"And your point is...?"

"I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn't lived that life." 

statement byJustice Sonya Sotomayor

So...what's the problem?  SHE'S RIGHT!  Give me a break!

Is what Sotomayor said racist?  Or sexist?  Or bigoted?  Or just plain dumb? Nope, in my humble opinion.  Dig this: does an institutional racism already persist in which a white male metric is seen as the gold standard for EVERYTHING?  Be it as Supreme Court justices, captains of industry, intellects, creators of art, literature, and architecture?  As scientists, critical thinkers, politicians, culture warriors, "thinking-man" athletes..I could go on and on.  (By the way Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas doesn't count.  Not because he's "lost his blackness," but because he's lost his mind.)

How did white male-ness become the "default" position?  Is it because our founding fathers more than 200 years ago had no founding mothers or founding fathers of color, that people who look the most like our founding fathers were considered the norm, and the rest of us are "the other?" Even more than 200 years later, as the colors of this country continue to change

Yes.  I think wise Latina, a wise black woman, a wise Pacific Islander, a wise Native American, a wise gay or lesbian, a wise handicapped person would, more often than not, because of the richness of their experiences, make better decisions than a white male.  (Okay, maybe I'd say "different" instead of "better;"  and maybe it would depend on the particular person of diversity and the particular white man. But only maybe.)  When I went from a multi-cultural public high school in New York City to a way-smaller, predominantly white college in Ohio, I was suddenly confronted by white students who had never met a black person before and asked me the strangest questions: where were the good drugs on campus, what was it like to grow up in the ghetto, and why was my hair so soft.   I remember thinking: how is it that I know all about white people and their lives, and they knew nothing about mine?  We've been force-fed this idea of all things Caucasian as the way things were supposed to be.  It depressed me at first but now I see it as a secret weapon.  We can understand both sides and they can't.  I can't wait till we have a Supreme Court that truly reflects this diverse country.

"Goodbye, Sex" (vintage essay)

“Sex and the City” was kind of like a bad boyfriend.  I fell for it in spite of myself.  Got hooked, was always a little jealous of what happened when I wasn’t around, couldn’t figure out the clothes, got fed up and I was the one to break it off, but I never got it out of my system.  And now that it’ll be over, finally over -- I’m relieved, I’m sad, and the one thing that I can’t let go: why wasn’t I ever on it??

 

I never even got an audition!  Sure, there were a few parts for lesbians of color, and one time an angry black sister of one of Samantha’s exotic boyfriends.  Hey,  didn’t Miranda’s boyfriend have an angry black sister?  And the thing is, “Sex and the City” is (well, was) a New York City show, and one of the greatest things about this city is its multiculturalism and the urban working girl friendships that cross over so many barriers.  They should have called it “Sex and the Segregated City.” 

Oh, forget it.  I’m still a little bitter.  I don’t want to talk about “Sex and the City.”  My real-life version of “Sex and the City” doesn’t look like that show.  A show called “I Thought That Check Cleared,” or “Oops, I Missed My Weigh-In.”  Or “Late and Cursing.”  Those would be the shows about my life.

Carrie’s “outfits?”  Half of those ensembles would have gotten her arrested on certain New York streets.  Her closet with $40,000 worth of shoes?  Are you kidding me?  And all those men, from captains of industry to schlubs, to choose from??  But despite all that, there was something about “Sex and the City” that got to me.  Those four women loved each other, and protected each other, and defended each other.  Through sickness and health, celebrations and cancer.  Sisterhood is powerful, and I could relate to that. 

And now, with the final episode looming, I’m hooked all over again, and wondering if Carrie will “make it after all,” like Mary Tyler Moore did over thirty years ago.  Mary Richards had a life, a challenging job she loved, dear friends, and men, but she was okay whether she had a man or not.  So what’s the lesson of “Sex and the City” all these years later?  That thin women can earn their own money, own their apartments, have fabulous wardrobes but still feel incomplete without a man?  I wonder if we’ve taken a step backward, but in more expensive shoes.

"Makeovers" (vintage essay that still applies)

Enough with the makeover shows. Let's just not watch them. They must be stopped.  Enough already with the tummy tucks, the hair extensions, the rhinoplasting, botox-injecting, breast-enhancing, life-coaching, and the on-air revealing.   And the high-fashion strutting.  And the sobbing. At least the Miss America pageant has a talent competition.  What is the “talent” here -- someone else’s idea of a person’s so-called ugliness and the success of their reconstructive so-called “beauty?”

I guess self-acceptance is out, and Stepford is in, huh?  It sure seems that way.  Can't we remember what’s real and what’s fake?  No one really looks like they do in a magazine, or on TV or in the movies.  No one gets up at the crack of dawn and looks crisp, flawless, and well rested.  None of the people that we may be measuring ourselves against even do their own makeup!  They have professionals by their side, trained and ready to hide their every wrinkle and pore.  Don’t get me wrong -- I like makeup, I love makeup artists, and I appreciate every ounce of concealer that makes me look that much less like I have Fred Flinstone’s five o’clock shadow.  But let’s face it.  There is so much more to us than how we look.  Frida Kahlo’s lack of eyebow definition didn’t stop her from becoming a brilliant artist.  And having one big, bushy eyebrow, a horrific combover, and his father’s real estate fortune to build on didn’t hurt Donald Trump, either.  I haven’t seen him on “The Swan.” 

By the way, I happen to like visible signs of aging.  Visible signs of aging have a strange way of reminding me that I’m alive.  When I stop having visible signs of aging, that’ll mean that I’m dead.  And that’s what Botox is.  Dead cells stuck in your face to freeze it.  I don’t think our human faces should be locked in like a lower interest rate -- I mean how young are we going for, anyway?  Thirty?  Twenty?  Twelve??

There are parents out there who have actually given their daughters boob jobs as graduation presents.  What happened to gift certificates?  And what enhancements are they giving their sons for graduation?  The mind boggles. Even one of the Olsen twins, who’ve built themselves a billion dollar empire by being cute, is dealing with an eating disorder.  If that’s not a sign that we’re all just a little bit too involved with how we look, then I don’t know what is.  And, by the way, “ugly” ducklings don’t get surgery.  They become swans when they grow up 

"Get A Dog"

“Get a dog.”

That’s the snide, world-weary comment I’ve gotten from more than one woman friend when I moan about not having a warm body in bed with me.  “It’s not just the sex,” I try to explain during those few times when I actually talk to anyone about men, sex, and men and sex, “it’s sleeping with someone.  Sometimes I just want to take a nap with the right man.  I just want to lean on him and feel his warmth, you know?”  

“Get a dog!”  

So I’m sitting here on another one of those gray, depressing days, with Jessie and George.  Rottweiller and Beagle.  My accidental pets, now my little family.  Both snoozing with me on the sofa.  George snores, loudly.  And at night, in bed, I sandwich myself between them and feel them breathe, and feel their warmth, and let them stretch and kick me in the back.  George does this more than Jessie does. George, beagle, stretches and then holds the stretch, so his stiff-armed paws poke me in the back, until he sighs and relaxes back into his doggie dream.  With Jessie it’s a little tremble in her back paws and a quiet growl while she’s in her canine REM phase.  I love to watch them sleep.  And between Jessie’s 86 pounds and George’s (I think he’s about 29), they weigh about as much as that Armenian triathelete.  And they’re much more comforting than he was.  A little conversation, couple of kisses, some thrusts, a groan, and he’d fall asleep.  And I, to be polite, would watch the clock for about 45 minutes so as not to jump up immediately and flee the scene.

"Get a dog."

I did. And they helped.