All Muslims are not Arabs. All Arabs are not Muslims. Unfortunately, not everyone realizes this, including many Muslims. When I lived in Morocco, I discovered that it's not considered to be a "true" Arab country, and it took thirteen years for it to be admitted into the League of Arab States. Because half the population is Berber and has a different culture, and because Moroccan Arabic is so different from Classical and Modern Standard Arabic, it somehow lacks credentials within the Muslim world.
The problem lies with the fact that the prophet Mohammed was from Saudi Arabia. When a religion or philosophy is anchored in the time and place of its origin, it is certain that problems will arise as it's transplanted in time and space. It's fairly impossible for this not to occur, because nothing grows in a vacuum, and the culture in which an idea originates is bound to influence it. The choice lies in whether or not to adapt the idea to the time and place, or the time and place to the original idea. I generally think that the former works better than the latter, but the latter is a popular choice. Why do we have so many varieties of Christianity and Judaism if not for this very same conflict? Somewhere along the line, people had to choose. Do we follow Byzantium, or do we follow Rome? Do we follow the Pope or King Henry VII? What about following Luther? I don't know as much about Judaism, but I know that there are Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform sects, which meant that schisms had to take place at some point over questions of how to believe and behave. Islam is ripe for schism right now. But Islam is supposed to be unified and uniform. Which means that schism will be difficult if not impossible (even though there are already different schools of thought and different sects--Shia, Sunni, Sufi...).
This blog post came about because of reading another blog post on a similar topic. http://www.racialicious.com/2009/04/17/searching-for-my-pakistani-identity/
The author is Pakistani, and observes that other Muslim South Asians are flattered if people mistake them for Arabs and try to display an Arab cultural identity rather than their own. But they are still Muslims, regardless of their culture or race. Likewise in Morocco. Or Indonesia. Or the US.
Showing posts with label stereotypes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stereotypes. Show all posts
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Klein Grid
A while ago (as in, a few weeks ago), I took a short version of the Klein test for sexual orientation, out of curiosity to see if a somewhat standard test would give results in line with my own self-perception.
It came out more bisexual than I think is really accurate, largely because for the set of questions about who I'd been hanging out with for the past year (not dating, just people I spent time with) I had to answer "mostly male." This was more out of necessity than actual choice; who you hang out with has a lot to do with who's available, and most of the people I knew in Morocco were men. In general I think I'm about 80% gay, but it's not even really as simple as that. I'm attracted to people who fall outside gender norms. So if the pool of people I could potentially date was set at ten, seven would be female, one would be male, and two would be so completely androgynous that no one who wasn't dating them would be able to tell. And all of them would be androgynous to some degree. I think that tests of this nature fall short of accuracy because they fail to take into account that gender itself is not a binary. There isn't just a spectrum of gender-orientation, there's a full spectrum of gender-identity. But no one in research circles is likely to try to quantify that fact for at least another ten years.
It came out more bisexual than I think is really accurate, largely because for the set of questions about who I'd been hanging out with for the past year (not dating, just people I spent time with) I had to answer "mostly male." This was more out of necessity than actual choice; who you hang out with has a lot to do with who's available, and most of the people I knew in Morocco were men. In general I think I'm about 80% gay, but it's not even really as simple as that. I'm attracted to people who fall outside gender norms. So if the pool of people I could potentially date was set at ten, seven would be female, one would be male, and two would be so completely androgynous that no one who wasn't dating them would be able to tell. And all of them would be androgynous to some degree. I think that tests of this nature fall short of accuracy because they fail to take into account that gender itself is not a binary. There isn't just a spectrum of gender-orientation, there's a full spectrum of gender-identity. But no one in research circles is likely to try to quantify that fact for at least another ten years.
Monday, March 2, 2009
What happened to my hair?
Last week, I got a haircut for free. And was reminded acutely that you get what you pay for. It seemed like a good idea at the time. A salon was advertising for models to display different styles. I figured I'd go in, have something new and interesting done, and go out feeling like I'd gotten the change I needed. When I got there, though, I discovered to my chagrin that I was the only model who'd signed up (I use the term "model" loosely here, meaning only someone who's willing to go to the hairdressing seat blindfolded). An hour and a half later, after the tender ministrations of ten people struggling to perfect a new cut, my hair was significantly shorter and highly voluminous (never cut curly hair for volume. It leads to something looking suspiciously like a 'fro). I spent the next few days investing in headbands, hairclips, and styling products to mitigate the 'do. I even bought a bottle of purple hair dye, which I haven't gotten up the impetus to use just yet, but that is waiting as soon as I'm sure I won't have an interview anytime soon.
All this got me to thinking...is my hair gay? There's a fine longstanding tradition of lesbian hair, but it's generally limited to buzzcuts, fifteen-year-old-boy-cuts, and the fortunately out of date mullet, which is thankfully rarely seen anymore. My former long, flowing locks were certainly good at getting attention (at one point in college I had three friends fondling my curls and saying that my hair deserved to be groped, looking like it did). But Botticelli-style waves are not inherently gay. Neither, I think, are short, fluffy curls, though they're probably a bit closer. My girlfriend tells me that short hair is hot. It might be. Research has shown me that my current cut does not meet the accepted definition of "lesbian hair" (which, oddly enough, is not "hair that belongs to a lesbian.")
Apparently, there are references to specific cuts:
http://www.lesbiatopia.com/2007/03/lesbian-hair-good-bad-and-ugly.html
http://www.lesbilicious.co.uk/community/lesbian-hair-the-secrets-untangled/
And certain stars have apparently been seen sporting some of them:
http://www.afterellen.com/blog/dorothysnarker/lesbian-hair-makes-a-comeback
I think that I'm actually somewhat relieved. Not having lesbian hair means that I don't fit into a stereotype, which is always good, in my book. And I admit, I enjoy being ambiguous, in this as in other things. So while my haircut may be interesting and unusual, it does not mark me as gay. So people will still have to wonder ;)
All this got me to thinking...is my hair gay? There's a fine longstanding tradition of lesbian hair, but it's generally limited to buzzcuts, fifteen-year-old-boy-cuts, and the fortunately out of date mullet, which is thankfully rarely seen anymore. My former long, flowing locks were certainly good at getting attention (at one point in college I had three friends fondling my curls and saying that my hair deserved to be groped, looking like it did). But Botticelli-style waves are not inherently gay. Neither, I think, are short, fluffy curls, though they're probably a bit closer. My girlfriend tells me that short hair is hot. It might be. Research has shown me that my current cut does not meet the accepted definition of "lesbian hair" (which, oddly enough, is not "hair that belongs to a lesbian.")
Apparently, there are references to specific cuts:
http://www.lesbiatopia.com/2007/03/lesbian-hair-good-bad-and-ugly.html
http://www.lesbilicious.co.uk/community/lesbian-hair-the-secrets-untangled/
And certain stars have apparently been seen sporting some of them:
http://www.afterellen.com/blog/dorothysnarker/lesbian-hair-makes-a-comeback
I think that I'm actually somewhat relieved. Not having lesbian hair means that I don't fit into a stereotype, which is always good, in my book. And I admit, I enjoy being ambiguous, in this as in other things. So while my haircut may be interesting and unusual, it does not mark me as gay. So people will still have to wonder ;)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Aerial Dance and Gender Stereotypes
Earlier today I took an aerial dance class, my second one so far. It's the most fun I've had in a while, in terms of physical activity; my four-times-a-week yoga classes are good for getting back in shape, but not really what I would call "fun".(Too structured, always the same poses, more emphasis on staying in the postures than in the joy of movement). Aerial, on the other hand, is a form of dance, which means that joy in movement is integral. Doing amazing feats and making them look effortless and pretty...that's what movement is about.
So. Technique. You step up to the low trapeze, wrap your hands around it, and hang your weight down, making sure to protect your neck. Explore moving while hanging from the bar, see how it feels, that's the first step. Next step is to get up. Hold on to the bar, drop your weight down, and kick your feet up to place them between your hands. Hook your knees over the bar. Let go with your hands and arch your back. Now swing yourself back up to hold on to the bar with your hands, and walk your hands up the rope to pull yourself up to a sitting position. Ready to move on? Disengage your right leg from the bar and extend it down. Slide your left knee to one corner of the bar, and brace your right shoulder blade against the opposite rope. It will hold you, despite what you may think. Disengage your shoulder blade from the rope, hook your left elbow over the bar, and extend yoru right arm. You should be hanging from your left knee and your left elbow, with your body in a straight line extended below the bar. For something even more advanced, straighten your left leg and hook your foot aorund the rope. Bring your right hand up to the bar and let go with your left hand. You're now hanging below the bar with one wrist and one ankle. Had enough? Now you can get down. From the hanging position, just bring both hands up to hold the bar as you kick your feet down to land gracefully below.
We practice like this for an hour and a half. As a beginner, the wooden bar hurts my hands, I get rope burns on my palms, my triceps aren't strong enough to hold my full weight for very long, and my graceful landings are often more like thuds. By the end of class, my arms want to fall off. But it's fun, and I'm enjoying it. I look forward to getting stronger muscles and bigger calluses so I can stay up longer. I can't wait to develop more technique and artistic skill.
After class today, I struck up a conversation with an older woman who was tyring the class out. Fortysomething and built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, she understandably had a bit of trouble. But she seemed nice enough, so we chatted a bit. She said that her arms hurt, and I said that was to be expected. After my first class I could barely lift grocery bags for the next several days. Then she said she didn't want calluses on her hands, because those look bad on women, and people would think badly of her. I suggested athletic tape as protection, but then...
"Defy gender stereotypes," I said, as I often do when confronted with the idea that there are things that women shouldn't do.
"What?" she responded, as though she must have misheard what I'd said.
"Defy gender stereotypes. Go against them. They're bad."
The dawn of horrified comprehension appeared. With a look of the most righteous possible indignation, she primly said "I believe in them very strongly." Her tone brooked no argument.
Oh. Oops.
Now, I admittedly self-select the people I hang out with. Most of my friends are queer or queer-friendly or just don't give a damn one way or the other what conventional wisdom says about how they should behave. I know boys who sew and girls who fix plumbing, and they're all quite comfortable with their gender identities. Even my friends who do partake in "stereotypical" activities will fight tooth and nail to say and show that they can do other things as well. Never have I ever in my life talked to someone, a woman no less, who "belives very strongly" in a system designed to keep us all rigidly in our (subordinate) place.
This woman won't do anything that will give her bruises, cuts, scrapes, blisters, calluses, or any other blemish. She's had five babies (which is worse for your body than most other activities I can think of that would result in bruising). She likes to pamper herself. (I could be uncharitable and say that this combination probably directly contributes to her Pillsbury shape, but that would be mean and unfair so I'll desist). She proceeded to tell me, in the most patronizing way possible, that I might think differently while I'm young and foolish but as I get older my opinions will change and I'll realize, like her, that the stereotypes are true.
Not bloody likely, I thought, but did not say. I bid her a polite goodbye. I doubt that I'll see her again. Aerial dance is not for the fainthearted, and if you're afraid of a few blisters you'll never get far. (That's true of most things, after all). As for me, I take pride in my bruises. I take pride in my calluses, scratches, and scars. They show what I've done, where I've been, what I've accomplished. From ballet feet to rope-burned palms, I have it all, and I'm not ashamed. So if you're looking for a nice, pretty, scarless girl to cook and clean and have babies, don't wait up for me.
I'll be on the trapeze.
Trapeze artist Emily Schadel
So. Technique. You step up to the low trapeze, wrap your hands around it, and hang your weight down, making sure to protect your neck. Explore moving while hanging from the bar, see how it feels, that's the first step. Next step is to get up. Hold on to the bar, drop your weight down, and kick your feet up to place them between your hands. Hook your knees over the bar. Let go with your hands and arch your back. Now swing yourself back up to hold on to the bar with your hands, and walk your hands up the rope to pull yourself up to a sitting position. Ready to move on? Disengage your right leg from the bar and extend it down. Slide your left knee to one corner of the bar, and brace your right shoulder blade against the opposite rope. It will hold you, despite what you may think. Disengage your shoulder blade from the rope, hook your left elbow over the bar, and extend yoru right arm. You should be hanging from your left knee and your left elbow, with your body in a straight line extended below the bar. For something even more advanced, straighten your left leg and hook your foot aorund the rope. Bring your right hand up to the bar and let go with your left hand. You're now hanging below the bar with one wrist and one ankle. Had enough? Now you can get down. From the hanging position, just bring both hands up to hold the bar as you kick your feet down to land gracefully below.
We practice like this for an hour and a half. As a beginner, the wooden bar hurts my hands, I get rope burns on my palms, my triceps aren't strong enough to hold my full weight for very long, and my graceful landings are often more like thuds. By the end of class, my arms want to fall off. But it's fun, and I'm enjoying it. I look forward to getting stronger muscles and bigger calluses so I can stay up longer. I can't wait to develop more technique and artistic skill.
After class today, I struck up a conversation with an older woman who was tyring the class out. Fortysomething and built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, she understandably had a bit of trouble. But she seemed nice enough, so we chatted a bit. She said that her arms hurt, and I said that was to be expected. After my first class I could barely lift grocery bags for the next several days. Then she said she didn't want calluses on her hands, because those look bad on women, and people would think badly of her. I suggested athletic tape as protection, but then...
"Defy gender stereotypes," I said, as I often do when confronted with the idea that there are things that women shouldn't do.
"What?" she responded, as though she must have misheard what I'd said.
"Defy gender stereotypes. Go against them. They're bad."
The dawn of horrified comprehension appeared. With a look of the most righteous possible indignation, she primly said "I believe in them very strongly." Her tone brooked no argument.
Oh. Oops.
Now, I admittedly self-select the people I hang out with. Most of my friends are queer or queer-friendly or just don't give a damn one way or the other what conventional wisdom says about how they should behave. I know boys who sew and girls who fix plumbing, and they're all quite comfortable with their gender identities. Even my friends who do partake in "stereotypical" activities will fight tooth and nail to say and show that they can do other things as well. Never have I ever in my life talked to someone, a woman no less, who "belives very strongly" in a system designed to keep us all rigidly in our (subordinate) place.
This woman won't do anything that will give her bruises, cuts, scrapes, blisters, calluses, or any other blemish. She's had five babies (which is worse for your body than most other activities I can think of that would result in bruising). She likes to pamper herself. (I could be uncharitable and say that this combination probably directly contributes to her Pillsbury shape, but that would be mean and unfair so I'll desist). She proceeded to tell me, in the most patronizing way possible, that I might think differently while I'm young and foolish but as I get older my opinions will change and I'll realize, like her, that the stereotypes are true.
Not bloody likely, I thought, but did not say. I bid her a polite goodbye. I doubt that I'll see her again. Aerial dance is not for the fainthearted, and if you're afraid of a few blisters you'll never get far. (That's true of most things, after all). As for me, I take pride in my bruises. I take pride in my calluses, scratches, and scars. They show what I've done, where I've been, what I've accomplished. From ballet feet to rope-burned palms, I have it all, and I'm not ashamed. So if you're looking for a nice, pretty, scarless girl to cook and clean and have babies, don't wait up for me.
I'll be on the trapeze.
Trapeze artist Emily Schadel
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