Confessions of a Riot Grrrl

My confession? I wasn't a riot grrrl.

I wasn't.

Now, many people would disagree. Those who knew me then. Those who know me now. Those who saw pictures of me from the early 1990s.

I fit the profile. I was (and still am) an avowed feminist and proud of it. I was angry. I was (and still am) fiercely pro-choice. I had been part of my local punk rock scene. I wore combat boots, I colored my hair, I shaved parts of my head, I wore a black leather jacket.

I was called a bitch. And a dyke. And I wore each one of those labels like a badge. And threw them back in the face of the person using them with the explicit intent to humiliate them. And I almost always did.

I was in your face. I would stand up for women who couldn't stand up for themselves. If you were a dick in any way, I called you on it.

I was a bad ass.

But I wasn't a Riot Grrrl.

This all came about when some friends and I went to see The Punk Singer: A Film About Kathleen Hanna. And I loved it. I loved it because it made me nostalgic and happy and proud and excited. I was nostalgic about being part of my local punk scene. I was happy about being a woman and being very sure of who I am. I was proud of Kathleen Hanna and how she has always stood up for who and what she believes. I was excited by the music. And the next day, I told a friend that I never considered myself a Riot Grrrl. And by the mid-90s when someone called me a Riot Grrrl, I'd get irritated. My friend was surprised, and I tried to explain why.

First and foremost, to some extent, I was too old. Not by much, really. And shortly before Hanna and the Olympia/Evergreen/Seattle scene began to bloom, I was part of my local punk scene. I was of that generation. But my focus was super local. I mean almost too local. I was involved in my scene, which for a medium-sized college town in Iowa was pretty vibrant. I was aware of the scene in Iowa City and knew of people down there, but I wasn't part of it. Same with Des Moines. My knowledge of punk bands was local. I knew more about the Hollowmen (Des Moines) and Zenoglossia (Iowa City) than I did about the other 1980s punk bands. That came later.

The world of punk is often testosterone-driven. It is aggressive. It can and often is chauvinistic. Despite that, I never felt it aimed at me. I never felt talked down to, oppressed, marginalized... or anything. Partly because the guys I knew were pretty great. The girls I knew were even greater. They were independent, opinionated and never took shit from anyone. And they were skaters and they were in bands and they did all kinds of things that weren't very girly.

Does that mean that everyone felt this way? No.

Another reason I wasn't a Riot Grrrl: I didn't (and don't) like being labelled. And boxed in. And I don't like those who don't know me deciding what I am. And by the time Riot Grrrl became something I was called, it was a label put on me by those who didn't know me and didn't understand my world.

The first introduction I had to the concept of a Riot Grrrl was in Time magazine. Or maybe Newsweek. It was the early 1990s. It was an article about feminism and like many articles before it and after it, it questioned whether feminism was still alive. I was disgusted by it. I was disgusted by those who felt that everything women had wanted had been achieved. They talked about people my age and how apathetic we were about women's rights because, you know, we had it all. And then they discussed the movement of riot grrrls. And I recognized me, at least in look and attitude. But did I think it represented me? No. But I don't remember why. My guess is that like most mainstream news sources, they article represented punk in a way that showed they didn't "get it." Or they simplified it. Or they just got it wrong.

Skip ahead a few years and someone saw a picture of me decked out a leather jacket, combat books, and jeans with hair cut in multi levels in a way that looked like it had been cut with a pair of fabric shears (and it probably had), and that person said, "Nice riot grrrl outfit."

Blood, boiling. And threw clenched teeth I said, "I wasn't a Riot Grrrl."

Do I dislike Riot Grrrls? No. Was I one? No. Do I understand why people think I was one? Yes. Am I irritated that people make an assumption I was? Yes.

So, simply put... It's complicated. But I wasn't a Riot Grrrl for the simple fact that I didn't identify as one. It wasn't part of me or my being or my self-awareness. It wasn't part of my world.

Oh... and a digression: Something that surprised me about the film? Was how cool it was to see how fucking cute and adorable and compatible Hanna was with her husband, Adam Horovitz, also known as a Beastie Boy. And it was interesting to hear her talk about what it was like when they first began dating. And it was very cool to see how much he supports her now when it comes to he health her anxieties and everything.

And my cats?

They have flees. Actually, I think I have more bites than them. They barely seem to notice.

The vet thinks that we caught them early. She gave them medicine and sent me home with some carpet spray. And now I am very aware of the itchy bumps on my ankles.

I blame the sketchy downtown petstore.

Pet Store Conversation

Actually, it's a feed store downtown, but they mostly sell pet stuff.

I stopped by on Saturday because they have cat trees, and I have been wanting to get one for the cats. I'm tired of Ivan climbing the kitchen cabinets so that he can hangout in the highest point in my apartment.

Anyway, I picked up some cat food and whatnot, I asked the stoner at the checkout counter if they had a delivery service. The pet trees are huge and while one *might* fit in my car (but probably not), I wouldn't be able to get it up my stairs on my own.... so I thought I'd ask.

This is what happened.

Me: Do y'all deliver?
Stoned Check-out Guy: No, we don't. Sorry.
Me: That's too bad, I've been wanting to get a cat tree but it won't fit in my car, plus I can't get it up my stairs on my own.
SCG: Well, maybe if you knew someone with a truck....
Me: pause I don't know anyone with a truck. If I did, I wouldn't be asking if you delivered.
SCG: Well, we always have them, so if you ever meet anyone with a truck you can get one.
Me: pause...pause Yeah, okay.

This when I wanted to ask: Are you high? But decided it would be better for me to just leave.

Kittens Become Cats

One year ago yesterday, I picked up two little black kittens at the Humane Society. That also means that one year ago Friday I lost Alexsi.

I went to the Humane Society intending to get two cats, not kittens, cats. I wanted cats about a year old, because I didn't want to deal with kitten stage. When I go there, I actually settled on a different cat: An eight-month old ragdoll, but I didn't. The ragdoll, while adorable couldn't be with another cat (and I was set on two) and had some poop issues. There was a Russian Blue, who at eight months old was bigger than most adult cats. And a tabby about the same age.... But no one was sure they would get along. There was a pair of older cats that were bonded. I really hated not taking them because they were adults, but while I didn't want teeny kittens, I didn't want grown cats. While I know they would have more years in front of them, having just lost two cats, I wanted and needed younger cats.

Because I wanted two, I was told the best thing to do would be to get two from the piles of kittens because they all liked each other. Oh, and I wanted boys.

It was the day after Thanksgiving and the Humane Society was having a "Black Friday" special. Adopt any cat with black on them for $25. I had initially noticed a block and black tabby, but the Human Society person pulled out two cats, checked them both and said: "Two boys." She also refereed to one of them as "the crazy one." We took them into one of the little consult rooms where they were more interested in playing with each other than anything else. And despite them being nothing like what I wanted (other than boys), I took them. I named then Boris and Ivan. Ivan was "the crazy one." They were both eight weeks old and full of energy.

Day 1. After checking the place out, they settled on the couch. Boris (left) and Ivan (right).

And then they got sick. Ivan had goopy eyes when I took him home so I expected him to develop an upper respiratory infection. And then the other one did. I got them on Friday and by Sunday I had them in the Emergency Vet (where they were treated by the same vet who I saw on Wednesday with Alexsi) because Boris was breathing so hard he was wheezing. A few weeks later I had them at the vet again to treat ringworm. All of this meant giving two kittens two different types of medicine twice a day. Oh, and then they had intestinal parasites. Medicine number three.

After two months and one round of URI and parasite meds and two rounds of tuna-flavored ringworm medicine, they were healthy.

Ivan (left) and Boris (right). One year later. 

They've grown into great cats. They're not as needy as Sasha was. They are more cat-like, meaning that they like to curl up next to me on the couch, but they aren't big lap cats and neither one of them likes to be picked up. Boris, the bigger of the two, is overly skittish, but he is the first to curl up next to me when I sit on the couch. Despite being skittish, he's the hunter of the two. He will pick up a toy, throw it across the room and chase after it. He drags around a specific toy, it's a puffball on a long thin metal cord. That's all he does--he just drags it from room to room. Every so often he'll hold the puffball in his mouth and chase the end of the cord. When he was a kitten he would leap through the air and catch any toy I threw in midair--and then carry it around while growling. He's stopped growling and he is too big to leap that high in the air, but he's still a hunter. 

Ivan is still "the crazy one." And he was crazy, but he has grown into a very inquisitive cats. Highly active, he is a fast and agile cat. He hates to be picked up, yet he is the one that will follow me from room to room and curl up on my feet regardless of what I am doing. Ivan rarely meows like a normal cat, instead he shakes his head while making a weird squeaky noise--or he does a half meow that ends in a strange gurgley sound. When he does meow like a normal cat it's because he wants something. Like food. 

They're my cats. And they're awesome. And I'm gad the Human Society volunteer pulled them out of the pile of kittens and said, "Here, two boys."

Things I've been doing/thinking

• I'm still unpacking. Those last four boxes are mocking me. 

• I attended the wedding of some friends. In August. It was the same weekend I moved and I had decided I wasn't going to go. But after some shuffling of hotel rooms, I went. I'm glad I did. It was small and low-key and a really nice get away. A saw some people I have known (via email) for years but never met. And I got to see my good friend K marry the love of his life. After seeing him go through a very nasty divorce ten years ago, it was nice to see the other side. 

• I met my above-mentioned friend's ex-wife. Since I always swore that if I ever met her she would find one of my Doc Martens planted squarely in her ass, my friend found it interesting that I spent so long talking to her. She is very personable and I liked her (new) husband. But what my friend didn't know was that in my head I ended every sentence I said to his ex with, "...you fucking bitch."
• I went back to my Old Stomping Grounds for the second time in six months. I went to homecoming. After going back for Bruce's memorial, I hadn't planned on going back again this year. But after cashing in some frequent flier miles, I got a fairly cheap ticket. I graduated from college 20 years ago... It seemed like a good time to go back.

• I wish I could say it was a massive drink-fest, but it wasn't. We sat around a friend's living room, talking, drinking some, laughing, and just being. Three of us slept on couches and air mattresses in the living room. We giggled like 13 year olds. It was pretty great. 

• I turned in my tenure file. 

• Yes, after almost ten years and two different universities, I finally applied for tenure. 

• I can't even begin to describe the relief. 

• I finally became a member of our local art theatre. I've seen some good films.
• In the Fog. I didn't like it at first. I grew frustrated by the artiness of it. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. My opinion of it has changed. It's haunting
• The Grandmaster. Also, I had an initial reaction to the close-up shots of water dripping off hats, railing and whatever else. But I got into it. 
• Big Star: Nothing to Can Hurt Me. After seeing Big Star in Chicago, I figured I should see this. I have to admit, I thought it dragged in places, but I still liked it. 
• Enough Said. I adored this. It was delightful. And lovely. And wonderful. It was bittersweet since it was James Gandolfini's last film and he was great. I liked Julia Louis Dryfus's character because she was incredibly flawed, yet she always meant well.
• Muscle Shoals. A documentary about the Muscle Shoals sound. Lots of good music. The guy in front of us seemed to be mad we (and others) were tapping our feet. He eventually left in a huff (after telling a friend to stop tapping her feet). Listen, jackass, it's a documentary about R&B music. If you aren't tapping your feet, you're dead. Also: Every time Keith Richards spoke, the entire theatre giggled because, seriously, how is he still alive?

• One afternoon while taking the garbage out, I had one simple thought: I really like living here. I belong here.