English

Mea Culpa

In the days when I should have been daydreaming about boys, I
				was busy admiring magazine models, my classmates, and myself.
				I was being trained to appreciate the artificial and real curves,
				gestures and textures of women, but while I never wanted that
				physical perfection in those to whom I was emotionally attracted,
				I demanded it of myself. It seemed, however, that the harder I
				tried to achieve that perfection, the more elusive it became. I saw
				how arbitrary the rules actually were; I learned to laugh and to
				formulate some of my own ideas.
				Powerful feelings of rejection set in: even my most stalwart
				friends were trying to "grow up," to dress and act “maturely." In
				response, I discovered nervous habits, too much unwanted atten
				tion, too little love, self-consciousness and ANGER.<lb/>
				Thanks for the anger.
				<quote>"Dressing should be exactly that —a tasteful overlaying that
				brings out the best in me. And you know what: This is the year I
				can really be mel" We understand you at Saks Fifth Avenue.</quote>
				<cit><ref>Clothing ad in Vogue</ref></cit>
				Like most mothers, mine is respectful of Culture. I once went
				with her to The Ballet, in old jeans, my favorite peasant blouse,
				and without shoes. I try now, seven years later, to remember her
				shame, and her rage (at me). She asked, “Why do you DO it?",
				sounding as if I was poisoning babies. But I don’t predicate my
				appearance on how effectively it will offend others. I am confronting how I alone want to dress. If I am ostracized because I
				dress like a "slob" or a "dyke," she mutters something about my
				deserving" it. They all do. The impulse to please her, to conform, is a glass splinter in my gut, dangerous to extract but fatal
				to ignore. What else can I do but try?
				I admit the monster in me. I salute the witch. My ancestors were
				proud and fierce and slaughtered. My sisters remember. We
				remind each other, we snarl.
				<quote>Spot tip: to reduce a too-full upper lip, outline it with a white
 		pencil and smudge it down.</quote>
 		<cit><ref>Beauty tips in Vogue</ref></cit>
 		
				I go to Woolworths for makeup for this project. I have to work
				some black magic on my unkempt face. I expertly "blush on,
				frost my lips, sculpt my lids with manufactured nature.
				Why does it feel so natural to perform this ritual? I want to feel
				terribly strange. I want to experience it with the same bewilderment that someone from a preindustrial culture would feel on seeing the first photograph of herself, but I feel as if l’d never been
				away from it.
				<quote>The Papuans, for instance, have a high regard for the vibrating
				buttocks of their women who early learn to cultivate a provocative walk.</quote>
				<cit><ref>in The Unfashionable Human Body</ref></cit>
				
				<list>
					<item>-First in class to shave my legs. Brave.</item>
				<item>— Discarded my bra with my Catholicism. Subversive.</item>
				<item>- Wore sandals and a long braid at the university. Intellectual.</item>
				<item>- Feel professional in my velvet jacket. Adult.</item>
				</list>
				I see how powerfully Their definitions have defined my reactions,
				how much my spontaneity has been predetermined. This affects
				not only how I to dress but how I respond to others.<lb/>
				The "Ahh, I thought so” when a woman’s actions fit her appearance.<lb/>
				And the delightful confusion when a woman in Ladydrag gets
				ANGRY, gets FURIOUS.<lb/>
				The disappointment when gym shoes and labyris protect a hypocrite.<lb/>
				The disorienting pleasure when a "butchy” woman speaks tenderly to me.
				
 		How ludicrous.<lb/>
				But I challenge anyone to say that she doesn’t go through the
				same gyrations.<lb/>
				I hate it. I hate it and I keep doing it.<lb/>
				Everyone tells me not to worry, "Everyone does it."<lb/>
				A lousy argument.<lb/>
				Whatever happened to self-definition? To inner-directed fantasy?
				
 		<quote>... there is a woman among the Snakes who once dreamed that
				she was a man and killed animals in the chase. Upon waking, she
				assumed her husband's garments, took his gun and went out to
				test the virtue of her dream; she killed a deer. Since that time she
				has not left off man's costume ... by some fearless actions she
				has obtained the title of "brave” and the privilege of admittance
				to the council of chiefs. Nothing less than another dream could
				make her return to her gown.</quote>
				<cit><ref>-Pierre-Jean de Smet (quoted in Gay American History)</ref></cit>
 		
				The danger lies in rebelling on Their terms, replacing one dictate
				with another. Are we really appeased now that we can wear
				pants to work? No ... we embrace the egalitarianism of pants
				and then create socioeconomic distinctions between pants, slacks
				and trousers, between fine and grubby pants.
				Fashion changes, but its significance remains: style costs money.
				We have been taught to be grateful for the “democratic” variety
				in our lives, but our clothes reflect our economic tyranny. Not
				only can few of us afford the ever-changing demands of fashion,
				but we are also destroying animals and the earth to satiate our
				insatiable "needs."
				This isn’t a fixed reality, it’s been built from egocentric and ruth
				less fantasies. Alter the fantasy and we alter the reality.
				<quote>The mystery of fashion is that this sudden change of detail is
				imposed on women: they cannot escape it ... In matters of style,
				women obey some hidden law analogous to the one that decides
				the colors of the wings of birds or the petals of flowers.</quote>
				<cit><ref>in Feminine Fulfillment</ref></cit>
 		<pb n='29' facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_029.jpg"/>
			
				We must begin to believe in a value-free body aesthetic; free
				choice will come only when the options aren’t value-laden.
				<quote>Im tired of sad-looking women, of drab suffragettes, of dull and unbecoming colors.</quote>
				<cit><ref>Valentino, clothing designer</ref></cit>
				
				Trying to extricate myself.<lb/>
				Trying to think without Do’s and Don’ts, feminine and masculine, fame or famine.
				
 		Growing up a Catholic middle-class white girl taught me the
				value of disobedience. I have a vivid sense of my difference and I
				want to exploit this to catalyże a reaction, to force a confrontation of values.
				My appearance is an immediate, nonverbal statement and what I
				do subsequently either confirms or destroys people’s assumptions; they don’t want to hear an articulate defense of my "bad
				habits." They want room to condescend.
				They tell me l’d "improve my chances” if I wore the right things.
				Chances? Is this a lottery? Who are they to decide my worth?
				
 		I know that we need to feel okay about ourselves, but the ques
				tion here is using clothes to get or keep privilege.
 		
				<quote>... as hard times were crowding upon us, I made up my mind to
				dress in men’s attire to seek labor as I was used to men’s work.
				And as I might work harder at housekeeping and get only a dollar
				per week, and I was capable of doing men’s work and getting
				men’s wages, I resolved to try.</quote>
				<cit><ref>-Lucy Ann Lobdell, 1854, age 25.</ref></cit>
				
 		When I feel jealous of women who "survive” by wearing the right
				trinkets smells shoes colors, I remind myself that with the game
				comes the terror of losing. I had assumed that being a dyke meant
				not playing the game, but I'min the same trap as an obedient sister. She has to remain desirable by Their standards while I have
				to continually fight Their insistence that I be desirable. I fall into
				the trap of thinking that I had no interest in being desirable.<lb/>
				Of course I do, but not on Their terms.
 		
				<quote>There is a way of dressing— a way of looking—that to American
				women is like a way of life. It has to do with a certain free-wheeling casualness and dash that goes through and through and up and down.</quote>
				<cit><ref>-Vogue</ref></cit>				
				<ab>Slob.</ab>
 		
				<quote>... elegant clothing becomes your coat of arms, by which others
				will recognize that this is indeed yourself. A rag can be eminently
				elegant, as we see in Andalusia with the beggars ... We understand that elegance is not conferred by luxury but rather by
				poverty; the latter brings us close to a state of nature where nothing is useless.</quote>
					<cit><ref>in Feminine Fulfillment</ref></cit>
				<ab>Hippie.</ab>
 		
				<quote>Thank you, Arthur Richards. At last, someone recognized that
				women prefer what gentlemen prefer. And that's the fit and quality of menswear tailoring.</quote>
				<cit><ref>Vogue</ref></cit>
				<ab>Dyke.</ab>
				
	<quote>Confidence is a Lady in a Leon Levin.</quote>
				<cit><ref>— Vogue</ref></cit>
				<ab>Ballbreaker.</ab>
 		
<quote>The new bareness ... and what it takes to wear it.</quote>
				<cit><ref>— Vogue</ref></cit>
 		<ab>Whore.</ab>
 		
				People resent anyone who won’t dress "nicely.” We defile their
				sanctified spaces.<lb/>
				"Irreverent!<lb/>
				It’s just a phase."<lb/>
				"When I was your age...
 		
				I am not a string of phases. I am no age.<lb/>
				In childhood they taught me that acceptance and success would
				come only with conformity. But my acceptance of myself has
				come only through nonconformity. They call me selfish because I
				don’t want to validate their “need" for discretion and propriety,
				their need to belong. I answer that the incessant craving to be
				legitimate is the corrupting force in all of us.
				
 		I don’t want to have to dress like a man to get in.<lb/>
				I’m not interested in looking like a Lady to receive sanction.<lb/>
				I’m tired of being fooled by flannel shirts.<lb/>
				I'm not a feminist because of my boots.
			
			
				What are we all trying so desperately to."get into” anyway?<lb/>
				Who wants to rent a room in a burning building?
			
			
				* During Catholic mass, the assembled chant “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea
				maxima culpa” (through my fault, through my fault, through my most
				grievous fault) as they beat their breasts three times.
				Thank you Helen for your clothes, and Amy Sillman and Cynthia Carr for
				assisting in the photography, and Jonathan Katz, <title>Gay American History</title>
				(New York: Crowell, 1976), Bernard Rudofsky, <title>The Unfashionable Human
				Body</title> (Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Books, 1974) and Jean Guitton, <title>Feminine Fulfillment</title> (New York: Paulist Press, 1965).
 	</div>
 </body>
 	<back>
				Su Friedrich teaches photography to the women at Bedford Hills (N.Y.)
				Correctional Facility, is a freelance photographer and lecturer and a mem
				ber of the Heresies Collective.</back>
 </text>
</TEI>

Connections

Lament on the Eve of Her Daughter's Birthday

<lg>
 <l>There are always added difficulties: unwashed glasses, </l>
 <l>the box with some sweaters, the floral arrangement </l>
 <l>in the kitchen, the kitchen floor. It was a grid </l>
 <l>of pale blue and gray linoleum; it no longer exists. </l>
 <l>All of us move in time for winter. </l>
 <l>Things are most dangerous when habits are kicked; </l>
 <l>birds, and the way you imagine.</l>
 </lg>
 <lg>
 <l>We tell stories. </l>
 <l>This to restrain the sense that we would give in </l>
 <l>too easily when the time came. The time had come. </l>
 <l>The first red and the first green are not the same; </l>
 <l>between death and birth are radical colors, </l>
 <l>of which the trees are stain. I told stories for hours, </l>
 <l>each made from imminent, rendered places; talk itself </l>
 <l>a terrain. I recall games: ducking and kisses and tails. </l>
 <l>Someone is always blinded. Someone was removed in a chair.</l>
 </lg>
 </div>
 </div>
 </body>
 <back>
 Ann Lauterbach is a native New Yorker. She has just compiled her first collection of
 poems, titled Chalk. Estelle Leontief was poetry editor of Colloquy magazine, has
 published two books of poetry—Razerol and Whatever Happens—with Claire van Vliet of
 Janus Press, Vermont. She is now a reader of poetry and fiction for the Partisan Review.
 
 </back>
 </text>
</TEI>

3 Short Fictions

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 <div type="essay">
 <pb n="22" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_022.jpg"/>
 <head>3 short fictions</head>
 <byline>lucy r. lippard</byline>
 <div>
 <head>1. the cries you hear</head>
 The rocks trembled every day for over two months and in parts of Tibet a sick
 person or a woman who had given birth to a child was carefully prevented from
 sleeping. Sometimes the flower is so constructed that the insect cannot get at the
 nectar without brushing against a stigma which, perhaps because males tend to fall
 asleep more rapidly than females after intercourse, returns to stone needles. In
 the process of collapse the star’s outer layers compress. Lying naked in the
 pouring rain, our wetness the world’s wetness, our hard bodies the makings of
 rock. We took no photographs. The vacant plains were a featureless screen on which
 we projected our memories of rivers forests oceans and mountains, of elsewhere —
 quick! Before it....
 Meanwhile, the females of the indispensable earthquake rest quietly in the
 half-closed blossoms, sharing the power of sleep, oblivious to our pain. I was
 long in doubt concerning the origins of these conditions of stress, horror and
 exhaustion. That two different organisms should have simultaneously adapted
 themselves to each other. During the third severe shock the trees were so
 violently shaken that the birds flew out with frightened cries. Bubblelike
 cavities formed by expanding gas. Solid pieces blown violently out of the womb.
 Glass surfaces, brittle and gleaming, formed by rapid solidification. Touch me
 here. Wrinkles, pores in the earth’s skin, basalt lavas swelling from beneath,
 channeled in fissures, dust and ash. The cries you hear are only the continuing
 shock of life. 
 "It is a fatal delusion which presents the earth as the lower half of the
 universe and the heavens as its upper half. The heavens and earth are not two
 separate creations, as we have heard repeated thousands and thousands of times.
 They are only one. The earth is in the heavens. The heavens are infinite space,
 indefinite expanse, a void without limits; no frontier circumscribes them, they
 have neither beginning nor end, neither top nor bottom, right nor left; there is
 an infinity of spaces which succeed each other in every direction.
 A mountain chain is an effective barrier. The slow movement of underground waters
 carrying silica into sandstone. Limestone metamorphosed is marble. Bedding planes
 obscured and mineral impurities drawn out into swirling streaks and bands,
 swirling streaks and bedding planes obscured. He is tall and arrogant, questioning
 and vulnerable. Cold tar will shatter if struck but will flow downhill if left
 undisturbed for a long time. Shattered and flowing, flowing and shattered if
 struck. Hard things that were soft. Soft things that were hard. Hot things that
 were cold. Cold things that were hot. Wet things that were dry. Dry things that
 were wet. Old things that were young. Young things that won’t be old. It stops
 somewhere? Prove it.
 Under the mist a solid prose of rocks, rocks and water, hard rocks and flowing
 water, safe rocks and treacherous water. Rough rocks, motion frozen to the touch,
 thorny black volcanic piles, a vein, an aggregate, a channel worn away, a pit
 blown or swirled out, grains, knife edges vertical. And smooth rocks, covered with
 pale and slippery algae, soothed to a fine old gentleness. Patterns of water,
 ancient muds, slow curves.
 In some alpine mountains high above the timberline, sheets of frost-shattered
 rock fragments creep slowly down the valleys making curious tonguelike forms. My
 mouth. My tongue makes love to my mouth, searching its cavities for the softest,
 wettest places to fondle, sliding past and over the hard sharp teeth so that it
 hurts a little, overlapping, lapping its own roughness, slipping across the
 toothmounds under the gums and falling into the dark throat. Craving in. Prose,
 not poetry. Its tentacles reach in more directions at once, from a solider base,
 at a natural pace. It circles and radiates, has a core and a skin and a network of
 capillaries instead of only arteries. Memories wear away the present to an older
 landscape. My leg, thicker at the top than at the bottom, stronger at the bottom
 than at the top, stranger at the top than at the bottom, more useful at the bottom
 than at the top. At the top, plump flesh held firmly between thumb and forefinger,
 a few long fine hairs on the broadest whitest part. Smooth and soft and secret
 lining where other hairs intrude from other sources - darker, coarser. A crease
 separating the leg from the rest of the body, a crease that changes character as
 the leg is used for <pb n="23" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_023.jpg"/> different things, a soft crease when I am
 sitting, a mysterious crease when I am lying with one leg curled to my stomach, no
 crease at all when I am walking, but creased again when running, sometimes. A taut
 surface when held back, a valley between bulges when not. A leg slimming gradually
 to a knotted center where the bones assert themselves. A hard hairy hilltop, then
 a wrinkled old topography flattened into valleys. A leg that swells again, harder
 this time, smooth again, with a neatly turning strength of its own, a leg that is
 straight in front and soft-hard in back, flat then rounded, a leg that finally
 gives way to ankle and foot, the working parts detached from pleasure places
 above. The bony not so pretty skeletons of motion, fleshed only around the ankle
 bones, arched over the instep and finally twice in touch with the earth.
 Each major time unit is brought to a close by orogeny, also called revolution.
 Disturbance, disruption, disintegration, under pressure. Even the strongest rocks
 may develop fractures. Deep decay and rotting of igneous and metamorphic rocks,
 from blocks to egg and sphere shapes. Water entering into union with minerals.
 Metamorphic rocks have undergone kneading and shaping, baking and shaking, shale
 turning to slate when split by cleavage, by slippage, during the process. Slate
 when struck sharply rings metallically. Clay comes in all colors. Playing the
 geomorphic role of a weak rock, staring at each other but not speaking until
 finally. A poetic geology to take back to the red hills, white clay to merge as
 pink. Isolated submarine mountains, the ocean floor pulled apart here, causing a
 rift, a certain cruelty. Alone is better I say. Then stop the invasion. If you see
 two scorpions together they are either making love or one of them is being eaten.
 Aries energy stepped back into the earth. My rock, your mesas. Ice needles pry
 apart joint blocks, tremendous pressures and bare high cliffs fall off into
 conical forms, especially in dry climates. Niches, shallow caves, rock arches,
 pits, cliff dwellings. Come now. Yes/No. In deserts, flash floods and earthflows,
 mudflows result from the inability of the dry land to permeate the perma frost.
 Shrinking and swelling. Given sufficient time, barriers can be broken down and new
 topographies arise. An unbridgeable gulf does not exist between organic and
 inorganic matter.
 Drift, and erratic boulders are ascribed to mineral richness, to the action of
 great waves, but women’s tides told in the caves refute such theories. Play pale
 beyond. In a climate warmer than that we warned each other, islands separated from
 ice cover by a wide expanse of ocean, foregoing clubs for quieter power, fleshed
 fat and knowing. Warm interglacial leaves, closer to the fires, hands in a ring,
 shadows on the ceilings, circles drawn at dusk, footsteps from below. The
 occasional peculiar transportation of boulders in a manner not in harmony with
 what we see ice doing at the present time. But little girls are crafty. Our
 laughter pits the ocean floor. Echoing with pebble talk, scratched on anemones.
 Walls curving inward toward us. No windows. Pictures nonetheless. Melted between
 sisters in collision. Only global catastrophes could have brought about that
 smoothness. Only torrential rains, wet hair, wet cheeks. Each other. Barren stone
 and fragmented debris stops here, swept back while lakes and valleys are dug out
 by other women. Each a specialist in her field. What generates the enormous forces
 that bend, break and crush the rocks in mountain zones? What indeed. Women’s
 cataclysmic work, traced by fingers in the meteoric dust. Giving birth to each
 other. Excessive.
 </div>
 <div>
 <head>2. into among</head>
 Stepping down and out. Someone else can move into this house. It looks o.k. from
 the outside but the inside needs some work. I only regret how long it took to get
 down those stairs to the basement. Overhead the pretty flowered curtains make
 wavered patterns on the sunny floor. A tomato is rotting fuzzily in the icebox
 drawer and other closets capture other odors, other faults. Under the bed dust
 gathers roses smell acrid. The sheets at the hamper’s bottom were stained last
 winter, not since. l’ve opened the windows but not the doors. It’s all yours, if
 you want it.
 Nesting fantasies. I am high in the tallest tree in the world and it sways in the
 wind. Exhilarating, precarious. I cling to my egg which is disguised as the sea.
 When the fish hatches I swim through the air until I find a cave, brown, humid,
 and grainy, where after a night with the boulder another egg is laid, this one
 transparent. l’m happy watching the beginnings of a new dream. It sometimes has
 petals, sometimes blades. One morning the walls are opaque and that’s that. Dead
 leaves turn to stone and I would leave but for the field of snakes that writhes
 beyond the entrance.
 Shuttered. Unhinged. Falling off the roof. A nice white clapboard house with a
 soft green lawn, lace curtains at the windows, roses on a trellis over the door,
 the old fanlight sparkling when the light hits it. We need a very long time to
 move up the flagstone walk. In the process a war takes place, peace reigns, men
 land on the moon and women defend it, black blankets of oil are thrown across
 birds’ coffins and the sea stinks. Still the little house remains, the sun always
 dappling its freshly painted walls, the sound of piano scales twinkling delicately
 behind the curtain of warmth. When we reach the door we are exhausted, gray,
 crippled, and in pain. The doorknob, though brilliantly brass, is cold to our
 touch and the door sticks. It takes our last strength to open it and throw
 ourselves across the threshold onto what should be a rosy hearth but is instead a
 deep dark well, the bottom of which, at this telling, we have not reached.
 </div>
 <div>
 <pb n="24" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_024.jpg"/>
 <head>3. headwaters</head>
 
 <quote>For reasons of their own, women are suspicious of diving and frown on their
 menfolk going down. D—, who has starred in several underwater films, has never
 received a fan letter from a woman. </quote>-<ref>Jacques Cousteau</ref> We are
 already down there. We have already gone down, our breasts bumping the boulders
 struggling to rise. Our menfolk don’t know where to send the fan letters. Can
 dive, but not delve. Perhaps far down are boundaries between layers of water not
 obvious at the surface of the sea and quite independent of surface phenomena. Not
 just still waters. Rapture of the depths. At a town called Headtide there is an
 old white church unconsciously marking with its spire the spot where the Sheepscot
 River, short and wide, a tidal estuary, comes to an end in a stony brook and then
 goes underground. The term tidal wave is loosely applied. Some rivers braid long
 plaits of sand with thinning streams, and others — always full, muddy and sated —
 lag in fat banks. Tides are most marked when the sun is nearest the earth. Tides
 thigh tickling, oozing over the edges and hummocks, a band of foam, making liquid
 land. Creeps up me toward immersion. Hold your waters. Making waves, seeing red. I
 flow she flows we flow. Lunar and solar tides coincide, are fully cumulative only
 twice each lunar month. While fans unfold, snap shut, and leave the flowers no
 escape. Underwater, irregularities rise and, cursing, fall. Two or more wave
 patterns at the same place and time. There can, however, be independent waves. And
 long rivers pass through different landforms like changing lovers. Impatiently
 cutting gorges, willing waterfalls and rapids to flatness. Unfamiliar bodies
 hurled at each other. Beneath the rumbling, boulders lurk and lurch, needing a
 pool.
 My traveling dreams are washed in foreign waters. In one I swim along a beach. The
 water is warm and the same pale blue as the sky — bleached but not burning. Behind
 me swims a large black dog and before me floats a group of exotic birds, brilliant
 pink feathers wet but still light, raised above the water in a tangle of wings.
 The end of the beach is distant; all sand, no rocks or trees in sight. My swimming
 is leisurely but purposeful. In another dream I wake alone and rush to find my
 lover. He is in the bathtub and I yell desperately at him: Did I sleep alone last
 night? Did I sleep alone last night? Another night, my child, my lover and I are
 going to see a lighthouse through a swamp. The waterway is not very wide. Trees
 hang dense over the edges but in the center where we swim it’s blue, unshaded. A
 long trip to make boatless, but we are swimming, accompanied at times by a fat
 friend. l’m not struck by the fact that we are swimming so much as by the length
 of the trip, not tired so much as a little bored. Once again the water is tepid,
 body temperature, lulling. The lighthouse when we get there is on a broader bay,
 still inland, mountains in the distance. There is some talk of leaving and
 returning in the afternoon. But there isn’t time.
 The waters broke with no warning. Lie still, pretend while it crests. Above our
 caves the divers’ forms pass dimly, unaware. Destructive advances of the sea upon
 the coasts have two distinct origins: dreams like sunwarmed flats when the tide
 comes in very slowly, visibly; earthquakes and storms. Neither related to the
 tide, and often not actually waves. Floating, I am a fleshy layer between sea and
 sky. Why go down? Letters melt and corals build. Why go down and not feel the moon
 in the pit of your stomach? Or hear ripples whisper on the floor? The ocean’s
 bedrock blurred. Unexpected, the cold and purifying northern channels. With no
 warning, water on the brain, the belly, breast and buttock. Internal waves stained
 pink affecting everything below above. Doesn’t hold water, that’s all. Divers ring
 their bells but fail to reach us, cannot pierce the bubbles that contain them. And
 we are already down there, friendly, calm, constructing small places in which to
 wait, making room for others, settling in, exchanging disguises, rearranging caves
 and mountains, waiting until they stop pouring oil on the waters, till they stop
 throwing rocks, sinking ships, turning our tides.
 </div>
 </div>
 </body>
 <back>
 Lucy Lippard is a feminist art critic who also writes "fiction"; it has been published
 in Center, Big Deal, Tractor, The World and elsewhere. 
 </back>
 </text>
</TEI>

Body, Space and Personal Ritual

<head>Rose</head>
 Jewish, 57 years old, married for 37 years, three grown children, part-time
 housewife recently returned to nursing on part-time basis. She has started
 studying Spanish to understand her non-English-speaking clients and volunteers her
 nursing services periodically at a second clinic. Still spends a great deal of
 time cooking, cleaning, and caring for people (husband, grandchild once a week,
 often visiting children). The day always starts early and goes quickly, with great
 activity. Her husband, a car dealer (age 63), used to put in an eight- to 12-hour
 day. He now comes home earlier and they have (to her joy) more social life. Rose
 also entertains her friends at home (a two-story house) with weekly dinners of lox
 and bagels (paid for on a rotating basis by "the girls”), followed by a Mah-jongg
 game. Bedtime is usually nine or ten, sometimes earlier, but never without an
 evening bath. Probably the greatest changes for her at this time are the recent
 loss of her mother, the coming of a second grandchild, and the full transition to
 "grandmotherhood."
 </div>
 <pb n="23" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_021.jpg"/>
 <div>
 <head>Merilyn</head>
 Married, 34 years old, a mother, expecting her second child, working on a Ph.D. in
 human development—"busy, researcher, clinician, social worker, psychologist,
 woman." She feels a lot of pressure to fulfill many roles. The pregnancy has made
 both physical and mental activity more difficult, with many days needed for rest
 and many nights to bed early. What is obvious about Merilyn is the pleasure and
 time she takes for personal ritual, both alone and with her family. The white
 space, although designed by her artist husband, is also an expression of her own
 aesthetic — it comes from the need to create a sanctuary. In her demographic form
 for this project, she describes her marital status as "a lot, happy, traditional,
 non-traditional"; her ethnic background as "a lot (chicken soup)"; her religion as
 "sometimes." 
 </div>
 </div>
 </body>
 <back>
 Sherry Markovitz, age 29, is an artist living in Seattle who works photographically with
 themes of family and sex differences.
 </back>
 </text>
</TEI>

Inside/Out: A Return To My Body

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				<pb n="12" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_012.jpg"/>
				<head>Inside/Out: A Return To My Body</head>
				<byline>Sue Heinemann</byline>
				 Another term we used a lot was "kinaesthetic awareness." The kinaesthetic sense
					has to do with sensing movement in your own body, sensing your body's changing
					dynamic configurations. But it's more than that. - Simone Forti, Handbook in
					Motion
				 I remember my first class with Elaine Summers, a New York dancer whose teaching
					focuses on kinesthetic awareness. As I lay quiet on the ground, eyes closed,
					Elaine led me on a journey through my body. Can you feel your toenails? Your
					metatarsals? Knees, thighs, on up through eyebrows and hair. Amazing how much of
					my body I couldn't feel —no sensation. As if parts of me had just disappeared.
					No calves, no armpits, no eyelashes. And wonder how many of us really sense our
					bodies as integrated with our selves. Do we only acknowledge the body when "it"
					hurts, when something's "wrong"? In how many ways have we learned to disown our
					bodies?
				 I think of how we tend to enthrone our minds, all-knowing. The body as a tool,
					only necessary to get work done. Or the body as an object, to be looked at,
					admired, displayed. The body remains an accessory, not integral to our
					definition of being. Just to speak of body sensations, of how emotions are felt
					located specifically in the body arouses skepticism. And I wonder if it is even
					possible to convey what "listening" to your body means to someone who has not
					experienced it. The difference between knowing something intellectually and
					understanding it through your feeling in your body. 
				 Just as someone who has never seen the color yellow has no way of conceiving
					what that color is like, people bound into specific body controls cannot
					experience the vivacity of bodily freedom until they break those controls.
						<note>1. Ann Halprin, "Community Art as Life Process," The Drama Review
						(Sept. 1973), p. 66.</note>
				 Summer 1975. I went to California to participate in Anna Halprin's dance
					workshop. Anna explains:
				<quote>In our approach to theatre and dance, art grows directly out of our lives.
					Whatever emotional, physical, or mental barriers ... we carry around within us
					in our personal lives will be the same barriers that inhibit our full creative
					expression..... I work with the notion that emotional blocks are tied into our
					physical body and mental images..... When a person has reached an impasse we
					know something in their life and in their art is not working. What is not
					working is their old dance. The old dance is made up of imprints imbedded in the
					muscles anc nerves that is reflected in behavior patterns manifested in the way
					that person participates, interrelates and performs their life and their
						art.<note>2. Quoted in: Frañtisek Déak and Norma Jean (Déak), "Ann Halprin's
						Theatre and Therapy Workshop, The Drama Review (March, 1976), p.
					51.</note></quote>
				Each morning we performed "movement ritual," a series of exercises through which
					we listened to our bodies, "hearing" how we felt. According to Anna, "Daily
					movement ritual is a way of becoming aware of self, of your body and all the
					spaces and areas of your body, what you feel like and where your mind
						is."<note>3. Anna Halprin, "Life/art workshop processes," in Taking Part by
						Lawrence Halprin and Jim Burns (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1974), p. 174.</note>
					One <pb n="13" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_013.jpg"/> morning at the end of movement ritual, Anna told us just to let
					our bodies move themselves, without imposing any preset pat terns, without
					interfering with notions of what might look "graceful." I lay there, not
					thinking about how to move. I felt my legs gently pull apart, opening up my
					genitals, and my pelvis tilted under, slowly lifting my torso upward and back
					down. The experience was both real and unreal, as if my body were literally
					talking to me, telling me how I felt. I watched, observing how my body wanted to
					unfold, to open out, my pelvis widening, my chest expanding. I got scared. And I
					retreated, my body closing in, curling up tighter and tighter. My "dance" spoke
					to me about my female sexuality in a way my head had never allowed.
				 My body as a woman. A biological given. Each month I go through the menstrual
					cycle. I sense the changes inside my body, the shifts in mood. My lower back
					tenses in anticipation, as if to inhibit the flow, to deny my natural female
					functioning. Is that a learned behavior? Clara Thompson, a well-known analyst
					wrote: "Because menstruation is obvious and uncontestable evidence of
					femaleness, many neurotic attitudes become attached to it; many painful
					menstrual periods are not due to organic difficulties at all but to protests
					against being female.<note>4. Clara M. Thompson, On Women (New York: New
						American Library, 1964), p. 25.</note>"" The secrecy of menstruation, not to
					be mentioned, not accepted. If I let my lower spine and pelvis move slowly,
					unrestricted, as they want to move, I can allow the flow to happen. Without the
					cramps of protest.
				 Menstruation — a sense of inner rhythm, an obvious connection between my body
					and my being. And I wonder if the visibility of this connection, month after
					month, makes it easier for women to get in touch with their feelings through
					their bodies. Margaret Mead notes: "It may be that the fact that women's bodies
					are prepared for a so much lengthier participation in the creation of a human
					being may make females — even those who bear no children — more prone to take
					their own bodies as the theater of action."<note>5. Margaret Mead, "On Freud's
						View of Female Psychology," in Women &amp; Analysis, ed. Jean Strouse (New
						York: Dell, 1974), p. 127.</note>
				 I think about Erik Erikson's article "Womanhood and Inner Space, and the
					controversy it raised.<note>6. Originally published in 1968, reprinted with a
						reply to criticisms in Women &amp; Analysis.</note> Believing that play
					represents the child's experience of her/his own body, Erikson found that the
					differing spatial configurations of play scenes constructed by children
					reflected the girls' preoccupation with inner space (womb) and the boys' with
					outer space (penis). In a recent replication of Erikson's study, Phebe Cramer
					concludes, "In other words, the exciting events of a boy's life are exterior —
					and here I would say exterior to his own body ... Girls, on the other hand,
					focus on the interior. Excitement occurs within...."<note>7. Phebe Cramer, "The
						Development of Play and Fantasy in Boys and Girls," in Psychoanalysis and
						Contemporary Science, Vol. 4 (New York: International Universities Press,
						1975), p. 561.</note> I read this as a positive assertion. My body is
					constructed differently from a man's. The sense of inner space —not a void,
					empty, waiting to be filled, but a possibility, in touch with growth, alive,
					whole.
				 My body as a woman. Have I learned to hold my body in a particular way because I
					am a woman? How does my stance conform to and reinforce how I am supposed to
					feel as a woman? In Elaine Summer's class I was working with my shoulders. The
					exercise: to stretch my arm out from the shoulder joint as far as it wanted to
					go, then release it slowly back to center. Repeating this, turning my arm,
					rotating my shoulder first in, then out. Afterward my shoulders relaxed, heavy,
					weighted on the floor. Yet when I stood up, I felt vulnerable, my chest, my
					breasts exposed. Confusing instructions ran round my head —to be a woman is
					weak, you must not be weak, you must not show you are a woman. And I observed my
					shoulders rise in tension to protect me.
				 A friend told me that once, while working with her shoulders, she reexperienced
					her teenage embarrassment at being flat-chested. She remembered intentionally
					caving in her chest so no one would notice her "deficiency." Expectations of how
					to be a woman. Elaine mentioned watching a little girl running around, doing
					cartwheels, moving freely, naturally. The girl's mother called her over to walk
					beside mother and grandmother. The little girl's body stiffened, her "activity"
					constricted, as she readily assumed the pose of "woman" in imitation of her
					mother and grandmother. Three generations — a legacy of how to behave as woman.
					The little girl sits demure, hands on her lap, ankles crossed — do not fidget.
					All those messages. And how do they make me feel as a woman?
				 My body as a woman. I return to Anna Halprin's workshop. After three weeks of
					working together, the women and men separated to find out how we experienced
					ourselves as groups, women interacting with women, men with men. The women began
					with a rap session. Tentative, sensing each other, a preliminary.
				 Anna then led us through a "movement preparation," to take us inside ourselves.
					While doing the exercise, we were to visualize our "life histories as women, to
					become aware of our woman hood. We worked in pairs, focusing inward by
					concentrating on our breathing. I sat on my partner Sara's chest, pressing
					against her shoulders as she exhaled, letting go as she inhaled. Then, in
					another exercise, I gently pushed down on Sara's stomach as she breathed out.
					When she inhaled, I raised her up, my hands grip ping behind her, opening out
					her chest ... pulling her toward me as I lay back on the ground ready to exhale.
					Repeat, reversing roles in seesaw alternation. Release, letting go — expansion,
					taking in. A natural rhythmic cycle at the center of my being. And yet how hard
					it is not to try to control this vital process, not to interfere. Letting go,
					giving up freely, "passive"; taking in, open ing up fully, "active" —the simple
					process of breathing acquires connotations. Do I resist exhaling, stopping
					short, afraid of being "passive"?
				<pb n="14" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_014.jpg"/>
				 Often, doing the movement work, one associates in images. Each of us drew the
					images evoked by the exercises, and we showed our drawings to each other,
					relating how these images reflected our experiences of ourselves, our
					experiences as women. Dana had depicted a child-woman standing small before an
					enormous closed door, surrounded by empty space. No mother to greet her. Alone.
					On her own. Alice had drawn a little girl seated in a yoga position with her
					arms held tightly against her body. She explained that at 31 she felt "too
					young" to have children, that she herself was just a child. Alice looked at her
					breasts in disbelief; she couldn't be grown up. My own drawing showed an
					interior space —delicately pasteled, tenuous lines flowing into and around each
					other. Scribbled flames of orange-red anger surrounded the inner sanctum,
					threatening to penetrate, to over whelm it. And all of this was rigidly encased
					in thick black lines ...contained.
				 Some of the women danced out their visualizations. The process of drawing our
					responses to the original activity and then using these drawings as a score for
					another dance encouraged a dialogue with our experiences. Melinda had sketched
					an incident from her childhood: while trying to prove her strength by climb ing
					a tree, she had fallen in front of her father and sister (her sister turned away
					from her in disgust). She asked us to call out conflicting instructions —for her
					to be a "lady" or a "tomboy." At one point someone yelled, "You won't have any
					boyfriends. Melinda lashed out at this voice and burst into tears. She closed
					her dance by convincingly repeating Anna's words, "I can cry and still be
					strong."
				 Marlo's dance was last. Her drawing was covered with words: "you can't get out,"
					"push me." Like Alice, she explained she felt "too young." In response, we
					formed a birth canal, offering resistance as Marlo tried to crawl between our
					legs. Several times she stopped, frustrated, and we taunted her gently, urging
					her on. Finally Marlo reached Anna, who was waiting quietly at the other end.
					But Meg, the last woman in the canal, still held onto Marlo's legs. When the two
					separated, Meg curled into a fetal position. The group gave birth to twins.
					Humming softly, we became a chorus cradling the two women. Marlo rocked, nestled
					quiet in Anna's arms. Meg, in contrast, needed to laugh so that she could cry.
					And those of us surrounding the two women were no longer simply performers
					enacting a score. We were participants involved in a drama —not fiction but
					real. Each of us was Meg and Marlo, woman finding her self, woman reborn. Woman
					secure in the presence of other women.
				 The following day our movement preparation focused on how certain feelings
					correlate with specific body positions, how emotional responses are locked into
					particular body attitudes. We sank slowly, vertebra by vertebra, from a standing
					position, curling tightly into a ball, then opening out, spread on the ground.
					As we continued to shift from open to closed positions, we were told to imagine
					a man in our lives looking at our bodies and to note how we felt about his gaze.
					I saw first my father, then my friend Bob watching me. Again the feeling of
					exposure as my chest and pelvis expanded wide. As if by opening, I were to give
					up my self. My arms reached to hug my knees to my chest. No, I would not show
					them my body, my femaleness.
				 Finally we spiraled on the ground, one leg rotating across the body, reaching
					forward, the corresponding arm rotating out, reaching back. We explored this
					movement, making it more and more sensuous, twisting slowly, luxuriously, until
					we were dancing our love for our female bodies, accepting our sexuality. Turning
					the torso, tentative at first, reaching down to caress an ankle, a calf. Flowing
					from one movement to the next, exploring the fullness of the chest, the length
					of the neck, opening up to new possibilities of movement, new ways of being.
					Each woman performed for the others, sharing her own discovery of the beauty of
					her body, of her self. A celebration.
				 In contrast, we spent the afternoon dealing with aggressive energies, with what
					Anna called "self-hate." We worked again in pairs. Alice lay down, hands beneath
					her head, elbows on the ground. As she tried to lift her elbows up to bring them
					together, I offered resistance by pressing down on them — not so much that she
					couldn't perform the movement, just enough to make it a struggle. While striving
					to raise her elbows, each woman was to let out a sound as a way of releasing
					energy and vocalizing her emotional response. A welter of groans, screeching
					into shrieks, often climaxing in tears.
				 Again we drew our experiences and danced them out. My image was a mountain,
					closed off in dense blackness, impenetrable, with a tiny figure struggling
					desperately all alone to the top. A pretense of strength. The barrier from my
					earlier drawing ...I am afraid to cry, afraid to show "weakness." I keep telling
					myself I can make it, I can make it, I don't need anyone. So I grit my teeth,
					holding my feelings in, and lift my elbows... To perform this score, I asked
					several women to hold me down so that I couldn't get up. How real this "game"
					became. Despite the resistance, I was stubbornly determined to stand up. I
					couldn't (wouldn't) let any sound out, let anyone know how I was feeling. The
					others' taunts hurt me —"how constipated she is," "you don't want to take up our
					time," etc., etc. — but the hurt remained bottled up inside. Sure, I might have
					simply told the others to stop at any time, but (psychologically) I couldn't.
					And I reflect on Anna's insistence that dance is a direct expression of one's
					life. That the same emotional blocks that restrict our everyday functioning also
					limit our movement.

<quote>I have people clearly looking at their old dance, confronting it and
					accepting what it is and by dancing it, experiencing that it is not working.
					Once this has happened, all that vital energy locked up in the old dance is
					rechanneled as energy and motivation to be used in creating a new one.<note>8.
						Anna Halprin, quoted in Déak, p. 51.</note></quote>
				 After two days of separation, the women and men came back together. Each group
					presented its experience to the other. The women chose to perform in a redwood
					grove. First we sketched out a collective score, each of us offering suggestions
					as the plan took shape. The atmosphere of our setting was compelling ... the
					silence, the needle floor muffling every footstep. We decided to make that
					silence the core of our dance — no words, no sound. Other elements impressed us.
					We noted the trees towering upright, the light softly filtering through, the
					sacredness, the timelessness of the place. We wanted to merge with this
					environment without invading it, to recognize and respect its power as <pb
						n="15" facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_015.jpg"/> part of ourselves. And we wanted to convey what the two days of
					being together had meant to us, how our experience as a group had strengthened
					us as individuals.
				 We began our performance separated, each woman dancing her self in relation to
					the surroundings. I snuggled myself inside a tree stump, needing enclosure
					within the vastness around me. I couldn't see the others. Yet I felt their
					presence, I felt joined in experience to them. And I became more confident; I
					rose to meet the trees, standing straight and tall. My hands reached out to
					clasp Alice's. We walked toward each other, slowly, silently, deliberately.
					Other women too began to approach each other, linking hand to hand. Soon we
					formed a chain, and we wended our way, step by step, downhill. At one moment we
					paused. Sylvia stood alone, below us, sunlit on the dust-covered road. She just
					stood there ... silent, still, the only movement the rising and falling of her
					chest as she breathed in and out. That was her dance. And her dance spoke to all
					of our experiences. A sense of inner strength, not assertive, just present. An
					inner rhythm, in tune with, part of the world around. An openness both expand
					ing, filling the space, and taking in, absorbing the space. One.
				 The men's dance was totally different. I find myself resorting to clichés. The
					men performed in a cove at the bottom of a sharp cliff, where the sea battled
					the rocks. The women watched from above. Each man stood isolated on his own
					rock. Each was costumed according to his self-image. Arthur posed erect, legs
					firmly astride, a warrior, face painted, high above on the tallest rock. Lower
					down, on another rock, Jamie writhed, moaning and shrieking, shaking his seaweed
					hair. Each man did a specific movement which the others then imitated. A male
					"chorus." Each note sounded, then echoed back in differing tones as each man
					adapted the movement to his own body. The shouts, the power flung amidst the
					waves pounding rocks. The aggressiveness, the "maleness" struck me.
				 One by one, the men disappeared around a corner. Arthur jerked his rattle in a
					frenzied dance, Jamie plunged into the icy water to swim away. We could only
					hear the triumphant cries of the tribe gathering. Then they reappeared, to enact
					a healing ritual. How different from the women's ceremony with Meg and Marlo.
					The men danced around each other, they seemed to avoid touching each other.
					Their gestures were bound; less gentle, less direct than ours had been; their
					mutual support less overt. And then they invited us down to the rocks to be
					healed. To be healed by the men? Was this really a meeting, equal to equal?
				 I still wonder that so many women went down. The atmosphere created by the men's
					dance was alien, alien to me as a woman. To go down was to enter a territory
					already staked out on their terms. Again the stereotypes. And yet ... What I had
					felt among the women was our shared strength, each of us rein forcing the other
					— not so much through isolated echoes, as in the men's dance, more in harmony.
					We were less insistent on an individualistic integrity. The men seemed afraid of
					each other, afraid to let their bodies mingle, afraid to touch. An aggregate of
					dominant notes rather than a true chorus. (Some people have thought that the
					difference I sensed was because I was an observer of the men and a participant
					with the women. I don't think so. In later discussions, the men admitted how
					difficult it had been for them to come together as a group, how hard it had been
					to relate physically, to get close to each other.)
				 Differences in communication patterns. In Marge Piercy's novel Small Changes,
					Wanda is showing the members of her theatre group the different ways men and
					women occupy space. She chooses for illustration how people sit in public
					places. "Men expanded into available space. They sprawled, or they sat with
					spread legs.... Women condensed.... Women sat protectively using elbows not to
					dominate space, not to mark territory, but to protect their soft
						tissues."<note>9. Marge Piercy, Small Changes (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday,
						1973), p. 438.</note> And I wonder again about the ways women have been
					taught to hold their bodies.
				 It's almost two years since I became aware of my body. And l'm still learning.
					Finding my center. Me. A woman.
				 Research into sex-role differences in movement patterns is still limited. Nancy
					Henley's new book, Body Politics: Sex, Power and Nonverbal Communication,
						<note>10. Nancy Henley, Body Politics (New York: Prentice-Hall,
						1977).</note> provides a much-needed compilation and review of the research
					on male-female differences, and what this means in terms of status. Just the
					title implies the importance of body language in regard to social "position." In
					another study, Martha Davis, a clinical psychologist, points out that a number
					of aspects of non-verbal communication have both sex-role and status
					significance—"frequently confirming the expectation of lower status associated
					with female, higher status with male."<note>11. Martha Davis, "Nonverbal
						Dimensions of Sex and Status Differences (presented at American
						Anthropological Association Meetings, Nov. 1976).</note> Davis concludes her
					paper with a description of the pictures of man and woman sent into outer space
					on the Pioneer 10 spaceship: "The man stands upright, wide, ready to go into
					action. The woman stands with her weight shifted to one side, one knee slightly
					bent and inward, her attitude more passive, a role difference apparently
					considered important enough to propel beyond our solar system."
				 My thanks to Jacqueline Morrison who took all the photos at Anna's workshop.
			</div>
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			 Sue Heinemann is an artist, critic and sometimes dancer living in New York.
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Women's Traditional Architecture

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				<pb n="35"
					facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_035.jpg"/>
				<head>Women's Traditional Architecture</head>
				<byline>Elizabeth Weatherford</byline>
				<div>
					 Human culture has been viewed by history as the product of "mankind's"
						efforts. Most of the events and achievements chosen for posterity as
						significant have been dominated and determined by males. However, there are
						histories other than those of modern post-industrial nation/ states. In
						traditional societies, located in what is often called the Third World,
						women have played a crucial role in the formation of cultural features vital
						to human existence. One such area, not usually credited to women, is
						architecture. In traditional cultures, women are often the builders and
						owners of structures, providing shelter and creating the conditions for
						social interaction.
					Although I will use the "ethnographic present" in most of this article, many
						of the traditional non-state societies in North America and Africa on which
						I focus here no longer exist, or no longer exist in their original forms.
						Their structures differ vastly from those of modern states. Some of these
						societies are small bands of gatherers and hunters, some are semi-nomadic
						peoples who seasonally follow herds, and others pursue a form of farming
						called horticulture, where the local économy is self-sufficient and women
						are frequently the farmers.
					Initially victimized by colonization, virtually all those societies that
						remain are now undergoing "modernization.“ If we lose the histories of these
						cultures, we will also lose an important part of the history of women's
						roles in world culture, for in societies whose traditions remain intact, the
						roles women play are central to their cultures—not on the sidelines, where
						our culture seems to wish us to be. In light of this, contemporary
						feminists' identification and re-creation of "women's culture" can be seen
						not just as a protest against oppression, but as a recognition of the
						arbitrary denigration of the history of women's activities. The discovery
						that architecture is a traditional woman's art opens up the possibility for
						a new understanding of our role in the formation of human culture.

</div>
				<div>
					<head>Grass Houses</head>
					Societies of gatherers and hunters lived in small bands, constantly moving
						within a relatively large territory from which they foraged for plants and
						animals. These groups, which include the (Kung of the Kalahari Desert in
						Namibia and the BaMbuti (Pygmies) of central Africa's Ituri Forest, bands in
						the Sahara Desert, Algonkian and Athabascan groups in North America, are
						intriguing in their social harmony and their knowledgeable, non-exploitative
						interaction with their environments. Women and men regard each other as
						equals. Among the BaMbuti, hunting is a joint effort, men care for babies
						and women enter public discussions.<ref n="1">1</ref>
					In gathering societies women may provide up to eighty percent of the food and
						as an extension of their expertise in plants and fibers (with which they
						make nets), they are also the builders. The dwelling the women construct
						usually consists of a framework woven like an inverted loose basket, covered
						or thatched with available materials such as large leaves, bundles of grass
						or woven mats. These shelters share significant characteristics across
						cultures. They are flexible, often flooded with translucent light, and
						scented with the smoke of fires and fragrant floor coverings. They are
						round, ovoid or conical, with no edges or planes to interrupt the flow of
						space. Their size and shape maximizes physical and psychological contact
						among the dwellers. Anthropologists suggest that such human proximity is
						particularly conducive to intuitive and nonverbal communication, to the
						development of internalized cultural rhythms.<ref n="2">2</ref> In our Western cultures, such tacit synchrony is
						usually found only in mother-infant relationships, a vestige of what was
						once the nature of communication between both sexes and all ages.
					A freudian theorist might suggest that the organic nature of gatherers'
						dwellings is a cultural extension of the biophysical environment of the
						womb. But in fact, these shelters can be extremely open and unwomblike. They
						include unsheltered areas where the work of the household, such as plaiting
						mats and scraping skins, <pb n="36"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_036.jpg"
						/> takes place. The house life overflows into outdoor space, allowing the
						activities of its inhabitants to expand. Many gatherers dwellings are easily
						adaptable, and when not easily expanded (as in the hemispherical scherms of
						the !Kung) there is flexibility as to who inhabits them. Children do not
						have to sleep with their parents, and can either stay with their
						grandparents or make camp with other children of the same sex at either end
						of the settlement.<ref n="3">3</ref> Thus the gatherers' house is
						not a structure enforcing family isolation, but serves as a shelter of great
						social fluidity.

In these mobile cultures land is not individually owned and no dwelling is
						permanent. Women possess the building know-how rather than the actual
						structures, which they may erect collectively. The building activity may be
						almost ritualized, as the "performer“ sets into motion a body of traditional
						knowledge shared with other women:
					Now she squatted down making her own home, driving the saplings into the
						ground with sharp thrusts, each time in exactly the same place, so that they
						went deeper and deeper. When she had completed a circle she stood up and
						deftly bent the fito over her head, twisting them together and twining
						smaller saplings across forming a lattice framework. Then she took the
						leaves we had collected and slit the stalks toward the end, like
						clothespins, hooking two or three of them together. When she had enough she
						started hanging them on the framework like tiles, overlapping each other and
						forming a waterproof covering. There were leaves left over when she had
						finished, so she let other women take them for their houses.<ref n="4">4</ref>
					The dwelling in the gathering culture is the focal point of women's creative
						activities. Since it is usually constructed from materials that can be
						replaced from available natural sources, it also binds society to its
						natural environment.
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>Desert Dwellings, Wigwams and Tipis</head>
					Semi-nomadic peoples live some part of the year in relatively permanent camps
						when an adequate food supply is available — wild plants, such as the wild
						rice of the Great Lakes region, or those provided by temporary cultivation.
						Some semi-nomadic peoples follow herds of wild or domestic animals part of
						the year and spend the rest gathering and hunting, or trading. These
						societies are not sedentary because they or their animals must range for
						some proportion of their food and the basics for making material goods.
						Generally they inhabit arid desert lands or plains choked with grasses,
						where farming is difficult.
					The architecture of such semi-nomads grew out of forms developed within
						gathering societies. Certain structural features of the grass house remained
						essential. For semi-nomadic desert dwellers, such as the Pima and Papago of
						the American Southwest, the convenient raw materials for building might
						still be plant fibers, particularly where the women were highly skilled
						basketweavers and had developed ways of weaving fibers into other forms,
						such as cotton cloth or yucca-fiber sandals. Up until the twentieth century
						the Pima were dispersed in the winter and settlements were occupied only for
						a few months during a short growing season. The women built structures that
						mingled the style of mobile peoples with that of the ancient Southwest
						Pueblos. Their houses were grass but the interiors were slightly below
						ground. Sometimes earth was used to anchor the lower portion of the exterior
						wall, a feature which perhaps explains the evolution of the earth lodges
						built by the Navaho and by the Mandan further north.
					Another feature of grass houses is the tensile flexibility of the structure,
						which was later developed into the tent form. In the desert or plains it
						might be adjusted or even formed in relationship to wind patterns; the walls
						might be opened, or closed tightly, to adapt to the wide range of
						temperatures characteristic of these environments. The tent consists of a
						framework over which a tight covering is stretched; it may be low and
						rounded or tall and conical, but either shape, with its flexible covering,
						is perfectly adaptable. Tents also differ from grass houses in that the
						coverings, and sometimes the frames, are carried with the band as it moves.
						All the components of such tents, including those of the Tuareg, Algonkian
						wigwams and Plains tribes' tipis, are made by women — exterior and interior
						walls, floor coverings and frames. There is a traditional basic form, but
						the tent is by no means standardized. In each society wom-<pb n="37"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_037.jpg"
						/>en have created subtle variations on the frame or the arrangement of tent
						flaps for ventilation. In the arid Atlas Mountains of North Africa, Tuareg
						women weave and embroider wool coverings for their tents. The frame has a
						number of possible shapes, demonstrating the interplay between individual
						choice and cultural tradition.
					 Algonkian-speaking groups, originally inhabiting much of the Eastern United
						States, were pushed west to the Great Lakes region after the white invasion.
						They hunted, gathered, fished, collected maple sugar, gathered wild rice,
						and had gardens. Some, like the Kickapoo, constructed wigwams of frames
						covered by mats. Others, including the Ojibwa, constructed conical tents
						covered with thin sheets of birch bark sewed together with small roots until
						long enough to cover the sides. Ojibwa women cut the poles for the frames
						and made colorful mats from reeds to cover the walls, and to serve as
						carpets, beds and sofas. Softening, bleaching and dyeing these reeds was a
						complicated process. The completed mats were carried from site to site.
						Early white observers were greatly impressed with the women's strength, as
						shown by this comment from 1855:
					<quote>It may be easily supposed that these squaws, owing to their performing
						all the work of joiners, carpenters and masons have blistered hands. In
						fact, their hands are much harder to the touch than those of the men; and
						indeed their entire muscular system is far more developed and they are
						proportionately stronger in the arm.<ref n="5">5</ref></quote>
					Similarly, the tipi-builders of the Great Plains were responsible for all
						aspects of the construction of their dwellings. They developed one of the
						most striking forms in women's vernacular architecture. The Plains societies
						were mobile; they moved from winter hunting camps to large summer ceremonial
						villages and the women carried not only the skin coverings and interior
						liners, but the poles with which the tipi was erected as well. These were
						hard to find on the Plains, and made a useful sled (travois) for carrying
						household property and people over long distances.
					When more permanent materials were used for making dwellings, women often
						cooperated in their manufacture. In making an ordinary tipi, the owner
						scraped and tanned the hides from which the cover would be made, frequently
						using treasured tools which she had inherited from the women of her family.
						Then a female specialist was called in to cut and fit the skins, and
						neighbors gathered to but the traditional sacred designs and high standards
						of work are still rigorously adhered to.
					The Quillers' Society met when a woman of the community had vowed to
						undertake a project. An older woman held the society's medicine bundle,
						filled with objects of spiritual power, and with the vower, performed the
						rituals necessary for the work to begin and end. She would instruct the
						younger woman in needlework and the society's ceremonies; then the entire
						group started work together. Afterwards the woman who had vowed the task
						continued alone, although she could consult with society members whenever a
						problem arose.
					Men and children were not allowed to touch or see the work until it was
						completed, when members of the society displayed the piece to the public.
						Following a feast, the women whose work was on view became a member of the
						society, one of the most respected institutions of her world. Among the
						Cheyenne a woman's achievements in decorative craft were valued as highly as
						a man's deeds in war. Moreover, the Quillers' Society:
					<quote>...was spoken of as being similar in help stitch them together with
						sinew. Making a tipi could also fulfill a sacred function. Plains women
						formed special associations, notably the Cheyenne Quillers' Society, for the
						ceremonial decoration of tipis and their interior walls with dyed porcupine
						or bird quills. More recently these tipis have been made from canvas and
						decorated with glass beads, conception and attitudes to the Sacred Arrows
						[most sacred Cheyenne men's society), one very important difference in
						behavior may be noted. During the four-day arrow ceremony no talking,
						joking, or laughing was allowed in camp. The making of the sacred beading
						was attended by a good deal of joking, teasing, and fun. While the cere- <pb
							n="38"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_038.jpg"
						/> monial character of the work was recognized, it interfered in no way with
						the social pleasure of the occasion.<ref n="6">6</ref></quote>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>Female Farmers</head>
					When societies obtain their food predominantly from horticulture, it is
						practical for the people to settle in more permanent villages close to their
						fields. Jobs are traditionally assigned to one sex or an other. Sometimes
						men and women cultivate different crops and even speak differ- ent
						languages.
					Even space within the village might alsco be divided along sex lines, and the
						architecture reflects and affects sex-specialized tasks. Women generally
						dominate culti- vation but building tasks are specified and divided
						according to sex. In much of Africa the characteristic building form is
						round, with a gabled and thatched roof and walls made of wattle and daub.
						Each component is made separately by men or women. Male and female tasks
						vary from society to society. Among the Kikuyu of Kenya, men construct the
						walls and women the roof. After the men finish their work, they go to the
						feast celebrating the house building. They goad the women, calling them
						"slow chameleons“ who will miss the feast if they don't hurry. The women,
						who are working on the thatching, typically respond in chorus:
					<quote>You men, you lack the most important art in building, namely thatching. A
						wall and an empty roof cannot protect you from heavy rain nor from the
						burning sun. It is our careful thatching that makes the hut worth living. We
						are not chameleons but nyoni ya nyagathanga small songbirds known for their
						beautiful nests).<ref n="7">7</ref></quote>
					Separation of the sexes does not necessarily serve as a foundation for male
						domination. Cultural practices that encourage one sex to feel communal
						solidarity and to express itself in opposition to the other seem to yield
						much autonomy to both men and women as groups, indicated by the development
						of separate economic, social or ritual spheres outside of the activities
						that demand the involvement of both sexes. The position of women is
						particularly strong in matrilineal societies, where they are leaders of
						clans and owners of the fields, of harvest, food storage and dwellings. The
						longhouse of the Iroquois-speaking tribes of North America, built until the
						mid-nineteenth century, was controlled by women, and was a remarkable
						example of communal living. The longhouse served as the center of Iroquois
						social life. Ritual performances took place there and it was both dwelling
						and workplace for the many families of the clan to whom it belonged. By
						controlling the longhouse and the food stores, women played a vital part in
						the political affairs of the tribes.<ref n="8">8</ref> Through manipulation of supplies they could
						encourage or prevent war parties. The senior women, who controlled the
						longhouse, also played an important role in social policy decisions. They
						appointed spokesmen for the clan in village and tribal councils, and they
						could also "remove the horns," that is, remove those spokesmen from office
						if they did not do their job according to the women's interests. The
						longhouse stood as a symbol of the society at large; the confederation of
						the Iroquois tribes recognized the significance of this woman-owned
						institution by naming themselves The League of the Longhouse.
					There are few matrilineal cultivating societies remaining in the world. One
						of their striking characteristics was that they were subsistence societies —
						that is, no wealth was accumulated from year to year. Although the source of
						food and the type of settlement differed, they shared this feature with the
						gathering peoples mentioned earlier. The change from subsistence society to
						one in which it is possible to accumulate wealth frequently comes with the
						addition of livestock or herd animals to horticultural life. Such a change
						in process was observed in the early nineteenth century among the Mandan, a
						cultivating society living on the North American Plains. Basically, the
						Mandan lived two life styles. The matrilineal one dominated the life of the
						vilage, where women were the farmers and owned and built the houses; the
						second was patrilineal, occurring during the sum- mer months, when some of
						the women tended the fields, while most of the men and a few women went into
						the Plains to hunt buffalo. This resulted in an important division of
						economic tasks and calendars —the women living by an older agricultural
						calendar, and the men by the seasonal migration of the buffalo herds.
					In the Mandan village, the lodges the women constructed were admirably suited
						to the climate of the Great Plains. They may have originated as structures
						like those of the Pima. Walls of willow saplings and brush and a final layer
						of earth were erected over a wooden frame. The walls were built quite thick
						and the lodges were cool in summer and warm in winter. Quite possibly these
						were the prototypes for the sod houses built by pioneers settling in the
						Plains in the nineteenth century. 
					<pb n="39"
						facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_039.jpg"/>
					 If the Mandan had survived the epidemic of smallpox which destroyed the
						tribe in 1840, it is possible that they would have become patrilineal,
						giving up cultivation altogether to pursue the buffalo as other Plains
						tribes did. In patrilineal societies, as we have seen with the Cheyenne, the
						woman's position is secure when she continues to control important cultural
						or economic features. Frequently these two spheres are connected, as in
						societies where women have a specialized architecture for their own
						activities. The Igbo society in Nigeria is patrilineal, but with the
						exception of the yam, all produce is considered women's property; they sell
						anything left over from feeding their families, becoming successful traders.
						A century ago when this marketing activity was increasing, the women also
						began to construct ritual sanctuaries in groves outside the villages. Called
						mbayo houses, these were maintained by a cult of the earth goddess Ala, and
						were decorated with male and female symbols and erotic figures.
					In patrilineal societies women may have certain economic powers; if so, they
						usually own their own houses within the compounds of their husbands'
						families. But when men control agriculture and herding, or have access to a
						modern cash market, the domicile and all public buildings fall totally under
						male control. Men erect the structures; if they are dwellings, women may
						decorate the walls. In Mediterranean villages in Spain, Greece and the
						Balkans, and in Islamic villages of the Near East and Africa, woman is
						associated with the domicile as its caretaker, not as its owner. The
						isolation of women in the home is, of course, a function of wealth. In
						poorer cultures the woman may be forced to work for the family's survival,
						but in most places, she is supposed to remain in the home. In Spain, she
						decorates her house with whitewash as a symbol of purity —both of the
						domicile and of its keeper. When a woman's life is relegated to the private
						sphere of society, her significance in the culture appears merely symbolic.
						She is a possession to be protected. In Berber villages, she weaves inside
						her husband's house; the loom is not considered her tool, but a symbol of
						male protection. Sitting behind it, she is shielded from the door and from
						the street life that lies beyond it.<ref n="9">9</ref> Thus women are isolated from the world of confrontation,
						conversation and public interaction.
					With the advent of industrialism and the wage economy in any society,
						separation of home life from public work becomes firmly entrenched. The many
						roles of women are reduced to motherhood and housekeeping. The number of
						craftswomen, artists, businesswomen and builders decrease. Separation of
						home from business premises makes it more difficult for women to share in a
						work world dominated by men. Machine-made products limit the type of paid
						work that can be done in the household. Control over the design and
						construction of buildings passes into the hands of "professionals. Women's
						creativity is confined to planning interiors and obtaining or making
						interior decorations according to mass-produced guides like women's
						magazines.
					Ironically, this vestige of woman's importance as architect and builder is
						used against her when psychology and popular belief insist that women are by
						nature' oriented to interiors, and interiors alone. The home, as the
						exclusive province of women, has become a significant cultural image on many
						levels — almost an archetypal reflection of the privatization of women's
						lives and the resulting obsession with house/home. So now we paint, write,
						sculpt our houses; so far, too few of us are creating architecture.<ref n="10">10</ref> In
						learning more about the options available to women in other cultures, we
						become more conscious of our own untapped potential.
				</div>
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		<back>
			<head>Notes:</head>
			<listBibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/252882">1. Colin Turnbull, The Forest People (New York: Natural History Library, 1962), pp. 156-157.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/1818029">2. Edward T. Hall, Beyond Culture (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1976), Chap. 5, passim.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/995103118">3. Patricia Draper, "IKung Women," in Toward an Anthropology of Women, ed. Rayna Reiter (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1975), p. 94.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/252882">4. Turnbull, pp. 59-60.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="HathiTrust" ref="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000560270">5. J.G. Kohl, Kitchi-Gami: Wandering Round Lake Superior (London, 1860), p. 4.</bibl>
				<bibl>6. Alice Marriott, "The Trade Guild of Southern Cheyenne Women," Bulletin of Oklahoma Anthropological Society (April 1956), p. 24.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/18400546">7. Jomo Kenyatta, Facing Mount Kenya, Reprint of original 1938 edition (New York: AMS Press, 1976), pp. 80-81.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/1501926">8. Judith K. Brown, "Iroquois Women: An Ethnographic Note," in Toward an Anthropology of Women, pp. 235-251</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/852158789">9. Pierre Bourdieu, "The Berber House, or the World Reversed," excerpted in Rules and Meanings, ed. Mary Douglas (Baltimore: Penguin, 1973), p. 100.</bibl>
				<bibl resp="OCLC" ref="https://search.worldcat.org/title/803833">10. Two recently published books have begun the documentation of women in architecture: Doris Cole, From Tipi to Skyscraper: A History of Women in Architecture (Boston: press, 1973) and Susana Torre, ed., Women in American Architecture: A Historic and Contemporary Perspective (New York: Wat- son-Guptill, 1977).</bibl>
			</listBibl>
			<div>A native of Tennessee, Elizabeth Weatherford is an anthropologist on the faculty of
				the School of Visual Arts.</div>
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Weaving

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 <head>weaving</head>
 <byline><persName>Madeleine Burnside</persName></byline>

No mistake. Works at the loom a profusion of thoughts and angrily beats the red into place upon the
 grey. Makes no haste but in a sustained resentment forces them. Places the yarn. The warps are the
 parallel paths of her choices that bear her in a single direction, the teeth of the comb fit them, for a
 moment the colors appear superfluous to the continuing texture. She twists and resents what is seen as
 beauty arising.
 
 At another moment sets the red in blocks in such a way that emotion is confused with attention to the
 work, the beating of the comb an essential part. She says of her children, sometimes I work at the
 loom, sometimes they understand. The difference between my life and theirs is that my disgust is not
 unraveled.
 
 To the rhythm of the shuttle shé breaks the symmetry of the pattern bysturning the fourth arrow
 inwards. In another year she tears her daughter and rémakes the place differently so that scars cross.
 Her efforts are not to achieve but to continue. Rays of light from the window illuminate areas of the
 cloth, the sun marks her shines and creases her face. In the increasing brightness she becomes unable to discriminate between the fabric and the land.
 
 She wishes to include her children, those changing qualities in her ife, but as she withholds herself
 from her disappointments so she comes no nearer to her desires.
 
 She sits on the floor and for a moment they feel she is accesible to them, her craft gamelike and
 simple, they warm to her, they speak.

At times weaving is not a pleasant task but A vadteland of drudgere an end to which is not promised.
 She is aware at these times that cutting a rug from the loom does not relieve the ongoing pressure.
 She fasts. She does not sleep. The time opens and closes before her movemente. She continues filled
 with a specific calm spreading her hand on the surface of the loom as, beyond the window, the arms of
 trees are empty, precise, to cátchion the curve of them lines of snow. She considers. It is in this spirit
 that she has named children, placing upon them varn and dye in the hope that they will perform rites
 to announce all the phases of their passing.
 
 And sitting inside the frame she will recast the work, another play of colors whose relations and
 individuals set in her mind the parting of the space. It is time to rewarp the loom; she has come very
 near to the end of the pefmitted period for she has played with the moment here as on other occasions
 she has forced the thread into pláce and had it shy away from her. She again pauses, lingers in the
 empty frame and smiles, having freed herself from the pulling of the hours she,makes perfect
 indifferent gestures at the loom.
 
 She perceives this stage as a part of a chain, the links placed in her life as an offering. She draws the
 edge in or, pulling the thread taut, settles herself within the rigid sides. She gathers her thoughts, they
 pass into the wool as, when it is spun, scenes from the landscape are twisted into it. She spaces the
 measures, this is one thread wrapped around the frame, rising and sinking always the same like herself
 and days.
 
 The weavings are all of this thread that eases from her hand a troubled or a sweet excrescence into the
 world. This is her substance in which the moments are caught, their outline fingered and their matter
 consumed in such a way that they themselves become the fiber of the web.
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 <back>
 <div>
 I am a writer, not a weaver. The text is a metaphor for my craft. The descriptions of weaving are based on
 observations of Navajo women’s traditional skills in Ganado, Arizona, near Canyon de Chelly.
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 </back>
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Who Are We?

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<div><head><title>Who Are We? What Do We Want? What Do We Do?</title></head>
			<note>Excerpts (slightly rearranged) from the booklet of this name distributed by
				"Accion para la Liberacion de la Mujer Peruana," April 15, 1975, Lima, Peru. This
				text was taken from the first half of the booklet; the second half deals with a
				specific program for practical revolutionary work. The following are listed as the
				group's coordinators and "honorary members“: 
				<persName>Cristina Portocarrero Rey</persName>, <persName key="Ana María Portugal" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q131681187">Ana María Portugal</persName>, <persName>Amor Arguedas</persName>, <persName>Dorelly Castañeda</persName>, <persName>Beatriz Ramos</persName>, <persName>Lucía
					Parra</persName>, <persName>Margot Loayza</persName>, <persName>Edith
					Alva</persName>, <persName>Carmela Bravo</persName>, <persName>Dora
					Ponce</persName>, <persName>Flor Herrera</persName>, <persName>Leo
					Arteaga,</persName>
				<persName>Diana Arteaga</persName>, <persName>Dora Guerrero</persName>,
					<persName>Bertha Vargas</persName>, <persName>Inés Pratt</persName>,
					<persName>Adela Montesinos</persName>, <persName key="Estela Luna López" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q107596196">Estela Luna
				López</persName>.</note>
			<byline>Accion para la Liberacion de la Mujer Peruana</byline></div>

<div> We are a group of women who have organized to study, work and fight for our
				liberation, and especially to work with and for our sisters who suffer a double
				oppression: in being women and in belonging to a social sector which has been
				historically dominated and exploited. 
			<lg>
				<l>The struggle of women is integrally bound to the struggle of working-class
					women.</l>
				<l>No! to Mother's Day.</l>
				<l>Yes! to Peruvian Woman's Day.</l>
				<l>Less homage, more rights.</l>
			</lg>
			 Why are we named Action for the Liberation of Peruvian Women?
			Because we want to carry out our work without euphemisms or timidity—in short,
				without masks or half-measures. It is correct to call actions which are destined to
				radically change our condition by their rightful name: liberation.
			Ours is simultaneously a study-group and an action-group. We are by no means a
				political party. We do not aspire to be an institution with traditional hierarchic
				structure. We reject verticalism, dogmatism and leadership positions. Ideologically,
				we align ourselves within free Humanist Socialism and adopt the best of its tenets
				conducive to female emancipation. 
			<lg>
				<l>Without national liberation, there can be no women's liberation. Fight!</l>
				<l>Only reactionary men are our enemies!</l>
				<l>Sisters, Unite with us!</l>
				<l>Liberation is action!</l>
			</lg>
			 Because we cannot separate our specific problems from our socio-economic context,
				all our work strategies are adapted to the actual conditions of our country. We do
				not copy foreign movements because we are aware of living in a Third-World Society
				where imperialism is our most powerful enemy. Therefore we express solidarity with
				other liberation struggles on this continent, as well as with other women and men
				fighting for national liberation in their respective countries.To analyze the historic and social origins of our condition is to revolutionize our
				understanding of the world!
			 We believe our liberation is inseparable from that of other oppressed groups—workers
				and peasants. The liberation of our brothers will never be realized while their
				women—workers and peasants too—are second-class citizens, and while prostitution is
				seen as a "necessary and insuperable evil."
			Consequently we do not believe in individual liberation. The fact that some of our
				sisters are being promoted to important public positions or are gaining access to
				professional and technical careers in increasingly greater numbers has nothing to do
				with liberation. We believe that only structural change will produce real "women's
				liberation."
			So our position, our actions, are aimed at contributing to the process of
				transformation taking place in our country, at helping it strengthen and advance
				without obstacles. We support this Revolution because it is anti-imperialist and
				anti-oligarchic, and because it makes possible our own liberation.
			What do we call Cultural Revolution?
			The process by which the old system is entirely questioned and revised: its values,
				behavior, habits, customs, institutions and forms of communication. A Cultural
				Revolution must reject all individualism, engendering a collective way of life
				harmonious with group ideals, while resistant to group egoism. A Cultural Revolution
				must combat stereotypical attitudes like "maleism" (<emph>machismo</emph>) and "femaleism"
				(<emph>hembrismo</emph>)—brute maleness and coy femaleness. A Cultural Revolution must change
				patriarchal institutions like bourgeois marriage and the nuclear family—two
				characteristic expressions of capitalism and the division of labor. Finally, a
				Cultural Revolution's ultimate goal must be to <emph>change life</emph>, to culminate in a free
				and humane socialism. 
			<lg>
				<l>Wanting to shape your own destiny is wanting to transform injustice.</l>
				<l>Wanting to transform injustice is being political.</l>
			</lg>
			 What do we want to be liberated from? From the social, economic, political, cultural
				and moral conditions imposed by a patriarchal capitalist society which assigns us
				secondary roles, condemning us to live as marginal beings passively supporting and
				"servicing" men.
			From reformist paternalism which perpetually treats us as legal minors, because it
				reduces <pb cert="high" facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_102.jpg" generatedBy="human" xml:space="default" n="100"/> everything to the creation or amplification of protectionary
				laws that are pretexts to mask our real situation of dependence on men and
				second-class citizenship.
			From all kinds of ideological pressure, expressed in the terror most of us feel about
				joining feminist organizations, under the assumption that if we do so, we must be
				"against men." From the fear of being ridiculed or insulted as "tomboys," "whores,"
				or "dykes."

Statistics affirm that few women are workers.
			Out of the home and onto the production lines! Working women also carry the burden of
				the home!
			Communal eating-places, day-care centers and laundries—to create new jobs and lessen
				the load of unpaid workers in the home.
			Being a mother and being fulfilled shouldn't be a contradiction.
			We want family planning in hospitals, accessible to everyone.
			 Against whom must we struggle?
			Against the Patriarchal-Capitalist System which determines an unjust society,
				fostering exploitation, abuse, discrimination, hunger, wars and massacres; a system
				which transforms woman into a beast of burden (if she is proletarian), or into a
				luxury sex-object (if she is bourgeois). Capitalism has also reviled love, reducing male-female relationships to economic factors or to mere social appearances. It
				is a system in which children are the responsibility of individual couples and, in
				actual practice, of the women alone.
			Against all sexist ideology which gains by reinforcing our situation as "different" and which is expressed in the cult of "femininity"—sweetness, weakness, virginity
				and motherhood as woman's only aim and destiny.
			And finally, against all threats to the liberation front whose ultimate goal is the
				<emph>Monolithic Unity of Revolutionary Women</emph>, and of those men who integrally support the
				cause of our liberation.</div>

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		<body>
			<pb n="101"/>
			<head><title>WHAT IS LEFT?</title></head>
			<byline><persName><persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Assata Shakur</persName></persName></byline>

<lg>
				<l>AFTER THE BARS AND THE GATES AND THE DEGRADATION</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE LOCK INS AND THE LOCK OUTS AND THE LOCK UPS</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, AFTER THE CHAINS THAT GET ENTANGLED IN THE GREY OF ONE'S MATTER</l>
				<l>AFTER THE BARS THAT GET STUCK IN THE HEARTS OF MEN AND WOMEN</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE TEARS AND DISAPPOINTMENTS</l>
				<l>AFTER THE LONELY ISOLATION</l>
				<l>AFTER THE CUT WRIST AND THE HEAVY NOOSE</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, AFTER THE COMMISSARY KISSES</l>
				<l>AND THE GET-YOUR-SHIT-OFF-BLUES</l>
				<l>AFTER THE HUSTLER HAS BEEN HUSTLED</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE SAD FUTILE MANEUVERS</l>
				<l>AFTER THE SHRILL AND BARREN LAUGHTER</l>
				<l>AFTER THE CONTRABAND EMOTIONS</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE MURDERBURGERS AND THE COON SQUADS AND THE TEAR CAS</l>
				<l>AFTER THE BULLS AND THE BULLPENS AND THE BULLSHIT</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN LIKE, AFTER YOU KNOW THAT GOD CANT BE TRUSTED</l>
				<l>AFTER YOU KNOW THAT THE SHRINK IS A PUSHER</l>
				<l>THAT THE WORD IS A WHIP, AND THE BADGE IS A BULLET</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER YOU KNOW THAT THE DEAD ARE STILL WALKING</l>
				<l>AFTER YOU REALIZE THAT SILENCE IS TALKING</l>
				<l>THAT OUTSIDE AND INSIDE ARE JUST AN ILLUSION</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, WHERE IS THE SUN?</l>
				<l>WHERE ARE HER ARMS AND WHERE ARE HER KISSES?</l>
				<l>THERE ARE LIP PRINTS ON MY PILLOW</l>
				<l>I AM SEARCHING</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, NOTHING IS STANDSTILL AND NOTHING IS ABSTRACT</l>
				<l>THE WING OF A BUTTERFLY CANT TAKE FLIGHT</l>
				<l>THE FOOT ON MY NECK IS A PART OF A BODY</l>
				<l>THE SONG THAT I SING IS A PART OF AN ECHO</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, LOVE IS SPECIFIC</l>
				<l>IS MY MIND A MACHINE GUN?</l>
				<l>IS MY HEART A HACKSAW?</l>
				<l>CAN I MAKE FREEDOM REAL? YEAH,</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I AM AT THE TOP AND BOTTOM OF A LOWER-ARCHY</l>
				<l>I AM IN LOVE WITH LOSERS AND LAUGHTER</l>
				<l>I AM IN LOVE WITH FREEDOM AND CHILDREN</l>
				<l>LOVE IS MY SWORD AND TRUTH IS MY COMPASS</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
			</lg>

</body>
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			<persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Assata Shakur</persName>/<persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Joanne Chesimard</persName>; courtesy of Assata Shakur Defense Committee.
		</back>
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