Freelancette

As much as I like to gripe about how much easier it was for my parents to afford stuff (like a mortgage, property, health care, and most importantly, a baby) when they were my age, I’ve never actually wanted to trade places with them. Even if I had a time machine (or a ticket for LOST's Ajira Airways flight 316), I wouldn’t want to transport myself back to the sexist seventies, when women still hadn’t gotten a foot in the door--never mind broken the ceiling--in most industries, when women still shouldered the overwhelming bulk of housework and child-raising and when family-minded moms like mine still believed that they had only two viable career options: teacher or nurse. As a loud n’ proud feminist, I’m hyper-aware and hyper-appreciative of how far we’ve come since then, and how there’s never been a better time to be a woman. I always assumed that regardless of how stressful and overwhelming my life seems now, things are still a helluva lot better than they were thirty-five years ago, and as a result, I’m probably a helluva lot happier than those women who came before me.

Well, according to a paper from two economists at the University of Pennsylvania, while a woman’s lot in life has objectively improved over the past three decades, her mood hasn’t. Professors Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers analyzed several different studies conducted from 1972 to 2006 and found that women’s happiness has actually declined over time, especially in relation to to men. This happiness gap emerged in the 1990's, and reversed a long-standing trend of women reporting greater levels of happiness than men.

Of course, our cultural, religious and political beliefs will inevitably influence how we interpret these findings. Conservatives will be eager to malign feminism for tricking women into putting their jobs before marriage and children; liberals will spout off about our country’s family-unfriendly policies and look longingly towards Europe. But hold the blame: it turns out that this decrease in satisfaction holds true for women regardless of age, marital, fertility or employment status (although women with some college have shown a sharper decline in happiness than others). It even crosses borders: despite “socialist” Europe’s enviable maternity and paternity leaves and childcare subsidies, their women have grown unhappier, too! Money does have something to do with it, but it isn't the root of all problems. The data showed that today's women are less satisfied with their family's financial situation than their mothers and grandmothers were (that would apply to me), but that this disturbs them more than it does men.

So what gives? What’s bumming us out? Unfortunately, Stevenson and Wolfers don’t really know, although they do plant some seeds for thought. One hypothesis is that women aren’t actually less happy, they’re just measuring their happiness by different—stricter—standards. As the study authors put it, “Women may now compare their lives to a broader group, including men, and find their lives are more likely to come up short in their assessment."

In other words, women were happier when they compared themselves to other women. But now that they are comparing themselves to men (who, let's face it, are still the more powerful sex), they feel like they're even worse off than they were before -- even if the inverse is true.

Another of Stevenson’s and Wofer’s theories relates to high expectations: “The increased opportunity to succeed in many dimensions may have led to an increased likelihood of believing that one's life is not measuring up.” So women who have grown up thinking that modern society treats men and women as equals are extra-disappointed when they inevitably realize that this isn't true.

This "paradox" may actually be more of a corollary than a contradiction. In her insightful 2000 book, "Flux," Peggy Orenstein called ours a "half-changed world" -- and almost a decade later, that's still true. Opportunities for women have greatly increased over the past fifty years, but society hasn't changed enough to allow us to take full advantage of them -- and that's a huge letdown. The study authors say, "Women may simply find the complexity and increased pressure in their modern lives to have come at the cost of happiness."

Ah, the perils of complexity. Gender inequality isn't black and white anymore; we know that women aren't really from Mars and men aren't really from Venus, but we're still not sure if we came from the same planet. As I'm constantly complaining, it's easy to putter along, thinking men and women are equal, until we slam into parenthood. Then the inequalities become undeniable and unavoidable. Women are told that we can be anything we want to be, but we can't have anything we want to have, especially if what we want to have is a happy, fulfilling professional life as well as a happy, fulfilled family. "Women today are more likely than men to believe that their opportunities to succeed exceed those of their parents," Stevenson and Wolfers say -- so what happens when we fail? The world rewards ambitious girls who want it all, but I think it punishes ambitious women (especially mothers) by forcing them to make great sacrifices. The fact that we haven't yet resolved this certainly makes me want to cry.

But you know what? I'm going to try to buck trends and take an optimistic view of these findings. All things considered, this happiness gap is a pretty good problem for women--and especially, for feminism--to have. This could be a wake-up call for the decreasing number of young women identifying as feminists, a rallying cry for the girls who have been lulled into believing that we live in a post-feminist society where everything's coming up roses for the ladies. The reason that women of the past may have considered themselves happier is because they didn't know what they were missing. If we're generally less satisfied with our lives now because we expect more for ourselves from our society (and our lives have grown "more complex," as Stevenson and Wolfers put it), then that just proves that our work isn't done. We still need to push for equality and fairness in all areas of life (personal, political, professional), and to continue to create public policies that address the increasing complexity of modern life, and make life easier for women and men. Let's get serious about addressing our unhappiness.

Posted by Corrie at 6:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

After this year’s Academy Awards, during which she charmed the cattiest of red-carpet paparazzi and then later overcame jitters to sing solo in front of millions of film fans, Amy Adams can no longer be considered a new, relatively unknown face. Still, I feel duty-bound to point out that Elle was one of the first magazines to give the lovely actress her due, starting with an enthusiastic shout-out in our November "Women in Hollywood" issue, followed by the full-on cover girl treatment in March. So I’ve been looking forward to Adams’ new film, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, for months.

As homework, I just started reading the novel on which the film is based. It’s a surprisingly modern feminist fairy tale about a dowdy, down-trodden spinster who shrugs off the bonds of virtue and propriety for one day in order to experience how the other, non-virtuous, half lives. Miss Pettigrew finds herself suddenly thrust into a world she thought only existed in the movies, involving lots of indiscriminately jolly sex, cocaine, seedy nightclubs, dangerous gentlemen, foxy ladies, and dubious cocktails with names like “Snake’s Venom.” Acting as a de facto lady-in-waiting to a glamorous starlet named Delysia LaFosse, Miss Pettigrew gambols about London to the tune of lines like this one: "She was a gentlewoman ranker out on the spree, and, oh shades of a monotonous past, would she spree!" But beneath the candy floss, this novel contains golden nuggets of wisdom concerning the beauty of female solidarity and the importance of self-actualization. Simply irresistible!

My friend Priya Jain recently wrote an interesting feature for Film in Focus about the story behind the story behind the movie. In it, she explains that the author of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, Winifred Watson, was popular English chick-lit writer who wrote just six books about love and marriage (sound familiar?). Miss Pettigrew (published in 1938) was a bit of a departure for Watson, and its representation of life in London's fast lane made it almost scandalously racy for its time. When her publisher balked, Watson swore that the book would be a winner (she also agreed to churn out another of her standard bodice-rippers as collateral). She was right, and the book's charms endure today. Unfortunately, Watson's writing career was one of the many casualties of WWII, and these six books (and now this one movie) are all that remain of her legacy.

I’m off to finish the book. I’m lapping it up, "as the vulgar say, with eager gulps!”

Posted by Corrie at 2:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

After the recent Huckabee hulabaloo in Iowa, I was inspired to dig up this piece I wrote for Salon back in 2004, during the Republican National Convention here in NYC. As a Salon editorial fellow hungry for clips, I was sent by the War Room editor to cover this ridiculous rah-rah governor's rally in Brooklyn. Armed with only my notepad and pen, I unfastened my "I'm Pro-Choice and I Vote!" pin from my bag and tried to mingle with the Republican Brooks Brothers dressed in suits and ties, feeling like an impostor in spirit and fashion (I was wearing a fluttery orange skirt and a bikini top as a bra under my shirt). I felt like everyone could see right through me, straight into my liberal bleeding heart. However, that event gave me a major scoop. I was standing right in front of the stage when Mike Huckabee, then-governor of Arkansas and now-Republican presidential candidate, started jamming with his band. Who knew Huckabee was guilty of such a "Capitol Offense"?

Posted by Corrie at 7:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I love the way Marjane Satrapi (who I interviewed for the upcoming Dec/Jan issue of BUST magazine) cannot stop herself from saying exactly what she thinks. In last week's New York Times Magazine, the Iranian illustrator-turned-director and creator of the Persepolis books denounced the term "graphic novel" as bourgeois nonsense, referred to cartoonists as "bisexuals" (because they like to write and draw), and said that the main reason that she lives in France is because "I can smoke everywhere." When the infamously antagonistic Deborah Solomon tried to get her to say that the Muslim veil is oppressive to women, Satrapi steamrolled right over her. "We have to look at ourselves here also. Why do all the women get plastic surgery? Why? Why? Why should we look like some freaks with big lips that look like an anus? What is so sexy about that? What is sexy about having something that looks like a goose anus?" Satrapi says she became familiar with goose anatomy on a farm in Paris -- wonder where she developed her gloriously low tolerance for bullshit?

(Photo credit: Christopher Lane for the New York Times.)

Posted by Corrie at 1:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

(Some skirty ladies, from Skirt Sports.com)

Back in the 1990's (my salad days), I used to be a semi-serious runner. I trained for four marathons, and finished three of them in respectable times, once qualifying for Boston with several minutes to spare. I wasn't an elite athlete by any standard, but I was decent. I was also dedicated, averaging two road races a month in the summer. These mass running convocations tended to be dominated by men --- teeming, steaming masses of broad, hairy men with sneakers the length of my tibia. Even with my cropped hair and boyish figure, I always felt conspicuous at the starting line. The female runners stood out like poodle skirts at a drag race, especially in the faster groups like mine. This made it easy to find female training buddies: once you found a woman who could keep your pace, you kept her contact info. It also made it easy to meet men. All I had to do was open my mouth and say something during the race ("Whoa, it's hot out today" worked fine). Chances were likely that the person who heard me--and responded to me--would be a guy.

As I approached 30 and entered the pizza-and-prosciutto phase of my life, my competitive spirit fizzled as individual body parts snapped, crackled and popped. I took a long hiatus from long-distance running, forsaking road races in order to tend to other hobbies, like watching television and reading comic books.

A few months ago, my boyfriend (who was also a fanatic runner in his twenties –- in fact, that's how we met) and I started feeling old and puffy, so we decided to see what we had left. We signed up for the Manhattan Half-Marathon, and committed to a fairly regimented 9-week training program.

Today we ran our first competitive race in six years. A lot has changed!

Continue reading "Let's hear it for the girls: A Manhattan Half-Marathon Race Recap" »

Posted by Corrie at 5:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

"Knocked Up" is an excellent comedy. It's gleefully hilarious and riotously off-color (I'm still sniggering over the R-rated "dick-skin condoms" remark) but also makes some very astute and grown-up observations about couples and relationships. It's the whole package.

But it's also fundamentally flawed in a way that nagged at me all the way home, even as I recited my favorite lines and chortled over the funniest scenes. And the more I think about it, the more annoyed and disappointed I feel.

Continue reading "Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Cry (especially about the anti-feminist politics of a blockbuster comedy like "Knocked Up"), and you cry alone." »

Posted by Corrie at 2:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I went to check out the Global Feminisms exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum yesterday, on the second-to-last day of its three-month run. As someone who's interested in women in pop culture, and also happens to be a resident of Brooklyn, I'm ashamed it took me so long to make it to this important and buzzed-about event. This international show of over eighty women, which features art from 1990 to the present, was interesting and thought-provoking –- at times to a fault. As with any thematic exhibition, there was simply too much to take in during a single visit, too many works with too much to say about feminism, womanhood, femaleness, and I fear that the long-form video works suffered the most from this intellectual overload (we just didn't have the time or the energy to sit through anything that ran longer than three minutes).

The stated goal of the show's curators, Maura Reilly and Linda Nochlin, was not only to give a glimpse of what international feminist artists have been up to recently, but also to "move beyond the specifically Western brand of feminism that has been perceived as the dominant voice of feminist and artistic practice since the early 1970s." A well-intentioned goal, to be sure, but is it necessary? Or even feasible? I think that the curators should have stuck with simply showcasing contemporary art by women, and resisted trying to box it into a particular ideology. My Brooklyn museum ticket certainly didn't serve as a passport to feminism 'round the world.

Continue reading "Failing to think outside the box: A Review of "Global Feminisms" at the Brooklyn Museum" »

Posted by Corrie at 4:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This past spring, two smart, Sassy-smitten New York writers named Kara Jesella and Marisa Meltzer came out with a heartfelt tribute to the iconic 90's teen magazine. As a former Sassy reader (but alas, with my pom-poms, perm and obsessive need to please, never truly a Sassy girl), I devoured "How Sassy Changed My Life" with the same passion with which I used to page through the original. While the writers gave a great history of the magazine's rise and fall (which included some--but not enough--gossipy tidbits about boldface-name former staffers like Jane Pratt and Christina Kelly), the book still felt thin, small and a little unsatisfying. In the recent issue of literary journal n+1, Carlene Bauer does an excellent job of explaining how the writers--and the magazine they idolized--fell short. Carlene, a proud graduate of both the "Sprigged Muslin School (see Laura Ingalls Wilder, L. M. Montgomery)" and the house of punk, is a friend of mine now, but damn, do I wish I'd known her in high school! I'm sure we would have had a lot to talk about (I, too, was irked by Debbie Gibson and Dirty Dancing). At the very least, she could have talked me out of that perm.

Posted by Corrie at 12:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Our block appears to have gone Hollywood.

Continue reading "South Oxford St. has arrived" »

Posted by Corrie at 10:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I finally made it to see "Spider-Man 3" this weekend! And I was surprised to find that despite the dizzying arachnid acrobatics and the gripping battle scenes; despite Toby Maguire’s mood swings and hairstyle changes (am I the only one who thought that “Bad Peter” was a dead-ringer for Pete Wentz?) and Thomas Hayden Church’s sad-eyed, gravel-voiced portrayal of the Sand Man as an almost-regular family guy, the most memorable parts of the film for me were… Kirsten Dunst’s teeth.

Continue reading "Kirsten Dunst makes snaggle-teeth sexy" »

Posted by Corrie at 1:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I so wish I could take credit for that astute observation, but it came from Carl Wilson by way of Jody Rosen at Slate. After listening to Avril Lavigne's chart-topping new album, "The Best Damn Thing" one too many times, both critics concluded that behind the spunky beats and cheeky cheerleading riffs lies a disturbingly misogynistic message. As Rosen puts it, "Lavigne has girl issues. She's always been full of unkind words for ne'er-do-well guys, but on the new album, she pours scorn on women." In her latest songs, Avril champions bullying boyfriend-stealers ("Girlfriend") and disses gold-diggers ("One of Those Girls") and "bitches, sluts and psychopaths" ("Everything Back But You"). These critics seem especially bummed out by the video for the album's hit single, "Girlfriend," which features a battle of two Avrils: as a bespectacled prep in a pleated skirt, and as a nasty, raven-haired rocker with an entourage. Bad-Ass Avril pulls some low punches (and kicks, and golf swings) in order to physically wrest Preppy Avril's boyfriend out of her undeserving arms, much to the delight of everyone in the video except, of course, for Preppy Avril, whose only crime seems to be her sartorial cluelessness. Says Rosen, "...the idea that we're supposed to cheer a revolution in which the ruling elite is replaced by creeps who enforce their will with golf-ball beanings seems like a perversion of the punk ideal."

Now, I--like many people, both fans and foes--would never consider the twenty-two year old pipsqueak with pipes to be punk (she's shared producers with Britney Spears and Hilary Duff, and didn't she just get married? In a Vera Wang Dress?), but this is not the time to quibble over Avril's musical or personal style. That's been adequately addressed here, here, and even here (sorta), by Avril herself. It's fair to say that Avril, as a voice in "Over the Hedge" and the star of a manga comic, sold out her authenticity and her punk cred long ago. But selling out her lady-peeps? Her sistahs? Her grrrls? An Avril who puts other chicks down in order to make herself look cool is worth griping about, and I applaud Rosen and Wilson for doing so. The chorus of "Girlfriend" has been translated into no fewer than seven languages (including Mandarin). Here's hoping that other girls and “sk8r bois” around the world taste the arrogant, anti-woman sourness bubbling up in “The Best Damn Thing’s” sugary punk-pop.

Posted by Corrie at 2:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Answer: when it's a shucream, or a Japanese-French cream puff.

This is something essayist Joel Stein should have realized before penning his almost-clever March 29 column in Time magazine, "A New Fast-Food Invasion." After all, the distinction is central to Stein's argument that the ways other countries alter American fast-food institutions are indicative of how they view our culture. Explaining globalization's effect on our deep-fried, super-sized, double-stuffed cuisine, Stein writes, "The stuff you invented--in this culinary case, fast-food hamburgers, fried chicken, pizza and doughnuts--gets sent out into the world, is replicated by other countries and then comes back to you all crazied up, like a giant game of telephone. And if you hold that piece of Filipino fried chicken up to your ear and are really quiet, you can hear what the rest of the world thinks about us." As examples, Stein discusses the Philippines' take on McDonald's, Guatemala's version of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the convenience store and cream puff franchises of Japan.

I've never been to the Philippines, and I'm not familiar with how the Guatemalans like their chicken. However, I know my Japanese pastries -- better than Stein, it turns out.

Continue reading "When is a cream puff not a cream puff?" »

Posted by Corrie at 11:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Much has been said about the "Ladies Only" train cars Japan started running in 2001 to deter men from harassing female passengers. The pink-stickered single-sex cars, which are not enforced by law but instead depend on voluntary participation, have been called silly, sensible, sexist and reactionary. Some have wondered if they're just band-aid solution that barely covers Japan's deep-seated issues with sexuality and sexual expression, others have claimed that the cars have actually led to an increase in groping -- the very phenomenon they were supposed to eradicate.

Initially, the cars provoked in me a familiar frustration. They seemed like an elaborate, bureaucratic solution to a simple, personal problem. In other words, they seemed like a typically Japanese idea. If Japanese women are fed up with chikan ("gropers" in Japanese), then they should get over their feelings of shame and embarrassment and sock those pervs in the pucker -- and then report them to the nearest station attendant. That’s what I would do. In fact, when I lived in Japan, I almost wanted some unsuspecting jerk to make a pass at my ass just so that I could expose him and his unnatural tendencies. If I ever caught a suspicious-looking dude leering at me late-night or leaning in a little too close on the morning commute, I’d take a deep breath and fill my lungs with empowering air, preparing to shout the incriminating invective, “chikan!", at top volume, just the way I'd been instructed by my gaijin gal pals. I didn't understand why Japanese women wouldn't--or couldn't--do the same. An accused chikan can face steep fines and career-threatening public humiliation. Isn't calling attention to wayward gropers the best way to stop men from behaving badly? Why corral women into private cars? Better instead to teach them how to deal with their persecutors so that they can claim their own rightful space on the train...and in Japanese society in general.

Of course, there are Japanese women who agree with this perspective. When I asked my friend Myong what she thought about the women-only cars, she responded that she never used them. "I don't need them," she explained. "If a chikan tries to do something to me, I will become angry. I am not afraid of men on the trains. I can take care of myself." Right on, sister!

But while visiting Japan earlier this month, I had a brief and complicated change-of-heart.

Continue reading "Women-only trains: a dead-end idea" »

Posted by Corrie at 6:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I just returned from a trip to Japan. During my ten-day stay, I immersed myself in the crowds of Tokyo, sought inner peace at temples and shrines in Kyoto, and ate, drank and shopped like crazy in Osaka. I stayed in a hotel in Tokyo, and at my friend and former roommate Myong’s apartment in Osaka. This was my first time back to Japan since I lived there five years ago (although Myong came to New York in October 2005). Myong hasn’t changed a bit. She's still incredibly independent, iconoclastic, hard-working, hard-partying, and a total blast to hang out with. Myong put together a busy social schedule for me, and we went out for dinner and drinks with friends just about every night. She also invited me to stay at her family’s lovely home in Kyoto, near Kinkakuji. Myong really made my trip special, and I owe her one.

Japan also hasn’t changed much since my days as a Nova teacher. Tokyo is as fast-paced and overwhelming as ever, Osaka people still pride themselves on their cuisine and mock Tokyo people for being fast-paced, rude and …well, for being Tokyo people, and Kyoto is still dealing with the identity crisis of becoming a bustling, modern city that is also Japan’s main link to its traditional past. However, there were some new things that stood out to me.

Continue reading "Japan, Five Years Later" »

Posted by Corrie at 12:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last year, after hearing that yet another man--albeit a funny and cool one--had been chosen to host the Oscars, I decided to document the pro-woman moments of the show, praising female nominees for what they said and did instead of what they wore, and panning some of the guys for overlooking their female counterparts. Although there were some lovely moments in the 2006 Academy Awards, the overall event felt, as it usually does, like a 50's high school prom: stilted, formal, with well-groomed fellas on this one of the room and fancy girls on the other. It was rather traditional in spirit.

What a difference a year makes! While many of the recipients of the 79th annual Academy Awards were predictable (Martin Scorsese, The Departed, Helen Mirren, Forest Whitaker), the broadcast itself was practically subversive in regards to gender -- albeit in the most benign, understated and casual way.

Continue reading "The 2007 Oscars: A Night for Gays, Lesbians and Various Fetishists" »

Posted by Corrie at 12:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I learned everything I ever needed to know about sex, money and power from Sidney Sheldon, author of beloved pulp classics like "Windmills of the Gods," "Rage of Angels" and "The Other Side of Midnight" (I think it was in that last one that I first encountered the word "turgid." I was able to infer its meaning from a lurid description of a banana-split sex trick). To a shy, bookish kid like me, paging through Mr. Sheldon's steamy novels was the equivalent of sneaking a smoke or a toke. I'd be too mortified to check his books out of our tiny one-room village library, so I'd slip my mom's dog-eared copies out of her beach bag when she wasn't looking, retreat to the backyard or lock myself in my room, and gorge myself on scandalous exploits of his glittering, larger-than-life characters. (In retrospect, I'm sure my mom would have been relieved to know that I preferred reading about his characters' sexcapades to acting out my own).

In a Sidney Sheldon novel, all the women were gorgeous and brilliant, all the men were gorgeous and power-hungry, and everyone was trying to bed everyone else while making millions of dollars and clawing their way to the top. Is it any wonder I originally wanted to work in advertising?

I was sad to hear that Mr. Sheldon passed away last week. I've recently been thinking about him (and V.C. Andrews, the other age-inappropriate author I was obsessed with as a kid). When it came to big, juicy, stories with powerfully empathetic, memorable heroines and heroes, they were the original "Masters of the Game." People just don't write stuff like that anymore. How are today's kids learning about sex? Or better yet, how are today's kids learning about fantasizing about sex? The Internet leaves so little to the imagination!

I imagine Mr. Sheldon's heaven as a penthouse suite with an infinity pool and a view of the horizon, inhabited by suavely confident Greek gods barking orders on cell phones and stunning string-bikini goddesses who wax knowledgeable about cinema while giving massages (using only their breasts). Wherever he is, I hope he's having fun.

Posted by Corrie at 5:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It’s a sad day for journalists, critics, progressive thinkers, feminists and women in general. Ellen Willis, a bold and highly-original feminist writer who is generally acknowledged as being the first female rock critic, has died of lung cancer at the age of 64. Ellen was the director of the NYU Cultural Reporting and Criticism program I attended in 2003-2004. She acted as an advisor and mentor to many of us students, and taught one of my third-semester classes, Sex and Politics.

I’d heard about Ellen before NYU, and she was definitely one of my motivations for enrolling in CRC. But in person, Ellen could be underwhelming. I first met her while researching journalism schools. She seemed quiet and reserved, almost sleepy, not the epithet-wielding rabble-rouser who exhorted women to fight for personal and political change, who led the backlash against man-hating anti-sex feminists who knew only “loveless fucking,” who railed against the lazy intellectualism of the left as well as the easy-target right. I guess I expected some lean, hard, angry Patti Smith look-a-like, and was surprised to find Ellen so soft and soft-spoken.

In that first meeting, she seemed distant, and I couldn’t really tell if she was listening to me. There was no good reason to believe that she was: here was one of the certifiably coolest chicks of all time, a fierce intellectual whose passion and sexuality had captivated the likes of Robert Christgau (and had once compelled him to throw a pie in her face!), sitting face to face with a former cheerleader, a sorority girl, a musical ignoramus who at that point had never even heard of Robert Christgau. If I were Ellen, I don't think I would have paid me any mind.

But she did. She asked me questions that I didn't have immediate answers to. She pushed me beyond pleasantries. Our interaction was stilted and awkward, but after leaving her office, I wanted to read, write and start fights with my friends. And I wanted to take my conversation with Ellen further.

In class, Ellen took a “bait-and-see” approach, where she’d drop a controversial idea on the table and wait patiently to see who bit. And man, could she wait: all fifteen of us would sometimes sit silently for what felt like forever, staring at our hands and biting our lips, until inevitably someone piped up. But then for the next couple of hours, we’d be off and running, sharing opinions about political correctness, pornography, anti-porn activists, art, youth, family values, fetishes, priests, presidents and marriage (gay, straight, and otherwise). Often, when things got especially heated, I’d glance over to the head of the table to see Ellen smiling to herself. She clearly enjoyed a debate.

After we’d cooled off, Ellen would offer her own insights, which were usually so much more profound than anything else we’d heard or said that we’d need a moment to think. But we weren't through: she expected --she demanded-- a reaction, albeit in her quiet way. I came to realize that Ellen’s deceptively calm exterior belied a furiously churning mind. She wasn’t ever humoring us, or tuning us out –- she was actively listening to us, thinking about what we’d said, and considering her own response. She took our opinions seriously. Ellen was one of the most powerfully intelligent people I’ve ever met, but she was still able to make you feel, if not smart, then capable of becoming smart. She was inspiring. You wanted to rise to her challenge, to make talking to you worth her time.

I really value the time I spent talking to Ellen, in class and in her office. Friends and family members who are frustrated with my newfound penchant for arguing, my endless questions and my delight in confrontation have her to blame.

The world needs more critical thinkers, debaters and listeners like Ellen Willis. It's fitting that in addition to her writing, the educational program that she designed to cultivate critics will now serve as part of her legacy. However, it won't be the same without her.

Ellen, you rocked.

Continue reading "Thank you, Ellen Willis." »

Posted by Corrie at 1:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I used to think that the typical maternity leave in America consisted of about three months of paid leave (that's what I've been counting on, at least). Then I happend to read M.P. Dunleavy's sobering Opinion piece in Business section of this Saturday's New York Times. As Dunleavy explains, the Family and Medical Leave Act (our country's basic blueprint for maternity policy) provides up to 12 weeks of unpaid leave for men and women, provided they've worked "basically full time" for at least twelve months at a mid-sized company. According to Joan Blades, the co-founder of MomsRising.org, 40% of working women don't qualify for leave under the F.M.L.A. Since I've only been at my current job since May, I'd fall into that unqualified group. And since many of my friends work for themselves or for very small companies, they'd be with me.

Sure, those private companies are free to develop their own maternity policies, but they don't seem to be stepping in: the number of U.S. employees who get paid maternity leave of any length has been dropping, from 27% in 1998 to 18% in 2005. The article says that only 7% of employers offered at least six weeks of maternity leave with at least some pay. Interesting, especially when you consider that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that moms breast feed for at least six months!

There's clearly very little financial support for new moms. “A lot of women don’t understand these policies, and they are very surprised by how little protection they offer,” Debra L. Ness, president of the National Partnership for Women and Families, told Dunleavy.

Not just surprised -- shocked! And bummed. I knew the U.S. had much less realistic childcare and maternity policies than other developed countries, but I didn't realize just how family un-friendly our country really was. Thanks to Dunleavy, a journalist and financial columnist for MSN.com, for spelling it out for me. That's just another reason to encourage women to work for change at the polling station, at the office, and in the community.

Posted by Corrie at 8:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Three cheers for Athleta, a retailer that sells fitness apparel and gear for women, for putting an Asian model on the cover of their winter catalog. These kinds of companies tend to favor fit, white blondes and brunettes in their marketing materials, as if Caucasians are the only women who enjoy sports and working out. The solo woman on the Athleta cover is unmistakably Asian, with jet-black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Dressed in a sweater and knit cap, she's standing in a snowy outdoor scene, holding ski poles in her hand, with snow shoes propped up beside her. Inside the catalog, the same woman is shown dogsledding (?), skiing, snow-shoeing and hanging out. In fact, there are more photos of this woman than any other. Good for Athleta. Patagonia and Title 9 Sports, take note.

Posted by Corrie at 9:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I tend to look pretty cheap on Halloween – cheap as in, “I refuse to spend any more money than is absolutely necessary on this costume,” not as in “I refuse to wear any more clothing than is absolutely necessary for this costume.” Unfortunately, I’m poor, and all of the easy costumes and props from my past --cheerleading uniform and pom-poms, old prom dresses, waitress uniform-- were either trashed years ago, or are lost in the bowels of my parents’ house hundreds of miles away. So each year, when October 31 rolls around, I rifle through my closet and see what I have to work with. In 2003, I dressed a Japanese teenager: I layered on as many different brightly-colored clothing items as possible (given the current fashion trends, I was ahead of my time). Before that, I was Mary Katherine Gallagher, Superstar: glasses, pleated skirt, necktie, penny loafers, knee socks (at the party I attended, people kept assuming I was trying to be a geeky Britney Spears). This year, I’m using one of Jane Fonda’s early films as inspiration. Forget Barbarella and Klute; I think Jane Fonda’s Workout is more my style.

Most of my friends share my G-rated Halloween aesthetic. Over the years, they’ve dressed as cats, dogs, bloody ghouls, flappers, grandmothers, Disney dwarves, bag ladies and various kinds of insects. I think the sexiest Halloween costume I’ve seen one of them wear is a "Freudian Slip," but even that was more frock than lingerie.

Of course I’ve heard of those other ladies of the night, the ones who tend to get a lot of attention from men and the press. But I don’t tend to party with them. The type of woman who celebrates Halloween as an excuse to take clothes off rather than put them on is foreign to me. She may be out there, sexing it up, but she doesn’t really sex it up in my world.

Those worlds collided this morning while I was dozing on the subway. A huge group of noisy high-schoolers had boarded on the train at 34th St. Confused and discombobulated by their loud chatter and imposing numbers, I started to panic when I realized I was one of three adults on car –- and that the other two were teachers. I stumbled towards the exit, only to be blocked by a wall of junior varsity soccer players. As the doors slid shut in front of me, I grabbed the nearest pole.

After taking a deep breath and silently chanting “Two more stops,” I looked up to see a pretty young girl with dimples and long, straight, caramel-colored hair standing across from me. She seemed to be describing an outfit to three other girls. “…I think I’m going to wear my beige shirt dress,” I heard her say. “I’ll leave it unbuttoned, and underneath I’ll wear this great black push-up bra.” What?! What's a 16-year-old doing with a black push-up bra? (Showing it off, evidently). “I also have these really cute black underpants, like boy-shorts, you know? So I’ll wear those on the bottom. Just those. And I’ll wear my new black stilettos.” Oh, I get it: this is her Halloween costume! “And then all night, I’m going to flash people my badge, like” –-here she gave her friends a smoldering look and held up an imaginary police badge-- “'Don’t mess with me!’ It’ll be awesome!” The other girls were wide-eyed and silent, presumably envisioning their own awesomely slut-o-riffic Halloween get-ups.

Hearing this fresh-faced Noxema girl talking about fetishizing police officers and prancing around in her skivvies really got my day off to a discouraging start. When I was in high school, I used a trench coat to transform myself into a gangster for Halloween. It never would have occurred to me to pair it with heels and underwear and go as a “flasher/cop.” Clearly, some girls have been taking note of those scantily-clad “other women” on Halloween … and getting some pretty scary ideas from them, as well.

Continue reading "Happy Slut-o-ween!" »

Posted by Corrie at 12:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Nicole Kidman's engagement to country music star Keith Urban was all over the international news today. While Urban's spokesman officially confirmed the engagement to Reuters on Tuesday, People magazine says that Kidman broke the news to them during an interview a day earlier, on Monday. According to People, Kidman was in NewYork City last weekend to host the 30th Anniversary UNIFEM gala. In response to what was most likely a reporter's nosy question about her date, Kidman told People, "He's actually my fiancé. I wouldn't be bringing my boyfriend."

Got that, unmarried women? Your boyfriend may accompany you to dimly-lit bars, apartment parties (unless socialites or party photographers are present), parks, island vacations, department stores and even weddings. But when it comes to a "serious" event like a gala to benefit an international NGO, either go solo or propose. Wearing a boyfriend on your arm to such a high-profile soiree is even tackier than sporting a Banana Republic handbag.

It sounds like Nicole is borrowing a page from the Brangelina or TomKat relationship guide. The thinking there: in order to be taken seriously as a humanitarian, an actor, or a mother, you must be married. Otherwise, you're just a woman with with a cause, a talent, or a kid -- and a partner.

Posted by Corrie at 10:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My sister and I will be the last to bear our father's family name. Either we'll get married and take on our husband's name, or we'll keep our names and simply die. I suppose we could try to pass them on to our kids in lieu of our husbands' names, but that never seems to work. While Pikul certainly isn't the most musical or catchy of surnames, the realization that I bear the responsibility for its imminent demise still makes me sad. My father has never said anything about it, but I know it bums him out, too. Fortunately for my mother, her family name carries on with her brother, and his son, and so on.

That's why I was so intrigued to learn about the Icelandic naming system on a recent trip to Iceland. Icelanders' names are constructed using the patronymic system, which means that a person receives a Christian name from their parents, and then their surname is made by taking one of their parents' Christian names and adding the suffix of dóttir (for a girl) or son (for a boy). Traditionally, the root of the surname comes from dad's first name. So, if I were an Icelander, my name would be Corrie Ronsdóttir (Ron is my father's name). If I had a brother named Ryan (my mom has always said she likes that name), then his name would be Ryan Ronsson. I read that this naming system used to be common in all Scandinavian countries, but Iceland is the only one that continues to use it.

It's becoming increasingly common to use the mother's name as the root of the surname instead of the father's. This is due to several factors, one of which is that having a child out of wedlock carries less of a stigma in Iceland than it does here in the US, so there are more single mothers. In other cases, a mother may wish to end ties with the father. I've also heard that some spunky Icelandic feminists use this system as a social statement.

Since most Icelandic men have a last name ending in "son," and most women's names end with "dóttir," it could get tricky trying to remember who's who. That's why most Icelanders go by their full name or their first name, and the phone directories are organized alphabetically by first names. In speech, it's common to address people (formally as well as socially) by just their first name. Even the prime minister is addressed in meetings by his first name. So Björk, Iceland's most famous export, isn't trying to be an egomaniac by dropping her last name; she's just following Icelandic custom.

There are a few Icelanders who still have family names dating back to when the country was first settled, but they're rarely used, and the government is actually trying to do away with these altogether. Icelandic citizens are not currently allowed to take on a new family name – nor are they allowed to adopt the family name of their spouse.

I like the idea of extending the concept of family to all of the country's daughters, not just to those born to a particular set of parents. If I were an Icelander, I would have been introduced to the world as Ron's daughter, but I'd have been free to create the person to be known as Corrie through my actions and accomplishments. And I'd be able to hold onto my individuality throughout my life. Retaining my full name (and thus my identity) would also make marriage seem less like an act of shedding my old self, and more of a creating something new and distinct – specifically, a partnership, or perhaps a child with my husband's name as its roots, and its own unique first name and identity.

Sounds like a good system to me.

Posted by Corrie at 8:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The voice of the Oscars belongs to a man. Usually, it's a funny white man, like Bob Hope, Johnny Carson, Billy Crystal or Steve Martin. Once in a blue moon, a funny non-white man is invited to share the stage – or, in Chris Rock's case, to take control of the mic. The only woman to have hosted the Oscars is Whoopi Goldberg, who presided over the awards in 1993, 1995, 1998 and 2001. However, while Whoopi did a fantastic job, the shock and novelty of a black Oscar emcee may have distracted from the shock and novelty of a female Oscar emcee. And Whoopi hasn't produced an Oscar heir: this year, with Jon Stewart as host, we were back to funny white men.

So last night, knowing that I wouldn't be hearing a women's voice cracking jokes, introducing presenters, and narrating film montages, I decide to keep an eye and ear out for fabulous feminist moments – speeches and comments and tributes that put women first, that showcased women in film as more than arm candy, Oscar presenters or gracious white smiles in the sea of faces at the Kodak Theatre. Surely, in spite of what I've seen in US Weekly and E!, female celebrities would bring more to American's most prestigious film award show than fancy dresses and borrowed bling.

And they did! Sure, this year's slick, trimmed-down ceremony was a bit on the bland side (no hysterics, dramatics, polemics, or swans), but fortunately, it was also full of female-friendly moments.

And the honors go to…

Best Dig: Jon Stewart. After George Clooney won the award for Best Supporting Actor, Stewart joked to the Sexiest Man Alive that the Oscar would definitely help him "get laid." I'm the first to admit that if Stewart had made this comment to a woman (say, Charlize Theron), I'd be jumping all over him and calling him a chauvinist pig. But, as Stewart's jibe was directed at a supremely confident single man – a man who was recently featured in Vanity Fair's "all-nude issue" fully clothed and directing a squadron of dripping-wet undie-clad females, a man who has already been duly recognized for his directing, acting and flirting talents- this acknowledgement was perfectly appropriate, and delightfully irreverent.

Best Musical Performance by a Sexagenarian: Dolly Parton. When Dolly performed "Travelin' Through," the Oscar-nominated song from Transamerica, she may have looked a little too perky in her white pantsuit, and a little too perfect to be 60 years old. Still, it was great to hear that gay old spark n' warble in her voice. That woman rocks.

Best Shout-Out to the Moms of the World: Corinne Marrinan, producer of "A Note of Triumph: The Golden Age of Norman Corwin." Launching into her acceptance speech for Best Documentary, Short Subject, Marrinan said, "As any woman with a family will understand" and then went on to bestow special thanks upon her kids and her mother. Nice.

Best Shout-Out to a Mom: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Best Actor. With a tremor of sincerity in his voice, Hoffman congratulated his mom, Marilyn O'Connor (who was in the audience) for "bringing up four kids alone," and thanked her for sharing his passions.

Supporting Actress Most Deserving of a Best Actress Nomination: Rachel Weisz. The clip from Weisz's fim, The Constant Gardener, featured the raven-haired beauty demanding that her diplomat lover, Ralph Fiennes, take her with him to Kenya. "Take me as your mistress, your lover, or as your wife," Weisz implores him. "I don' t care, just yes or no." As those who saw the film know, Weisz's character speaks not out of passion for Fiennes, but out of a passion for justice. Once in Africa, she intends to cause trouble, dig up dirt, and effect change. This was just one of the many scenes in which Weisz stole the movie out from under the befuddled-looking Fiennes, and while I wish she got more than just a "supporting" actress nomination, I was happy to see her recognized here. To prove that she's just as big-hearted in real life as onscreen, when Weisz took the stage to claim her much-deserved award, she paid homage to international relief workers.

(Now, we all know that the Supporting Actor Most Deserving of a Best Actor Nomination is Jake Gyllenhaal, but that's another post for another web site.)

Best Shout-Out to a Studio: Colleen Atwood, Winner, "Achievement in costume design" for "Memoirs of a Geisha.” In her acceptance speech, Atwood thanked Sony Pictures for "making a movie about a woman" I didn't realize Sony was hesitant to make women-friendly films (aren't they the distributors behind "Marie-Antoinette"?), but whatever. It never hurts to publicly congratulate studios for the female-focused films. Atwood also gave props to her teenage daughter.

Most Balanced Montage: This year's montage of "issue movies" gave female actors as much face time as male actors, and included shots of some the best broads in the business: Dolly Parton in Nine to Five, Sally Field in Norma Rae, Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis in Thelma and Louise, Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy, and Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give (that last one's not really an "issue movie," but who cares. It's still delicious to see Keaton basking in the gaze of a hopelessly smitten Keanu Reeves).

The Role Models: Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep, presenters of a lifetime achievement award to Robert Altman. In a seemingly ad-libbed tribute to the 81-year old director, these two gracious actors shared the stage, the limelight and the jokes.

Feel-Good Feminist Moment of the Night: Reese Witherspoon's acceptance speech for her Best Actress award. Witherspoon thanked director Jim Mangold for writing the character of June Carter Cash, whom she referred to as "a real woman, who has dignity and honor, and fear, and courage. A real woman." The pitch-perfect Witherspoon also named her grandmother as one of the biggest inspirations in her life, who taught little Reese to "have strength and self-respect, and to never give those things away." Finally, Witherspoon wrapped up her almost-eerily-eloquent acceptance speech with a tribute to the woman she played in "Walk the Line." "People used to ask June how she was doing, and she used to say, 'I'm just trying to matter.'" The actress then thanked the Academy for making her think that she had made work that meant something, and for making her feel like she "mattered." I'm sorry, but I've just got to say it: You go, girl!

Of course, the night had its low spots:

*When George Clooney stooped to give a congratulatory handshake to Oscar-nominated Heath Ledger, he had to reach over Leger's wife, Oscar-nominated Michelle Williams. No handshake for Williams. No acknowledgement, either.

*After receiving the award for Best Animated Short Film for The Moon and the Son, director John Canemaker totally hogged the microphone. His long-winded thanks prevented writer and producer Peggy Stern from getting a single word in. We watched her mutely mouthing her thanks as the orchestra drowned out her words.

*Post-ceremony, some reporters focused more on Reese Witherspoon's outfit than her award. Yet no one was heard asking George Clooney or Philip Seymour Hoffman where they got their tuxedos.

Slights aside, though, it was a good night for the ladies. And while we wait for the announcement of the next female host of the Academy Awards, these small yet sweet moments deserve our applause.

Posted by Corrie at 10:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)