The Feminist Bride: The Dress Take 2

The second stab at dress shopping came later the same day, in a very different location in San Francisco. Having exhausted seemingly all vintage possibilities in the Haight- we took a different approach and headed to China Town.

Designer Dresses. Discount store.

Now- I don't know about you- but I had NO idea how expensive wedding dresses are retail. The average price of a bridal gown must hover around a grand, while designer dresses retail for something between 8-12K. Yes. You read that correct.

Perhaps it's just my spend thrift ways- but a price tag of that nature makes me a little queazy. Or, more literally, as my partner put it, it brings the thought to mind that you could buy a pretty nice Toyota Truck for that price.

So- enter the supposedly discount store.

The Feminist Bride: The Dress Take 1

When my bridesmaid Ann found out she was coming out west to California for a week on business, she called and told me she had 10 hours to spend with me- and the first thing she suggested was that we go dress shopping. And so the first foray into the bridal dress extravaganza began.

As I had deemed that I wanted a '20s themed wedding, she suggested that I look up vintage stores in San Francisco. "We'll hit up the Haight" said her excited text message. I began by making a roster of vintage stores in the Haight district of San Francisco, and, using my adept project management skills, called each one to see if they carried old wedding dresses. Most did not, but there were a few that replied in the affirmative.

On the day we had scheduled to go to the city, we woke up early, not wanting to get behind the clock. On our drive up we fantasized about the perfect dress- I spoke about wanting to flatter my curves, we decided longer was better, and I specified that I wanted something made out of 'real' material- nothing petroleum based (although now, looking back at that stipulation, I suppose anything made before the '40s wouldn't be...) Regardless, we were excited.

The Feminist Bride: Hair

My normal beef with Hair isn't nearly enough to write a full length musical about- but since my engagement began, I've written enough mental songs about it to score an entire symphony.

Generally, I wear my 'do short. Pixie or bob, small bangs- close enough to my scalp to fit snugly under my signature beret and bike helmet combo. I've even rocked a spike look before- during a period my younger sister dubbed my 'lesbian phase'. Basically, I've gotten hair cuts that serve the purpose of being low-maintainance, fun, and passable on the professional scale.

I never thought that I would sacrifice my usual practical mix of form and function for a one day event. Until I became engaged. My hair was, I kid you not, the third thing I thought about after he said yes. The vain bride inside me vowed to not cut it until the wedding- in the hopes that I'd be able to make something out of it come the big day.

The Feminist Bride: Online

My internet has taken on a life of its own.

At my first search of 'engagement rings', it was over. I should have know that it would trigger an onslaught of well thought out advertisements perfectly aimed at my heart's desire.

Rings. Dresses. Wedding Labels. Invitations. Caterers in my area- the list goes on.

I couldn't turn on my computer without an overwhelmingly accurate bombardment of  advertising. Before I could even suggest that I might want to learn about shops in my area, they had lists for me.

The Feminist Bride: The Ring

I am not a Gollumn- but it when it came to thinking about a ring, I became just as bad as any of the creatures in Lord of the Rings. It was an instant case of my precious.

When I decided to ask my boyfriend to marry me, I did what any man would have done- I went out and got a ring. I found one that fit within my ethical framework. It hand crafted by a local craftsperson from metals I could stand behind. It was beautiful, practical, symbolic, and it wasn't going to cost us our first born child. I did what I would have wanted someone to do for me- at least that's what I thought.

Once I my proposal was accepted, I did what any bride to be would have done- I began to tell people about our engagement. I told everyone I could think of that we were engaged, and there first question was always- can I see the ring?


Now- if you recall, I proposed. I got him the ring. So every time I was confronted with the question- can I see your ring- I had the same obvious answer- I don't have one. For the first week I felt fine about my bare naked ring finger. I was a feminist- and I was standing up for female proposers everywhere- why did I need a ring?, I thought.
But as Christmas started to loom, and the onslaught of holiday family pressure mounted- I began to panic.

Questions like What will the relatives think? and Will they judge my new fiance because he didn't get me a ring? began to ring in my ears. And so, with a week to spare before Christmas eve, my partner (probably sensitive to my distress) handed me his mother's sweet-16 ring, which, mind you, had a very small, but noticeable diamond. In giving me this ring, it was not a gesture of- this ring is going to be your wedding ring, it was more of a- wear this and see if you like it- or a- I had this in a drawer and thought you might want to wear it type of gesture.

And- I was grateful. I slipped the slightly too large ring with the slightly too small diamond onto my finger. Relief was noticeable. So was the fact that the ring was too big. So, in order to beef up the amount of metal on my finger, and to keep his mothers ring from slipping from my slender fingers, I added my grandmother's gold wedding band for good measure. With a sweet sixteen ring from the 60s and a wedding band from another wedding on my ring finger, I marched into the Christmas cocktail parties.

However, my input subsitutionism only made matters worse. I was stuck explaining the small diamond and the wedding band from another wedding (as if a small diamond or a grandmother's wedding band were something to be ashamed of). And, to make matters worse, people who hadn't seen me, assumed I was already married, as I was double banded. At every turn I was confronted with the social expectation of what I should have on my finger- and from experience, De Beers has done an excellent job of convincing every American, that if you don't have a big new diamond on your finger- your engagement should be questioned.

After enough comments and enough cocktail parties, even I began to question myself. Thoughts like- I should just go out and buy myself a diamond- began to appear in my head. By the end of the holidays, I was compulsively googling diamond rings and trying to figure out how I could justify the purchase of such a rock to the ethical part of my brain.

Come the New Year, I was so exhausted by the whole ring diamond thought train, I was ready to give up. When a thought occurred to me. Why don't I just ask my new fiance to get me a ring?

Honestly, since I was the one who proposed, I thought I wouldn't get a ring until we were married. I mean, the guy doesn't ever get a ring until the wedding. However, when I proposed I clearly had NO idea of how deep the cultural expectations of engagement rings are in this country.

When I finally told my fiance that I couldn't take it anymore, and asked if he could buy me a ring- he laughed. I think he jokingly said something like you were such a feminist, so hardcore, and now look at you before hugging me and saying of course. My dry reply was probably something like being a feminist means be able to determine when you want to acquiesce to cultural norms. 

So he got me a ring. We went back to the house of the ring maker who made his ring, and now I have a matching band, made out of the same piece of metal- and when I slipped it on, I knew I had made the right choice.

The Feminist Bride: A bride to be

In the two months following my proposal, I have learned enough about the American wedding phenomenon to last me two lifetimes. With luck, this is the first, last, and only time I'll need to be a bride-to-be.

For those of you who haven't had the good fortune to become a bride in training, the psychology runs deep. Social training begins at a young age. The expectation of the proposal, the engagement, the ring, the dress etc, are all set before the story begins. Indeed, now that I'm a bride-to-be, I'm swimming in the expectations I've created and been coerced into over a lifetime.

Alongside many latent psuedo-protestant christian values (to be discussed later), my mind has been taken over by a deadly trilogy of societal norms. It is a lethal cocktail of one part Disney heroines, one part Martha Stewart, and one part 1950s Betty Crocker house wife fantasy.

Since becoming a bride-to-be, I have begun to dream of dresses that look like badly iced cupcakes, a million and one ways to gussy up ball jars, and the inescapable wedding registry gift: a brightly colored Kitchen-Aid mixer.

Since when did I want to wear something that was so ruffly I feel like I'm swimming in a pool of whipped cream? Or turn a thousand ball jars into a wedding alter? Or acquire a kitchen implement that is so heavy no one in gods name wants to pull it out of the closet?

Answer: Since the American wedding industry crept into my head and stole my brain. Out with my well formulated counter-cultural values- in with the dreams of an American girl so steeped in the wedding phenomenon she has forgotten who she really is.

Stay tuned for more adventures of The Feminist Bride and the search for a meaningful wedding.

The Feminist Bride: Engagement

I'm a 28 year old white, upper-middle class American female, trained by Walt Disney and Cosmo and Seventeen Magazine. Since I have been able to understand what a wedding was, I have fantasized about how the man would propose. Where it would happen, how he would kneel, how I would act surprised but shyly confident beneath my blush. As a feminist I suppose I should be embarrassed about these confessions, but when it comes down to it, fantasies of this type are common. I am not at all different than any other woman I know. I don't know another woman my age who hasn't envisioned how her engagement would transpire. Ready to say yes or shake her head in reply.

Before I decided that I was ready to marry I hadn't the slightest idea of how deep my pre-conceptions of engagement were. It was not until I decided I was ready to wed that I discovered how thoroughly my expectations (and everyone else around me) were already imbedded in my American cultural soul.

Six weeks ago I flipped my socio-cultural norms on their head. I kneeled down on a beach in California, and asked my boyfriend for his hand in marriage. 

Since that day I have come to understand that engagement is actually the last bastion of cultural misogyny.

A personal example: How many women in your life do you know who asked their partners to marry them?

Lesbians aside, your answer should be apparent. We are few.

And why- is it that it's difficult to be the one who asks? Is it that we are too weak or indecisive to execute? Is it because we don't know his ring size? No. No. and No. The only reason we as women allow ourselves to continue the gender biased process of a traditional engagement is because society hasn't let this last stand go.

True discrimination happens when something is so ingrained in society that no one notices it. Indeed, I myself hadn't realized I too expected the man to propose until when cleaning the house a few years ago, my boyfriend approached me (then on a ladder 8 ft in the air, in my filthiest clothes, hair full of cobwebs) with a small blue velvet ring box. My mind immediately jumped to Oh No! Not Here! He can't propose to me like this! It was at that moment I realized my assumptions. I had never stopped to consider that I might be the one to pop the question.

Similarly, it occurred to very few of our friends that in our case, my proposal was the perfect and most logical way for this to transpire. He had already told everyone he was ready to marry- he was just waiting for me. So when I became ready- I had to reevaluate my position on engagement. It didn't make much sense for me to tell him that I was ready, and for him subsequently to propose- where's the mystery, the magic, and the surprise in that?

So I set to planning. I created my fantasy of a proposal. There was a beach, a sunset, a hand crafted ring from a local artisan.  And in the end, my proposal was accepted, and heartily I might add. It didn't faze him in the least that I had been the one to ask. I'm adding the comfortability with flipped gender norms to the many reasons I'm grateful for my groom to be.

And to all you ladies out there- here's an encouragement: Proposing was one of the most empowering actions I've ever taken. And, as a bonus, I got to create the proposal that I had always dreamed of.

They Pepper Sprayed MY Students!

In case you haven't turned on a radio or television or the internet in 3 days: peacefully protesting students at UC Davis were dispassionately pepper sprayed at close range. It was video taped by phone and the video went viral. (It may be one of the most watched videos of the year on you-tube.) The event is a media disaster for UC Davis linking it as never before to police brutality and the squelching of free speech on campus.

Here is Ellie, a sophomore in the Sustainable Agriculture and Food Systems major, who, together with former students of mine, was pepper-sprayed last Friday. Their action speaks to the power of the type emancipatory education that is being taught in SAFS. Civil engagement is one of the learning outcomes planned into the major, if this isn't civil engagement... I don't know what is!?



Here are some photos taken by my friend, Chris J Kim of the student General Assembly today where Chancellor Katehi attempted to make amends- unsuccessfully- with students.

Chancellor Katehi

Monday 11.21.11 General Assembly, UC Davis by Michele Tobias

Occupy is everywhere

It seems to me these days, that Occupy is everywhere. Scribbles on hats worn backwards by skater teenagers in town, small snippets popping up in Obama's economic speeches, special editions on the nightly news.

In every city that I have visited over the past week- Occupy is there.

In Santa Cruz, the Occupiers have erected a 20' dome to keep out the rain. This is not burning man: this is is Occupy- and what would have seemed unlikely a month back-- a geodesic structure inhabited by anarchists, retired peace activists, and homeless folks alike plopping itself down in the middle of the front entrance to the county Courthouse-- is now common day.

In Davis- the most benign suburban valley town-- a whole encampment has sprung up in the park that usually houses the Farmers Market, behind a sign that reads 'All Together Everywhere'. A perfect, seemingly non-political, kum-ba-ya Davis version of Occupy.

Our friends in Oakland were at the protests that shut down the Port. They had great stories of blockading banks, marching thousands strong down the main streets of Oakland, of banding together against hostile hummer drivers.

Occupy exists both in the concrete- the visible, and in the ethereal- through tales like these. In conversation it comes up often. A close friend's 19 year old daughter, I was told, vacated the studio she's been subletting in San Francisco and moved into Occupy San Francisco- as if that was a place to move into. My friend mused first as she spoke about it- proud of her kids' choice to be politically engaged- then she mentioned that it seems, rather coincidently, that all of her house hold sleeping bags have gone missing.

So it is. The movement many of us have been waiting for has finally arrived. People are talking about it, the message is clear-

Join Us-

Occupy is Everywhere.

Little Capitalist Pig

But no-one told me. My culture, as I understand it, values independence above all things- in part to ensure a mobile labor force, grease for the machine of a capitalist economy. Our fairy tale commands: Little Pig, go out and seek your fortune! So I did. 

- p 14, High Tide in Tuscon, Barbara K.

Barbara, it seems that you've hit the nail on the head of my generational issue. As I wrote about in Community Development 101 my generation has inhaled the idea of movement as a right of passage. Uprooted from family, from home, from an environment where you know the streets, trees and shrubs out of habit and not study, we've chosen to blow where the wind takes us. On to wherever the next, better, sexier, more profitable job takes us. City life of the far-off land has been glamorized to the point that no rural town has a chance to keep its' youth. Before they can realize the difference between reality-TV and advertisements, they are already sold.

I was too. 

Go Little Pig! I breathed in.

I exhaled the hot breath of a teenager, dying to yank my fifth generation roots out of the fertile soils of coastal California.

When my father yelled at my 18 year old self- Your great-great-great grand parents moved to California to get an education! I yelled back- So what?! I'm moving to New York.

And I did.