Dating & Travel: Beware the Don Juan

I'm trouble. No damn good. So when a spiky haired Sevillano in a pink polo and gafas de pasta* asked me out to coffee, I said yes. Within minutes he was on to sex.

-I don't know anyone who doesn't have some kind of thing outside of their relationship. 
-Uh huh... And do you have a girlfriend? 
-More or less. 
-More more or more less? 
-More more. 
-And you cheat on her. 
-Well, I never do this, but with you... We can just have a great time while you're here. I can take you to Cadiz or Malaga or wherever you want. No pressure. And what happens, happens. We don't have to make love but if it happens.... 

This was our first conversation. The first 5 minutes of our first conversation. I knew nothing about him when we walked out of the English pub 25 minutes later. I knew both nothing and everything. And by everything I mean that he thought I was the easy American Girl Gone Wild looking for my Javier Bardem. He was counting on my giving him "The Latin Pass" wherein I'd be satisfied enough with his approximation of the Don Juan that I'd forget to look at the actual guy before taking my panties off. So, yeah. I turned down a free trip to Cadiz.

Not long ago I sat at a table of recent Latin American immigrants to Spain. I have no clue how we got onto the subject, but it isn't important. Just note that it was they who took it there.

You know, we Latinos, we are very romantic. We're the most romantic men in the world. 

Now imagine if I just randomly started marketing myself and the exceedingly dubious "gifts" stereotypically associated with my race/culture/gender, at a goddamn dinner party, no less. (Channeling Eartha Kitt in Boomerang)

You know what they say about black women, dahling. We're tigresses in bed! RRRRRR..." 

But it's not just men from Latin America who've absorbed the whole Don Juan DeMarco thing. Many ball-bearing speakers of Latin-derived languages (Spanish, Italian) have co-opted this legend to get a leg up in the dating game. So important is this legend for Italians they've got a translation: Don Giovanni. Besides language, it's perhaps the only other characteristic the average Spaniard will freely admit to sharing with a Latin American. Even a Catalan, a 50 -something numbers guy with this glasses, a receding hairline, and if he wasn't wearing a bow tie, he should have been, recently got in on the action. You know us Latin men, he said, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, we are very passionate. And he wasn't talking numbers.

I knew a slick talkin' Italian (in a non-biblical sense, but just barely as this man was MOTIVATED) a few years ago whose sole purpose in life was to have sexual relations with every single woman. In the world. Our very first conversation took place in Puerto Rico. It went something like this:

-I think you are the best dancer in the world.
-Mmmmm... You're just saying that because you wanna sleep with me, Francesco.
-It's true I want to sleep with you but also I think you are the best dancer.

Everything, from his clothes to the way he spoke to you and looked at you was calculated to appeal to the legend of the Latin lover in you. Kind of like this. But all these years later, I still have no clue who that dude really is. A Swede who did fall prey to his charm(s) (?) shared, Francesco has A LOT of sex. And it's not even that good! She was surprised, like she didn't know all that I'm a hot Latin dude and I hafta have ya hyperactivity is often cover for something. Could be anything, but normally, it's simply about skirting the messiness of real person to person heart to heart contact. You don't share the same language, culture, or history. Real intercultural communication is tricky. The legend is much easier. More expedient.

I've seen many a good woman get took by the Sexy Latin Guy sideshow. Take my good friend, Mikaela, who came to Spain on a monthlong voyage last summer. He just put it out there, she said. Incredulous. He was like, 'Well, why don't you just stay here with me? We could have babies. Yes. You, him and his brown front teeth living in a veritable tree house. So accustomed to the perpetually noncommittal nature of dating in NYC, this was amazing for her. She fell for every declaration of culturally co-dependence hook, line, and sinker. Falling in love just a little bit every time. Not with the guys, but with the legend. The otherworldliness of it all had her ready to wipe her ass with her standards.

The worst part is, your Don Juan, is not similarly swept away. Trust. He's thinking practically. Strategically. Once he knows you're from foreign, you often become, by definition easy, noncommittal fun. If that's what you're looking for, do you. But if you're looking for a mate, don't get distracted by the Sexy Latin Guy Don Juan DeMarco side show. That's the myth. On to the man.

*Spanish parlance for "expensive glasses". Not, like, paella with noodles or anything.

Confessions: Helpless

The Guyana Race Riots of the 60's

I remember being in my house with a friend, we were only about 16 or 17 years old. There was this man, a heavy-set guy, and he had a woman on the ground, hitting her and tearing at her sari. We were yelling from the window, "Leave her alone! Come on man!" but he ain't hear us. He just kept tearing at her clothes and she was crying and screaming. There was a policeman across the street just watching. He wouldn't say anything to the guy; would NOT stop him. He told us to shut up and move from the window. We were just kids, man. Nothing we could do. I felt so bad.  - My dad.

It's Called "Hebephile"

I've lived in Barcelona basically all my adult life. My first husband was a doctor. He was Catalan actually, but we met in England. He was doing a residency at the hospital I worked at as an x-ray technician. When we met I was dating his good friend, another doctor. Oh, we fell in love soooo quickly! He was an amazing, very charismatic guy. When he was leaving England, I left too, and have been living here ever since. I didn't realize he was a pedophile until after we had our second child. I knew something was going on but I thought he was just messing around. Then a 14 year old neighbor tried to tell me that he had abused her, but he was so charming and so... such a good man, I just never thought... A few years later I caught him--I caught him!-- with the babysitter. She was about 15. I divorced him after that. I mean, it took a lot of back and forth, but eventually we divorced. I never told anyo-- well, I told a few close friends of his and mine. None of them believed me. They took his side and just called me bitter and a liar, because through all this he was cheating with other women. I never went to the police. Never reported it. -50 something English woman I befriended at the airport.

Migrancy and Music

Untitled from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

This woman.  She sang in the pyramids of the Mayans, Aztecs and the Inca; through the rapids that connect the islands off the Panama coast, up and down the rivers of the Amazon and the Bermejo. A voice infused with the quetzal and the coatl (the bird and the serpent) it's a call to arms in the Chiapas and a warning in Babylon. Even when she's just singing 'La Bamba'.

This Ain't Cancun

Europe as seen by Americans from Frank Jacobs' blog at
Big Think

And Barcelona's not even really Spain. I realize that that's not saying much, because most people have no clue what Spain is in the first place. Even for Spaniards, Spanishness is fractured and always in contention. The country's comprised of 17 autonomous communities, and 7 official/ recognized languages. There are customs in the north that are foreign to the south and vice versa. When I told a friend from the island of Tenerife about a certain Catalan Christmas tradition, she admitted to never having heard of it before. "It's like a different country," she said, without a hint of irony. Breaking down Spain beyond saying, Spain isn't Mexico, is harder than you'd think. I can, however, shed some light on the question sharing a bit about Barcelona. More specifically, 3 things Barcelona is NOT.

Sombreros and Mojitos. Yes, sombrero simply means hat in Spanish. But I know that when non Spanish speakers use the word sombrero, they are not using it to reference a Yankee cap and a cowboy democratically. Y'all mean this shit right here:

You mean sombrero of the type made popular by Mexican peasant culture and drinking games on spring break. You mean big wide brims, and colorful ass colors. So you come to Spain, where they speak Spanish and you think they mean what you mean by sombrero. And BCN often helps feed the beast of cultural mistranslation by selling sombreros in the cheap souvenir shops on the Ramblas. First of all, never buy anything on the Ramblas. Not food, not t-shirts, and definitely not those poor parrots being sold alongside goldfish, roses and key chains at the kiosks on the center strip. Most of all, do not buy a goddamn sombrero. You will look crazy. The word sombrero is Spanish. Sombreros are not. Also be careful of mojitos. Those are Cuban. Unless a Spanish bar specializes in making them, steer clear.

Flamenco. My first night in Sevilla, I sat at an outdoor bar with a fellow american, two Ecuadorans and an Argentine, eating cheese, chorizo, and some strange little cracker thing that I'd come to find out typically accompanied tapas in Andalucia, but I'd never seen it in the north of Spain. At about 3am, we heard the strains of a Spanish guitar. Flamenco guitar. In the days following, I would see this twice more: once in a park, and again in another bar. People just whipping out guitars and launching into cantos.
If anyone's carrying a guitar in hippy town Barcelona, it's a safe bet they're about to play some Bob Marley or something.

Any flamenco shows in Barcelona, like the ones for which they are always handing out flyers on the Ramblas and Calle Ferran, are probably not the best of flamenco that Spain has to offer. Remember that Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia, an autonomous region with its own language, culture, and history. The national dance is Sardanas, essentially, the anti-flamenco. The music, Rumba Catalana, is some strange fusion whose origins are impossible to suss out upon hearing. No. Correction. I'd suss it thus: cumbia that may or may not have lost its way. If you want flamenco, go south, or plan your trip during one of Barcelona's many flamenco festivals, to which artists nationwide flock. The genre was born in Spain, but it's become the very embodiment of the country's fractured nature.

Now, Salsa is also not at all Spanish. Don't go anywhere in Spain specifically for this. Unless it's Club Mojito on a Sunday night, which is filled with Cubans. And no, I've never tried their mojito.

Perpetual Sun. King Felipe II famously blubbered about "the empire on which the sun never sets". But that was in the 16th century, and he was co-opting South American and Caribbean heat (and gold and oil and labor and sexy latin guy image*) for the Iberian peninsula's gain. While it may be appropriate to show up in Cadiz or the Canary Islands in short shorts and a tank at almost any time of the year, when I see you boarding the plane to Madrid or getting off the Aerobus at Plaza Catalunya in short shorts and a tank and it's NOT July or August, I just feel bad. Cause you've been had by Felipe. The sun totally sets in Spain. It's the most mixed of bags when it comes to the environment. North of the center, you've got chilly fall, cold, rainy and sometimes snowy winters, transitional springs and scorching summers. 

Perhaps before global warming, winters were shorter and less wintery and the summers, longer and more summery. But it goes beyond that. You'd no more wear your bathing suit and snuggie (I've seen this!!) on Paseo de Gracia than you would on New York's 5th avenue or Chicago's Michigan Ave. In a city where young, urbane parents are worrying about school enrollment when their children are 2 and English speaking nannies are all the rage, you should at the very least, wear a fucking shirt on public transportation.

Indeed there's a beach and everyone speaks Spanish, but this does not mean that anything goes. That said, even Mexico is more than just your sun-sombreros-sangria Mexico and I, for one, wish we'd stop treating it and its touristic cousins throughout the Americas like anything goes too. But we gotta start somewhere.

*Stay tuned. This is Friday's post.

The New York Times Doesn't Care About Spanish People

Last year Spanish President Jose Luis Zapatero accused the anglophone press (that's British and American) of exaggerating the dire state of the Spanish economy. I don't remember him giving a reason for why they would do this; a student of mine later suggested that it was in American and British interest that the euro fail. Right or wrong, when I see the British press referring to the poorer member states as The PIIGS (Portugal, Italy, Ireland, Greece and Spain) I can't help but feel like there's some kind of agenda attached.


And so, today the New York Times hits us with A Casualty of War and the Spanish Economy; through the story of fallen Columbian soldier, Belly Meneses Diaz, Rachel Donadio and Dale Fuchs contend that the sad state of the Spanish economy is to blame for the MASSES of immigrants joining the war, and consequently, dying in Afghanistan. I presented this article to my Tuesday, Thursday Advanced Convo class, who ripped the article apart in one observation. "But doesn't that always happen? People without job options join the army all of the time, in every country," said my super rich Mrs. Robinson lady, rocking brown leather patches at the elbows of her navy blue cashmere cardi. Yep. Why hadn't I thought of that? 


Donadio & Fuchs allege that since "abolishing the draft" and opening up its doors in 2002, immigrants comprise "about 7 percent of Spain's 88,500 troops". In '02, indeed, up to about '07, the Spanish economy was flying high. There is no question that Spain is facing a 20% unemployment rate. But it's a number that I'm sure does not account for people likely to be paid under the table. And the article provides ZERO evidence that the percentage of immigrants joining the Spanish army has spiked in proportion with the big dip in its economy. Major Donadio and Fuch-ing fail.

The real story lies where the military and immigration reform meet. Meneses Diaz died in Afghanistan. But for the ones who make it safely back to the peninsula, should they be granted automatic (or at least more easily attained) citizenship for risking their lives in war? Immigrants are only allowed serve for a maximum of 6 years. 7 years of residence in Spain qualifies you for citizenship regardless of your status, even if you're completely undocumented. See what they did right there? Slick. I only got a little heated when one student, a high level stock exchange guy, suggested that serving for 7 years in order to achieve citizenship would be the "easy way out" and that all illegals would do it if given the chance. I assured him that was not true.

We offshot to many other, even more interesting topics. Like, what makes military work different from other dangerous work, asked a high level stock exchange guy. "More people die per year in construction related accidents in Spain, than in the military. And many illegals work in construction." Should they, too, be offered citizenship? 

Another student, a Barclay's executive, added, "If this is a sensitive topic among the general population, imagine with the military, which historically in Spain is very, very, very conservative. Can you imagine a guy from Colombia being a general and ordering around Spanish soldiers?" Thus, the other advantage to the 6 year limit- the protection of Spanish identity. A matter of national security in the highest order.

So the NY Times could give a shit about Spanish people. Clearly. But do Spanish people care about immigrants? Hm.

Cacique Banana Columbus

Though Italian, Christopher Columbus found funds for his grand FIND INDIA! plan in the reborn Spanish crown, just out from under that tea party they called colonization at the hands of the Moors. Columbus wrecked shop on the Spanish moneda. Lest we forget.

While I was in Sevilla for Arte Para Todos, the making of Europe's largest outdoor exhibit, I had the pleasure of accompanying the group of 40 visual artists from around the world on a special, guided midnight tour of Andalusia's Parliament building. We sat in the plenary session hall where the lawmakers of southern Spain work their legislative magic. We walked through the courtyards laid with stone hand delivered from surrounding mountains and doorways ribboned with gold from the Americas. "This was built during an age of great prosperity for Spain. After discovering the Americas, we had a lot of gold and resources flowing through the south of Spain in particular. Much of Sevilla was built then..." Spain's gotten quite a return on that moneda, I thought.*

Participating artist and friend, Katie, couldn't stop remarking on how much Sevilla looked like Havana. Except with money. Technically, gold from the Americas. It all felt strangely macabre. The lightness with which our tour guide relayed the origins of the building's bling. The casual nature of Katie's observations. It surprises me that I'd ever really wondered thought about what would have happened had, say, the Tainos "discovered" Europe. What that encounter may have even looked like...

Behold, Ecuadoran artist Nelson Román's contribution to Arte Para Todos, Cacique Banana... more accurately Sevilla Wakes Up Every Morning to a Banana. Discovering it.

I love this mural. Whimsical, surreal bordering on grotesque, like try as we might, we could never really wrap our heads round the reverse.

Happy Columbus Day to you, too.

*I tweeted that Spain doesn't celebrate Columbus day. They do, just on the 12th of October.

UPDATED: Reader Remi has posted the link to a fantastic article on Columbus Day in Spain by one Ada the Raider. Please find the link in the comments. An excerpt:

If you come to Madrid, you'll probably head to the famous Plaza Mayor that is popular with tourists, street performers, and everyday Madrileños. The reality is that in the past it was a bustling slave market. Fast forward to 2010 and a new slavery can be seen on the streets of the Plaza mayor, the many young African and Eastern European girls whose dreams of a better life have led them to be coerced into prostitution, and Spain is its first port of call.

PLEASE click the link in the comments section!!

 

FC Regal beats the Lakers??

My Blackberry started vibrating exactly one hour before the Lakers vs. FC Regal Barcelona tip off, October 7th at Palau St. Jordi. I was curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and the latest episode of America's Next Top Model streaming from my laptop. I had emailed Hollywood on Monday simply asking, 'Did you know the Lakers are playing here on Thursday?"She replied a super laid back, "I didn't know! I'll make some calls!". Needless to say, after hearing crickets for 4 days from her end, I did NOT expect her to be calling with VIP tickets!! I was downstairs and in a taxi within 10 mins.

The last time I was scarred by went to a European basketball experience, it was the Brighton Bears versus some other team that took a few hours out from sucking ass in some other butt fuck European shithole to hurl some smelly balls at a backboard. I remember having a conversation with some [actually, cute] black American college graduate (which, these days, is almost a testament to how much skills you don't have as a ball player) about sucking, I guess, which ended in me promising to go to his practice the next week, and then promptly forgetting it. Or perhaps regretting it. European basketball, up until this year has been one big YAWN for me.

Alas, FC Regal Barcelona does not suck. They are not the goddamn Brighton Bears. Now I wouldn't exactly call October 7th a clash of the titans, but FC Barcelona are 2010 EuroLeague champions. So it was a contest.

Hollywood's boys tried to dominate early. No doubt to rest up for the NBA regular season set to begin in 2 weeks. The fast break game didn't work. And it especially doesn't work, when you can't hit a damn lay up. Pau Gasol hit the hardwood with lots of fire, but by the fourth quarter both he and Odom had been rejected by Regal no-namers multiple times, and took to either encouraging or straight miming, the foul. Not a bad strategy, seeing as how the refs were calling love taps (Reeeeeef!! Era un abrazo!!!*).

Still the golden boys managed to scrounge up a 1-point lead by the halfway mark. Former Laker James Worthy showed up in a grey suit, surrounded by the Laker Girls B squad to... I don't know what exactly... smile with some kids, but it was great to see him. Pau Gasol, son of Catalonia, former Regal player, made a nice showing, scoring about 8 points in the first 8 minutes, dominating in the paint (to the polite applause of his countrymen) but ended up shooting only 7/21!! Despite this, he was honored with a plaque from the Spanish Basketball Federation and a standing O, right between a performance from the cast of Hair (or, Pelo! as the case may be), and the Laker Girls B team dancing to a song about Italy.

In Spain.

Remember that number in Nine, Cinema Italiano, with Kate Hudson belting out, "Guido, guido, guido, guido!!!" THAT.

In the end, the Lakers' early nonchalance, cost them the game. The starting 5 had all been filtered out of the game by the end of the first quarter, not to return until FC Regal went on a 9-0 run in the middle of the 2nd quarter. Regal barely runs with the LA starter squad. But the Regal starter squad walks all over the Laker bench. For the Lakers to win, Phil Jackson would have had to distribute minutes between the 1st and 2nd teams with strategic precision. Odom, (the only player, I heard, who's actually in fighting form at the moment) played 41 minutes. And while the Dash hubby looked downright spritely, Kobe seemed a step behind Regal point guard, Ricky Rubio. Suffice it to say, no such balancing act went down. And with Regal launching and hitting all kinds of 3's, well...

By the time La La Land decided to invest the full force of it's star power somewhere around minute 8 of the 4th quarter, it was too late. Regal was playing like a band of brothers. They'd gained momentum, Kobe couldn't touch the ball without the sound and fury of the entire city reining down upon him. And so unlike Hollywood, the LA Lakers did NOT pull through in the end. Final score: 92-88 FC Regal.

Still, Kobe, Pau and all of Barcelona seemed to have left Palau St. Jordi smiling. But who doesn't smile here? It was like '93 all over again. When basketball was inspiring, and I was a year away from traveling coming here for the very first time.

*Ref! That was a hug!!
Photo Manu Fernandez, Associated Press

Art! For All!

Behold the sacred arithmetic of Art + Activism + Commerce. 

Dutchman Peter Claesson gathered 40 painters and sculptors from 22 countries to create Europe's largest outdoor exhibition in the Polígono de San Pablo neighborhood of Sevilla in the South of Spain. Claesson asked each artist to contribute a large scale piece that speaks to a different aspect of the United Nation's Millenium Development Goals. The themes of the work range from women's rights, peace, education, clean water for all and disarmament to consumerism and globalization. Besides having pumped some money into San Pablo through partnerships with local caterers, bus companies, construction companies for equipment, and art supply stores, Claesson plans to work with Seville's Tourism Office to train guides for the exhibition. "Not only have the artists brought their point of view to this neighborhood from their own corners of the world, but we'll have stimulated tourism in the neighborhood, and given tourists a reason to come here. I think it will be easier to do this project in other places once people see the good it's doing," said Claesson. Indeed, he's made a life's work of weaving art and travel in a tapestry of progress, most notably in Honduras in '04 with both Art for All Honduras and Honduras 24, an exhibit of about 30 grand photos taken all over the country, none of which depicted a murder (for which Honduras is known). Thus many of the artists in Sevilla had already met one another in Honduras. Needless to say, there's also a party going on in San Pablo.

And so it's been a glorious time. I've accompanied the artists on private tours and cocktail parties through the Parliament Building, and the Royal Palacio. I've enjoyed the finest of 5-course Spanish fare, complete with unlimited bottles of red and white wines. But the greatest has been the time spent talking to this global mish mosh of artists. I've shared cañas and great conversations with great young artists including, Ash, out of Portugal, Ise and Finok, the graffiti wunderkinds behind murals both in Coney Island and Bowery in NYC, and Eric Okdeh, who's just completed a mural inside Philadelphia's City Hall. When it comes to street art, and I would venture to say, socially integrated art, this group is comprised of the best of the best. Seriously, some travel the world charging several thousand a week for their pieces. Here's a look at what I've seen thus far....

Eva, day one.

Eva, day 2

What's been most interesting is to watch San Pablo participate. Working on the ground, Eva (pictured above) is constantly besieged by folks with... concerns. She's worried that Catholic Seville is not ready for her HIV/AIDS prevention, safe sex message, complete with big colorful condoms. I think other artists may rub the conservative south the wrong way as well, but because unlike Eva, they're not Spanish, so they have no idea. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. 

Vicky Camacho at work

One of the highlights for me was welding in a skirt and lace top with the great Vicky Camacho out of Ecuador.  Working with fire and iron made me feel even more feminine, somehow. Perhaps by contrast to the environment: a big industrial plant just outside of the city where the only other woman was a tiny blonde administrator. Camacho, renowned for the movement, flow, and softness of her iron sculptures, taught me how to use angles and body weight to bend the iron with minimal force. The plan was to interview her and bounce, but when an indigenous woman says, 'Hold this. Close your eyes. I won't burn you', you do it.

Ash, day 2

AEC & Waone, Ukraine

There's a crazy story involving the Ukranians and the Seville police force, but I'm saving that for the article. Along with Victor Ash (a Portuguese with a French accent), and Finok, they've got a highly visible wall facing a main road. As a writer blank pages terrify me. Can't imagine having to face a huge blank wall. Speaking of faces....

Stephan & Tseluyko, Russia

Notice how Soviet Bloc artists specialize in larger than life visages. You could say that all murals are larger than life, but there is something in the scale of faces in East Bloc street art that imposes itself on its surroundings, creepy and captivating at a glance.

Regardless of origin, street artists almost always have common roots in graffiti. Paris '85, where Ash remembers attending an Africa Bambata show. South America in the late 80's, where street art as subversive practice preceded the fall of one dictatorship after another. This was neither so different, nor disconnected from Eastern Europe, early 90's, as walls were falling and unions dissolving. These days they're all traveling the world, painting, sculpting, and trying not to let freedom pilfer the edge that made them interesting in the first place. 

I'm headed back to do interviews with latecomers I missed, as well as to get feedback from the residents. 

Exception Proves the Rule?

I don't want to write a post about the online initiative started by my girl Christelyn at Beyond Black and White called, No Wedding No Womb, which calls for women to get married before having children, and barring that being "wedded" to the two-parent raising of the child. But here goes...

I can get down with this in spirit. However, I come from a world where language, energy, and autonomy matter. I never wanna be talking about anybody's womb, and really, a lot of the children in the photo above, taken during an animal exhibition at the school my family owns in Queens (there are live chinchillas in subsequent photos), are fatherless. Calling them bastards (as some NWNW supporters have taken to doing, NOT Chris) because in the dictionary bastard is a neutral term for fatherless is no better than calling a woman a bitch because in the dictionary it just means female dog. Ridiculous. While 2 parent homes are ideal for some, calling children deprived of that bastards is not okay. Language matters. People who don't know that obviously have limited experience working with shorties. I'm NOT one of those people.

Furthermore, in the 20 years my fam has worked with kids, I've seen fathers fuck up a life, I've seen education change the course of many, and not a Sunday goes by when some grown ass man or woman isn't ringing my parents' doorbell after 20 years to thank them for all they've done. Yes, this is a singular experience. Some of the people shouting the loudest in favor of NWNW (which, let me make clear again, I'm not entirely against) will never touch this many hearts. Reaching people, one by one, as Al Gore says at the end of An Inconvenient Truth, is how you change the world. Singular stories matter. Denying that they do, or that they are subordinate to the statistic, is just a tactic to "derail the conversation". More insidiously, it keeps a conversation superficial and distanced from real work, real solutions.

Derailing for Dummies explains,

"It works to suggest that [your opponent's] experience is worthless because it doesn't align with everyone's - particularly those that you've decided to favour. That is, experiences that, to your mind, back up your prejudices. This is belittling and offensive in the extreme as you are essentially denying their reality. People's personal experiences are important to them, so it's likely they will, whilst getting increasingly hurt and upset, continue to try and defend and "prove" them to your exacting measures while you can bask in the satisfaction of knowing you have caused them distress."

While NWNW proponents base their opinions on a statistic and a bunch of personal stories about their own daddies, others who say, "I was born into a single parent home and I'm dope" are dismissed as "exceptions" whose stories have no place in the conversation. Their realities are denied, human experience minimized, even as the proponents continue to tell stories about bouncing on their daddies' knees as "proof" that daddies are indispensable. Intellectually, this stance is hypocritical, and just plain makes no sense.

 I was an early supporter of #NWNW. I have a dad who is, sorry to inform you, more amazing than any other daddy in creation. I can't imagine being preggers at 23, and feeling such shame that I had to buy myself a wedding ring to stave off judgement, as happened to Christelyn who also grew up in a 2-parent home. My parents would have closed ranks and bitten off the head of anyone who tried talking shit. I know this because I've fucked up many times in life, and the 'rents have been right there for me. I would never dispute that two parent homes are the business. I had one, and am better off for it. However, there are so many people who grew up in dysfunctional two parent homes. And instead of self righteously chastising folks for not being perfect and capable of making irreproachable decisions, let's look deeper into what it means to be an "exception", in the hopes of creating strategies for life changes, self love, and survival.

As true as any statistic is the fact that there are kids that grow up in one parent homes and thrive. Instead of dismissing these cases, let's ask why. What, specifically, did their upbringing have in common with people who were raised in functional two parent homes? Was it a focus on education? The instilling of a particular kind of confidence? Expectations? Why not do the work of figuring out how the single-parented unicorn babies became that way? Statistics are aggregates of singular stories. I say we go back, loot the root and start looking at those singular stories. Both of my parents grew up without fathers. Yet they grew up to create a loving two parent home. How? Why? Luck? Did they just drop out of the sky?This is what's called looking at causes and solutions to social problems holistically, on macro and the micro levels in tandem.

What I like about No Wedding No Womb is the focus on personal responsibility. I believe structural domination exists, but also that it doesn't absolve you of personal responsibility. In order to make better choices though, education is key. But there's a conservative, self righteous tone to NWNW that ain't cool. Especially among folks who I'd bet my Burberry bag have never held a crack baby and watched him grow into a happy, smart kid. Some people value statistics; if you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll notice, I don't. I don't care about numbers. I care about people. I believe the exceptions have something to tell us. The second girl from the right of the above photo was born to a drug addict mom AND dad, adopted by a lesbian couple, and is headed to the United Nations School on a full ride. Hands up, #NWNW supporters who believe in calling kids bastards, and valuing stats over stories, how many of your kids are thriving so?