership workshop in Seattle, and I remember one of the other attendees reacting negatively to the idea of self-care. She said it felt wrong to spend time on herself — get a massage, say, or buy a special dress — when there were people who needed her time and could make better use of the money she would have spent. She didn’t think social justice had room for self-care. Doing something for herself made her feel guilty.
In a world where women have been taught from a young age to tend to the needs of others at all times, self-care is a radical act. And it’s certainly a feminist act.
Likewise, I know people who think creativity is a luxury. They feel guilty spending time on things like writing poetry because it’s something that’s just for them and not anyone else. But that’s self-care, and we truly can do more for others when we have taken care of ourselves.
I’ve been active in the feminist movement for nearly twenty years, and I definitely feel exhausted sometimes. I get tired of politics and want to run away to the mountains to never hear another word about legislation and demonstration. In these moments, diving into a creative project is like finding sanctuary. If I don’t do it, I can’t go back to work. My work is emotionally draining; at some point, the tide goes out. To make it sustainable, I have to find a way to pull the tide back in. My way is art.
In a captivating interview in The Paris Review, psychoanalyst Adam Phillips says, “One of the reasons we admire or like art, if we do, is that it reopens us in some sense—as Kafka wrote in a letter, art breaks the sea that’s frozen inside us. It reminds us of sensitivities that we might have lost at some cost.”
Take some time this week to think about the ways you reenergize or heal or reclaim yourself. I’m not talking about drinking a bottle of wine and slurping down a pint of ice cream, although those things are enjoyable (until the next day). If you don’t have healthier ways of dealing, try a new creative pursuit. Sketch what you see from your window, go to a salsa dance class, start a journal, make something.
Do something creative every day. Keep it to yourself or share it with others, but keep doing it. Make time for yourself. Cultivate serenity and carry it with you. Be radical.
As I write this, I keep peeking at the #YesAllWomen Twitter conversation, where women are explaining what it’s like to live with the constant threat of male violence thanks to misogynistic attitudes that caused a young man to kill seven people and injure several others at UC Santa Barbara. He was angry that women wouldn’t sleep with him. See, we never know if this guy is lurking inside the dude who harasses us on the street or sidles up to us at the bar, so we say, “I have a boyfriend” and grip our keys between our knuckles.
Recently, on a late-night walk with my partner, I thought we’d walked enough and wanted to go home and sleep, but he wasn’t done. He said he could just meet me at home. I said, “Uh, it’s a forty minute walk back on dark streets where no one walks, and I don’t even have my phone or ID. You think I’m walking that by myself?” He does it all the time, so he didn’t think twice about it. Must be nice, I thought, to not live with the kind of fear women live with for good reason.
This isn’t what I want to talk about this week, but I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s constantly under the surface as I do other things. I’m so relieved that people are having this conversation instead of ignoring the reason this guy plainly gave for his actions and the reason women die at the hands of men every day around the world.
But what I want to talk about isn’t totally unrelated.
My subject today is “strong women.” Please, can we stop saying it? Screenwriters and directors who care about female characters just a little more than the average filmmaker use this term a lot. So do the people who interview them, stunned that someone might see women in complex ways. And so do people who want to see more of these women on screen. It’s become shorthand for fully drawn female characters or female-driven stories. I was going to give you a few examples, but there are just so many and if you haven’t come across this term a hundred times in the last year, then you probably don’t have a TV anyway.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the sentiment. I get what these people are saying and appreciate what they are doing.
The problem, however, is that the still fairly new idea of making movies with “strong women” implies that such women are a rarity. That there are loads of women out there who are little weaklings just floating around waiting for a big, strong man to reel them in and protect them from all the harsh difficulties of real life. That most women don’t know how to handle life on their own.
What is the male corollary of the strong woman? In film or fiction, it’s just…a man. No one says, “Gee, I love that this director focuses on strong male characters” because that wouldn’t make sense. Men get to be who they are and women, if they are lucky, get to be strong women. I asked my partner to tell me the first thought that came to him when I said “strong man.” He said, “A man in a striped, old-timey bathing suit with a waxed mustache and a heavy barbell.”
Need I say more?
Honestly, I don’t know any women who aren’t strong. Do you? Every woman I can think of–whether family, friend, colleague, or acquaintance–is strong in her own way. I used to work for a nonprofit that housed women who had faced intimate partner violence, sexual assault, addiction, prison and other problems that totally disrupted their lives. Some of them had worked or lived on the streets. Many had lost their children. Nearly all had faced sexual abuse when they were young. You might assume that these were weak women. That might be what you associate with drugs and domestic violence and prison and sex work. But they were the strongest people I’d ever met in my life. Each one was working to overcome a series of debilitating problems that all began when someone they trusted had hurt them in ways many of us couldn’t imagine. They had reached rock bottom and gotten back up. I’d say that’s as strong as it gets.
You don’t have to kick someone’s ass to be strong.
What we really mean when we say a film or TV show has strong women characters is that we’ve been shown a more comprehensive view of those characters’ lives. Someone has taken the girlfriend of the hero and shown us other parts of her life. We can see that every minute of her life does not revolve around the hero, that she has agency, her own concerns and interests and desires. By showing us other sides of the usual narrative, we can see her as the hero of her own life. This isn’t anything special. It’s every day for more than half the world.
We live with the threat of violence every day. And we go about our business anyway. You think we’re not all strong?
On a lovely May afternoon a couple of years ago, my partner and I headed to a popular brunch spot in our city. When we arrived and saw dozens and dozens of families in pastel dresses and button-down shirts, we remembered it was Mother’s Day and realized we’d never get a table. But they sat us immediately. There were virtually no other couples there, so they had plenty of two-tops. At some point, I went to use the unisex restroom, and a boy–probably ten or eleven years old–kindly gestured for me to go ahead of him. I shook my head, but he insisted. When I returned to our table and related this incident to my partner, commenting on how sweet it was, he said, “Oh, he thought you were someone’s mother.”
Once he said it, it became obvious, but it hadn’t occurred to me in the moment. I’m not someone’s mother, so I don’t realize that’s what strangers assume about me. I immediately thought, oh god, do I look like a mom somehow? (Cut to a stoned Abbi Jacobson rolling on a waiting room floor after being asked how many kids she has in Broad City.) And then I felt a strange sort of guilt because I took a place in line that was meant for someone’s mother, which was not me.
I’m always happy to recognize my mom’s hard work in birthing and raising me. I was a real bitch at thirteen, so I can’t imagine why she put up with me. But have you ever thought about the fact that the only US holiday that honors women in any way is about motherhood? Men are honored for being fathers, yes, but also for being founding fathers, soldiers, workers, presidents, pilgrims, genocidal maniacs, civil rights leaders, and the son of god. Okay, it’s likely that in a few years President’s Day will include a single woman (though some states just celebrate the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln) and technically women are included as soldiers and workers, but they have not been included historically and popular images of Memorial Day, Veterans Day, and Labor Day do not include women. Their work, outside of motherhood, was usually forgotten or erased.
There are four states that celebrate Susan B. Anthony Day, and one state, Ohio, now honors Rosa Parks Day. Can we make those federal holidays? Can one of them replace Columbus Day?
I have some additional suggestions for holidays honoring women with stunning accomplishments, especially for the times in which they lived, that changed this country for the better. Some managed these achievements because they did not have children, while others somehow balanced both.
- Anne Bradstreet Day: First American poet, author of The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, who somehow found time to write while raising eight children and struggling with frequent illness (1612-1672)
- Phillis Wheatley Day: First black American poet, former slave whose art countered racist expectations and worked to undermine the institution of slavery (1753-1784)
- Sojourner Truth Day: Black abolitionist and women’s rights activist who gave the phenomenal speech “Ain’t I a Woman?” (1791-1883)
- Harriet Tubman Day: Underground Railroad “conductor” who led hundreds out of slavery, abolitionist, Union soldier, suffragist (circa 1822-1913)
- Jane Addams Day: Founder of Hull House, the first settlement house in the US, first US woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize, first woman public philosopher in the US (1860-1935)
- Zitkala-Ša Day: Sioux writer, musician, and activist who worked to pass the Indian Citizenship Act and co-founded the National Council of American Indians (1876-1938)
- Alice Paul Day: Suffragist and women’s rights activist whose civil disobedience, including the first political protest outside the White House and hunger strikes that led to force feeding and psychiatric treatment, secured votes for the Nineteenth Amendment (1885-1977)
The Feminist Wire has a great piece on the problem of Mother’s Day (even though, yes, it has somewhat feminist beginnings). It’s a holiday that reinforces traditional ideas of motherhood. Shouldn’t we be emphasizing parenthood over motherhood and fatherhood? We need dads to be equal parents, to be, in a sense, mothers as much as women are mothers.
Since this is a blog about feminism and creativity, I feel obliged to mention some of the poems that come to mind when talking about motherhood. First, of course, is Robert Hass’s “Mother’s Nipples.” Indeed. Is there a better poem for Mother’s Day?
Next comes “Morning Song” from Sylvia Plath, which is not the typical first-day-of-motherhood-joy-and-ecstasty dream we have been sold. Rather, this poem reflects a complicated reaction to birth: confusion, uncertainty, anxiety, attentiveness. “We stand around blankly as walls.” This creature is here; what the hell do we do now?
And then I think of Sharon Olds and her collection The Unswept Room, so much about dealing with her own mother, about being a mother to a grown daughter. As we think about Mother’s Day–about mothers who never stop working, about mothers missing their daughters in Nigeria, about fathers who are mothers too–these poems can remind us that motherhood is a complicated thing. That there are children who are motherless and mothers who have lost children or never had their own in the first place. That motherhood has nearly erased women from historical record. That women still die doing their sacred duty. That women’s ability to choose motherhood or not is threatened every day in the US and around the world. That there are many ways to be a mother. As Hass says, “There are all kinds of emptiness and fullness / that sing and do not sing”.
Sometimes I get in a serious crafting mood, like if I don’t make something with my hands soon, my overloaded brain will collapse. This happens when I’ve been spending too much time on work that’s based on analysis, problem-solving, and decision-making, when my eyes are bugging out from typing and reading spreadsheets or marginalia, and when my neck is nearly frozen from stress and intense focus. My brain feels like it’s made up of all hard lines and sharp edges that will keep filling up my skull like Tetris pieces until my head explodes.
Because I wrote my undergraduate thesis on goddess archetypes in the novels of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker (and, clearly, am a little bit of a dork), I like to think of this kind of experience as my Athena problem. The Greek goddess of wisdom and war, Athena appears to be all about the mind and the shield, and she even sprang fully formed and covered in armor from the head of Zeus. So when I feel her dragging her sword around in my head, I have to subdue her before she busts out with that Gorgon-covered shield and I’m stuck with her battles forever.
What most people don’t know, however, is that she’s also the goddess of weaving. Yep, wisdom, war, and weaving. She invented the horse-driven chariot but also the loom, which is a reminder that one shouldn’t just be an archetype but a well-rounded, multi-dimensional person. So I subdue her by pulling out her spinning wheel, and next thing I know the armor’s hidden under a pile of warm, smelly wool and she’s humming along to her tapping foot.
I taught myself to knit from a book about ten years ago when feminists were starting to reclaim the crafts of their grandmothers as a way to redefine what had always been seen as “women’s work.” I’d never really been into crafting before that; it was easy to write it off as an old-fashioned activity for housewives or something. But crafts like knitting were real work. Women knitted and sewed to provide clothing for their families, and they often stitched in groups, where they would support, empower, and inspire each other. If only someone would unearth an old text describing the cultural revolutions that sprouted in stitching circles. For some, of course, crafting was, and is, a livelihood.
I was the laziest knitter for a long time, making only simple projects and leaving them half-finished on a shelf for months. But then I discovered what an antidote knitting is to over-thinking, so now I dig my hands into soft skeins of yarn in many colors and feel sufficiently soothed. There’s something very zen about knitting: the measured click of bamboo needles, slow unraveling of a ball of yarn, trance-like feeling of falling into a pattern.
Pinterest has helped me branch out into other crafts. I’ve fashioned beaded bracelets and necklaces with rope, embroidery floss, and hex nuts. I’ve found new uses for the fabric scraps and triangles left over from my great grandmother’s quilting bin. I’ve recycled old seed catalogues by decoupaging magnets and boxes. I’m a little obsessed with Pinterest. I get ravenous for ideas on how to craft with random things found around my house and in my yard, and it makes me feel very self-sustainable and accomplished. Also, as a writer who has written so much that no one will ever see, it’s a relief to finish a project that’s meant to be shared, and it’s particularly satisfying in an ever-pixelated world.
In fact, crafting is very much about community. I love feeling more connected to history, to the women who came before me, to a handmade life. Crafting, especially with materials found in nature or repurposed from thrift stores or your home, can be a good antidote to corporate industry and overconsumption. There’s a book called In Her Hands: Craftswomen Changing the World, which chronicles the stories of women in twelve countries who turned their lives around by making and selling traditional handicrafts. Then there’s Knitting Behind Bars, which started knitting circles with male prisoners in Maryland, a project that transformed how the men saw themselves and each other. Reading about it will fill your crusty, old heart with joy.
I propose we draw up a new Athena. Perhaps she’s got a skein of yarn attached to her belt or a pair of needles stuffed in the Gorgon’s mouth. We need some way to remember that sometimes she takes off her armor and settles down with a mug of nettle tea and a basket of wool. Sometimes she drops her sword and just crafts the revolution.
If you were reading my blog in November, then you know that I coordinated Take Back the Tech!, an international campaign to reclaim ICTs for the prevention of gender-based violence. Our theme was public | private. We encouraged people to see privacy as a fundamental human right, draw their own lines between what is public and what is private, demand privacy, claim public spaces, and connect notions of public and private to gender-based violence.
Fighting mass surveillance was a critical part of Take Back the Tech! How can we expect individuals, employers, and corporations to respect our right to privacy when our own government violates it every day? That’s why I’m participating in The Day We Fight Back, a campaign sponsored by an international coalition of organizations to bring an end to mass surveillance. Join us on February 11 as we fight back against the NSA. Sign up to participate, share the campaign on your social media, blog about privacy, or participate in one of the many events happening in cities around the world.
Privacy is essential for a lot of obvious things, from intimacy to democracy, but it’s also an important part of my creative process. Not everything I write is meant for public consumption. Much of it is trial and error, working through creative and life problems, or a healthy release. Some writers are up for sharing from the get-go, but I’m very private with drafts. I was the same way back in my theatre days. I needed time alone to get comfortable with a scene or song before I’d let anyone see it. I think this is why writing suits me more than being on stage. It’s solitary. I can wander through it as long as I want with no one watching. I like to perform, but I don’t like every moment of working on a performance to be, well, a performance because it’s the process that I enjoy most. It’s the getting there.
That’s what my art is: every moment I’ve put into it from beginning to end, not just what you see when you finally get to look at it. It turns into something else for you, which is fine and as it should be. The process itself lives in my private experience.
I can sit in a packed meeting or buzzing crowd and sneak off into a place inside my mind that no one has ever been, and that kind of privacy is essential to my well-being. It’s where I find peace and it’s where I find ideas. So for me, the right to privacy is as much about the right to explore even when I’m stuck inside as it is about bodily integrity.
The internet has become a key tool for exploration for all of us, hasn’t it? How much do you use the internet for your creative projects? In the past week alone, I used it to find a solution to a knitting problem, inspiration for the bedroom I’m redoing, articles and opinions on a subject for a short story I’m writing, movies that leave me thinking about narrative or character development, recipe ideas for red cabbage, and topics for my blog.
With each click, I left a footprint. Corporations can follow my trail to sell me things; governments can use it to make sure I’m not a terrorist or to do absolutely anything they want. That’s right, anything. You might say, oh, I have nothing to hide. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want anyone inside my head, and following me through my day is pretty damn close to inside my head even if you can never quite get to that place no one else has ever been.
So February 11 is The Day We Fight Back. Let’s make statements, but let’s also think about ways to protect what’s left of our privacy. Take Back the Tech! has several Be Safe strategies for maintaining digital privacy, and we’re working on more. If you have additional ideas, please feel free to leave a comment below. #privacyismyright