OnLine With Zoe

Dear Mr. Gore,

Dear Al Gore,

     Let's really face facts; the American public may be utterly eviscerated, soul and limb shredded, but people of heart see beyond the current nightmare. You see the longing for light and air and sea and shore. You will be called to lead this country. You will accept. You can do nothing less. Here is why I know because you have never withheld your best that is generally what hurt animals do, you are whole and well and demand more of yourself than most.

     The people who need you the most are Mother Earth's wonderful women; young women, single women, married women, mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, daughters. And, ironically, these voters hold elections in their hands but their safety, self-esteem and personal power have been so disregarded; they do not exercise their collective power as it frightens them.

     I saw An Inconvenient Truth and it was clear that you love Mother Earth and you know that the treatment of Mother Earth is a direct corollary to the treatment of women. I have every confidence that you will be the appropriate president for women. You might be asking why would a feminist not be throwing herself behind the campaign of Hilary Clinton. She is a changling, a hawk and hardly a feminist. She is owned by corporations and unreliable on reproductive autonomy, family justice and peace.

     When you declare, you will need to talk directly to women of different generations, races, sizes, life circumstances – which is a natural resource that is in as much danger as the earth herself. It is time to speak to young women through the web, youtube, myspace, facebook, current, music, radio and press. It is time to speak to women through schools, organizations, communities. It is time to talk to senior women through their networks, churches and find those who are not joiners.

The USA needs you. Women need you.

I want to help. Call me. Write me.

In Your Service,

Zoe

I am a bit WACKy

Recently I have heard that I am a loose-cannon, I am volatile, I even heard a woman say to another (as I passed her in a narrow hall) "she is a kook."  I can imagine nothing worse than not.  Although at times it might be hard to deal with the fallout, I try to see and feel all that is available to me.

Did you see Sarah Jessica Parker on Oprah?  She has created a line of women's clothes, sizes 2 - 22, and no piece ~ not suit, not coat, not sweater ~ NOTHING is over $20.  ROUND OF APPLAUSE PLEASE, as these two millionaires sit in their Prada shoes feeling so proud that they have their eye on fashion for the working woman.  Lets all feel so good that fat and thin can have that little black dress, that business suit, that designer bag with nothing over $20.  SJP did kick off her shoes and say, "oh please don't notice the shoes though," as we all saw those telltale red soles.

But my kooky mind, my loose-cannon mind, my volatile self was pacing in front of the TV, was shouting at the TV, was freaking out at the TV.  Who the hell is making these clothes?  What kind of hell are women, and maybe even children, sitting in to produce pieces of clothes for this price?  How long do they sit at the machines?  How are their working conditions and restrooms?  day care?  health insurance?  maternity leave? pension plan?  What are these sewing machine operators manufacturing but some idiotic dream for two millionaires to sell us so we can pretend to lunch with Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda.   

Yesterday I went to see WACK! Art and the Feminist Revolution at the Geffen Contemporary of MOCA.  Here's a little bit of a back story ~ When the LA Women's Building opened, I was living with a painter.  We were steeped in women's art; Audrey Flack, Judy Chicago, Leonore Fini.  We listened to women's music; Carmen McCrea, Nina Simone, Alice Coltrane.  We knew that art was supposed to embrace, to touch, to fill the spirit.  We knew art was to be embraced, touched, heard.  Going to the Women's Building we could get close to the art, feel the red strings against our cheeks, become enveloped in bloody red rooms ~ it was walking through the body and soul of WOMAN.

Yes, expectations were in place and I was already itching for a tiff, as Geffen built his empire on the backs of women's music, in particular my friend Laura but, all the same, I wanted to feel that women's soulful art again.  The best preparation was that I was going with two wonderful feminist women friends.  What will I see?  What will I feel?  The usual rush of entering a museum multiplied as old familiar pieces might be on display. 

I went to the ticket counter and two men were selling tickets.  "No women working here?" you can be certain I said that though I chuckled to make light of it; for gods sake I had only been in the building for 30 seconds.  Tickets bought and torn, I asked another man if I can take pictures, "Oh no."  sorry I asked.  Down a few stairs hung a huge 12 foot red carpet labia, split in the middle.  I want to touch it, walk through the slit, feel its weight, birth.  DO NOT TOUCH.  Another fellow says that I can join a tour being given by a man that is starting in just a few minutes.  No, I think I will rely on my own impressions. 

Wall after wall of photos and paintings and collages hung as high as 9 feet.  My bifocals can only see at 5.5 feet, as I "cock" back my head straining to see.  30% of the show is unviewable for me, 58 years old, standing 6 feet tall with bifocal-ed 58 year old eyes.  That percentage increases as women are shorter, older, bent over or seated.  I lean back and ask the man surveilling the room, "Is that Emily Dickinson?"  "No," he says, "it is Barbie Benson."  I am certain it is not Barbie Benson I tell him - the one with St Joan and the Venetian glass?? - hanging at least 10 feet high.  He says, "Oh that is Barbie Benson, she was Hugh Hefner's girlfriend."  So nice to have this docent's historical narrative - tho I know exactly who BB is and she is in a collage under the piece I am asking about, with her body parts cut in a dozen pieces. (he he).

I wander through more rooms enjoying the 70% that is at my viewable level.  Out of the corner of my eye, there is a young woman, with her long sleeve shirt tied around her waist.  She is looking at documents in a glass-topped table case.  A man is pacing back and forth and finally says, " you can't let your sleeves touch the table, you are making a mess."  She stands back a couple of inches and just stares at him.  From where I am standing, I cannot see what is in the case.  She walks away.  One of my friend's goes to the table and rests her hands on the edge and leans over to see read the documents under glass.  He tells her that she must step away, at least 18 inches. 

I cannot resist.  I enter the room to see that these big tables with glass tops have lots of pictures of genitalia; lots.  To read the words and see the pictures, you have to get right over them - DUH - thus the glass top tables.  I walk to this man and say, "What is your name please?" He tell me and then gets concerned.  "Are you a manager?" he asks nervously.  "No," I answer, "my name is Zoe."  Now word is traveling fast and every man in every room is on the defense.  I cannot enter a room without a head swiveling and watching me closely.  oh crap. 

I wander along and cruise through refusing to simply leave.  Last stop is the woman operated gift shop.  The woman, with the long sleeves tied at her waist, is there.  I stop and remark about how gracious she was.  Another woman overhears us and tells us how uncomfortable she was, as she tried to enjoy the exhibition, but the men in every room never left her alone. 

Probably we should celebrate that this women's art is displayed, housed, safe, climate-controlled.  You can go there and see it, as it is there until July 16.  You will see works by Judy Chicago and Tee Corrine and Audrey Flack and Faith Reingold and Judith Baca and Ann Newmarch and many others.  You can see videos of performance art and see collages and see photos and see paintings.  But you will never know what the artists really had in mind, as you step through the men's building, guided by men, guarded by men.  This art was mean to be felt, seen at eye level, and appreciated.  You are supposed to be touched and changed and loved and feel womanhood as never before.   

I just had to tell you this as I am kooky.  I am WACKy.  I like it that way.

It lasts a lifetime

This last Spring I was fortunate to speak to Berkeley NOW and at a conference at Claremont about being an activist.  Usually there are one or two in the room who are going to know the terrible pain and the intoxicating bliss of being an activist.  I suppose it is scientific; maybe something about attractors and the constant of change.  I have lots of information about such a life; ethics, responsibilities and, more recently, I can tell you ~ it lasts a lifetime.

Sure, it was born of books and news; Gandhi, King, Fonda, Chavez.  My first brush with activists was the Chicago Democratic Convention of 1968 but my real love affair was 1982 when The Grassroots Group of Second Class Citizens chained themselves to block the Illinois Senate doors to demonstrate that women are in chains.

Center right is Mary Lee Sargent.  After the women spent several days chained on the third floor of the state capitol, security men cut their chains with bolt cutters, carried the women out and put them in the buildings' industrial dumpsters.  At another point in the month leading up to the defeat of the ERA, these women sat in front of the Speaker's door, to protest the fact that he would not bring the vote to the floor lifting the requirement of a super majority for passage (which would have handily passed the ERA). 

At that time Mary Lee was a Professor of History and Women's Studies at Parkland College.  The women sitting with her were teachers, a waitress, a motel maid, students and other life long activists.  As I sat with the fasters, which was exactly the right place for me, I wanted to be with them ~ they were the ones who faced true danger, trial and jail.  They were the ones who were practicing Civil Disobedience. 

Mary Lee is standing here on the left.

In the afterward of my book, the Hungry Heart, I explain that the outcome of the event is really incidental to what is happening to the activists; the action is changing them forever.  Every time an activist does what they were born to do, they grow exponentially.  Their interior landscape unfurls and they know that they are home.

This week, some of the most wonderful people at UC Berkeley have been fasting to end the involvement of the UC systems with nukes ~  NO MORE NUKES IN OUR NAME HUNGER STRIKE.  The world better beware; there are activists growing with every moment they sit and fast and wait.  And most particularly I want them to know that this is not a passing fling with change; this is a lifetime of intoxication.   

Last week Mary Lee and a few friends entered the office of Senator John Sununu, dropped hundreds of shoes representing the fallen in Iraq and refused to move.  She is the gorgeous tall one with white hair.  She is the one who is an ACTIVIST.  She was shackled and spent the night in the local jail. 

There are, in the course of a lifetime, people we wish we knew.  You might hear of them, read about them, see them on TV but I am lucky beyond the wide blue sky as I am friends with my hero, Mary Lee.

Now Jerry Knows Better

Jerry Falwell died today.  My first thought, seriously my first thought, is how happy I am that I am a Buddhist.  My belief is that now Jerry knows that abortion had nothing to do with the bombing of the Twin Towers.  Now Jerry knows that HIV is not a punishment for homosexuality or, to be more specific, homosexuality is not punishable; it is a natural condition of life.  And, as Maya Angelou says, "Now that you know better, you will do better."  I expect he will ~ like I said ~ what a relief to be a Buddhist. 

Of course I used to be a very passionate Christian.  What eroded that passion was my confusion as to what the big, famous, well-dressed, elected, appointed, housed in style, surrounded by great art Christians have to do with Christ.  But that's an old story.  As the TV was flooded with news of Jerry Falwell I flipped through the commercial-free channels and, ironically, The Shoes of the Fisherman was on Turner Classic Movies.  This novel, this movie deeply influenced me back in the '60s.  Can you imagine a pope who disappears so he can pray, be alone, meet common people?  He puts on a suit and a tie to negotiate peace with diplomacy.  Finally, he calls on the rich to be in service to the poor.  As impossible as it seems today, it gave me hope in 1963.

Kennedy, King, John XXIII, men seemed to be waking up then (yes, I did notice they all died before their proper unfolding of Fall and Winter).  And there were women who wrote about it; Sally Gearheart, Mary Daly, women studying to be rabbis.  I was so excited about The Documents of Vatican II that Father Fred, my college theology professor, asked me to teach the class.  I guess it was more hopeful for me than for him.  I really believed that priests would marry, women would be ordained and the church would simply become current; not a revolution but just catch up to the year, 1968.  It was a short lived hope, Paul VI shoveled away such zeal faster than a Zamboni.

Now it is 2007 and I am resigned that old men in red skirts have no true comprehension of women.  This week Pope Benedict, while traveling in Latin America, has threatened politicians who support abortion with excommunication.  Who is this old man that he should have anything to say about reproduction?  Who is this old man that he should have anything to say about pregancy?  Who is this old man that he should have anything to say about sex?  Who is this old man that he should insert his opinion into lives of millions of women who are entirely capable of navigating their own relationship with their doctor, their body, their conscience, their soul? 

What is this outdated point of view, that a woman is merely a vessel for a soul?  What is this ridiculous threat?  Old men in skirts controlling their "faithful" by telling them that they can reach through to the other side; create hell, create the guest list, create the timetable.  It is all such non-sense.  And yet, members of the U.S. Congress decided to address it.  That alone is maddening.  Five of the nine Supreme Court justices are Catholic.  140 graduates of Pat Robertson's Regency University work in the Executive Branch of the U. S. government.  Seven presidential candidates are Catholic.  The Governor of California, who vetoed the Marriage Equality bill, is Catholic. 

Today I grieve.  I do not grieve for Jerry Fallwell.  I do not grieve for empty hearted popes who hold to the past.  I grieve for the loss of hope, the death of passion, the millions of women who live under the cloak of "christian oppression."  I grieve that these two words are in the same sentence.  But I am lucky as I believe that, "when they know better, they will do better."