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I’ve been migrating from being a web designer to a web developer for a while now. About 20 years ago, I was what was known then as a computer programmer. There was no Internet, no “front-end” and “back-end” code — heck, I barely knew about object-oriented programming. But there was something that’s been lost over the years: more women. About 1/3 of the students in my programming classes were women, and that was true at my first job and my second job. I stopped working for software companies in about 1993, and although I programmed until about 1998, I was no longer in a team environment after that. I got into web production in about 2001, but I never perceived HTML or CSS as coding. It wasn’t until I got into Javascript that I felt like I was writing code.
Last spring I started a job in a web development start-up. There was a high turnover of developers but I noticed pretty quickly that they were all guys around 30 years old, except for 2 guys who were older. I thought this company was *so* sexist (and they were, somewhat). But then I read a statistic that 91% of web developers are male (this site says 92.4%). And I thought: What the fuck? Where’d the women go? That’s some fucking backlash.
Many articles ask the question like this one, Why Aren’t There More Women in STEM?. (*)Some studies give weird answers like girls avoid STEM because it makes them feel less attractive. Really? If perceived attractiveness is a reason girls avoid STEM, sometimes it pays to be a social pariah. I was one of only two girls in AP Calculus as a senior, but I’m sure we didn’t consider this as an obstacle to dating. It was never going to happen in my case anyway, as I was completely off the attractiveness rader.
This one seems slightly more plausible, that girls are usually geared for more communally-oriented fields.
Here’s something else: sometimes it just takes a strong role model to change people’s minds. This insanely cool woman, the current dean of engineering at a small college, has tripled the amount of engineering majors. It does seem, from this article, that what we need is a critical mass of girls and women in STEM and someone to lead us. And the reality is that when you go to a web development job, you’re probably joining an all-male team. And here’s something I’ve experienced. When a work team is all women and there’s just one guy, the women will go out of their way to make sure he feels welcome and not excluded. And the opposite is true with all-men teams; they are not going to give you a break. They’ll act like you are not in the goddamn room. I was really surprised to experience this recently. Eventually they accepted me, but it took months, whereas I noticed they accepted each other almost instantaneously. But, to cut these guys a break (not that I should) I’ll say this: based on these statistics, I may have been the first women developer they worked with, or at least, the first older women developer. I may as well been from Mars. Yeah, but on the other hand, sexism (and ageism) are kind of disgusting.
In any case, what happened to all those women I wrote code with 20 years ago? Where are they now? Why is there such a dearth of folks not only my gender but my age in web development? I don’t know if anyone has an answer to this, but I’d sure like to know.
*Science, Technology, Engineering, Math
Whenever I see statistics about people, and particularly about women, I always seem to fall in some weird tiny populace. No wonder, then, that in this article, the amount of women who are like me are only 4%.
The guilty-all-the-time generation: How 96% of women feel ashamed at least once a day
I know that this statistic is true because all day long I hear women talking about how they feel bad about this, and feel bad about that, and think, “Oh god, are they still talking about their guilt? How could they feel that guilty so much about so little?” It seems so bizarre to me, yet somehow that is normal behavior. I think it’s also become cultural and habitual: if one women starts talking about their guilt, then others focus on that feeling as well. That’s according to my completely unscientific skewed observations.
Next we have women who choose not to breed. Surprisingly, this has jumped recently from a mere 6% in the U.S. to a whopping 20%! I hope I’ve influenced a few gals to think about the idea that there lives won’t be forever bereft and chock-full of remorse if they skip the baby thing. I think some folks are meant to be parents and some folks would be perfectly happy if they didn’t — and that all adults should spend some time in self-examination to figure out who they are. I know so many people who are parents because — and I’m quoting here — “Shit happens.” or “What are you going to do?” Anyway, it seems that my spending the last 15 years dreying on about this is not completely for naught, as more people are actually thinking about what it means to be a parent and making a personal choice. This benefits everyone, because less breeding = less overpopulation = less climate change, global starvation, etc.
Lastly, a recent study shows that 16% of people in the U.S. consider themselves unaffiliated with any religion (although the stat is <1% for congresspersons). Although I was raised with religion and even had a devout phase in my life, I no longer believe in any sort of god or associated religions or texts. Yup, that sounds unaffiliated.
So what would a Venn diagram show if you put these stats together? I imagine that the amount of people who lives and experiences intersect with mine are pretty small. And while that may be true, it's important (as I wrote in this post, "What’s the meaning of life?“) to bear in mind that despite being a statistical anomaly, I actually have more things in common with others than things not in common. In fact, I probably have more in common with Tzipi the Jay than I do not. It’s important to keep in mind our commonality as sentient beings on this earth.
But it still shows that I am indeed some kind of a freak.
*btw, Tzipi still stops by on a regular basis
Last year, I wrote a review about Julia Serrano’s Whipping Girl in which I spoke about my decision to get over my internalized anti-feminine stance and try wearing some skirts more often. Here is my first report on this decision.
At first people were surprised to see me wearing a skirt. A lot of women my age apparently stop wearing them because they think they are uncomfortable, too much trouble, or just don’t look good on an aging body. Since I already like to dress up a bit for work, I’m already dressing more to enhance my appearance than for comfort. Despite my interest in (bargain, artsy) fashion, it was still a visual leap to many to see me in a skirt, and they said so.
Next, and continuing to this day, was the fact that my wearing skirts made people so happy. I don’t know if its because folks like my chicken legs (skinny legs are definitely way more “in” that they were 20 years ago), or if it’s because people think skirts in general look nicer, but I got a TON of compliments and comments. So much so, that I went from wearing skirts once a week to several times a week. I invested in a couple of pairs of shoes with heels surpassing my previous limit of 1″, and some colorful stockings. I enjoy putting together an outfit just like I like laying out a good visual design.
But, there is a downside. Well, there is a mixed-bag side. Okay, so we have three sides, it’s a pyramid of sorts. Anyway, the mixed thing is that men try to talk to me on the street. At my age, I find that surprising. It’s pretty much all older men. Occasionally it is a rich older man and that really makes my skin crawl. The other day some Slick Rich Guy said to me, “I like that brown suit you’re wearing” with a leering expression. I felt like saying, “Yeah, well I’d like to stab you in the neck.” But I didn’t. So mostly it’s a pain but sometime I think, “My god, I’m almost 50 and people still want to flirt with me.” And I feel like I must look pretty damn good.
The other irritant is that some men do have this formula floating in their head of feminine = girly and they want to infantalize me. Of course, this is a HUGE mistake, especially if they dare saying anything indicating this thought to me. H. made the mistake of calling my ensemble “girlish” one day and I almost tore his head off. Well, mostly I just glared at him and said, “Don’t call me girlish.” He tried to defend himself but then realized that it was insulting to me to imply that I am in any way like a little girl, since he would not want to be thought of or referred to as a boy. It was interesting to me that someone who is intelligent and perceptive can still have this sexist thoughts. But then I remember that I myself have internalized sexism. Which I am challenging with my wardrobe change. The experiment continues.
What makes one movie great and another one just okay? Partly it’s a matter of taste, and partly it’s a matter of the director having a clear vision. I recently saw both The Runaways and La Vie en Rose on DVD, both movies ostensibly made to let the viewer into the life and mind of the musical artist. Although La Vie en Rose received great critical acclaim, The Runaways is a far better film in almost every way.
La Vie en Rose follows the tragic fame of Edith Piaf. Despite growing up sickly, neglected, and dirt poor she has an innate magnificent talent for singing. From an early age, she makes her living by singing on the street, and eventually is “discovered” and becomes famous. The Runaways follows the formation of the first widely known “all-girl” rock band, focusing on the fall-from-grace of the initial front woman, Cherie Currie, and the musical development of Joan Jett.
Although there are two different musical genres from two different eras represented in these movies, they both show girls/women being exploited by men, destructive drug and alcohol use, and dysfunctional families. However, almost nothing positive is ever shown about Piaf. We are shown her being bullied to improve her singing style which helps her achieve fame. We never, however, are shown any attempts at artistic development after this. The movie makes a fleeting reference to her acting career, but we never learn anything about this subject. In addition, practically every scene of her once she is becoming famous shows her acting like a bitch on wheels yet somehow having friends, lovers, and husbands. Indeed, those close to her act like she is very lovable, but just as she is not shown to be a great artist (only a great natural talent) she is not shown as endearing in the film.
In Runaways, we are shown similar scenes of the girls being bullied by Kim Fowley. However, we also see Joan Jett working on her own development, coming up with riffs, and creating lyrics on her own outside of the band. Although the film initially seems more about Currie, it’s Jett’s creativity and drive that compels us. The film also shows the characters being both kind and cruel; they fairly three dimensional.
Both films have a sprinkling of surrealism, but Runaways uses this technique more consistently and to greater affect. In La Vie, there is one scene of some goddess figure speaking to the young Piaf, never to be seen again; there’s another of her going from the shock of hearing about her dead lover to emerging on stage. That’s it. In Runaways, there are many scenes that blur the line between actual and imagined events. A particulary effective one has Jett composing the lyrics aloud to “Love is Pain” in the bathtub, and then submerging — but after she submerges, there’s an underwater shot of her being in a large body of water. It’s unexpected and it works well visually and to move the plot along.
There’s no doubt that Marion Cotillard’s acting is amazing. She plays Piaf from age 15 to a women dying of liver cancer, and it’s really an amazing transformation. It goes beyond the innovative makeup techniques used to show her as a sickly women looking well beyond her age. It’s very impressive. Unfortunately it is the only impressive element of the film.
Certainly the sentimentality of the public and critics, and their desire for maudlin scenes of women’s emotional suffering is behind the greater fame of La Vie en Rose, which grossed $86 million to The Runaways $4 million. I finished watching La Vie feeling pretty empty and unattached to the character; I finished The Runaways wanting to see it again. Which I will. In the meantime, can you watch this video while sitting down? Then perhaps you are dead.
My jaw dropped when I saw this book for the first time. I saw the huge gold letters proclaiming BEDWETTER and a very funny photo of Sarah Silverman. I immediately figured she could not have *really* been a bedwetter, because it was inconceivable to me that someone with such a shameful past would actual not only publish a book about it but name the book as such. But, indeed, as I leafed through I saw that this was an autobiographical account of her childhood and her experienced with dreaded night-time pee.
I am not a big Silverman fan, as she vacillates between uproariously funny and just plain annoying. But I thought I’d read this book because, as you may have divined, I was a bedwetter too.
Even today, decades later, I feel a profound sense of shame when I admit this. I still have not been able to overcome the deep sense of humiliation, even though I understand intellectually that it wasn’t my fault nor was there anything wrong with me. I grew out of it, but later than many, living in constant fear of exposure.
Reading through Silverman’s close calls with being publicly exposed was more frightening to me than The Blair Witch Project, because I remembered my own near misses and the possibility losing all social standing when I already stood on very shaky ground.
Frankly, the rest of the book where she grows up (and out of it) and achieves fame is less interesting. I enjoy reading about folks overcoming adversity and becoming stronger, but I think Silverman is just too young to write a convincing retrospective on events that occurred only a few years before.
There are many of us who end up emotional and psychological weakened by our childhood. Some childhoods are truly horrific, and some just run-of-the-mill crummy. My later childhood featured a steady decrease in self-confidence that started from age 10 and bottomed about around age 16. For about three years I had no friends, and during those years or so had almost no meaningful conversations.
I’ve been thinking about this recently because of the recent rash of teen suicides being reported, mostly because they are being bullied for being queer.
Queerness, among your average blockhead teens, is still considered a shameful, laughable state-of-being, deserving of relentless ridicule. The blockheads are small in number but make up for it in loudness and a trail of toadies.
So, I was not a gay teen, but I was considered a “dog” i.e. homely girl, which meant any boy could ridicule me at any moment for being “ugly”. Which they did on occasion. So, I can’t imagine what life would have corroded into if, in addition, my secret shame of bedwetting came to be public knowledge. I do know that life would have become unlivable.
I think it my time it was much more fashionable to have an old-fashioned nervous breakdown, where you just lay down in your bed and did not get up for long periods of time. I suppose that’s the route I would have taken if things had gotten worse. In the chaste world I grew up in, I never heard of anyone killing themselves, so the idea wouldn’t have occurred to me.
Suicide is contagious. When K & I were in Ireland last spring, we found out there had been a rash of suicides in the area we were staying. The scenery was gorgeous and quiet, and yet people were continuously killing themselves. These people were not particularly bad off; some had children. There was no real explaining it.
So, if this sad pattern could occur in a place that seems really wonderful to me, so much so would a suicide contagion occur in hopeless teens.
I hope that with all the Internet access available to kids now, that some of these queer children will be saved by a video they saw on It Gets Better or they made a phone call the Trevor Project. I feel afraid though that some kids are so isolated, alone, and feeling desperately unlovable that they won’t reach out.
And as for folks for Silverman or me, we were not bullied queers, and somehow we lived through adolescence and depression and went on to be strong adults. And this strength that I found in myself and helped grow over time is one of the things I like best about myself. If my 15-year-old self could see me now she would not believe how wonderful life can be. I am living beyond my old dreams, but in the end they were they dreams of a child.
Unbelievably, it was only recently that I became aware of the cornerstone of the civil rights movement in the country: the great Dorothy Height. It was when Lisa Jackson tweeted this on March 8:
Packed house 4 Women’s Day event @ White House. Lots of powerful women of all ages & I’m sitting nxt to Dr Dorothy Height!
I thought, who is this person that Lisa Jackson (a person I admire) greatly admires? And when I started reading about her, I could not believe I didn’t know about it her. I felt very embarrassed. I remedied the situation by immediately getting her autobiography out of the library.
I highly recommend this book for several reasons.
One is that Dr. Height wrote this when she was 91. It’s rare that you get to read a book where someone looks back over decades and decades of their long life with such clarity.
Another is that if you don’t read this book, you are missing out on a huge chunk of history of the many decades that led up to the civil rights movement of the 1960s, most of which Dr. Height was the primary catalyst for along with Mary McLeod Bethune. Indeed, the civil rights movement may have never happened if these women hadn’t been laying the groundwork thirty to forty years before.
Third, you will be amazed what one person can achieve in a lifetime, albeit a particularly long one.
Fourth, if this book doesn’t inspire you to make the most out of your life, nothing will.
Lastly, after you read this book, it will be blindingly clear that the only reason that Dorothy Height is not a well known name is because she is a woman. And that is a crying shame, and shows how far we have left to go in the advancement of women.
I do find it strange, though, that just after I finished reading this book, she passed away. Really an odd synchronicity.
Last weekend blew my mind. I don’t know if that phrase is au courant, but I don’t know how else to say it. I realize some of my vocabulary is very 1975. I also realize that if the word “cool” goes out of style, half of my vocabulary will be lost. (The other half is the word “fuck” as noted here).
But I digress… last weekend I attended Ladies Rock Camp, and in three very full days my life was transformed from a person who loves listening to rock music to a person who *plays* rock music. For me this is akin to stepping on the moon.
The women who volunteer at LRC are truly phenomenal. They took care of all my needs, including feeding me and being my roadie. They formed my band for me based on my preferences. They taught me the rudiments of using an amp and playing an electric guitar. And let me tell you, for those who have not done experienced this, playing electric only barely resembles acoustic. Yes, your left hand is doing the same things, but that’s where the similarities end. These are some realizations I had at Rock Camp:
- First of all, amplified sound is hella LOUD. And LOUD is fun (well, up until the point your eardrums start bleeding, I suppose).
- Second, amplified sound can be distorted in a myriad of ways that sound wonderful to those of us who like the discordant or grungy end of the rock spectrum.
- Third, playing with a band is fucking awesome. I just loved the feeling of everyone collaborating to write a song and make it as great as possible with only hours at our disposable. Despite our rawness and inexperience, we came up with a song I love and is on an endless rotation in my head.
- Fourth, I sang into a microphone for the first time. I love singing, but am not blessed with a “nice” voice. But, with the support of my band behind me, I did it and it ruled.
- Most importantly, with a fat pick in one’s right hand, one can wail on the guitar strings in an amazingly percussive way that is immensely satisfying. One can feel like one is attacking the guitar — consensually, of course. I feel an amazing catharsis of rage as I pound on the guitar, which is very addicting.
Indeed within two days of attending LRC, I ran out and bought a Fender Squire so I could experience rock euphoria at will.
Well, except when I am at work. At my desk I dream about my beautiful guitar. I think my next song will address that.
And now, my favorite defunct band:
Doesn’t it suck when one of your favorite bands breaks up? Yes, yes it does.
Carrie Brownstein is currently my favorite guitarist, and this is currently my favorite song to hear her play. The sound isn’t great on this clip, but I love it just the same: