More on Riot Grrrl’s Legacy in 2010: A Guest post by Kisha!
Editor's Note: I haven't been posting much here because I've been working on various D.I.Y. projects (that maybe I will write about later), but we have our first guest post (!) from Kisha, who is part of a group called the Bloody Rag Collective in Chicago, which describes itself as:
a female-run punk collective providing booking services for punk bands with women and trans folk for DIY, mostly all ages shows in Chicago.
Photo by Amanda Barbato
To my knowledge, they've put on some really cool shows, such as a generator-run outdoors show and a recent riot grrrl cover band show. Having also recently gone to a riot grrrl cover band show and feeling moved (and sometimes confused) in all sorts of ways, I asked Kisha to write about her experiences as someone who helped organize, play in, and attend the show. I was delighted that she took the time out of her busy life of kicking ass to not only write about her experiences at the show but also to provide some background context:
My first foray into the riot grrl world was, for the most part, accidental. I was 15 years old living in East Flatbush in Brooklyn with my mom and sisters. I’d been into punk and ska for the most part (thanks to my super hip aunt). Every once in a while, I’d sneak out to a couple midday shows because I wasn’t allowed on the trains too late at night with all the “crazy white people.” Every once in a while, I’d catch a late show at a warehouse out by DUMBO, or in Manhattan. One of these shows happened to be a riot grrrl show. The flyer on the door said “$2 for girls, $6 for boys, $4 for boys in dresses.” I was so fucking confused because I thought this was going to be a typical male-fueled punk show where my 5 foot ass would have to spend the entire show trying to catch a glimpse of the band from the back of the space. This show was different. I wish I remember who was playing, but the show definitely changed my life. The show was packed – girls were packed like sardines up front and all the boys were standing in the back. Once I entered, a couple girls took my hand and gave me a spot front and center. I was the only person of color in the space that I could see. The first band kinda reminded me of Heavens to Betsy – one girl with a guitar and another playing drums. I was mesmerized because her guitar playing was fumbled at best and her vocals were horrible and the drummer was playing the most simplest drum beat ever. But it WORKED. It was awesome and accessible. That's what I loved about it.
The riot grrrl movement has been a defining aspect of my life since I was 15 years old. Even when I was too young to get into shows, there was always some awesome female mentor that would sneak me in. I lived in Brooklyn and the scene was very much centered in the DC area, so I didn't get to see many of the "big" names as I would have liked to. But I stayed as connected as I possibly could through various zines, record labels, and hand written letters. The RG movement pretty much defined me not only as a punk, but as a feminist, and everything that comes along with that. It shaped how I felt about my fat body, by queerness, and my identity as a person of color. Though there weren't many women of color involved in the scene (and by the late nineties partially contributed to the "demise" of the movement due to the rampant white privilege), I still felt connected. The first riot grrrl record I'd ever listened to was Bikini Kill (duh) – it seriously blew my mind because Kathleen Hanna saying everything my 14-year old self wanted to scream. It was awesome and refreshing and validating! As much as I have beef with some of Hanna's politics, listening to a Bikini Kill record still gives me goosebumps and makes me want to scream and cry and kick stupid dudes in the balls.
I've always wanted to be in a riot grrrl band, but it never really panned out for various reasons. I was in a all-female punk band called Black Vadge, but all we did was cover Black Flag songs. So, obviously, we weren't too welcome at most riot grrrl shows. RG gave me the confidence to pick up whatever instrument I wanted to and play fucking music. And if I couldn't do that, pick up a mic and yell some shit. I'd taught myself to play bass by mimicking punk records like Minor Threat. I've been in several bands since then, but none filled that RG void I so desperately wanted/needed.
In January of 2010, a group of female friends/local punks decided to start a collective that focused on sort of a riot grrrl second coming. The Bloody Rag Collective focuses on booking bands that feature women or trans folk because we were tired of the sausage fest that Chicago scene had become. We would be responsible for every aspect of the show, from door coverage to sound, to doling out the money at the end of the night. WE would help you tune your guitar or fix your amp. WE would take care of the PA. We did a lot of skill sharing at our meetings so that we were all capable of taking care of all of this. WE would set up the drums. And at our first meeting I blurted out "I NEED TO HAVE A RIOT GRRRL COVER BAND SHOW!"; we set a date for May 22 and put the word out. We wanted at least 10 bands to pick at most 5 songs each from any riot grrrl band (with a few exceptions). I compiled my massive list of RG records and handed them out to bands. But I also wanted to use this opportunity to encourage women who have never been in a band to do so, as well as women who wanted to attempt a different instrument. I offered up my basement as a practice space to all the bands, as well as all of my instruments and equipment. So there was no excuse – all you had to do was show up!
I was shocked to see our inbox fill up with requests to be a part of this show. I'd say that AT LEAST 20 bands got in touch with us, and a few individuals who wanted to be in a band. By our April 20th deadline, we had an awesome line up of established bands, as well as newly formed bands. Many people took advantage of my practice space and it was awesome to hear live versions of your favorite songs almost every day for 2 months. It never got old! I also confess that sometimes I got so stoked that I'd jump on the mic. Hey...I'm passionate about this shit! I make no apologies!
In addition to setting up this show, the collective also wanted it to have more purpose. So we all agreed that it would be a fundraiser for the awesome Chicago Women's Health Center, which is a collective of health professionals that provide services to queers, women, and low income families. We contacted the director, Ali McDonald, to let her know what we were up to, and to recruit members from the center to participate in the show as well.
I also took this as an opportunity not only to hear my favorite songs, but to learn another instrument (or 2) and PLAY my favorite songs. I'd taught myself bass guitar several years ago, but I always wanted to try guitar and drums. I confess that what convinced me I could handle drums was playing a lot of Rock Band. Eric, Sarah Jean, and I decided to do a bratmobile cover band called Ratmobile. I listened to The Real Janelle 800 times and learned the guitar and drum parts. Then Keara and Jess decided we needed a reason to use our awesome band name Buzzcunts. In the span of a week, we taught ourselves 2 Huggy Bear songs. Huggy Bear is a lot more complicated than I thought – we actually contacted Jon the guitar player to help us figure out what the fuck he was saying, And he actually responded in like, 5 minutes!
The show featured 13 bands and it was AWESOME. There was so much energy and excitement – it was definitely reminiscent of the old scene and the 2010 revival. In all honesty, I think I was one of the oldest people there. Hell, some of these girls weren't even alive when these records came out. But we were all there singing our hearts out, removing our shirts (because it was fucking hot in that space), and dancing until we hurt. It was seriously one of the most amazing events that I had the pleasure of participating in. The crowd was probably 90% women of all creeds. I think the youngest woman may have been 13 years old. Some probably had never heard of the riot grrrl movement, but new that this was a DIY feminist music event that could not be missed. I think the best part was the unspoken acknowledgment that this was a female/trans space and that men needed to understand their place. Women were up front all night long. Any time a dude tried to creep to the front, they were promptly shoved to the back.
In the end, it was an absolute amazing experience and I can't wait to do it again. I plan on learning enough guitar to play in a Slant 6 cover band! And we were able to raise over $900 for the Chicago Women's Health Center!
Photo by Amanda Barbato
Thanks, Kisha!
For more photos and videos of the show, see Kisha's sets here and here.
For more information about the Bloody Rag Collective, email them here or visit their Myspace and Facebook pages.
The issue of silence and abortion
I wanted to re-post and comment on this article, What the Silence Surrounding Black Abortion Rates Says About Race Relations in America, for a few reasons.
First, now I want to see the film Silent Choices.
"Silent Choices" is about abortion and its impact on the lives of African American women. The film is a "hybrid" documentary: part historical piece, part social and religious analysis and part first-person narrative. From African Americans' cautious involvement with Margaret Sanger during the early birth control movement to black nationalists and civil rights activists who staunchly opposed abortion (or stayed silent on the issue), "Silent Choices" examines the juxtaposition of racial and reproductive politics. Three black women also share their stories of the abortions they had, including a woman's wrenching tale of the illegal procedure she endured. African Americans who oppose abortion were also interviewed, and the film wraps up with a montage of responses to a comment made by one of the pro-lifers, that abortion is a white woman's issue.
The article speaks to that last line--that abortion is a "white woman's issue"--by examining the long history of racist ideas about black women's bodies and sexuality as well as (what others have argued) a focus on reproductive rights rather than reproductive justice. Byllye Avery [one of my favorite reproductive justice activists ever whom I will namedrop here because I got to hang out with her when I volunteered at the last APHA conference and she gave me some eco-friendly dog poop bags, haha] explains the disconnect between the two movements as well as the tension between white feminists and women of color:
“One of the many fights we had with them … is when we said, ‘Expand your agenda to include all reproductive rights issues. Don’t just talk about abortion. What about infant mortality rates, or access to birth control, or sterilization abuse?’ When people hear these things linked together, they have a harder time isolating you as just being pro-choice,” Avery says. “But that’s not something they wanted to do.”
...
“It was very important to me for people to understand that abortion doesn’t exist in isolation, that it’s included in the whole reproductive spectrum,”
That brings me to the second thing I wanted to write about/discuss: Who frames the issue of abortion and why?
The Guttmacher Institute reports that Black women obtain abortions at rates three to five times higher than white women, yet so many Black women remain silent about abortion (personally and as a political issue), while white women mobilize around/are often the "face" of abortion rights.
This is interesting to me on a personal level. As a white woman with class issues [I grew up pretty poor but then my parents did better in the 90s but they are still struggling, albeit living relatively comfortably now; and my parents didn't go to college or speak about college when I was growing up, which makes me different from most of my friends and coworkers] who has been active in reproductive rights activism and has worked in reproductive health, I have often felt like there is a difference between who was doing the talking and who was being spoken for.
For example, I was very active about abortion advocacy while I was in college, but when I had an unwanted pregnancy my senior year of college and chose, myself, to have an abortion, I felt very alone. It felt weird stepping into Planned Parenthood, being on the other side as a "client." I'm sure this weirdness was caused by some of my own stereotypes/misconceptions at the time, but also because I had never actually met any fellow abortion activists who told me about their personal stories about abortion. As is pretty common, the stigma I felt made me question if there was something I did wrong (that I didn't "belong" in college anyway and that there was something that made me different from my fellow white women abortion advocates, probably my class background) because I was actually utilizing the service and not just advocating for it. In retrospect, this disconnect is extremely ironic. Why did I feel silenced when my body was on the line instead of just my words?
Additionally, when I worked in reproductive health while I was in graduate school (as an intern), I was living on next to nothing and was able to, fortunately, take advantage of Planned Parenthood's liberal sliding scale in NYC. I was able to take advantage of free gynecological appointments (a Pap test, HIV test, etc.) and even a free IUD. What was weird, again, by this experience is that my fellow coworkers (including fellow interns who were at Columbia and doing better than I was, financially) were often advocating for such services (increased access to reproductive health care, including free or subsidized services); however, none of them had actually taken advantage of these services, like, ever. I often felt like I had to educate my fellow coworkers about what it's like to be on the other side, as a client. To them, the idea that a place like Planned Parenthood was out there giving free services seemed to be enough or a good enough step. However, to me, I felt like I could understand the barriers to receiving services: loooooooong waiting times that required taking a full day off from work, sometimes jerky doctors who were very dismissive of my concerns (but sometimes awesome ones), receiving messages that I need to sacrifice everything possible (terrible physical and emotional symptoms) to not get pregnant rather than receiving positive messages about sexuality, etc.
With these experiences, I felt my insider/outsider status. I think it's important to listen to our gut reactions in these experiences (as insider/outsiders) but also to carefully listen to and respect the experiences of others who express such conundrums. I recommend reading the article and I'd like to check out the documentary as well. I think this provides another opportunity to examine and discuss how we conceptualize and actualize feminisms. And while I think the issue of long-lasting racist attitudes about Black women's bodies vis-à-vis abortion and reproductive health care is the one we should learn from/draw from the most here, I also think it's important to extend this conversation to how the abortion rights movement often fails to silence other groups. In my own experience, there's been strong class-based tensions, but I know the issues of reproductive rights also marginalizes other groups, particularly queer and trans folks. I think it's important to see how these are all interconnected.
“How we narrate the interventions of women of color is crucial to how we remember feminisms and imagine our futures.”
Mimi Nguyen reposts a Punk Planet column from A FULL DECADE AGO in an attempt to raise some thoughts about race and riot grrrl that should inform the way we historicize riot grrrl and think about our nostalgia and movement (re)building. Somewhat related is this post on racialicious about erasing people of color in communities (in the essay, that community is a small midwest suburban town) that are often thought to be very white.
Feminism for Social Change vs. White Feminism
I wanted to re-post this link to Jessica Hoffman's essay On Prisons, Borders, Safety, and Privilege: An Open Letter to White Feminists, which was originally published in make/shift and then re-posted (above) on Alternet.
I wanted to re-post this because I think it's relevant to our recent posts about the riot grrrl revival "debates", discussions here about sexual assault, as well as, uh, interesting debates about white feminism vs. womanism in the blogosphere.
Hoffman makes some important points (which she has, of course, built upon/borrowed/learned from women of color, including the ever amazing INCITE! Women of Color Against Violence). I thought Hoffman's point below was especially interesting and relevant when it comes to punk rock feminism:
One night in the summer of 1996, when I was eighteen, my (white, female, ex-gutter-punk) roommate and I rushed together to call the police when we were startled by a Peeping Tom outside her bedroom window. It was like a reflex, just what you do. We didn't pause to consider other possible responses -- and, after two LAPD officers promised to put our apartment on their regular patrol for the next few weeks, we gave no thought to what that added police presence might mean to our mostly Black neighbors.
I especially related to this because, as a punk rock feminist, I had a similar encounter last year. With the exception of catcalls and such, I've been fortunate to feel extremely safe in my neighborhood for the 5+ years I've been living there. Oftentimes I'll even walk in the "scary" areas (i.e. isolated areas that are largely industrial, which means there is no one around or just men who are working and usually looking to holler at women who walk by) because I usually have a 60-pound Pit Bull/German Shepard mix with me as very effective protection. In fact, oftentimes men walk by me and say "you have good protection," which opens up my own questioning about what they mean by that, but I digress.
Anyway, last winter I had a 2-week period in which a man in my neighborhood was following me and sexually harassing me (even with my trusty dog by my side). His actions included following me while masturbating, trying to get me to look at his penis, shouting weird shit at me when he saw me, and generally trying to make me feel unsafe/disgusted/scared.
Despite the ongoing fear that he caused me for two weeks (which is still there), our "encounters" were rather brief. My response was to run away, find a public space (like the bodega below my house), tell him to "go away," etc. I toyed with the idea of calling the police and filing an official report because I was afraid for other women's safety in my neighborhood. However, because my sightings were brief, because I live in a busy enough neighborhood where he could disappear while I phoned the police, and because I fucking hate cops, I didn't call the police when it happened [although at one point I called the local precinct to see what my options were and thought of filing a report in case it may help another woman's case if she ran into the same guy].
In my mind, all I could think was, "If I cannot, like, booby trap this guy so that the cops can deal with him, I will have to call the police and give them a description of this man, giving them permission to hunt for him." The man was brown-skinned, probably of South Asian descent. Since I live in a neighborhood that has many brown peoples, especially ones that are likely to be discriminated against, including undocumented immigrants and Muslims (Mexicans, various Central and South American populations, various Arab-speaking populations, etc.) I simply could not bring myself to call the cops and tell them, "Hey! Go find this brown guy that's been threatening my safety." My description of him was not strong enough that I could risk asking the police to drive around and look for some random dark-skinned guys to pick up, violating their safety.
I'm not trying to post this to pat myself on the back or anything ("Hey! I'm a white person who thought about race at least once"), but I thought this situation was related to Hoffman's essay. As as a punk, I'm interested in alternative, community-driven forms of social justice that do not involve the criminal justice system. As Hoffman says,
But as white feminists, if we are working toward profound social change, we can choose not to engage in political work that is about assimilation to and achieving "safety" or "empowerment" or "freedom" of movement within existing power structures -- especially when those structures (e.g., militaristically enforced national borders, the prison industrial complex) are designed to make others unsafe, and unfree.
...
If feminism is about social change, white feminism -- a feminism of assimilation, of gentle reform and/or strengthening of institutions that are instrumental to economic exploitation and white supremacy, of ignorance and/or appropriation of the work of feminists of color -- is an oxymoron. And it is not a thing of some bygone era before everyone read bell hooks in college. It is happening now; you might be part of it.
Although I still fear this guy and wonder if there's anything I could do/have done. As punks/weirdos/society-fuckers who benefit from certain privileges (racial, class, gendered, sexual, etc.), how do we promote safety without sacrificing the safety/autonomy of (more) marginalized groups?
I also think it's important to note that I struggle against reinforcing/strengthening institutional power as someone who works in public health. For example, I recently attended a series of training workshops on "Father Involvement" at Columbia University School of Social Work. I am a program manager for a program that works with African American boys and their families, so I went to the training seeking advice on how to better work with fathers.
However, quickly I realized that a larger goal of the fatherhood discussion (but not all) was to educate social workers about how to get men into the child support payment system, including men who were recently released from incarceration. To me, this was an injustice--defining "involvement" mostly as in getting low-income men (and the focus was mostly on African American men) to contribute financially to their children (which also benefits dispicable TANF policies that serve to further hurt poor women and their families, promote unhealthy attitudes about marriage and sexuality, etc.) rather then promoting healthy family involvement (which, non-coincidentally was the concept for my thesis/recent manuscript submission).
While this training series filled me with anger/conflict/confusion, I did not know how to bring up my own feelings in a respectful/appropriate/productive way because I was one of very few white women in an audience that was mostly men and women of color and the experts were all men of color [I'd still love to hear anyone's tips if they have them because maybe I can still write/call the organizers of the series]. This conflict speaks to my own complicated role in the non-profit industrial complex, which INCITE! has written about (a book I highly recommend to others who work in non-profit as an attempt to make positive societal changes and/or care for others).
(Image by Cristy Road)
I also grapple with my role in furthering institutional power when I've had internal struggles related to working in sexual/reproductive health and, recently, having an interview for an obesity prevention program. I have a lot more to say about this, but I wanted to open up this conversation as it relates to punk and/or choosing to work in non-capitalist endeavors.
The Riot Grrrl Revival Debates: Keepin’ it Posi
There's been a lot of talk in the "blogosphere" revolving around this new energy calling for and creating a "riot grrrl revival". However, much of the talk seems very negative and critical, which bums out both me and Jess. I was hesitant at first to make my comments because, 1) I don't want to play up divisions between women who are ultimately trying to organize around the same issues, and 2) my thoughts about this are still kind of jumbled and messy right now. But I think it's important to come out with a positive argument for the RG revival, and I hope I can make some new valuable points in this "debate".
Gathering my thoughts on “The Line”
This is where I semi-obligatorily* but still 100% actively gather my thoughts about an event I went to last night: a screening of Nancy Schwartzman's film The Line followed by an audience discussion and a very awesome and engaging panel, including:
- Director Nancy Schwartzman
- Michelle J. Anderson, Dean and Professor of Law at CUNY School of Law
- Neil Irvin, Men Can Stop Rape (MCSR)
- Don McPherson, former football player; current sports announcer and activist
- Meghan O'Connor, NYC Alliance Against Sexual Assault
Schwartzman is very much interested in using her own experience of sexual assault to raise awareness, promote dialogue about sexual consent (both desire and personal boundaries), and educate others (especially youth) about expressing their desires and respecting one another's. In doing so, she's also started the "Where is your line?" campaign:
I want to reflect on two things: (1) the film and (2) the larger discussion, which informed my own takeaways.
The Film
A one night stand far from home goes terribly wrong. As the filmmaker unravels her experience, she decides to confront her attacker.
Told through a “sex-positive” lens, THE LINE is a 24 minute documentary about a young woman – the filmmaker- who is raped, but her story isn’t cut and dry. Not a “perfect victim,” the filmmaker confronts her attacker, recording the conversation with a hidden camera. Sex workers, survivors and activists discuss justice, accountability and today’s “rape culture.” The film asks the question: where is the line defining consent? THE LINE was completed in July 2009.
What I think is really great about The Line is that Schwartzman is "not the perfect victim." The film also follows Schwartzman's friend (a more "perfect victim") who experienced stranger rape and was able to find legal justice. Schwartzman, at once, is sharing an experience that is very common but is also incredibly brave for sharing this common experience because she sets herself up to be attacked by victim-blaming.
For me, one of the most interesting parts of the film was the montage of reactions from friends and personal questions of doubt. You hear most of her friends telling her that it wasn't rape and even one female friend basically saying "that's happened to me a bunch of times but I never thought it was rape." And you also hear Schwartman's own self-questioning, which I found very relateable as someone who's also been the victim of date rape.
My second favorite thing about the film is that she interviewed sex workers at the Bunny Ranch to have a discussion about defining consent. That scene is ripe for analysis! For the sake of brevity, maybe that's another entry, but that was fantastic.
My Takeaways
First, I appreciate that the theme of the screening was "Story Leads to Action!" The guest speakers (experts in the field) were absolutely amazing. I attended with my friends Kristen and Gillian so I was fortunate enough to have a "debriefing" with them after the event. We agreed that Michelle J. Anderson was amazing! Dr. Anderson specializes in rape law and feminist legal theory. She brought an important voice to the table in which she clearly defined that there is a spectrum of rape and that the legal system currently ignores the vast majority of sexual assaults in its definition of consent, which is based on very defined gender roles with men being sexual initiators and women agreeing to sexual consent. Furthermore, the current model draws its own line in which once a woman agrees to one sexual act, she agrees to the entire variety of sexual acts. I wish I could keep Dr. Anderson in my pocket or on speed dial when I have to deal with talking to people about sexual assault.
I also found that Neil Irvin and Don McPherson brought amazing perspective. I was very impressed by both of their work as well as their absolute respect for women's voices. Their models are to teach men and young boys about a positive masculinity that resists patriarchy and respects women. I also very much respected the way in which they allowed themselves to learn from women (and never speak for women). While their work is necessary and important to ending rape/dismantling rape culture (putting this responsibility in the hands of men as the major perpetrators of sexual violence), they made it very clear that they didn't necessarily want to get pats on the back for promoting a respect for humanity among males; citing the path that women activists paved for them. And Don McPherson often weaved in important relevant issues, including the role of consumer culture. If this was Sassy Magazine I would write a "crush alert" profile on his mind.
With that said, I noted a strong absence of men at the screening and it immediately struck me that the two men on the panel were men of color in that I was like "Where the white men at?" I was not alone in this questioning. The two men noted that they have found themselves on several panels where their fellow male activists are all men of color. This is offensive for two reasons: first, it sends the message that sexual assault only happens in communities of color and that men of color are, therefore, responsible for teaching their own communities while white men are not (as though there is not a clear history of white men raping women from all backgrounds!!!!). Second, as a white woman who is currently in a relationship with a dude of color but has dated my fair share of white men [not to mention that I have been assaulted by an Asian man, which really throws racial-gender stereotypes on their heads], it really pisses me off how many white men still refuse to engage in these dialogues.
That points me to a recent experience that has been on my mind: Recently, a sexual assault within a sector of the punk community I am part of/related to was exposed after years of public (but certainly not private) silence. What ended the silence is that women were tired of letting it slide while many guys we knew chose to support a band with a serial rapist because they had the convenience and privilege of being able to ignore it. They could pretend that it was "gray rape" or that it was "complicated" because they wanted to support their friends and a band they liked and they could maintain this cognitive dissonance because they didn't have the same fears, as women did, about this guy possibly going on tour and assaulting other women. They weren't socialized to see themselves as potential rape victims, so they could willfully detach themselves from the situation while most women simply could not.
Attn: Men: Caring is not for "pussies"
I don't want to get into all the details here about this particular case (but I may write more about it later) but this recent experience within my own community made me notice the clear absence of white men at this event and in this particular activist community. I wonder: Is it some men of color's experience as marginalized men (and, for Black men, experiencing violence is disturbingly common) that allows them the vantagepoint and/or WILL to understand or TRY to understand violence against women, while white men largely remain silent about their role as men in perpetuating a culture of violence? I really think this is why it's so important to teach boys and men that caring doesn't make them "pussies"! You don't have to be a victim to care about victimhood and violence prevention.
I left the screening with too many thoughts and ideas about "next steps" to really cover here, but I wanted to share my primary reactions. I encourage you to also see The Line, and I hope we can open more and more opportunities to discuss the ways in which we can end rape and dismantle rape culture by promoting positive visions of sexuality, masculinity, and femininity and creating discussions in which we can better understand consent, respect, and accountability.
*I would also like to add that at the screening the filmmaker was very clear about actively engaging people to take steps to make this film "viral"--signing a "takeaway" sheet in which each viewer checks off what they will do to spread the word about the film. I, of course, am doing exactly what I said I would because I don't fuck around. Anyway, I think that is a really great idea--to not just prescribe actions but to also have participants in an event commit to an action. I'd be interested in using this tactic in other arenas. And I'd also recommend to the filmmaker that she extends these takeaways beyond her own film. Rather than just checking off boxes that say "I will become a fan of "The Line" on Facebook" or "I will tell 10 people about The Line," I think it would be beneficial to also check a box, such as "I will talk to my partner about what I learned from The Line" or "I will talk to my son/daughter about treating women's minds and bodies with respect", etc.
Passing the Torch
Teen Fashion Blogger Wants Another Sassy Magazine
(via Jezebel)
Despite what you may think of teenaged fashion bloggers, I'm so psyched that 13-year-olds are finding out about DIY punk women's music and aesthetics from the early 90's! I can't wait to see what they do with their inspiration and how they incorporate it into their own work/art/lives. I think the comment at the end of the article is poignant: Tavi, YOU can start your own Sassy Magazine! Don't wait for someone to do it for you! Isn't that the lesson we are trying to impart on the young ladies and dudes we are passing the torch to?
P.S. Who would be in a new Sassy "Cute Band Alert" article these days? Please don't say the Jonas Brothers.
Know your roots
Man, this suffragist postcard from 1914 is like a riot grrrl zine/flyer premonition:
(Taken from Sociological Images)
I love it! It reminds me so much of:
On learning to play music/starting a band as a grown-up
Part of why I wanted to start a blog was to have a place to think about and share various experiences related to being a grown-up punk rock feminist. One subject I'd like to start talking more about here is learning to play music/starting a band as a grown-up. My inspiration for writing this particular post is that I just received a copy of a buddy's new zine...
Jen Twigg's zine, jen(ny) ambular #1, is entitled "my first band."* When I saw Jen post a link to a review of her zine on Facebook I was SO EXCITED because I'm really interested in and inspired by people (especially ladies) learning to play music or starting bands after the "acceptable" phase to do so (i.e. adolescence). I haven't had many opportunities to hear about women in their 20s, 30s, or older starting their first punk bands, so Jen is awesome for putting her thoughts down into words and making it seem more do-able. Jen writes about her own involvement in music: being in the school band; trying to play music as a teen but having her instruments "collect dust"; being part of local music scenes but never really feeling like she could contribute, musically; feeling marginalized as a woman, which led to her own hiatus; and eventually starting a band with some friends!
I very much relate to the experiences she describes. I was also a band kid, playing the clarinet, but not for long. When I was in the 7th and 8th grade, I took some guitar lessons, but I always felt afraid of not being good enough and, generally, feeling too lazy or concerned with other (dumb teenage) things to take it seriously. Like Jen, I let my instrument collect dust but continued to support my friends' (mostly guys) bands for years. In college, I discovered more women-centered local bands and started putting on shows to support other women's music, but I still didn't feel like I could contribute, artistically.
Flash forward many years later...
Last year I was at a show at a punk house where my boyfriend's friend, Kat, was playing her first show in a band (Hey Baby). Before their set, they were all really nervous, but they pulled it off and the crowd was really supportive. They continued to play a few shows that I caught, and I saw them become better musicians and become more confident in their playing. I think it was this experience of seeing other people in their 20s starting their first bands that really cemented the idea that it could be possible for me, too. I know a lot of people have the experience of going to punk shows and thinking "I can do that," and I had, too, but always felt like the expiration date had passed.
Then my friend Christina started learning to play drums last year and Jaime and I started talking about how we should start a band. In very cliche form, reading "Spray Paint the Walls: The Story of Black Flag"** was part of what provoked Jaime and my conversation about starting a band. I think the beauty of that book is that it's quite detailed in a very real way. Instead of just idolizing the band and talking about their successes in an abstract sense, it really traces the formation of the band--all the practicing and the process and the bandmates' own naïveté. Reading about how much Kira Roessler had to practice to compete with her musical brother and later play in Black Flag kind of lifted the whole smoke and mirrors about being in a band. It became yet another lesson that it's not too late for me to learn to play music. It will just take (a lot of!) practice, dedication, and a humble attitude.
In February, I bought my first electronic guitar since the one I had in middle school (and ended up giving to my high school boyfriend), and I've been learning to play for the last few months. This time around is a little harder in that I have less free time, BUT it's also way better because I can find guitar tabs on the Internet, because Jaime and I can support one another as she learns the bass, because I have a supportive guitar-playing boyfriend who is willing to teach me a thing or two and listen and watch me play to provide honest feedback and tips, and because being grown-up means I have enough life lessons to know that things take work and that I no longer just care about being cool and/or being good at everything.
That last part is an interesting lesson. When I was in graduate school for public health, I read an essay on cultural competency, which discussed how teaching doctors how to speak Spanish and other languages is often a challenge because doctors are used to being authoritative and having the "right", scientific answers. This style of gaining knowledge is quite antithethical to learning a language, which requires the learner to be playful and not be afraid of making mistakes. As a very scientific-minded person, I have taken this lesson with me since, and I think it speaks to learning to play the guitar and not being afraid to fuck up or subject my roommates to hearing me play the same Nirvana, Hole, and Bikini Kill songs over and over again.
Since reading/hearing/seeing other women's experiences with learning to play music has been so important to me, I wanted to share my own re-introduction to playing music. I'm still at the "practicing in my room" part, but I hope to be writing here about starting my own first band!
*You can get jenny ambular #1 by Paypal-ing $2 to jtwigg at gmail dot com
**On a lighter note, my Good Reads review of this book:
An in-depth story through each of the Black Flag line-ups. Rollins does not become a member of the band until about page 220, which means there are a lot of new (to me) stories and information.
My favorite part about the product description for this book on Amazon is that it says, "They were the pioneers of American hardcore, forming in California in 1878." Like, literal American pioneers, dude. Little known fact: the original creepy crawls were in covered wagons.
Chicago RG Cover Band show in May!!
This looks awesome! Thanks to Kisha for spreading the word.
We are a female-run punk collective providing booking services for punk bands with women for DIY, mostly all ages shows in Chicago.
We will provide food, lodging, and a well-publicized show for bands.