Who Cares: Unpaid care work, poverty and women's / girl's human rights

Several years ago, when I was completing my graduate studies, I had a dream that I was late to my graduation where I would be recognized for my outstanding academic achievement.  In my dream, I could hear "Pomp and Circumstance" playing and I could hear them calling my name, but I wasn't able to reach the stage because there were mountain high piles of dirty laundry that I had to climb and walk over to get to the stage.  I remember as keenly as if it had happened in true life the struggle to wade through the piles of clothes, feeling the pant legs of my husband's jeans tripping me as I fell into the soft mountain of clothes then half swimming and half crawling to get there as they called my name one final time to take my place on the stage.

Then, like a it was a lost dinner reservation, the speaker on stage moved on to the next name, that of one of my male colleagues and he stepped forward in his graduation gown and accepted the recognition.

My piles of laundry that I can easily manage by tossing the clothes into my high efficiency washer do not compare to the hardship of collecting water and firewood in the developing world.  However, this video illustrates so powerfully how the unseen and uncounted labor of women handicaps us in the marketplace.  Caring for a family is hard work.  I love the closing quote that we should have the right to provide the care, and also the right to not be exploited.  Caring for a family is truly beautiful and meaningful work and it should be counted and it should be valued.

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"One day you're there, then all of a sudden... there's less of you and you wonder where that part went...
if it's living somewhere outside of you... and you keep thinking... maybe you'll get it back.  and then you realize ... it's just gone"

This blows my mind.  She wanted "other things', she tells Pete.  I just watched this again this morning; a round up of favorite Peggy scenes from Mad Men.  In this scene she tells Pete that she had his baby and gave it away.  As she is telling him the lines quoted above, I initially thought she was talking about the baby.  But seeing it again, she could be talking about her baby or her ambition.  She chose ambition.

Her ambition was such an integral part of her, so central to her being.  I can read this scene as a metaphor for women having children - at least for ambitious women who have children.  You have a child and it crowds out ambition.  It's there, but the quotidian tasks of child rearing consume you and it feels very sudden.  You are a smart and ambitious person, then suddenly you become invisible.  You think that when the baby naps or when the baby starts pre-school you will get it back.  It's still there and you will get it back.  Then you realize that you made different choices and it's just gone.

Peggy knew that by becoming a wife and a mother, she would be less of herself and even though everything about that time and age insisted that she do so; she chose "other things".

and Pete was incredulous...

women < fetus

I am a Catholic woman who is squeamish about abortion; but I am also a pro-choice feminist.  So that’s where I am starting.

I am so sickened by the multiple forced miscarriages, violent abortions that the pig of Cleveland perpetrated on the woman he held captive.  It is abhorrent.  But I am conflicted about the potential of charging him for murder.  These are the moments when I am most challenged by my faith and by my political philosophy of life.

The charge of murder is, I believe, what prosecutors want so that they can charge him with a capital crime.  I completely understand the urge of the State to murder that man.  But it somehow feels that the lives of the fetuses are somehow more valuable than the lives of the women.  The life of Ariel Castro in exchange for the lives of the fetuses; but not the life of Ariel Castro for imprisoning three women, holding them in chains, locked in a basement and repeatedly raping them for a decade.  The lives and well being of the women are less valued  (prison) than the potential lives of fetuses (death penalty). 

The State, like Arial Castro, sees women as receptacles of future children.  The women were held captive and in at least one case, one of the women was raped and forced to carry the fetus to term.  Like the State and our broader culture, Castro sees women as sources of sexual pleasure that should be dominated and controlled.  In his view, women have no humanity, no agency.  In the eyes of the State, we also lack humanity and agency.  We are sexualized and objectified, but if we become pregnant then we are forced to carry that child to term because our only value is as receptacles of future children.  The lives of future children are of greater value than our own.

So I am angered that the lives of fetuses are more important than the grave wrong that was done to the women.  I am hurt and sad that as a woman, I am less than the seed of a man.  I am enraged at a State that so clearly tells me that my only value as a human is to be sexually available and make babies.

Fuck you, State.

An Open Letter to My Brother

Dearest One,

I have been mulling over your recent Facebook posts commenting on the reelection of the President – by turns angry and sad.  For example, the post that had a graphic that stated:  Election Day Prediction: Obama will take an early lead…  Until all the Republicans get off work.  It was indicative of the parallel narrative that has emerged on social networks - Obama voters were voting based on their dependency on government handouts and the changing demographics of the electorate.  

For the last four years, Tea Partiers and other disgruntled Americans who, like you, tend to be white have been ranting about the need to take back our country.  I have always wondered just whom they thought they were taking it back from and why did they think it only belonged to them.  To my ears, it sounded pretty racist – given that the President was black and the insinuation that his only supporters were black folks who were illegally registered to vote by ACORN.  Following the President’s reelection, where the active suppression of poor and minority people was part of the Republic strategy  (http://www.politicspa.com/turzai-voter-id-law-means-romney-can-win-pa/37153/) and the Democratic machine was focused on identifying and registering new voters, the reactions of those Americans who felt they were losing “their” America became even more crystalized.  The traditional electorate – not black, not Latino – but those who have enjoyed unearned privilege for centuries felt cheated and scared. 

Bill O’Reilly provided the most lucid and shameless explanation of those dual strains of thought – the belief that the blacks and browns are taking over and they’re taking your stuff:

“It's a changing country. The demographics are changing. It's not a traditional America any more. And there are 50% of the voting public who want stuff. They want things. And who is going to give them things? President Obama. He knows it and he ran on it. And, whereby twenty years ago, President Obama would have been roundly defeated by an establishment candidate like Mitt Romney. The white establishment is now the minority. And the voters, many of them, feel that the economic system is stacked against them and they want stuff. You are going to see a tremendous Hispanic vote for President Obama, overwhelming black vote for President Obama. And women will probably break President Obama’s way. People feel that they are entitled to things and which candidate, between the two, is going to give them things?”

And of course, Rush Limbaugh’s explanation for women breaking for Obama was that we want free birth control – again, stuff.  I’d just like to note – since it is rarely pointed out – that contraception is typically considered by medical professionals as basic preventative health care, the cost of which is far less than the typical outcome: pregnancy.  But that’s a whole other post….

You clearly don’t have a problem with government assistance for yourself.  While you are the most outspoken person I know on issues of government dependency, you are also the person I know who has most availed himself of government assistant.  Beginning with your own public education, then the US military training which was wasted on you because you couldn’t stop using drugs, your dependence on welfare and Medicaid when your son was born, your repeated trips to rehab that were subsidized by taxpayers, your use of the Family Medical Leave Act to keep your job during your trips to rehab and finally, retraining for a new career when you were fired from your job.    Now your dependency on government has been passed on to the next generation of your family with your son’s addiction and trips to jail and his son born while on public assistance.  Your family’s story is not unusual – in spite of the racially coded language employed by the conservatives that are pushing this fantasy of black and brown Obama voters, most of those on government assistance are indeed white. 

So please – enough of the race baiting.  I don’t want to hear any more of your squawking and complaining about shifty, lazy people (code words for Blacks and Latinos) who don’t work electing the President, or the corollary, slutty, lazy women too cheap to purchase birth control having babies on your dime who voted for abortion.   What you are really angry about is that you are afraid that you will no longer get to ride on your unearned privilege.  Don’t worry – you are still white and only those who have known you for a long time look at you and see government dependence.  I, for one, am glad that there were programs in place to support you in your struggle for sobriety and provided an opportunity for your children to go to school and receive a free public education.  I’m pleased that government healthcare programs could provide a safe birth for my nephew and that public assistance kept a roof over his head in his early years.  And I am relieved that his son has the same benefits. 

I supported the President because his vision of America is aligned with mine.  I don’t want stuff.  I don’t even need birth control anymore.  I am a high-income earner and my children attend private schools – but I want to live in a fair and just society.  I want to live in a society that doesn’t rest on unearned privilege but on equal opportunity.  I want a chance to compete in the marketplace and not be handicapped because I am a mother and I want even those who have made mistakes and perhaps fallen down a few times – as you have – to have a shot at redemption.  There is a lot of space between absolute dependency and absolute self-reliance.  I think that the government has a role to play in regulating the markets, protecting and preserving our rights, including labor rights and providing a safety net to the most vulnerable.  It makes us all stronger when we stand together.

I love you more than you know.

Sincerely,

Your Sister

Wisconsin = Ludlow. Lest We Forget

On June 6, 2012 it was confirmed that Scott Walker had prevailed in Wisconsin and all the headlines asked if Unions were dead.  I went to my garage to pull this letter out and was so saddened that I couldn't find it.  Today, while looking for something else I found it with other significant papers.  This letter was written by my dear, deceased friend who was my inspiration and moral compass.

November 20, 1993

Dear Andy:

(Late September, Southern Colorado)

I had been driving under stormy skies.  Fat raindrops splotted like eggs on the windshield, but only occasionally.

Heading south on Highway 25, I passed a small green sign that said ‘Ludlow Site’ and pointed off to the west toward dark, pine-covered hills.  Turning onto the dirt road, I remembered the name from the song Ludlow Massacre, only I’d never heard Woody Guthrie do it.  The first time I’d heard it was on the Prosperous album.

When I arrived, I was alone.  An old windmill was screaming on its hinges in the wind, and a ceiling of steel grey clouds was moving down across the hills from the west.  More fat raindrops fell.

I walked around outside the iron gate looking in at the monument and at the door to the cellar where the women and children had been.

Ludlow was where one of the most significant events in US history occurred; what happened there became the catalyst for labor union sympathy in this country and we don’t even learn about it in school. (They rarely teach Vietnam here either).  The reason I was there at all was because of the singing of an Irishman.  Perhaps all nations deny their terrible pasts and leave it to foreigners (or the victims) to tell the stories.

Looking through the register at names and comments from all over, the rain started falling (it really did….)  I turned a page and saw:

Andy Irvine

Dublin, Ireland

-lest we forget-

I’ve lived and travelled around the Southwest for years and have found that that country is full of surprises.  It felt like irony and coincidence had come together at that moment, and I’ll never forget it.

I just had to tell you that.....

Forgiving the 9/11 Hijackers?

Like most other Americans, I spent much of the day yesterday somberly considering the attacks on the United States that occured 10 years ago and contemplating the ensuing decade. As I made my way to Mass early Sunday morning, I was grieving for the lives lost and the families shattered, but also for the ugly way we have conducted ourselves as a people and as a nation following the initial outpouring of solidarity.

What we've seen in the last 10 years is a cynical misuse of grief and fear, used as a vehicle to garner support for unrelated - or at best tangentially related - foreign policy goals that resulted in hundreds of thousands of deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan. Each of the three readings at Mass dwelled upon debt and forgiveness and we were instructed very clearly to extend forgiveness to others, just as our God extends grace and forgiveness to us. If we fail to extend forgiveness, then the sin is our own. What is so terribly frustrating and sad is the way in which we as a nation have so pridefully ignored our own state of sin and sought only retribution - not understanding and forgiveness. While it is true that those who attacked us on that achingly beautiful September morning have not asked our forgiveness and most certainly suffer from pridefulness of their own, so too have we as a people neglected to seek forgiveness for the unspeakable violence that we have directed at the people of Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Our leaders have not sought forgiveness. They have aggressively pursued acts of violence, such as "enhanced interrogation techniques" or bombing of villages by predator drones. One of the primary architects recently made the talk show rounds to reinforce his support of said techniques and brag about his certainty of purpose. There is no interest in forgiving or in forgiveness - only for exploiting fear and fanning hatred to further the interests of our war machine. We, in turn, as a people have not demanded that our leaders be humble. Instead, many of us have become even more fearful of the "other" who looks different, speaks a different language and worships God in a different way. Instead of loving our brothers and sisters as ourselves, we do not recognize these "others" as part of our human family.

The domestic policies pursued reflect that fearfulness. We no longer share a commitment to care for one another. We love our brothers and sisters - but only literally, not figuratively. The candidates for elected office that call themselves "Christian" should revisit this basic lesson that God became human just to tell us to our faces: forgive seventy times seven times and love our enemies. Easy to remember, but hard to do. People of faith must set the example for our leaders, living out the Gospel and insist that they follow our lead.

Gladdened by the quickening of the revolutionary heart

I am hostage to the 24 hour news cycle and the tweet deck configured to #Egypt on my iPhone. Tunisia is free, Egypt is demanding democracy, and now Yemen – I can’t turn away…

I am back in San Salvador: December 31, 1991. I hear the crackling of firecrackers out in the streets. I start, momentarily confusing the firecrackers for the report of soldiers’ guns, then remember that it’s New Year’s Eve and it must be midnight. I am alone in the house; my comrades are ringing in the New Year in the villages that they serve on behalf of the Jesuit Refugee Services. Inside the house it is quiet and still; a little bit scary. I find my watch, wanting to stand witness to the New Year in my solitary way and find that it’s only 11:50pm. The firecrackers are premature. The wild celebration I hear in the streets must be hope for the year ahead. I go back to the basin to hand wash my dusty clothing in the dim light.

Bent over the concrete stone, washing out my faded dress there is pounding at the door and I hear my name called urgently, with excitement and obvious joy, “Lezzleee!! Lezzleee!! Yo se que estas alli!! Abre, abre! Lezzlleee!” Even though I was adamant that I wanted to be alone on New Year’s Eve, I am happy to hear my friends. Typically I find it very depressing and prefer to be depressed alone rather than spoil other’s enjoyment, but I was feeling particularly lonely and sad that night and therefore relieved that they didn’t take me at my word. I went to the door, dressed in ragged sweat pants, flip flops and a loose t-shirt, and opened the door to a new and different El Salvador.

Apparently, an agreement to end the decade long civil war had been struck. In New York City, just minutes before the stroke of midnight when Secretary Perez de Cuellar would relinquish his role as Secretary General of the United Nations, the opposing sides agreed upon a compromise and a transition to a truly democratic government. The war, ostensibly, was over.

Astonished, I left my house dressed in my cleaning clothes (very un-Salvadoran) and jammed myself into the tiny Honda Civic with my friends. We bounced down to the “Salvador Del Mundo” monument and joined the rest of the celebrants. Watching the news coverage of Egyptian people in Tahrir Square, I can feel the jubilance and sense of wonder that I felt standing in front of the Salvador del Mundo Monument. I recognize from this distance the gradual awakening in the people as they sloughed off fear of the regime.

Two and a half weeks after that New Year’s Eve, the entire country celebrated the official signing of the “Accerdos de Chapultapec” by gathering in the center of the City. This time I was prepared and wearing my clean and ironed dress and closed toed shoes as I stood in front of the National Cathedral. The five leaders of the revolutionary groups that made up the FMLN stood on the stage, the sense of joy and hope palpable, and as was customary before any gathering, we all paused for a “moment” of silence to remember the fallen. For a full minute, the thousands of people gathered stood in silence and as the plaintive yet authoritative cry of the voice of Radio Venceremos called out the familiar call and response…

“COMPANEROS CAIDOS EN LA LUCHA………HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE!”…

A gigantic banner unfurled, covering the left side of the Metropolitan Cathedral, a bold red with white letters:

F
M
L
N

A giddiness ensued… then the explosion of emotions – excitement, joy, disbelief, regret (for friends and comrades lost), delight (for having survived) – and for me, immense humility (shame?) that I was allowed to share in this moment that belonged to El Salvador and El Salvador alone. The people of El Salvador had fought bravely and stood up to the brutal regime and their patrons in the United States. My country.

I think I see on TV the same collection of emotions in the Tahrir Square protesters: the disbelieving joy and the tentative hope that the people might prevail. The delight at openly embracing dissent, regret and longing for brothers and sisters – comrades all – who suffered and died at the hands of Mubarak and his henchmen. As the nights become violent, I think I see the stiffening of resolve, the commitment to dying on one’s feet as opposed to living on one’s knees. There will be no turning back.

What I think I see is the quickening of the revolutionary heart. May it prevail.