Wham-Bam-Gracias-Ma'am

fashiongtondc: John Boehner wears a tie to match his eyes...

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 23:03:42 -0500

John Boehner wears a tie to match his eyes during his March 3, 2013 appearance on Meet the Press.

What great style.

fashiongtondc: Lindsey Graham and John McCain may be...

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 23:02:46 -0500

Lindsey Graham and John McCain may be “hell-bent” on pursuing Benghazi, but the only thing that is really hell-bent here are those awful clashing striped ties.

Oh no they didn’t.

Dogs

Fri, 18 Jan 2013 19:22:15 -0500

I am absolutely terrified of dogs. I hate when dogs look at me, bark at me, get in my personal space, growl at me, and band together to run circles around me as if I could possibly want to play with them.

I don’t want to play with them. I don’t want to acknowledge them. I want them to leave me alone. I am terrified of them.

Yesterday I asked Escafandra to meet me at the Telepizza in Plaza Italia at 7:30. I forgot that I had told her 7:30 though and thought I said 7. She was running late as well, so I spent a good hour plastered to the wall waiting in terror and observing everything that was going on in the plaza.

Telepizza makes me ridiculously uncomfortable. It’s a great meeting spot because everyone knows where it is and there are always people waiting around for friends before going out since it’s so near all of the bars, but it is crawling with scumbags who harass any and every woman who dares to stand outside of Telepizza by herself.

Just like every other time I have waited outside of Telepizza a slew of men ranging from around 14 to 60 took my presence as an opportunity to give me a good long creeper up and down glance. Some looked me right in the eyes and walked right up to only inches away from my face before continuing on their way. Some whispered things at me. Some whistled at me. Some pointed at me and talked about me with their group of friends.

There was a stray dog waiting outside of Telepizza as well. The dog hated men. Every time a man walked too close to it the dog would freak out and bark and chase the trespasser. No man could walk anywhere near the dog without the dog’s fighting back.

None of the men took kindly to the dog’s threatening their personal space or right to be in front to Telepizza. The men freaked out. Each of them felt the need to let the dog know that they were allowed to be in front of Telepizza. They yelled at the dog. They hit the dog with their bags. They barked back at the dog. They made eye contact and got even more into the dog’s personal space. They kicked the dog. They belligerently fought back.

And then once they had won the battle with the dog some would slink over and take my presence as an opportunity to give me a good up and down glance. Some looked me right in the eyes and walked right up to only inches away from my face before continuing on their way. Some whispered things at me. Some whistled at me. Some pointed at me and talked about me with their group of friends.

When it comes to being alone and outside in Santiago the only thing that scares me more than stray dogs is machista men who do not see the irony in their fights with the stray dogs that threaten their presence in public.

I don’t want to play with them. I don’t want to acknowledge them. I want them to leave me alone. I am terrified of them.

When it comes to women’s issues, both parties campaigns make me pretty uncomfortable

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 18:54:00 -0500

As a person whose main concerns during this election have to do with the issues that face women, I was quick to jump on the Obama train after the Republican National Convention. I was really uncomfortable about the fact some of the only things that anyone said about women had to do with the idea that a woman’s most important role in society is that of a wife and mother. I agree that wives and mothers are worth protecting, but what about us childless unmarried girls who have no interest in obtaining children or husbands? I’m pretty set on the idea that women’s roles are no longer confined to wife/mother/caregiver—so there ended any hope in my having an interest in the Republican Party back in August.

Then I was super into the Obama campaign. The Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, same sex marriage, access to contraceptives, the right to choose, yahoo! The guy spoke to me. Lately though I have lost a lot of faith even in the Democratic Party because of their campaign across college campuses and aimed at younger first-time voters.

“You never forget your first time” is a message paid for by the Democratic Party that we have seen plastered around campus over the past couple of months reminding us of the importance of voting, but undeniably also reminding us of the importance that has traditionally been placed on a woman’s virginity. In addition to posters, a recent video starring Lena Dunham has been circulating the internet with the same message targeted at young voters.

First and foremost, I am upset because the ad campaign completely disregards the staggering statistics of sexual assault and rape on college campuses. New York University’s student health center reports that 1 in 4 college aged women report experiences that meet the legal definitions of rape or attempted rape, 1 in 5 college women are raped during their college years, 1 in 12 college men admit to having committed acts that meet the definition of rape, most survivors of sexual assault are full-time students, and approximately 1 in 3 of them are first year students between 17 and 19 years old. Given these numbers it seems that a college campus especially is a completely inappropriate place to go around comparing voting to sex and placing importance on “your first time”. I agree that getting people to vote is important but I am mortified that whoever made and put up those posters let it come at the extent of students who have been victims of sexual assault being reminded of how important our society thinks “doing it with the right person” is.

Secondly, empowering women and female sexuality cannot be achieved if you are going to shame virgins. Just like I was up in arms about Rush Limbaugh calling Sandra Fluke a slut for using birth control, I am angry about the Democratic Party’s poking fun at a girl’s “not being ready” to have sex. In the Dunham advertisement she claims, “Also, it’s super uncool to be out and about and someone says, ‘Did you vote,’ and ‘No, I didn’t vote, I wasn’t ready.’” Not being ready to vote and not being ready to have sex are two completely different things that should not be compared. Not being ready to have sex is cool. If you are choosing to not have sex I support you personally and think that you are cool, just like how I support you if you are having sex

I am not suggesting that the “you never forget your first time” campaign should be an excuse to not vote. I already voted and I voted for all Democrats despite my disgust at their targeting virgins this year. What can be taken out of this though is that it is obvious that neither party is completely in tune with the issues that face women in the United States. In an attempt to be quirky and hip, even the Democratic Party proved itself somewhat incompetent at recognizing some of the most important issues that face college students.

Sobre la masculinización de la política

Wed, 05 Sep 2012 00:23:22 -0400

En primer lugar, esto no pretende en ningún caso indagar en términos de diferencias de género en política, pues me parece que el tema es mejor abordado, y de manera mucho más eficiente, por otras personas. Lo que quiero hablar aquí, es sobre algo mucho más sutil que eso, que no figura fijo en instituciones, pero que tampoco es posible medir, pues dice más con categorías culturales, en el término laxo de la palabra, aplicadas a la actividad de la política, incluso entendiéndola en su término más clásico. Las polis, o comunidades políticas todos sabemos excluía a las mujeres de la ciudadanía, sin embargo tampoco pretendo hablar de la exclusión política de la mujer. Me refiero a que existe cierto estilo, mecanismo casi innato en el quehacer político de las sociedades Occidentalizadas, en las que lo Masculino determina el vaivén de la acción política. Así, por ejemplo, observamos como ciertas sutilezas de la política, aquellas que tienen que ver con el Appeal político, que bien pueden ser utilizadas en política, no lo son, pues sin siquiera pretender sugerir que existe una naturalidad en lo masculino y lo femenino, son atenuadas por otras características que corresponden básicamente al constructo social del Macho Alfa. Pues dado qusi bien el Genero tiene incidencia clara en la división del poder, entonces eso no puede sino ser el fenómeno político en si. Sin ir más lejos, la definición de lo político desde el poder está prácticamente en cualquier noción de éste. Ahora bien, atendemos entonces a un fenómeno en el que pareciese que se excluye lo que no corresponde con ese ideal. Así, por ejempo, si observamos muchas de las líderes de países, como Michelle Bachellet, Cristina Fernandez (de Kirchner, por supuesto), Margaret Tatcher, y muchas otras, siempre son ajustadas a un modelo ya sea hipermasculinizado, o a una feminización casi paternalista, asemejada a la valoración que se tiene por una Primera Dama. Sea cual fuere el caso, lo cierto es que la opresión de género que se genera va más allá de ese poder mismo que se adquiere. En ese sentido, todos aquellos esfuerzos que pretendan alcanzar la tan manoseada “igualdad de género” simplemente haciendo la llamada “discriminación positiva”, claramente, no entiende ni pretende entender las categorizaciones normativas en pos de mantener la explotación de Género en la que históricamente hemos vivido.

Ramona

On the masculinization of politics

Wed, 05 Sep 2012 00:20:37 -0400

First of all, this is not meant as a probe in terms of gender differences in politics, because I think that said issue is better addressed, and much more efficiently, by other people. What I want to discuss here is something much more subtle than that, something that is not fixed in institutions, but that is also not possible to measure, but it says more about cultural categories, in the loose sense of the term, applied to political activities, including the understanding of it in its more classic sense. Politics, or political communities, we all know exclude women from citizenship; however they also do not talk about the political exclusion of women. What I mean is that there exists a certain style, almost an innate mechanism in the political agenda of Western societies, in which the masculine determines the sway of political action. For example, we observe that certain subtleties of politics, those having to do with “political appeal”, which may very well be used in politics, are not, because without even trying to suggest that there is anything natural in the “masculine” and the “feminine”, they are tempered by other characteristics that are essentially the social construct of the Alpha Male. Given that gender does actually have a clear influence on division of power, this cannot be the political phenomenon in itself. Without going much further, the definition of politics from power is virtually in any notion of this. But then we look at a phenomenon which seems to exclude that which does not correspond to this ideal. For example, if we observe many of the leaders of countries, like Michelle Bachellet, Cristina Fernandez (of Kirchner, of course), Margaret Thatcher, and many others, they are always adjusted to a model which is already hyper-masculinized, or almost a paternalistic feminization, likened to the valorization that one would have were she the First Lady. Whatever the case, what is for sure is that gender oppression is generated somewhere beyond this exact power where it is acquired. In this sense, all efforts to achieve the warped sense of “gender equality” are simply calling to “positive discrimination”, clearly not understanding nor wanting to understand the normative categorizations in the pursuit of maintining the gender exploitation that we have historically lived.

Ramona

Mujeres en el Deporte

Sat, 01 Sep 2012 17:38:19 -0400

Tras el mundial que paso ya hace algún tiempo, me quedaron algunos pensamientos dando vueltas por mi cabeza. Mis dudas partieron mientras veía el noticiero de la tarde donde dos comentarista hablaban sobre el rendimiento de los deportistas en diferentes ámbitos, entre sus descripciones algo obvias , me llamo la estación de pronto un comentario que salto desde uno de los despreocupados periodistas : Hoy en día las mujeres están en todos los deportes incluso hay mujeres que hacen lucha… Entonces me cuestioné qué tanto resultado había dado el esfuerzo de habernos tomado los espacios en búsqueda de esta supuesta paridad al practicar los mismos deportes , si a fin de cuentas se caía en la misma línea de establecer entre la chica que hace nado sincronizado , de otra que hace pesas o de un chico que hace gimnasia artística de otro que hace atletismo por ejemplo. Entonces se dan ciertas ideas performativas (performance en la cual Butler afirma que con nuestros actos creamos nuestra propia identidad de género) que se manifiestan en los repertorios de las personas cuando relacionan más un tipo de deporte más para mujeres o más para hombres.

Mas tarde navegando por internet, vi en los titulares de algunas páginas noticiosas, donde la idea anterior se va repitiendo, pero de otra forma. Aquí me encontré con una noticia sobre cuales eran las deportistas mas guapas de las olimpiadas, entonces comenzaban halagando los sensuales ojos de tal , el voluminosos trasero de otra y las excitantes piernas de aquella tenista etc. Como si al final el merito no se lo llevara el esfuerzo, la pación o la perseverancia que estas deportistas le imprimían a cada competencia, sino el rasgo accesorio de su belleza. Entonces me cuestione si al final, habíamos ganado terreno al practicar los mismos deportes que los hombres, o simplemente habíamos cambiado la forma, pero no el fondo, dado que seguimos percibiendo las mismas diferencias de siempre, solo que camufladas con un lindo eslogan de aquí somos todos iguales.

Todo esto me hizo sentido con el contraste que se ven en Chile respecto al deporte, ya que hace algún tiempo salió el resultado de una prueba ( SIMCE) que se hace en los colegios para medir el rendimiento de los alumnos e variadas áreas , una de ellas el deporte. Si bien esta prueba tiene muchas deficiencias, al menos sirve para analizar algunos de los aspectos generales la maltrecha educación de este país (tema larguísimo para debatir). Lo que se observó entre otras cosas, en esa ocasión fue que el resultado de las niñas, en las pruebas de educación física ( deportivas), fue bastante peor al de los niños. Lo interesante es ver si esto tiene o no relación con lo anterior. No tengo en realidad una hipótesis muy acabada de esto, aun que quizás podríamos decir que la representación que nos hacemos de nuestros cuerpos y a la vez de nuestro rol como personas en esta sociedad, muchas veces por falta incentivos ( la educación misma en los colegios muchas veces es para esto como en otros ámbitos también muy sexista) se torna poco activa en el amplio sentido de la palabra.

El deporte es uno de los muchos ámbitos de los cuales aun nos queda mucho por avanzar, por que si bien proclamamos en la actualidad una revolución que equipara el poder de los géneros en todos los aspectos de la vida, esto se da muchas veces de forma y no de fondo. Entonces hace falta que cambiemos nuestros paradigmas sobre lo que se debe o se espera de cada mujer o cada hombre, por que no somos un todo sino un mosaico de atributos ( etnias, clases, edades, religiones…) Para percibir esto es necesario que desempañemos nuestros lentes y nos pongamos serios cuando tratamos de hablar sobre el significado de igualdad, por que hoy solo vemos los contornos difusos que a dejado un largo camino que aun mucho por recorrer.

Escafandra

Women in Sports

Sat, 01 Sep 2012 17:36:09 -0400

After the World Cup that happened a while ago, I was left with some thoughts running around my head. My doubts started when I saw two reporters discussing different athletes, between their somewhat obvious descriptions, my attention was immediately drawn to a comment with came from a careless journalist: “Today women are in all sports, there are even women in boxing…” so I asked myself what sorts of efforts we had to go through to come to this supposed egalitarian place where we can practice the same sports, if in fact we have come to a place where a girl who does synchronized swimming, one who lifts weights or a boy who does rhythmic gymnastics and another who does track for example. Then this gives us certain performative ideas (performance in the sense that Butler affirms with our acts we create our own gender identity) that manifests itself in the reports of the people when we relate a type of sport as being more for women or more for men.

Later I was surfing the internet and I saw the headlines of a few news pages, where the above idea went on repeating itself, but in another way. There I found an article about which of the female athletes in the Olympics were the most beautiful, and then went on complimenting their sensual eyes, their voluptuous butt of another, and the exceptional legs of a certain tennis player, etc. As if in the end their effort was of no real merit, the passion or the perseverance that these athletes showed in every competition, but instead the characteristics of their beauty. Then I asked myself if at the end we had really gained any ground in the rights to practice the same sports as men, or if we had only changed the way in which it is done, but not in the background, given that we keep on perceiving the same differences as always, only that they are camouflaged with a cute slogan saying that we are all equal here.

All of this made sense to me in regard to the contrast that we see in Chile in respecto to sports, now that it has been some time since I have taken the test (SIMCE) that they do in high schools to measure the performance of students in a variety of areas, one of them being sports. Although this test has many shortcomings, it at least serves to analize some of the general aspects of the terrible education system in this country (a huge topic to debate). What has been observed, among other things, is that in the cases of this test the girls, in physical education, were significantly worse than the boys. It would be interesting to see if this has anything to do with what I said above. I do not really have a hypothesis very well developed, we could maybe even say that the representation that the representation that we have of our bodies as well as our roles as women in society many times cause a lack of incentives (the education itself in schools many times is very sexist as in other spaces) and they become inactive in the broad sense of the word.

Athletics is one of the many areas in which we still have a long way to advance, because if we can really proclaim that the revolution that has resulted in equality between genders in all aspects of life, this happens more time in form but not in substance. So we still have to change our paradigns about what a woman should be expected from every woman or every man, because we are not all a mosaic of attributes (ethnicities, classes, ages, religions…). To perceive this it is necessary to put on our spectacles get serious when we talk about the meaning of equality, because today we only see the blurred lines that have left us with a long way to go.

Escafandra

La María y yo, una hermosa amistad.

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 02:08:10 -0400

La María y yo nos llevamos demasiado bien. Ella siempre me acompaña en mis mejores momentos, me ayuda a aumentar mi creatividad, me hace reír, y me mejora el apetito. Yo soy una de esas minas a las que les gusta la maría, incluso al nivel de ser llamada con cuanto apodo exista. Y yo, orgullosa dejo que me llamen yerbona, pues así me he aprendido a manejar por la vida, sin gotitas para los ojos, sin que me importe parecer que estoy bajo sus efectos, sin miedo.

Lo anterior tiene, como todo, una historia y un origen. Yo había probado la bendita cuando estaba en el colegio, claro que en otro contexto. Después de probarlo un par de veces y decidir casi categóricamente que simplemente “esto no era para mi”, por ciertas cosas de la vida, me volvi a rencontrar con la María. Pero esta vez, no era la que yo conocía antes, ahora yo había madurado un poco, y descubrí excelentes momentos junto a ella, casi siempre vinculados con la compañía de gente grata. Poco a poco me fui acercando más a ella, hasta formar lo que hoy día llamo una excelente amistad, casi un compromiso.

Ser yerbona entonces, ya que me defino así sin trabalenguas, me obliga necesariamente a preguntarme: ¿Qué significa ser yerbona, particularmente en Chile?. Yo diré, que hoy por hoy, y en muchos aspectos, significa libertad. La weed te aumenta la creatividad, te hace relajarte, pensar cosas muchas veces positivas, mearte de la risa, y eventualmente, cambiar tu forma de pensar. Luego, te relacionas con otra gente que hace lo mismo, y lo pasas tan bien, que comienzas a realmente disfrutar de esos momentos que tuviste, tan agradables, gracias a la maría. Cómo no querer a maría entonces, si mi mundo está objetivamente mejor desde antes de conocerla, y no es webeo. Sin querer entrometerme tanto en el asunto, sólo diré que para una yerbona en Chile, la vida no es nada fácil, pues primero, hay cierta masculinización en el uso de la droga todavía permanente, que recae necesariamente sobre categorizaciones de género, pero además, esta el típico prejuicio del Marihuanero entre rasta y artesa, que habla como hablan los volaos, anda destartalado y básicamente no se baña y no piensa. Ciertamente estamos claros con que la subcultura hippie y natural se identifica plenamente con esta sustancia, pero no seamos ingenuos, no son los únicos que la utilizan.

Pero ojo, no porque sea una mujer yerbona voy a decir que siempre fumarse uno está bien. Estoy consciente de los daños que inhalar humo hacen, y que el consumo en ciertas personas de Cannabis está contraindicado ante ciertas situaciones. Pues no por ser yerbona siempre voy a defender a la María, y pensar que hace todo bien, por supuesto que no. Simplemente pienso, que grandes cosas que son parte de mi persona, se las debo a ella, y que, pese a que muchas veces la maría se equivoca, me ha dado tantos buenos momentos, que no puedo sino agradecer su existencia. Ciertamente que exista hace que este mundo sea un poquitito más soportable. Mi consejo para todas y todos los que me leen entonces, por añadidura es: Fúmense un pito, porfavor.

Ramona

Maria and me, a beautiful friendship.

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 02:06:45 -0400

Maria and I get along very well. She is always there for me in my best moments, she helps me to augment my creativity, she makes me laugh, and she makes my appetite better. I am one of those chicks who likes Maria, even at the level that it means being called every nickname that exists. And I, I am proud that they call me a pothead, and it is in this way that I have learned to go through life, without tears in my eyes, without caring about seeming to be under its effects, without fear.

The above has, as everything, a history and an origin. I had tried the good girl act when I was in high school, obviously in another context. After trying it a couple of times I decided almost categorically that it simply, “this was not for me”, and for a few reasons in my life, I returned to meeting up with Maria. But this time, she was not the girl that I had known before, now she had matured a little, and I discovered myself having excellent times together with her, almost always in pleasant company. Little by little I got closer to her, until the point that today I call what we have an excellent friendship, almost a commitment to each other.

Being a pothead then, now that I define myself as such without problems, obliges me necessarily to ask myself: what does it mean to be a pothead, particularly in Chile? I say that today is for today, and in many aspects, it means liberty. Weed augments your creativity, it makes you relax, it makes you think in thinks that are very often positive, it makes you laugh, and eventually, it changes your way of thinking. Later, you get together with other people who do the same, and you pass it so well, that you being to really enjoy those moments that you had, so pleasant, thanks to Maria. How could I not want Maria then?, if my world is objectively better since I met her, and it is not a shithole. Without wanting to intrude much in the matter, I only will say that to be a pothead in Chile, life is not easy. First, there is a certain masculinization in using the drug still prevalent, that is necessarily incumbent in gender categorization, but additionally, there is the typical prejudice against the stoner between rasta and artist, who talk like the volaos talk, go around disgusted and basically do not bathe and do not think. Certainly we are clear about what the hippy subculture is and naturally we can identify plainly with what is this substance, but we do not want to be naive, they are not the only ones who use it.

But look, it is not because I am a woman pothead that I am going to say that always smoking one will be fine. I am conscious of the dangers that inhaling smoke has, and that the consumption in certain people of cannabis is contraindicated in certain situations. So it is not because I am a pothead that I am always going to defend Maria, and think that she does everything well, surely not. I only think, that they are great things that are part of my person, and they are things that I owe to her, and that, even though many times Maria messes up, she has given me so many good times, that I cannot but thank her existence. Certainly she makes the world a little more bearable. My advice to all who read this then, moreover is: smoke a joint, please.

Ramona

“Cautious, careful people always casting about to preserve their reputation or social...

Sat, 04 Aug 2012 09:48:20 -0400

“Cautious, careful people always casting about to preserve their reputation or social standards never can bring about reform. Those who are really in earnest are willing to be anything or nothing in the world’s estimation, and publicly and privately, in season and out, avow their sympathies with despised ideas and their advocates, and bear the consequences.”
—Susan B. Anthony

Tormenta y Huracán

Wed, 01 Aug 2012 00:12:00 -0400

Siempre intentamos darnos explicaciones sobre las cosas que suceden a nuestro al rededor, así buscamos respuestas en nuestra propia historia o en el entorno que nos ha marcado. Tratamos de mirar los hechos con perspectiva, por que aprendimos que desde lejos todo se mira fríamente y parece mas lógico, pero cuando debemos aplicar esto de verdad a nuestras vidas nos parce imposible, pues estando de cerca la realidad se difumina y se vuelve borrosa.

De esta forma es difícil ver cuando comienzas a caer, por que no logramos diferenciar un acto pequeño de uno que tiende gradualmente a hacerse grande…. En estas circunstancias todos nuestros discursos se vuelven absurdos, por que desde ellos nos parecía tan fácil actuar, pero no cuando llega la hora de la verdad nos vemos paralizados por el miedo.

Digamos que él le pide perdón , y ella piensa que seguramente es culpa suya eso nunca mas sucederá, lo perdona por que no puede estar sin él , nada podría arruinar los bellos momentos. ¿Qué pesa mas el dolor sobre su piel o el vació que dejará su ausencia si se va? Entonces, lo mejor es esconder todo bajo el mantel, no abrir los ojos, por que el viento y la lluvia no matan a nadie, pero la ira los convierten en huracán y tormenta solo basta que el clima cambie. Aunque si ella calla nadie sabrá, hasta que un día calle para siempre su secreto, y todo quedará como un triste recuerdo una historia más que se contó en los noticieros de la tarde, una victima más de su propio silencio.

"That is exactly what street harassment is: making women feel like objects, making women feel like..."

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 18:31:45 -0400

“That is exactly what street harassment is: making women feel like objects, making women feel like the reason they are outside is so that men can enjoy looking at their bodies, making women afraid to go outside. It is really a terrifying thing, feeling like you are a tiny little thing next to a big group of men who could attack you, and who do very frequently take harassment beyond sly whispers and low-pitched whistles. It is terrible to constantly be reminded that there are so many people physically bigger than you who could harm you and who feel the need to remind you of their power through harassment every time you go outside. It makes you feel helpless, it is belittling, it is objectifying.”

- I’m Not an Object, and Neither Are You (via sparkamovement)

Wham-bam-gracias-ma’am SPARKsummit alliance!

(via feministgaze)

Each employer’s Human Resource Department is in existence to ensure the well-being of...

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 20:17:00 -0400

Each employer’s Human Resource Department is in existence to ensure the well-being of employees. However, what happens when it doesn’t do it’s job? Being a pool manager with hormonal teenagers, it is expected that love (or lust) will be in the air. However it went too far. During a staff meeting recently while I spoke I heard a strange sound. Stopping to pause in my speech while I noticed the sound stop. Eventually everyone realized there was a sound and we passed it off as the 30 year old swamp cooler. After this sound continued for about two minutes one of the innocent fifteen year old lifeguards pointed my concentration across the room with her eyes. The sound was a male lifeguard masturbating during the meeting.

To my complete sense of discomfort I ended the meeting and immediately called my supervisor and the HR department. They did not do anything saying that he was ‘probably scratching himself.’ They continued their hasty ‘investigation’ by asking whether or not I knew that men scratch themselves and if I had ever seen a man masturbate before. When we can’t even protect the well being of employees it demonstrates the microcosm of the unjust system women are succumbed to.

Espejos como cadenas

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 00:52:41 -0400

Nos condenan a vivir, esclavizadas de la imagen, de los espejos, obligadas a agradar como si la belleza fuese la única clave del éxito. Eso me recuerda a una historia que leí una vez en el periódico, era una mujer que huía de los espejos, después de torturar su cuerpo a la inanición absoluta, trato de zafarse de el reflejo de los escaparates, también sobre las ventanas del metro no ver su imagen como espejismo de su propia inseguridad… Después de leer esto me preguntaba ¿Que es lo que nos hace esclavas de una cascara? Revistas, mensajes por la televisión, afiches en la calle etc., etc., etc. Nos repiten una y otra vez como mantra, que es lo apropiado para lucir y decir en cada ocasión, ¡¿No es normal que queramos huir?! Buscar ser monjes budistas o algo así, ah! Pero es cierto que tampoco eso pueden hacerlo las mujeres ¿O no?… o ¿Solo podemos reflexionar ante este panorama con la frase cliché de que todas somos hermosas?…

Tantos años de torturas, en una época si no éramos regordetas (que era lo normal por que en la antigüedad no abundaban los alimentos) ser delgada era ser indeseables, después se nos exigió ser lo mas flacas posible al borde de lo absurdo, usando desde un corsé que nos dejaba sin aliento, hasta cerrando la boca que trajo por cierto otras consecuencias más graves. Todo esto nos mantuvo ocupadas mucho tiempo, tratando de agradar siempre a los demás, olvidándonos de desarrollarnos a nosotras mismas, nuestro propio lenguaje, nuestro propio espíritu, el poder de la vida que se gesta como potencial en nosotras… por eso vuelvo a preguntarme una y otra vez ¿Cuál es el poder esclavizante del espejo? ¿Es nuestra imagen o nuestra mente creando trazos que reproducen lo que se nos exige?

En fin, puedo afirmar, que de cualquier forma me gustan los clichés, quizás por que sean mas ciertos que falsos. Hay tanta belleza en nuestro propio ser, solo tenemos que ser capases de ser valientes y buscarla. Sabiendo esto ahorraríamos tanto tiempo en vez de buscarla de otra forma que no sea solo en una cascara ideal. Tal vez si hubiese una metáfora para decirlo , seria como si imagináramos una casa , de nada sirve si la pintas , si el interior esta vacío o dañado por que de esa manera no seria posible acoger a nadie . Es lógico pensar de esta forma las que las personas no querría entrar , tan solo se limitarían admira la fachada, pero cuando quisiera tocar su puerta al abrirla se daría cuenta que no hay nada que ver en ella. Por eso no basta, la idea de la fachada ideal, aun que nos embutan eso por las narices por las narices, tenemos la opción decir NO, y ese es el paso previo a liberarnos de estas cadenas.

Escafandra

Mirrors like chains

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 00:51:00 -0400

They condemn us to live, slaves to the image, of the mirrors, obligated to please as if beauty were the only key to success. This reminds me of a story that I read one time in a newspaper, it was a woman who fled from mirrors, after torturing her body to the point of absolute starvation, she tried to get away from her reflection in windows, even in the windows of the metro she saw a mirage of her own insecurity… magazines, messages on tv, posters in the street, etc., etc., etc. We repeat it again and again as a mantra, something that it is appropriate to wear and say in any given occasion. It is not normal for us to want to flee? Look to be Buddhist monks or something, ah! Oh, but this is just another thing that women cannot do, or no?… Or can we only reflect in front of this panorama of cliché phrases that say we are all beautiful?…

So many years of torture, in an era where if we were not chubby (which was normal in the past because food was not abundant), being skinny was undesirable, later requiring us to be as thin as possible to the edge of absurdity, using corsets that left us breathless, to closing our mouths which brought about consequences even more serious. All of this had us occupied for a lot of time, always trying to please others, forgetting to develop ourselves, our own language, our own spirit, the power of life that gestates within us… this is why I again ask myself, what is the power of the mirror? Is it our image or our minds creating rules that reproduce the traces of what is required of us?

In short, I can affirm that no matter what I like the clichés, maybe because they are more true than false. There is so much beauty inside of us, we only have to be capable of being valiant and seeking it. Knowing this would save us so much time instead of looking for it in another form that is not only a perfect shell. Perhaps it would be a metaphor to say it, it would be like if we imagined a house, the paint would be useless if the inside were useless or damaged and were unable to accommodate anyone. It is logical to think in this way that the people would not want to enter, limited to only admiring the façade, but when they wanted to touch the door to open it they realize that there is nothing to see inside. But this does not stop, the idea of the ideal façade, we have the option to say NO, and that is the first step to freeing us from those chains.

Escafandra

I remember the first time I sang. I must have been around 2 or 3; my dad was holding me, and after...

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 23:25:44 -0400

I remember the first time I sang. I must have been around 2 or 3; my dad was holding me, and after Lily was born, this was a rare occurrence.

Glory to the Father

And to the Son and to the Holy Spirit

As it was in the beginning

Is now, and will be forever

Amen, Amen, Amen

I felt something rise in my chest, a fluttering joy swirling around my stomach, filling my lungs… at first it came out as a single syllable: ahhh—ahhh—ahhh. I followed the rise and fall of the hundreds of voices around me—mostly they belonged to the elderly, warbling in deep, quivering voices, lacking the luster of youth but beautiful in their own way—broken in, confident. My own voice was soft, unsure, a private affair entirely until we arrived at the last verse. I took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of Old Spice on my dad’s starched white dress shirt. The sound felt like liquid gold pouring out of my mouth: Amen, Amen, Amen. My parents turned to me in shock and delight. A boyish grin crossed my dad’s face, little smile wrinkles visible beneath the glint of his thick glasses. “Prettyyy, Joyce!” my mom cooed.

My nylon warm-up pants and my College of Weiland lacrosse tee shirt were the coolest clothes I owned, complemented by the lump of car keys that jingled in my pocket like tiny bells. “Tell Rachel I say hi!” my mom called after me. “Ok,” I responded feebly, voice obstructed by the mechanical roar of the garage door opening. The air was damp and cold, the sky was dirty white; patches of green were mottled with opaque slush, promising spring but more akin to winter. “What am I doing? What am I doing?” I asked myself, but the question became an emotionless rhythm, pulsing in time with the blur of grimy ice, tar-filled cracks, interrupted occasionally by the jarring neon signs of strip malls rushing past the car windows. I felt calm. A force beyond my control was leading me. “Magnets,” Rachel called it.

I never dreaded Thursday nights. Practice went late, but I would shower, throw on something comfortable, and settle into one of the slender maple chairs with Pentecost red upholstery. “Why, if it isn’t my little angel,” Marjorie would greet me, pinching my cheek with a shaky hand. We faced the empty pews, the sanctuary illuminated only by the light projected against the stain glass windows. My favorite was a depiction of a winged lion with limbs outstretched, ascending to the heavens or perhaps descending on prey. It is the symbol of Mark the Evangelist, or John Mark, one of Jesus’ seven disciples. According to the Bible, John Mark carried water to the last supper. He also ran away naked when Jesus was arrested. I didn’t mind that choir practice ran so late; the chord progression of hymns was familiar, predictable; when we sang, I felt at peace— asleep, in a way, more than I was in my own bed.

Let all mortal flesh keep silent

And with fear and trembling stand

Ponder nothing earthly minded

For with blessing in His hand

Christ our God to earth descendeth

Our full homage to demand

I wondered vaguely if Marie Curie felt anything like this in the latter half of her life—small doses of radiation building in her body, unbeknownst to her, until she was overtaken completely. She must have felt strangely early on in her experimenting, and surely she realized the culprit of her illness by the end. Rachel’s arm fell like so much mercury draped across my shoulders: somewhere between liquid and solid, distantly poisonous. “But you’re like, really pretty,” said Regina George. “Thank you…” “So you agree—you think you’re really pretty.”

There was an armoire next to Rachel’s bed. Once while I was changing, Rachel grabbed me by the waist from behind and introduced me to my own naked torso. I wrapped my arms around my chest and looked away. “Stop it, Rachel,” I muttered. “No, just look. Just look in the mirror,” Rachel insisted, prying my arms away. My hair was tousled. The skin on my face was shiny over my cheeks and forehead—I hated it, I always had. But, I realized, it was clear—finally free of the blemishes that had defined it for most of my adolescence. Rachel’s chin rested on my shoulder, a small smile on her face. We surveyed the effortless body of a 16-year-old. “You’re so pretty, Joyce.”

“Bells again! ‘Nother one!” I would beg my parents, staring helplessly at the sleek black knobs of our Sony stereo system. My mom would crouch down and press the button. The CD made a swishing sound as it returned to the start of the track. It began with the gong-like toll of the largest bell, resonating through my small body like an electric current. After a couple seconds the little bells chimed in, sprinkled carelessly like snowflakes over an ancient sheet of ice. The giant bell tolled at a rhythm, separating the mindless chirping into a coherent pattern. Then the mid-range bells entered, belting out a definitive melody against the chaos of their siblings. My breath reached shuddering peaks in time, each toll a unique, liquescent droplet—manmade, but endorsed by nature. Then the bells died down slowly, relinquishing the melody to a man’s nasally warble:

Gloria, in excelsis deo

The room came back into focus: cream walls, black stereo, two smiling figures nestled into a maroon striped couch. “’Nother one!”

“So then, for my birthday party, which was an all-girls pool party, I was like, ‘Janis, I can’t invite you, because I think you’re lesbian.’ I mean, I couldn’t have a lesbian at my party. There were gonna be girls there in their bathing suits.” “Are you even watching?” Rachel laughed. “Can you even see?” Somehow the radiation emanating from what was surely a uranium deposit in Rachel’s stomach had pulled me beneath her on the soft corduroy couch. She was still vaguely interested in the movie, her head angled toward the screen. I was unable to move myself from the most comfortable position I had even been in, instead observing a stray eyelash on the face of the girl who hinted at a definition to what I had felt my entire life—a promise that there was something more, something bigger, something beyond my control. The toll of a massive cathedral bell, demanding that meaning be given to all the inexplicable events preceding it. She looked down to meet my wide-eyed gaze, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead.

One day two words penetrated Pastor Martha’s sleep-inducing southern drawl like a pair of bullets.

“In the church, in our denomination, as in almost every mainline Protestant church these days, the arguments are intense and deep, primarily centered on the issue of the ordination of gays and lesbians. The intensity is such that it is easy to think that we just need to purge the church of those folks who don’t think the way we think.
In our impatience to get to the task of weeding—in our making judgments as to what we believe is good and evil, we don’t get it—we don’t see that so very often it is hard to tell the difference between the good seed and the bad. We forget that we are only human.”

My mouth fell open partially, shocked at this mention of things unmentionable in church. I pulled the stole of my pale blue choir robe up securely over the bottom of my neck, aware of a cloudy mauve oval that was physical evidence of my identity as one of these ideologically divergent “folks.” An ambiguous plant, perhaps God would decide to spare me despite my weed-like qualities. The choir rose to sing.

Amen, Amen, Amen

I heard no bells.

Joyce

Recuerdo aún la primera vez que canté. Debía tener entre dos o tres; mi papá me tenía en brazos...

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 23:25:21 -0400

Recuerdo aún la primera vez que canté. Debía tener entre dos o tres; mi papá me tenía en brazos y, después de que nació Lily, eso no ocurría a menudo.

Gloria al Padre

Al Hijo y al Espíritu Santo

Como era en un principio

Ahora y siempre

Amén, Amén, Amén.

Sentí algo crecer en mi pecho, una alegría inquieta arremolinándose en mi estómago, llenando mis pulmones… primero salió como una simple sílaba: ahhh-ahhh-ahhh. Seguí los vaivenes de cientos de voces a mi alrededor-principalmente ancianos, tarareando en voces profundas y temblorosas, sin ya el brillo de la juventud mas hermosas a su propio modo-metiéndose adentro, confiadas. Mi voz era suave, insegura, un asunto totalmente privado hasta que llegamos al último verso. Respiré hondo, inhalando el reconfortante aroma de Old Spice en la camisa blanca y almidonada de mi papá. El sonido se sentía como oro líquido vertiéndose por mi boca: Amen, Amen, Amen. Mis padres me miraron impresionados y encantados. Una sonrisa juvenil cruzó el rostro de mi padre, arrugas de sonrisa se advertían debajo del reflejo de sus gruesos anteojos. “Mi Linda, Joyce!” arrulló mi madre.

Las prendas más geniales que tenía eran mis pantalones de buzo y mi polera de lacrosse del Weiland College, complementadas con el bulto de las llaves del auto tintineando en mi bolsillo como campanillas. “¡Saluda a Rachel de mi parte!” gritó mi madre tras de mí. “Ok”, respondí pusilánimemente, sonido obstruido por el crujir mecánico de la puerta del garaje abriéndose. El aire estaba húmedo y frio, el cielo de un blanco percudido; pedazos de verde espolvoreados de lodo opaco, que prometían primavera pero más parecían invierno. “¿Qué estoy haciendo? ¿Qué estoy haciendo?” me pregunté, pero la pregunta se volvio un ritmo desapasionado, latiendo en el tiempo entre hielo gris y nebuloso, roturas llenadas de brea, interrumpidas ocasionalmente por los irritantes carteles de neón de strip-malls cruzando a través de las ventanas del auto. Me sentí calma. Me guiaba una fuerza más allá de mi control. “Imanes” le llamó.

Nunca temí las noches de jueves. Las prácticas se extendían en la tarde, pero después me duchaba, me ponía algo cómodo y me sentaba en las esbeltas sillas de arce tapizadas de rojo pentecostés. “¡Pero si es mi angelito!”, me saludaba Marjorie, pellizcándome la mejilla con su mano temblorosa. Sentadas hacia las bancas vacías, el santuario iluminado sólo con luz proyectada en los vitrales. Mi favorito mostraba un león alado, sus brazos estirados al cielo, ascendiendo a los cielos o quizás descendiendo sobre su presa. Es el símbolo de Marcos Evangelista o Juan Marcos, uno de los siete discípulos de Jesús. Según la Biblia, Juan Marcos trajo el agua a la última cena. También corrió desnudo al ser Jesús arrestado. No me importaba que los ensayos del coro se extendiesen tanto; la progresión de acordes de los himnos era familiar, predecible; cuando cantábamos, me sentía en paz –más adormecida que en mi propia cama.

Guardad silencio carne mortal

En temeroso y frágil pie

No miréis asuntos mundanos

Pues con bendiciones en sus manos

Cristo Dios ha descendido

A reclamar nuestras alabanzas.

Vagamente me preguntaba si Marie Curie sintió algo así en la última mitad de su vida- pequeñas dosis de radiación acumulándose en su cuerpo, inadvertidas para ella, hasta que la consumieron completamente. Debió sentirse enrarecida a poco andar en sus experimentos, y al final, seguramente debió haberse percatado del culpable de su enfermedad. El brazo de Rachel se sentía tanto como mercurio abrazado a mis hombros: parte líquido, parte sólido, ligeramente venenoso. “Pero mira que linda eres”, dijo Regina George. “Gracias…” “Estás de acuerdo entonces-tú crees muy linda”.

Al lado de la cama de Rachel había un armario. Una vez, mientras me cambiaba, Rachel me agarró la cintura por detrás y me presentó a mi propio torso desnudo. Me tapé los pechos con los brazos y me volteé. “Para Rachel”, murmuré. “No, mira. Pero mira el espejo”, insistió Rachel, apartándome los brazos. Mi pelo estaba desordenado. La piel en mi cara resplandecía sobre mis mejillas y frente-Lo odié, siempre lo odié. Pero, me di cuenta, estaba pulcra –libre al fin de las manchas que la definieron por buena parte de mi adolescencia. La pera de Rachel se apoyaba en mi hombro, una sutil sonrisa en su cara. Apreciamos el grácil y natural cuerpo de una dieciséisañera. “Eres tan linda Joyce”.

“¡Campanas de nuevo! ¡otra más!” le rogaba a mis padres, contemplando desesperanzadamente las alisadas perillas de nuestro equipo stereo de Sony. Mi mamá se acuclillaba y apretaba el botón. El CD metía un sonido sibilante al regresar al principio del tema. Comenzaba con el sonido de gong de la campana más grande, resonando por mi cuerpecillo como una corriente eléctrica. Después de unos segundos resonaban las campanillas, espolvoreadas sin cuidado como copos de nieve sobre una antigua capa de hielo. El tañido de la campana gigante seguía un ritmo, separando los desordenados chirridos en un patrón coherente. Entonces entraban las campanas medianas, generando una melodía definitiva en contrapunto al caos de sus hermanitas. Mi aliento se alzaba tembloroso, cada tañido algo único, gotas líquidas-hechas por el hombre pero patrocinadas por la naturaleza. Entonces las campanas decrecían paulatinamente, otorgando su lugar al melódico y nasal gorjeo de un hombre:

El cuarto volvió a mi foco: Paredes de crema, stereo negro, dos figuras sonrientes arrellanadas en un sillón de rayas burdeo. “¡Otra vez!”

“Entonces, para mi fiesta de cumpleaños, que fue en la piscine y sólo para chicas, le dije, ‘Janis, no te puedo invitar, porque creo que eres lesbiana’. O sea, no podría tener una lesbiana en mi fiesta. Va a haber chicas en traje de baño.” “¿Estás mirando siquiera?” río Rachel. “¿Es que no puedes ver?” De algún modo la radiación que emanaba de lo que seguramente era un depósito de uranio en el estómago de Rachel me atrajo debajo de ella en el suave sillón de pana. Aún medio interesada en la película, su cabeza se inclinó sobre la pantalla. Incapaz de moverme de la postura más cómoda que hubiera experimentado, observando en vez una pestaña suelta en la cara de la muchacha que apuntaba a una definición de todo cuanto hubiere sentido en mi vida-una promesa de que había algo más, algo más grande, algo más allá de mi control. El tañido de una gigantesca campana de catedral, demandando que sentido sea dado a todos los eventos inexplicables que le precedieron. Miró hacia abajo para contemplar mi mirada abierta, sonrió y me besó en la frente.

Un día dos palabras penetraron el somnífero sonsonete de la Pastora Martha cual par de balas.

“En la iglesia, en nuestra denominación, así como en cualquier iglesia Protestante de importancia hoy por hoy, las discusiones son intensas y profundas, centradas principalmente sobre la ordenación de gays y lesbianas. Tal es la intensidad que es fácil pensar que debemos purgar la iglesia de aquellos que no piensan como nosotrs pensamos. En nuestra impaciencia de empezar a desmalezar-juzgando cuanto creemos es bueno y malo, no lo entendemos completamente- No vemos cuán a menudo se hace difícil determinar la diferencia entre la buena y la mala semilla. Se nos olvida que somos sólo humanos”:

Se me abrió la boca a medias, choqueada al oír mencionarse cosas jamás mencionadas en la iglesia. Me puse la estola de mi túnica de coro azul pálido sobre la base del cuello, consciente del óvalo color malva que era la evidencia física de mi asociación a esta “gente” divergente ideológicamente. Una planta ambigua, quizás Dios me quisiera evitar estos atributos de hierba. El coro se alzó para cantar.

No escuché campana alguna.

Joyce

On flight attendants...

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 01:11:00 -0400

I spent the last two days basically without leaving airports and on what felt like a bazillion airplanes, and as a result hanging out with various different airline employees who deal with customers, as well as my fellow travelers.

One thing that anyone who has ever flown anywhere will probably notice about the airline industry is that when it comes to the careers that involve actually dealing with us as stressed-out travelers, the people hired for these roles are very frequently women. Why? Maybe because we are more patient with annoying people who are screaming at us about something that we have absolutely no control over. Maybe because airlines pay the holders of these positions very very very little—especially in comparison to their corporate career-holders. Maybe because the airlines completely exploit these workers for hours on a whim. Everyone knows that we are used to being forced into jobs where we are exploited and paid less than our male co-workers. Or maybe it is because we are sexy.

So, I was on the last flight of the trip and completely exhausted, but I was having trouble sleeping because after being abroad for a year I realized that I have regained the ability to eavesdrop without even wanting to, which is super overwhelming and disturbing revelation to have amidst an already overwhelming cultural transition. There were two women sitting next to me, one which was a retired flight attendant and the other who had a lot of experience flying around the world because her and her husband used to work all over the world on military bases. They were discussing how in general the airline industry has gone downhill in the last decade—charging for luggage, no free cookies, higher ticket prices, fewer promotions, less luxury in general. Although I was not participating in the conversation, I agree that most of those things are probably true. Just look at all of the airline mergers in the past five years. Obviously in light of an economic recession and high oil prices airlines have been some of the hardest hit companies. Not really surprising.

Then, out of nowhere, the former flight attendant said, “And the flight attendants now are ugly. Back when I was working in the industry that was the most important part of our job, looking good. Now they run around with messy hair, dangly earrings, and they are fat”, at which point she puffed out her cheeks and put out her arms to imitate heaviness.

Obviously what she said was stupid, ignorant, sexist, and egotistic in that she obviously thinks highly of her own looks. All of that aside, let’s think about the role of a flight attendant and how it has changed.

Before boarding that flight I was sitting by a bunch of grown-up bro-like business men who were bragging about their six month old children pulling themselves across the floor—which, according to them, obviously means that they are going to grow up to be the star quarterbacks of their college football teams. The cool thing about the airline industry is that its usage is an interesting microcosm of how equality in the workplace in general is changing. In the past business travel has been pretty much dominated by men. Now, things are changing and women are too able to incorporate themselves more and more into the corporate world, which means more and more business trips. We are getting paid more, which means that more and more we can afford to take trips with our friends across the world. Which also, luckily, means less sexualization of flight attendants—who have since the dawn of air travel have been employed as eye candy for disgusting business men who want to pay to be weighted on by sexy women.

Obviously this view of the role of the flight attendant has not changed completely, and sexualization of woman attendants for the sake of capitalism is something that we still see around the world. It is why flight attendants get paid very little for very demanding work. It is why people feel like they can treat flight attendants like complete shit for no reason, and they are expected to be submissive about it.

Francis

Azafatas

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 01:09:53 -0400

He pasado los últimos dos días básicamente sin dejar aeropuertos y lo que se sintió como un montón de aviones, y, como resultado, pasando mucho tiempo conviviendo con varios tipos de trabajadores de líneas aéreas manejando tanto clientes como los demás viajeros.

Una cosa que cualquiera que ha volado a alguna parte se habrá dado cuenta de la industria aérea es que al considerar las carreras involucradas en manejarnos a nosotros como viajeros estresados, las personas contratadas para estos roles son frecuentemente mujeres. ¿Por qué? A lo mejor porque somos más pacientes con personas irritables que están gritándonos sobre cosas de las cuales no tenemos ningún control. A lo mejor porque las líneas aéreas les pagan a las personas en estas posiciones muy muy muy poco- especialmente en comparación a sus fundadores empresarios. Todos saben que nosotras estamos acostumbradas a que nos metan a estos trabajos a la fuerza, donde somos explotadas y pagadas menos que nuestros compañeros de trabajo hombres. O a lo mejor es porque somos sexy.

Entonces, yo estaba en mi último vuelo del viaje y completamente agotada, sin embargo, me estaba costando quedarme dormida porque después de estar fuera de mi país por un año me di cuenta que había obtenido la habilidad de escuchar conversaciones ajenas involuntariamente, lo cual es una reflexión super abrumadora y perturbadora en medio de esta transición cultural. Habían dos mujeres sentadas a mi lado, una que era una azafata retirada y la otra quien había tenido gran experiencia tomando vuelos alrededor del mundo porque ella junto a su marido solían trabajar por todo el mundo en bases militares. Estaban discutiendo como en general la industria aérea había caído en la última década-cobrando equipaje, sin galletas gratis, boletos más caros, menos promociones, menos lujos en general. Aunque no estaba participando de la conversación, estuve de acuerdo que la mayoría de esas cosas eran probablemente ciertas. Basta con mirar a las fusiones dentro de las aerolíneas en los últimos cinco años. Obviamente, en el contexto de la recesión económica y los valores altos de petróleo esta empresa ha sido una de las que más duro le ha tocado. Nada de sorprendente.

Entonces, de la nada, la retirada azafata dice “Y las azafatas ahora son feas. Antes cuando yo trabajaba en esta industria eso era lo más importantes del trabajo, verse bien. Hoy en día andan con el pelo desordenado, aros colgantes, y son gordas”, y en ese momento infla los cachetes y abre los brazos imitando la gordura.

Obviamente lo que dijo fue estúpido, ignorante, sexista, y egotista ya que claramente ella piensa muy bien sobre su aspecto. Aparte de todo eso, pensemos sobre el rol de la azafata de vuelo y como éste ha cambiado.

Antes de abordar el vuelo estaba sentada cerca de un grupo de adultos tipo empresarios zorrones quienes estaban alardeando sobre sus hijos de 6 meses que andaban gateando por el suelo-los cuales, según ellos, obviamente significa que iban a crecer a convertirse en jugadores estrellas de los equipos universitarios de football. Lo bacán de la industria aérea es que su uso es un interesante microcosmos de cómo la igualdad en el ambiente de trabajo en general está cambiando. En el pasado el negocio de viajar ha sido prácticamente dominado por hombres. Ahora, las cosas están cambiando y mujeres también han podido incorporarse más y más en el mundo corporativo, lo cual significa más y más viajes de negocios. Nos están pagando más, lo cual significa que tenemos más y más oportunidades para viajar con nuestros amigos por el mundo. También, y por suerte, significa menos sexualización en asistentes de vuelo-quienes desde el amanecer del transporte aéreo han sido usadas como la vista dulce para empresarios asquerosos que quieren pagar para ser servidos por mujeres sexys.

Obviamente esta visión del rol del asistente de vuelo no ha cambiado completamente, y la sexualización de la azafata mujer por el bien de capitalismo es algo que todavía se ve alrededor del mundo. Es el porqué azafatas son pagadas muy poco por trabajo muy demandante. Es el porqué la gente siente que puede tratar a las azafatas como una mierda sin razón alguna, esperando que sean sumisas.

Francis