God the Father

So, here's a confession. In all my twisted dealings with
fundamentalist Christianity; all my raging that I might have to be
silent, but I didn't have to like it; all my adoration for Sophia,
Divine Wisdom, I've never actually had a personal problem the metaphor
of God the Father. Sure, I don't care for the hegemony of said
metaphor, and I have plenty of first hand knowledge of the fucked up
scenarios created by said hegemony – but the image of God as Father
isn't problematic for me, at least not in any way that would be
considered feminist.

It's probably because my own father was not the representative of the
forces of the patriarchy. He's the one who told me that maybe who day
we'd go to a church where they let women have a role. He's the one
who interfered when they started pushing the marriage and children
agenda down the girls' throats before most of us had our periods.
Yes, he had the privilege of being able to stay in the church because
he was male and therefore had a place. He had the privilege to just
be able to disagree but to not be directly affected. But he didn't
represent the patriarchy.

God the Father conjures up a patient being. One who'll let me keep
asking why questions well past my bedtime. One who won't actually
damn me to hell for not accepting much of anything at face value.
This is God who will be pleased if I wander up and demand an answer.
Someone who's a refuge from all the people trying to shove me into one
box or another. God the Father is the kind face of the Divine in my
personal theology land. If I don't use the image that much it's
because it's painful. My father is both the reason why I can think of
God as Father, and his absence makes it almost too painful to draw on
that image.

I don't believe that any one image of the Divine should have a
hegemony. I believe that there are an infinite number of legitimate
images of the Divine. And I think they're highly personal.

This feminist theologian doesn't need a God the Mother image. The
closest I can get is an appreciation of Kali, but it's her ferocity I
adore, not so much her mothering aspects. Sophia is my Lady, not my
Divine Mother. Again, I can intellectually understand the appeal,
but at a personal level God the Mother is just not useful for me.

There. My confession.

An Update on my Amusements

So remember the CofC Facebook group where I was generally being a
satanic figure (in the Jobian sense) and poking badgers with spoons.
Anyway I thought I'd spin by and see what "developments" have taken
place.

The answer to the question appears to be none. People are still up in
arms over the meaning of wine in the Bible. Yeah, going on six
monthes of proof-texting each other.

Curiousity satisfied. Back to queer theology. And happy gnostic land.

Foriegn Country or High School

So, I keep having this strange feeling that I'm back in high school, and all the pretty girls are laughing at jokes in a language I don't understand.

That, and the library keeps running out of printing paper.

St. Petersburg is gloomy, St. Petersburg is bleak...

To everyone who just finished that off in your head -- congratulations, you are roughly the same age as I and infected with historically mangled, song and dance, animated versions of the Russian revolution.

Fortunately, my underwear is not frozen, because I am a smart young thing who put it on the radiator to dry rather than hanging it out on the enclosed balcony after doing laundry in the bathroom sink because my host mom is gone for the week and neither I nor my host grandmother knows how to operate the washing machine. Laundry is further complicated by everything on the machine being labeled in German.

And actually, the weather isn't too bleak to day. There is some sunshine and one of the fabulously blue Petersburg skies.

But lets talk about some other than the weather. Let's talk about something Russia and the US have in common, shall we? Entirely, f'ing disturbing advertising for feminine hygiene products, or whatever they should be called. Because, they do in fact have most anything you could possibly desire in the way of products to deal with your period now.

Of course, recently in the US we had Always' enlightened "have a happy period!" campaign. And I've seen tampon commercials that just make me think, what on earth? No, I'm just not that happy on my period -- I'm cramping and cranky.

Russian tampon/maxi pad advertising is a little different. Always is a generation or two behind, declaring that they are now "with gel action!" Gel action? What is that? Do I really want gel taking action next to my vagina? The bathrooms at the institute were recently invaded by ads for Tampax tampons, relying on the old trope of a woman on her period being unclean, but Tampax tampons will give you a clean feelings every day. Oh yes, my friends. Sprinked over the poster were little declarations: Я чиста! I'm clean! (Sarcastically, I think to myself that increased access to toilet paper would be nice as well.)

So, here's the question: Which type of advertising annoys me more? The upbeat US marketing that ignores the actual problems that many women experience from their periods. Or "the use our product to clean yourself up because you're dirty" marketing.

Just in Case you though the blues and rock and roll weren't enough...

Appreciate the Pig. And no, I don't mean the Beale Street BBQ joint. I mean PigglyWiggly. One of the great contributions of Memphis to the world.

You see, if I have my story straight, Piggly Wiggly (which is not, as a Yankee recently asked me, just a joke from Driving Miss Daisy) was the first grocery store, where you walked around, picked out what you wanted and then went to the cashier and checked out, instead of having to ask the clerk for the items you wanted to purchase. And Piggly Wiggly started in Memphis. We have the Pink Palace to prove it.

In Russia, the old system is still in place in about fifty percent of produkti (little groceries) and some larger stores. And while I'm sure that shopping there would be easier if I were used to the system and could speak the language, I now have a greater appreciation for the Pig and all of it's offspring. (Except Wal-mart, which I haven't really missed.)

So, don't let anyone ever say Memphis ain't paid her dues.

In Russia, Caucasians are Black

I was asked to comment last Sunday on whether racism in Russian was
worse or better than racism in the South (of the United States). And
I really couldn't answer the question with anything other than – it's
different. For one thing, I haven't been in Russia for a long enough
with enough language comprehension to have picked up on racially
structuring in Russia in anything other than a throughly academic
manner. (After however many years living full-time in Petersburg our
baby-sitter has picked up on the racial constructs, he went around the
room during orientation and picked out who might run into problems
because they do not fit the Russian, Orthodox ideal. Incidentally, my
Southern socialized mind would have classified all of them as white.)
Academically, I know that persons from the Caucasuses are referred to
as chernyi -- literally "black." It's a rude term, but not beyond the
pale, I've heard my eight year old host sister using it in a
discussion about her classmates with her grandmother, and while I
didn't catch all the implications it wasn't so much hateful as it was
entirely dismissive. (I had an awkward moment when my host mother and
grandmother asked if Memphis was a dangerous city, and when I said
that it was somewhat dangerous, one of them automatically followed up
with: "Well, don't you have a lot of blacks there?")

However, Russia has confirmed that yours truly is not color-blind.
I'm used to Memphis. Even if Rhodes remains mostly upper middle class
and white, I am used to Memphis. Russia is surrealistic in its
whiteness. All of the advertising features white people. Smiling
white Russian families – not necessarily blond haired and blue-eyed,
but definitely white (with rosy cheeks). A subtle difference from
American advertising which seems to shoot for a more pluralistic
ideal. (Gender stereotyping is just as bad, if not worse in Russia.)
The vast, vast majority of people I meet in the streets are white to
my mind. I have a sneaking suspicion that not everyone I would
classify as white is "white" by Russian standards. And on the
reverse, if my host sister were suddenly transplanted to Memphis, on
first glance, I think many people would decide she was Mexican, not
Russian. I saw a black man in the streets a couple weeks ago and felt
relieved at some odd restoration of normalcy. If I lived more toward
the center of the city, I think the surreal effects would be worse.
I'm in a working-class neighborhood, so there are more immigrants
living here than might be elsewhere.

So, yes, I'm quite aware of "race" in my white Southern-bred way. I
knew that, but now I know that.

Should I Be Scared to Walk Alone?

At night, or at any time really?

I was harassed twice today, or yesterday as it will be when this goes up. Some creepy bastard propositioned me, then exposed himself, at midday in the cemetery surrounding a church – in view of the main road going through the cemetery to the church where there were a decent number of people walking. (I was looking at an interesting tomb. No, I normally don’t go to urban cemeteries by myself, but I normally figure that if there are lots of people visiting graves and other women walking alone that it should be fairly safe.) And then tonight, as a got off the metro, some young hooligan approaches me yelling “devushka, devushka!” wanting something. I ignored him, and tried to walk away – again, decent crowd of people getting off the metro here. The punk raised his fist, feigning that he was going to punch me, and then finally gave up. I swear, the next time I hear a male voice pronouncing “devushka” I’m going to snap.

And, for the rest of my walk home from the metro – a decent portion of which is through areas with virtually no lighting, I found myself wishing that I had waited at the restaurant for one of male friends who lives in the same general area, so that I could have asked him to walk me home even though it would be very out of the way for him to do so. Except, I probably wouldn’t have done so, because I had pretty much recovered from midday, and I doubt that punk would have hassled me if I had been in the company of another male.

Now I’m sitting in my room, upset, angry, shaken, and feeling quite helpless about the whole situation. Is this really what I have to look forward to for the next however many years? Because, I might be innocent, but I know this isn’t Russia, I just haven’t had to put up with the same level of harassment in Memphis because I don’t do much walking in Memphis. And, with any luck, I’ll make it out of Tennessee for graduate school, and be living somewhere where a car isn’t necessary, feasible, or justifiable. But it’s looking like the new silver lining of not getting into graduate school could be moving back to the ‘Shire, where I don’t have to worry about shit like this. (And can get my grandfather to teach me how to shoot. Or something. Maybe I should learn self-defense.)

But what in God’s name do I have to do to be able to go through my day without being seen as a sex object? I’m contemplating getting some sports bras in order to appear flat-chested and tucking my hair under a hat any time I’m walking at night. With the coat I have, I might be able to escape attracting any attention. Part of me is willing to give up the long hair that I’m currently enjoying and the earrings that I love, bind my breasts, and see if I can’t manage to successfully pass myself off as Dmitri, instead of Demetria. Just for cursory glances! And then I start thinking, that I’ll have to worry about being beaten up for being queer if someone looked at me and realized that I was a female trying to pass as male.

And, I even know that what I’ve had to put up with is only the tip of the iceberg really. That there’s so many worse things that could happen. And no material harm was done to me. But why should I have to be afraid to walk alone?