dispatches

 

Earlier today, I got an email from someone I don’t know to tell me that they’d read my piece in the Los Angeles Jewish Journal about the Dyke March and been moved by it. I love fan mail.

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I started feeling really nervous about everything, and so, to recalibrate, I abandoned work and went to see Midnight in Paris. It was too expensive, and I was exhausted, but I was also craving a dark, theatre where I could put my feet up on the back on the chair in front of me. (Midnight in Paris, by the way, is smooth and charming and makes me want to move to Europe.)

****

I went to Starbucks in search of non caffeinated things, and it turns out, that while I’ve been buying my coffee at carts, the price of a midsize soy chai is now five dollars. When the dude rang it up, I balked and asked him to cancel it, and then told him I just wanted something with no caffeine. “Screw it,” he said. “You should have what you want,” and charged me for a regular coffee. Then he told the other barista to make my chai.

****

While waiting for M at the bus, a woman came up to me and asked if I knew when the Boston bus was coming. I told her I didn’t know, I was just looking for the bus that my friend would emerge from. We stood there for a while, she called someone and yelled at them, and then, when her bus came, she put her hand on my arm. She didn’t say anything for a several stunning, disconcerting moments and then: “Well, this has been real, honey.” And then she walked away.

the itinerary

(From the marketplace in Jaffa, Israel. Photo by me.)

Early this afternoon, I saw M, on her way through Manhattan to JFK to catch a flight to Israel. She was with two other people, also going to Israel on her trip (Birthright), and I was thoroughly, nerdily excited about talking to them before they left on their adventure. I looked at their itinerary and told them where I’d been and that they should probably decide now how much/little sleep they really needed.

As we waited for their shuttle to JFK, M asked me for last minute advice. I told them to look out the window, drink water, wear a hat (yeah, obviously I’ve staffed before), and ask their questions. “Really,” I said. “Ask them.”

Then the van came, and I gave M some money, “to give to someone in Israel,” hugged her a lot, and got on the subway.For a few solid, delicious minutes, I let myself imagine that I was going, too. I thought about what I’d read on the plane (The Heart Says Whatever, by Emily Gould), where I’d go first (Rehavia, the café I like next to the ice cream store that has the benches with the big pillows on them), what I’d do, other than write-go to the Tel Aviv Museum of Art, and on Friday, a  Sheik Jarrah demonstration. I’d wander around, smelling the air, freakishly, delightedly. Before long, I’d become wrapped up in the same moral and religious quandaries that I always am, the peculiar kind of hurt that happens nowhere other than in Israel. 

For now, though, underground, moving fast, smushed against other sweaty bodies, I swim in these thoughts, and in my head, it is good.

*ablative of place where

(Ablative: one of seven Latin noun cases, each marking a syntactic role in a sentence) *Ablative of Place Where: Answers the question “where?” i.e. In portu navigo. I am sailing in the harbor.

I  have written two important fiction pieces at the Starbucks on 83rd and Broadway. I don’t even like that Starbucks, it tends to be overcrowded at weird times and the back of the store smells a bit too much like pee for my taste.

Anyway, I wrote this audibly (read: talking to myself) this morning while wandering around the apartment, and glued it together here at my table in the back of the public space at the Lincoln Center atrium.

(Hipstamatic example. Photo by Matthew Gray Gubler)

(The picture is square and  black and white, and on the bottom, it says “Hipstamatic.” We called it “Hipster-matic,” delighted and ashamed at how true it was.)

Her arm is thrown across your waist, as though it belongs there, and looking at it, I remember the warm solidity of your torso. Her face is hidden against your shirt. She’s wearing a coat with a furry hood that reminds me of sixth grade, when we’d all wear our coats indoors, slouching off our shoulders, the sleeves pulled over our hands. It was nonsensical, and yet, I did it every single day.

You have one arm over her shoulders and you’re holding a bowl with a spoon in it, and  looking at the camera.This multitasking, eating or painting or reading while showing physical affection, it is so vintage you. Your hair is squashed and your face has collected a few days worth of scruff. You’re wearing the glasses we found at the yard sale in Santa Monica, the ones with the black pieces on the top that make you look like a surprised owl, which is in retrospect, probably what you were going for.

The picture fills me with a sadness so tactile that it’s as though it’s another limb, the image stained onto me like a suspicious birthmark, and it’s my fault, of course, because I looked.

something important with your time

(Los Feliz, CA. Photo by David Swanson.)

I’m wearing this tshirt that has a typewriter on it. Underneath the typewriter, it says, ‘Tap that.’ Also, there are two people feeling each other up near the milk/sugar counter in this café. I want to call the Health Department. My crankiness is only somewhat mollified by the fact that Death Cab is being played.

If you have not already done so, go to the New York Times op/ed section and read this piece by Katherine M. Franke (“Marriage is a Mixed Blessing”). Here’s what I have to say about it:  IT IS EXACTLY HOW I FEEL.  We’re still waiting for the word from the New York state legislature about gay marriage, and it seems like it’s going to be dragged out further, dovetailing ironically with Pride, which is this weekend. (I will be blogging about my adventures from Dyke March.)

“the most remarkable thing about coming home to you is the feeling of being in motion again.” (the mountain goats)

 

(Ping Pong table, Chateau Marmont. Photo by David Swanson)

My fingernails are too long to live the kind of life that I do. It smells like rain outside. I made a list of terms of endearment in Hebrew and am considering using them all in one sentence.

What do ‘kisses like peanut butter’ make you think of? What would it be like to kiss or be kissed that way? I’m trying to decide. I might eat a spoonful of peanut butter, and write some things down about it.

It’s after midnight. I watched a documentary made by Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s granddaughter, Ivy Meeropol, and saw the footage of the crowds on the Lower East Side on June 19, 1953, the day of the execution, waiting and praying and wailing. Michael Meeropol, one of Julius’ and Ethel’s two sons, lives in the city I grew up in. I’ve looked for signs to help me know exactly where, but so far, I haven’t found them.

(Also, a sofa in the middle of the desert and a fire and some kids around it. They sing and play flashlight tag and stay up very late.)

furthermore…(on names/marriage, etc.)

Folks have been responding to the piece Fat and the Ivy and I wrote on marriage and name changing, which I’m glad for- the point was to generate dialogue and have people engage.

I know that for most people, the decision to change your name upon marriage is complicated, and it should be, especially if you identify with feminist politics. At the heart of what this is all about is women not being seen as property, about having control over one’s own destiny and not giving in to the inevitabilities dictated by cultural narratives.

It’s been pointed out to me that  in many situations, the surname you have is probably that of your father, which is of course a mark of ownership, so it’s either the name of your father or it’s the name of your husband. Patriarchy is inescapable, it would seem. Seeing it that way is the problem, that’s what paralyzes us and makes us unable/unwilling to look beyond what seems to be obvious.

You can act to uproot the system, by confronting and questioning what a family is and can look like (two opposite gender biological parents? people who all have the same last name?). It might be scary to think about, but I believe, really believe, that if we want things to change, we have to be willing to come up with creative solutions and live a new paradigm.

 

 

 

no, I know.

Today at brunch,  M and I discussed the beginning of relationships-how you’re all distracted and cow eyed and floating around, and I said, “That’s how I feel about my characters.” My social filter, it is not what it should be.

“heading to the hotel oscar wilde died in to buy an accordion from a dubious man.” (matthew gray gubler)

 

I’m covering some films in the Human Rights Watch International Film Festival for Jewschool, and I  just came from‘Better This World.’ I am still in that dreamy state that happens when you see a good film. That’s my entire review. (No, but seriously, see it.)

Then I lurched over to this cafe, remembering this old Tweet from Paget Brewster, whom I adore, which was something along the lines of, “I wanna shoot this scene.”  I want to write this story, and do nothing else except/until I write it.

I went to the park with S and looked at some dogs and ate sandwiches. She got hit in the shoulder with a Nerf football being thrown around by some children. I found a new pen on the street, felt delighted, and then considered trying to track down its owner. I did not.

“i don’t care where we go as long as there is some kind of view.” (folded light)

 

It’s pouring right now, and folks are standing in the coffee shop watching it. The thunder sounds like a car driving into a wall. The fruit stand where, earlier, I bought four lemons, a nectarine and a plum has a blue tarp across it now, soaked and sagging. The wind blows rain at faces, saturating pants and turning umbrellas inside out, hopelessly.

Inside, we are smug. We are here. Even if we didn’t know it was going to rain, because some of us never bother checking the weather, even if this visit to this particular cafe was unplanned, we are still dry, safe, and unscathed, if only for the time being.

in which we collaborate

I’ve been wanting to write on the topic of marriage/name changing for a long time, and I’ve had a lot of reservations about it, because, after all, I know people who have gotten married and changed their names (and no, they aren’t all heterosexual). The issue actually makes me so frustrated that it almost renders me inarticulate. Almost. The brilliant, sassy  Fat and the Ivy has some thoughts about this, and here’s the result of our collaboration. 

Fat and the Ivy:  Two couples from high school got married last weekend.  Both women changed their last names.  (Not even a maiden name as middle name deal.)  Everyone who I know who’s gotten married has dropped a name.  This makes me sad.  And way less likely to ever change my name.  Ev-er. I know that I shouldn’t judge people who decide to get married early, but I have a hard time understanding it.  You’re in love; you want to spend the rest of your live together; you get married.  That I can understand.  But every single one of my friends who’s gotten married has abandoned their own last names.  As far as I know, this is not a way to distance themselves from a tragic family past.  I get wanting to be a family, and one last name makes it easier, but I can’t get over the roots of marriage.  Marriage is not about love and happiness– it’s about the exchange of property.  A father gives away his daughter to a man.  A woman changes her last name because she now belongs to another man.  I’m happy to show up at your wedding and support your decision to get married, but why are you giving up your name?  Why are you giving up your identity?  Are you afraid of being your own person?  Are you afraid of being alone? 

Me: I found out a few years ago that a guy I dated, who considers himself to be a feminist, would want his wife to take his last name; hyphenated last names were too complicated. I was totally, totally shocked. Why had this never come up?
I have a lot of friends who have taken their spouse’s name, and it makes me insane. I literally do not understand. Some  have told me that it’s about “feeling like a family,” so everyone should have the same last name. I don’t really understand why that means it has to be the Dude’s last name. Also, that is a pretty fucking narrow definition of family. One told me that her last name is ubiquitous in her culture, and her husband’s is about to die out, so they made the decision that she would take his. It’s such a hard thing to criticize, it seems like a very personal choice, and yet i’m left with the same question: WHY ARE WOMEN ALL MAKING THE SAME CHOICES? No one makes choices without the impact of the dominant culture affecting us, so really, when we say we’re making a choice, we actually aren’t.

Fat and the Ivy: Decisions don’t take place in a vacuum.  Every individual might have a well articulated explanation for her decision, but that doesn’t negate the fact that this collective action exists and means something.  Even if you’re rejecting the marriage as property exchange paradigm, changing your name is a living echo to the property status of women.  I also wonder if it’s about “feeling married.”  Marriage is a bid fuckin’ deal.  It’s an exclusive club– and it’s the job of every women to work her way into that club.  Changing your name is validation in that sense.  It’s about making sure that everyone knows that you’re different now.  You’ve done it; you got yourself married. I suppose I should buy a dress, drive to a really pretty far away place, buy you a gift or twelve, and be really fucking happy for you.

Me: I am, in general, skeptical of the concept of life long monogamy, so in that sense, marriage is problematic to me, but I also find it incredibly sexist, paternalistic, etc, and probably needless to say,  I would never choose it for myself.  I think it goes to the heart of misogyny, it’s an example of how women are still second class citizens, how we’re property, and how we give ourselves away as property. This is part of how sexism works-making women feel badly about how they feel or don’t feel about marriage-nothing is ever good enough.

Fat and the Ivy: I think of marriage more liberally than many.  Marriage means a lifelong commitment– a life partner, co-parenting, jointly filed taxes– but I don’t think that a marriage requires sexual monogamy.  I know that’s what a lot of marriage look like, but I (perhaps naively) like to think that people do exciting things with new people with the loving consent of a partner.  Dan Savage talks about this a lot, and I think he hits the nail square on the head. 

Me: I’ve literally never considered marriage without sexual monogamy, which I think is just proof as to how I’ve been indoctrinated with a certain, limited concept. I have almost no role models who are in non monogamous relationships, so it always makes me think that people have just bought the one person, only one person for the rest of your life thing. I don’t find it even remotely healthy or practical or appealing. It seems like something you’d have to do without really thinking about it,  the greatest leap of faith, which is maybe romantic? Maybe I’m supposed to think that? I don’t. There are many ways to create a family, name changing has nothing to do with anything, except an assertion of ownership and patriarchy.

Fat and the Ivy:  All family and community are artificial.  This doesn’t mean that they aren’t real– it means that they’re only real if we make them real. Some families suck, so we create our own.  I consider some of my close friends more family than my racist uncle who thinks that women belong in the home raising the babies.  Having different names don’t make you less of a family; having the same name doesn’t make you more of a family.  My dad has his dad’s name, but I’ve never met the guy.  I know and love my dad’s mom and the new family that she’s created with family and friends.  In short– the “being a family” thing is bullshit.  My fourth grade teacher got married and changed her name.  Half way through the school year.  My AP English Language teacher did too.  My third grade teacher did, but that was while I was in fifth grade.  In fourth grade, I was mostly confused.  The concept of changing your name but still being the same person was hard for me.  I knew that women did it often, but I never thought about changing my name and asking people to start calling me Jessica or anything, so why would my teacher.  In high school, I was just disappointed.  This teacher had led really progressive discussions in class about women and sex– things that are hard to do with 15 and 16 year olds.  And then she changed her name.  

Me: My mother considered returning to her “maiden” (ew) name when she divorced my father. She always signed her name, Elizabeth L.N. Dubofsky. The N is for Nathan, her name before marriage. She never changed it back, but the impulse always struck me as deeply important and feminist, even if she didn’t think about it that way.

Fat and the Ivy: My mom changed her name.  I like having my dad’s name more than my mom’s name because I identify more with my dad’s family than my mom’s family (since my mom’s family is racist…), but I wish my mom would have kept her name.  Or at least for work.  Or something.  I know my mom is fierce, and changing her name doesn’t question that, but really  Really? 

Me:  My question is, what are we going to do? I always hear folks say that it’s too complicated to have separate names, or to hypenate (see my ex-boyfriend), because then, what will your kids do? I maintain that when your kids grow up, they can make their own damn decisions, it’s not an excuse to perpetuate patriarchy if you can avoid it. So many people don’t even think about the name change, they just do it, and they don’t consider it/recognize it as part of a system of oppression. If we don’t question, how will anything change? If we don’t model the change, if we don’t demonstrate that it’s possible, then it won’t happen.

Fat and the Ivy:  My conclusion goes back to individual v group problems.  There’s nothing “wrong” with changing your name for any myriad of reasons, but it’s unsettling when everyone is doing it.  It makes it hard to blame people or problems and hard to find a solution.  But it’s still a problem because we have an unequal society.  Women are systematically oppressed.  Name changes are emblematic of this. And like so many sexist problems, women are buying into it making it hard to attack and harder to fix.  If we lived in an equal society, I wouldn’t care who changed what name.  I might change my last name to Starbucks if that meant free coffee.  But because my gender is not valued equally, I’m keeping my name in a small manner of a protest.  Not that I’m getting married any time soon– if at all.