Review: Ayn Rand Anthem

Oh, holy shit.

My kid came home with the news that they're reading Anthem in her English class.

I knew there would be risks involved in sending my kid to public school.  But this?

The inside cover of the book supplies the answer: The Andrew Lessman Foundation (a foundation started by a guy who made his fortune shilling vitamins and health supplements) has donated free copies of this vile piece of propaganda to the schools of our city.

I read the work this evening, to see what my poor child would have to deal with -- the first time I read this particular blight that Rand inflicted upon language.

I knew Rand was a terrible writer.  How terrible, frankly, I had forgotten.

This piece of work is just abysmal.

(Spoilers from this point on, for anyone who gives a shit.)

The thesis of this novel -- well, novel is putting it kindly -- of this little sermon is One Man Good, Societies of Men Evil.

We open in a dystopian society, where all the citizens are given names suitable to society that views unified men as a good thing -- Solidarity, Equality, Union.  But of course they all also have numbers attached to their names, because Rand has to make the point that in a world where people work together in a society, we can't possibly also have individuals.  Everyone must become a cog, a number, a thing, in such a world.

So the ego is lost!  Equality 7-2521 is forbidden to think of himself as I.  The very word I is forbidden, in fact!  Everyone must use the word We instead!

Blah, blah, blah.

The worst part about this book is how dull it is.  There are very few scenes.  The first twenty pages or so is just Equality 7-2521 ranting on and on about how misunderstood he is, and how mistreated he is, and how hard he fought to be stupid like he was supposed to be, and yet his brilliance kept shining through, because -- after all! -- he is just so smart and tall and blond and not like the idiots around him.

And he just loved science and thinking!  And this made the Teachers so mad at him.  Because no one is supposed to be different!  And he is so different!

So the Council who tells you want to be made him a Street Sweeper!  Instead of a Scientist!  And he was glad!  Because now he could repent and make up for his bad, bad desires!

And all of this is just stupid.

Because I know it's a metaphor, okay, but for it to work as a story it needs to be a story first and a metaphor second, and just how exactly is this world going to function if the teachers beat down all their best students for being good students? If they turn all their smart kids into street sweepers, then who, exactly, are their Council of Scientists and Council of Elders?  Would that not be the Kind Of Dumb Kids?

Would we then not have all the really smart kids sweeping streets and fixing plumbing?  Would we not then -- I'd say in about fifty years, tops -- have a revolution on our hands?

Not to mention, who is going to run your society?  Who keeps the books?  Who runs the Secret Police?  Who figures out who the smart kids are, in order to make sure they aren't the ones ending up in charge?

Beyond that, the structure is terrible.  Very few scenes, and a lot of exposition -- we're almost entirely in Equality's head; and Equality is (of course) a Superman.  He discovers electricity all on his own.  He withstands torture.  He gets Liberty 5-3000(a lithe and beautiful blonde seventeen year old girl) to throw off the chains of her communitarian upbringing and run away to be a Randian Superhero with him, pretty much simply by staring deeply into her eyes.

(Of course she is blonde.  Everyone who is of any worth at all in this book is tall and slender and white and blond, blond, blond.  What was that you said?  Aryan? Eugenics?  I can't think what you could mean!  Ayn Rand is TOTALLY against eugenics! She says so right here in the introduction!)

And, of course, the penultimate chapter is a lecture on the rights of man:

"Only three [words] are holy: 'I will it!"...I owe nothing to my brothers, nor do I gather debts from them. I ask none to live for me, nor do I live for any others.

"For the word "we" must never be spoken, save by one's choice and as a second thought.  This word must never be placed first within a man's soul, else it becomes a monster, the root of all evils on earth, the root of man's torture by men, and of an unspeakable lie.

"It is the word by which the depraved steal the virtue of the good, by which the weak steal the might of the strong, by which the fools steal the wisdom of the sages.

"What is my joy if all hands, even the unclean, can reach into it?  What is my freedom, if all creatures, even the botched and the impotent, are my masters?  What is my life, if I am but to bow and agree and obey?"

Truly, what kind of freedom is it, if the "botched and impotent," the weak and poor and impoverished, are always going to be hanging around in your society, acting like they have a right to be there?  I mean, jeez.  Bunch of takers.

The opening line, by the way? "It is a sin to write this."

Truer words were never spoken, Ayn.

Let Me Explain That To You -- One More Time

If you live on the internets (as so many of us do), you probably saw John Scalzi's pretty funny play, which got pretty much everywhere last week.

Here's a link, in case you didn't.

An Anti-Feminist Walks Into A Bar: A Play in Five Acts

This is not a post about that play.

Nope.  This is a post about what happened in the comment section, which is -- frankly -- what happens in every comment section of every post which is even remotely about a feminist issue ever.

(All y'all who are interested in feminism don't even need me to finish now, do you?)

Yep.  A Concerned Man showed up -- well, in this case it was two, or it might have been three Concerned Men, I lost count by the end -- who Just Wanted Women to Explain to them Why Feminism Couldn't Be X.

And -- you guessed it -- instead of the thread being about feminism or women, the thread then became All About These Men.

For the next several days, everyone who was commenting on that thread

• talked about these three men, 
• talked to these three men, 
• concerned themselves with these three men and their feelings (because they got so hurt that people were being mean to them and disrespecting them saying mean things about men in general) 
• tried to educate these men
• Endlessly parsed and explained and re-explained concepts of Feminism 101 to these men 

So that, instead of talking about feminism, we were, as always happens, once more talking about men.

And all through this, one of these men kept insisting, earnestly, that he just wanted men to have equality too.  Why did we have to keep talking about women all the time?  Why didn't we talk about men's equality sometimes? Huh? Huh?

Which is why I'm glad this site is now available.  Women can stop doing this work for free, which apparently this sort of men think we should do -- educate them for free.  They can now get educated on their own time, and their own dime.  From now on, Ladeez, just link here!  The Womansplainer.

Being A Mom

My kid has been sick today, so I'm like a real mom here.

I had to call her in sick (though, you know, I could have been anyone on the other end of the line -- the high school didn't ask my name, or even what was wrong with her -- just her name and if she would be out all day).

Since then, I have been fetching tea and cold medicine, tucking my baby in and making sure she has tissue.  We also watched the pilot of The Sarah Connor Chronicles together.

Now it's afternoon, and she's having a nap, hoping she's better tomorrow so that she won't have to miss her biology test.

I might make her hot chicken soup for dinner, just like Mrs. Cleaver would.

Stop Everything You're Doing

And watch this.

Amazing.   More here.

OMG! Your Kid Said #1@#!!!

New Grounded Parents Post up, a Round Table on cussing and kids.

"Bad" words were among my kid's first words (go figure!), so I had some things to so in this one, which is called Oh Shit!  Swearing and Kids.

New Issue of Crossed Genres is Up!

This month It's Robots!

We've got some outstanding stories again.

First up, Megan Chaudhuri with a wonderful far-future tale, Mabo, about a robot mother and her human child on a distant world. I loved this one from the first line:  "When I was five, I asked my mabo for the first time why I had no arms."

Next, Natalia Theodoridou, with a post-apocalyptic tale, When They Come Back, which breaks my heart every time I read it.

Finally, Eleanor Wood, with Daddy's Girl.  Eleanor Wood is also our Spotlight Author for the month.  Read her interview here.

I Can Tell Her What Her Answer Is

The story up in workshop had some problems, as is common in undergraduate fiction.

Half-satire, half-science fiction, it showed promise, but the author had muddied the point through not bringing forward the characters into scenes, through (as we like to say in the biz) commenting on her point, rather that showing the point.

"At its heart," I said, "this is a story about how women are commodities.  You've got this bit where you mention the guys cat-calling.  Well, show that.  Let the reader see what they say.  What they say should illustrate your point.  And here near the middle, this scene with the questions, those questions right now are sort of pointless.  Make them more to the point."

"About women as objects?"

"As objects to be consumed, right.  As commodities for other people to use for their own benefit.  It's why women are supposed to be self-abnegating, yes?  Because our lives don't matter.  We exist to be used by other people.  That's why the big argument over contraception and abortion right now, and the push for women to marry young.  Maybe get some of that into this middle section." I shook my head.  "I mean, don't make it about contraception.  But you could bring in the idea of having babies and early marriage and submission."

Meanwhile one of my younger male students had been trying to interrupt, and now finally he just spoke over me: "What does contraception and abortion have to do with women being, being objects?"

All the women in the class (there are twelve women and four men in this class) just stared at him.

"Well," I said gently, because he is a very young man, "if a woman can't control her body, can she control her life?"

"Control -- control -- what?"

"You need contraception to control your body," another student said impatiently.

"Look," I said, "if I don't know whether I will be pregnant next year, or whether I will have two children or six or ten in the next decade, can I have a job?  Can I get a degree?  Will anyone hire me, or let me into law school?"

He stared at me, clearly not understanding a word I was saying.

"The ability to decide how many children we have," I said, "and if we are having children at all, is vital to women being in control of their lives."

"But you don't need contraception or abortion for that," he insisted.

"Well, yes," I said.  "Women do."

"I would say, my answer would be," he said, "just don't have sex,"

I drew a breath, and then I let it out again.  A faint ripple, mutters and not quite laughter, had gone around the room.  "That's what women should do," I said.  "For the entire forty years they are fertile.  Just say no."

He stared at me.

"Just tell their husbands, for instance," I said, "for forty years, no, I'm not having sex with you."

The guy next to me barked a laugh.  "I've got a headache."

"For forty years."  I added, "Besides, that's just not what people do.  We're made to have sex, and we have sex.  Telling us not to have sex is like telling us not to eat.  It turns out we're not just very good at that."

"Abstinence," he began.

"Is the type of birth control that fails the most," I told him.  "You can look it up.  But seriously, we're not here to talk about contraception.  We're here to talk about this story."

Later, thinking about it, I was more troubled than I had been during the event, mostly because this student had intruded his scoldy lecture about the evils of contraception into my class -- I don't know if I have quite conveyed the forcefulness of his interruption, or how insistent he was on setting us all straight (setting me straight, especially) about how wrong we were -- but also because this student is so young.

Those were not -- or at least were not originally -- his ideas.  Someone is teaching him women have no right to their own voices or their own bodies.  Someone is teaching him he can tell women how to behave.  Right now, he's a kid.  He won't be always.

This Is Fun

...though some of the questions are annoyingly tricky.

For instance, you are asked about the number of sexual partners you've had in the last 12 months -- which, you know, given that I am married and monogamous, that's just the one, presently.

Then the next question is whether I'm using condoms for (most) of my sexual encounters.  Which, well, married, monogamous, and not fertile, so...

Anyway!  For the fun of it!

Life Expectancy Calculator.

For Teenage Girls With Wild Ambition and Trembling Hearts

by Clementine von Radics

(link via Ursula Vernon's tumblr again. She has the best stuff.)

When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.

Rosh Hashanah

So, among other things, this evening begins Rosh Hashanah.

Here at Chez delagar, where Dr. Skull is a semi-non-observant Jew, the kid is an atheist Jew, and I am an inveterate atheist, we celebrate the New Year by -- first -- going down to the banks of the Arkansas River and throwing bread (bits of the challah Dr. Skull has baked) into the water while we shout out the wrongs we are sorry for doing over the past year.

Me: I'm sorry for all the times I have shouted at other drivers! (flings bread)  I'm sorry I yell at Dr. Skull so much! (flings bread)  I'm sorry I think Republicans are idiots! (flings bread)

The Kid: I'm sorry I yell at Big Dog! (Flings bread)  I'm sorry I yell at Dad! (Flings bread)  I'm sorry I called that other artist a misogynistic name, almost, when I thought she stole my idea!

Dr. Skull: I'm sorry I hate subbing so much. (Flings bread.)  I'm sorry I ignore Cher Mama. (Flings bread.) I'm sorry I got mad about people eating in the car. (Flings bread.)

Then we come home and eat a big meal, featuring roast chicken and the rest of the challah, and  finishing up with honey cake.

After that, it's the Days of Awe, y'all.

*** **** ***

But this morning, prior to the Wild Rumpus, I had to go to court.

Remember my wreck, a few weeks ago?  Yeah.  The fella that hit me is (I guess) challenging the ticket.  Or something.  I'm not exactly certain what's up.  He might be going to jail over too many traffic accidents.  It's not entirely clear, because as it turned out the trial did not get held today.

Anyway, I'm State's Witness against the guy, who's got a public defender.  The guy and his lawyer showed up, as did I, but the arresting officer did not, so the case got continued until next month.

It was all very interesting, as were the other cases being brought before the court along with my guy's.  Interesting being the best and least depressing word I can find for it.  These were all reminders that however grim my life may occasionally seem to me, things could be far worse.

The worst was a young woman who was perhaps twenty-five or six.  The public defender, speaking swiftly and dispassionately, told her that the judge was probably going to give her jail time.  (I have no idea what she was up for.)

"But I have a child," the woman said.  "I have a little girl."

"All right," the public defender said.  "I can ask for a fine.  I'm telling you she'll probably give you jail.  What do you want to do when that happens?"

The young woman just stared at her.  Because -- well, what exactly could she do?

"You think about it," the public defender said, who I imagine deals with 9,000 of these cases a year, and went off to talk to one of the other 20 people she was talking to that afternoon.

Jesus.

Standing in the bright sunlight on the mixed limestone and grassy bank of the river, watching the fish rise to snap up the bread we had flung to them -- eating our sins along with them -- I was so glad to be there, with my family.  I was so glad my wrongs were these, things I could fling away so lightly, walk away from easily, up to the green hillside and dinner waiting.

"Wait," Dr. Skull said.  "I gotta take your picture."

I didn't even get annoyed -- as I usually would -- at his insistence at documenting every aspect of our lives.  Instead, I looped my arm over the kid's shoulder and smiled into the sunlight.

"One more for the West Coast," Dr. Skull said, clicking the shutter.  "Perfect."

Adventures at The Arkansas Public Health Clinic

So my kid brought home a notice from the school nurse last week, informing me that they needed a record of her immunizations by October 1st, or she would be BANNED from the school.

Also she needed to get a meningococcal vaccine, by October 1st.  Same deal.

I was (aside from the annoyance of arranging the vaccine and the paperwork) pleased by this, of course.  It means that the Fort Smith Public School system is requiring vaccinations. So, yay.

On the other hand, when I called our clinic to arrange the meningococcal vaccination (and try saying that out loud over the phone), the nurse informed me that they didn't give those.

"Um," I said.  "Okay?"

"You have to go to Public Health."

"Public Health," I said, because who knew Fort Smith had such a thing.  (Though again, yay!)  "Do I just show up, or..."

"Oh, no.  Make an appointment."

She gave me the number, and I did.  Yesterday morning, I kept the kid home from school and off we went.  The person I had spoken to had instructed me to bring along the kid's "shot record," and I found out why once we reached the first station.

But before that, we spent an hour out in the waiting room.  (An hour past our appointment, because Public Health is vastly over-worked and I would bet underfunded.  The room was crowded with small children there to get their vaccinations, and pregnant women on WIC or going for WIC, and pregnant women there for other reasons I didn't quite get.)  The kid was getting nervous, since she had a history test at 11:00 that she really wanted to make.

But once we got called to the first station, where we gave up our data, everything went really swiftly.  The first station was a row of windows, with women (yes, all women, and most of them brown women) putting data into computers.  She took the kid's immunization record, and my ID and insurance information, and using that, along with frequent interrogation of me (who she called "Mom") she spent about fifteen minutes putting all the kid's immunization into the Public Health database.

Through this process, she discovered that we'd missed the kid's 12-year-old varicella vaccination (apparently they are re-vaccinating kids at 12 now because so many people are not being immunized), and the Tdap vaccination she should have had at around the same time.

So we added those to the Terrible Schedule of NEEDLES in The Arm the kid would have to get.

After that, we went to Waiting Room # 2, but were only there about a minute. (Just long enough to have a brief squabble about whether the kid should get out her history notes and study a little while we waited.  Conclusion of argument: No.  Because she remembers all the history perfectly, that's why, so shut up.)

The Public Health Nurse was great.  Talked to the kid as well as me, which I love in a health worker, explained everything, and didn't lie about whether the shots would hurt.  She did all three very quickly.

(The staff, overall, in fact, was wonderful: patient, kind, and polite, under what must often be trying circumstances.  I could wish the waiting room was less hot and crowded, and the chairs more comfortable, but I imagine that's a funding problem.)

Then she printed out not one but two complete copies of the kid's immunization records -- one for me and one for the school nurse -- without my even asking.

Total time elapsed: One hour and fifteen minutes.

My rating of Arkansas Public Health: A+

New Post at Grounded Parents

My new post is up at Grounded Parents.

Read it here: Schooling Your Kid.



Older posts:

Good Reasons to Hit Your Kid

Your Kid's Telling Lies?  Good For Her!

Teaching Your Child To Talk Back

You Can't Have Any Pudding if You Don't Eat Your Meat

Against Punishment

Kids Today Part II

It's raining again this morning -- just a bit, drizzle -- and we have no car, since ours is in the shop still, and I had to return the rental yesterday.

I implore the kid to wear her raincoat.  Or take the umbrella at least.

The Kid: No.

Me: You'll get wet.  Your books will get wet.

The Kid: No.

Me:  Why not? Why, why, why?

The Kid: I will tell you why.  Because when I got to school, I would have to wad the raincoat up and stuff it in my locker and it would barely fit.  And then when it's time to come home, if it's not raining, I'll have to carry the raincoat.  Over my arm.

Me:  Jesus.  You kids today.

Kids Today!

It's finally raining here in Northwest Arkansas.  Yay!

Last night a massive line of thunderstorms came in, crashing and banging, and for once no tornadoes with them, just drenching rain, which continued into this morning.

It was still raining pretty heavily when it was time for the kid to leave for the bus, so I drove her over to the stop and we sat in the car and waited for the bus to arrive. (Yes, she has an umbrella and rain gear.  Don't judge me!)

One by one, I watched as the other kids, all between twelve and seventeen (this is the stop for both the junior and the high school) showed up at the stop. (No one else's mommy drove them and let them sit in the car out of the rain.)

None of these kids had an umbrella.  Only one wore a rain coat.  Two had on hoodies.  Most were just in regular clothing.  They stood in the rain, for ten or fifteen minutes, getting soaked.  And -- I must admit this was the part that alarmed me most -- their books got soaked too.

WTF?  Is this some new thing?  Kids don't use umbrellas anymore?  Or even rain gear?  Are umbrellas not allowed at school?

I said a lot of this to my kid, while I was watching these poor kids get soaked this morning.  She laughed at me.  "You're such a mom."

New Issue of Crossed Genres: Issue #21 Typical

The new issue of Crossed Genres is live today.

This issue, #21, is Typical, kind of a broad topic.  As always, it was interesting to see what the writers did with it.

Leading off, we have Kate Heartfield in great piece, The Semaphore Society, told from the point of view of a girl with Locked-In syndrome.

Next, Holly Schofield, with Slippery Slope, gives us a look at how bullying might change in the future.

Finally, Nadya Duke, who is also our Spotlight Author for this issue, brings us Good Numbers, a very appropriate read for Labor Day.