Get to know Rhue better over at SuicideGirls.com!
During the past week, Republicans have fervently fanned the flames of our ongoing culture wars in order to distract, deflect, divide, and conquer. And, once again, it’s just in time to muddy the minds of an already half-hapless electorate just prior to a national election.
This time the battleground is Chick-fil-A – a chicken joint started in 1946, a time when taxes were high and small business start-ups flourished across the country. A few weeks ago, its President, Dan Cathy, publicly supported “the biblical definition of the family unit” and warned ominously that supporting same-sex marriage invites “God’s judgment on our nation.”
While I myself believe God looks very favorably on any marriage and family built on love and devotion, Mr. Cathy seems to think we’re in store for an apocalyptic display of His considerable wrath, not unlike Pat Robertson implying that Hurricane Katrina was God’s punishment for legalized abortion.
Cathy’s comments caused a backlash among fair-minded consumers, which then created predictable blowback from the Religious Right. A successful “Kiss-In” was held by GLBT organizers while Mike Huckabee orchestrated an equally successful “Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day” in response.
In a curious instance of parallel opposites, the last time fast food servers were in a big-time Human Rights skirmish was in 1960, when four young Black students began a sit-in at the local Woolworth’s lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina, spurring a nationwide challenge to racial inequality in the South. So a question must be asked: if he could fly back in time, would Mr. Huckabee have organized a “Segregated Lunch Counter Appreciation Day?”
At this point everyone on both sides has acted within the rights granted them by the First Amendment. And while some observers may seethe, as a nation we will stand tall or fall mightily on our protection and preservation of these primary rights.
Yet the most legally and morally troubling aspect of this brouhaha comes from two surprising sources: a handful of the nation’s mayors and The Huffington Post.
The only limitation in the First Amendment is that the government – local, state, or national – cannot restrict any of the rights granted within it.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
But as if on cue, just when a small Chick-fil-A crisis was about to pass almost unnoticed into history, mayors from Boston, Chicago, D.C., San Francisco, and other cities shoved it into the spotlight by grandstanding pro-GLBT platforms and actually threatening the chicken franchise with bans of various sorts. While politicos generally pander to the electorate, this time they made things worse, not only by igniting a firestorm, but by changing the conversation. Now, instead of having to defend the indefensible – homophobia – Chick-fil-A has been pushed into the more just position of defending its First Amendment rights. From the big bully on the block, the mayors transformed both Dan Cathy and Chick-fil-A into martyrs to the cause of “traditional” marriage – hence, the veritable firestorm.
Rather than abuse political pressure, the mayors would be better advised to launch municipal investigations to determine if Chick-fil-A practices discrimination in hiring or any other areas of its business…and to advocate for legislation favoring all human rights, including passage of Gay Marriage acts. That is a legitimate use of political power. Remember, everything has a flip side – if government can punish a chicken joint for speaking out today, it can punish you for expressing opposite opinions tomorrow. That is why the First Amendment is inviolate.
The second troubling aspect of this ruckus was Noah Michelson’s misguided piece in The Huffington Post, one of our most influential political website. If he was just an independent blogger, I’d pass on commenting, but Mr. Michelson is listed as the editor of their Gay Voices section, so when he’s wrong, a lot of readers walk away misinformed.
In his article, Mr. Michelson states that Chick-fil-A‘s stance is not a First Amendment issue because it makes a lot of money and then donates millions to anti-gay causes. But I would imagine that Mr. Michelson also donates money he makes from his employment to pro-GLBT advocacy groups…and that is his right, just as it is the right of a private business and those who work for it to donate a portion of their earnings to charitable or political causes they believe in, as wrong-headed as they may be.
Secondly, Mr. Michelson more or less makes the ages-old argument that Chick-fil-A’s speech is too terrible to be protected. In support of that, he urges readers to link to selected sites, gaze at photos of beaten and murdered GLBTs, and read the tragic stories that accompany them. While only sociopaths could not be saddened and outraged by his examples, he’s still dead wrong, understandably reacting only with his emotions. (In trials of heinous crimes, certain photos are deemed inadmissible because of the inherently prejudicial nature they would provoke on jurors’ emotions.)
Mr. Michelson states that he is “in love with the First Amendment.” But it’s a dubious claim from someone who obviously does not fully understand it.
Freedom of speech – indeed, the entire First Amendment – applies equally to the best, most moral people and the worst, most indecent racist, homophobic, pedophiliac motherfuckers under American jurisdiction.
The Ku Klux Klan (KKK), as odious a group that has ever existed, marched 50,000 hooded members down Pennsylvania Avenue in our nation’s capital, protected by the First Amendment. Their supporters donated money to their evil brotherhood and the stories and photos of their torture, lynchings, and murders would turn the stomach of Hannibal Lechter.
An offshoot of George Lincoln Rockwell’s American Nazi movement planned a parade in Skokie, Illinois, home to a large community of Holocaust survivors. Yes, there was outrage – the reports and photos of the murder of six million were almost incomprehensible – but, as documented in When the Nazis Came to Skokie, the swastika-bearing marchers won support from the ACLU, the Supreme Court (citing First Amendment rights), and, surprisingly, leaders of Skokie’s Jewish community. Apparently, refugees from a totalitarian state knew more than anyone the importance of free speech.
If any group’s speech was ever too terrible to be considered free, I’d put the KKK and Nazi-wannabes at the top of the list. And yet, they still held that right because they were Americans, and in America we let everyone have their say and hope that facts, common sense, and decency prevails – that is who we are, or at least who we are supposed to be, as a nation. Rightly or wrongly, a democracy ultimately believes in its people.
Journalists who make a difference are those who act, not whine or threaten to jump out of the window if they hear one more reference to their opponent’s rights. Especially when bullies, cowards – and, in this case, chicken shits – hide behind a First Amendment cloak. Over the last thirty years, the GLBT movement has engineered the smartest, most admirable and effective campaign for human rights anywhere in the world. They did it by being aggressive – by showing solidarity in boycotts and expressing their First Amendment rights to protest through outrage and ridicule – not by crying when somebody said bad things about them. Gay Pride was and is pure genius and its effect has been positively felt in every part of the globe. Yes, there are still many battles to win, but if any group can truly overcome, I’d bet on the GLBTs. And I’d also wager they’ll do it without impeding the rights of those who are hell-bent on denying theirs.
Related Posts:
The Vagina Solution
Fighting Back Part 4: The Big Liar, Intimidation And Revenge
Fighting Back Part 3: Fighting Fire With Fire
When The Past Is Prologue
Fighting Back Part 2: Defining Rovian Politics
Fighting Back
The Electoral Scam
Being Fair
Occupy Reality
Giving. . . And Taking Back
A Tale Of Two Grovers
A Last Pitch For Truth
America: Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.
Gotcha!
I recently got a call from an ex-boyfriend (can I even call him that?) that I had dated for about one month a couple years ago. It would have been more brief, except that he was in Africa on a mission for three weeks, and when he returned, we broke up. Before he left, we met, and had sex. Well, we met, talked, then decided to hop in the sack. Unfortunately for me, he was inexperienced and believing virtue withstood the test of a woman’s sexual needs and intimate desires, he failed to satisfy even my most basic requisites. Like, giving me even a single orgasm after about four times doing the horizontal mambo.
Many times before meeting the chap, I’ve jokingly spouted, “Virgins are prude.” Not so much in an attempt to hurl insults at virgins or the born-again chaste, more to express my belief that America’s obsession with purity serves nobody. Sure, it’s great to not contract an STD from unprotected sex. Sure, it’s important not to wonder who the babydaddy is. Yes, preserving your reputation protects your quality of life and peace of mind. But, having safe, consensual, adult sex with another respectful, cool and hip person who knows their way around a bedroom, makes the above not such an issue. And that’s my point. In this obsession with purity, we’ve undermined youth’s right to knowledge about safe and enjoyable sex. We’ve imposed an unfair and derogatory scarlet “A” on every girl or woman who claims her equal right to enjoyable, safe sex. And, we’ve bastardized men’s ability to truly connect intimately with their partner, by promoting endless erections and Superman like abilities under the sheets.
Having an experiential personality, I often do searches on the Internet that are cringe-worthy the next day. The other night, I was reading a forum where teenage girls (around sixteen) to twenty-somethings talked openly about engaging in sexual activity with their boyfriends. Some of them were pregnant. Over and over, they spoke of being unable to voice that what he was doing was hurting them. Their boyfriends were *hurting* their vaginas, and they didn’t say anything. My initial response was sadness. Then a sort of outrage. These girls and women were asking each other what to do with their sore labias and swollen vaginal canals, which had tiny cuts in them from being fingered too vigorously. Without a doubt, each one echoed the last one’s sentiment: I didn’t say anything. And, now I’m in pain. What should I do? Do I have an infection? What’s wrong with me?
I could empathize with their frustrations and inability to speak up though. I remember being fifteen and dating a skater boy who went to my high school. I was working part-time as an assistant manager at a candle store in the mall, and sometimes, when I opened at 10 AM on a Saturday, I’d know he had broken into the mall after hours and stopped by because M&Ms were tossed into one of the candleholders atop the glass display. He wanted to have sex, and he hung around me every second to groom me to make this happen. He was rough with me. He kissed me hard. In public. His tongue whipping in my mouth like an angry reptile. He would stand over me while I sat, cross-legged at parties, smoking Camel Lights, and bend my head back, then jam his tongue down my throat for a few moments. Afterward, he would walk away. I was “his” and he wanted everybody to know it. Why didn’t I say anything? What was OK about this scenario? Appealing, even? Yes, he was cute. But not that cute.
He started fingering me a lot. A lot a lot. And, I admit, I liked it. It was my first time, and it happened innocently enough. One day we were walking around the mall, and he stopped at these gray double doors. “What’s this?” I asked. “Here, I’ll show you.” We went inside the long hallway, which was starkly illuminated by florescent overhead lights. He said to sit down. I did. He sat down beside me. He began kissing me, and then laid his body over mine. He moved half his body — the lower half – to the side and unbuttoned my jeans. He stuck his finger inside me. I remember wondering if his hands were clean, and feeling the tightness of my vagina around his one thick finger. It kind of hurt. And I felt kind of duped by the whole thing. For some reason, to this day, I remember that his body being half on and half off felt manipulative, and that he’d pre-planned this whole journey, and how objectified I felt. I felt like nothing, and something, but that bad kinda something. Like, one of the many girls he’d collected. The girls that contributed to the bad reputation that preceded him — and that had attracted me. I was now both confused, turned on, and repulsed by it. He stopped suddenly, and told me to get up. I got dressed, and we left. “Did I do something wrong?” I wondered.
We broke up after a couple more incidences. Like the one where he skateboarded over to my parents’ house when they were out of town, and tried to stick his penis inside me. We had both ditched school to meet at home and make out, but when he arrived — half hour after the planned meeting time – he seemed distant and aloof. Like he’d missed out on a party to be there with me. He hated school, so why did he care if we missed a class or two? When we were upstairs, he sat on my sister’s bed. I told him so. He didn’t care. “We can’t make out on my sister’s bed!” I implored, half-kidding, half-serious. “How weird,” I thought. He didn’t understand why, or care really. We made out, and he kept taking his dick out of his boxer shorts, and I kept moving away and saying no. Finally he jumped up. “Fine!” My vagina was unsheathed by panties, as he’d been fingering me again. He looked at my mess of curly reddish-brown pubic hair with contempt. I didn’t know if he didn’t like my vagina or my pubic hair, or was mad at it because he couldn’t get inside.
He bolted downstairs, and stopped in front of the TV. Something was on that he liked. He began fingering me again when I appeared. I let him for a second, then offered him some homemade fudge my mom made before leaving on vacation. He declined, then left.
We finally broke up after he had used me as a scapegoat to trick his mom out of twenty bucks to buy weed. And because all his friends knew I wouldn’t give it up. I was fifteen, and being me, I had already set a “losing my virginity” date. Eighteen years old.
Even though all this happened many years ago, I vividly recall there were times when I didn’t want him to touch me. Like out at the railroad tracks, with all his friends within earshot. His hands sooty with mud from the tracks and the park we had to cross through to get to the secret hangout. But I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure what bothered me more: the fact that his friends saw me as just another one of Ray’s girls, or the fact that he always stopped suddenly, after jerking his hand up my skirt — almost just to see if I’d let him. Our encounters never resulted in an orgasm. I never had one, nor gave him one. I never touched his penis; having only seen it when he pulled it out on my sister’s bed while trying to shove it inside me without any kind of conversation, whatsoever. When he decided we were done, he’d bark at me to get dressed, never waiting quite long enough for me to snap that last snap, or zip my zipper. He was always leaving me standing alone, struggling, racing to meet up with my boyfriend, who said he loved me but did nothing that resembled it.
Perhaps our friends on the east (my old stomping grounds) have the right idea. And not just when it comes to Dunkin’ Donuts blueberry muffins. According to USA Today, Boston’s Public Health Commission partnered with local social service agencies to erect a Break-Up Summit for teens. Nationwide, the $18 million program aims to educate youth on how to prevent dating violence and how to communicate more effectively and kindly (ie; no severing romantic ties publicly via social networks), while helping give young people the skills to cope with the downsides to embarrassing or hurtful dating experiences, like depression and low self-esteem, which can lead to further educational and social problems if left unchecked.
As of late, I’ve used a type of rationale that is helpful when choosing my next dance partner. My internal checklist is as follows:
If the answer is no to any of the above, then I shouldn’t let them inside me. Easy peasy. Better not to bargain or barter with your most prized possession – yourself.
In terms of learning how to better converse with your sexual partners and to get down to the nitty-gritty regarding burning questions (or symptoms) – at any age – be it Plan B instructions to viability of sperm, I find the young adult site Scarleteen to be a wealth of resources. Finally, let’s honor that tender, lush land that resides in all of us…under the pink.
Darrah is a freelance journalist and consultant, with a focus on sensuality, environmentalism, and fearless women in the media. She appears as a “Woman on the Street” on The Conversation. Her lifestyle writing and celebrity interviews have appeared in Marie Claire, Esquire and W, among others. She contributes author and filmmaker interviews to The Rumpus. Darrah’s “Red, White and Femme” columns for SuicideGirls taks a fresh look at females in America. She also co-hosts SG Radio when her schedule allows. She lives in LA with her doggie Oscar Wilde. Subscribe to her blog at Darrahdejour.com/, and friend her on Facebook and Twitter.
Photos: Mikey B and Maryalena Salman
by Alex Dueben
“It was bitter for all of us when Brandon Lee was killed”
– John Shirley
John Shirley may not be a household name, but for three decades he’s been an incredibly influential and prolific writer. He was one of the most important early writers in the movement that would later be called cyberpunk, and William Gibson and others have paid tribute to his influence. Shirley’s novel City Come A-Walkin’ and his later trilogy A Song Called Youth – which has recently been re-released in a single volume omnibus edition – remain among two of the best cyberpunk works ever published. Shirley is also an award winning horror and fantasy writer perhaps best known for novels like Demons, Bleak History, and Dracula in Love, and short story collections like Heatseeker and In Extremis: The Most Extreme Short Stories of John Shirley.
A singer/songwriter who’s fronted a number of bands and has written lyrics for bands including Blue Oyster Cult, Shirley is also a screenwriter who’s worked in film and television. He was the original writer on the movie The Crow and has written episodes of TV shows including Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Profit, “VR.5, Poltergeist: Legacy, Batman Beyond, and The Real Ghostbusters.
Shirley’s newest project is The Crow: Death and Rebirth, a comic miniseries released by IDW, the second issue of which has just been released. Shirley spoke with SG over e-mail to talk about his return to the concept of The Crow, which also marks his return to cyberpunk.
Read our exclusive interview with John Shirley on SuicideGirls.com.
