Let’s talk about the NFL and Colin Kaepernick

I was in the middle of writing a post on body image and running, but I’ve seen too many Facebook posts about Nike, the NFL, and Colin Kaepernick, and truthfully, I’m spitting mad. But I’m not going to try to change anyone’s mind here. Instead, I have some questions for you. For those of you who feel that Kaepernick is disrespecting America, the flag, and our soldiers, yes, but also for those who find his protest admirable. Because if we’re going to talk about respect and justice, well, we need to actually talk about respect and justice.

So, did you boycott Nike in the 90s when the report on its use of sweatshops came out?

Did you boycott Nike after that because they never really improved their labor practices?

Did you boycott the NFL after owners willfully covered up and actively distorted science to hide the numerous, life-long, devastating complications from players receiving concussions? (See also the book League of Denial, which was also made into a documentary.)

Did you boycott the NFL after player after player was accused of murdering, beating, raping, and assaulting woman after woman after woman after woman, and some dogs for good measure?

Did you boycott the NFL after almost every single one of those men walked free?

Are you boycotting Nike and the NFL now because you disagree with Nike hiring an athlete who designed a peaceful protest of injustice in conversation with a Green Beret, who fought and risked his life for the country you claim to love so much? Are you certain there aren’t other reasons, maybe ones you aren’t comfortable facing?

Because if you answered “no” to the first five questions and “yes” to the sixth question, I have to ask you another, even more pressing set of questions.

You respect a flag, a symbol of a country, but where is your respect for women? For laborers in third world countries—working class people struggling to get by? Where is your respect for human life? For the right to pursue life, liberty, and justice for all? Do you show your respect for people and values the same way you show respect for a symbol? Why does THIS, a peaceful protest that harms no one, make you so angry, when all those other things didn’t?

And to those who are now applauding Nike/Kaepernick/the NFL, what about those first five questions? Are you a “yes” or a “no”? If you’re a “no,” why not? Why is Kaepernick’s protest against injustice praiseworthy, but the suffering and death of real people across decades doesn’t warrant a pass on those two brands, at the very least?

I’m not going to make any arguments here or tell you what to think. All I ask now is that you consider your answers to these questions, and examine the reasons behind them. I’m happy to discuss this further in the comments here, or elsewhere on the net. However, I will not tolerate any racism, sexism, disrespect to myself or other commenters or troll bullshit here or elsewhere.

For the record, I’ve never been a football fan. I’ve always thought it was stupid, and the more I learned about its violence and concussion issues, the more I grew to despise the NFL. My record with sweatshop clothing isn’t perfect—it’s damn hard to avoid—but I make an effort, and will and do pay more for ethically sourced clothing (and I also shop secondhand).

Finally, I leave you with this line from the musical Hamilton: If you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?

#FridayReads: Kindred by Octavia Butler

 

cover for Kindred, showing a Black woman with short hair

If you read science fiction but aren’t acquainted with the fantastic work of Octavia Butler, please take yourself to a library RIGHT NOW and check out a few of her books. Hell, even if you don’t normally read sci-fi, read Octavia Butler.

Kindred tells the story of a modern Black woman, Dana, who is pulled back in time to the South by one of her ancestors. There, Dana has to confront the reality of slavery.  Dana serves as a sort of translator-avatar for the reader—neither she nor any of us have ever experienced slavery first hand. She quickly realizes that if she behaves as a Black woman from the 1970s normally behaves, she’ll get herself killed. Her only real safety net in this strange world is her ancestor, Rufus, the son of a slaveholder and the reason she keeps traveling through time.

Rufus calls Dana to the past—not consciously or purposefully—every time his life is in danger. Dana saves him over and over again, knowing that if she does not, she may never be born. On her second trip, she meets the Black woman Rufus impregnates with her direct ancestor, and knows instinctively that the union between Rufus and Alice can’t by its nature be consensual. As she watches Rufus grow into a cruel man who shows occasional flashes of kindness, Dana contemplates letting him die, but knows that if she does, she may never exist. Even when her worst fears are confirmed and Rufus rapes Alice, she saves his life the next time he’s in danger.

While Kindred is somewhat of a time-travel thriller, its real genius lies in Butler’s characterizations and excellent world building. No character is simply evil or simply good. Even Rufus, who begins life as a kind boy scared of his father and grows into someone just as cruel as the man he once feared, has sympathetic moments. Despite his flaws, Dana cares for him the way a mother might care for a troubled child. He is a product of his time, but Butler doesn’t use that as an excuse to let him off the hook from consequences (and boy, are there consequences).

The way Butler characterizes the slaves Dana meets on Rufus’s plantation is equally important, if not more so. She shows us heartbreaking moments, such as Black children playing “slave trader,” runaways being mauled by dogs, vicious beatings, and families being torn apart when spouses or children are sold. Because Dana has gotten to know these families and these individuals, we mourn with her when tragedy strikes. It’s not all depressing, though. Butler also shows us moments of tenderness and love, and the many many ways slaves resisted their circumstances and found dignity and purpose in their lives outside of their owners’ desires.

Dana goes into the past thinking she could never be a slave, only to learn that she will do what it takes to survive, even if that means swallowing her pride and sacrificing some of her dignity. As she gets to know the slaves, she sees how strong they are. She realizes that they, too, are a product of their time, though their time doesn’t define who they are as individuals. Through Dana’s eyes, the reader is able to see the complex social dynamics and entrenched patriarchal and racist values and structure involved in slavery. As Dana experiences what it’s like to be a slave, so too does the reader—and therein is Kindred’s real power.

It’s impossible to read Kindred and not recognize the echoes of slavery that we, in the year 2018, live with today: entrenched racism that’s built into the very structure of our society. The book begins with a scene of Dana in the hospital, having lost her arm after her last trip to the past. The lost arm is the physical embodiment of the mental and emotional losses Dana has suffered throughout her journey. And like Dana, the reader will come away from the book having lost any illusion of what they may or may not have done during slavery. The loss of that illusion, hopefully, will shed light on the work that still needs to be done in dismantling racism here in the present.

 

Marching for equality in 2017

This weekend, I’m heading to the Women’s March on Washington. I could have chosen to attend a march in my home city of Pittsburgh, but as soon as the march was announced, I knew I wanted to be in Washington.

logo for the Women's March on Washington

Logo copyright the Women’s March on Washington.

My budget is tight right now, and attending the march will definitely put a strain on finances. But I can go, so I feel I must go. Not only for myself, but for those who can’t go—because they can’t afford the bus ticket, because they can’t get childcare, because they can’t get off work.

The March has not been without some squabbling over intersectionality, but to paraphrase Roxanne Gay, I’d rather have an imperfect feminist protest of our incoming Pussy-Grabber-In-Chief than none at all. I march knowing full well that I am preceded by men and women who had to deal with—and who still deal with—more hate and prejudice than I likely ever will, even considering the incoming administration. I have a lot to learn, and I hope to do those men and women honor on Saturday.

After the election, I fell into a pretty deep depression. I thought about self-harm for the first time in nearly a decade. How can we go on, I thought? How can I go on in this world that clearly doesn’t value or respect me?

I picked fights with people when I should have known better, had an extraordinarily hard time getting any words out of my brain and onto the page, and only managed to avoid hurting myself by relying heavily on my support network and using every single coping mechanism I’ve ever learned.

To be clear, I wasn’t depressed because the candidate I voted for didn’t win the election and I’m some spoiled whiny brat millennial or whatever. I’ve lost and failed and lost some more, and I will again (probably before the day is over). I was depressed because I went to sleep in a wold where a woman had a chance of becoming president for the first time in US history, and woke up in a world that had reinforced the existence of that glass ceiling and—implicitly or explicitly—condoned sexual assault, or at best refused to stand up against it.

Unfortunately for the world’s misogynists, my bout of depression has condensed itself wholly into anger and outrage. I will march on Saturday and every day from this one until the day I march straight into my grave if that’s what it takes to end oppression and violence against women.

Whether you are able to make it to D.C. or not, I invite you to march with me.