I realize I've gone MIA on you all. I've been working on the play Poetic Justice, which you can read more about here. I'm hoping to post a video of the performance on the site soon.
Now that I'm back to blogging, I'm looking at two things-- expanding this conversation beyond gender, and incorporating guest posts. I need you for both.
E-mail me at ala8@calvin.edu with your ideas. And stories. Who doesn't love a good story?
In the meantime, here's an Amalia Ortiz poem we used in the play. Pure awesome.
-A
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Thanks for a thinker
I watched The TiMER tonight. The film takes place in a realistic world with a twist: anyone can buy a timer, which will be implanted into their wrist to count down to the day they meet their soulmate. Eyes lock and *blip*-- the thing goes off.
As you might guess, questions arise about this supposed scientifically-proven matching system. Is it self-fulfilling prophecy? What about "first loves?" What do you do before your timer goes off?
One question it's left me thinking about is this: Would I even want to know the first time I met my soulmate that he was indeed "the one?"
Call me crazy, but it was kind of fun to find out over time that my boyfriend Ben and I were both interested in issues of justice, that we both got excited about interaction between the church and the arts, that we could chat with each other for hours, that we wouldn't mind eating Panera every day, that we could waste time playing various Mario games (ok, so that I found out long after we fell in love)...
To me that process is a whole lot more exciting than a *blip* and seems to provide a crucial time of growth for those in the relationship-- at least in our case.
For me, that’s a little more fulfilling than a *blip* of precision-- though I have to admit, my heart still does a little *blip* when I see him at my door :)
So... thoughts, anyone? Anyone see some good in this Timer concept?
As you might guess, questions arise about this supposed scientifically-proven matching system. Is it self-fulfilling prophecy? What about "first loves?" What do you do before your timer goes off?
One question it's left me thinking about is this: Would I even want to know the first time I met my soulmate that he was indeed "the one?"
Call me crazy, but it was kind of fun to find out over time that my boyfriend Ben and I were both interested in issues of justice, that we both got excited about interaction between the church and the arts, that we could chat with each other for hours, that we wouldn't mind eating Panera every day, that we could waste time playing various Mario games (ok, so that I found out long after we fell in love)...
To me that process is a whole lot more exciting than a *blip* and seems to provide a crucial time of growth for those in the relationship-- at least in our case.
For me, that’s a little more fulfilling than a *blip* of precision-- though I have to admit, my heart still does a little *blip* when I see him at my door :)
So... thoughts, anyone? Anyone see some good in this Timer concept?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Thanks for listening
feel free to comment with your own opinions!
Origins
The little egglets are in tanks across America preparing to live out their manifest destiny. Future snot-slingers waiting to go to kindergarten, waiting to master their first violin concerto, waiting for their parents to stop playing God. Zygote A and Zygote B sit around and bet on who will be the first to thaw, hibernate, and emerge to stamp their inky foot on paper. But for now, the polar paradise keeps their genes preserved—mom’s icy x, dad’s frozen hope-for-a-y, and all of their history in a swirl of nucleic acid. “I’ll take D75,” says the barren woman. The spiral turns. Long live the dynasty.
We see the baby ice-pops everywhere. Celine Dion had one. Jon and Kate had more than one. Octomom had octo-pops. Still, each fetuscicle is just as awe-inspiring, just as mind-blowing as the ball turret gunner conceived on a swim through Fallopia— if not more.
Because to take a process so historically tested, so naturally practiced, so carnally simple, and to remove it from the oven of the body requires both drive and precision. The drive to work, to the bank, to the specialist—often with mortgage on the line and invested relatives holding naming rights. Combine drive with enough precision to cultivate, to implant, and to gestate a foreign object that was yours all along, and you have the science that has bundled millions of pounds of joy.
Just like the homegrown, the surrogated and invitro’d are all birthed from the mystery trimesters can’t explain. There is ineffable majesty in the wiggle of a newborn that brings grown men to tears and Babies R Us. The bills for the recipe and the icebox beginnings could double or triple and she’d still be a steal.
Of course, people steal kids all the time. They especially like girls ripe in their pre-pubescence— girls who are given no time to formulate an idealistic view of love, just time enough to show the tourists what they’re made of. Recruiters like it best when a girl is responsible to no one: no dad to defend, no mom to meddle. Nowhere to run but to the sex that will feed her.
Vulnerable is a euphemism. Orphans are exploitable resources preyed on by abusers, manipulators, and money-makers. With 143 million in the world, they’re not hard to find. Or hard to make for that matter. And yet we’re lured by the promise of the Baby-o-matic. Believing the lie of customization, we grow culturally accustomed to leaving millions unparented.
What does 143 million look like to the average American? We might say 6.2 million classrooms full of children, 286 million shoes, 429 million meals a day. But of course, they’re not all getting an education, clothing, or food (much less the charter, the GapKids, the organic). That’s lined up for the benumbed beloved, who cost more to generate than the living cost to feed.
Many among the kid-seeking realize this and consequently turn to adoption. That is, with the frequent (and safe) goal of a single, healthy infant. Take away any of these criteria and your wait goes down, at least in domestic adoptions. However, with each criterion, along with the added concern of race, the fear factor increases.
Single—As in one single child: no siblings they’ve already loved and bonded with. That kind of love is a flaw, a nuisance. You just want the DIY family; the kid’s not supposed to come with their own.
Healthy—As in no physical deformities, no attachment disorders, no behavioral quirks, no sketchy lineage. Because, of course, your would-be biological baby would be just as perfect. You certainly deserve the same in your mint condition replica.
Infant—As in under one year old, the ultimate tabula rasa: too young to carry baggage. After all, you wouldn’t want a kid who stays up at night praying for a family to actually get one. Better start from scratch.
Race—As in congruence with your family’s racial identity. Depending on your background, it may not slow down the pace of adoption to choose successors within your color palette, but for some parents-- especially Caucasian pairs-- it can mean a longer (and more competitive) journey to parenthood. Still, you hold fast to the criterion because a kid is supposed to look like its parents, right? Of course, you’re not worried about what your family and neighbors would think, you’re only thinking of the child. Wouldn’t want to disconnect them from their culture. Spare that kid racial confusion before relieving them of their ache for parents of any shade. Sounds PC enough.
Who can blame us, then, for giving in to the bait of a tailored brood? We are entitled to our children—our healthy, matching children. They look just like their mothers, they fit inside our lives. We pay for personalized perfection and we expect its execution. Double frappuccino, soy milk, no whip. Heated leather seats, jungle red, with the spoiler. Boy who’s not bipolar, not lactose intolerant, healthily active (but not a handful after work), a cultural chameleon, and likes camping like his father. And please throw in a guarantee he won’t go looking for his roots.
But no matter what you order, you never have it your way. You opt for natural, get cesarean. Opt for one girl, get twin boys. Opt for longer nights and shorter days, quicker potty training, less fussy eaters, unscraped knees, lazy Saturdays, straight A’s (but without the social awkwardness), no braces, smooth vacations, nicer boyfriends, fewer piercings, bigger scholarships, cheaper weddings, more grandkids. You win a few.
So if you’re all set to order, please rethink gametic freezer burn, or that shopping list you’ve rendered to formulate your kin. You will be disappointed; they’re never what you wanted. The molecular biologists usually dance, the quarterbacks all work as rangers, the doctors end up sales clerks. Still, the parents turn out fine. Because you could learn to like it better, the miracle that thwarts your best attempts at shaping your own children. It’s something they won’t mention when you hand over cold hard cash for keep-refrigerated kids.
Yet you didn’t ask for those 143 million, you’re just asking for your one. You say, “tell them I wish them well, but want the fruit of my own loins.” Instead, they hear us loud and clear, because, as always, our actions tell the truth.
What we’re saying is they just don’t cut it— those living, breathing beings. All are created equal but our genes combine just right for us. We set our legacies on ice while the fatherless face swelter. Manufacture air conditioned heirs, forget warm bodies raped again. Waiting lists for well-bred accidents. Queues for slop, the meal du jour.
And no, it’s not our fault that we don’t hold the orphaned millions. But in our fear of the unknown, I hope we question our intentions. Infertility is not our problem—it’s bare feet in Bangladesh.
Origins
The little egglets are in tanks across America preparing to live out their manifest destiny. Future snot-slingers waiting to go to kindergarten, waiting to master their first violin concerto, waiting for their parents to stop playing God. Zygote A and Zygote B sit around and bet on who will be the first to thaw, hibernate, and emerge to stamp their inky foot on paper. But for now, the polar paradise keeps their genes preserved—mom’s icy x, dad’s frozen hope-for-a-y, and all of their history in a swirl of nucleic acid. “I’ll take D75,” says the barren woman. The spiral turns. Long live the dynasty.
We see the baby ice-pops everywhere. Celine Dion had one. Jon and Kate had more than one. Octomom had octo-pops. Still, each fetuscicle is just as awe-inspiring, just as mind-blowing as the ball turret gunner conceived on a swim through Fallopia— if not more.
Because to take a process so historically tested, so naturally practiced, so carnally simple, and to remove it from the oven of the body requires both drive and precision. The drive to work, to the bank, to the specialist—often with mortgage on the line and invested relatives holding naming rights. Combine drive with enough precision to cultivate, to implant, and to gestate a foreign object that was yours all along, and you have the science that has bundled millions of pounds of joy.
Just like the homegrown, the surrogated and invitro’d are all birthed from the mystery trimesters can’t explain. There is ineffable majesty in the wiggle of a newborn that brings grown men to tears and Babies R Us. The bills for the recipe and the icebox beginnings could double or triple and she’d still be a steal.
Of course, people steal kids all the time. They especially like girls ripe in their pre-pubescence— girls who are given no time to formulate an idealistic view of love, just time enough to show the tourists what they’re made of. Recruiters like it best when a girl is responsible to no one: no dad to defend, no mom to meddle. Nowhere to run but to the sex that will feed her.
Vulnerable is a euphemism. Orphans are exploitable resources preyed on by abusers, manipulators, and money-makers. With 143 million in the world, they’re not hard to find. Or hard to make for that matter. And yet we’re lured by the promise of the Baby-o-matic. Believing the lie of customization, we grow culturally accustomed to leaving millions unparented.
What does 143 million look like to the average American? We might say 6.2 million classrooms full of children, 286 million shoes, 429 million meals a day. But of course, they’re not all getting an education, clothing, or food (much less the charter, the GapKids, the organic). That’s lined up for the benumbed beloved, who cost more to generate than the living cost to feed.
Many among the kid-seeking realize this and consequently turn to adoption. That is, with the frequent (and safe) goal of a single, healthy infant. Take away any of these criteria and your wait goes down, at least in domestic adoptions. However, with each criterion, along with the added concern of race, the fear factor increases.
Single—As in one single child: no siblings they’ve already loved and bonded with. That kind of love is a flaw, a nuisance. You just want the DIY family; the kid’s not supposed to come with their own.
Healthy—As in no physical deformities, no attachment disorders, no behavioral quirks, no sketchy lineage. Because, of course, your would-be biological baby would be just as perfect. You certainly deserve the same in your mint condition replica.
Infant—As in under one year old, the ultimate tabula rasa: too young to carry baggage. After all, you wouldn’t want a kid who stays up at night praying for a family to actually get one. Better start from scratch.
Race—As in congruence with your family’s racial identity. Depending on your background, it may not slow down the pace of adoption to choose successors within your color palette, but for some parents-- especially Caucasian pairs-- it can mean a longer (and more competitive) journey to parenthood. Still, you hold fast to the criterion because a kid is supposed to look like its parents, right? Of course, you’re not worried about what your family and neighbors would think, you’re only thinking of the child. Wouldn’t want to disconnect them from their culture. Spare that kid racial confusion before relieving them of their ache for parents of any shade. Sounds PC enough.
Who can blame us, then, for giving in to the bait of a tailored brood? We are entitled to our children—our healthy, matching children. They look just like their mothers, they fit inside our lives. We pay for personalized perfection and we expect its execution. Double frappuccino, soy milk, no whip. Heated leather seats, jungle red, with the spoiler. Boy who’s not bipolar, not lactose intolerant, healthily active (but not a handful after work), a cultural chameleon, and likes camping like his father. And please throw in a guarantee he won’t go looking for his roots.
But no matter what you order, you never have it your way. You opt for natural, get cesarean. Opt for one girl, get twin boys. Opt for longer nights and shorter days, quicker potty training, less fussy eaters, unscraped knees, lazy Saturdays, straight A’s (but without the social awkwardness), no braces, smooth vacations, nicer boyfriends, fewer piercings, bigger scholarships, cheaper weddings, more grandkids. You win a few.
So if you’re all set to order, please rethink gametic freezer burn, or that shopping list you’ve rendered to formulate your kin. You will be disappointed; they’re never what you wanted. The molecular biologists usually dance, the quarterbacks all work as rangers, the doctors end up sales clerks. Still, the parents turn out fine. Because you could learn to like it better, the miracle that thwarts your best attempts at shaping your own children. It’s something they won’t mention when you hand over cold hard cash for keep-refrigerated kids.
Yet you didn’t ask for those 143 million, you’re just asking for your one. You say, “tell them I wish them well, but want the fruit of my own loins.” Instead, they hear us loud and clear, because, as always, our actions tell the truth.
What we’re saying is they just don’t cut it— those living, breathing beings. All are created equal but our genes combine just right for us. We set our legacies on ice while the fatherless face swelter. Manufacture air conditioned heirs, forget warm bodies raped again. Waiting lists for well-bred accidents. Queues for slop, the meal du jour.
And no, it’s not our fault that we don’t hold the orphaned millions. But in our fear of the unknown, I hope we question our intentions. Infertility is not our problem—it’s bare feet in Bangladesh.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)