Cunt (15 page)

My mind is very logical. Thoughts are a kind of math to me. Well before undertaking
the task of writing this book, I understood that certain very specific elements must
be present in order to make a whole.

The element of Whoredom tripped me up a little. Rape—an element you will be coming
upon shortly—rather hurt. Never did I remotely entertain the notion of omitting either
of these elements.

I make this little introduction because I
positively adore
and
consistently seduce
the idea of leaving this chapter—concerning the element of Acrimony—out, out, out.
Chills of
ecstasy
shimmy down my spine when I think about putting a big, fat, red X over this chapter.

However, my mind is sometimes just this
very weary
high-school algebra teacher and will not withstand such tomfoolery.

It was very difficult for my sister and I to acknowledge the insidious nature of acrimony
that was (and still can be) present in our relationship. Jealousy, cattiness and general
shitass vibes were some of the crap-ola emotions we learned to harbor during our socialization
in a culture founded upon destruction. It required
months
of conversation focused on total honesty, acceptance and love to even approach overcoming
negative patterns we grew up with in our personal relationship.

The idea of acknowledging the presence of acrimony between
all women
is pretty dang-awful daunting to me. It extends far past jealousy, cattiness and
general shitass vibes into highly oppressive forms of ageism, classism, homophobia,
objectification and racism.

I held my sister in my arms on her ride home from being born at the hospital.
My sister and me go way back. You, on the other hand, only met me a few short chapters
ago. But in comparison to
my
position,
you’re
sittin’ tight. I have absolutely no idea who you might be, and I’m about to start
talking shit to you about nasty things you may perpetuate.

Big sigh.

Still, I know for a fact that being honest and forgiving about acrimony in my personal
relationships has freed me and continues to improve the quality of my life intensely.
I am privy to the ways acrimony is manifested between women in our culture, and inevitably
conclude this sense of freedom and life-improvement holds true on the much broader
cultural level as well.

In an interview, Fiona Apple described a shitty period of her life—which she knows
she had to experience in order to survive on her terms—as her “dog years.”

In the exact same spirit, I present
Cunt
’s dog chapter.

One time I had an Iranian dance teacher named Jaleh. After class, we’d often have
lengthy discussions about culture. As a result of these conversations, I developed
a new perspective on the standard by which freedom is defined in my country.

I used to think women in fundamentalist Islamic countries, or societies where genital
mutilation is practiced, have it
way
worse than us ladies in the West. American women can
generally
wear what we want, fuck who we want, love how we want and work where we want.

You know, experience “freedom.”

Coupled with her religious and political beliefs, that nagging inspiration known as
survival forced Jaleh to flee Iran. There were many things about her country she detested
with all her might and mien. Malevolence towards women is one thing that ain’t veiled
in Iran. Iranian women are shamed, silenced or killed for many vagrancies Americans
guilelessly take for granted. Iranian women are very consciously aware of gender-explicit
oppression.

Therefore:

When Jaleh first got here, she
completely freaked
about the meanspiritedness American women project onto one another in our day-to-day
lives. She eventually learned to live with a dull thud of longing for the
general,
loving, woman vibe that was once part of her normal reality. Loss of this closeness
truly tore her heart asunder, and Jaleh wondered about the sacrifices American women
make at the behest of our “freedom.” What I learned from Jaleh distressed me greatly
because I couldn’t imagine something so precious as an everyday closeness with women,
founded in the common knowledge that we all want to survive and thrive in a patriarchal
society.

In my country, women don’t seem to like each other much at all.

Sucky, sucky, sucky vibes.

I was offered another profound perspective on the actual reality of American women
when I interviewed Soraya Mire, a Somali woman who made
Fire Eyes,
a deeply moving, powerful film about genital mutilation.

One of America’s finest cultural phenomena is something called
The Jerry Springer Show.
This is an arena akin to the Roman ones where prisoners fought to the death. On
The Jerry Springer Show,
the audience watches people on a stage as they emotionally and physically maul one
another. The viewers at home watch both the audience and the people being mauled.
It is the pinnacle of voyeurism, where love, American style, is dissected and pinned
down in its most caustic glory.

The Jerry Springer Show
is one of my all-time favorite contemporary American anthropological studies.

The show titles change from episode to episode:

“I Want My Man to Stop Going to Strip Clubs.”

“I’m Pregnant with His Child and Want Him to Leave His Wife and Three Girlfriends
Because I’m More of a Woman Than They Are.”

“Gee Honey, Your Mom, Sisters and Best Friends Sure Are Awesome Good Fucks.”

The title never matters because it invariably leads to women physically and verbally
attacking each other over some ugly-assed schmuck who’s main talent in life is pitting
women against each other to bolster his sense of manliness and self-worth.

The jerry Springer Show
is a highly charged and concentrated reflection of a much broader, and generally
subtler consciousness under which
all
American women—regardless of sexual orientation-exist.

It’s easy enough for the viewers and audience members to look at the woman on the
stage and really, really wonder if she’s ever even
heard
the term “self-esteem.” It’s even easier for lesbians to pass judgement on the hapless
straight ladies who expend so much energy on something of such dubious merit as a
man’s unsullied attention, but I’ve yet to encounter a tribe within
any
community that is not similarly rife with cruelty, possessiveness, jealousy, betrayal,
power trips and general shitass vibes.

Some say this is inherent to love, but I say it’s inherent to socialization in a destructive
cultural setting of ageism, classism, homophobia, objectification and racism.

As Soraya Mire points out, American women indeed learn to look at our pain in others,
rather than deal with it as a reality in our lives.

America is a collection of many tribes unified under every conceivable banner—from
blood and geography to the Selena fanclub and Harley Davidson motorcycles. Within
these tribes, women
may
find inner sanctums of cuntlovin’ support.

What interests me, though, is the
standard
of how we perceive community, and the ways we judge women based on very negative
thought patterns we’ve adopted in order to survive in this society’s environment of
out-and-out destructive tendencies. As it stands, American women have no frame of
reference for relying on each other—cultivating trust, love, standards of beauty and
sexuality, economic power and sisterhood.

The fucked-up elements of destruction we learn to view as acceptable are all founded
in the exact same basic consciousness or, rather, lack thereof. Ignorance is the most
valued consciousness in America. It rends deep chasms of total distrust and perpetuates
meanspiritedness bar none. Education, therefore, is the panacea for undermining all
manifestations of acrimony in our society.

Every way we see, hear, feel, taste and smell is a
self-reflection.
Our perception awake and asleep is what we, we, we
choose
to perceive. The way we react to any stimulus is the way we
choose
to react.

For a long time, I had a problem with women I perceived as privileged. Rather than
harbor and nurture this negative feeling—which would, ultimately, only constitute
a bummer in my personal life—I got into reading biographies. I read books about Imelda
Marcos, LaToya Jackson, Princess Diana, the Kennedy women and Marjorie Merriweather
Post.

It’s not like I’m this massive Imelda Marcos fan now, but I have solid ideas about
what her life was like when she ruled the Philippines. (And if you think ol’ Ferdinand
ruled, you be wrong.) Imelda Marcos is no longer just some greedy, capitalist shoe
fetishist to me. She is a woman who developed her own set of survival skills, which
I clearly do not identify with. Learning something of her childhood and life, however,
has made it very difficult for me to pass judgment.

I never imagined Imelda Marcos would communicate any information I would consider
valid in my own life, but she taught me a whole new way of looking at women. Imelda
wore makeup twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with four complete changes,
every six hours. She inspired me to appreciate the intricate cultural art form of
presentation. The lengths to which she went to be considered beautiful are astonishing.
I have complete respect for dedication, precision and commitment, regardless of the
fact that Imelda’s particular brand represents an insidious form of cunthatred.