A Mamafesto for the (Un)Common Woman

lately it’s dawned upon me that i’m a Type A hippie. that means i’m 200% to the max hippie, dude.

if i’m going green, i’ma invest precious woman-hours into my whackjob, ahead-of-my time notions of diaper-free baby-raising, thankyouverymuch, and research and budget out the costs of getting PVC solar panels on our roof and re-tooling our prius so it basically plugs into our solar house and runs off the sun. (the current financial picture doesn’t allow for it, but as soon as we get the chance, i plan to talk HB into it. heh, heh, heh. oh hi honey, what are you doing here? we was jes, uh, talkin’. you know, passing the time.) i’m gonna finally figure out that rat-free, raccoon-proof, coyote-defying compost bin in the back yard.

if i’m for affirmative action, then i support it all the way and my upper middle class, private-schooled son will just have to take his chances. because you know what? talented folks who have the least resources should be valued and given an opportunity, because chances are their lives have been full of invalidation and bad breaks. they achieve in the face of incredible odds against them doing so. i can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like attending a school where the plaster’s falling in from the ceiling, the books are old and ratty, there’s no computer lab or science lab or auditorium or choir or art, and the people who are supposed to be inspiring me are too busy trying to be corrections officers instead of teachers or are too demoralized and ill-prepared themselves to care.

my darling boy will be just fine. he doesn’t need his parents to get all republican right-wing and crazy that he didn’t get into berkeley or harvard or whatever and start demanding that affirmative action be kicked to the curb. as someone who went to berkeley, i can say that it wasn’t the end-all, be-all.

it would be no more possible to take the Type A out of me than it would be change my blood type. because of where i grew up and who my parents were, and the consequences for NOT getting my ass in gear academically, and in terms of drive, i’d still be living in a one-horse town in upstate new york, feeling my soul die a little more every day. that’s a pretty powerful motivator for getting the fuck out. that’s just how it is.

and finally, the A in Type A hippie definitely stands for Asian; some things die hard and my interpretation of “hippie”–i.e., politically progressive–will always be inflected with asian/american ideas of cleanliness, propriety, reciprococity…and the fact that i’m a scorpio. you can add Be Direct to Never Complain and Never Explain. (geez, i’m sounding more and more like a marine than anything else.) for example, you won’t find me walking barefoot at a street fair then hopping into bed with blackened, unwashed feet, EVER. i don’t hem and haw at my kid when he is doing something that is NOT OKAY; i say, “UN, sand stays down. it hurts in the eyes,” and not a lengthy, squishy exegesis on the properties of sand and when it’s airborne people get hurt, so see, could you pretty please stop doing that when you get a chance but preferably now?

and that giant sucking sound, that huge nullness which would be the space where you (read: the power structures that be) expect me to kiss your ass? is me, too busy doing something more productive.

otherwise? i’m all warm fuzzies.

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