*another poem from Lucille Clifton, who was a writer, poet laureate of MD, academic, and activist as well as being an upstater like me, although Clifton was a western NY upstater (she was born outside of Buffalo), which is a whole other ecosphere of its own!
Whenever I have taken a yoga class, and we’re asked to place our feet ‘hips width apart’ for a particular pose, I have long noticed that most if not all of the women attending put their feet a yard apart, or more, completely overestimating their own dimensions. This has pained me, for it is taught to us – that we are too big, that our asses are YUGE, that our actually perfectly normal and diverse sizes are ‘not right’, like the beds and chairs and bowls of porridge from that nursery story told us all so long ago.
Women’s hips bring forth life, move every single one of us forward, and yes, excite the imaginations and hormones of men and other women, have done for – well – forever. A place of power and creative generation, to be celebrated, always! These hips don’t lie, bay-bee, and they’re magical!!
*a poem from Rikki Rogers, whose work and more – she is a poet, writer, marketer, and mom who lives in Virginia – you can access http://www.rikkiwrites.com
In my own life, reproductive health was always an afterthought; our ‘health’ teacher in high school was more interested in telling us of the dangers of drinking (she was a teetotaler) than explaining what was central to our lives as living breathing teenagers bursting with hormones, as young men and women: the capacities, needs, pitfalls and pleasures of our own bodies. We needed and need to know this shit; desire, sexuality, love, abuse, masturbation, rape, making love or fucking – are among the most impactful states, acts, fantasies – you name it – of human being-ness that exist. Depending on parents to teach young children up to whatever age is bullshit because too many just won’t due to traumas or issues of their own, simple embarrassment or denial. What is public education for, if not to teach us the basics? Like abortion and contraceptive access, sex ed. should be universal from an early age. We sang that absurd rhyme, ‘Ronnie and Susie sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First Comes love, then comes marriage…’ in – first grade? Second? Kindergarten? Kids know. Or, rather, kids know something. Let’s inform them, because ignorance in this instance is not bliss.
And of course the idea that we need to make sure that boys aren’t ‘scared’ of the female reproductive system is just another form of misogyny, letting men and boys off the hook, denying them information the majority of ’em might need like how to best give your female partner or partners an orgasm! Hey, even simply encouraging boys and men to prioritize their female partners’ pleasure would be a good thing. Sigh.
Here I am, a long time ago, reading and lounging under a blankie as a teen. Or maybe as a twelve year old, as I do know the first time I read the book I’m holding – The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer – I was twelve, but maybe, possibly thirteen. Still, it’s one of my favorites; there’s a scene with a dog that always makes me laugh out loud. It’s making me smile and chortle a lil bit as I write this, simply remembering.
However could I have forgotten that grotesque orange/beige carpeting? Just lucky, I guess. I read by nightlight, I read by morning, noon, and afternoon light, and in the car on the way to places, if not as much as I wanted to because it might upset Ye Younge Stomache. Yes, it was the land before cable and we only had one TV station; yes, the winters then were longer and snowier, and the back roads were less well maintained limiting our entertainment choices; yes, we had no computers or cell phones in which to stare and spend hours a day doing what, exactly? But yes and yes and yes – I read all the time. Still do.
I remember the spot in the elementary grades library where the Little House on the Prairie books were (left hand side, lower shelf as you came into the room from the hallway); I remember too how I longed to read more of them, to read them all, to know ‘how it turned out’ for the little girl and her family.
When I was initially hired as a rural librarian, 20 hours per week for truly bupkis wages, who cared about that?! I was a kid in a candy store. I have access to all this?!! I can direct future purchases of fiction and non-fiction books, and yes, the budget was also bupkis, a minuscule $1200 per year when I started, for all books, magazines, DVDs, and subscriptions, but this girl knows how to stretch a buck, and hunting out bargains while keeping the collection au courant was my pride and joy.
During that time I decided to find all of the books I most loved in hardcover via various booksellers online here and in the U.K. – the featured photo of my bookcase is of some of those, all by Georgette Heyer. Now that right there is wealth, y’all. To a reader.
Never heard of ‘em. Her. Her. And why would I have? I don’t have much interested in land speed records, of which she held many in her lifetime, nor do I follow racing of any kind – televised traffic as British comedian David Mitchell calls it – although it does seem to be popular with a lot of folks. Good on them, but – really? Watching people risk their lives driving in circles or straight lines while creating bad, stinky air? Okay. Whatever floats yer boat, y’all. Not for me.
That said, Paula Murphy is worth noting because in a sport famous for its overwhelmingly male make-up (and male chauvinism), she stood out during a time that was even less welcoming than even, say, twenty years ago: the late 50s and early ‘60s. Born in 1928, Paula Muhlhauser grew up in Cleveland. Her father was a tool designer who built sailboats and raced them in his spare time, and her mother was an X-ray technician who became a stay-at-home mom. As a teen, Paula competed in speedskating and sailboat racing as well as in equestrian shows. She graduated from the University of Cincinnati in 1949, obtaining a job in human resources at G. E. where she met, and later married, Dan Murphy. In 1953, she gave birth to a son. Murphy moved with her family to California for the sake of her husband’s career, but they divorced in 1956; by the time their child was 10, she did not know where Mr. Murphy was, leaving Ms. Murphy to raise her son alone.
To support her family, Ms. Murphy obtained work at an aerospace engineering firm in North Hollywood; friends she made there took her to car races. Her first impression, she later confessed, was that they were about as interesting as watching grass grow (I feel you, girl). Her views changed when she got the chance to race herself (I feel the need, the need for speed – did Paula Murphy say it first?!).
Making national news in 1964 when she broke ground to become the first woman to zoom across the salt flats in a car powered by a jet-engine, Murphy also set a land speed record for women at the time. Her vehicle spewed a 10-foot flame; its engine screamed; it could be controlled not by steering as much as by the use of parachutes. Making things even more fun (not to me, not ever to me), the car was designed for a man, so when Ms. Murphy got into its cockpit, she couldn’t reach the brakes. To remedy this, a pillow was stuffed behind her back, which raised her up enough in the seat to reach the pedals, while exposing her upper body to the full blast of the wind at high speeds. Before taking off, she said later, she had not received many instructions beyond being told where the accelerator was.
By the late 60s, she had left her day job, becoming a racer and speed record chaser full time. “I’m an oddity, a rarity, and that helps,” she said in an interview during her years of success, “I have 60 to 70 bookings every year.” Being presented as the world’s inaugural female race-car driver was not always pleasant. Examples of the casual, entrenched sexism she encountered along the way: “She prepares to sit down in the most unusual office ever occupied by a pretty young lass in a miniskirt,” one TV newscaster said over footage of her approaching her car. In 1964, Sports Illustrated referred to her as a “girl” and a “29-year-old brunette”; at the time, she was 36, and divorced.
In 1973, when she was racing a rocket-powered car called the Pollution Packer (stinky air, y’all!) at the Sears Point Raceway (now Sonoma Raceway) in Northern California, the parachutes came off her car, sending her flying off the end of the track at about 300 m.p.h., where she gained about 70 feet of altitude and crashed, breaking her neck – this ended her formal record seeking, speed racing career.
YOU COULD NOT PAY ME ENOUGH TO TRY THIS SH*T. Anyhoo, still, a very groovy, ground-breaking woman, and a certified fast AF driver. I drive fast all the time, but – no, just no. Hell no!
This is a crunchie, photographed on one of the steps that lead to the second floor of my house. Crunchies make up the bulk of my fur baby’s diet (Tractor Supply Co.’s Large Breed), although I add cooked ground beef to all meals for extra protein and muscle development.
I totally made that up, I do it because it seemed like a good thing to do?
My fur baby/dog, Diego the Magnificent, does this once or twice a week, leaves crunchies – one, two, three, four – on the first or second step going upstairs. I do not know why he does this, but I have yet – yet – to step on one, and find this amusing and quirky in a sweet and interesting way. Were I to regularly step on them, squashing them into the runners, and therefore requiring serious clean-up, I might not be so amused – but, hasn’t happened, and I am left wondering – pourquoi, mon frere?! but why, my brother?
He is, in almost all ways adorable in the extreme, and – when we love – we forgive and even fondly observe the quirks and oddities of our beloved ones. He is still a tad hump-ready with guests, but – in every other way – what a champ. I will never know why he does this, but – content in my ignorance (it doesn’t seem malicious or neurotic in any way) – I observe it with a smile. Love is love!
