Just for the record, I’m a big fan of bullshit. In fact, I buy huge bags of it every spring to use in my garden. Sure it’s stinky, but it gets the job done.
Recently, the Feminist Hulk (a tongue-in-cheek twitterer) sent out a tweet about bullshit and it was widely “re-tweeted” (or copied, with attribution) by many users in The Exponent community.* It read:
When I first saw this tweet I bristled a bit at the profanity. These words carry more weight and are somewhat more offensive when in print than when heard in casual conversation. However, that’s precisely why I liked the tweet. I felt uncomfortable and it caught my attention. And that discomfort made me think about how feminism is portrayed on The Exponent blog. The look of our blog is organic and feminine: pastel colors, the leaf motif, subdued fonts. The photos in the sidebar are artful–all of winsome smiling young women. Not a scary old hairy feminist in the bunch. I’d say that we sit squarely on the “softer side” of the feminist line when compared to mainstream feminist blogs like Feministing, Bust, or Pandagon.
So when the bullshit post from above was re-tweeted on the official Exponent channel, several of the bloggers protested on the private permablogger listserv. And when the week’s aggregate feed post went up, the bullshit tweet was removed because it was considered too vulgar for an Exponent post.
I’m shaking my head here, as I ponder whether feminism is best served with a wink and a smile. Our sisters who fought for the 19th amendment weren’t afraid of a little discomfort. I’m not necessarily suggesting that profanity be used in every Exponent post–just the opposite. When used judiciously, the discomfort that results from a smartly-used swear word can serve to illustrate an important point. Because if the Hulk tweet had said simply “RESIST THE PRESSURE TO DOWNPLAY FEMINISM TO MAKE PEOPLE MORE COMFORTABLE. DISCOMFORT CAN BE PRODUCTIVE,” I seriously doubt it would have had even half the intended impact. Discomfort can be productive. But when we carefully sanitize our writing so we don’t push boundaries or let things get a bit ugly, are we missing out?
In fact, not one reader even mentioned the Hulk tweet or the profanity in the twitter blogpost. If someone had been offended, I’m sure they would have let us know–the fact that the profanity passed unnoticed by our readers makes me wonder if there was even any cause for concern in the first place.
When I use steer manure in my garden I have to be cautious to ensure that it’s been properly aged or it can burn young seedling plants. Similarly I can see why profanity needs to be used with caution, because of the possibility of “burning” those blogreaders who are only just barely acquainted with feminism or who might be turned-off by a bit of bullshit. But at the same time I can’t help but wonder if the discomfort is really our own, and not that of our imagined audience–and if it is, then what are we really afraid of?
*Note: For new readers of my blog: I’m a founding member of The Exponent blog, which focuses on Mormon feminism and other topics that are relevant to progressive LDS women.
When I received this ritual, it didn’t occur to me to remove my artificial limb. Most likely that was due to the fact that I wouldn’t have been ambulatory without it, and also because I was not sure exactly what the “rules” were about such things and no one clarified them for me (for the most part, these rituals are not explained beforehand, due to their sacred nature). Since then I’ve learned that women with breast prosthetics can choose to wear them during the ritual. I’ve never heard any definitive word on the wearing of artificial limbs, but I suspect that it is allowable.
Because of the staging of this ritual, it was not evident to the recipients that I was wearing an artificial leg until it was nearly completed, when the officiant bent down in front of me to bless my legs (while I was seated on a throne-chair). After undergoing the washing and anointing a few times, I learned to catch the gaze of the officiant as she reached out to touch my not-real leg. There was often a pause. Usually a knowing glance was exchanged between us as she continued on with the script of the ritual (were she to speak words other than those prescribed, the ritual would be deemed ineffective and would have to be repeated according the prescribed pattern).
In the moments after the ritual, as we waited for me to be escorted by an officiant to the next step in the process, there was often a moment for some whispered conversation. Usually the officiant would mention something about my leg, asking how did I lose it, or commenting that my prosthesis looked very lifelike (which was back in the day before I chose to let my robotic innards hang out).
Those ritual moments, are, for me, emblematic of how I view my relationship to my prosthetic leg. It seems as much a part of me as my tongue, or my eyes, or my liver. That I take it off at night and lay it next to my bed, doesn’t make it any less “me.” That it is a thing of metal and plastic and vinyl, doesn’t make it any less familiar than my other leg and foot. That it sometimes makes an audible whirring adjustment sound when I walk through quiet spaces, is no different than the familiar creaks of my organic joints. That its parts are fabricated from components that come from all over the globe, and are assembled by workers in Germany and are fitted to my body by men in Orange County, doesn’t make it any less me. Perhaps what makes it feel the most ‘foreign’ is the attention that my leg garners as I move through public space. It is the reaction of others that reminds me that I am different.
I suppose that being a cyborg comes “naturally” to me. I couldn’t live my life normally without the microprocessor in my knee, or the metal crutches that I use when I’m not wearing my prosthetic. These tools are so much a part of my life that they are my life. They are familiar in the same way that my hands are on my keyboard. I don’t think each time I type that I am sending letters from my fingertips to the screen and out to you. I just do it. Like that, I just walk. And stand. And move. The way that I do.
*Note: recently there were some changes to this ritual that include less physical interaction between officiant and recipient, and also how much clothing is removed beforehand. I am discussing how it worked back in 1992, when I first participated.