Category Archives: culture

Taking her husband’s last name … part deux

A few weeks ago, I broached the subject of marital name change from a feminist point of view. I was surprised by how many of you weighed in on the subject, either in the article’s comments section or on various Facebook shares.

That was great, because Curiata.com was created to be a platform for its writers and readers to interact, discuss, and cultivate their opinions and tastes on many different things, from politics to superheros to recipes. There were a lot of excellent points raised in the subsequent discussions, and I wanted to take the opportunity to respond or expand on these thoughts.

First and foremost, one person felt that my column left the reason I decided to change my name unclear. As I said then, the real reason for my article was to highlight that it didn’t matter why I changed my name. The real feminist victory is that I had a choice; I was not forced or coerced to do anything against my will. But it got me thinking about nailing down a more precise answer for why I made the decision I did.

Several other commenters questioned if changing my name was a reflection of a lack of connection to my blood relatives. Some of my own friends have experienced a situation such as this and were happy to adopt their husband’s name for this reason. But for me, it wasn’t a lack of identity, but rather too many identities from which to choose. Let me explain — and no, I do not suffer from multiple personality disorder.

If you look at the surnames of my four grandparents, they are, in no particular order: Goodyear, Kimmel, Zellers, and Reynolds. I am no more or less any one of these names. As a matter of fact, I’ve often been told that I am a younger version of my paternal grandmother (which is odd, because she died when I was only two years old — very little time for her to have a significant impact on my life).

Her last name was originally Kimmel. So because I am similar to her, does that mean that my last name should be Kimmel, because I can identify with her? Maybe so, but in our current setup of naming, we don’t get to choose for ourselves until long after we’ve established an identity. And I inherited my father’s name, who inherited his father’s name, and so on and so forth all the way back to Saxony, Germany, when the original spelling was “Gutjahr.” I can also trace my mother’s family all the way to the 1600s in Ireland.

I don’t suffer from a lack of familial identity, but rather an abundance of it. Before I had finally decided to take my husband’s last name, I watched him trace my ancestry quite diligently. (In fact, I think he was more interested in my roots than I was.) When we linked our family trees, it was a huge patchwork quilt.

My husband is equal parts Hillman and Blackwell, Daley and DeMartine. He didn’t get to choose the surname Hillman, just like I didn’t get to choose the surname Goodyear. But the beauty of society in 2014 is that I do get to choose whether or not to change my name at an important juncture in life — when I begin a new family with my husband.

I would be lying to you if I said I’ve always loved my maiden name, Goodyear. But it’s not because I’m ashamed of or estranged from my parents or other ancestors who bear the name. In middle and high school, I was overweight. It doesn’t take too long or too much creativity for the blimp jokes to start rolling in. Intellectually, I understand that kids will be always be cruel, and I would have been picked on no matter my last name. Nonetheless, my maiden name still carries negative childhood connotations, and I’d rather not pass along this particular demon to my kids.

In fact, that brings me to the more precise reason I did decide to change my name: for the benefit of any future offspring my husband and I may have. I realized that by getting married, we were starting a new, unified family. And that someday, we hope to raise a couple of sensible feminists and/or modern urban gentlemen. I felt it was important to signify to the outside world that we are a team.

To that end, there was a brief moment in time when I toyed with the idea of combining our names to create a new name. The best I could come up with was Hillyear or Goodman. Neither of us was thrilled with either option, and after working so hard to trace our ancestry, it seemed a bit of a waste to start a brand new lineage with us. And since our tradition says that our children will inherit their father’s name, it made sense for me to make that change.

In reality, I understand that there will always be individuals who criticize any decision I make. If I would have kept my maiden name, there would have been individuals who felt that I was being disrespectful and emasculating to my husband. Since I changed my last name, I’m sure there are people who think I am “not feminist enough.”

If we would have opted to combine our last names, there are people who would say that we were being too politically correct, or my personal favorite, they would call us “damn hippies.” Lastly, if Mike would have taken my last name, he would have been mocked mercilessly by some of his male friends and coworkers; I also probably would have been called some interesting names if I had “forced” him into this.

I came to the decision to change my name on my own terms. I’m no longer forced, by law or by society, to take my husband’s name as a sign that I am his property. But not everyone has that level of comfort, and many would be judged cruelly if they make a decision that isn’t popular with the majority.

All of this is a long way of saying: yes, we have come very far in terms of the marital name change. But we still have a long way to go.

Man up: Join community, volunteer time

The Modern Urban Gentleman character is a fine vehicle to express thoughts about fashion, travel, brewing, or any of the other elements that enrich one’s own life. Today, however, I am stepping out of that voice to share my thoughts about and experiences with an aspect of being a gentleman that exists outside of “self.”

In the first edition of this column, I defined a modern urban gentleman, in part, as a man who is “engaged in the community and the world.” That means following current events, surely, as well as formulating informed opinions about those events. It means fighting the battles for hearts and minds in support of the ideals we understand to be at the root of our opinions. But it means something more, something deeper, something — for me at least — much more difficult.

It means giving of oneself to make a tangible difference. It means walking the walk instead of just talking the talk.

In the past several weeks, I have had two opportunities to volunteer and engage with the community around me. In both instances, I interacted with students in classrooms, sharing insight, discussion, or just a few minutes of my time with them. Those moments reinforced to me the vital, unavoidable role a gentleman plays in the cohesion, advancement, and success of our society.

The American Literacy Corporation, based in Harrisburg, Pa., is a nonprofit group that organizes a weeklong campaign to recruit 500 men to read to area school children during the school day. I participated in this year’s 500 Men Reading Week by visiting three classrooms at the Foose Elementary School in Harrisburg. I volunteered because I could come up with no good reason not to — hardly the most inspiring motivation, but an effective way to kick-start a part of my self-improvement that has lagged behind the rest.

The importance of the 500 Men Reading Week was really driven home to me when I learned that only 18.3 percent of elementary and middle school teachers are male. Even more startling, only 2.3 percent of kindergarten and preschool teachers are men. Combine that with the particularly high rate of single-family households in the Harrisburg School District and I realized I may have been the only male role model those children would have that day. I do not yet have any children of my own, and despite having two younger brothers, the weight of that responsibility was a new experience.

The novelty of having a man in the classroom was evident, as the kids were so eager to engage me in conversation about everything from the dog in the book I was reading to whether my knit tie was actually a sock (complete with an entire class of second graders touching the material just to be sure). Regardless of their intelligence or boisterousness or attention span, those kids knew something fun and good was happening that day. In the end, I settled on feeling pride in having all those pairs of eyes looking to me for guidance.

In my other life, as a workaday public servant, I am the chairman of my organization’s Diversity and Inclusion Council. Owing to that role, my fellow officers and I were invited to participate in the annual Diversity Day at Mechanicsburg Area Senior High School. The event was put on by the school’s student-driven Diversity Club. The club brought together individuals who contribute to the diverse tapestry of life across south-central Pennsylvania, whether through vocation, avocation, or cultural background.

My colleagues and I presented a crash course on “Civil Rights Today.” I talked about the definitions of diversity and civil rights and then, in the ultimate manifestation of colorblind casting, I played the role of Barack Obama in a skit that emphasized the continuing relevance of the struggles of civil rights titans including Susan B. Anthony. A. Philip Randolph, Linda Brown, and Matthew Shepard.

We presented to four classes, ranging from sophomores to seniors, and were treated with nothing but respect. Sure, a few nodded off and some eyes glazed over at various times, but when they refocused, they genuinely tuned in and engaged the material at some level. The relevance of the murder of Shepard for being gay particularly resonated in the cyber-bullying reality of modern high school. As we found our rhythm by the third class, the presentations were ending with spirited debate among the students, with each individual’s personality shining through.

I walked out of that high school last week not feeling like I changed any lives, but feeling like I was able to make the tiniest ripple in the mental and social development of about 120 teenagers. By breaking the monotony of their day, as well as my own, our brains and our spirits were primed to welcome a new perspective on this shared journey we are traveling.

I don’t tell these stories today to draw attention to myself. The truth is, I have ignored this aspect of being a gentleman for far too long, and will surely skip out on far too many opportunities to embody the spirit of community in the future.

But it is essential to reflect on this often overlooked facet of what it means to be a man. I hope my words today will move just one person to say yes to an invitation to spend time doing something for the greater good. A fine gentlemanly life holds no true enjoyment without a rich, vibrant, empowered community to share it with.

Pay gap not just numbers: A real-life impact

Today is National Equal Pay Day in the United States. The occasion marks the day on the calendar when the average American woman will have worked long enough since last January (463 days) to earn as much as the average American man earns in a single year. That puts the gender pay gap at 77 cents on the dollar, a place it startlingly has hovered around for the past decade.

Of course, there are voices in the wilderness that deny the pay gap exists, or attribute the gap to spurious causes. My blood begins to boil when when I read articles about the “wage gap myth.” One popular excuse for the pay gap contends that if women would just take more risks like men do, the gap would be eliminated. To that, I call bullshit.

I am not predisposed to be a crusader against the pay gap. My own experience during my formative years was quite the opposite. I grew up in a household that often bucked traditional gender roles. My mother worked full time and spent her evenings earning her college degree. My father worked full time as well; as a blue-collar laborer, he had the advantage of working set hours and being home every day by 4 p.m.

This meant that it fell on my dad to get me ready and shuttle me back and forth to ballet classes. I have a vivid memory of my father getting my hair into a slick bun and plastering foundation and bright red lipstick on me for my dress rehearsal of my second dance recital.

Eventually, my mom earned her degree (one semester after I completed mine). But growing up in this manner, I had a father who took care of the daily cooking and cleaning. That isn’t to say my mother was never around or didn’t contribute to the maintenance of the household. She never missed a soccer game, dance recital, band competition, or musical. But she didn’t have time to handle the day-to-day household work because she was working 50-plus hours each week in addition to attending night classes.

I tell you all of this because I think everyone will be able to deduce that my mother earns more than my father. There are a lot of men who, I think, would be uncomfortable with this reality. But then again, those men wouldn’t be caught dead braiding their daughter’s hair. So I was raised in a household where the wage gap wasn’t real, at least not in my limited worldview.

But then I entered the real world …

As I embarked on my professional career, I had a lot of things working against me. I graduated from college in December 2008, not long after the Bear Stearns collapse that signaled the global economy was on the brink of disaster. Most of my college friends delayed entering the workforce, either by picking up a minor or entering graduate school, because jobs were few and far between.

In addition to the cratering economy, I had also chosen a field where the big boys still ruled: the messy realm of politics. I took the job I could get at the time, as a secretary. I steadily worked my way through the ranks and became a research analyst, utilizing my skills to draft legislation and amendments. I was aided in that advancement by having the luxury of directly working for one of the least sexist people in the world.

After nearly five years of hard work and dedication, I was noticed by a few key individuals and was offered a position, unsolicited, at a lobbying firm. I was ecstatic. I felt like I had made up for starting my career behind the eight ball, had excelled in one male-dominated field, and was ready to take on another. I was finally going to be earning a great wage, and I would actually be out-earning my husband (who didn’t mind at all).

I took the job — but not without a lot of internal debate, because I loved my old job. In the end, I decided I wanted new challenges and the chance to add to my skill set. And then, after three months, I was miserable. I really disliked my job, and I dreaded going to work every day. Long story short, I resigned. Thankfully, my husband’s income and the pay I had been able to bank allowed me to leave a position that put me on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

While attempting to get a job back at my old place of employment, someone told me, “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to go back to being a secretary.”

This sentiment made me stop in my tracks. The unspoken implication was that, because I was female, I could just slip back into a secretarial role, be satisfied, and be grateful that I had a job. But to me, it would have felt like the five previous years of my career had been a waste. I was even told by one person that I wouldn’t be considered for any position higher than a secretarial one.

As an aside, let me say that I don’t think I’m “too good” to be a secretary. I was a secretary, and a damn good one at that, for almost a year. The job has many challenges, and I have worked with secretaries who could proverbially kick my ass in the skill sets specific to the job. But as a secretary myself, I was bored out of my ever-loving mind for a year. I hated the logistics of managing another individual’s schedule, finances, and mileage. I didn’t like balancing my own checkbook, and now I had two that I had to manage. Those women (and a few men) who are great secretaries seem to love what they do — and that’s great for them, but it’s just not for me.

I have often wondered: if I lived in a world where I had every advantage of being a man, how differently would my attempt to return to my job have played out? Before that, in spite of the economic downturn, would I have begun my career as a secretary? Would I have been treated differently at the lobbying firm?

Would anyone ever suggest to my husband that it wouldn’t kill him to spend a few years as a secretary? I doubt it. It’s these sentiments, straight out of Mad Men, that contribute to the gender pay gap.

I left a good job to try to get a great job. I took the risk that the wage gap critics are talking about, and it backfired. Oversimplifying the complexities of the gender pay gap into this one point, or any one point, is dangerous and myopic. There are so many factors that contribute to the wage gap, including race, nationality, socioeconomic background, and educational iniquities. Until we can have an honest discussion about everything that contributes to the gender pay gap, we will hover around 77 percent for decades to come.

Hunting gowks, April Fools and trickster dieties

The first of April was last Tuesday, and as always, you could find plenty of people playing tricks (if mostly just on Facebook), and others falling for them, no matter how obvious.

The traditional, time-honored prank of the day is to send someone on a fruitless errand, as in Scotland, where the day is called “Hunt-the-Gowk Day” (gowk is a Scots word for “cuckoo”). Much like the grand Boy Scouts prank of “snipe hunting,” a Scot might send a younger one across town to a friend’s house with an “urgent” message, to be opened only by him/her. The message, of course, reads, “Dinnae laugh, dinnae smile, hunt the gowk another mile.” Later, the “hunters” would share laughs over which messenger took the longest to realize he was being played.

But where does this traditional day of pulling one over come from? It’s something of a mystery, with many potential origins sounding like April Fools’ Day pranks themselves (and one origin story is admitted to have been just that).

It may have stemmed from the long ancient time of mythological Noah (whose amazing true story has recently been made into a full-length motion picture, or so I’m told), who released a dove on the first day of spring, before the water had receded, to see if it could find land.

Or it might come from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (specifically “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale“) in 1392, in which the title character is tricked by a fox on the 32nd day “syn March bigan” (since March began), which was later considered a typo.

In 1983, a history professor named Joseph Boskin claimed to have traced the practice to the era of Constantine, when the emperor made a jester the ruler of his empire for a day. Boskin then revealed that this “new origin story” was itself an April Fools’ Day prank, and the newspapers retracted their stories.

Most likely, however, the practice comes from France in 1582, when the French adopted the Gregorian calendar, which made January 1 the start of the new year. The older practice of beginning the year on April 1 was still kept in many rural areas, and the city folk mocked and derided these people as “April fish” (poisson d’Avril), since fish in early spring were easier to catch. Today, a common prank in France is to tape a paper fish onto a victim’s back (much like a “kick me” sign).

The word “April” means “(month) of Venus,” or Aphrodite in Greek. The trickster Mercury doesn’t get his own month, or he might be a better fit for it. Indeed, while pretty much every culture celebrates a day of general foolery, it’s only in polytheistic religions that we typically find gods specifically devoted to trickery and cleverness. Certainly the closest we get from the Christian God is adherents who like to say “God has a sense of humor” when unexpected things happen.

Trickster gods, by comparison, are allowed to have multiple facets, sometimes good, sometimes evil. They tend to give humans things they “shouldn’t” have and get in trouble from their own paranoia and from double crosses (just like some April foolers). Two of the more interesting trickster gods are Anansi and Wisakedjak.

Anansi (Akan for “spider”) is a West African spider god and the god of all stories. Sometimes, he’s the one who hoodwinks the other gods, and sometimes he gets his comeuppance, but he’s generally known for his cleverness, using the brute strength and vanity of his fellows against them. In the United States, many of his stories were retold under the moniker “Br’er Rabbit.”

The great spider became the god of stories when he brought the python, the leopard, the hornets, and the dwarf to the sky god Nyame. Anansi tricked the python by betting him to see whether a branch was longer than the snake, and that Anansi had to tie the snake to the branch to measure for certain. The leopard Anansi tricked into a hole, then offered to use his web to help the leopard out, and so snared him. Anansi poured water on the hornets’ nest and told the bees it was raining, then tricked them into a pot, saying it would keep them dry. Finally, Anansi made a sticky doll and put it, with a yam, next to the Tree of Life. When the dwarf stopped by and ate the yam, she tried to thank the doll — and angrily struck it when it did not respond, getting stuck.

Wisakedjak (sometimes anglicized to “Whiskey Jack”) was a Cree and Algonquin hero god related to rabbits who loved teaching and playing tricks, up to and including burning his own buttocks to teach them not to fart while he’s hunting. In some instances, he even outwits the fox and coyote, notoriously clever animals. In one story, Wisakedjak was hungry, so he tricked a group of ducks into a bag filled with music and convinced them to dance with their eyes shut while he wrung their necks one at a time. In another, he separated the sun and the moon because their arguments were preventing the crops from growing.

So whether you’re the kind of person who likes to play the tricks, or the kind who always falls for them, remember not to hit someone who gave you a yam. Especially on April Fools’ Day.

What kind of feminist takes her husband’s name?

When Curiata.com was in its infancy, it became clear to me that the female contributors were outnumbered by the men almost 3 to 1. I resolved to start a feminist column to (hopefully) balance out the testosterone on the site.

The Modern Urban Gentleman and I were having a conversation about my column one night and he said, “You know you are going to have to write a column about your name change, right?” And he’s right.

Up until about a year and a half ago, I had always planned on keeping my maiden name. Intellectually, I knew why women changed their last names in the past, and it wasn’t a symbol of a unified family, but rather a designation of property ownership. Further, it seemed to me that everyone in society expected women to just conform and accept their husband’s last name. It’s just what you do! I, for one, despise that argument for anything in life, and it’s one of the things I used to rail against.

So how did I change my mind, and subsequently my name, after getting married? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. There was never an “aha!” moment when I suddenly knew why I wanted to change my name.

First off, I should state that I do use a combination of my maiden and married name in the professional world — at least for now. My resume says “Carrie Goodyear Hillman” at the top of the page. Part of this is just for practicality. I worked very hard to build an excellent work reputation as Carrie Goodyear, and I felt that completely changing my name would be like throwing all of that hard work out the window. Am I still the same person with the same work ethic? Absolutely. However, our names are extremely similar to the branding of a product. I felt that I (and those around me) needed a transition period.

But none of this answer the question as to why I changed my name. If anything, it makes the argument for why I should have just kept my maiden name. But here’s the rub: Mike and I are not what I would consider a “traditional” couple, though what we are is becoming increasingly common. We cohabited for three years before getting married, which means that we are either going to be just fine in our marriage or we are destined to get a divorce, depending on which study you read. We don’t strictly adhere to traditional gender roles. This was evident over the weekend where our basement started taking on water worse than anything Noah experienced. Today, we both have painful hands and Drylok caked under our fingernails.

In my mind, marriage wasn’t going to change the dynamic of our relationship too drastically. I mean, we already lived together, a marriage ceremony is largely symbolic and, really, it’s the day-in, day-out of a relationship that determines the couple’s level of commitment, not the marriage ceremony itself. So, to our friends and family, we were already a unit, already a team. They received their Christmas cards from the Goodyear/Hillman household.

But, the thought struck me, how would we convey to the outside world that we were in this together? Yes, I would have my wedding band, but there’s something extremely unifying about sharing a last name.

On the other hand, I’ve had a lot of people ask me why I didn’t hyphenate my last name. It was a purely selfish reason. I didn’t want to have to sign Carrie E. Goodyear-Hillman every single time I swiped my credit card. When I was signing as Carrie E. Goodyear, I would get annoyed by the time I reached the “y.”

There are times when I feel like I have to defend my actions to other feminists. But then I realize that is just silly. We have come a long way in women’s rights, but globally we have a long way to go. The marital name change is no longer a requirement or a demonstration of ownership. I changed my name because I wanted to, and because I felt that it was the best decision for me — and that, my friends, is what feminism is all about.

Facebook buys Oculus Rift: Awesome or not?

I remember walking into an arcade at some theme park or other almost 20 years back and seeing a haphazard rig set up in the middle of the floor. Barely more than a monitor with wires pouring out of it and a cushioned chair, what drew people to stand in line and gawk from afar was the specialized helmet that was hooked up to the electrical system. I watched as people donned the helmet, grasped a controller, and swiveled their heads around while the monitor showed a 16-bit Doom environment swivel in unison. When it got to my turn, I strapped on the helmet with inexpressible joy, took up my controls, and gawked at the images, so close to my eyes that they were all I could see. Then a demon popped out of the hallway and killed me, and my turn was done. For that moment, though, even with the crappy, low-resolution graphics, I was inside the game. And it was glorious.

If you’re tech savvy or into video games at all, you’re probably familiar with Palmer Luckey’s company Oculus VR and its wildly successful Kickstarter campaign for the Oculus Rift a few years back. Unlike every attempt ever over the past two decades to put together a compelling virtual reality system, the Oculus and its prototypes have generated a nearly messianic buzz in the gaming magazines and related circles. “It works,” they say.

Demos, which showcase seemingly simple concepts, like a simple flight simulator, or undersea exploration, or even the guillotine program that makes you feel like your head is being chopped off, are all eliciting haunted responses from everyone who tries them out. The ability of the gizmos to pump out the appropriate resomolutions (I’m not an engineer) are “ready,” they say. A consumer version will be released sometime this year, they say. The time is now.

Then Facebook went and bought it.

Now don’t get me wrong. You won’t catch my ever blaming Luckey and his crew for this. If Facebook offered me two billion freaking dollars for my right eyeball, I’d be like “Uh … sure?” It’s almost more money than there is money. They would have been fools not to sell. It seems entirely likely that the $2 billion number came around because they rejected lower, more reasonable numbers. And his crew is, of course, still in charge of designing and engineering the device. Plans are still very much in the works to keep the video gaming end of the device on track, even bolstered with the influx of new money, though some developers seem to be jumping ship as a result of the sale. The Rift is still their magnum opus, their baby. It’s just that now, if Facebook tells them the baby has to jump, they have to make it jump.

So what the heck does a social media giant want with virtual reality, anyway? Well, there’s a lot of speculation, but the company itself says they’re going to use it to facilitate communication in a way similar to Skype or Google+ Hangouts. You and your friends, who may be in disparate cities, states, countries, all put the headgear on and voila! You’re in a room together, or at the pyramids of Giza, or on the moon. “Sexting” is no more. Say hello to “Oculust.” (Okay, maybe that one won’t catch on.)

Facebook is trying to take an idea to make video gaming more immersive and turn it into something that may very well fundamentally change the way human beings interact with each other. Want to work from home? Put on your headset and sit in on daily meetings with corporate HQ seven states away. Want to sing your kids to sleep but have to be across the country on business? Done.

Video chat lets us do these things as well, but we all know the hassle of dealing with low-resolution cameras, limited view fields, and visual lag. Much like talking on the phone, it’s hard to “just hang out” in video chat. If you don’t have anything in particular to talk about, then it’s like you’re staring at a screen, with your friend or loved one’s distended face taking up three fourths of the viewing area, wondering if things are likely to get less awkward. With VR, maybe it’ll feel more like hanging around your dorm room with your old college friends, just shootin’ it and watching TV, or like you’re really there with your parents in Tulsa, joining them for breakfast.

Facebook evidently thinks these ideas are worth pursuing and put a hefty price tag on it accordingly. The downside to all this, of course, is the idea that they’re going to make it Facebook-y. Put 3D ads flashing obtrusively across your field of view, like in Minority Report. No one wants to see his mother’s forehead plastered with the Maalox logo.

The other thing is that, unlike with our smartphones, the Rift requires a certain separation from the world at large in order to operate. You really need to sit down somewhere without a lot of breakables nearby and try to stay calm, because your nervous system is going to start trying to react to the virtual environment. This means that it’s very hard to be “present” in the world of the headset and also in the actual, real world around you at the same time. Perhaps Facebook has ideas about augmented reality, like Google Glass is attempting to master, where you can see the real world with virtual information overlaid on top of it. Either way, splitting off focus from the real world into a virtual one is already a source of problems, as the incidence of car accidents due to texting while driving can attest.

Ultimately, whether Facebook’s plans for the Rift unfold the way they want, or for that matter, the way we want, remains to be seen. If it lives up to the hype, and the United States starts to make sensible decisions about its telecommunications industry to keep up with demand for service, then we may all be talking about it in Middle Earth in a few years. Or Tatooine. Or Paris or something, for you not-nerds. Cheers.

Happy 80th birthday, Ms. Steinem

On this day in 1934, a baby named Gloria entered the world. No one could have imagined the profound impact this future advocate would have on women’s rights in her lifetime. Steinem is often called the mother of feminism, and it’s not hard to see why.

First, a bit of history; there are three distinct waves of feminism. The first wave of feminism took place in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. During this period, activists like Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Lucretia Mott were focused not only on the property and voting rights of women but also on the abolition of slavery. Through their hard work, they reformed existing social standards and were successful in getting women the right to vote.

The second wave of feminism began in the 1960s and runs congruently with third-wave feminism to the present. While first-wave feminism focused on suffrage and changing existing sexist laws, second-wave feminism broadened the discussion to empower women in their sexuality, families, reproductive rights, and workplaces. Steinem is one of the most prominent women to emerge from this wave of feminism.

Third-wave feminism is a bit trickier to define. The term was coined in the 1990s as a backlash against the failings of second-wave feminism, mainly that the second wave was a movement created by upper-middle-class white women and didn’t account for the opinions and cultures of women from more diverse backgrounds. Steinem, considered a second-wave feminist, nonetheless addressed many third-wave concerns as well, working with many civil rights activists including Coretta Scott King and Cesar Chavez.

I consider myself a third-wave feminist and would even argue that we are actually headed for a fourth wave of feminism. A fourth wave would broaden the discussion of women’s equality to a global scale.

All of this is well and good, but if it weren’t for the work of Ms. Steinem, I wouldn’t be having this discussion at all today. Before she was a political activist, Steinem was a journalist. One of her most famous pieces was written for Show magazine. Steinem was employed as a Playboy Bunny at the New York Playboy Club. The article “A Bunny’s Tale,” published in 1963, shed light on the exploitative treatment of the Bunnies and the legal murky sexual demands that were made of them. After her work on the piece, Steinem had a hard time finding writing jobs, a failing that Steinem attributes to her time as a Bunny.

In 1968, she landed a job with the newly created New York magazine. After her time with New York, Steinem co-founded one of the first feminist-focused magazines, Ms. The magazine was shocking for the 1970s because, at that time, most publications for women focused on child rearing, cooking and cleaning tips, keeping a satisfied husband, and proper makeup application. Instead, Ms. concentrated (and still concentrates) on women’s reproductive rights, politics, and social activism.

When the Ms. preview debuted, the syndicated columnist James J. Kilpatrick jeered that it was “C-sharp on an untuned piano,” a note “of petulance, bitchiness, or nervous fingernails screeching across a blackboard.” After hitting the newsstands for the first issue, network news anchor and 60 Minutes creator Harry Reasoner said he would “give it six months before they run out of things to say.” Ms. is still in publication today and the magazine can boast the best coverage of global women’s rights and politics.

In addition to her work in journalism, Steinem was an ardent political voice for many different issues, including reproductive rights, the Equal Rights Amendment, opposition to the Vietnam War, and LGBT equality.

Because of Steinem’s work, I get to write a blog every week about how far we’ve come in feminism. I can discuss pop culture things like Oscars fashion and professional wrestling. Because of her work, I can talk about politics and government and my place in them. Most importantly, because of her (and women like her), I have the courage to tell you stories about discrimination when they happen to me.

It’s fitting that Ms. Steinem’s birthday falls in March. March is Women’s History Month, and our history would be much different if Gloria Steinem hadn’t taken the path she did. Truthfully, I’m excited to see where the movement will take us in another 52 years, when I’ll be nearing my 80th birthday. In the meantime, I’ll just have to live by Gloria’s sage wisdom: “The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”

Hitting ‘reset’ restores vital ties to nature

The Modern Urban Gentleman is taking the urban to the wild this weekend. In what has become an annual event, a gathering of close friends will head to a cabin in the woods for a weekend of cooking, discussing, hiking, laughing, drinking, and Shadows Over Camelot-ing. It is an event to look forward to because it breaks the monotony of so-called “normal life,” for sure, but time in the wilderness also answers a call from deeper in the gentleman’s constitution.

The occasional weekend spent in nature is a necessity for a modern urban gentleman. The day-to-day reality of life introduces so many layers of artifice between the gentleman and the Homo sapiens at his core. To strip away that artifice for 48 hours is a refreshing, rejuvenating experience, offering a chance for a reset of the body and mind.

The urbanization of man is a phenomenon no more than two centuries old. The pressures of the agricultural and industrial revolutions pushed people closer together for financial sustainability. The rise of cities has sparked incredible achievements in architecture, art, business, literature, and countless other fields of human endeavor. On top of that, the vibe that defines big-city living is like a drug for many, the Modern Urban Gentleman included. Nonetheless, the human species did not evolve to live in Manhattan or Beijing. And evolution proceeds at far too slow a speed to allow humanity to have adapted to the environmental stressors of modern life.

Consider the most basic unnatural stressor introduced by modern technology: the light bulb. No one alive today remembers a world before the light bulb, but it was only the parents of our oldest great grandparents who lived in that much different time. The gentleman’s body operates on a natural cycle, the circadian rhythm, that depends on the input of external stimuli, such as the sun. For 200,000 years, less the last two centuries, the human machine has been calibrated to maximize sunlight and darkness.

Today, gentlemen are awash in the glow of artificial light at all hours: the evening television, the bedside lamp, and the smartphone game lulling us to shallow and unfulfilling sleep. The constant onslaught of light cues the brain to stay awake, awake, awake, even as the body slips into unconsciousness. The scientific evidence for the damage caused by the disruption of the circadian rhythm by artificial light is strong. We awake tired, stressed, irritable, and begin the day anew with the same disruption of the natural order.

A weekend in a cabin, while not free of artificial light, does allow for a resetting of the circadian rhythm. The early morning rays of sunshine streaming through cabin windows infuse campers with the energy to rise and light the breakfast fire. The setting sun dissipates the excitement, and campers crowd around that same fire for a hearty dinner, shared tales of bygone days, and a s’mores-induced moribundity that sends bleary-eyed ladies and gentlemen to a sound sleep.

Consider, too, the noise pollution of everyday life. Even if a gentleman does not live in an urban center, with traffic slicing along rain-soaked roads and pedestrians shouting to one another as they make their way home from the local watering hole, artificial sounds from television and microwave ovens and beeping washing machines and whirring cell phones replace the sounds of nature. The simple four walls of the gentleman’s house conspire to block the naturally calming auditory flow of Earth: birds chirping, of course, but also the subtle crunching of leaves as deer nose in the underbrush several hundred yards away, a river laps against the shore in the valley a mile below, and the wind rustles the blooming branches of a tall oak tree.

One of the most peaceful experiences the Modern Urban Gentleman has ever had was on a camping trip two years ago, rising before dawn and sitting in the utter blackness, listening and watching. In daylight, nary an animal could be found, but in the stillness of predawn, the unbroken chorus of forest whispers uncovered the overwhelming richness of fauna. The gradual, imperceptible lightening of the sky over the course of 90 minutes, from black to pink-tinged blue, was nothing short of miraculous.

Let’s not overlook the element of camaraderie engendered by a weekend cabin getaway. Humans may not have evolved to live in cities of millions, but they did evolve to be social animals. A monthly happy hour or an annual fantasy football draft only does so much to feed cravings for a band of brothers and sisters. Spending two or three days in a pack, like our long-gone ancestors, has a peculiar and wonderful effect on the soul.

The list of damaging everyday contrivances the modern urban gentleman endures goes on and on: processed foods, a sedentary lifestyle, spiritual vacuousness, astronomical illiteracy … As laid out in the introduction to this column two months ago, the modern urban gentleman “respects the earth and understands his instinctual connection to and dependence upon it.” It is a step — a long, arduous, everyday step — in our journey of self-improvement to minimize the interference between what we are and how we actually live. One simple way to be reminded of that charge is to step back for just a few days and truly experience what it is to be human.

Currency of virginity could use some deflation

Last spring, I was plowing through my reading list, and I finally made time for The Purity Myth by Jessica Valenti. I’ve always been a huge fan of Valenti’s work, from the time I was introduced to her Full Frontal Feminism during college. Valenti is the kind of writer that challenges me to see the world in a different way, and while I may not always agree with her 100 percent, she makes me a better person by providing a different lens through which to view the world.

In The Purity Myth, Valenti notes that there is no medical definition of virginity and, furthermore, a clinical definition of virginity can not possibly fit both genders. If the concept of virginity is tied to a specific physical act — vaginal intercourse — it creates an outsize burden on the female: the physical transformation of the act of intercourse is something a male can never experience. And a physical definition of virginity is irrelevant in same-sex relationships.

Virginity, and often times the lack thereof, is a concept that I have struggled with for a long time. As a society, we encourage young ladies to “hold on” to their virginity because it’s so precious. Moreover, any young woman who decides that she will not remain a virgin is often forced to bare the label “slut”.

I’m certainly not advocating that sex is something that should be taken lightly. It’s not. It can adversely affect your health and welfare if the proper precautions are not taken. I’ve advocated on this site for a calm and rational sexual education, which is good and important, but perhaps we need to be spending more time thinking about the mental health aspect of sex, specifically virginity.

The reality is that we live in a world where young girls are auctioning off their virginity to the highest bidder. This is because we, as a society, have delivered a message that virginity is valuable, that it’s a commodity in demand. I have to wonder how the world would change if we stopped thinking this way. What if, instead, we told young girls that, yes, sex is a big deal, but there is no value to the physical reality of an intact hymen.

I know that’s a pretty radical thought for today; it’s even a bit jarring to see it there in front of me in black and white. I think one of the reasons this concept is so frightening is because young girls use their virginity as a morality guide. It’s not difficult to see how removing virginity as a criterion for morality can lead down the path of a slippery slope argument, where all of the human race goes to hell because we will all get chlamydia and die.

I’ve stated before that feminism is about taking the path that you want to take. I certainly don’t mean to be advocating the position that everyone should be out there sexing it up. I have friends my age who still consider themselves virgins; they totally own that position, and it works for them. They adopt that Cher Horowitz ideal: “You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet!”

All I’m asking is that we take away the pressure associated with remaining a virgin. Let’s turn the focus to empowering women to make informed decisions, to have healthy sexual relationships without stressing the virginity question. OK, and maybe I’m asking for a little bit more discussion with families and in the classroom regarding the mental health component of sex and, specifically, the first time any individual engages in sexual activity.

Most of the views I’ve mentioned above took a long time to cultivate and, honestly, they are still changing with every intellectual morsel I digest. That’s the wonderful thing about being human; we get to change our minds and evolve. I’m sure if my husband and I ever get around to cultivating tiny humans, my opinions on this matter may evolve again.

Céad míle fáilte: Five reasons I love the Irish

St. Patrick’s Day is quite possibly my favorite holiday — after Thanksgiving and Christmas, of course. I love everything about Ireland and the Irish. This year, I’m even more excited because, three months from today, I’ll be heading overseas as part of a two-week tour through Ireland, the United Kingdom, and France. I don’t usually go crazy on St. Patrick’s Day in the stereotypical American style, with drinking and partying, but I love Fanning Out and celebrating the holiday in my own way.

Every year on St. Patrick’s Day, my mother makes a tasty dish called Irish Coddle, which is a simple dish consisting of potatoes, bacon, sausage, and onion, all cooked together. I think it’s supposed to be a breakfast dish, but we eat it for dinner, and it’s amazing. If you’re interested, here’s a recipe very similar to the one my mom makes. Coddle may not be the healthiest dish you could eat, but it’s so good, especially when eaten with a loaf of Irish soda bread. We usually buy our soda bread from a store, but if you’re really ambitious, you can try making your own. Maybe next year I’ll make the attempt.

One year, I found a bottle of Bunratty Mead at the local liquor store. I had first drunk the mead at Bunratty Castle during my family’s first trip to Ireland in 2008. We attended a medieval feast in the castle, where the mead was produced. At Bunratty, the mead was fresh and tasted pretty good, but here in the States … not so much. However, it was still a fun way to celebrate and remember our time in Ireland. This year, we won’t be having any authentic Irish drinks — except perhaps a little Bailey’s in a cup of cocoa — but we will be making our own “shamrock shakes.” Who can resist minty-milkshake goodness?

After dinner on March 17, my family usually watches a movie, most likely Darby O’Gill and the Little People, which stars a young Sean Connery. The movie has been a favorite of mine since I was very young (back when the banshee at the end terrified me and gave me nightmares but still didn’t stop me from watching the movie repeatedly). Another option is The Quiet Man, starring John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. While in Ireland, we visited the town where most of the movie was filmed and saw several of the shooting locations; our tour guide even had our group act out some of the scenes from the film.

As you can see, Ireland holds a very special place in my heart and I enjoy celebrating all things Irish. Therefore, in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day, I thought I’d share with you a few of my favorite things about Ireland:

5. Irish alcohol: I am a fan of Bailey’s Irish Cream. Who doesn’t love a little bit of Bailey’s poured into a cup of hot cocoa or coffee? My family and I were introduced to the drink during that 2008 trip to Ireland, and even my mother, who almost never drinks, now loves her cocoa and Bailey’s. Another stop we made while in Ireland was at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin. In the bar at the top of the factory, we were all given a free pint of Guinness. I am not a beer fan, and Guinness was way too strong for me. My brother, however, loved it. He’s also become a fan of Jameson, the famous Irish whiskey.

4. Irish literature: Ireland has a very rich literary history. Many great classic authors come from Ireland: Jonathan Swift, Bram Stoker, James Joyce, Seamus Heaney, Oscar Wilde, and many more. Modern authors include Maeve Binchey, Colm Tóibín, Cecelia Ahern (author of PS, I Love You — read the book, which is way better than the movie, but have tissues on hand) and many, many more. My favorite modern Irish author (and one of my favorite authors period) is Tana French, whose work we reviewed in January. If you like tense, dramatic mysteries that really focus on character development, try reading one of her books — they’re brilliant.

3. Irish actors: I’m sure you girls out there would agree with me. Ireland has produced some great actors, such as Aidan Turner, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Colin O’Donoghue, Jamie Dornan, Colin Farrell, and Liam Neeson, and the list goes on. Not only do these guys have acting chops, but they are very good looking and the accent is absolutely to die for.

2. Irish music: I love a lot of the classic pub songs: “Whiskey in the Jar” and “The Irish Rover” are great. I also love how people always sing along to them in bars. There are also the “rebel songs,” which are written about the Irish desire for freedom from British rule. One of my favorite Irish songs ever is “Four Green Fields“. My favorite memory from my trip to Ireland is hearing my tour guide sing that song and the emotion in his voice as he sang it. Ireland also gave us U2, one of my favorite bands ever. Most of the members of the Irish-inspired band Flogging Molly are American, though lead singer Dave King was born in Dublin.

1. Ireland: I’m pretty much just in love with the country itself because, honestly, what’s not to love? Everything is beautiful and green, and the people are extremely welcoming and friendly. If you ever have a chance to visit the country, take it — you won’t regret it. I cannot wait to go back in three months; I only wish I could stay more than a few days.

Everyone has their own reasons for being Irish today. Regardless of yours, I hope you all have a great St. Patrick’s Day! I’ll leave you with one of my favorite Irish blessings:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand

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