ck read for an eager public from a diary and letters that she said her “mother” left for her. The content of McCormick’s material gave new energy to the Calamity Jane myth. Such films as Jane Alexander’s 1984 TV movie, “Calamity Jane,” and Larry McMurtry’s 1990 novel, “Buffalo Girls,” were based on these letters. Many people believed that Martha Canary (“Calamity Jane”) wrote them, though she was thought to be illiterate, and presumably dictated her autobiographic-ish “Life and Adventures” pamphlet that was sold at dime museums in the 1890s. If one were to make an irresponsibly general division, it would turn out that male scholars do not believe Calamity wrote these letters, and female scholars and writers do. We women want this renegade to be more like us; to have experienced not only the hardships and wildness of frontier life, but the womanly pain of unrequited devotion and nobly motivated maternal sacrifice. The diary and letters give her a new voice, even though it might be the voice of Jean McCormick, the wanna-be who at least got a government pension out of the deal (because the documents were allowed to serve as proof of her birth date, not necessarily her lineage). Most interesting to me (at one point in my scholastic frenzy) was the seeming absence from contemporary academic “discourse” of an anthropology Ph.D., a woman named Leslie A. Furlong, whose 1991 dissertation on Calamity Jane’s social/symbolic role in the Wild West was fascinating reading. A footnote in this 500-page tome, near the end, asserts Furlong’s belief that Martha “Calamity Jane” Canary was the author of the McCormick diary and letters. Being the suspicious person I am, I can’t help but wonder if Furlong’s admission of this belief somehow cost her an opportunity because it was considered a fantasy (by some male committee member), and her imagination too active for the tenure track. Or maybe she just had kids and kep’ ‘em, and said to heck with academic stardom. She did turn up on the 'net as an adjunct instructor in Virginia, but she hasn’t yet answered my e-mail! And the mystery continues. But this weekend I'll put my magnifying glass down and try to have some fun.
Friday, April 27, 2007
"You were not a woods-colt, Janey"
After a couple of intensive reading/writing weekends, I’ve completed an 87-page first draft of my “thesis” on the books and films surrounding the legend of “Calamity Jane.” The initial response from my advisor was positive. But as for me, however much I’ve done, I know it wasn’t enough. I did not read every damn thing there was; there is always more. I barely skimmed the surface, drilling down in a few areas, like the various attitudes in 20th-century depictions of Calamity as mother. The possibility of Calamity Jane being a birth-mother who gave up her baby for adoption first came to the surface in 1941 when a woman named Jean (Hickok) McCormick claimed to be Calamity’s daughter by Wild Bill Hickok. On a Mother’s Day radio program, Ms. McCormi
ck read for an eager public from a diary and letters that she said her “mother” left for her. The content of McCormick’s material gave new energy to the Calamity Jane myth. Such films as Jane Alexander’s 1984 TV movie, “Calamity Jane,” and Larry McMurtry’s 1990 novel, “Buffalo Girls,” were based on these letters. Many people believed that Martha Canary (“Calamity Jane”) wrote them, though she was thought to be illiterate, and presumably dictated her autobiographic-ish “Life and Adventures” pamphlet that was sold at dime museums in the 1890s. If one were to make an irresponsibly general division, it would turn out that male scholars do not believe Calamity wrote these letters, and female scholars and writers do. We women want this renegade to be more like us; to have experienced not only the hardships and wildness of frontier life, but the womanly pain of unrequited devotion and nobly motivated maternal sacrifice. The diary and letters give her a new voice, even though it might be the voice of Jean McCormick, the wanna-be who at least got a government pension out of the deal (because the documents were allowed to serve as proof of her birth date, not necessarily her lineage). Most interesting to me (at one point in my scholastic frenzy) was the seeming absence from contemporary academic “discourse” of an anthropology Ph.D., a woman named Leslie A. Furlong, whose 1991 dissertation on Calamity Jane’s social/symbolic role in the Wild West was fascinating reading. A footnote in this 500-page tome, near the end, asserts Furlong’s belief that Martha “Calamity Jane” Canary was the author of the McCormick diary and letters. Being the suspicious person I am, I can’t help but wonder if Furlong’s admission of this belief somehow cost her an opportunity because it was considered a fantasy (by some male committee member), and her imagination too active for the tenure track. Or maybe she just had kids and kep’ ‘em, and said to heck with academic stardom. She did turn up on the 'net as an adjunct instructor in Virginia, but she hasn’t yet answered my e-mail! And the mystery continues. But this weekend I'll put my magnifying glass down and try to have some fun.
ck read for an eager public from a diary and letters that she said her “mother” left for her. The content of McCormick’s material gave new energy to the Calamity Jane myth. Such films as Jane Alexander’s 1984 TV movie, “Calamity Jane,” and Larry McMurtry’s 1990 novel, “Buffalo Girls,” were based on these letters. Many people believed that Martha Canary (“Calamity Jane”) wrote them, though she was thought to be illiterate, and presumably dictated her autobiographic-ish “Life and Adventures” pamphlet that was sold at dime museums in the 1890s. If one were to make an irresponsibly general division, it would turn out that male scholars do not believe Calamity wrote these letters, and female scholars and writers do. We women want this renegade to be more like us; to have experienced not only the hardships and wildness of frontier life, but the womanly pain of unrequited devotion and nobly motivated maternal sacrifice. The diary and letters give her a new voice, even though it might be the voice of Jean McCormick, the wanna-be who at least got a government pension out of the deal (because the documents were allowed to serve as proof of her birth date, not necessarily her lineage). Most interesting to me (at one point in my scholastic frenzy) was the seeming absence from contemporary academic “discourse” of an anthropology Ph.D., a woman named Leslie A. Furlong, whose 1991 dissertation on Calamity Jane’s social/symbolic role in the Wild West was fascinating reading. A footnote in this 500-page tome, near the end, asserts Furlong’s belief that Martha “Calamity Jane” Canary was the author of the McCormick diary and letters. Being the suspicious person I am, I can’t help but wonder if Furlong’s admission of this belief somehow cost her an opportunity because it was considered a fantasy (by some male committee member), and her imagination too active for the tenure track. Or maybe she just had kids and kep’ ‘em, and said to heck with academic stardom. She did turn up on the 'net as an adjunct instructor in Virginia, but she hasn’t yet answered my e-mail! And the mystery continues. But this weekend I'll put my magnifying glass down and try to have some fun.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
On being mistaken for a man
I know of two women who have, well, turned themselves into non-women. One can’t take testosterone but (s)he’s doing his best. The other’s verging on manly. They’ve adopted new names. I try to remember to use “he” when speaking of them. I accept the situation without thinking much about it. They’d likely be pleased to be mistaken for men. Being a make-up wearing, male-gaze-craving female probably doesn’t seem all that swell to them. They haven’t even gazed at me much, that I can tell.
When I was growing up, the fairytale still shimmered. If you were beautiful enough, sweet enough, and lucky enough, you’d meet some man who would “take care of you” for the rest of your life. You’d have children, and devote your loving attentions to them and to him. You’d be honored for this, celebrated. You would work hard, but it would be a different kind of work— for love, not money. Your dependence on your provider husband would be echoed by his and your children’s dependence on you for those magical nurturing qualities. A seductive scenario, but one that seems a bit delusional nowadays.
Never mind that women (and men) have more abilities than are utilized by the above plan. Life takes over. Even if a person does marry early and “well,” suffering and learning inevitably occur. Poverty, boredom, abuse, incompatibility, angst, divorce, child custody battles, the Iraq war, you name it. Some of these I’ve experienced, some I have not. I never did produce offspring, so I often wonder if others consider me a “real” woman. However, I profoundly do not want to be mistaken for a man. But why not?
In the 1953 musical, “Calamity Jane,” Doris Day has an epiphany midway through: Darn-it-all, she looks like a guy! That’s why she can’t get the guy! Changes ensue. She must give up her wild ways, fix her hair, clean up her act. For the love and attentions of men (everyone has desires, right?) she must at least appear to be pedestal-worthy and risk being domesticated. Cultivating a single-gender appearance might skew one’s experience of oneself and others, but it’s worth it, isn’t it?
When I saw the movie I was nine years old. I did not laugh at this boisterous “Western” romp; I cried. I wanted to have it both ways. I understood that I was not beautiful (I wore glasses and had crooked teeth), nor was I sweet. I liked to play boys’ games. But, I now saw, unless I underwent a major overhaul, I’d have to sacrifice love. I couldn’t bear the thought of either. The film induced a three-year depression, or maybe a hiatus. I emerged as more of a girlie-girl, naturally. By 16, I was ready to “give myself to someone forever.” But no one I knew wanted that overwhelming a responsibility. So I tore the gift tag to pieces and went about my business for a few years.
I was tromping one day on Coast Guard-owned land near Plymouth, Mass., happily watching sea birds and feeling the wind. A stern voice called out from the next hill, “Young man! Better clear off! You’re trespassing!” My instinctive fear was not of being arrested or fined; it was of losing my gender identity. “I’m NOT a young man!” I retorted in a panic-stricken tone, strangely ashamed. I had not thought about being pedestal-worthy in a long time, but I apparently still wanted to have the option; I was still half-dreaming the dream.
I furiously strode off the property, not looking back, and the next time I stopped at a drugstore, I considered buying lipstick.But I thought of something else, too, in the wake of that unwanted authoritative attention to the “wrong” part of me. It had never occurred to me that love went both ways. I had to take charge of myself and my persona(s). I needed something solid to give, regardless of what biological sex I was or what gender I appeared to be. I’ll bet that my transgender acquaintances have known that for years.
When I was growing up, the fairytale still shimmered. If you were beautiful enough, sweet enough, and lucky enough, you’d meet some man who would “take care of you” for the rest of your life. You’d have children, and devote your loving attentions to them and to him. You’d be honored for this, celebrated. You would work hard, but it would be a different kind of work— for love, not money. Your dependence on your provider husband would be echoed by his and your children’s dependence on you for those magical nurturing qualities. A seductive scenario, but one that seems a bit delusional nowadays.
Never mind that women (and men) have more abilities than are utilized by the above plan. Life takes over. Even if a person does marry early and “well,” suffering and learning inevitably occur. Poverty, boredom, abuse, incompatibility, angst, divorce, child custody battles, the Iraq war, you name it. Some of these I’ve experienced, some I have not. I never did produce offspring, so I often wonder if others consider me a “real” woman. However, I profoundly do not want to be mistaken for a man. But why not?
In the 1953 musical, “Calamity Jane,” Doris Day has an epiphany midway through: Darn-it-all, she looks like a guy! That’s why she can’t get the guy! Changes ensue. She must give up her wild ways, fix her hair, clean up her act. For the love and attentions of men (everyone has desires, right?) she must at least appear to be pedestal-worthy and risk being domesticated. Cultivating a single-gender appearance might skew one’s experience of oneself and others, but it’s worth it, isn’t it?
When I saw the movie I was nine years old. I did not laugh at this boisterous “Western” romp; I cried. I wanted to have it both ways. I understood that I was not beautiful (I wore glasses and had crooked teeth), nor was I sweet. I liked to play boys’ games. But, I now saw, unless I underwent a major overhaul, I’d have to sacrifice love. I couldn’t bear the thought of either. The film induced a three-year depression, or maybe a hiatus. I emerged as more of a girlie-girl, naturally. By 16, I was ready to “give myself to someone forever.” But no one I knew wanted that overwhelming a responsibility. So I tore the gift tag to pieces and went about my business for a few years.
I was tromping one day on Coast Guard-owned land near Plymouth, Mass., happily watching sea birds and feeling the wind. A stern voice called out from the next hill, “Young man! Better clear off! You’re trespassing!” My instinctive fear was not of being arrested or fined; it was of losing my gender identity. “I’m NOT a young man!” I retorted in a panic-stricken tone, strangely ashamed. I had not thought about being pedestal-worthy in a long time, but I apparently still wanted to have the option; I was still half-dreaming the dream.
I furiously strode off the property, not looking back, and the next time I stopped at a drugstore, I considered buying lipstick.But I thought of something else, too, in the wake of that unwanted authoritative attention to the “wrong” part of me. It had never occurred to me that love went both ways. I had to take charge of myself and my persona(s). I needed something solid to give, regardless of what biological sex I was or what gender I appeared to be. I’ll bet that my transgender acquaintances have known that for years.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Multi-tasking, interruptions, non-productivity
OK, not that "productivity" is the goal. I mean, we live life just to LIVE it, right? Seizing the moment and its pleasures and pains? Or have I got it all wrong? I think my job is interfering with my brain. I knew that all along, but it was confirmed by an article I just read in our local paper, about the downside of multi-tasking. It seems my IQ is fluctuating. I knew it! I'm constantly interrupted by phone calls just as I begin to compose an art show press release or figure out a budget. People burst in wanting to talk with me just when I start on a big re-filing task. Sometimes I can't think of what to do next when I KNOW there are several urgent requests or looming deadlines. I have for the past two years or so congratulated myself for training myself to switch my attention easily, and for remaining "pleasant" while doing it. I have taken pride in relinquishing perfectionism, and perhaps even mere high standards in favor of not pissing anyone off! I do so want to be LIKED, since my "abrasive" personality has been a factor in losing jobs in the past. But gosh, I can't get anything DONE these days, let alone done well. And I know this mode of being at work has affected my ability to concentrate on ANYTHING when I get home. My willpower only goes so far; it gets me to the gym and keeps me there for a while. What a relief to be able to put one foot in front of the other repeatedly without anyone (including myself) bugging me about doing something else instead! So, then I'm supposed to go home, grab a snack, and work on my THESIS? I don't think so. And now I know it's not my fault, it's that my IQ is (temporarily) lowered due to the nature of my job. Nice to have something to blame!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
About my friend Bronwen
I just added a new link, to Bronwen's Melancholy Garden.
It's a blog I started for an online friend who lives in England. (The photograph is a triptych of Blackpool in winter, created by her daughter, Charlotte). I haven't heard from Bronwen in a while. Sometimes she is too weary to get online. She has MS, and is in her forties. Since being diagnosed, Bronwen spends a lot of time collecting realistic thoughts about life (in contrast to the cheery remarks of medical professionals), and has compiled an anthology that covers centuries, which she sent to me. I posted the introduction, but I haven't posted all of the anthology itself yet, which I want to have available as a link to a PDF file. Until I figure out how to do this, you can read Bronwen's well-written personal philosophy. She also added a profile. I am concerned now, because if she is unable to get online, I don't know what's happening. She could be in the hospital, or she could be gone. It was more than a year ago that I saw one of her "cynical" remarks on another website, and complimented her on it; everyone else was dissing her for non-positivity. That's how we started corresponding. Anyway, read the introduction to her anthology if you like, by clicking on the new Bronwen's Melancholy Garden link, and I will soon post a link within that to her complete book (which she had sent to a publisher, but which had so many copyright issues due to song lyrics that were included that the outlook wasn't good for an actual book). But the internet is another matter. I send my love to Bronwen, wherever she is.
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