Review: The Buddha in the Attic

The Buddha in the Attic
The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka

Otsuka tells the stories of “picture wives,” who traveled from Japan to the United States in the early 1900s to marry and start new lives. High hopes (inflated by future husbands who deceived them about the lives they would lead in America) were quickly dashed by the realities of hard farm labor or domestic servitude. Otsuka’s style, a chorus of voices, is highly effective. At times, she blurs together common experiences, and at others, she presents an endless diversity of hopes and disappointments, joys and suffering.

The women in this book are faced with unjust treatment at every turn. They are continually objectified– worked to exhaustion and even death in the fields, coerced into being sexually available to husbands and white men, subject to the indignities of racism and fetishization by white employers. Most endure a hard life of poverty and years of back breaking labor. They work to give their children all they can and are heartbroken when these efforts never seem to be enough to open the doors to mainstream American life.

As WWII begins, fear and panic set in. All are constantly on guard, preparing for the inevitable day when husbands will be taken away. They sleep with their clothes and shoes on. They wonder what exactly they did to be seen as traitors. Some of the most poignant moments are those of the last day. As families are evacuated to camps, stores are closed and houses left to be raided, all that they have worked for is simply torn away. This is an important book that makes us look more critically at a cultural obsession with Americanness and the fear of suspicious “outsiders.” It’s a recurring story, sadly, and Otsuka even draws some lines right out of a 2001 Rumsfeld speech. It’s too easy to look away and think some other group’s marginalization doesn’t concern “us.” This book is clearly still relevant, it’s almost a fable, and the saddest part is the way it’s a history that continues to this day.

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Review: Writing a Woman’s Life

Writing a Woman's Life
Writing a Woman’s Life by Carolyn G. Heilbrun

Though published nearly 30 years ago, Writing A Woman’s Life is a compelling feminist argument that still has value today. Heilbrun argues that there are far fewer narratives of women’s lives available to us than there are narratives of men’s lives. Why does this matter?

“We live our lives through texts. They may be read, or chanted, or experienced electronically, or come to us, like the murmurings of our mothers, telling us what conventions demand. Whatever their form or medium, these stories have formed us all; they are what we must use to make new fictions, new narratives.”

We make sense of our lives through narratives, and we make decisions about what is possible in the context of whatever stories are available to us. In this sense, narratives of women’s lives– biographies, autobiographies, memoirs– serve as road maps, showing us what kind of lives can be lived. They can open up the world or close it down.

One of the most interesting distinctions Heilbrun makes is between romance stories (often ending in marriage) and quest stories. This is a useful distinction, because it calls attention to the patterns of difference between women’s and men’s lives. Quest stories are exciting. They emphasize self-determination and agency. Men on quests pursue their passions and strike out on their own. In contrast, women’s romance stories are closed loops. They operate all in the service of finding a man to dissolve into, the goal being to lose oneself, as opposed to constructing oneself, becoming a whole person. Obviously, much has changed since this book was written, and a major shift occurred when the writing of working-class women and women of color became more widely accessible. But it is still worth considering to what degree this argument is still applicable today.

“We must stop reinscribing male words, and rewrite our ideas about what Nancy Miller calls a female impulse to power, as opposed to the erotic impulse which alone is supposed to impel women. We know we are without a text, and must discover one.”

This is the kind of book that I crave– a strong feminist voice that asserts women’s right to personhood, to leading a full life and developing to one’s greatest potential. It chips apart commonplace assumptions about what kind of lives women and men are allowed to live, and for that, I’m definitely grateful for this book.

Fall 2015 Reading Recap

612siddharthaWell, I’ve taken a few months away from blogging, but find myself back here as 2015 is coming to an end. I wanted to write a bit of a recap to catch up on some of the books I’ve been reading. I’ve found myself diving head first into a variety of works on spirituality and Buddhism in particular. Living through a difficult year personally, this reading has helped me a great deal.

 

Of course, I am wary of accepting philosophies wholesale; I am grappling with these ideas and picking them apart. But so far, the reading I’m doing and the meditation practice that I’ve started have helped me shift my focus towards gratitude and generosity and to find a measure of peace in this messy life. I am admittedly in the earliest phase of this whole new turn in my thinking, and I don’t necessarily espouse any of this to anybody! It’s interesting to know about nonetheless. Here’s some of the highlights:

  • Essential Spirituality: The 7 Central Practices to Awaken Heart and Mind by Roger Walsh – Excellent introduction to the topic. Walsh does a great job boiling down the world religions to their core ideas and practices. I am especially interested in the psychology inherent in spirituality. In my own experience, it’s been extremely difficult to “control” my mind– or at least learn to grapple with the way it can run off the rails– if I don’t also have my heart in the process. This aspect of heart is an essential lesson that Walsh and others bring to the fore.
  • A Path with Heart: A Guide Through the Perils and Promises of Spiritual Life by Jack Kornfield – The more I read and listen to Jack Kornfield (his podcasts are great, too), the more I seriously love him. He’s the most gentle and thoughtful guy. Reading a book like this is different from reading a novel or some interesting nonfiction. It’s something you work with, jump to the most relevant chapters, come back to certain parts as life keeps moving forward and new challenges arise. It’s a process rather than a discrete reading. This is new for me, but I love the experience of coming back to something I’ve read previously, but for whatever reason, whatever new situation I’ve encountered since the first reading, I will just “get” a particular point in a way that I didn’t at first glance.
  • Opening the Lotus: A Woman’s Guide to Buddhism by Sandy Boucher –  One of the more difficult aspects of starting to study Buddhism has been parsing out the political implications. Does an emphasis on acceptance require me to accept things I would not normally accept? How does one go about balancing compassion for others and compassion for oneself? What are the implications of these ideas for social change and resistance? Opening the Lotus is a good introduction to the ways in which gender has been relevant through the history of the religion and how it operates today in various settings, especially in Western Buddhist circles. Some of the most interesting parts are those about Buddhist goddesses like Kwan Yin and Tara, who I had no idea about.

This reading, along with Ram Dass and Sharon Salzberg podcasts, has shaped the way I am thinking these days. I can’t say I will always be this caught up in these particular ideas, but they seem to be right there when I need them at this moment. Life keeps moving, and we all keep changing, continually. I look forward to investigating this more, though, and especially being able to relate it back to my interests in feminism, psychology, and social theory.

Reproductive Justice & Katha Pollitt’s Pro: Reclaiming Abortion Rights

I have to confess, I have been slow on the uptake when it comes to realizing how absolutely crucial reproductive justice is for a more free society where all people can develop to their fullest capacities. As a feminist, this gap in my thinking is terrifying! I believe my shortsightedness up to this point reflects mainly two things. First of all, there’s my privilege. As a white, middle-class woman, living in mostly blue states, I haven’t had to personally face many obstacles to accessing healthcare. And second, it illustrates just how successful the anti-abortion movement has been in shaping the conversation surrounding reproductive rights, even for people like myself who are strongly pro-choice.

In Pro: Reclaiming Abortion Rights, it becomes apparent that the abortion issue, at the heart of it all, is about the power to control, subordinate, and punish women. And in particular, poor women and women of color. Katha Pollitt does an excellent job untangling the rhetoric and revealing the ways in which anti-abortion arguments mask the issue at hand. She argues that even while abortion opponents claim to care about women, children, and families (aw shucks…), the movement to restrict access to reproductive healthcare punishes women for having sex (in ways that men just aren’t punished for) and devalues motherhood (hey, anybody can raise a child, even a fifteen year old girl with no job and life experience). Not to mention the movement’s indifference towards– or efforts to straight up take money away from– policies meant to ensure the well-being of children that actually already exist.

Pollitt’s argument isn’t exactly a new one, but it’s an extremely important one. And this is especially true right now, as abortion opponents are gaining a great deal of ground in restricting access. Some of the most interesting parts of the book are Pollitt’s discussion of the real world implications of criminalizing abortion, as well as the chapters that delve into this issue of personhood. Is a fetus a person? Is a woman a person?

What strikes me most though is this question: Why should the course of a woman’s life be drastically altered by a zygote? And to push this one step further, would we expect a man to give up an opportunity to go to college, to have a career, or to take better care of his already existing children, if there were other options for him? No. A man’s (a middle-class, white man’s, that is) right to self-determination is a given in a patriarchal society. Women, in contrast, are still reduced to nothing more than potential baby-makers and are advised to live their lives in accordance with this fate. I am now coming to see how reproductive justice must be central to any liberatory project. The anti-abortion movement’s success in restricting access to reproductive healthcare, and the pro-choice movement’s failure to highlight the positive aspects of access to abortion, are scary and damaging developments that affect everyone, not just women. I definitely recommend Pollitt’s book, especially if you find yourself somewhere in the middle ground on the issue.

Dworkin’s Heartbreak, Reviewed

I am reading Dworkin out of order, starting with these personal essays. I have been on an essay and memoir kick recently, and I just can’t pass up a book titled Heartbreak (so good!). A lot of people hate Dworkin, and I suppose this has something to do with her uncompromising stance towards some controversial issues (and saying a bunch of things people don’t want to hear in an impolite way). Some things she wrote were construed as pro-incest, but having read Heartbreak, I am highly skeptical that that was her point. So why does she get a bad rap? People’s disdain and disgust for radical feminists that persists to this day draws me to them so strongly. I’m just starting to piece together the legacy of radical feminism and have a lot of reading and thinking to do, but the stuff gets my heart pumping. And I loved these essays.

Dworkin has a do-or-die commitment to women. She cares deeply for those who have been abused and coerced by men. And she is dedicated to listening to what women have to say.

I do not know why so many women trusted me enough to speak to me, but underneath anything I write one can hear the percussive sound of their heartbeats. If one has to pick one kind of pedagogy over all others, I pick listening.

Through the course of these essays, she shows a tireless impulse to have an open heart towards other people’s pain. She feels the harm that men cause in the world so acutely. This ability to connect one’s experiences to others’, to listen to other women who have basically been through the shit, and then to act on that in a positive way, to set out to make sure that those abuses don’t happen anymore… it’s some of the best things a human can do in the face of this messed up world, and I love Dworkin for it.

The other thing that I am drawn to in her writing (and her life) is her refusal to compromise. In one chapter, she writes about people trying to make her sing “Silent Night,” and how she had never and would never sing it. She calls things as she sees them without mincing words. I mean, I can work to cultivate an appreciation for ambiguity as much as the next person, but there are also situations where a person needs to see through the mud people try to fill your head with. Dworkin sees through this bullshit, she is critical of all the lying adults she encounters, and she resists all the ways that people try to break her spirit.

The Awakening by Kate Chopin, Reviewed

Kate Chopin portraitNext stop on my mission to finally read some of the feminist works I haven’t gotten around to: Chopin’s The Awakening. It seems like most people read this one in high school, and I’m glad I didn’t actually. I am fairly confident that I would have hated it then and dismissed it completely. Reading it now, at 29 (same age as the main character for the latter part of the story), I could appreciate it. Reviewing this book without giving away major plot points is impossible, so be warned that what follows is full of spoilers!

The story revolves around Edna Pontellier, who is married to a wealthy businessman and has two small children. The book begins in Grand Isle, where the family is vacationing in the Gulf. We see that Edna’s marriage is stifling and mothering doesn’t interest her all that much. As the summer goes on, Edna develops feelings for another man, Robert Lebrun. But he sets off for Mexico unexpectedly. Back in New Orleans, Edna’s passionate awakening is now in full swing. She starts to follow her own desires instead of trying to fit into the restrictive life that has been set out for her– she pursues her interest in art, starts to come and go whenever she pleases, and finally takes up residence in a smaller house around the corner from the family mansion. When Robert returns to New Orleans, the desire Edna’s been harboring for him doesn’t quite work out. After some passionate kissing and caressing, Robert decides to leave in order to protect Edna and himself from the fallout that would likely occur if they followed their desire to be together.

In some ways, this is the perfect first-wave feminist work of literature. It seems obvious to point out that Edna is white and extremely privileged, but it’s important. The womanhood that she struggles against (with its emphasis on submissiveness, chasteness, purity) is constructed in contrast to the supposed easy sensuality of a number of women of color who we see mostly coming in and out of the background of the book. There is Mariequita, the “Spanish girl” in Grand Isle, with her dirty feet, and the general category of seductive “Mexican women” the characters refer to. Edna’s world is one where “the quadroon” looks after her children (though Edna always has a comment about her ineptitude), nameless “black girls” sweep and do laundry, and Edna has a relaxing weekend watching the “darkies” do fieldwork at her parents’ estate. I point these things out, not because they are aspects of Edna’s world that are so jarring to me 2015, but because it is vital to understand how white, middle-class womanhood is racially constructed (still to this day).

In this context, Edna’s attempts to feel passionately, to become awakened, fall flat for me. Though there are some poignant scenes towards the beginning, my empathy for her peters out. Edna’s obviously not shaking off some great chains of oppression in her situation, and the way she takes people for granted bugs me. I can’t help but draw comparisons between her and Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, which I also read recently and definitely enjoyed more. Same kind of privileged white woman, but at least in Nora’s case, she is upfront with her husband about why she needs to break free from him. Nora decides to leave to go become an independent person, and she walks out the door. Edna, in contrast, is a little bit sneaky while her husband is away on business and seems to be waiting for somebody, ideally Robert, to rescue her from the monotony of her life. In the end, no one can rescue her. The other dude, Arobin, is a creep, and Robert is just as beholden to the rules of the era as her husband is.

I suppose what annoys me about it all is that Edna’s struggle to find passion and become a real, independent person comes off as shallow (and maybe this is just because it’s 2015 now and I have more options for how to live than Edna did). Passion can definitely awaken you to life, but you have to go somewhere from there. Love is a more nourishing, sustaining action, and I don’t think Edna ever allows herself to get there. Of course it’s going to end badly if you just substitute one man for the next! But she’s got her artwork and her new attitude towards the world and a model of what it’s like to be a female artist living on your own (the pianist, Mademoiselle Reisz). Why not move forward and explore the possibilities of what life could be like, as Nora does? For me, that would have made a much more powerful, feminist statement.

A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft, Reviewed

Now that I’m finished with school, the real reading can begin! I am sort of kidding, but it’s also true. This past fall and winter I’ve had some unresolved thoughts spinning around about radical feminism and gender, and I am really excited to start putting time into reading classic feminist works that I have yet to get to. I figured I’d start at the beginning. Not exactly with Sappho or even Christine de Pizan, but I chose Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. A lot of the reading I’ve done online about the book comes from A Year of Feminist Classics, a monthly reading project that I am pretty sad I missed out on. At least I found the discussion archives now, and yes, I will be that creepy person commenting on your book reviews from 2011.

Of course there are a lot of messed up things about this book– it was published in 1792! I am a little sad though that people blogging about it say it’s hard to get through in basically every review. It’s not too hard to get through, and it’s worth it.

To put it in historical context, Wollstonecraft is replying to the widespread opinion (and sometimes the specific people who espouse it, like Rousseau) that women are naturally inferior and therefore exist to serve men. She says no fucking way, and that is what I love most about her. More specifically, she argues that this assumed inferiority of women (besides a basic level of difference in certain types of physical strength, which, come on feminists in the 21st century, please have the guts to stop denying that sexual dimorphism exists) is the result of the way that girls are raised and denied a real education. Social structure and personal relationships, as they were at the time when she was writing, limited women’s opportunities for independent thought, for the development of important human virtues, and for personhood. And I am uncomfortable making this last sentence past tense, as it still rings so true today. Wollstonecraft argues that women are kept in a state of perpetual childhood. They are trained to think of themselves as existing for men’s enjoyment, and so they become focused on beauty and elegance and romantic love. Independent thought and physical activity are discouraged, and so women become mentally and physically weak.

Some people may look at this argument as woman-hating, as lifting up the masculine above the feminine. To me, that would be a misreading. Wollstonecraft does not hate women or all femininity– she hates inferiority and demands full personhood. In fact, she hates the blind authority that parents exert over all children, breaking their spirits and demanding complete obedience. It’s not always apparent, and sometimes she slips up especially in terms of class (this is a glaring problem with the work), but I appreciate her critique of all sorts of people’s inability to really think independently– whether that is nobility, soldiers, or women. She is critical of the conditions that make any person focused on status and wealth, appearances and reputation.

One of her thoughts on love that really struck me is that women are trained to prize romantic love above all else, and in doing so, they neglect other virtues, other vital aspects of being human. Yep, it happens. Also, she makes an argument about inequality being a source of immorality. The religious aspects of her argument are hard to embrace for sure, and it’s difficult to not be skeptical of some of the language. But overall, yes, I guess I do basically believe that inequality is immoral and allows people to do really horrible things. Ha.

I would definitely suggest this if you have the time. Wollstonecraft was an intriguing historical figure with a strong commitment to something really human in everyone, and I relate to that and care deeply about it as well. Of course, oppression is more complex and multi-faceted than she is able to get at. But what’s at the heart of the argument is still really important and relevant. I am excited to read the biography by Claire Tomalin!