Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass: Thoughts

Reading Frederick Douglass's narrative was one of those things I've been putting off for years.  But I did it, I finally did it.  And boy was it worth it.  I had an inkling it would be, though, because what made me want to read it in the first place was a lecture I heard on Douglass's very brief story -- so, keep in mind, some of what I'm going to write today I've heard somewhere else, from my friend Rob, to be precise.

I visited Dutch L'Abri a couple of summers ago, and it was there that I heard Rob give his impressions of Douglass's very moving story.  In case you haven't heard of it, it's the story of an escaped slave, published before the Civil War in the year 1845.  But for a couple of reasons (and probably more than these, but this is just off the top of my head and having just finished the book), the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass is no ordinary escaped-slave-tale.

'Feminism, the Body, and the Machine:' An Essay by Wendell Berry

Once a year, I read this essay by Wendell Berry.  I've been doing this for a few years now, and that time rolled around again this summer, much to my delight.  (Yes, I do get the irony of my blogging about Wendell Berry.)

The essay was written in response to angry comments regarding an article Berry had previously written in Harper's, comments claiming that Berry was decidedly un-feminist. In the previous article, which I have also read -- on why he does not own a computer, Berry had mentioned that his wife does some editing work for him.  Apparently, this displeased many so-called feminists, who were of the opinion that his wife, because of this, was made a 'drudge.'

'Me Time:' On Insecurity and the Female Body

When I told my loving, supportive Man the other day that I was feeling insecure, he assumed it was about my recently acquired sunburn, obviously my one imperfection.  No, I contradicted him, it wasn't that.  But I didn't go on to tell him what it was, because, in fact, I didn't know what it was.  So I took some time to meditate on it.  It wasn't my sunburn, nor that ever-present inch of belly fat (uterus safety cushion!), nor the fruitful, multiplying hormonal pimples on my chin (I hate them).  None of these factors explained my sudden downward spiraling mood.

Turned out, the problem lay in the way in which I was thinking about my body: as an object.

Whaaat.  Me, a Wellesley educated feminist, objectifying my own body?  Not on purpose, dummies.

Women's Work: A Spiritual Experience

While I was working at a non-profit organisation, cooking meals for anywhere between ten and twenty-something students a few times a week, I started developing a renewed relationship with food.  What I'd once seen as simply something to consume, I began to realise was much, much more.

Every Monday evening, I made grilled cheese and tomato soup.  Without fail.  It was great, a version of the Moosewood Spicy Tomato Soup.  No one ever got tired of it, and, if they did, they did not tell me.