Olivia Harris as Wonder Woman. When asked why she isn’t smiling she said, “Because Wonder Woman doesn’t smile.” Take that street harassers! Image used with permission from Jason Harris.

What did you want to be when you were a little kid? I wanted to be a ballerina until I saw Lynda Carter spin into Wonder Woman on my black-and-white TV. Sure, I had already seen Christopher Reeves as Superman. He was pretty great and all, but the only quasi-strong woman in that story is reporter Lois Lane. And while I did eventually grow up to be a reporter, it had nothing to do with Lois. After all, she was just another damsel-in-distress, a prop to show Superman’s emotional side. But Wonder Woman… Now there was a woman who was smart, fierce, and stronger than any man and never apologized for it. That was a hero to inspire my little heart as I watched breathlessly as she foiled bad guys and saved the world from Nazis.

And that’s when I started begging my mom to buy me comic books.

By now, you’ve probably done the mental math and can tell I was born in the 1970s and came of age in the 80s and early 90s. I’m of that generation. No, not Gen X, although that label probably fits. No, I’m of the Comic Book Geek generation. In particular, the women-who-like-comic-books generation. Indeed, we’re not just here, we’re demanding parity in characters and, at the publishing level, to include more female-created books. And now, as we raise our own children, we feel the friction of a world that has not moved as quickly to embrace strong women as the world of comics, which has come a long way from the likes of the seminal but singular Wonder Woman. Today there are whole teams of female superheros, including a Storm-led team in the Uncanny X-Men. Over at Captain Marvel, Maj. Carol Danvers has saved no less than the galaxy and led The Avengers.

It’s been a somewhat uneasy relationship for women in comics, not unlike the real world for women in a patriarchal society. There are many female characters that came into their own in the 1970s and 80s including Jean Gray/Phoenix, The Dazzler (a personal favorite), Barbara Gordon/Batgirl, Ms. Marvel, Hawkwoman, and Black Widow. The 90s brought in characters like Xena the Warrior Princess, Tank Girl, and the animated Powerpuff Girls, not to mention Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which successfully jumped from movie to television to comics after the show ended. In the modern era, we’ve seen both heroes and villains who are women portrayed with vacillating levels of real or pseudo-feminist characteristics and sexist tropes. We can see this play out in the not-quite fully actualized character of Pepper Potts as conceptualized in the Iron Man movies and contrast it with Anne Hathaway’s Cat Woman in the last Batman.

So with this growing wealth of self-actualized (or at least progress toward self-actualized) women in the comic book universe and an ever-growing legion of female fans, it is a wonder that parents of girls are still struggling to outfit their tiny heroes. In my own home, my toddler is infatuated with all things Spiderman (just like her dad), Batman, and pretty much any character that appears to be a superhero. (Although, to my chagrin, she is a bit apathetic to Wonder Woman, which she thinks is me. So, any compliment that might be taken as is immediately diminished by the fact that she thinks her mom is not that interesting.) She loves playing with her Wonder Woman invisible jet and Batman workshop, both from Fisher Price, equally. And last Halloween, at the last minute (of course), she shrugged off the Elmo costume she had originally picked out and opted instead to wear her Spiderman pajamas to go trick-or-treating. Because she loves Spidey so much, it has forced a kind of gender discussion early in her young life. We routinely have to travel to the “boys” section to find clothes and toys that suit her fancy. In turn, she is routinely called a boy, which is not an issue for me but one I find interesting in a sociological and feminist-perspective way.

My little girl loves Spiderman!

How is that when a child chooses to not wear pink, that decides her gender identity? How is it that in an age when there are more and more female heroes and villains in the comic book world, there are still such static labels on who should be the target audience?

A lot of times I can shrug it off or even welcome the conversations that my daughter’s clothes may spark as a micro-level teaching opportunity about construct of gender and about letting children just be kids, without labels, free to choose the apparel and toys that suit their spirit. Why box a kid in (or out)? Why limit who that child can be? One could argue that even by the mere fact that my husband and I call our child “daughter” we have already labeled part of her identity. But at least we’re trying to crack the door open and take away as many boxes as possible.

All of this has been a kind of prelude to one of the biggest disappointments in my daughter’s young life. On the cusp of turning three, my child is deep in the potty training phase. And as any parent knows, you want that process to go as smoothly as possible. It’s a big change in their young lives. It’s a time of liberation and learning that you have control over your body and also about fears (toilets are loud and scary) and anxieties (feelings of failure when having an accident). We want to help our kid through this process as guides and also as partners in her growth and learning.

One thing we read was to get your kid excited about potty training by taking them to buy their first underwear. So, I took my daughter to the store. She was very excited to see all the underwear, “just like mommy and daddy.” She’s not into princesses, yet, so most of the girl-branded pink underwear weren’t that interesting to my kid. What she really got excited about — like jump up and down in the aisle excited — was the package of Spiderman underwear. It was marketed to boys and sewn with the boy-style flap. But I bought a package (along with a “plan B” style, just in case). I wanted my kid to feel excited about potty time. And I wanted her to feel like she had control over her life in some small way. She could choose her underpants! (Which is really saying something, considering the gender-coding of the diaper aisle, which is almost exclusively branded out not just in shades of pink and blue but corporate characters that intensify that gender-coding.) Sadly, when my kid tried the Spidey underwear on, it just didn’t feel right. And it upset her. She didn’t want to put on the plain green, blue, or pink underwear. She wanted Spidey.

I took to internet, scowering hand-made websites like Etsy, auction sites, mass-retailer sites. I posted to all my social media sites. I was a mother on a mission! All I found was that a lot of other parents — and I mean A LOT — have the exact same problem. (Going the other way, too. With parents of boys wanting princess or “girl” themed underwear.) This was a real capitalism-fail moment. The demand is here! So where is the supply? I immediately signed the petition, which was started by another mom of a girl who loves Spidey.

So, maybe that’s why I was so excited to see this female superhero meme started by artist Alexandra Law, who finds pictures of girls dressed as superheros and turns them into comic book-style drawings of bad-ass characters. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Don’t we want every kid to see themselves as awesome superheros, with powers that amaze and delight? Isn’t that what my daughter wants when she puts on her Spidey costume? Or when she throws on the Batman rash-guard with a pink tutu to go to the water park?

As we celebrate Mother’s Day, I wish that the kids in our lives can be their true selves, explore their world without judgement, and be celebrated for who they really are and what they really love without shame. Because all I want, for Mother’s Day or any day, is for my kid to be happy. And maybe a pack of Spiderman undies for girls, size 4T. Thanks.

Cross-posted from Fem2.0.

It’s Mother’s Day and everyone’s posting pictures on social media feeds of themselves as children with their much-adored moms. It’s a sweet gesture and I hope those moms feel the love and maybe have a giggle at long-ago hairstyles and the behind-the-scenes madness it probably took to get that shot. (As a mother of a young child, I know just the circus of a family photo session!) But it’s bittersweet for me, even sparking a flash of jealousy, or two.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore my daughter. She is the light of my life. She brings me joy. Having her has helped me find a voice I never had before. All those statements would be cliché if they weren’t truly and deeply true. Opening myself up to being a mother; carrying that pregnancy in my body; knowing the thrills and chills of motherhood has been one of the most fulfilling, messy, magical, scary, beautiful experiences of my life. To know my daughter and to have the honor of parenting her is a healing act for me on an almost daily basis.

But damn it if I still cringe at Mother’s Day. Unfortunately, I have only known my daughter for three years and I’ve spent almost 37 years being someone else’s daughter. Healing takes time.

So, as I scroll through happy photos and the sentimental statuses of friends who love their mothers, I do feel a little jealous and a little pain in my heart. I’m sure I could summon a dusty memory from my childhood that doesn’t reek with drama and hurt, but to me it would feel false to post that publicly. It would present an image to the world that was incomplete and a daresay just this side of false. Oh, the memory would be real, of course. But to single it out, plucking it strategically from a voluminous catalog of disappointment, betrayal, neglect, and attacks on my innocence — that would feel like a lie. A convenient lie. One I told the world for a long time, because that’s so much easier than admitting the truth. My mother was not a good parent. And in ways too intense and too upsetting to share, her actions showed me that she did not like me, and quite possibly didn’t love me.

Now, most of the time I can safely walk through my life and not give this old wound much thought. When my daughter bounds into the room, her golden hair bouncing in the light and her face illuminated with happiness, my heart swells and everything bad about my life before her disappears into a foggy and ever-distant past. We go on adventures. We even have little conversations now that she’s mastering simple-sentence structures. I see the world more and more through her eyes. I encourage her to marvel and experiment and study this existence. And as she does, I see her wonder and amazement and it feels like the old scar tissue melts down a little more with each of those moments. Love is a healing tonic, a salve to the wounds. It binds. Its heals. It allows us to grow. And I am so grateful for that. I am so deeply grateful for my daughter and to be her mom.

And then as Mother’s Day approaches I find I have a sort of cognitive dissonance. My daughter is not quite old enough to know what it means, beyond making me a crafted present at school. (Which I adore beyond all my other possessions.) Perhaps when she’s older it will change. I don’t know. But for now, as I pass the displays every damn place I go and see the ads during all my favorite shows (truly, I’m the last person on the planet without a DVR), it just grows and grows. I manage to put it off and put it out of my mind as long as possible. My mind keeps forgetting about it and then I have to remind myself to remember it. (I do have a mother-in-law, after all.) And then in the final count-down, those last days before Mother’s Day, it just consumes every place I go whether in the real world or online. And I feel sort of trapped by all the people sharing warm, happy memories. I feel like I’m claustrophobic and trapped in a tight space.

Worst of all, I feel like if I talk about it with anyone but my closest loved ones — who already know the pains and the whys — that people will think less of me. How is it that having a bad parent makes you the bad child? Why is it that having a bad mother means I’m a bad daughter? Why do the kids have to bear the mistakes of the parents — like scarlet As on our chests. Right where our hearts were ripped out.

You can’t go on Facebook on Mother’s Day and say, “I’m glad you’re all having a wonderful Mother’s Day. Just thought you should know, this just reminds me what a shitty mom I had. Thanks.”

It wouldn’t be a very nice thing. It would be passive-aggressive. And why should I dampen anyone else’s good time? That’s not fair. But it’s also not fair to me — and all the kids like me, and I know you are out there — that we have to just endure the collective emotional dump of these myopic holidays. (Father’s Day is an equally painful landmine for many.)

Maybe if there weren’t emotional landmines around already, it would be easier. Just a few days ago, I gave testimony at the Nevada Legislature in favor of a comprehensive sex education bill. Many people who oppose the bill had testified about how pregnancy was the consequence, the punishment, for teens who did not practice abstinence. More than one mother — I know they were mothers because they all made sure to mention how many children and grandchildren they had — got up and said that if teens made the mistake of having sex, then they should have to live with the consequences. Because that will make a person really love their baby! One woman talked about how her daughter had gotten into drugs and sex and then became pregnant and how having that baby forced her to get clean and straighten out her life. If that actually happened, good for that person. More importantly, good for that baby. Because if having a child is a life-sentence for the mom, guess what, it’s no less a life-sentence for the kid!

I should know, I’m one of those babies of a teen mom.

So, I testified about the hardships of growing up with a teen mom. I talked about our poverty. The lack of choices my mother had because of her limited education. But I also talked about how deeply flawed she was and ill-equipped to be a quality parent. I talked about the emotional scars she left. And, in the context of sex education, I told the legislators that the kids like me deserve quality information, because we might not have anyone else in our lives who will give it to us. But it was not easy to do, to talk about these things in the public square, so to speak. I cried during my testimony, which I found to be extremely embarrassing. I am not a public crying type. And I suppose it shows how deep the shame of being the child of a teen mom is. 36 years later, I still feel the shame that society has placed on both her and me. After all, I’m the product of the “sin.” I’m the living, breathing scarlet A on my mother’s chest.

A couple days later, I was shopping for groceries and passed a display of flowers. (Mother’s Day, in case you forgot!) I stopped a moment and looked at the pretty flowers. There was a basket of tulips — orange and pink. They looked so bright and cheery. I had a sudden flashback to memories of my mom planting tulips along the side of our house. I adored those tulips. But that sweet memory gets polluted by another, adjacent, memory of the man who sexually abused me. He brought me tulips once, because they were my favorite. And I have felt a little ill whenever I see a tulip ever since. But on this day in the grocery store, standing still in front of the pots of flowers, I just marveled at the beauty even as the conflicting and terrible memories washed over me. Maybe tulips could have been one bright memory with my mother, but it got destroyed by someone else. And then I had a little inner dialogue with myself. Maybe I could reclaim them. Look at how pretty they are! But if I bought them and brought them home and all I thought about was the pain every time I saw them — that’s like bringing pain right into my house. Why do that? I couldn’t decide if I was strong enough to reclaim it. And I wasn’t willing to take that chance. So I walked away.

That’s the thing about troubled childhoods. Those memories and pains bubble up to the surface all the time, no matter what day it is. There are these little moments all the time. Being the survivor of sexual abuse, I know that all too well. I mean, how innocent are tulips? And yet, if I see them, I feel angry. I’ve been through a lot of therapy and read lots of books. I could probably do some kind of reverse-aversion therapy to tulips. I’m sure over time I could condition my mind to make new memories and welcome them back in again. But sometimes I just have to give myself a pass. I have so many other, more important things, to tackle. Maybe I just have to let little things like tulips slide by.

Unfortunately for me, one of the bigger things I have to deal with is that Mother’s Day is not going away. And now that I’m a mom, I want to embrace this holiday. I want to build new, better, happy memories. I want to focus on the positive. So that is the reverse-aversion therapy I’m focusing on today.

I wish I was alone in this, but I know I’m not. I know some of you are going through the same things. And I didn’t even touch on those who lost their mother; the women who wanted to have a baby and couldn’t; and so many others. Mother’s Day might be about celebrating moms, but that idea can be a painful one to a silently suffering minority. We watch your joy and we bide our time until it’s over.

My wish for everyone out there is that we can all find some peace. I hear people say, “Let go of the past.” And I wonder, how do I get it to let go of me? I have forgiven all I am capable of forgiving. I have let go of all I can un-grasp. But there’s no walking away from the scars. Like a bad knee that aches when it rains, the scars hurt sometimes. To deny that hurt is a lie. But I think it is possible to somehow find a kind of peace with it. We can acknowledge it. We can sit with it. And I think at the point when we stop judging ourselves for the pain we feel (why can’t I just let this go?) then a kind of peace can settle in.

In the meantime, I’m going to go hug my daughter. And I’m going to try and “like” all the happy mom memories I see today. Because I am glad that there are so many good moms out there. That’s a good thing. It gives me hope.

Are you ready for the NOH8 in Las Vegas hate crimes event? I can’t believe it’s almost here! You can still RSVP here.

And all this planning has me thinking about the first time I organized an event for Erin Davies and her “fag bug.” I spent most of the summer of 2007 organizing two events for the fag bug — a caravan down the Strip and an event at the Beauty Bar on July 26, 2007. (If you remember those posts, you are an SCS Super Fan! xoxo) I even roped family and friends into helping me distribute fliers at First Friday in July. If you live in Las Vegas, you know that is proof that my family and friends love me!

When I organized the first fag bug event I was in a much different place in my life. I had just left my stable, full-time job as a staff writer at Las Vegas CityLife to strike out on my own. I had started The Sin City Siren just a few months earlier — May 6, 2007 to be exact. (Say, it looks like there’s an anniversary coming up…) In a lot of ways, I feel like the history of Erin Davies’ fag bug dovetails with that of SCS. Her car was vandalized with anti-gay hate speech on the National Day of Silence in April 2007, right around the same time I was mulling jumping into the online journalism/blogging landscape. And through organizing that first Las Vegas event in 2007, Erin and I have forged a friendship sealed by activism and our inexplicable shared idealism that the world is not as evil as all the bad news leads us to believe.

In truth, I would say that organizing Erin’s fag bug event in 2007 was a turning point in my life and career. I had just spent nearly 10 years in traditional print journalism and was feeling beat down by the weight of cynicism that pervades newsrooms. I was known as a Pollyanna because I had an unusual ability to see the good in people, despite my daily job reporting quite the opposite. Unusual for the vocation. Maybe unusual for all I know to be true in this world even today — as I sadly continue to write and report on rape culture and attacks (figurative and literal) on women’s rights these past six years on SCS.

How is it possible that I still see the good in people or our world? In a word: fagbug.

When I set about to organize the 2007 fag bug events I hadn’t done any organizing in 10 years (or since I was in college, for those keeping track at home). But I know a lot of people in this town and I just decided that if I could get unwilling sources to open up on the record, how hard could it be to call in a few favors to do some good? It turns out, it was both more work and surprisingly easy all at the same time. It took a while to get momentum rolling but when I lucked into a women’s HRC meeting exploring the idea of creating an off-shoot group (it became Women’s Empowerment Network), it was like the hand of destiny was tapping us all. They needed an event to get people to organize around and get engaged in a new group, I needed people who could help. There are many things about Las Vegas I don’t like, but one thing that is great about this town is the deep generosity that lies just below the surface. By the time we had our last volunteer meeting it was not just standing room only, we ended up shutting down a rather large Starbucks because we went over building occupancy!

And that was just the preview to what ended up being a really inspiring, dynamic, fun event at the Beauty Bar. We packed that place with so many LGBTQ Las Vegans, we practically turned the venue pink for the night! So many people stepped up and donated time and money and resources — from comped rooms on the Strip, to a take at the door, to local musicians playing for free, to a local Volkswagen dealer giving Erin’s car a free tune-up (which actually indirectly led to VW sponsoring her trip later on) — it was all so amazing to me. After covering this town for years as a journalist, I thought I knew what Las Vegas was. But that night, I finally got to see the real heart and soul of Las Vegas. And that couldn’t have come at a better time; a time when I was beginning to lose faith in the humanity of people and my Pollyanna spirit was draining out of me. That night gave me the courage to go on as a journalist, a blogger, and as it turns out, an activist.

So when Erin sent me a message a few months ago asking about coming to Las Vegas… How could I say no?

Even as I started organizing the event for tomorrow — Friday, 7pm, 101 S. Rancho Drive — I began to wonder if this is coming into my life again for a reason. After nearly six years doing The Sin City Siren, I’m feeling the frayed edges of burn-out creeping in. How many more times do I have to write about no justice for rape survivors? How many more stories about women being threatened out of their rights do I need to write? How much more misogyny, homophobia, and racism can I take?! But as I talked with Erin and started reaching out to organizations and organizers, I started to feel that old spark again.

Could that be hope returning?

This time around my motivations are different, more personal. Now I’m somebody’s mother. And that somebody is linked to Las Vegas for life, because she was born here. This is my daughter’s home town. And for all the bitching I do about all the failings of Las Vegas, specifically, and Nevada in general — and let’s face it that is a loooong list — it just begs the question: What are you going to do about it?

As I have been planning the NOH8 in Las Vegas hate crimes event, featuring Erin Davies, I have been thinking about all the ways our society is designed to discriminate, limit, and box-in my child. She’s only two and society is already teaching her that some things are “for boys” and some are “for girls.” She’s already getting indoctrinated in the gender-binary of a life defined by being a gender that is “opposite” the one and only other gender. And because our society labels the female gender as weak, all this gender-coding is already putting road-blocks in the way of her future success. She will someday have to argue the  point that she is qualified and worth equal pay. And that’s only after she navigates an educational system so burdened with patriarchal systems of oppression (not to mention racism and classicism) that she will have to prove her worth to be treated equally to math, science, technology, and if she is skilled for it like her father, engineering classes. And we haven’t even talked about sports…

My daughter is already growing up in a world that wants to limit who she is. It wants to define who she is. And it wants to take away opportunities, based on nothing more than archaic systems of oppression labeled “tradition.” What if she is not heterosexual? What if she is transgender? What if she one day falls in love with a person of color and that coupling faces discrimination and racism? As a mother, I can’t protect her from everything. I can’t walk ahead of her through her life and punch all those assholes in the face. (That’s hyperbole, not an actual threat, mind you.) I am doing my best to dismantle what I can and to give her the tools I hope will help her to do the same — more even.

But that’s not all I can do. I know how to organize. I still have a lot of friends. (Love you!) And for whatever reason or act of God, my name still has some credibility attached to it, a political chip I’m willing to cash in if it means I can inch my daughter’s home town just that much closer to a fair and equitable place to grow up. More than that, it’s worth all this work — and yes, time away from my munchkin lately — because so many other people’s sons and daughters are getting victimized by hate and discrimination every single day. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t stand in solidarity with them? Because if there’s anything being a parent has taught me is that we really do need a village because this shit is hard work.

Hatred and acts of hate don’t just anger me, they hurt us all. Every time someone paints hate speech on a block wall to scare and silence their neighbor; every time a rape victim is taunted by cyber-bullies until she takes her own life just to escape the torture; every time a mom has to drive her kids to school in their minivan covered in “dyke” and “fag;” every time a legislator is threatened with bodily harm because she talks about having an abortion … every single time things like this happen, we are all harmed. We can’t separate out these hates as different or unique. These are all rooted in the same bigotry, intolerance, and fear that feed into such a deep reservoir of hate. And that hate will undo us all. It will take us all down. It will destroy our spirit and the ones we love, if we let it.

The hate crimes event tomorrow is my line in the sand. No more hate! Whether it’s acted out like racism, homophobia, misogyny, or any other form of bigotry — it’s all hate! And just like so many have rallied around Boston as a show of support and a symbol of how much bigger love is than hate, we must all unite and rally to stand against hate everywhere — like right here in Las Vegas.

Alright Las Vegas, I’ll see you there.

Is this what it feels like when you decide to “Say Yes” in life? I am exhausted. I am touched. I am amazed. I am horrified. I am in awe.

Last week I did the same thing I do every week (several times a week): I wrote a blog post. Same as I ever do. But that one post set it off. People were talking. I got invited on a local TV show (and then a clip of that show was aired a second time later in the week).

I suppose I should have seen it coming. As I sat listening to Nevada Assemblywoman Lucy Flores’ compelling, raw testimony during an April 1 hearing on a comprehensive sex education bill (AB230), I should have paid closer attention to the gasps of horror that came from the opposing side. I should have recognized it as the epicenter of a grand shock-wave that had yet to hit. Because that was the moment when Flores, Nevada’s first Latina assemblywoman, announced publicly for the first time that she had an abortion at age 16.

“I’m going to say something I’ve never said publicly before, because — Why not? I’ve been open about everything else?” Flores tearfully said as she began to tell the story of her unplanned pregnancy. “I had six other sisters, all of them became pregnant in their teens — all of them. One was 14 years old when she got pregnant with twins. That is what I had to learn from.”

When Flores found herself pregnant at 16, she went to her father to get money to have an abortion because, she said, she saw how difficult circumstances were for her sisters, already mothers so young. Flores’ story is just another thread in an amazing story of redemption that found a former gang member turn good by getting her GED, then law degree, and who now works as a state legislator. She credits her parole officer with helping change the course of her life, already marked by a juvenile record.

Then, because of what somebody said in a public hearing, people got carried away and made threats against her. Threats against her life because they hated something she did (have an abortion). No matter what you think about abortions, I do not understand a mentality that says threatening that person with violence is the answer. Don’t you remember the lesson from the after-school-special? Violence is never the answer!

I kept thinking about that old Dixie Chicks song: How in the world can something I say/ send somebody so over the edge that they write me a letter/ saying that I better shut up and sing or my live will be over?

So I got mad. Really mad. And I took to my other blog, The Sin City Siren, and I wrote the truth. I wrote my feelings. And I breathed life into what would become a viral campaign, a flash-point for another conversation about abortion rights.

But while the anti-choice folks have made hay with headlines declaring, “I Don’t Regret Killing My Baby,”* it is disturbing that any person or persons have threatened the Nevada lawmaker with violence. As a Christian and a mother, I pray for her safety. When I tucked my toddler into bed tonight, I hugged her that much harder as I struggled to hold back tears thinking about Lucy Flores, not because we should condescend to characterizing even highly educated, powerful women as simply “somebody’s daughter,” but because Lucy is a fellow human being living with fear tonight. I have empathy for the worry she must feel.

It is this complete lack of empathy that is at the core of the opposition to women’s autonomy, and their access to legal forms of health care, or even the education that can help them establish healthy relationships, healthy sexual experiences, and healthy futures. Rather than live and let live — or even turn the other cheek, as Jesus might say — the anti-choice movement cannot see the humanity in any person not living their life as a man in a heterosexual man’s world. Because if you are anything other than a heterosexual, cisgender man you are cast as unequal, weak, or even deviant. I daresay the only humans who come close to having equality with men in their patriarchal, misogynistic, homophobic, and often blatantly racist world-view are the fetuses they fight so hard to legally classify as “persons.”

So, today, right now, I propose that we show our own personhood, so to speak. I propose that we take the #IHadAnAbortion meme of a few years ago and we publicly stand with Lucy Flores. Regardless of whether or not you have ever had an abortion, we need to stand with Flores and all the countless women she represents. Because she represents many who may be too afraid to come forward with their stories because of the same bullying, terrorist threats that Flores is confronted with right now.

I posted that in the wee hours of April 4. And by the end of the day, I had received emails and interview requests from The Huffington Post, Think Progress, and many more. People were standing with Nevada Assemblywoman Lucy Flores for talking about having an abortion during a hearing on a comprehensive sex education bill. They were standing with her because they objected to threatening someone with harm or death for simply telling their story. People were standing with Lucy Flores because they had an abortion, too. Others stood with Lucy Flores because they applauded her bravery, to risk her political career (and, it seems, her personal safety), to champion a bill that may help others avoid the experience she had at 16.

By the end of the day, THOUSANDS of people had tweeted their support for Lucy Flores!

I can honestly say, I never expected to be the architect of something like that. I have certainly done my fair share of activism. I’ve helped the campaigns of many others over the years. But I never thought something I wrote would go viral like that.

I am deeply humbled by the support and positive messages that flooded in for Lucy. I have never met her and have not talked to her during any of this. So I can only hope that she sees how many more of us there are than those who would seek to use terrorist tactics to silence someone.

And I am filled with gratitude to all the people from all across the country who helped make #FierceFlores a trend on twitter and who shared and forwarded the posts and photos I was putting out. It made me realize how rich I am in friends and colleagues. It proved true that old adage that you reap what you sow. I like to think that over the years, I have sown a lot of good seeds — good energy that made its way back to me last week.

What a crazy week! I don’t know if I will ever again be a part of something that big. I don’t know if I managed to really make a difference. It feels like maybe the answer is yes. But how do you ever know?

My husband was ribbing me and said it’s going to be hard to go back to my normal blog hit-counts and a normal week’s work schedule. I’m not so sure. As much as I’m glad that I may have brought some comfort to Lucy Flores, I won’t miss the glare of the (indirect) spot-light. I’m much  more comfortable sitting behind the computer screen, plunking away at my keys, and doing what I do. Same as it ever was.

As many regular readers know, I suffer from a variety of allergies to things in the natural world, as well as products at the grocery store, to things in the medicine cabinet. For the past few months I’ve been trying to find a new deodorant, as my old one has started causing me to break out into a rash. Bleh.

In my search, I feel like I’ve tried just about every brand and type out there. Even the hippie kinds that don’t work for shit. Then, the other day, I was shopping for my husband and I walked through the men’s deodorant aisle. I stopped for a moment and turned and looked at the products lining the shelves.

I think Oprah calls this an “Aha moment.”

I picked up some of the men’s deodorants and started reading the labels. I didn’t see any of the offending ingredients that were plaguing me just one (feminine) aisle over. And then I bought a couple and tried them out. Eureka!

Now I have to admit, I feel sort of stupid for not thinking of it sooner. Why didn’t I try out a men’s deodorant before? Well, partly I think it’s geography. They were in a whole different aisle. Out of sight, out of mind. But that isn’t the whole story, of course. A big part of why I didn’t think of it is because of my own internalized sexism. Those products are for men.

And, of course, this raises some questions about our assumptions of cleanliness, smells, and hair removal standards for women as well as men. I am sure I have not been the first feminist offended by commercials for products like Axe, marketed to men as a macho brand that will get you laid. There’s a master’s class in propagating the gender binary right there! A product for dudes is aggressive and will entice women to have sex. (Presumably, dudes only want to have sex with women, in the hetero-normative world of personal hygiene.) Likewise, women’s products aim to not only maintain “freshness,” but also the illusion that women never sweat at all. And, naturally, women will be applying their feminine deodorant to hairless armpits, shaved religiously to avoid the implication that they are dudes.

So much gender-coding and it’s only deodorant!

All this aside, I am happily wearing deodorant that works for me now. (And I think it’s safe to say as summer approaches in Las Vegas, everyone else is happy, too.) But what a waste of time and money I spent with such a narrow search! I was blinded by my own internalized sexism! (One interesting side note: Deodorants marketed to men are just as overwhelmingly loaded with fragrance as ones that are marketed to women!)

We all have it these sexist stumbling blocks. And that’s why I write about TMFs so much. Because even though we can see it in some aspects of our lives, sometimes we can’t see it in others — even when it is blaring at us like a big neon sign. Dismantling sexism and the institutionalized patriarchy all around us is hard work and it takes all of us. I’m no more perfect at it than anyone else.

And that’s why I encourage you to speak up and share your experiences! Send me your tips and photos of offenders! Let’s keep this dialogue going, that we all might be liberated, one post at a time.

Exhibit A: “Daddy’s Cup Cake” pajamas sold in the girl’s section at Osh Kosh B’Gosh. Message: Girls need only be sweet and pretty!

Exhibit B: From the same store. These toddler t-shirts were marketed to boys. While I think the little chick is cute, I wonder why toddlers would care about being chick magnets, as the obvious double-meaning is that chicks are girls. Toddlers, regardless of gender, have almost no sex hormones in their little bodies. That doesn’t kick in until puberty. So, this is just kind of a gross hyper-sexualization of boys, with an added layer of being sexist against girls (as the objects, aka “chicks”).

We can do better!

Have you seen a TMF? Send ‘em to me and maybe I’ll post yours in a future installment!

I get goosebumps when I think about the potential for the NOH8 (Fag Bug) event in April.  There is always that precarious moment when I’m planning an event when I think, “What have I gotten myself into?” Why did I say yes? Now that people and organizations are committing to participating and sponsoring, I feel like it’s real. I feel that sense that I could let everyone down or humiliate myself by failing to deliver what I promise. There is a spirit to this event that is unlike any other that I have been a part of. It was the same when I organized the Fag Bug events here in 2007. People have a desire to say yes to this event. And I am grateful for that! And people are bringing their talents, ideas, and enthusiasm in ways that delight and surprise me. I just hope I can honor them and Erin (owner of the Fag Bug) and the mission of this Big Idea we are having.

Sometimes when I’m busy dreaming up ideas, I get scared that I can’t pull it off. I have some plans for this year — including really stepping out in the creative-writing sphere — that require a push. I have to push myself past the discomfort of leaving my normal, comfort-zone. I have to push past the fear of failure. Push through the doubt. But sometimes, I also have to push through a fear of success. Is that strange? Sometimes I start thinking about a project or idea and I get so excited and I think, “What if this really works?”

Wow… What if it does?

When I was younger, I don’t think I ever gave much thought to success. I hadn’t had any, yet! So every venture was new and unknown and terrifying and risked failure. Every idea was a big idea. Every job was an important link in the chain of my future. But since I hadn’t had any success yet, there was very little to lose. I could go for it. I could fail. And so what? If I crapped out, there wasn’t much that was on the table. It reminds me a bit of watching my daughter when she was learning to walk. I don’t think she feared falling down, which she did a lot, because there was so much more to gain by risking a fall than if she just sat on her butt, safe but limited.

Now that I’m a bit older, I do have something to lose. There’s no doubt about it. I am a mom and a wife. I have responsibilities and bills to pay, not to mention my own bruised ego if I fall down. I can bet big and lose. And that scares me. But then the opposite is true, too. Because when we bet big and win, it can be a real game-changer in our lives. Success can bring great rewards but also change. And even good change can be scary.

I am reminded of when I won the Nevada Press Association’s Outstanding Journalist of the Year award back in 2005. It’s the highest individual honor a journalist can get from the NPA. When I won, it was a complete surprise and a bit of a shock. The Outstanding Journalist is nominated by an editor and mine kept it a secret. So I didn’t even know I was nominated until I found out I had won. It was a huge honor, as it is a measure of not just one or two stories but a whole body of work and your skills as a journalist. But as soon as the news sunk in, I was immediately anxious and a bit afraid of the award and what it would mean. Everything was going to change. And it did. My colleagues and bosses treated me differently. Sources and press agents took a different tone. There was begrudging respect, jealousy, and a feeling that I had been put up on a pedestal that was just waiting to be kicked over. Indeed, winning that award was the beginning of the end of my love-affair with being a full-time, traditional, print journalist. And after I got my plaque, I drank too many chocolate martinis and hid my award under a pile of sheets in a guest-room closet, where it sat for more than a year.

Admittedly, there was a lot more going on with that win than just the award itself. Like so many of you, I have struggled over the years to find my own sense of worthiness. I am happy to say that today I would not have the same reaction to that award that I did back then because a big part of my problem was a deep sense that I did not deserve it. So, let’s nip that in the bud right now. I work hard. I deserve my successes! No, what I’m talking about is a kind of fear about change. Not a fear that I don’t deserve good things.

For instance, I am getting ready to watch the Oscars tonight with friends. And one of my writing projects is a screenplay. (In fact, more than one.) While I don’t see myself at the Oscars, I can’t help but wonder what may come of these screenplays. Will these movies get made? How will that change my life? My family’s life? I have been enjoying writing these screenplays so much and getting back in touch with my creative-writing side. I could see myself doing that. What a life! I could continue to work from home, writing stories that entertain people! That’s my dream! But then sometimes I get scared thinking about if that really happens. Would I have to move? How might it impact my daughter and husband? The big ideas and dreams I have effect more than just me.

Of course, all this worry and doubt doesn’t really do any good. It certainly doesn’t help me get the job done. It’s no better than when fear of failure keeps me sitting idle on the couch, instead of sitting at my desk. But it is times like these that I wish I had a crystal ball. How is it going to work out? Is this idea going to work? Is this project a waste of time? Will people show up to that event? It’s the anticipation that gets me every time!

It doesn’t get more obviously gendered then the toddler underwear aisle.

Now this particular TMF: Tired Marketing Fail hits closer to home than most because Andrea Shindeldecker of Oak Park, Illinois is a mom after my own heart. You see, her five-year-old daughter LOVES Spiderman! Sure, other superheroes are great and all, but Spidey is tops. Sound like another little girl you’ve heard about on this blog before? Yep, as I’ve said before, my toddler is one of Spidey’s biggest fans. So, when this Change.org petition hit my inbox with the simple title Spiderman Underpants… well, you had me at Spiderman.

This TMF goes out to all the little girls who love superheroes and find no love at their local department stores. I’ll let Andrea explain:

Where to begin? My name is Andrea Shindeldecker and I’m many things, but as we say in the business, I am first and foremost, a mother. A mother to two amazing girls. I tell them every day that they are awesome and that they can accomplish whatever they strive for and that boys and girls, men and women are equal. The lessons they’re learning in the store aisles, reflect that my sincerest lesson, may hold a kernel of falsehood.

My first-born, Charlotte will be 5 in 2 days. She LOVES Spider-Man. All the superheros, but Spidey is her one, truest love. She has begged, since she was beginning to potty train, for Spidey undies. We even tried the boys. While buying out of the boys department works for t-shirts and pajamas, alas, not for underwear. Today, she got mad. She told me that it’s NOT FAIR. That she loves Spider-Man and knows more about him than lots of kids. It’s not fair that she can’t have the Spidey undies and it makes her SO MAD. If she’s not allowed to have something as silly as the underwear, what else can’t she have? A very good question indeed.

It’s not just Spider-Man that she can’t have. It happens with all the children’s characters. A boy who loves Dora or Cinderella, a little girl that wants both Thor and Foofa underwear. Every day, they’re told told that what they want is only for children of the opposite gender. It seems like such a small thing, but what we are telling small children, on their first MAJOR transition out of babyhood is that their favorite character is not for them. That they are wrong. What a terrible message. Kids can and do like whatever they want. Heroes and princesses alike, are for all children. And if a favored hero can be worn on a day they are nervous such as a recital or a first day at a new school; then why should we deny them that small comfort!? Why should we tell our kids they can only want the characters on one side of the store aisle?
It’s a big world, and we tell our kids they are free to be themselves and pursue their own paths. However, we tell them from a young age that they can’t be themselves, they can be pink or blue. I want my kids to feel free to embrace all their facets of their diamond personalities, to dream of being like strong heroes and courageous princesses, to be every color of the rainbow. I wish that for your kids too.

Let’s start with the underwear, and we’ll work our way out to the outermost layers of clothing.

This is a classic example of tired marketing failing our kids! Frankly, it’s a classic example of capitalism failing, if you get right down to it. I mean, isn’t the idea of capitalism all about supply and demand? Well, our little girls are demanding Spiderman underpants! Where are their Spiderman underpants?!

I must admit, when I first saw this email in my inbox, I got excited that maybe someone was finally making girl-style superhero underwear. Because my toddler is closing in on three-years-old and we’re right in the middle of the Age of Potty Training. And one of the things that delighted her was discovering she could have Spiderman underwear. I went ahead and bought her the boy-style briefs, but they proved uncomfortable for her and she would quickly take them off. And now, every time she looks at them, there’s a little disappointment on her cherubic face.

And just like that, my two-year-old has had her first experience with gender conformity. Society is telling her in not-so-subtle terms that Spidey is not for girls. Those underpants are not for you. And that fucking sucks!

And like Andrea, I have no desire to leave the boys out of this game because they are getting screwed here, too. If you’re little boy likes Dora the Explorer, Hello Kitty, princesses, or even just the color pink… fuggitaboutit. Not only will he face open mockery for his choice, but those girl-style panties won’t comfortably fit his needs anymore than the Spideys did for my daughter.

Honestly, we live in a time when comic book movies are enjoyed be people of all genders. I went to see Iron Man 2 one week before I gave birth to my daughter. That’s how much I wanted to see that movie! If you have ever been pregnant or known someone in the late-stages of pregnancy, you have to have some sense of the discomfort quotient I was willingly putting up with to see a comic book movie. (And I would do it again.)

So, if we all agree that girls and women can like comic books and watch comic book movies and be all up in the superhero business… then what’s the hold up on delivering what little girls want? And let’s not delivery this underpants-style equality in batches. Let’s de-segregate the underwear aisle!

And let’s not stop there… Because it ain’t any better in the diaper aisle:

Is there a reason why diapers are ONLY pink and blue in the major brands?

People say, well, if they don’t care, then why should I care? I say, if I don’t care, why should anyone care?

If we are serious about caring for our neighbor, as the President said tonight or as the Bible says for those who follow that, then we must care about those who do not look like ourselves. Why does a white, suburban, work-at-home mom care about organizing a hate crimes event for LGBT individuals and people of color? Because I am exactly the person who should care!

There are no “my issues” and “your issues.” There are no “women’s issues.” There are no “gay issues” and “straight issues.” There is one issue: All people are created equal. All people are born with the right to freedom and the pursuit of happiness. And when we find that people are not treated equally, it is our duty to be a part of that solution. Because if you just sit back and say, “Well, that’s not my problem.” Or if you say, “But that doesn’t really effect me.” You’re lying to yourself.

When people I love are treated like second-class citizens because of their sexuality or gender identity; when I’m treated like a second-class citizen because I want to be paid equally and have autonomy over my body; when my neighbor finds hate-speech scrawled on his block wall… It is a problem. It is a problem for each and every one of us. We are all diminished when bigotry, hatred, intolerance, and inequality are left to fester because it is, “not our problem.”

So, yeah. I’m organizing a hate crimes event. I’m taking my tea cup full of water to the forest fire. And I will keep doing it. Because it is the right thing to do. Like my husband says, “We’re the Bristols. We do what’s right, even if it is hard. That’s how we roll.” So, I hope you will roll with me. I hope you will sit back and look at the big picture for just a moment and realize that all these “hates” have the same root.

And nobody wins when there is hate.