Woman for President---Why Not?

Of course this is a stupid question. As a woman, raising a boy, I still find it amazing, if not bordering on shocking, how more than half the world is governed by men. Really, have you seen them as a five year old? It's unbelievable that the spastic boy, skipping, karate-chopping his way down the sidewalk could, one day, be the President of the United States. When this spinning dervish is cutting a swath down any sidewalk in our neighborhood, I pretend he belongs to someone else, and not me. Believe me, it's much easier and less embarrassing this way.

So, why not a woman for President? Haven't we waited long enough for this moment? Geraldine Ferraro was more a symbol than a real possibility. And in truth, our country wasn't ready at that time to wrap their heads, male and female, around the possibility of the White House having to contend with PMS and other known stereotypes of "womanhood." Yes, the Brits had had Thatcher for years, but again our country is so much more entrenched in patriarchal models than other nations.

I guess my real question is not why not, but rather why her? She being Hillary Rodham, then known as Hillary Rodham Clinton, and now just known simply as Hillary Clinton. I am an ardent foaming-at-the-mouth feminist. Add French Deconstructionist, Marxist, and you may have an idea of my militancy. In high school, I was chosen by my school to attend a symposium held at the UN where high school delegates from all over the country would listen to speakers on the topic of the symposium, which in my year was: Feminism in the World. It was in the great UN General Council hall, at the same podium where world leaders have spoken, berated, or begged their international brothers and sisters, that Betty Friedan and other noteworthy Feminists espoused their derision for the male species. I was asked to give a speech at this conference in the UN General Assembly, addressing my view that Feminism was a Western middle-class construct, and therefore not to be exported in its singularity all over the globe. Yes, I really did give such a speech in high school.

I've thought a great deal about Hillary Clinton, and why it is I'm exhausted by the thought of her running this country. Yes, if she weren't up against the superstar of a Barak Obama, maybe I would be less ambiguous about her as a candidate and as a President. But then I recall our first introduction to Hillary Rodham, claiming rather defensively she didn't "stay home and bake chocolate chip cookies," since she was out busy fighting for woman's rights, and fighting in general to make sure her husband would become the most powerful man in the country. The backlash from this statement, the message of which was not lost on a great many women, was that Hillary Rodham quickly became Hillary Rodham Clinton. Then there was the Hillary Rodham Clinton, who defended her philandering husband by stating, again rather defensively, she was "not some little woman standing by her man". And now we have Hillary Clinton telling us, urging us, to believe in her ability to lead this nation, all the while sending out her husband as an attack dog. Hmmm...Does give one pause, right?

True, she was the first, First Lady to have an office where more was being done than simply scheduling state dinners. Remember the mess she made of the health care issue? But those eight years, the crowning moment being the impeachment trials, and then the charges they had plundered the White House on their way out, and the country's fatigue with all things Clinton (the result of which has been the last eight years, along with our current First Lady, who by all measure, is supposedly smart, if not mute) has brought us to a point where the country is begging for something more, something different.

I wish I could love the first woman, who has a real shot at being President. What a significant moment this is for us, but again I'm plagued by my ambivalence about, and toward, Hillary. The transparency of her ambition, which should be viewed as a positive attribute, has the exact opposite effect. Instead of applauding her chutzpah and drive, I am made uneasy by it. Why? Are the subconscious messages of the archetypes of the powerful woman as a sinister figure, just remember Medusa and Lady MacBeth, so ingrained that I'm made to question this smart, driven, woman, who just happens to want to be President? Does my uneasiness make me less of a Feminist? Or is there something more behind my uneasiness?

Or is it that she is a feminist of her particular generation, thereby making it harder for me to understand the stridency and urgency behind all that she had accomplished? Do I suffer from the luxury, made possible by Hillary and her cohorts, of having less to prove, thereby left with the need to have a more nuanced approach to the battles between the two sexes? Whatever the causes behind my ambivalence, I am left grappling with the complex emotions, rather strong, that she brings out in me. Believe me when I say I so wish I didn't feel this way. No matter what happens, she's already done more to break that final glass ceiling in our country. She's made it possible for us to consider, rather seriously, a woman as Commander-in-Chief of this nation. I do believe what we need the next time out is a superstar of Barak Obama's caliber, a woman who can transcend gender. Unfortunately for Hillary, she ain't it. That, I do believe, will happen with someone who will be more my contemporary.

Missing Friends

My day was interrupted yesterday by a call. It was one of those calls that are so welcome, a call from a dear friend in LA. It seemed she was headed to New York, surprise, surprise, and hadn't called earlier until she had ticket in hand, her arse nearly in the seat. She is the kind of friend where distance is of little consequence. It is a relationship that seems, to the rest of the world, inexplicable, yet it is a relationship of the best kind--the one of the heart. It is the kind of friendship where you feel safe enough to show your bruises, those wounds that are shielded, held tight against the rest of the world. She is also the kind of friend that makes you laugh at yourself, herself, the world, and sometimes just laugh for no real reason. Even though we don't speak much, our daily contact broken, our relationship is still intact, the affection and fondness never dimming despite the distance. She is also the kind of friend always on the ready to share a bottle of wine or two, or in our case, three or four.

It was after a call from our other friend, we were a trio, that I felt a momentary, heart-stopping sense of loss. I'm happy here, yes, and the work of constructing my life and my work is all consuming. And perhaps that is why it's been easy to keep my head down, bury myself in words, my son, my husband, and push aside the sadness of so many I miss, especially my girlfriends.

She called from the car as it lumbered its way through Queens, headed toward the city. With little prompting, I got up and raced to meet her at her hotel. As we sat in a French Bistro, another bottle ordered, the miles, physical and metaphorical, disappeared. We were again exchanging confidences, our hearts reconnecting in a way that only women can do with one another. See, men may be for some of us the framing of a house, but your girlfriends, well, they are the trimming that makes a house a home. Without them, it would be just plaster, structure, and an empty shell, no matter how strongly constructed.

This morning my head was a little fuzzy, my heart just a bit heavier, missing my girlfriends.

Election Day, Parade Day, All in One City

This is a bonanza for news junkies all over the country: Super Duper Tuesday. It is the day that will not decide who will win the Democratic nominee since it's apparent no real front winner will be announced at evening's end. For New Yorkers, it's also the day the Super Bowl Champs will arrive to be driven down Broadway for their celebratory parade. The news broadcasts' forecast for the traffic woes is disheartening. The subways, headed downtown, will be jam packed with people in Giants gear, hoping to catch a glimpse of their new heroes. With so much going on, it's hard for New Yorkers to prioritize--go to work, vote, or go to the parade. This idea of skipping work is problematic since all indications point toward a major recession, a deflation where many will be humbled by their shrinking investments.

This week's New York magazine was sobering, indeed. They listed cheap places for hair cuts and eateries where $16.00 can buy you enough food for more than one meal. With private equity and hedge fund money now being compared to the 80's junk bond hey day (anyone remember Mike Milken?), well, it seems the party is now over. Of course, these new kings of private equity and hedge funds will have an opportunity to remake themselves into the mold of Milken, now listed as a philanthropist, new age guru, and general Los Angeles crazy person with too much money.

Another article in the depressing issue of New York magazine also dissected how money, the illusion of it, the lack of it, adds to an illusory deflation or inflation of one's real self worth. And how with more than a few people being brought down to a level, not of the masses, but down a notch or two, may do wonders for the psyche of the average man. Perhaps if the city, particularly those making as much money as the budget of small or mid-size nations, is not doing as well, the focus will shift from consumption as a past time to something less tangible. If people were worried about belts being tightened, even if those belts are Hermes, they might spend their energies in other ways that doesn't involve profligacy being the center piece of their project. This city may finally become a city of dreams, but also heart. It's an interesting idea, don't you think?

It's interesting for me to be here just as another era, the one defined by private equity, hedge funds, and private jets, is coming to a close. I've just left a city that is all about glitter and illusion. It is a city where people, living in studio apartments, lease cars that are equal in cost to the mortgage of a house in St. Louis. It is a city where you can peel away the many layers of gilded paint, revealing just plaster underneath. It is a city where flash trumps substance, where money, or the illusion of it, is the ultimate game. And where this parlor game gets played on all socio-economic levels from the gated homes in Holmby Hills to the barrios far east. Everyone gets caught up in, regardless of the size of your pay check.

I know money is the blood line for New York, yet...I haven't felt the anxieties most describe about being surrounded by such uber-wealth. I find enough people here are realistic about their lives. Perhaps that is the difference between LA and New York, two similar animals, yet also diametrically opposite. LA is all about illusion instead of the concrete and metal that dominates New York. The ever-present sun in LA shimmers much like fairy dust, casting a light that is quite breathtaking, no matter how illusory. It's the sun that can turn the ugliness of Sunset at Vermont into something approaching grandeur. Again, illusion, nothing tangible. It's only when the sun is gone, replaced by gray and rain, that the true grit of the city reveals itself, much to the distress of its citizenry.

For the average New Yorker, reality, the grim and the transcendent, presents itself on every street corner. It's hard to get caught up in games that aren't germane to your current life, no matter how tantalizing it might be. So, the 'old' money of private equity and hedge fund will be, no doubt, replaced by some other game of cards. It will give birth to another batch of super kings, who will, like all their predecessors, face their demise at some point. The city will get caught up in the major sport of consumption, the memories of reflection, introspection, and kindness all a dim memory. And in another decade, the New York magazine will, again, spell doom and gloom for this city that seems to survive, despite it all.

Super Bowl Champs

Our son, who'd never paid close attention to football, had been excited about this Super Bowl since his home team, the Giants, were playing for the big title. We didn't want to tell him what a long shot they had of winning. It seemed cruel, even for us, to deflate his enthusiasm by telling him the Giants were going up against one of the best teams in football's history. It was exciting for him, and for us, to have arrived here, a city that has a team, and to have that team go on to the biggest sporting event of the year. It felt much like Cinderella arriving at the big ball, disbelief marking each magical moment.

I baked our chicken as my boys got ready, the big one with his six pack, the little one with his plate of gourmet cheeses and crackers. The game, by all accounts since I didn't watch all of it, was exciting, nail-biting till the very end. Our son finally went to bed, his eyes drooping despite his best efforts to be a big boy and stay up. In truth, I fell asleep, until my husband woke me to tell me the Giants had won. His voice, which I recall, sounded incredulous, a man struck dumb by the lightning bolt out in an field.

The morning papers arrived, each one with a snapshot of the winning team, hoisting the trophy into the air, confetti falling around. This morning's drop off was all about each child having the bragging rights to claim having stayed up to watch the big game. It's funny, how even at such a young age, they understand the significance of such moments. It's unlikely any of them may end up as a player in the NFL, having their lives defined by such a cataclysmic event. Yet, it is the participation in these collective moments, the team's victory hoisting each of us up, even if just for a moment. And even at the age of five, each was now a participant, no matter how peripherally.

All of the parents rushed outside to be met with the falling of big, downy snowflakes. It's the kind of day when curling up with a book, slippers on one's feet, and a bowl of something hot in a mug, is the ideal antidote to such a gray, wet day. We haven't had any significant snow, yet. In fact, my son's in disbelief that it snows in the city at all since he's always asking to go to places where it snows. But as that Prince song goes, it can snow in April, so I'm certain by this winter's end, he will be a convert to the vicissitude of winter here in the city. And when he is much older, we will remind him how his first year as New Yorker was capped off by the fairy tale win of the Super Bowl by the Giants.

Election Debate---LA Style

Last night's debate, held at the Kodak Theater, home to the "American Idol" finale and the Academy Awards, was a revelation in the cultural mores of LA. The debate was hosted by CNN and the Los Angeles Times (a paper that is just a cut above one of those small town regional papers), moderated by Wolf Blitzer (could that really be his name?), and much anticipated by those politically obsessed. It was a big night, no doubt, and each of the candidates worked hard to convince us, and the world, that they were ready to take the helm as President. It was the most nuanced debate, thus far. There was substantiative discussion and dissection of their differences, or lack thereof, in policies.

But one had to remind oneself they were watching CNN and not the E! Channel since there were so many celebrity cut aways, those 'dignitaries' sitting in those coveted seats. Let's just say the camera panned to Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and Police Chief Bratton just once. The rest of the evening felt like we were watching one of those inane award shows, such a specialty of Los Angeles, where every opportunity is taken to show celebrities sitting, and trying to appear serious and intelligent.

So, who, you might ask, was in attendance? Well, here's a run down (it became sport as the broadcast wore on) of those noteworthy attendees: Steven Spielberg, his wife (what is this woman's name? Does it really matter?), Leonardo DiCaprio, Diane Keaton (in her trademark hat, looking as if she'd just stepped off the set of 'Annie Hall'), Rob Reiner(who is the stereotype of a liberal Hollywood person), Roger Ebert(does he live in LA?), Stevie Wonder(could be really mean and point out how pointless it was to give such a good seat to a blind man, but will refrain myself), Alfre Woodard (black actors had to represent), Isiah Washington (that homophobic actor), Pierce Brosnan(really, he's Scottish or something, right?), Topher Grace(hmmm...his name, what can one say about it?), West Wing Actor (don't know his name, but does it matter?), Louis Gossett Jr., Gary Shandling, Fisher Stevens (what, exactly, has he been in?), and Fran Dresher.

Now, it might be important to point out that Jane Harman, the 7-term, Democratic member of the House, was seated up in the balcony, and not given one of those front row seats. Hmmm. I did point out this night exemplified the cultural mores and problems with Los Angeles, right? Yes, actors do vote. But did they really need to be given those prime seats? Where were the bastions of the Democratic party? You know the ones I'm talking about, the Steel Workers, the housekeepers, the taxi drivers, and all those other worker-types.

Now, it might be the celebrities' feeling deprived from prime time coverage since each of the award shows seems to be a non-event. Or perhaps it is the historical event itself, and the star power of Barak Obama that had them clamoring (oh, come on, you can picture all of their agents calling in favors to secure those seats for their clients and themselves) for those coveted seats. It was a spectacle, truly. And CNN did a masterful job of making themselves look less like a credible news organization with each shot where the camera lingered on the face of one of these inconsequential persons.

As I scrambled to write down all of these celebrity names, keeping track, I felt such relief we were no longer Angelenos. This evening's broadcast crystallized all I found reprehensible about the city's inability to become serious about anything other than celebrities and Hollywood. The evening would have been perfect if Paris Hilton had been sitting behind the homophobic actor, trying to look sexy, kittenish, and scholarly, all at the same time. She would, much like Demi Moore, have had on glasses to make herself appear more intelligent. But someone in the Los Angeles Democratic Party machine, CNN, and the LA Times drew the line--no matter how narrow it may have been. Perhaps Spielberg's attendance (he is considered royalty in this town) signaled the seriousness and gravitas of this evening. Unfortunately, for the city and its lost citizens, the rest of the world didn't quite see it that way. But that is the beauty and tragedy of Los Angeles, isn't it?

Visitors--Most Unwelcome

We've had two visitors, those who actually stay with us, thus far. One was my crazy aunt, the other, my crazier mother. Both being family makes them the easiest to have spend a night or two on our very comfortable (we've been told) pull out couch we spent a fortune purchasing when we moved here. We've had another visitor here the last two nights, convincing me to make sure our place is never too comfortable to warrant more coming to stay.

Our visitor, someone I only met in Aspen at the writers' conference, is a person I don't know well. I found it quite remarkable she asked to stay with us while attending the AWP conference being held here in the city this week. I know such a thought would never, ever cross my head, much less have it voiced. And being so conditioned to be proper and nice, I said yes. A decision I instantly regretted and resented. I fretted, oh how I fretted, about how to get out of this gracefully--an impossibility since she'd already purchased plane tickets.

So, I did what I could to circumvent her need to stay with us for 6 nights (yes, 6 whole nights) by telling a fib, and thereby reducing her ability to stay with us down to 3 nights. This is the worst solution since I am the world's worst liar, ever. I was the kid that always told the truth, no matter what the consequences since lying was something that would only get me into bigger trouble. And since I was such a lost cause when it came to lying, well, it always seemed more prudent to admit, 'yes, I'd gotten drunk last night'.

This visitor does leave each morning, and stays out all day. But again, she's someone I know so tangentially, so having her in our place is something of a nuisance. I don't think she was bothered by any of this since we just saved her a small fortune in hotel costs. I couldn't figure out why she was coming since the conference is always interesting in concept, but always disappointing in reality. When I asked her what she hoped to get from the conference, she admitted she just wanted to come to New York--and stay for free. That's when I realized we absolutely must not have an apartment that is too comfortable, by any means. I know people always want to come here, and if they can stay for free, all the better.

There are friends and then there are the freeloaders, like our current house guest. She, of course, arrived without a hostess gift, and so far has been the worst house guest. This would be somewhat excusable if she weren't as old as she is since she has daughter's just a few years my junior. Thankfully, one more night and she will have packed her bags for wherever her next free lodging may be. She did offer, as some consolation, if I ever wanted to come to Boulder, Colorado, I'd have a place to stay. Hmmm. I've been to Boulder once. And that would be about as many times as I'd need to go to that quaint, college town. The inequity in her offer is lost on her, obviously.

This all gets to the heart of my problem: my inability to say no. It is something I must work on. Really, none of this is this woman's fault. She asked. I answered. Bottom line. So, next time some other cheap person, who is barely an acquaintance, makes this same request, I know to answer with an affirmative, 'no!' Of course, I'll have to do it all on paper or, better yet, in an email.

Confusion

Women and men are worse off today than our parents may have been. How, you ask? Yes, there is the whole devaluation of the dollar, the shrinking of the middle class, blah, blah, blah. But the real confusion, the kind that can pit one spouse against the other, occurs because gender roles for men and women are no longer so clearly defined. The patriarchal world, the one our mothers understood and maneuvered, has been scrambled, jumbled, and messed up, leaving all of us scratching our heads. This is the age when the Metrosexual Male, those men in touch with their feminine side, is a part of our consciousness about male identity. We now know there is a distinction between swishy men and those simply into good grooming practices. This gender confusion now makes a marriage a constant battle ground as we try to figure out what our roles are supposed to be.

Most of my friends in LA had no such concerns. They seemed content to stay at home, assuming traditional roles, the very roles Betty Friedan and others had fought against. Most seemed relieved actually to be able to stay at home, even if they were bored witless by the lack of intellectual strenuousness in this 'privilege'. Now that I think about it, most never, ever voiced concern at all. It was more of a collective sigh of relief that they'd found a man, caught a man, and thank goodness he's a good earner, and can now stay at home being taken care of by this very man. It was all a bit disturbing, as if the last forty or so years since the ardent feminists had argued more for our sex had never occurred.

Some could argue that educational levels may play a part in a woman's satisfaction or dissatisfaction with their marriage. The more educated you are, the less likely you are to be satisfied. And certainly not to stay at home playing the dutiful wife. Sad, isn't it? The higher your degree, the certainty of your unhappiness. When I look back on this particular group of friends from LA, most had a BA, although some couldn't even claim that. Very few had anything beyond a BA. Most had worked, but seemed to be happy to not have to do it again. Some even had lucrative careers, financially, if not all that stimulating. One could say they were happy to have avoided a life of the middling management life by getting married. And most could never understand what it was I did with my time when I claimed, 'to be working.'

The writing life is a mystery for most people, other than other writers. We do this thing, most people aren't really capable of doing, alone, for hours on end. The end product may or may not get published, thereby adding a sense of futility or, if one is so inclined, as masturbatory. We are a world where productivity has to match some result. But the writing life is one where such artificial expectations defeat the whole purpose of this thing you are driven to do.


My marriage sometimes feels like an archaeological expedition as we try to dig out clearly defined roles for both husband and wife. Our search and negotiation is all the more vexing because of the ephemeral quality of my work. What's worse for my dear husband is the fact I was raised by parents, despite being Asian, who are ardent feminists. I was told my entire life that a woman's happiness depends on her ability to carve out a separate identity from wife and mother. That really, men may leave, and children will definitely leave, therefore you'd better have something of your own or you are screwed. This also went along with all women should absolutely have money of their own. The idea of a woman's financial life being dictated by a man is absolute anathema to them, and would be a signal of failure.

With such pressure, you can imagine the sense of urgency in our search for our respective roles as husband and wife. And how complicated it all becomes since I view my career and the productivity of my writing life as important as his. Sometimes when we've gone around and around about these very issues, I secretly wish I could be more like my friends, those content with being just a wife and mother. This secret wish lasts a nanosecond once I recall the underlying boredom and unhappiness each exhibited, sometimes unwittingly. But nonetheless, I do harbor it, every so often.

Life would be so much easier if our roles for husbands and wives, were clearer less amorphous. But it seems all of it gets murkier each year, all of us floundering around trying to figure it all out for ourselves. I suspect divorces will start to occur with some frequency in the next five years. Whether or not they will be the result of the confusion in gender roles still remains to be seen. All I know is the archaeological expedition seems to go on and on, each year bringing a new territory to be explored.