Now with Footnotes!

Tonight I attended not one, but (count 'em) two Obama fundraiser events. As a former Reluctant Clinton Supporter¹, this was a big deal. These were my first ever Obamavents. Over the course of the evening I mingled with two voting blocs -- Young Jewish Professionals for Obama, and what I like to call 30-Something New York Yuppies Who Are Friends With My Brother for Obama (for lack of a more specific umbrella).

Over the course of the evening, I listened uncomfortably to out-of-place hip hop, noshed upon agave nectar-filled dates, downed four glasses of white wine, and posed three different ways with a cardboard cutout of Obama. I also donated $136 total to the campaign: $100 to 3SNYYWAFWMBFO and $36 to YJPFO². I received two buttons for my efforts: One a traditional "Obama '08," and the other, of identical layout except the slogan, which read "ברק אובמה."

So by the end of the evening I have two nearly identical buttons pinned to my almost-but-not-quite-fashionable faux leather purse. It's not at all acceptable to my sense of aesthetic, so I decide to choose one and tuck the other away into an almost-but-not-quite fashionable side pocket. Which to choose?

Remember that I am a former RCS. I used to glare back at all the perky blonde twenty-something women wearing enormous Obama buttons who smiled knowingly at me on Super Tuesday and beyond, assuming that because I was a young, reasonably feminine woman I must obviously be an Obamaniac³. Throwing some money at the presumptive Democratic nominee is one thing; wearing a symbol I so openly loathed but a few months ago is another.

I have to say one thing for Obama: I am much more willing to sport his name than I was Kerry's. As much as I desperately wanted him to win in 2004, Kerry is not the kind of guy you gush about, or the kind of guy the youth rally around. I remember listening to Eminem's "Mosh" on election day and crying -- though he was clearly anti-Bush, he couldn't bring himself to say "vote for Kerry," even though it was clear that that was what we needed to do, anything, anybody to get the madman out of office. 2004's futile "Vote or Die" youth campaign made me lose faith in America for months. Years. On November 3, 2004, I sat in Riverside Park with a friend smoking a clove cigarette (I don't smoke) and not saying a word. It was our first time exercising our role in democracy, and it was an abject, downright, horrifying, abysmal failure.

If Obama can change that, regardless of whether it's due to an overinflated image, I will be able to join Michelle Obama in her overanalyzed non-snafu statement about American pride⁴. And so, for the first time since a half-hearted attempt to support Dean, I am willing to wear my political alignment on my sleeve (quite literally), but the question still remains: to Hebrew, or to English?

My first inclination is to go with English. This could be leftover from a youth among Southern Baptists, but I remain wary of stating my religion openly. Or perhaps it's due to lingering culture shock after arriving in New York to find how simple it was to pick a Jew out of a crowd⁵ and the desire to retain my own identity as a secular but spiritual Jewish woman. Also, to be totally honest, the whole Hebrew-to-English-phonetics deal has reached epically silly proportions⁶. So I left the English Obutton on my purse and slipped the Hebamabutton away.

Of course, five minutes into my newly-established political identity building exercise, I started to feel self-conscious. Had I become one of the blonde, perky Obama Girls? Am I giving in to the obnoxious politicocelebrity culture machine built around a man who, though an excellent public speaker and a perfect posterchild for multiculturalism, is still quite clearly (to me) a consummate politician and a megalomaniac⁷?

Yes, I'm totally overreacting to the simple issue of an Obutton, but it got me thinking. I was invited to two fundraisers on one night. I get e-mails forwarded from all kinds of listservs: Diversity for Obama, Law Students for Obama, Chicks with Dicks for Obama. Of all the voting blocs to which I might belong, which one do I identify most closely with⁸?

I think it really boils down to which bloc needs my affiliation more.

I've been watching all the news about Jews' wariness towards Obama, and the topics range from concern about his stance on Israel to absolutely deranged shock mongering. I mean, typical election stuff, but Obama does appear to be put under a Jewish magnifying glass more closely than any other candidate in recent memory. This is most likely because he is pushing for a more pluralistic approach, courting Palestinians and even insisting on dialogue with Mahmoud Abbas (see the latest from AFP). Pro-Israel Jews have relied on unilateral support for Israel for so long that Obama is putting them through an unexpected wringer. Of course, his promise of an "unshakeable" bond with Israel is complicated by what appears to be contradictory dialog with Israel's enemies.

I am not a 100% Pro-Israel Jew. I see the Palestinians' plight as one of failed policy (possibly deliberate by Israel's neighbors) and missed opportunity. It truly is a failure that generations of Palestinian refugees have grown up without a place to call home. While I align myself with the Jewish people, and feel that Israel does have a right to exist, so do the Palestinians. At this point, I break from most of my peers in the Jewish community, or at least the ones with whom I have had most communciation.

So when it comes to the silly issue of an Obutton, a larger question looms: Which bloc needs my representation more? English-speaking Americans for Obama? Or Jews, as a bloc currently on the fence (supposedly), for the man who truly stands up for the morals that are the cornerstone of our venerable religion/ethnicity, regardless of how those morals manifest themselves in the current political climate?

In addition to these reasons, the Hebrew button would allow me some measure of being an Obamanian on the sly⁹. Only those who have a functional knowledge of the Hebrew alphabet would pick up on it (or those with a photographic memory and an eye for design themes).

The answer seems pretty clear.

Now here's hoping I don't get confronted by any Hassidim for McCain.

---

1 Clinton Supporter because I was truly excited by her candidacy, and felt she had the tools to catalyze the greatest amount of significant good for our country. Reluctant because I knew from the getgo that she didn't stand a chance.
2 In Hebrew numerology, the letters that spell חי, the Hebrew word for "life," add up to 18. Ergo, money gifts, requested donations, etc. often go in increments of 18. It's like shouting "l'chaim" with every eighteen dollars you shell out. This event's minimum suggested donation was double-חי, or double-life: 36. I know, this all makes a load of sense, especially to those of you who didn't spend 15 years in Hebrew school.
3 It's moments like these that make me want to just shave my head and stop wearing skirts, but what good would that really do?
4 god what a farce this whole process can be.
5 And said crowd is also usually 40% Jewish.
6 .אי ותד פור ברק אובמהא אנד אל אי גת ו׳ז ת׳ס לוו׳זי תרנזלתרעשנ
7 Anyone who runs for president and pretends not to be power-hungry is clearly -- well, a politician.
8 Not the chicks with dicks, though they need representation, too!
9 Not a cookie-cutter white girl on the subway relishing the smell of her own farts.

Like it's My Job

I have to admit a very silly guilty pleasure: Every so often I find myself skimming through the blogs on the Weightwatchers website. They've got two main bloggers, one called "Shani Weighs In" and the other "Life After Goal." As you might imagine from the names, the former is updated by a woman who is going through the process of losing weight, and the latter is updated by a woman who's been there, done that, and trying to keep it that way. Life After Goal Woman doesn't intrigue me as much. She talks a lot about yoga poses she likes, what it was like to run yet another 5K, getting through the stress of life events (poor thing got engaged recently). You know, normal stuff that any normal person, overweight or no, might experience, just spun in the context of having once been a Big Girl. It's Shani's blog that is my guilty vice. Even though we clearly have plenty in common, she's the WW blogger I love to hate.

She annoys me for all the wrong reasons. It annoys me that she only has X lbs to lose to get to her "ideal weight" and that she was only X lbs to start with, when I have well over that to get to the point where the FDA would recognize me as "healthy." I hate her for complaining about going to the gym and then discovering it really wasn't so bad after all. I mean, duh. Talk about stale ideas. Probably stupidest of all, I hate her for the fact that losing weight is her job, and she still finds ways to screw up. The way I figure, if it was my job to lose weight, I'd be friggin' Mary Kate Olsen by now.

The thing is, I should feel sorry for Shani. Would I really feel professionally fulfilled if all I did all day was write about how bad I felt after eating a donut? No. Would I enjoy pondering each bite I took, wondering which ones would make good blog fodder, or even worse, agonizing over a deadline if (gasp!) nothing particularly blogworthy happened that day? Probably not. Would I want a picture of myself emblazoned across a very public record of my every ounce gained or lost, so that any number of site visitors in New York City could recognize me on the street? Absolutely hell no.

And there are definitely times when I'm not 100% on my game at work, so who's to say that if I were in Shani's shoes I'd do any better?

I suppose we can now safely add "I could lose weight if it was my job" to the Status Quoman's Stupid Excuses for Bad Body Image list.

Forever Twenty-wah?

Last Friday I spent my lunch break hitting the main drag of clothing stores near where I work. I've been on a quest to find nice, affordable, professional clothing ever since I made a considerably upward move in my career (since my preference for jeans and green hi-tops would most likely be frowned upon by my new colleagues). My main conclusion after several attempts: I have trouble understanding why all shopping experiences geared towards young women must resemble epileptic seisures.

Upon entering these stores, the shopper is immediately hit by a blast of loud, usually cacophonous music that, in itself, is an intensely rattling experience. I've noticed this phenomenon before -- it's most obvious in larger department stores, like the flagship Macy's on 34th Street. I once took the escalators up all the way to the top, just to see the really old, wooden escalators on the upper floors. Each floor had its own blend of mild popular music playing at a reasonable level, but you could pinpoint the juniors floor without even seeing the clothes -- thumping, pulsing music must be statistically proven to whip girls and young women into a consumer frenzy.

The second thing to strike me each and every time is the seemingly random, careless arrangement of wares. While some smaller stores with a longer cycle time (i.e. those stores that keep items in stock longer than a few weeks) still organize their apparel by season, occasion, color, or what have you, many stores with a shorter cycle time cram as much fabric as will physically fit into the space. This leads to a whirlwind of colors and shapes without much in the way of rhyme or reason.

The cramming also leads to smaller aisles, with shoppers examining the overloaded displays in single file. When two examiners meet in the middle, they engage in a complex dance of avoidance, either shimmying past one another, or one going around the long, seemingly counterintuitive way to go back to the original cramped space, just slightly further down.

The aural overload, the visual overload, and the claustrophobia combined are still nothing compared to a real seisure, I'd imagine, but I'd love to see the marketing studies that lead apparel stores for young women to adopt such extreme, uncomfortable measures.

Almost makes the American Girl stores seem like a pleasant return to the good old days of shopping as a special event. Not that I would necessarily encourage implementing this level of branded consumerism early on.

What am I talking about. Today's girls have Hannah Montana. It's too late.

Here Be Bloggins

Change of course.

It seems this whole superhero-narrative-as-thinly-veiled-autobiography isn't going to cut it. Well, not for my own self-serving needs, anyway.

Status Quoman grew out of a conversation with a dear friend of mine, who also happens to have plenty of body issues. We were talking alternaheroes, such as Captain Misanthrope and Motzi Man, and suddenly there was Status Quoman, fully formed and ready to fight to preserve the status quo. Her nemeses arrived soon after I decided to take Quoman to the streets of Gothapolis in an attempt to elevate the Status Quo. Through Status Quoman I'd achieve a healthy state of body and mind! I'd write a story every day! Maybe I'd do a webcomic! Maybe I'd gather a following on the Weight Watchers boards! Maybe I'd change the way people think about bodies and the large female form!

Life sometimes gets in the way of success. Fittingly enough, raising my real-life status quo a bit did that trick.

This isn't to say that Status Quoman stories don't pop into my head all the time; they do, and how. It's just that Status Quoman has evolved. She's turned into more than a one-woman body-accepting machine, mainly because I've realized that the battle that Quoman fights for me is more complex than simply learning to value the corporeal hand I've been dealt.

Vague enough for you? Let me explain.

On my way home today I was thinking about my weight. This happens regularly, which is just lame, but going on. A young man came onto the subway. He was trim and young and athletic -- and his face was ravaged by extreme acne. Now, being a self-conscious young woman, I often compare myself to others (I wish I could be as thin as her, wish I could pull off that outfit -huh huh huh, get it? Anyone? Other thirteen-year-old boys?). Not always negatively, of course. Sometimes, like today, I compared myself positively, though still in a negative fashion -- I may be fat, but at least I didn't get cursed with a scarring skin condition. Which got me thinking...

Like so many large young people, a good part of my body acceptance problems stem from my parents. Okay, I'll stop being oblique -- my mother. I love my mother dearly, but she has always struggled with my weight. I am the only overweight one in my family -- my mother, father, and brothers are all trim. I've been raised to believe that being overweight is a tragedy, that everything else I've got going for me is eclipsed by this one fatal flaw. And I do have a ton going for me; my genes, as compared to the rest of the family, could not be better. The uncomfortable inheritances that nagged my brothers skipped over my genome. I have never battled acne, I have light, sparse body hair (yeek), I somehow managed not to inherit The Nose, my eyebrows are great without plucking, and, being a woman, I haven't spent my whole life worrying about which X chromosome from Mom might be responsible for potential male pattern baldness. As far as superficial beauty goes, I got dealt a pretty swell hand. The one missing card is the skinny-without-trying card, and believe me, it's a big'un.

I have struggled with this my entire life. I have been on a diet since age 11. Dieting is my status quo. Fighting an eating disorder is also my status quo. My status quo has remained remarkably steady for the past 25 years. I've been questioning my sexuality since developing a giant, terrifying crush on Anne P. from biology class in eighth grade, but have never fully resolved this as part of my identity. I've been a vegetarian for years (cut out red meat at age 14, going on five years now of full lacto-ovo vegetarianism) but haven't really made inroads into how that fits into my sense of activism, which I strongly feel it should be in spite of my refusal to join the ranks of (h)angry herbivores. Even my sense of style, or lack thereof, remains undetermined; my wardrobe contains items from middle school that I know make me feel unattractive but somehow can't seem to unload. For 25 years I've gotten interested in one thing, done it full steam ahead for a while, then gotten lazy and stopped.

Perhaps this is my problem: laziness is my status quo. Or perhaps the status quo in general is my problem.

Time to change that. Status Quoman from now on will be energized. She will discuss matters of body, brain, science, and faith. She will tackle feminist topics with wit and aplomb, which in actuality will probably involve a fair bit of stumbling about in the dark. She won't be afraid to get esoteric or nerdy or even scholarly. She will write about news articles and plays, about catastrophes and discoveries, about the way the honeysuckle a few feet from her front door smells, and why that should mean something on any old Tuesday. There will be no specific special focus to this blog. It will simply be the musings and adventures of a feminist, fat, (sometimes) furious, Jewish, science-minded, indeterminately queer, indomitably optimistic everyday superheroine.

Status Quoman is me. Ready for my saga? Let's go.