Because I am a Woman

"That I am a woman. I cannot ignore that fact. I realize that I am fragile. I always thought that I was tough. After, I realized that I was very fragile, emotionally, physically, even psychologically."

Nathalie Provost, Survivor of the Montreal Massacre, December 6, 1989.

I am fortunate: There are many men in my life that like women. My husband, several of my friends. I do not know many men who hate women. I do not live with one, I am not friends with any. I am fortunate, not everyone is.

20 years ago today, Marc Lepine walked into a university, with the express goal of killing women and killing himself. He did both.

Until women aren't fragile anymore, I will remember.

Bad Words

It started a few weeks ago, when I asked co-worker A if her cervix was at all dilated and effaced. (Actually, to be technical, I asked what her Bishop's Score was, and when she didn't know what that was; I asked if she was dilated.)

Co-worker B was horrified. Horrified that I would say the word cervix. Horrified that I was so blase. Horrified about an unspeakably personal question. And (horrified!) a male co-worker heard me say the word cervix. (Because men have never heard of a cervix. Ever.) She lectured me on how inappropriate this discussion was. She tried to tell me the word was 'bad'. Says I: "It's called a cervix. When it dilates, you are closer to having a baby. It's not a dirty word, it's not a bad word, it's an anatomical term."

Anyway.

I was sitting at my desk on Monday, and people in the next pod over were talking about Jasmine Fiore. And I hear this:

They identified her by her, you know. Implants.

Implants?

She had implants in her . . . you know.

Huh?

She had implants in her boobies.

Breasts.

Let's all say it together. The word is breasts. They are called breasts. Women have breasts.

Breasts are not dirty. Neither are cervixes.

Enough.

If we won't own the words that describe our bodies, how do we ever expect our self-respect, our identity as women, our health to be taken seriously?

Say it with me.

Breasts.

Cervix.

You have them. So do I. Let's use the right words. Let's teach the right words to our sons and daughters.

I mean it.

prostitution

I have been thinking about writing a post about why prostitution is wrong. I have been thinking about the ways I could engage you all in my passion for the subject, in my quest to make a difference for the girls living this life.

And the problem is that I don't quite no where to begin. But maybe it's by saying this:

When I moved into my neighbourhood 4 years ago, I didn't know much about prostitution. I knew it existed. I had a classmate that put herself through University working as a call girl. But street level prostitution, well, I knew it existed, out there somewhere. If you asked me about it, I might have said something like "Well, I don't like it. I don't think it's a good idea, but really, it's between the women who do it, and then men who hire them."

And then I moved to somewhere.

Just the words I have used give me pause now. The women who "do" this, and the men who "hire" them. As easily and casually as if they were hiring someone to clean their house or watch their children. Except, not really.

One of the things that astounded me about the entire subject was to realize that prostitution isn't about sex. Mostly it's about possession and control and power. It is exactly what those John's say it is - it's about buying a woman. That's the term they use "buying a woman".

Now, I know someone will come along, sooner or later and point out that maybe selling sex is a viable economic prospect for these women, and who am I, with my moral puritanical-ness to tell them what they can and cannot do with their bodies.

And I suppose that's why I haven't written a blog about it. Because I know, deep within me that selling sex may be big business, but it's not ever going to empower women to sell their bodies and not their minds. I think we can all agree that men aren't hiring any woman: be she on a street corner, in a massage parlour, in a high priced hotel, or in a yellow pages ad for "escort services"; for her mind. Frankly, if they wanted someone for her mind, they could go and strike up a conversation with a woman. You know, have a relationship.

No, there's a problem with saying that it's ok for women to sell their bodies, but frankly, I'm still not sure how to articulate it, other than to call it a form of slavery.

But really, that's not what strikes me most about prostitution. You see, when someone asks me why prostitution is wrong, I think of the woman I saw, standing on a street corner 2 years ago, on Christmas Day.

She was standing kiddy-corner to my house, at about 8:30 am. It was cold, I think. She was standing there, waiting for a man to pick her up. On Christmas Day. Now, you can tell me that women might consider this to be empowerment, a valid way to make a living, but the truth is, did you work outside on Christmas day? When I was going to open presents and have eggs Benedict, she was standing, looking, waiting for a John.

Did you stand outside, looking for work on Christmas?

And lest you start thinking of this as a terribly Dickensian scene, she was standing there, freezing, stoned out of her mind. Frankly, the girls in my neighbourhood usually are stoned. I hardly wonder why, I'm sure I would have to be too.

Could we all just agree, irregardless of what you think of women's rights, irregardless of your position on empowerment, that she probably, in whatever lucid bit of her was left, she probably didn't want to be there either.

Could we leave the issue of whether she should be there, or wants to be there, or even if this is an economically viable method of supporting yourself aside. Could we say that when you have to be stoned out of your mind to do a job, when your job supports being stoned out of your mind, and when that job has you performing risky work on Christmas Day, that we have an obligation to stand up and help you?

Irregardless of the politics, could we make it about the people - the women? And could we be their voice?

Going to See a Man About a Seat

Mr. Spit and I received an invitation to go and see our MLA be sworn in at the provincial legislature. So we put on our nice clothes and our shiny faces and off we went.

The process is actually very short - we spent substantially more time waiting for the show to start than we actually did watching any sort of swearing.

Yesterday I read this article, with its awful sub text that women have no need of an expensive education, when all they will be doing is staying home to care for their babes. There are so many things wrong this article, I don't know quite what to say.

So, I sat in visitor's gallery of the Provincial Legislature and I watched 4 young girls, obviously there with their parents. I thought about men who want to limit their lives, before they are even old enough to know their options. I remembered my first time in the legislature.

My mother was working as a lobbyist, and she had a piece of legislation that was receiving third reading in the house that night. So, we went off to watch. I think my mother wanted me to learn something. On the way to the visitor's gallery, she stopped off at Pam Barrett's office, Pam was working with my mum on the legislation, and I think my mother wanted to thank Pam for her assistance.

Pam was a small woman, with an enormous personality. I was slightly overawed, sitting in the corner of her office, reading Nancy Drew. I had probably been told to be quiet, to not be a bother, and not to ask questions. Pam obviously loved politics. She loved the fight, she loved the elbows in the corner, but more than that, she loved the way a good politician can change lives, can use legislation to make life better for people. She spoke to my mum for a bit, but then she started talking to me. About what was happening in the legislature. Why it mattered. Why I should care.

I remember that night, as she showed me through the legislature. She walked along with me, and she told me the stories about the traditions of the legislature, she told me stories about politicians from history, and more than that, she taught me to love political life. A bit of the fire in her belly passed to me. I knew that I didn't need to hide in the corner, that girls could be active in politics too. That politics were a worthy place to expend your effort. That politics matter. They are important.

I have a draft post about women, and their role in society. It's a reminder that they shouldn't be exiled to their kitchen's in suburbs. Stay home and raise your kids if you want to, I don't have a problem with that. But know, it's not your only option. It's not your only role, and you have a responsibility, not just to your children, but to society as a whole. Women will spend only a small portion of their life changing diapers, and have so much more to contribute to our collective life than just the rearing of children. We need to prepare all women for that.

We need women's voices in our political system because women are different from men. Not better, not worse, but different. We look at things differently. We have different priorities, different agenda's. Even in this world, there are still women's issues. Pensions, pay inequity, domestic violence. It frightens me when the evangelical right tries to leave us education less, with no options for our future. No education so often means no voice. No ability to organize. No ability to look at the thoughts, the positions, the statements of others and discern how they will affect us.

But today, I saw a woman take the oath of office. Her name is Rachel Notley, and she comes by politics honestly - it runs in her family. And more than that, I saw four young women watch her do it. They watched Rachel stand up for her beliefs, for the right of everyone in our society to have a voice in our government, and they saw her pledge to make life better for everyone. They saw a woman take her seat in the Government, and pledge to demand change.

I was proud. Proud of Rachel, proud of all women who stand up to men who want us in the kitchen. And proud I could be there with 4 young women who will know that there are always options, and any woman can fight for all of us.

I'm still disgusted with Boundless. I'm horrified by the women who so blindly advocated that education is useless for women. I don't know what's wrong with them. I'm disgusted by them. But that's ok, because today, a group of women watched one of our own stand up and proclaim that she'd fight. In the corners. With her elbows. And we said "go for it".

And damn, I'm proud.

When having a baby can kill you - Thoughts on the International Women's Day

I was reading this (from here), and I again realized that a fluke of birth country saved my life.

So, our son was born 15 weeks premature - when I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia. If you look at the stats, a woman dies of pre-eclampsia every 6 minutes. Yet, when we look at how often a woman in the US or Canada dies, we see only several hundred. I was automatically given magnesium sulfate, a drug that prevents the deaths associated with maternal convulsions. In Europe and North America, you get pre-eclampsia, you get magnesium sulfate. In Afghanistan or Iraq? You die. From pregnancy. From a life threatening condition, that we can treat. Magnesium Sulfate saves lives. In the year 2008, where we have a pill for men who can't get it up anymore, women die of being pregnant. And they don't have to.

Were you wanting a reason to write your MP? How about encouraging them to spend more than 0.3% Of Canada's GDP on assistance to developing nations. 'Cause pregnancy, it shouldn't kill you.