The Parable Of Me And The 5 Deaf Kids

By chance (how else?), I found myself at a table with 5 deaf kids. This is the way life goes. I mind my own business, right in front of me and, eventually, I find myself at a table with 5 deaf kids. Try it. Mind your own business and see where it goes. It’s all about the business.

So there we were, at a table, me and 5 deaf kids, thrown together by the culmination of all the Mysteries (like the flower blooming and the engine starting and so on) and the relationship bearing on us was such that the 5 deaf kids read a word and, together, taught me how to sign the word. Now I, maybe like you (or maybe not like you if you, unlike me, are naturally insightful about—and grateful for—all your blessings), have lived my entire life in the presence of sound, immersed in sound, so near sound and in sound and of sound that I’m actually unaware of sound as sound. Do you follow? Sound is granted and that’s how I take it: for. It’s so there, I don’t even notice. This is not to say I don’t hear. I do hear, all the time, but I never notice hearing. Because I live in a sounded world within (here, hear, in here, inhere) the privilege of hearing, I never pay attention to sound or hearing because attention isn’t necessary. Sound is given. Unless you can’t fucking hear. Now if men or white people or heteros or any other recipient of all the good things want to read this little story and interpret “hearing” as a symbol, that’s all well and good. But I’m going to get on with it.

First, before I get on with it, I ought to make a not so easy confession. Here goes: I didn’t want to play the ‘Learn To Sign With 5 Deaf Kids’ game. You are no doubt wondering “Why? Why didn’t you want to play the ‘Learn To Sign With 5 Deaf Kids’ game, Black Hockey Jesus?” Well, I didn’t want to play the ‘Learn To Sign With 5 Deaf Kids’ game because it seemed to me like a waste of goddamn time. Which is to say I am a selfish prick with functioning ears. The only redeeming quality I sometimes possess is an unlocked door to a closed mind. It can be opened. It does, sometimes, in fact, open.

The first word was hide and, to sign hide, you put your upturned fist on top of your flat hand (like a rock on paper) and—whoosh—you hide your fist beneath your hand. Hide. Now, though I just provided a very clear and concise description of how to sign hide, at the time the signing of hide was not so apparent. The 5 deaf kids were fast and, though I mean no disrespect, impatient. All 5 kids were either signing hide too quickly or whipping their hands in the air with animated disgust at my sign fumbling fingers. After many furrowed brows and some hands on instruction, I finally mastered hide (and WTF, old man?). At the first signs of their celebration and delight, I was hooked. Imagine Helen Keller finally understanding water with Anne Sullivan. Same thing. Whatever.

After that I was lost in the intensity of teaching and learning and language. There, with them, but also removed, in awe. They cycled so quickly from finger wagging disgust to smiles and high fives. They taught me to sign sing, crawl, write, splash, listen, pull, hop, march, and sweep. And with eyes trained on their hands, obsessed, seemingly consumed with the urgent new concern to learn sign language, I—upon further reflection—sought only to please them. Sure, there’s a bunch of things to think and say about the nature of being and language, about where we truly dwell, houses of vision and sound or both, signification, and, by extension, the inherent privileges that accompany seeing and hearing and communicating and being. But this was simpler than all that. This was just education and pleasure. Here was a man who for awhile groped at the air with his big hands to evoke joy and acceptance from his happy and able teachers.

When it was time to go, instead of drawing a word from the pile, they asked me if there was a word that I wanted to learn. I grabbed a book from my backpack and, ever ignorant, screamed “HOW DO YOU SAY… BOOK?” Like little birds flying, their hands—all of them—came together so quickly, palms up, and I smiled at 5 little books as they opened and closed, book, or was it maybe the wings of 5 big butterflies flapping or 5 outstretched cups to receive an offering that snapped closed into 5 prayers?


Pssst, Lola. Are You Awake?

Hey. I know you read my blog and—the thing is—sometimes during the day I get filled up with things I want to tell you but then the day does what days do and whatever. I know you stay up later than you’re supposed to and I know you read my blog and I know you’re a little rule breaker and shhhhhh (I think that’s pretty cool).

Here’s what I want to tell you. Listen to your mother. She loves you more than science will ever explain and she’s always right. Stop making her crazy.

I also want to tell you about a disease that’s haunted our culture for millennia. The Patriarchy. But it’s really complicated and it’s especially hard for me to explain because I’m predisposed to not see it and explain it away to perpetuate all my privileges. It’s called mansplaining. I’m not sure if dadsplaining is a thing yet, but this is probably that and I’m sorry.

Are you confused? Me too! All the time. There’s stuff in the news, little girl, and men—they’re just terrible. We’re terrible, all of us, and we must be stopped and—that’s the thing—I think we are, right now, being stopped. I think we, you and me, are living in this incredible cultural moment when the tide is turning. And even if we’re not, why not act like we are? Let’s be pioneers, revolutionaries, rabble rousers at the beginning of something really cool.

You want to break rules?

I mean, do you really, really, really want to break some goddamn rules?

Cool! (Again, sorry for dadsplaining, but what else can I do?) First. Girls rock. And I hear you saying Duh! Shake it off! I already know girls rock, but do you really? Do you act like it? I’m sorry but you and your little friends are already forming little cliques and torturing each other and why? Why are girls so mean to girls? The answer is long and complicated and it has nothing to do with girl nature because girl nature—real girl nature—rocks. A girl on the frontline of the revolution who knows girls rock is not mean to other girls. On the contrary. They fight for, and insist upon, kindness for all girls because why? Because girls rock.

Second. Girls rock. I know I’m being redundant but I want you to understand that you rock intrinsically. In and of yourself. You, yourself—you—rock as a unit. Wholly. Completely. Rock. What this means is that you don’t need a boyfriend before you can rock. You already exist fully in a wholesale state of unblemished rockitude. I did not just now tell you to never have a boyfriend. I said you don’t need a boyfriend. You have grown up, and will continue to grow up, in a culture that bombards you with kajillions of impressions that constantly tell you otherwise. It’s lies, all lies. Listen to your dad (at least this once): you rock. If you feel needy or hungry or incomplete, that’s a call from deep within to fulfill your destiny of rocking as only you can rock. The extent to which you mistake that call for needing a boyfriend is the extent to which you muffle the triumphant sound of girls rocking.

Third. Girls rock with furious vengeance. Soon, if they haven’t already, boys will begin to touch you. As the world inches toward righteousness, they will lose their unspoken cultural permission to touch you, we’ll hold them accountable, and punish them accordingly. Until that day arrives, if someone touches you and you don’t like it, say “Don’t touch me; I don’t like it,” and, if you detect the threat of a second attempt, thrash him in the face and scream “GIRLS ROCK, MOTHERFUCKER! GIRLS ROCK WITH FURIOUS VENGEANCE!” I will support you in the principal’s office. We’ll call the newspaper. We’ll break the rules.

Fourth. Girls rock. Girls don’t need to be pretty. Being pretty is a patriarchal construct that needs to fall off the radar of necessary adjectives through which girls appear. You rock too hard to thrive only in compliments about physical beauty. Ultimately, girls should call their own shots about the criteria by which they rock. But if you’d permit a suggestion, a worthy adjective to which to aspire is KICKASS! You know how you tell your friends on Instagram that they’re pretty and beautiful and all those other words about how they look? Here’s an experiment. Try this. When you feel like typing “You’re so pretty,” try “You KICKASS!” instead. Be the leader on this one. “OMG! You totally KICKASS!” Because girls! They’re so much more than how they look. You rock, LB. You KICKASS! Tell your friends. Girls KICKASS!

Okay. Are you still up? You should get some sleep, but that’s what I wanted to tell you today. The world’s in a big fight and we’re right in the middle of it and I love you so much. I’m scared for you. I’m excited for you. And I’d gladly step aside and step down for you in the name of all that rocks.


Do Not Be Fooled By Those 4 Walls

What I really want you to know is that I don’t understand how I am where I am. And, because I find the arrival to my life confusing, it’s really hard to make sense of the events of my life. Things keep happening and that’s enough. Let’s not allow meaning to harsh our presence. When I got to the detox, the guys were talking to a drunk man in the parking lot. The drunk man told us a few things that were wrong with the world and we didn’t disagree. Who were we to disagree? There’s a lot of things from various perspectives that are wrong with the world. Then he told us we could all get fucked and he hopes we fucking die, which was good timing because we had to get inside by 7.

Me and Kris and Wes and Zac were the guys they bring to the detox to tell the drug addicts that, if they stop using drugs, they will soon get money and girlfriends. Zac has a girlfriend in Germany. I knew Zac a couple years ago and I guarantee you that not one woman in Germany wanted to be his girlfriend back then. And Wes? Just 18 months ago, Wes came out of a blackout while helping a 52-year-old prostitute find a good enough vein to shoot dope in her neck. Have you ever come out of a blackout and just found yourself being alive and doing stuff? I can’t, in good conscience, recommend this to you but I recommend it anyway, at least once. It’s a good metaphor for every single morning. Wes is married now and has a daughter, only 2 weeks old. The prostitute, Candi, is dead. Now how’s that work? I don’t know either. But if you don’t pray, why not? Don’t you continue to appear where you are—over and over—for no rhyme or reason?

Are you paying attention? You need to understand this because, if you read this wrong, you’ll think I’m outlining some qualitative difference between us (me, Kris, Wes, and Zac) and them—the people in the detox wearing white gowns and orange socks. Or the drunk man in the parking lot. Or Candi. Or you. And I’m absolutely not; I’m telling you the exact opposite. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t understand how I am where I am or what a you is in relation to this. It’s like I woke up from a blackout and Zac said “Jon?” and I just started telling stories. “When I was 12, I got drunk for the first time and an angel whispered in my ear that Something good’s about to happen.” Some of the people in the white gowns and orange socks were sleeping or knocking my teeth out or losing the rigid sense of distinction between us; I saw my reflection in their eyes and we forgot for awhile about the frailty of names.

Kris told this story about being a little kid and going to the Grand Canyon. Looking over the edge and wrestling with that insatiable urge to just jump. You know, somewhere in your heart, that you won’t but, still, there’s that reckless part of you that’s always ready to jump, to take the next big step, to go where you’re going and I thought, yes, that’s where this, here, always is—the edge of the Grand Canyon. And, sure, some people are talking, some people are listening, some people are outside telling the whole world to get fucked, some are dead, and one of them is even doing what you’re doing, but we’re—all of us—on the edge and we all, in our own ways, want to jump.

Suspended between where we’ve been and where we’re going, our fates depend on the way the drink tips. Do you pray? Do you pray? Do you pray?


Where I've Been

It all started when I choked on a Burrito Mexicano and I don’t mean a little. I’m talking blocked windpipe, stuck, stopped. It was like letting go of a helium balloon. Trust me. My kids, fighting over salsa verde, appeared in the vivid luminosity of lastness. Everything erupts in shining presence as the maw of death licks his hungry lips. Farewell, little ones. Don’t fight. It’s only salsa. The world is a rainstorm of salsa verde and free refills. Be good. Go light. Be kind and gentle stewards of the earth.

You know the sounds zombies make when they’re feasting and slurping on brains? It was like that. The sound. The Burrito Mexicano yacked from my throat, shot clear across the dining room, and stuck with a goopy smack on the window at Baja Fresh. All the people wondered what the hell. Life kept happening.

Fuck me, I thought, I need a free refill.


When a Burrito Mexicano almost kills you in a Baja Fresh, it changes you in your most deep and hidden places. Maybe you grasp this on an intellectual level but only the initiated can truly know in the heart of all their chakras. To make a long story short, blogging, Twitter, and Instagram were, just like that, robbed of their meaning. I was newly overwhelmed by an insatiable hunger to live life, do things, go outside, hit up the mall. There were innumerable bones from which to suck marrow. That might sound gross but have you ever tried bone marrow? Then don’t hate. Stop being a judge in a glass house who ignorantly disses marrow.

I found a place to live in the desert deliberately, or at least hang out for awhile. I needed a Bodhi Tree to sit beneath but I don’t live in Nepal or Bhutan and airfare is ridiculous, so I sat next to a cactus and called it good. I let my eyes go blurry and prepared myself for a direct confrontation with the true nature of suchness. If you can’t relate to the lofty nature of my ambition, try choking on a Burrito Mexicano at Baja Fresh and get back to me. It’ll fuck with your aims. Anyway, I’m trying to let body and mind fall away and dissolve into the ceaseless flux with neither beginning nor end but there’s these stupid birds going chicka-chicka! click! chicka-chicka! I mean WTF, birds? Don’t get me wrong. I’m trying to let things ride with an easygoing John Cage vibe but I need to speak my truth: these annoying desert birds—they’re pissing me off. First of all, they’re harshing my direct confrontation. The next thing you know, I’m musing on John Cage, a zillion miles away from the Great Matter. Then I’m angry and, worse, I’m getting angry about being angry because—dammit—a burrito almost killed me and my ardent attempt to enter the Treasure House is being thwarted by a couple birds and John Cage. Fuck it all to hell.


I’m not around much anymore. I sit still and quiet in the mornings until everything vanishes into the deep and empty oblivion of forgetfulness until Tingggggggggg, the world arises with a bell and nothing more is needed than the ever-strange thrill of being-this. There comes a time when the moment occurs with the force of all time and what an uncanny honor—to be a temporary expression of the unspeakable.

How will you express it? Smile, help, chew your food slow and careful.



When you were pushing your daughter on the swing, you forgot about the rent. You forgot about your taxes and your credit cards and the broken towel rack in the bathroom and the hangnail on your right index finger. You forgot about work and working out and the bad dreams you’ve been having about a wicked pack of oil slicked witches chasing you through an endless concrete maze lacking both entrance and exit. From a pop psychological perspective, you were not a symptom of your issues. You were not abandoned. You were not the victim of a God fashioned after the constraints imposed by your drunk and raving stepdad. Your inner child was not wounded. You were not hounded by the sense that you’re not okay or good enough or worthy of love. Nor did you smother yourself with positive self-talk about all your admirable qualities and the good things you deserve. You did not obsess about, or feel compelled, to have a drink—just one drink, to take the edge off. Indeed, you forgot you had an edge. From a less conventional perspective of our psychopathologies, you were not possessed by demons or haunted by ghosts and you weren’t the numinous vessel through which bloodthirsty gods of war erupted, blindly seeking power and vengeance. You forgot to worry about the future’s uncertainty. You forgot to dwell in the muck of the past. You even forgot to remember that your car was low on gas.

Come to think of it, when you were pushing your daughter on the swing, you forgot about yourself entirely and, in the ecstatic release of this blessing, you forgot you were even a you at all, that such an odd little thing called you existed. Where did you go? Pay attention. Because here’s where it gets interesting and twisted. When you were pushing your daughter on the swing, some vaster You, the great big You that, indeed, contains you and everything else, but frequently—too frequently—gets imprisoned by your persistent identification with It, freed Itself from your unusually imperial dominance to inhabit the perspective of your daughter and, as a result, you forgot yourself in the service of this You that loves only to wander through the exotic forests of otherness.

And you were swinging! As the chains binding you to the swing set moaned with their predictable creaking like the bones of the very old, you were swinging, wildly to and fro, screaming Higher, Daddy, higher, screaming WHOO, and laughing. You were swinging and your long yellow hair sailed behind you like a superhero’s cape and the big yellow sun hung in the perfectly blue sky like a painting that sought only to explore the magic of juxtaposing a vivid yellow circle on a vast blue canvas. You forgot that math was hard and that school was a drag and that it’s becoming more and more difficult to navigate school’s social demands. Some girls are mean. Some girls are nice. Who are you? You forgot that your parents are divorced and how confusing it is to somehow be a member of the same family while blurring into the scenes of two new families. You forgot about your big brother, how much you admire and despise him. You forgot that your dad always goes to those meetings and you don’t really understand why but you’re glad he does. You forgot you spilled mustard on your blue dress and that you can’t find your hairbrush under your bed or anywhere and you even forgot that your braces make your whole mouth sore.

Come to think of it, when you were swinging, you forgot about yourself entirely and, in the ecstatic release of this blessing, you forgot you were even a you at all, that such an odd little thing called you existed. Where did you go? To the mountains! As you reached the highest point of your backward arc, you swooped forward and, freed from yourself into some vaster You, you were a bird launching into the air and flapping your wings, trafficking with airplanes and clouds, thinking big thoughts as big as the sky. Look at you! You can fly anywhere, anywhere at all, but the city and all its cold angled concrete and people bore you to death so you fly to the mountains where the rock is red and yellow and as constant as hope. You belong in the mountains. The mountains are home. For only in the mountains do you fit like a carefully built nest in the branches of a humble tree. You feel free in the mountains. There, you can finally relax and sing and, unafraid of men with guns and other predators, forget yourself. Come to think of it, as the idea of yourself as a bird gives way and blurs into your surroundings, you yourself are the entire range of red mountains covered in blue sky and we, too, are all of this.


All Rubble

If there were such a thing as another option, we would advise you to keep moving. But there is no such thing. So keep moving.

Move, go, move until you yourself keep pace with the moving, merge with the moving, and then what? A daffodil, perhaps, on a windowsill, into which the whole world pours? A nice start, yes—pretty—but already gone.

So how can we say it? A flash of lightning? A thundering kaboom? The fire? All this. A clap of shine that shelters the darkness. A clap of darkness that shelters the shine. Applause!

But goddamn how we yearn to wash our hands of words and yet, at the same time, we can’t stop talking. Talking too can shine, does shine, has its time and then it’s gone, like wilting daffodils, forever.

Live every moment like a punch in the face. Get knocked out.

People will tell you to let go and let Whatever, but this assumes some selfsame you who lets go and remains, now bereft of something and probably crying, boring your friends. What if, instead, you let go of you, the you that holds things? If you let it all go together, it would all go together.

Wind, rivers, music. Blue balloons that vanish into blue skies. Like that.

But, then again, you letting go of you makes for a tricky jam. Because then you have to, in order to get the job done, let go of the you that lets go of you, too, and—wait—we’re making us dizzy. You really are infinitely persistent. So maybe just fall, or drop? Collapse, and die?

Dying takes practice.

So when things fall apart, fall apart with them. Stay falled apart. We know, we know. This is the last thing you wanted to hear. But what, if you would just stay falled apart, would be left that wants to hear something, let alone hold on to something that would need letting go?

No. Fall apart with the falling apart. Fall apart together. Whatever.



On Straightening

When all the happy teeth of your mischievous smile were covered the other day by your shiny new braces, I remembered brushing your hair. But that doesn’t make any sense at all, I imagine you saying without hesitation. No? Well maybe it doesn’t. But that’s the way I think, all over the place, all the time. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody? Well I do and, for all we know, it does make sense. Let’s see if we can straighten this out.

When you were a little girl, I used to give you baths, which I loved when I wasn’t consumed by myself and my own ambitions, which was often but, nonetheless, there was always a part of me that stayed aware of loving to watch you play with cups and water and I loved the way it felt on my big hands when I washed and conditioned your pretty hair. It was after the bath when things got ugly. I went downstairs as you dried off and put on your pajamas. Solemnly, you descended the stairs with your detangling spray, a comb, and a brush. Your mouth was a straight line and your eyes were half-lidded. You walked straight to me and turned around, rigid, like a soldier. I doused your hair with the spray and so it began. First, the comb to rake through the bigger tangles and then the brush. You tried to stifle your outbursts but sometimes you squealed as big raindrops formed in the clouds of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks and God it killed me to hurt you.

One of the many beautiful things about primal cultures and children is their convincing ability to inhabit a world of amazingly creative theories of causation. I don’t look upon this ability in a disparaging way at all. I admire it, respect it, yearn for it, and fundamentally believe that it’s a truer way to dwell in the shelter of the world than the diminished world merely understood through the lens of science and its useful discoveries. People used to have gods that oversaw almost every form of activity and nearly everything they did was a prayer. They made sacrifices to influence the harvest. Mimicked myth through ritual. Created idols to protect their homes and sleep. Attributed good fortune to the goodwill of deceased ancestors. Danced for rain.

It’s been almost 4 years and you don’t talk about the divorce much; you never have. But I imagine you might shoulder the burden of your own ideas about what went wrong in your secret and magical way of making sense. What did you do wrong? Were you perhaps mean to the cat? Did you steal cookies? Did you think a horrible thing in anger that you quickly wished you never thought and couldn’t think away? Or maybe you stepped on a crack or forgot to water the plants and your parents got divorced. And though I wrote above that I admired this ability to live in a world where what happens occurs in the realm of art, one of my deepest desires is for you to know and understand in the deeps of your bones that nothing you did caused your parents’ divorce. That blame lies solely with me. Your dad made sacrifices to all the wrong gods and incurred the wrath of their vengeance. And, even though I’ve told you so many times that we’re both sick of hearing it, I remain always on the ready (when you are) to discuss my mistakes with you, to make amends, and set things straight. God, it killed me to hurt you.

But eventually the brush would slide through your long yellow hair like a hot knife through butter and I could see your body slacken with relief. And I would keep brushing for a good long while because I knew it felt so nice to have a brush running through your shiny clean hair without a single snag or snarl. Loosened up, you would climb on my lap and start telling me your funny stories about the way things appear and happen for little girls. The cat likes to sing when she thinks no one is listening but you have heard her, on more than one occasion, sing I Shall Be Released by the big glass slider. When you fell off your bike and skinned your knee, you yelled at your bike and now she doesn’t feel much like riding no more. If you ever get scared at night, you just talk to the moon, which makes you not scared, because the moon is maybe your best friend in the whole world next to Maddie. And I would just listen and love you, brushing and brushing your long yellow hair until it was perfectly straight.

Now it has come to my attention that a smart little girl has taken to sneaking a peek at what her daddy writes on the Internet, so I will break one of my rules—a magician should never ever never reveal his tricks—and explain to you exactly why your shiny new braces reminded me of brushing your hair. You start with the braces. They straighten your teeth. I brushed your hair to make it straight. But these are just metaphors for the constantly ongoing need to straighten things out with the people you love. I am ready when you are. Now turn that thing off and go to bed. I love you. —Daddy

Originally published in Brain, Child Magazine


Raising Feminist Kids

Feminism is a word that represents such a vast (and often conflicting) array of meanings, that, no matter how much you’ve read, it’s hard to know what you’re thinking and talking about when you’re thinking and talking about Feminism. And I should say it straight up in the first paragraph that I’m certainly no expert in terms of the many and varied nuances of feminist theory. I mean, hey, I like to think of myself as open-minded (who doesn’t?) but it’s often made clear to me that, as a result of my lifelong vision of the world from the perspective of white male privilege, I suffer from blind spots that make it either impossible or extremely difficult for me to imagine or understand the phenomenology of being a woman and/or any other victim of systematic social oppression. Now that insight doesn’t always occur to me as easily as I just typed it. When confronted by new insights, I get defensive, I resist, I stew, and I grimace until I’m finally able to see that I can’t see, that dwelling in privilege necessarily occurs on a foundation of blindness that is never magically cured by good intentions.

With that said, I have good intentions. I have a son and a daughter and a responsibility to wonder: How can I raise these kids with an eye toward a world that is kinder to women? Some of my kneejerk responses are that I should instill within my son a conscious respect for women, based in the awareness that being a woman entails experiences and struggles to which boys and men are never subjected and scarcely aware, and to teach my daughter that she’s beautiful no matter what, that how she looks need not be measured against unrealistic cultural constructs of beauty. Good starts, maybe, but there is further to go.

Being a man with a son, certainly, I’d like to raise him in such a way that he is sensitive to women’s issues and willing to play a part in the creation of a world in which women are confronted by less and less hostility. However, I’d also like to see the inverse of his kindness toward women manifest itself as outright activism when it comes to other men and our attitudes toward women. Above and beyond a revolution in our own sensibilities regarding women, men must up the ante by demanding the same in other men and by raising sons who are willing to make the same demands. This might mean something as simple as informing a friend that it’s totally not cool to call a woman a bitch. It could also mean the willingness to risk the use of force to put a stop to a sexual assault in progress. What I’m talking about is the exact opposite of the longstanding male tradition of looking away from misogyny and getting right up in its face. The logical extension of our “enlightened” views and good intentions is to risk our good standing among our fellows and demand some changes.

But what could possibly be wrong with celebrating my daughter’s beauty with no regard for its proximity to our culture’s twisted ideal of beauty? Well, what’s wrong with emphasizing our daughters as beautiful (no matter what) is that it overlooks and blocks us off from a pressing question about how we’re inclined to see women in the first place. Why is it that, as we nobly hope to revise what beautiful means, beauty remains, entrenched and unquestioned, the lens through which we apprehend women? Imagine the freedom we could reveal for our daughters if, instead of building more expansive prisons of beauty (“Everyone’s beautiful!”; “We’re beautiful in our own way!”; “We’re pretty on the inside!”), we knocked down the walls and granted them escape entirely from the shackles of this torturous adjective.

Our daughters deserve better adjectives. This is to say that we need nothing short of a revolution in consciousness in terms of the way we see and understand women. Think not? Observe for yourself for a single day what constitutes the first, the highest, and most frequent form of compliment doled out to women (indeed, from men and women alike) on television, in print, social media, and your day to day life. You’re beautiful. So pretty. Radiant. Gorgeous. Hottie. Love that dress. OMG your hair! Etc. Our damn near singular relationship to women as such is via their appearance and how their appearance shores up with beauty.

Our daughters deserve better adjectives. New modes from which to appear. Feminism as that which frees the female from a primarily seen and assessed object. But then what would she be? Sure, intelligent, funny, yeah, okay. But, further, adjectives personal to her, individual, that articulate her singular coming forth to girl in the world, not measured with scales of beauty, but apprehended as an expression of the unique explosion of forces that she was called to announce.

Originally published in Brain, Child Magazine