Leave Beyonce Alone

I’m not old enough to remember, but I can only imagine the hysteria that occurred the first time Mick Jagger gyrated in front of a group 60 years ago. Girls probably got crazy giddy, and men probably wanted to be Mick or kill Mick. His dancing, in its context, was a novelty. And 60 years later, people are still naming songs

after him.
Can the same be said for our female artists? Rihanna has Tina Turner legs and emulates some of her moves, yet the best we can do is call her slutty. Christina Aguilera has a voice that can trill longer than a fire engine, and yet people shook their heads and said it was such a “shame” that she “was selling out” when she released Dirty. We commend Chris Brown for getting Michael Jackson’s moon walk, swivel, and crotch grab down to a tee, but bow in judgmental disappointment when Beyonce shakes her hips better than--oh wait, no female from the older generation is famous for hip-shaking because we disapproved of it so much.
Point is, there is still a general attitude within society that frowns upon “scantily clad women” with “skanky moves” (*cringe*) , claiming that it takes away from their talent/image/self-worth. This is a sad mistake on society’s part. To not accept a woman fully because of her choice to show skin is to make her choice to do so less important than your method of judgment. If we were to respect a woman who had decided to dress revealingly and shake her hips, we respect her full package, skin-baring and all--the way that we receive shirtless, gyrating Adam Lavigne.
The most recent proof of this blatant disrespect is Beyonce’s halftime Superbowl performance. A couple of my Facebook contacts commented that the star was “trashy” and "slutty". One even said the only thing missing from her performance was a stripper pole, which, as if that’s not bad enough, was reinforced by many “Likes”. The fact that we, as social media users with so much freedom of speech, still resort to old standards of oppressive judgemnt saddens me. In my opinion, Beyonce bared a lot of skin- and danced her beautiful ass off. She werked it to her souls content and blew everyone’s mind with her marathon dancing. She sang like it was the last day singing was allowed in our free country, and somehow, throughout all this, she didn’t cough up any blood or faint. She was amazing. And God, I wish I could wear that get-up and look half as sexy.
In the music video for her song, “Run the World,” Beyonce and countless backup dancers are dancing in a sandbank, asserting that girls do, in fact, run the world. For the entire video, Beyonce is wearing sexy outfit after sexy outfit, and still dancing to keep the world going. It’s clear then, that to some extent, Beyonce has chosen to run the world and be damn hot all at once. So we should stop judging her so much. Because honestly, if you want her to put on more clothes and shake less because you can’t listen to what she’s singing, that’s on you, guys.

The Wheelchair Sign

I almost always feel a great relief every time a white stick-figure wheelchair person sits on the door of a public establishment. Especially when entering an average-joe restaurant or a club. It’s confirmation, it's acceptance, the anti-apartheid of the disabled. It says, with all its straight white lines and blue brushstrokes, “We not only thought about you, we accept you, we welcome your business, and for you to do your business.”

Every time I see that beloved sign, I feel not only relieved but proud. “Times of change” I think, happy that I live in the 21st century. Unfortunately, the symbol doesn’t always produce what it advertises. Take today for example:
I was at this quaint little shack of a restaurant, enjoying some Chinese food and ambient mood-lighting with a friend when nature called. I usually hate this part of the day. In my mind, I started mapping out all the near-by accessible washrooms and planning my graceful exit. As I prepared to leave with my friend, I gave the restaurant a one-over, just in case. And to my pleasant surprise, a big blue sign appeared like a trophy, just off of the kitchen. Once inside the bathroom, however, I saw that the sign wasn’t telling the full truth. In this particular instance, the restaurant, though being equipped with ample space and a horizontal metal bar, preferred to use the bathroom as a storage room. Determined not to give up on the truthiness of my favourite symbol, I squished my chair in between a shelving unit (which took up about a quarter of the room’s area), a high -chair, a big, fancy toilet paper holder which was standing on the ground right beside the toilet, and, of course, the toilet itself. Thankfully, given my level of mobility, I was still able to use the bathroom. But I am entirely mindful that many others--say those with bigger chairs or paralysis--would not be so fortunate.

I have also encountered the strangest declarations of accessibility at bars. For any of you club-goers in wheelchairs, you might know that The Honest Lawyer’s accessible bathroom is truly bizarre. In that Ladies’ Room, there is a fourth stall at the end of three, which displays a wheelchair sign. It opens from the side and reveals itself to be impossibly narrow, despite being longer than the others. And when I say impossibly narrow, I’m not exaggerating. My manual chair--which I prefer to use in club situations, is one of the thinnest chairs available to people of my height-- doesn’t fit inside the stall, at any angle. This leaves me with two options I am all too familiar with: 1) Don’t pee--don’t you even think about breaking the seal, and 2) Thank your lucky stars that you have a friend with you whom you trust enough to see your secret triangle without dying of embarrassment. Though I am often blessed with the second option, it hardly means the stall is accessible. This specific wheelchair sign should really be modified to include an able-bodied person helping the wheelie, or just take their sign down altogether.

The second baffling claim of washroom accessibility that sticks out in my mind is in The Grand in The Market. The waiters there will kindly lead you to their accessible side entrance to get inside, and notify you of their accessible bathroom when asked. Both of these things are just dandy, as it shows that at least some employers have received the disability training that was supposed to be enforced by the Ontarians with Disabilities Act. Once pointed in the direction of the sitting stick-man though, things are not so smooth. The stall is spacious, but the toilet is placed very near to the bathroom door, leaving very limited room for a wheelchair, let alone the person inside of it. Much to my dignity’s dismay, I had to pee with the door open that day, a privilege usually only awarded to small children and pregnant women who constantly have nurses looking in on them. Roomy enough for three toilets, but not for one wheelchair in between the toilet and the door is less than accessible, and probably doesn’t meet standard accessibility regulations.
So next time you’re taking a nice little tinkle in the wheelchair stall (you know who you are), check out the logistics. Could Artie from Glee really fit his chair and himself in here?

My Session with "The Sessions"

In case you haven’t heard, Hollywood took a gigantic leap for Mankind late this past year and created a film centred around a man with a severe disability. The Sessions follows a man completely paralyzed after a bout with Polio, on his quest for sex and intimacy. If you ask me, it’s pretty awesome (albeit long overdue) that those down south finally pulled up their socks and made a movie not only focusing on a person with a disability, but also their sexual endeavor. And, to my pleasant surprise, the brief chronicle, based on Mark O’Brien’s autobiographical article On Seeing a Sex Surrogate, did not disappoint. Instead, it is a raw, witty, depiction of one man’s life, no stigmatism or stereotypes attached. Hopefully, the little blurb I have written here will at least motivate you to watch it and come up with your own thoughts.
For those of you who have boycotted movies in favour of it’s more active cousin, reading books, or just generally live under a rock, The Sessions plot is as follows:
Mark O’Brien (played by real-life, able-bodied John Hawkes), is a man paralyzed completely from the neck down from Polio, who spends majority of his life in an iron lung which helps him breath. Mark decides to consult with his priest about having sex out of wedlock. Knowing Mark on a personal level, the priest (played wonderfully by William H. Macy) decides that given Mark’s specific situation (what, with him being a virgin at 38 and all), can have a “free pass” in the bedroom. Fast forward a few weeks and Mark is in bed with his sex surrogate, (Helen Hunt) whose job is to act as a therapist in helping her clients overcome their physical and mental sexual limitations. Drama ensues, the details of which I will leave up to all those I know will run to download this movie promptly after reading this entry.
Before finding your best bootlegged copy, Google “movies on disabled people and sex”. You’’ll find The Sessions’ summary is one of the first links listed, a fair ways above the links to general sexuality info and some freaky-deaky wheelie fetish info further down. Aside from reiterating that people definitely make creepy sexual turn-ons out of anything, it can also be assumed that The Sessions is a first-of-its-kind movie within the Hollywood scope.
Part of what makes it so original is the way that it displays the most natural parts of the main character’s life, as “normal.” Shots of the Mark in his iron lung, or being bed-bathed and dressed by his attendant move naturally across the screen, with no extra-long shots or pausing for dramatic effect.This film is graciously careful to avoid any subtext of tragedy, courage, or any of those other voice-over themes feel-good movies like to inflate themselves with. There is no dramatic music when we see the man typing his article with the back of a pencil eraser controlled by his mouth. It just is. This is how Mark O’Brien did his thing, and hopefully, how he would’ve wanted to have been portrayed.
Now I can’t be sure that Mr. O'Brien would’ve approved entirely of the depiction of himself in the movie, since the poet and journalist died in 1999 from Post-Polio disease, but I have reason to believe he would not be repulsed by it. Directed and written Ben Lewin, the film takes from multiple legitimate sources to tell Mark O’Brien’s tale, something Mr. O’Brien himself would’ve likely approved of. Shots from Jessica Yu’s award-wining 1996 documentary of Mark O'Brien’s life Breathing Lessons are directly reenacted in Lewin’s film. One shot is wonderfully similar to the documentary, which includes Mark chatting with Faculty and friends post graduation ceremony, while a news reporter chatters about the courage students like mark have, and the overcoming of disability that it entails. If these shots—the real-life one of Mark mingling outside Berkley behind the reporter, and the reenacted one with John Hawkes—were juxtaposed, it would be hard to tell the difference.
Along the same lines, the only voice-over used in The Sessions is John Hawkes’, reading snippets of O’Brien’s poetry, as if to give veiwers an inside monologue and perspective that we would otherwise likely fill with the disabled dogma of courage, inspiration, and other googldygook. Instead, the narration of Mark’s poetry humanizes the movie, allowing veiwers to see O’brien’s life as it was, nothing more, and nothing less.
If you haven’t yet noticed a pattern, I really enjoyed the raw point of view that The Sessions has to offer. If exposure is the best educator, then everyone should watch this film. If for nothing else, then to educate yourselves.

Winter for Wheelies

Being that it’s that wonderful blustery season again, I feel it appropriate to talk about all the stuff wheelies wish they could do, but can’t. Because it’s winter. And their wheelies. Here's my list. Feel free to add to it:

1. Get out the driveway.
2. Get on a bus.
3. Go to the mall. See reasons one and two
4. Go to a bar. Guess drinking alone will have to do.
5. Come back from an attempt to go outdoors without ruining the shiny nice floor and getting dirty looks from the landlord as we trek shamefully by.
6. Get out of bed. Wait, maybe this just applies to me.
7. Go anywhere without hearing the sentence, “Oh, your wheels are squeaky, eh?”
8. Not say the sentence, “That snowbank’s bigger than my body. Let’s give up.”
9. Go iceskating. Crack crack crack goes the ice.
10. Go sledding. Although most able-bodied people seem to fail at that too, with sticking their faces into snow and/or running into trees.
11. Be cool/Spontaneous. Yes, it is all winter’s fault that I’m not super fly.

There you have it. Now put on your best snow boots and ugliest snow pant suspenders, and go enjoy those oppressive snowflakes.

Remembering Those Who Matter

After today's horrific shooting in Sandy Hook Elementary School CT, people sure have a lot of boisterious opinions about the cause of such a tragedy. Finger-pointing and calls for action are rampant online, thanks to social media outlets and CNN's constant loop of horribe news mixed in with opinionated talking heads.

In spite of the crazy media circus, let's remember what happened today. I'm not talking the number of casualties or the profile of the mass murderer, I'm talking about what really happened. The fact that some little child had to look up and see a man with a mask and a rifle in her last moments. The fact that a little boy watched his best friend die, unable to help, and tugged away too soon in a scurry for safety. I'm talking about the parents whose children's Christmas presents are never to be taken out of the attic and ripped open with joy. Please, let us not use this as a soap box for our personal beliefs about what should be done about guns and policies, and stop before we analyze the whys, to remember that this tragedy is ongoing for its survivors and their loved ones.

As with many mass, seemingly random acts of violence, people are already asking about the killer. It hasn't even been 24 hours, and people want a description of the person behind the gun and possible "triggers" that lead to this shooting. Why does it matter? The man is dead. And the more time we spend digging up his past and relation to Sandy Hook, the less time we focus on supporting the victims in any way possible. Forming links as to his circumstance, mental health and relation to the school is the job of FBI agents and policemen, and shouldn't be used by the public to feed their fascination or bemusement.

So next time your brain wandering toward the shooter's motives, switch gears and think of the victims and their families. They are much more deserving of your thoughts, anyhow.

The Womb, Women's Rights, and a Dash of Christianity

Happy Sunday people! Hope you’re all comfy, cozy and ready to say goodbye to bone-chilling fall and hello to blustery winter with a big old mug of hot chocolate and whip cream in your hand.
Recently, I received a nice little facebook prompt that has inspired this post. This prompter, we’ll call him Thom just for shits and giggles, is very politically inclined and in favour of independent government in the American election. Thom Just For Shits and Giggles’ post informed me that yet another wonderful Republican Candidate has opened a can of worms with their opinions on abortion.
Disclaimer:
Before we get into the slimy grit and guts of it all, please know that unlike my friend Thom, I am not politically current on any given day. I normally find politics in general to be a headache, with many voters pushing for the lesser of two evils to finish ahead. Yes, I am one of those.

Now That That’s Over With

The reason for my present interest is the seemingly constant overflow of anti-women douchebaggery taking place in this year’s election. As with many issues that get drudged kicking and screaming under the microscope of political debate, the issue of women’s right to abortion is being stripped bare for everyone to see. Not one aspect of abortion has been overlooked in the political realm. In fact, at this very moment, I’m waiting for some politician to come out with just how many cells he deems necessary for a baby to be considered more than a clump. You know, just to cover every base that anyone could think of, ever.

Generalizations:

As it stands, we have the pro-lifers siding with Republicans and those who identify as committed Christians. I like to call them Team Traditional. Juxtaposing that, is the pro-choicers, siding with the Democrats and those who identify as maybe-not-so religious, not-religious or those-who-feel-religion-sucks. These may seem like sweeping generalizations, and, well, they are. But these categorizations are how political parties target the public. It’s what gives them an estimate of which votes to expect from where. New York: Democratic Tennessee: Republican.

A Day in the Life:

Let’s say, that you’re a die-hard feminist (whaddup, add me to facebook!) who also dislikes abortion. Mind boggling I know. But it happens. And no one talks about it. Because lately it seems like, if you’re a fan of women you’re a fan of abortion and if you’re a fan of abortion than you’re not a fan of women. But, take a breath, because the two are not, by themselves mutually exclusive.
So, on a personal level, you can support feminism and not killing what you see as unborn babies. The issue occurs when things go from personal to political, which, in politics, they inevitably will(who knew??). Then you have a picture of a person who values women’s rights but is being asked by numerous politicians to stand up for their belief in “speaking for those without a voice” and vote against abortion. And all the confusion comes flooding back. You flick on the tube only to catch some bold-faced woman telling you that voting for illegal abortion is against women. Oh no. It seems amuck again, but here’s what I see as the silver lining: If you vote for women’s choice, you’re voting for a woman to decide, without the help of the government, whether or not she wants to abort. You are not voting for abortion. You are voting for the legalization of what would happen anyways, whether it was legal or not. To me, that’s win-win. As a point of comparison, a lot of hard-core Republicans feel the need (still) to oppose gay marriage. Why? You’re not stopping love, or gay sex, but simply marriage. And that, any way you slice it, is an infringement of rights.
So that’s it, that’s my argument: rest assured you can easily be a Christian and a feminist and a pro-lifer...knowing that laws against abortion do not stop abortions, while they do stomp on women’s right to chose what they do with their bodies.

The Latest Clown in the Political Realm:

Though it might seem like I wrote this was to be a leftist, know-it-all douchebag, I promise you that isn’t true. Thom Just For Shits and Giggles informed me that Republican person Richard Mourdock said pregnancy from “rape is something God intended.” This is what I really came to write about. The belief that God intended for babies to come out of the horrible atrocity of rape is not only old-school, it is presumptuous. It presumes that God oversaw what happened to said woman, and on some level, approved of it, knowing that a child would come out of it. It assumes a Christian God. It assumes Providence. It assumes that all bad turns to good, when sometimes, bad is simply bad and the good is separate.
I come from a Christian home. I used to read my Bible as a secret, shamed hobby and try to make sense of its seemingly wise words out of pure curiosity. And nowhere, does God state that a baby is to be considered “the good, purposeful intention” to come from rape. Yes, it is stated that “He” will not have us endure anything we can’t handle, and yes, it is written that good things can come from bad, but nowhere, does it say that a baby is on equal-grounds to overturning the horrific circumstances of rape. Nowhere does it say that a baby is God’s gift to those who have been deeply, and irreversibly violated. In fact, if you’re going to take this whole fate-goes-before-you-route, you might as while acknowledge that maybe, just maybe your God put the baby in the woman’s womb to give her the option to choose the path her life will take. Or! Gasp! Maybe the two had nothing to do with one-another. Now There’s a thought.
Hmmmmmmmmmm.
Until next time, I await the next ridiculous attempt to undermine women.

Why Writing Matters

It is incredibly hard to go back to a specific moment of time, and find yourself, just as you were at that moment. Try it. The feelings that you have now, your perspective on life, will stain the lens of your memory, and you will view things as you are now, rather than remember the frame of mind you held then. That’s why, in my mind, it is important to write right now. As you are. As unaltered as you can get in this moment. In my opinion, writing right now is the closest thing humans will ever have to a personal, defined, history of themselves.

The thing about it is, you’ll only be where you are now --in terms of maturity, understanding (or lack there of) belief system and even circumstance-- once. Never again will you think the thoughts you’re thinking right now, in the succession that they’re in, with the exact mix of chemicals and hormones that are being fired through your brain right this second. Now is it. This concept is kind of like a writer’s spin off of the good old Carpe Diem (Sieze the Day!) phrase that people still continue to use, even though Latin has been dead for decades. The Writer’s Version goes something like “Write now, for you’ll never be of this mind again” (Or something less douchtastic sounding).

Writing For Memory's Sake

I recently read an article on relatively new research regarding the human memory, and its implications on helping those with PTSD. Just as many of us regular people have already suspected, the research suggests that “...the very act of remembering can change our memories” Bare in mind that the dude’s research is mostly on rats, but species' differences aside, the research is rather relevant to the importance of writing now. The article makes an unconscious comparison of human memory to that the “telephone” game most of us played in 3rd grade, summarizing that with each retelling, the memory is slightly reshaped simply by being retrieved. It discusses the inaccuracy found when asking people to “remember” what they did on September 11, 2001. Most claim to recall seeing footage of the first plane hitting the tower, when in reality, such footage wasn’t aired until the next day. I myself even have trouble with this one. I find error in the question because, I did in fact see footage of the plane hitting the tower, though it might have been the second plane, without my realizing it--so does that invalidate the question as a possible tool to provide evidence of lapses in human memory? Or am I just part of the 73% of research participants who also gripped with this fact?

I digress. With our memories on the brink of shift at any second, doesn’t it make you want to write down your thoughts, your diet, your last bathroom break, right now? Maybe not to that extent. But in my ever-moving mind, writing provides a sense of self-preservation against the threat of future selves. It provides definition in the wake of constant changing, re-shaping and tweaking that our brain does--mostly--without our consent. Maybe if I had written down a couple of lines at lunch on September 11, 2001, I would remember (or shape mind my toward accuracy) that footage of the first plane hitting the tower had not yet been aired. Hard to say. But definitely worth a try in every-day life.

Writing Your Version of Your Truth

A little while ago, I watched a movie where Morgan Freeman played a forensic psychologist. In one of the opening scenes, he was coaxing a woman out of shooting herself, after her husband who had been physically abusing her for a while, was killed. The woman moved the gun from inside her mouth to the side of her temple and Freeman’s character moved closer to her slowly, while rhyming off reasons for her to go on living. He closed his list with the simple but impacting phrase, “Because if you don’t, people will never know the truth.” Needless to say, the woman gave up the gun.

Freeman’s character’s attitude of “Speak now so others will know your truth” can also be applied to writing. No matter how much keeping journals can be deemed as “girly” by boys and tease-worthy by little brothers, they give you the chance to convey the raw truth of you in that very moment. So that, in a year, or 10, you can return to that one day in your life, and know how you felt, putting together the pieces of your own mentality. Writing the truth of the present can also serve as a marker to look back and see your progression, your maturity, and the parts of you that remain the same. Some parts of my diary from my teenage years (so long ago...) fill me with shame and embarrassment, but they serve a purpose in helping me understand who I was, and by proxy, who I am now.

Writing as Your Witness

The more off-beat reason to write is, of course, because you might develop amnesia and need to rely on records of your past self to recognize your current circumstance. Or a personality disorder. More likely though, you might simply be going through a tough time and need something to ground you--even if it means talking through a blank page. If you’re anything like me, you find it really difficult to write anything in times of distress of anger. It’s like Writer’s Block to the enth degree, and the only thing your pen will write is a big, bulky, square-like “Fuck.” But don’t give up. Force your pen to elaborate, on an image, a feeling, the colour of the lighting and how it affected the scene that unraveled so quickly and now has you boiling.

The reason I suggest forcing yourself to write through the fog is because, while it can be therapeutic, it will also help you later recognize patterns and make clearer decisions. As the world knows by now, I went through a shitty Life Period a couple years ago, as my taste in men is impeccable. I was with someone I was convinced I loved. He made big promises of change and would ask my all the big questions that every girl wants to hear--right before or after ignoring me for however long he felt like--sometimes only days, 2 days or 5, sometimes weeks. I was incredibly naive and this confused and hurt me immensely. In a hopeless effort to try and work out some answers, I would write bitter and curt messages to my computer or in my diary, often coming out more angry then when I started writing. My writing was choppy and confused, bold in some spots and weak and confused in others. Looking back on it now, I have a journal full of complaints of feeling trapped, of feeling helpless, useless, worthless, and all its marriable synonyms. I was writing a pattern I was not yet aware of. And when I finally broke that pattern, my own writing and the solidification of the bad things that had happened in that relationship, played a big part in keeping me out, and keeping me sane.

So if you’re in a bad spot, and you feel some pattern recognition could be useful, write. Even if you’re life is sunshine and lollipops, write, if only to savour what you’re doing right.

Overall, it’s a pretty well-accepted factthat people have a innate need to define what has happened them, to remember, even if that memory is faulty, as current research suggests. Generally, we like to make sense of our lives and our individual pasts, as a method of self-actualization. And I think writing plays an important role in helping us define ourselves, however inaccurate that definition may be. It’s good to write right now. Do it. You’ll thank me later.