My Happy Life: The Disturbingly Sane

by Nicolette Westfall

In My Happy Life, Lydia Millet takes the view that the members of society that do not fit in are insane to various degrees and turns it on its head. The main character, an unnamed woman, narrates her story from a room in an abandoned mental health building. She traces her life from the beginning, as an orphan, through extremely physically abusive school years and onto life being held captive and tortured by a wealthy man.

While presenting her story, she shows such love and humour, despite the atrocities that are committed continually against her mind and body. She experiences too many horrors that would make a “normal” person crack. In the end, she starves to death.

In clever writing, Millet is able to present society as the disturbed, insane landscape that it is. At almost every turn, regular people and children take advantage of the character’s innocence and acceptance of others. Trusting and patient, she loves and forgives. Despite her inability to differentiate between good and bad people, and the injuries her person receives, I can’t argue that she is insane—it is the perpetrators out there that abuse her which are disturbed.

While at first glance, the comparison between her and Britney Spears appears far-fetched, a closer look reveals that it really is we, the mass consumers, who are rather deranged. We are the ones that read sites like perezhilton and tmz and buy People magazine for the latest gossip on the pop wreck. There would be no millions if we did not buy into her over-sexed image and the post-fallout.

There is debate over how much influence the pressures of celebrity life and the hordes of photographers have had on Spears’ mental health. Even if Spears is in on the photography frenzy, the pressure of catering to the paparazzi is increasing in Hollywood. Celebs like George Clooney argue safety must come first, not photos.

Regardless of which came first, pre-disposed mental issues or the spotlight of fame, it is absolutely morbid that celebrities, especially Spears, are flanked by hordes of photographers wherever she goes, with masses of mindless consumers shilling out money for trivial tidbits instead of putting that money towards mental health research—just as it is quite disturbing that Millet’s character faces abuser after abuser until she is finally left behind to face a cruel death alone. While the contexts and factors involved in each woman’s mental instability are very complex and differ accordingly, both women display the damaging consequences of the predator in human nature.

Virginia Woolf and the Insanity of Criticism in Mrs. Dalloway

Initially, I intended to discuss the complexities of oppression and insanity, looking at both the Great War veteran, Septimus Warren Smith and Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway, comparing the pressures of war and violence to suffering the transition of going from Clarissa to Mrs. Richard Dalloway, arguing that it is those that work continually to conform that are insane. Taking a humanist approach would have eclipsed the underlying feminist theme that women are criticized into behaving and, even then, aren’t taken seriously.

Men are given some validity to fall back on. Although Smith commits suicide, he is given credit for his effort on the war front. Mrs. Dalloway receives no such praise. She is seen by even the man who obsessively loves her, Peter Walsh, as a woman who wastes her time holding frivolous parties.

As Mrs. R. Dalloway, she busies herself maintaining the upper crust lifestyle. When reflecting on others and how they perceive her, she is Clarissa, and she recognizes that Peter criticizes her. All he has to do is look at her and she can feel it. There is a bit of her identity underneath the wedding ring and bourgeois façade. She silently stands by her interest in throwing society parties—it’s what she likes to do, and it’s something that gives her purpose.

The same cannot be said for Smith’s wife, Lucrezia. She has trouble separating herself from her husband’s plight, arguing that although Smith can be content without her, she can’t say the same for herself. Her view is odd, especially when considering how difficult it is for her to deal with his shell shock (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). He is unbearable to live with, but she has conformed to the role of wife by suffering by his side, which drowns out her own identity.

Criticism comes from many angles in our lives; parents who want to see us financially off, lovers who worry about our life choices, friends who want what’s best for us—but we learn from Mrs. Dalloway that the best reaction to such pressures is to preserve the self. Mrs. Dalloway is still clearly Clarissa, because she holds the party despite Peter’s criticisms. Her old friend, Sally Seton, although considered a radical in her youth, does not hold up to her true nature; she folds and eventually chalks her contribution to society as a mother of five sons, yes, five sons, she had five sons.

For women, one of the best contemporary arguments to stand strong against pressures to conform to others and their standards comes from Paulo Coelho and his work, The Witch of Portobello. Although he is a male writer, he, like Virginia Woolf, provides space for the central female character to continue being true to herself. Although party planning is stressful, Clarissa validates herself. Coelho’s character Athena faces the reality of teaching others without any prior preparation and does it despite serious threats from the established religious institutions. In the end, things work out for both women because they do not listen to others.

As women, we need to listen to ourselves and ignore both external and internal negatives which hamper our own growth. Men also face doubts and pressures which steer them away from their own dreams, but women face the double obstacle of the societal fear of the feminine. Coelho acknowledges that women through the ages have developed an intuition that men do not usually posses—so listen to it, use it, and deal with life accordingly. To do so is to preserve self validation, whether it is through throwing upper crust parties or getting people to set aside their fears and live the way they want to.

Honey, Your Man Doesn’t Care about Martha Stewart: Confessions of a Slacker Housewife

by Nicolette Westfall

I wasn’t attracted to the book initially, because it has a yellow and pink cover, with ironing board, pearls, and a woman’s high heel, but something must have drawn me to it, because I picked it up, bought it, and read it within hours. Essentially, Muffy Mead-Ferro’s argument is that women don’t really need to put on the Martha Stewart or the extreme anti-bacterial war stance that contemporary advertising assists in brainwashing them into.

Personally, I’m not the type to crochet fancy clothes or buy instruction books on how to make fancy dinner napkins—a card table in the kitchen and a couple torn chairs does us fine, thanks. My unashamed spare furnishings and lack of ornamentation, to The Gentleman’s credit, never bothered him. It really is as Muffy suggests—women choose to waste precious time on unnecessary domestic frivolities.

When a man has his buddies over, they tend to eat out of chip bags and use paper towel napkins, not the latest in fine linen clothes. Although Muffy and her women folk have the urge to just go out and buy chips and dip, they choose instead to slave away for hours upon days in their kitchens, experimenting on creating the perfect dinner menus for guests that they just don’t have time to socialize with.

Muffy’s husband is somewhat more supportive then many other men—he’s actually changed a diaper or two (just pretend the other 4,000 changes don’t exist). He also understands that she juggles both a career and raising the wee tots. He just doesn’t get it that she puts energy into things like dusting things people can’t see, like the tops of light fixtures.

One oddity I found was her coverage of their sex life. She admitted to being tired from the dual duty of mom-career woman and treating sex like it was just another chore on the list. Completely in tune with Muffy, her husband patiently waited it out—there is no mention of porn at all (unless I missed it), implying that he isn’t into it. She also brings up her brief experimentation with toys, and notes that she has no need for self-satisfaction, preferring only him.

When I was with The Gentleman, I continued to live on my own and was solely responsible for rent, household cleaning, my schooling, etc… and yet I still found that I had sexual energy. The only damper was the fact that The Gentleman tended to wander, and so, he was the root cause of much dissatisfaction. He also took part in the common male habit of downloading gigs upon gigs of pirated porn on one of his hard drives. Alas, Muffy’s relationship with her man is quite different, as he is clearly stronger and more patient than most men when it comes to denial of their physical needs.

Beyond her commentary on intimacy, Muffy’s attempt to humorously enlighten women really is an important memoir-manual. Whether we like it or not, we exist in a sexist society, one in which men do not women seriously—yes, Muffy’s husband does ask her where the bread was, expecting her to keep the groceries stocked—in my household, all family members (ok, there’s just two of us, but still…) are expected to take part in weekly grocery shopping and the prep of family meals.

While her hubby recognizes and validates her as a career woman (lucky for her, because many men, like The Gentleman, don’t), he has trouble validating her domestic work, especially the more frivolous things. These hobbies that take up so much of some women’s time don’t concern men at all. These time wasters as distractions from the real issues at hand; men are still in power and as a result, women are often treated as sex objects that get tossed to the curb once their expiry date hits. While men become more respected as they age, women are seen as obsolete with their first wrinkles. She uses the example of female anchormen, who don’t last long, while their male counterparts carry on for decades.

Her book certainly won’t convince the die-hard Martha Stewarts that all the hand made, colour coordinated ribbons and bows for the dinner party aren’t necessary, but it will show others out there that dust bunnies are ok and that yes, the children can wear the same pants more than once before they are tossed into the wash.

Now, if she can just pick up on the idea that her hubby needs to do his own laundry. Even The Gentleman did his own laundry when he was still living at home with mommy and daddy! The offspring here does his laundry as well—I didn’t dirty his clothes and he isn’t 3 anymore. Upon discussing this book with other women, I was absolutely shocked to find out that they too, do their partners’ and teen children’s laundry. Other members of the household won’t appreciate your hard work if they don’t experience it for themselves.

Oh, and one more thing, as written in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s The Minister’s Wooing, if you don’t tell your male partner about how much hard work went into your domestic presentation, he’ll never know. The man needs to know that it took you 4 hours to prepare and bake that layered strawberries and cream cheesecake, with strawberries you grew in your own organic backyard garden. He may think you’re a little crazy for spending two weeks searching out the appropriate new recipe, instead of using your mother’s time-honoured version, but at least he’ll know why you fell asleep before the foreplay started.

Sssh! Let the cruelty begin: Wuthering Heights and the Child Abuse of Yesterday and Today

by Nicolette Westfall

I’ll never forget one of the first times I came over to The Gentleman’s house, where he lived with his parents while going through his doctorate program. He told me I couldn’t use the front door because it would disturb his father, who liked to sleep there after work every evening. I think I forgot and rang the front anyway. Later, he also told me to use the washroom on the main floor; otherwise the creaking of the stairs to the one above would wake his father.

I thought it very odd that a 20 year old male would fear his father that much. Afterwards, as I got to know the family, I experienced drunken family meetings that did not include his father—the rest sat around the kitchen table, cursing him for his tyranny. From what I hear, to this day, The Gentleman gives his father verbal abuse in kind, though it does not and will not ever even the score—he is his father’s son.

Had I even taken the time to think about my own childhood, where my mother and her addiction to benzodiazepine also left the household children in a perpetual state of silenced fear, I might have reversed my steps and left The Gentleman’s house, to never return. However, love is blind and the self, well, we are conditioned to destroy it, not protect it.

There were bits of history about The Gentleman that I blocked out, like the fact that he was a cutter, and that he spent whole days locked in his room, away from the world. What events lead to this state of mind certainly sprang from his father’s cruelty. It was akin to my mother’s, in which she inflicted various cruel tools of continuous physical and mental punishment upon me in order to erase the fact that she’d had me at such an early age. I don’t know his father’s reasoning behind the cruel and cold upbringing.

The Gentleman was no less cruel than his own father. Often, I’d ground the offspring to his room for the most trivial thing, just to keep him safely away from The Gentleman. Though he never hit us, his verbal manipulations were so devastating that he left us with barely any self-worth and this odd feeling of walking on egg shells even when he wasn’t in our presence.

When the man of the house kicks the woman, she kicks the child, who kicks the dog. After the end of the relationship with The Gentleman, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about what went on behind closed doors. Talking to the girlfriends was not only therapeutic; it got them to open up about the frustrations and stressors they also tried to function with. We found that whenever we’d done something like yell at offspring, the best thing to do was call someone in the support system and confess it. Many women, however, don’t like to admit that they aren’t June Cleaver, and so, they struggle on with guilt and fear their only companions.

These memories started to bloom inside my head when I recently reread Emily Bronté’s Wuthering Heights, a story originally published in 1847 under the pen name Ellis Bell. Within it, the cyclical child abuse seems almost absurd—but for the fact that it goes on in all parts of the world even to this day. Grounding my son to his room to protect him from The Cruel Gentleman is not anything new, if Emily’s Nelly has anything to say about it—she puts Hindley Earnshaw’s son, Hareton, in a cupboard to hide him from drunken Hindley.

Heathcliff, another character violently abused by Hindley when he was young, goes on to torture anybody he can get his hands on. Well, as lord and master over the property (which includes male servants, women, and children), he has the legal right to do whatever he wants to them. Near the end of the story, he sees Hareton and Catherine II together and it reminds him of his long dead love, Catherine I, and himself. All the years of bitter hatred and the blood thirsty need for revenge turn into a self-realization moment of fasting until he dies, which leaves them heirs to his properties (which lawfully belonged to them in the first place). Quite the short, happy little ending –not really any compensation in return for reading an entire novel stuffed with abuses and triggers.

Today, the abuser does not need to die in order to stop or prevent cruelty. There are anti-abuse measures, like laws, which attempt to protect people and children from the devastating actions of traumatic domestic abuses. One of the major obstacles to preventing and eradicating abuse, however, is the silence which promotes and guarantees its cyclical nature. Fear of death, for some women, is enough to keep them silent as well. No easy solution can be reached, for each case is difference, but if we as a society can start to publicly talk about our collective experiences, then we will have taken the first step to acknowledging that child abuse is far more common than we are willing to acknowledge.

A Look at Harriet Beecher Stowe’s The Minister’s Wooing and Married/Involved Women Today

by Nicolette Westfall

Well, I did it: I got through all 578 pages of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s The Minister’s Wooing. I survived the flowery 19th century language and constant satirical jabs at puritanical bible-beating of the religion Stowe grew up with—Calvinism. It’s a significant work of American literature that offers a romantic contrast (and poor comparison) to The Scarlet Letter. What kept me reading the 1859 novel to the last page was Stowe’s humorous portrayal of a clueless but pure girl, Mary Scudder, and how she deals with the Puritanical pressures of 18th century days in Newport, New England. Like any “good woman” of her time (or any time), she is expected to survive a marriage made for communal advantage without getting too depressed or developing things like the sinful habit of cheating on a drab hubby with someone she’s actually attracted to—for better or worse.

The book itself, a hardback edition printed in 1887, was pretty fragile; if I wasn’t careful, the pages tended to rip with the motion of turning. I guess their state reflected that of woman’s identity. Mary’s friend, Madame Virginie Frontignac, notes that men already rule the world, so they need to stop manipulating and scheming women out of the only thing left to them to possess (their own hearts). Knowing that Frontignac is addicted to manipulative Col. Aaron Burr, Mary keeps Burr from her.

Stowe offers many such time-worn insights into human nature, which still ring true today. When Mary finds out that her lover-to-be is dead, she does the right thing by her family and the community, agreeing to marry Dr. Hopkins, the much older, bland, naïve preacher—his redeeming quality is that he is anti-slavery and isn’t afraid of arguing it in the face of slave owners who fuel the town’s economy. Sure, in the end, he presents as admirable, but he’s just not the man Mary loves.

Comparing the 18th century protagonist to modern women, I see a little bit of Mary in the martyrdom of some women I know. Of course, men can be just as guilty of puritanical self-punishment when it comes to marrying and staying with women they truly don’t like or love, but this blog is about the “weaker” sex, and since we’re considered such, we need all the help we can get. So if you’re looking for analysis on men in Stowe’s work and solutions to male-specific marital woes, please look elsewhere.

You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve gotten a bit long-winded—I suppose it’s just residue from reading Stowe’s overly descriptive and detailed story about women who either do or don’t marry men that they’re ill-suited for, like the female characters in a Jane Austen novel. It’s all that family pressure—or persuasion— and fear of not pleasing the guy who asked for your hand when you weren’t interested that has me questioning a society of women who settle with the wrong person for seemingly all the right reasons.

The wrong marital choice today often comes from the dread of being alone or fear of financial instability. It also continues to stem from the heavy conditioning women have undergone throughout the ages that brainwashes them into believing they must please men first, children second, and if there is any energy left over, the household. (That’s right, taking care of ourselves isn’t even on the list.)

I know a career woman who is married to a man out of duty. To note, she is in love with another man, but since she’s been with this boring fellow so long, she felt obligated, and besides, her real soul mate/lover doesn’t have a secure job with benefits! It’s the same thing that happened to Stowe’s other sympathetic female character, Madame Frontignac, who married for economic reasons; she’s so “hard up”, she desperately falls for Burr’s slimy advances.

Another woman I know is with a less than honorable man. He’s taken to dictating to her that she can only listen to music that he likes, and she’s slowly losing her right to hang out with the girls and so on. According to this man, an isolated woman on a short leash makes for a better wife. Marital abuses aside, if the dysfunctional couple stopped bickering at home, in the car, out in public, and at events, they’d probably stop speaking, because they’d have nothing to talk about. But hey, the bills are paid and she can afford a regularly booked manicure! It’s the mindset she was dutifully raised in, like so many women during the time in which The Minister’s Wooing occurs—and now.

According to Stowe, these women’s relationships with men are not healthy, for many reasons, including failure of staying faithful to their Nature. Likewise, Mary, at the mere thought of never seeing her dead lover again, becomes quite subdued and depressed, despite dutifully accepting her role as the good preacher’s wife to be. The local seamstress Miss Prissy Diamond, and freed slave Candace, come to the rescue, saving Mary from her self-inflected martyrdom. Stowe provides a happy ending in the book for all—unless you count the “well-bred” womanizer, Burr, who loses terribly in return for his amoral treatment of the women he preys upon.

I’m not sure if the women I know will break free from the abuses arising on both sides as a result of the inequity in relationships. Reason doesn’t play into it. Women today often don’t have the tight knit female support networks they did back in Mary’s time. We just don’t need the wisdom or support of other women like Virginie, Prissy, and Candace, because with it, we might think more carefully about our choices in life partners and consider avoiding the grim future unhappy ones make.

Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman: Stay Single or Be Eaten Alive

by Nicolette Westfall

Single hood —it is a fate that not many choose, but it is far more appetizing for this body than the alternative; even when I was with the Gentleman. He was the most recent relationship I had and it lasted 3 ½ years. (4 if you count his syrupy sweet courting while still attached to another female corpse.) By the end of it, I really was John Belushi, even in the middle of the long, dark nights. My body ballooned out, and refined sugars provided one of many crutches to hold as the Gentleman ate the remaining self-worth I had tucked away in my Swiss Cheese mind—but thankfully, he accidentally left a few crumbs behind.

He humiliated me one night in a pub. I have this unwomanly habit of treating both men and woman equally important in our society—it isn’t something that wins over friends let alone male lovers. He tried several approaches to get me to see the error of my ways, all to no avail. In punishment, he brought one of his side dishes out to his birthday party for me to sample. There wasn’t much there; no intellect, no fleshy meat, no personality, no good looks, no style, nothing but irritating verbal vomit, as the two of them sickly touch flirted before every one else’s disturbed eyes.

I’m afraid I didn’t respond properly to my lesson like the good little girl he ordered me to be—I turned around in the parking lot and walked away. I was finished. I had no idea that he was actually watching me out of the corner of his eye while he nodded in automatic rhythm to the candy coated girl. She intently hung onto his Gentlemanly word and responded with expected awe. Despite his self-proclamation that night that he was a true “Gentleman,” while pouring her a drink, he followed me down the dark street and forced me to get into the car with them.

It wasn’t my fault that my body made a scene which embarrassed him and shattered his polished public control over me—it simply refused to eat the intense humiliation the Gentleman was trying to force feed me for my own good! I smiled and told him “Have a nice day tomorrow!”, knowing that as I walked away that night, I’d never see him or his half-eaten side dish ever again.

Later, I began to doubt myself and question my sanity. Who in her right mind would embarrass her man like that?! Never mind that he had completely destroyed me for being an independent woman instead of the whiny drip that was glued to him all night. I was ashamed and wondered if what he’d been trying to tell me all along was true—that I was indeed CrAzY, iRrAtIoNaL, and PaRaNoId.

Fortunately, I stumbled upon Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman one day while at the library. Turns out, Marian, the main character, she’s also got a problem like me—she runs when her man, Peter, expects her to conform to presentations that do not jive with her true self. She can’t cope and off she goes!

Atwood has been inside my mind—or maybe I’ve been in hers! Either way, after reading the book to discover a fictional character has also bolted from abuse, I no longer fear that I am insane. Her story washed away my man-made paranoia and I realized that I’m just not the piece of cake the Gentleman tried to wolf down.

In the end, it’s a happy ending for the Gentleman. His career is ceaselessly churning out American green backs, he now lives in the suburbs, has a shiny car, a spit-polished reputation, and, most importantly, a loving, doting, subservient woman who focuses on picking out the perfect off white curtains to go with their sparkling white bed spread. She is pleasantly plump, with the precise amount of low-self-esteem. At the local pub, he plays on his Blackberry, chatting with potential new side dishes, while his main course (already devoured) stares off into space, a permanent smile firmly planted on her obedient face, her rose coloured skin blending oh so nicely with her crisply ironed white blouse and delicately flowered hair kerchief.

I don’t have to ask what she’s thinking because she’s shut her mind off—to use it would ruin his finicky appetite. As for me, as long as I’m expected to be the five course meal on a Gentleman’s well-ordered table, chewed and swallowed piece by piece, I’ll be eating outside, under a tree, with the other free birds who listen to wise women like Atwood, not predator lovers.

Koren Zailckas’ Smashed: Boozing Up the Anger — A Cue for Girls Gone Wild Women

by Nicolette Westfall

There are so many angles the issue of getting drunk and losing control can take. I decided to go with the angle of female reactions to the fact that many men do not respect or treat women as autonomous beings with their own minds. I chose the “Girls Gone Wild” video empire and Koren Zailckas’ New York Times Best Seller Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood as the examples of how women deal with the view that they are merely objects for male entertainment – with coy acceptance or scarred apathy. These reactions by women provide fuel to the fiery argument posed by Globe and Mail columnist Karen von Hahn: Despite past waves of feminism, the value of women (even as a sexual commodity) is declining.

I have a hard enough time on a sober daily basis in dealing with harassment from men who refuse to take “No” as an answer. Recently, I’ve found myself dealing with yet another guy who decided that my “No,” “Not interested,” and “Not dating” all meant “just playing hard to get.” His dismissive response makes me angry. But it does not surprise me when drunken women (and underage girls) give it all up to strangers for “a T-shirt, a pair of panties, and maybe a trucker hat”, according to one 2006 Los Angeles Times report on “Girls Gone Wild”. It is no wonder that this guy saw me as an object, to be taken when he decides.

In the case of the wildly popular “Girls Gone Wild”, where women of (usually) legal consent drunkenly take their clothes off and often perform sex acts for Joe Francis’ cameramen in exchange for a cheap T-shirt, women apparently degrade themselves for the very slim chance of scoring 0.0005 seconds of fame. After showing ID and signing a waiver, they are expected to perform according to Francis/cameraman instructions and their footage is given consideration for inclusion in one of the many GGW videos that go on the market and are aggressively sold through media marketing and a call center that pays callers base wages. It’s a cheap thrill for customers that objectifies and takes advantage of women who are usually under the influence of alcohol before the cameras roll.

Just the sight of commercials with drunken girls baring their bodies turns me off—I can’t watch, and it isn’t just because I’m not into porn. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, and easy money degrading women for “Girls Gone Wild” founder Francis and his cameraman. Yet the girls who’ve gone wild themselves promote GGW, to the point that they judge breast sizes and complain when lesser looking women appear in the videos. They base their worth on whether they get into the videos—even giving up their virginity to Francis, king of the empire, for external male approval. They even note before stripping that their fathers watch the GGW videos. In 2002 Rolling Stone revealed one girl at a Florida night club didn’t even appear to be “weirded out” by the possibility her dad may watch her strip. Aw, let’s make Daddy proud! All in the family!

With increased access to the male sphere of equal opportunity and power, including more equal pay, women are also clearly experiencing the negatives, like binge drinking and drugging, and uncontrolled sexual activity. Lori Aratani of The Washington Post writes that teenage girls now “equal or outpace” teenage boys in binge drinking based on national surveys. The consequences, which reach beyond humiliating evidence that ruins future careers, include addictions and mental illness. In the teenage memoir Smashed, Zailckas works hard not to give herself away sexually. She tries to keep her body intact while getting hammered to dull the pain, yet her binge drinking led to sexual encounters that left her angry, doubting her ability to be a responsible woman. The reality is that society refuses to take women seriously and women sell each other out just for a glimmer of male sexual approval. It makes Zailckas rightfully angry.

Sure, women get the freedom of being publicly sexual when they want to, according to Francis and Hugh Hefner, but it cheapens their already low, and declining, value. Men like Francis and the frat boys presented in Smashed just don’t see anything of worth in women, since they think they can get the whole package for next to nothing – a cheap cotton shirt. Women continue to be merely objects in the male narrative, which involves drinking and sexual aggression, explored in Devon Jersild’s Happy Hours: Alcohol in a Woman’s Life, inspired by her sister’s struggle with alcohol. It’s a boys club and the only way women get in is by giving it all for minimal corporate cost. And these women are twice as likely to become angry alcoholics and die from alcohol poisoning as the men they compete with on the job. Don’t bother assuming that these men see women for what’s inside. Respect and dignity aren’t important. It is as Zailckas points out, “Every woman adores a fascist, the boot in the face.” Many women appear to like the abuse and they continue to take it and encourage other women to participate. The passive-aggressive anger of these women overflows like the countless glasses of mixed cocktails.

When women feed into oppression, it leaves them empty, or with a sense of sadness and bad memories that aren’t washed away with booze—and it ignites into anger. A recent study by the University of Tokyo concludes that “ethanol — an intoxicating agent in alcohol — does not cause memory to decrease, as widely believed, but instead locks it in place.” Zailckas never consented to the “Girls Gone Wild” self-degradation, but she recalls abuse while in a drunken state. Zailckas has since overcome the drinking and self-loathing, but she acknowledges that it has left her emotionally scarred. She experiences the anger that I get when men (and sometimes women) refuse to accept me as an autonomous person with my own mind. I wonder what would happen to the potential GGW women if they read Smashed. Maybe they’d think twice about letting men like Francis (who flies around in his own personal jet) colonize their bodies for next to nothing. The feel-good buzz is temporary, but the scars are permanent.

Single Parent Soldier Woman: From communal support in Boudicca’s time to harassment and standing alone in present day America

Single parenting, with or without non-custodial parent/grandparent support and cooperation, is difficult in itself, never mind when the pressures of war are thrown into the mix. Similarly, war on its own, without the responsibility of taking care of a child or children, is also difficult to handle. Combine the two and one can but imagine the compounding stress arising from such a situation.

In “The soldier-parent dilemma” (Newsweek, 1990), Kantrowitz spoke of how parents like Army Sgt. Terrie Cortez, who planned on leaving her baby with her parents while on tour, end up with general discharges when faced with the reality that there is no one to take care of their children in their absence. Other women seeing battle in places like Iraq face not only rape by their male counterparts and suicide, but also death in battle and, if they return to America alive, denied child custody. Granted, men also face these issues while doing military service, but unlike women, they aren’t treated as physically inferior or denied their own voices. Sure, women like Teresa Broadwell and Misty Frazier receive medals for combat bravery, but they receive none of the attention that women presented in the media as the damsel-in-distress stereotypes (i.e. Jessica Lynch) do.

The current western view of women as worthless burdens, especially in times of war (and in, well, any profession, at any time) stems partly from the Roman Empire. One feminist reaction to the deeply engrained societal marginalization of women appears in the retooling of the Boudica woman warrior story. From the Libertines’ lyrics (“The Good Old Days”) that sing of Boudica’s spirit living on through the generations, to Manda Scott’s Dreaming the Bull and women who led armies, the argument that women are not useless cannot be quieted. Cwmfen (pronounced “Koom-ven”) fights in battle with her infant daughter and the babe’s father because she has no other choice.

Boudica herself is able to lead the resistance against Rome because her unplanned daughter, Graine, stays on the isle of Mona under the protection of the priestesses. There is no custody fight over her “best interest”—the community acknowledges and accepts Boudica as Graine’s mother and anticipate her return. 1rst century Celtic children are raised by everyone, not just the lone legal guardian.

The book compares the Celtic community to the spiritless Roman exaltation of the free adult male. Rome’s army is made up entirely of males who love each other physically and mentally. Women aren’t needed beyond breeding or ornamentation in show of wealth. Children do not matter unless they are boys. Boudica’s half brother Bán, a.k.a. Valerius, loves several men including his commanding officer. Outwardly, he only acknowledges women and children when he kills or hangs them during duty. The Roman male-centered community does not work, however, for Valerius is plagued by the ghosts of his family—women included.

The Roman military remains the ideal for many men in the American forces today. Women are systematically denied acknowledgement. The approach does not work even in fictionalized legend. Emperor Claudius’ wife, Agrippina, is not allowed at meetings because she is a lowly woman, but she reigns victorious over her husband in the end by poisoning him and supplanting her own son, Nero, on the Emperor’s seat.

The solution for modern day single parent women in the military, who face more than their fair share of issues, isn’t to poison the men who constantly suppress them, but to band together. The communal life of old, like anything else, has its drawbacks, but the advantages, especially for women and children—and even misogynistic men–far outweigh the negatives.

Rape in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Ravens of Avalon and the Modern American Military

by Nicolette Westfall

In Ravens of Avalon, a fictionalized account of historical first century Celtic Queen Boudica, rape is displayed and handled in several different ways. First, there is the marriage bed. Boudica, is raped by her warrior husband, Prasutagos, after he sniffs out the scent of another man (Pollio). Boudica’s confidant, priestess Lhiannon, glosses over the fact of rape by attempting to figure out whether he has been violent or is simply guilty of mishandling Boudica (165, 168). Of course, Boudica and Prasutagos make up in a Beltane ceremony (192) and enjoy years of peace until he dies of illness.

Men were legally able to rape their wives in pre-industrial times and so we have slight acknowledgement to it in Ravens. In the current era, it is not legal. It was not until 1993 that marital rape became a crime in all 50 states of America. The U.S. is certainly not alone in previously upholding the view that wives consented to their husbands sexual advances at all times simply through the act of becoming men’s property in marriage; Countries such as England and Wales did not make marital rape a crime until 1991. Married women have not gained much ground at all since Boudica’s period in history.

The problem of protecting women from their own husbands highlights the seriousness and prevalence of sexual assault against women. It is no wonder that women face the same danger in their military lives. From recruitment to military colleges and Iraq, sexual misconduct is something that the American DOD simply hasn’t methodically confronted yet. While the military gradually makes progress in dealing with it, cases continue to make headlines. Army specialist Suzanne Swift went AWOL in early 2006 after what she reported as sexual harassment at the hands of her immediate military supervisors. One of the more recent stories involves Lance Cpl. Maria Lauterbach, who was visibly pregnant at the time of her disappearance in December 2007. Her body was found in January and the fellow Marine she claimed had raped her has been charged by authorities with murder.

Lance Cpl. Sally Griffiths reported rape (by a fellow Marine) in 1993 and accidentally found out that the soldier admitted to the crime. The Marine responsible never received any consequences. More recently, Sgt. Robert Shackelford was acquitted of raping a female soldier and convicted of indecent assault, because forensics could only prove sexual assault, not actual rape; besides, the male witnesses provided a solid fraternity front with inconsistent testimony.

In most situations, the cultural norm of blaming the victim, coupled with the “he did serve his country” mentality, makes it almost impossible for victims to even consider pursuing charges.

Unlike the U.S. military, there are no instances of fellow soldiers raping their female counterparts (not wives) in Ravens. There are plenty of images of enemy soldiers (Romans and traitors), raping Celtic women and even Boudica’s daughters. The Roman men throw “dice” in order to decide who gets to gang bang the young girls first (292). Boudica’s rage fuels her people into a walking army that fights against Roman colonization. The rape of royalty is intolerable in the community (298). Boudica’s men, however, are not immune to using rape as a measure of control against Roman women or Celtic women who have, along with their husbands, chosen Rome’s side. Boudica is conflicted because she is both their leader and a woman. Her inner conflict is reconciled by the idea that her men would simply desert the cause if she forbade them from raping the women (335). She remains silent as they violently carry out the task and the victimized women scream.

Through the centuries, little has changed regarding reactions and solutions to rape in the martial bed and on the war front. Ravens and recent media attention to rape cases indicate that rape is a frequent and normal element of humanity that shows no signs of disappearing any time soon; it is so systematic and deeply embedded that outlawing rape and instituting military policies such as never going out alone or making sure you go to the washroom with another female soldier are only band-aid solutions.

Cited Works:

Bradley, Marion Zimmer. Ravens of Avalon. Viking: Toronto, 2007

Woman Worthless, Never Mind Female Support Networks: From a Reworking of the Arthurian Legend to Present Day India

I first decided to write up a piece about my frustration with the competitive and catty nature of many women in North American society, who try to tear each other down—all in the bid for hollow male approval, instead of banding together to rip apart the male-centric system. I thought about applying the example of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s overtly critical statement of the Christian hierarchy in The Mists of Avalon to argue that women need to come together and support each other; they are potentially half of the solution to misogyny. As I began to reread the book, however, the age-old theme of the patriarch placing value only on the male child/heir kept cropping up. As long as people think a pregnant woman is going to give birth to a male, there is hope; when a girl child comes into being, disappointment infiltrates all levels of Arthur’s realm. Bradley’s pro-feminist reinterpretation of a legend that is open to countless possibilities still cannot erase the fact that girl babies are less than equal to their male counterparts.

Bradley presents the devaluation of the female child in a tempered manner, through both sexes, which is highlighted through Morgaine’s character, who oft laments society’s repulsion to girl children. The story is a fantasy that allows Morgaine’s mother, Igraine, to keep and nurse her girl child despite her husband, Gorlois’ righteous need for a male heir. Of course, Gorlois has bastard sons with other women—women who Igraine treats with indifference, rather than as allies in the suppressive atmosphere. Although it is not Igraine’s fault she does not bear him a son (he’s very likely impotent, as a result of various reasons including age), he punishes her physically for her failure. Christian men simply don’t value inferior fetuses (girls).

The medieval European view of male worth compared to female burden, partly a consequence of male property rights, has not gone away, despite feminist movements in various parts of the world. The situation has gotten worse in some areas. India has received much press for the rising trend in sex selective abortions, often termed “miscarriages” to cover up the discriminate termination of female fetuses. Expensive dowries for burdensome women (never mind that women still perform the majority of housework and child raising) are deterrents for having girls and so many parents are opting for illegal ultrasounds (banned in 1994) in the second trimester to determine the sex of the unborn. Other influences like preference for boys (which are not specific to India) add to the growing numbers of sex-selective abortion, decided in the majority of cases not by the individual pregnant woman, but her family. The termination of female fetuses is so successful that there are approximately 800 girls born for every 1,000 boys in areas such as Haryana, Punjab, and Gujarat. The issue isn’t whether abortion itself should be allowed as a choice, but that it may turn into female genocide.

When discussing the discrimination against female fetuses, the non-abortive ratio of male to female births must be included. In general populations, for example, in Canada, the ratio is not too distorted in favour of females (one study found a 0.2% decrease in male births from 1970 to 1990) when taking into account external variables. Dodd suggests that light variances in the sex ration do naturally balance out. The birth rate of female children does, however, outstrip that of males in polluted environments. One such case study involves the Aamjiwnaang First Nation, located on a heavily polluted reserve near Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. The birth ratio of this Chippewa nation is two girls for every one boy. Excluding cases of environmentally influenced male foetus termination, the willful removal of unborn females in India is the modern culmination of the medieval devaluation of women before they are even born.

The transition from communal medieval disappointment in female offspring to removal of female fetuses is a warning; sex-selective abortions do not lead to treatment of the female body as a worthy prized specimen for coveted breeding. The contrary is already being experienced in some regions in India, where women are sold, forced into polyandry, and abandoned or killed because they don’t produce sons. People on an international level must stand up and call for an end to the deadly discrimination. What happens in India is not only physical manifestation of the lack of female power within a patriarch, but also a call for global social justice intervention.

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