Bristol Palin’s Pregnancy: Motherhood and Discipline

By now, many of us are aware that Bristol Palin, Sarah Palin’s teenage daughter, is pregnant. You probably have listened to the media pundits trying to spin this in several different directions.

Some are gleefully rubbing their hands together, expressing overwhelming euphoria. Senator Obama issued a statement saying, “I think people’s families are off-limits, and people’s children are especially off-limits. This shouldn’t be part of our politics. It has no relevance to Gov. Palin’s performance as governor or her potential performance as a vice president.” He specifically denied that his campaign had anything to do with the information becoming public.

Most of the debate on Bristol’s pregnancy deals with whether or not her mother Sarah is responsible, because of her public insistence that abstinence education is what we need to be teaching our children. Some see this as proof that preaching abstinence to our children is a failure, as clearly this approach did not stop the Alaskan governor’s daughter from deciding on her own to engage in sex. Others feel that Sarah Palin is not responsible, because a parent can only control a child’s behaviour to a certain degree. Some claim that the whole debate is irrelevant because it is a family matter. Here you have three opinions on one pregnancy.

It astounds me that people believe that they have the right to even enter into discussion on what another does with their body. It seems that in our post-feminist world, women’s reproduction is still something that is open for social discipline. I find it interesting that no one considered for a moment, that pregnancy could have been an active choice for this young woman. Immediately we assume that birth control failed, that she lacked morals, or that her closed-minded harpy of a mother did not engage in conversations with her regarding sex and sexuality. We claim to acknowledge the autonomy of women and yet motherhood as a conscious decision never once entered the debate.

Yet motherhood cannot be considered an entirely active decision simply because the female body is policed. Though we claim to honour motherhood in this society the opposite is quite true. Read More »

The Epic Abomination of “Sex and the City”

When challenged to use the word horticulture in a sentence the writer, poet, and critic Dorothy Parker retorted, “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.”

Parker, the acid-tongued queen of New York wrote in Vanity Fair and The New Yorker in the early turbulent part of the 20th century, commenting on everything from politics to literature, before eventually writing screenplays in Hollywood. In the early part of the 21st century beset by the war on terror, oil hitting $135 barrel, and global warming, New York has…Carrie Bradshaw.

Now, the “Sex and the City” series at least played like a well-written article: sharp, rude, forgettable and perfectly made to fit the 30-minute format. The movie is too long to be an episode and too short to reflect the achievements of a series.

Four years on from the series’ end Bradshaw is no longer writing for the New York Observer, but plying her trade with “maginatively” titled books like Menhattan. Get it? Because, in this film that’s as good as it gets. Read More »

Gods and Nymphs: The Myths and Realities of Modern Life and Love

A few months ago, I read that Russian women have lost the war against sexism, and that one of the symptoms of said defeat is the dominance of the Nymph - “a professional beauty,” the ideal partner for the modern man.

The author of the essay I’m quoting is Evgenia Pischikova, a funny, clever woman. While I found her perceptions of American feminism to be somewhat idealized, and some of her statements regarding modern Russian woman downright exaggerated, I nevertheless believe in the Nymph. I’ve seen far too many beautiful women, Russian, Ukrainian, and Belorussian, affect a soulless gaze in the presence of eligible bachelors to deny the Nymph’s existence.

Yet I do not think the story of the Nymph to be simple. Neither do I think that her tale is complete without a thorough discussion of her male counterpart - the God.

Now, the modern God, for the sake of Pischikova’s analogy, is pretty much any man who is, for some reason, desirable to the Nymph, usually marked by a paternalistic (or, as some people are fond of saying, “protective” attitude). We’re accustomed to believe that the God is wealthy, or well-off, and he generally is.

Modern Gods demand sacrifices as readily as the ancient ones. Read More »

She Will Come

Please note that an audio recording of the poem is available below

She will come
Oh, yes! She will come.
If I have to sprain an ankle,
She will come, she will come.
She makes like she won’t,
but that is just dumb.
Before the cock crows thrice,
She will come, she will come. Read More »

Yoni is the Wrong Damn Word: Marginalization and Exoticism

Why, oh, why does it have to be Yoni Ki Baat? Why? I’m South Asian, right? I’m solid South Asian. So why does it make my blood boil that South Asians are doing an adaptation of the Vagina Monologues called Yoni Ki Baat?

Well, I don’t have a damn yoni, for one thing. The first time I read the word yoni, it was in a Nancy Friday book of sexual fantasies and some white chick was describing her power centre being plunged or whatever and calling it a yoni.

I do not call my c*** yoni. I’m Pakistani. We don’t do Sanskrit in Pakistan, not on purpose, anyway (I take no responsibility for accidental Sanskrit). Pakistani vernacular has many words for vagina and none of them is yoni. So running into a performance of Yoni Ki Baat by South Asians in Seattle really just fries my onions all wrong.

However, I can deal. I know that in the US South Asian communities are dominated by Indianness and this is simply a reflection of the sub-continental hegemonic power structures. I don’t like it, but I’m a lazy person and that’s not a fight I’m going to pick on a 6-month quickie in Seattle.

A little bit of investigation, however, brings me the news that, no, in fact, even in Indian contexts, using yoni for vagina is extremely problematic. It’s a Sanskrit word. Sanskrit is the base for north Indian languages, including, most prominently, Hindi. Using it successfully projects, once again, north India as true India and Dravidian south India as other. As incidental. As internal or private. As “ethnic.” As not-really-there.

Well done, feminism. Read More »

Yearning For Answers: Fundamentalism, Polygamy, and the Role of Women

When I heard about the raid on a fundamentalist Texas compound called Yearning for Zion, I got to thinking about polygamy (well, my initial thought was more along the lines of “wow, I really want to hurl my coffee cup at the wall,” but that should probably go without saying).

Although the raid was part of an ongoing child abuse probe (hence my desire to destroy a perfectly innocent coffee cup), the issue of polygamy once again took center stage as Americans and everyone else who watched the news coming out of Texas began a new round of debating the subject.

Let me put this as succinctly as possible: If you advocate for the legalization of polygamy in the States, I will only take you seriously if you advocate polyandry as well. Now for the caveat: Read More »

The Untouched It

The thought of it excited her.
She discussed it with her tender peers.
They were open with anticipation
For confirmation of their fears,
For reprieve from waiting,
For a taste of the Garden,
Which lay in their heads ahead
Where exposure hardens.

The touch of it fulfills her.
She gushes it to her curious mates.
They are anxious for information
To process on prying dates,
To understand what lies ahead,
To shed away the prim,
Knowing what they are in to,
But now what’s into them?

Read More »

Dating Advice From An Expert

An awkward boy is talking to two pretty girls he met at a coffee shop: can you imagine a more flinch-worthy scene?

Our hero wears a red shirt that marks him as a proponent of “AIDS Day” in no uncertain terms. He has a very efficient looking satchel, stickers all over his laptop, and the sort of subtly dry humor that… sucks. It never registers, and he doesn’t understand why people don’t laugh at what are probably fairly funny insights.

He currently isn’t getting anywhere with these girls. They’re both getting up to leave, and he’s sort of corralled one of them, but the other one is making her escape through the front door. The girl he’s trapped is twitching like a frightened new-born gazelle. She keeps glancing at the door, but her so-called friend is gone. She’s probably already in the car; she might very well be speeding towards the Georgia-Alabama border this very minute.

I’m only a bystander, but even I can tell that this guy has about as much sex appeal as the Republican National Convention. It will be a victory if she even gives him the dignity of a fake number with the right number of digits.

My friends, spring is coming. That means many things, but the one that I choose to dwell on is the maelstrom of failed courtship and disappointed organs that I see on a yearly basis. It’s as if everyone’s libido has been hibernating, and just woke up. It’s hungry, slightly disoriented, and wants to scratch its back against a pine tree. (How do we interpret that metaphor? Hungry = “Gotta get me some action.” Slightly disoriented = “Am I gay now? Hm.” Wants to scratch its back against a pine tree = “Poke people on Facebook until it gets creepy.”)

I, for one, would like to help everyone avoid any potential heartache. To this end, I’ve compiled some crucial tips for both guys and gals on dealing with that utterly confusing opposite gender. I’m a man of insight and experience, and I’m happy to share what I’ve learned. As to people interested in their own gender, well, I have to admit that I’m no expert, but I imagine that you can find some of this useful anyway.

Guys, let’s walk through the phases of a relationship together, shall we? Read More »

My Bee

Lalla M’Zouda took pride in the thicket of her burning bush.
“Gardens are the scene of assignation,” she told Moulay Aly.
“First, your tongue is to brush, barely brush,
the dew from the outer petals.
Penetration can only ensue with almost unbearable lightness.
The violets must be woken from their dusky sleep,
the marigolds plucked leaf by vibrant leaf,
the lobelias gently watered with saliva.
Only then may you proceed to the inner grotto,
now scented and alive with wetness as is a fountain hidden by moss.
A recess in which, as in virtually all heraldry of Eros, blooms the dark rose of ecstasy, magically unfolding.”

Lalla M’Zouda may not have come across Ariel
but knew that where the bee sucks, there sucks Moulay Aly,
who brushed his lips with what she called “my little honey.”
Or the nacreous spoor of the snail, housed in the recesses of the arbor.
“My bee,” she whispered, “is your sac now full?”

Soundtrack: An iPod Epic

This is where this particular story starts: I was listening to my iPod, and I had set it to shuffle.

I don’t necessarily like the shuffle function. I resort to it. Some folks enjoy the surprise of what’s coming next; I simply cannot choose one band over another.

I have about eleven gigs of music, and I find the variety paralyzing. Finally, I’ll choose one of the three artists that I always choose, and disgust myself with my own predictability. It’s a small, silent drama that gets played out to an audience of just one, and I prefer to skip it. So I shuffle.

The particular sequence of “random” songs I am about to relate seemed to tell a unique story. As I listened to it, I became absolutely positive that not only had my iPod gained some sort of terrifying self-awareness, but that it was playing tricks on me.

Or, here’s a simpler, more arrogant explanation: the universe was sending me a message, because I’m so important and handsome. Either way, this particular sequence of songs reminded me more than anything of the night I met a guy that I will refer to as Rafferty.

And so the story turned into a music retrospective, and an odyssey of me and Rafferty. It’s sad, creepy, and beautiful. Enjoy.

Brighton Rock (5:09) – Queen

I was ambushed. Expecting the standard lyrical, pop-genius that Queen has always provided, I was literally punched in my rat-eating face when the happy carnival intro morphed into complex progressions, power chords, and a guitar solo that would probably cause Mother Teresa to fling her bra onto the stage.

Freddie Mercury does his thing as well as ever, which makes this song evidence that he could also have been a great front man for Judas Priest. This is a song from my past that made a startling, happy reappearance; it would also be a fantastic tune to burn down a building to.

And so it goes that it was a summer between college semesters. I had ended up at a party, tagging along with a friend. And at this same party, I met this guy I had known from the third grade. I met Rafferty. And Rafferty had changed.

A lot.

Gone were the glasses, the tucked-in polo shirt, the short stature that had forced him to squint up at people. Present-day Rafferty had shoulder-length stoner hair. He seemed like the kind of guy that solved the problem of boredom by going out with a bat to set off car alarms. Apparently, he had been living on a diet of vodka and bovine growth hormone. He was huge, lively, cheerful, visibly wasted, and urging me to much of the same. I had an old new friend, and he was about to rock my face off.

Hey Mama (4:20) – Kanye West

When Kanye West forgets about how wonderful Kanye West feels Kanye West is, he really is one of the greats. And this song is a perfect example: Read More »