Tampons and Dildos: Facebook Censorship

I got a bit miffed today, and I think this needs as wide a reach as possible, so it deserves its own post.

Facebook apparently considers tampons to be "sex toys" and refuses to allow Alaurra Weaver at www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger to promote her work because she talks about *gasp* menstruation.

In my work as a historical fiction author, one of the hardest and most maddening research tasks is trying to find information on women's health. It has always been, and STILL is, such a taboo topic that we don't dare speak of it. The lack of information on key aspects of the lives of half the world's population is outrageous.

The ridiculousness of sexism and outlandish prudery of some definitions of obscenity are a couple of the very few things that truly offend me. The attitude that female bodily functions are obscene or pornographic is one of the reasons that women the world over are kept locked in a metaphorical (and sometimes all-too-real) back shed to shield the world from their impure existence.

Without menstruation, not a one of us would be here. Without women struggling to deal with the daily realities of sexism, misogyny, and body-shaming throughout history, none of the small-minded who wish to label women as unclean would exist.

Fuck you, and the tampon you rode in on, Facebook.

Please help spread some great history articles and support a woman writer.

Part 1: www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/2015/10/21/a-history-of-menstrual-hygiene-from-free-bleeding-to-flow-tracking-apps

Part 2: http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/on-the-rag-menstrual-products-from-ancient-greece-to-the-Americas

The Buzzfeed Article: http://www.buzzfeed.com/alauraweaver/does-facebook-really-think-tampons-are-sex-toys-1ylb2





 Image courtesy of stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Learning to Write

At eleven, I won a district-wide writing competition. First place out of 1,800 sixth graders. I still have the piece. I don't recall the process or feeling of writing it, but I remember the feeling of winning. I felt smart. I felt significant. I felt listened to.

In those days, I sought approval from adults because I didn't get it from peers, and the adults had listened. That flaw of approval-seeking, and others, led down some unfortunate paths. My fears stole that sense of significance while I sought approval in ways that didn't succeed from people who didn't matter. My teens and early twenties taught me harsh truths and suffocating falsehoods.

I learned drawing attention meant drawing criticism and scorn. I learned there's always someone waiting to drag you down. I learned to fade into the background to avoid disapproval.

I learned smart women weren't nearly as worthy as fun, pretty, friendly women (let alone men)--and that the former is mutually exclusive from the latter. I learned you could only be one thing, and that as a woman, smart would always lose. I learned smart women are challenged and belittled, and outspoken women are bitch and overbearing. I learned to shut up.

I learned to only present the good stuff. If it wasn't perfect, it wasn't good enough. And in that case, well, what was the use in trying? I'd never be perfect. I'd never be smart enough or pretty enough or good enough to matter. I learned to quit trying.

I decided I had no imagination, no creativity, nothing important to say, so anything I wrote would be stupid, vapid crap. I told myself I wasn't "inspired." I wasn't deep or insightful or funny. What if I offended someone? What if "they" didn't approve? I didn't want to be wrong. I didn't want people to pull back the curtain and see an imposter. If I made up a story, if I created something, it would be all my fault if it sucked.

After my son was born, I decided to accept another truth. I'd failed to learn all of the things I wanted to teach him: confidence, using his strengths, always being willing to try, accepting failure, to never stop learning, and above all, to never let anyone else decide who he should be or silence him.

Hypocrisy.

At 39, I woke on a cold November morning, sat at my desk, and started writing. It wasn't perfect—good grief, the suck reigned supreme—but I wrote for sixteen hours. Why? It wasn't some supernatural, angels-singing moment of inspiration or a lightning bolt best-story-ever idea. It wasn't the story.

I no longer wanted to fade into the background. I was sick of letting the fear win. I refused to be quiet about things that excite me, scare me, and anger me any longer, and it didn't matter if anyone approved. I wanted to smash those falsehoods I'd learned.

I have excuses, like everyone. I'm a full-time single mom, and I work two jobs and homeschool my son. I have a house to maintain and family obligations. Health issues abound. Chronic pain cripples me, and painkillers make me stupid but don't alleviate the pain. Just after I finished the first draft, I endured emergency surgery that almost killed me and required months of recuperation. Those things slowed me down, but I kept learning and writing.

I studied art and craft, worked hard, and finished the manuscript. I learned to write well, not just spit out thoughts. I learned grammar and punctuation, those technical rules many disdain. I learned how to write with emotion and clarity. After remembering that I had a voice, I worked on learning how to use it.

Why—how—did I write a novel? I decided. That's all. No magical breakthrough, just a decision to use my voice and speak my mind, imperfections and all. That decision—which I still have to make every time I write—is exciting and terrifying. It took years of fighting fears and searching for confidence to make that first decision, to learn new truths and refuse to accept falsehoods.

Learning to write, both art and craft, is about learning how to connect with strangers. It's learning style and mechanics to create clarity and meaning without losing the story. It's learning to accept criticism along with approval, being willing to have our ideas challenged, and reveling in the fact that the learning is never finished. It's learning to use our voice, and it's never easy.

We all have fears and hopes, and we all need someone we can relate to, who has those same fears and hopes. No matter who you are or where you've been, someone out there can relate. If you tell a story with a message--no matter how simple or trite or crazy that message may seem to you when the demons of doubt rise in the dark hours--and tell it well, it will speak to someone. It won't connect with everyone, and not everyone will approve. But that's okay. It probably won't change the world, but maybe it will change one person, and it will change you. It will give you a voice.

At 39, I learned I have something to say and someone out there needs to hear it. When will you learn it.

Women in Mining Camps, Part 2

Part 2 of my post on Women in Mining Camps, the seminal (light) research from about ten years ago that inspired my upcoming novel, When Doves Fly.

(Yes, it's been longer than a week since Part 1. My apologies, I ran into a band of outlaws who kidnapped me and forced me to finish editing a manuscript. P.S. The writing is a rough ride.)



Westward expansion, and the rise of industry and increased need for steel and minerals, meant mining towns grew in number and often consisted of the first "civilization" in a remote area. As the East grew more urbanized, the West remained a savage and isolated place. "Cornish immigrants James and Mary Bennett were among the first settlers in Mineral Point [Wisconsin] in the late 1830s, and Mary begged her husband to take her away from that 'hardly discovered wilderness,' where 'Indians and wild animals were numerous,' and back to civilization in England. ¹ Many women who followed their husbands to the mining towns had recently immigrated and had little or no experience in an undeveloped, wild land, coming from Europe where even the remote areas had long since been explored and mining was well-established. "As John Rowe observed, 'In Cornwall it was the miner who was old before he was thirty-five; on the early American mining frontier, it was his wife.' ² These difficulties came on top of the inherent risks involved in mining that left many miners injured or dead and their wives without income.³ These women didn't all stay home, but whether married, single, or widowed, history rarely recognized the woman's occupation. Most census records did not record a woman's occupation, even if single, unless it was unusual, so we often don't know how many women worked as servants, milliners, or proprietors of stores or parlors.⁴ However, simply from population records, we can infer that women were as influential and indispensable in the mining towns as elsewhere. In St. Clair, Pennsylvania, a well-established mining town, in 1850 there were only a little over 100 more men than women and more than 700 children in a population of over 2,000. ⁵ Thus, these women formed the backbone of the community, maintaining their families and providing support for the miners. However, changing times and cultural attitudes brought change to the mining towns as in the rest of America.

 



Group of mine workers...and one woman. c. 1895-1905

By the mid-1800s, with westward expansion at its height and new mineral and metal resources discovered farther west, women experienced new-found freedoms. They were encouraged to work outside the home to help their families before marriage and often found themselves widowed and forced to provide financial support, particularly in an industry such as mining. Many women left the mining camps and returned to their families once widowed, but some stayed and developed their own businesses to support themselves and their families until remarrying or moving on. ⁶ The need for women in budding mining camps was sorely felt. New mining camps had a great demand for single women, particularly in areas of rapid expansion such as California during the 1849 gold rush. "…In the West, a woman could make money and have the boldness to call the money her own. Women who had never worked in their lives discovered that the drudgery of work was sweetened by the freedom to earn and save money in their own names." ⁷ In the wild, uncivilized areas where mines sprang up quickly and few men (the men being occupied with mining, which paid much more) could provide such services as waiting tables in hotels or saloons, women found new occupations available. The positions were socially unacceptable for women in the East, but they opened to women in the West out of necessity. Strict social rules followed in the East were set aside for women in these "social" setting positions, where men had previously ruled, such as the requirement that a woman be introduced to a man before speaking to him. ⁸  

Along with the need for women in service sectors, the men needed companionship. It wasn't until the latter 1800s that mining towns, and the country as a whole, saw the development of brothels on a large scale, and usually only once a town was well-established.⁹ Most often, women operated them (if not owned them) and "at late hours provided 'nice young men' with drinks and the social services of a small bevy of female boarders." ¹⁰ In the East, these establishments were less tolerated and the operators were fined or jailed if discovered.¹¹ But in the west, they thrived and often remained legal until well into the 1900s.

Unmarried women had other options, though, particularly in the West. In the chaotic mid-1800s, various industries and areas saw many boom and bust times, forcing single men to seek  new opportunities, often in mining towns. The areas they abandoned had a shortage of marriageable men, and unattached women frequently followed the migration to developing areas to find husbands and employment. ¹² "John McCracken wrote to his sister telling of one such incident. 'I heard not long since of the arrival of an old Lady and her five daughters. They came in a wagon and seemed quite happy to think there were such chances to get well married' (Levy 175)." ¹³ Women would even advertise themselves for marriage, finding that with the abundance of men they could raise their expectations and demand a higher quality of mate. In one "advertisement from a Maryville newspaper of 1849…[a woman gives] self-qualifications for marriage and what she expects in return from the man: 'an old man need not apply, nor any who have not a little more education than she has, and a great deal more gold, for there must be $20,000 settled on her before she will bind herself to perform all the above' (Levy 176)." ¹⁴ In the mining camps, many men avoided the few prostitutes due to fear of disease or simple unavailability. As towns grew, "businessmen" opened more brothels and saw a new avenue for profit in mail-order bride services. They already had sources for women to supply to their brothels, so the "supply chain" of immigrant women was already in place. ¹⁵

Once they arrived in these often lawless, uncivilized western mining camps, women asserted their influence, utilized their skills, and developed new ones. "Many craved the amenities of civilization; they longed for social interaction and sought networks of family and friends for emotional support." ¹⁶ In newly formed mining towns, the few women were lonely and despaired of the conditions in which they lived. They attempted to create homes with canvas tents and dirt floors. Supplies were often slow in arriving, if they arrived at all, and they made do with whatever they found. Louise Clappe wrote her sister from California in 1851, "…Everybody ought to go to the mines, just to see how little it takes to make people comfortable in the world." ¹⁷ Out of this turmoil, women created social connections. While operating their boarding houses, laundry services, and stores, and being mothers and wives, women organized. They developed social organizations and helped to found churches, libraries, schools, and other civic institutions. They created communities in the wilderness. They insisted on social functions to help ease their homesickness while they adjusted to new climates, new cultures, and new occupations. "The Alta California periodical commented upon the positive influence of women in bringing order to chaotic new towns: 'Woman to society is like a cement to the building stone. The society here has no such a cement; its elements float to and fro upon the excited, turbulent, hurried life of California immigrants, or rather, we should say, goldhunters' (quoted in Levy 174)." ¹⁸

Perhaps the most neglected aspect of women's contributions in mining towns, and to some the most surprising, is that of women miners. Although a very small number, especially until the latter half of the 1800s, some women worked alongside men in the coal and lead mine operations. ¹⁹ They endured the same vile working conditions as the men in the deep shafts and dangerous quarries with toxic fumes and the constant risk of explosions and cave-ins. Later, a number of women aided their husbands or worked gold and silver claims alone in the West. Just as on the farms, they shouldered the burden of hard labor when necessary to support their families.

Three men and a woman

These examples show women in mining communities in the 19^th century were vital to the operation not only of the mines, but the growth and development of the community and civic function of the town. They contributed in those capacities in addition to the customary role of wife and mother they continued to perform for their families in harsh conditions. In crude log cabins, and without food or supplies, they managed to create homes that provided for the miner's comfort and daily necessities. And they provided services and labor for the many businesses needed to maintain the mining towns. They were essential to their communities, both in founding them and maintaining them.

---

1. William E. Van Vugt, Britain to America, Mid-Nineteenth-Century Immigrants to the United States (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999), 126.

2. Ibid.

3. Ibid., 95.

4.  Anthony F. C. Wallace, St. Clair: A Nineteenth-Century Coal Town's Experience with a Disaster-Prone Industry (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1987), 131.

5. Ibid.

6. Suzanne Hilton, Miners, Merchants and Maids (New York: Twenty-First Century Books, 1995), 69.

7. Ibid., 62.

8. Ibid., 71.

9. Wallace, St. Clair, 166.

10. Ibid., 167.

11. Ibid.

12. Van Vugt, British to America, 90.
13."Here Comes the Bride", Women's Work in the Long 19^th Century,

(http://www.kennesaw.edu/hss/wwork/Settlement/bride_cc.htm)

14. Ibid.

15. Ibid.

16. Philip J. Deloria, Patricia Nelson Limerick, Jack N. Rakove and David Burner, This Land: A History of the United States (New York: Brandywine Press, 2003), 263.

17. Hilton, Miners, 19.

18. "Here Comes the Bride", Women's Work.

19. Van Vugt, Britain to America, 126.


Images courtesy of Library of Congress - http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/ & http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/ppmsc.01705/

Women in Mining Camps

I thought I'd share the seminal research that sparked my interest in women in mining camps, and ultimately inspired my upcoming novel, When Doves Fly. Women often have no voice in history, having been immersed in the maintenance of their families, stifled by discrimination, and denied a lasting outlet for their thoughts and ideas. One of my goals in my writing is to give them a voice and acknowledge their impact.

This will be a two-part post, so check back next week for the second part.



Group of mine workers...and one woman. c. 1895-1905

History studies consistently neglected women until relatively recently. While interest in women’s roles and their contributions to every aspect of society, culture, politics, medicine, and economic development has surged, huge gaps of knowledge and understanding still trouble us. When we read about mining towns, from early mining in Pennsylvania and Virginia to the California gold rush period and later to established mining operations throughout the United States, we find a vision of rough, dirty men engaged in dangerous manual labor. Women remain mostly absent from this picture. When offered a glimpse, we see only the stray barmaid or prostitute in the tavern or saloon. It is difficult to comprehend women’s impact on mining communities in the 19^th century. Mining camps needed women and offered women a drastically different life and opportunities unavailable elsewhere. The women in these areas encountered hardships, prospects, and lifestyles unseen by women in urban areas. Ultimately, they changed how women were viewed and changed their communities in sometimes subtle but inescapable ways.

The earliest mining communities in the eastern United States were established in the beginning of the 19^th century.¹ At this time, areas east of the Mississippi River remained largely unexplored. Throngs of immigrants flowed into eastern Pennsylvania, Virginia, Ohio, and Kentucky to find land and fresh opportunities. Businessmen in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston searched for new sources of revenue. Industrialization swept the country. Additional resources were needed to fuel these changes, and the discovery of anthracite (coal) in the Allegheny Mountains provided one of the richest foundations for this growth. By the 1820s, farmland and uninhabited areas sprouted small mining camps as investors and landowners realized the enormous potential of the reserves under the soil.²

Men established these camps, and initially, all of the workers and supporting labor were men. During the period of speculation for a mine, small operations employed a dozen or two hands, and women stayed home in the urban areas or on the farms.³ Once a large vein was discovered, and the mine proved profitable, more men arrived, and practically overnight a community sprang up. A town could go from one hundred inhabitants to thousands in a few years.⁴ Owners and investors encouraged and even financed the growth, because population development around the mining district brought even more profit. In 1835, a mine investor planned a community in Pennsylvania and envisioned "'a first Town within the Coal Range, and in the midst of a great mining district.' In addition to the profits from royalties on coal, the development of the Westwood Tract would bring additional financial benefits from the sale of town lots, mill seats, and timber and an extensive 'home trade' could be expected…"⁵

Further, development of the communities, which required women and families, could benefit the operation of the mine itself. "'Nothing can equal the neatness and Comfort of these snug dwellings…the wife keeps all in order at home, every child at 7 or 8 years gets to work among the Coal or in the Neighboring Manufactories…Saturday Night collects all the wages and all the family together…'"⁶ In this instance, we see women in the communities illustrated as they were elsewhere at the time: as the wife of the working man, keeping a comfortable and respectable family life at home. With these eastern mines, the mining company planned orderly communities, and often, even before the mining operation was fully constructed, a town grew nearby to provide necessary services. As quickly as they could build housing, the families of the miners, artisans, and craftsmen moved in, providing a "family life" for workers.

Even in relatively large communities, the lack of single women resulted in large numbers of working single men who needed services normally performed by a wife. Laundering, cooking, gardening, sewing, and many other services were performed by married women who operated (but rarely owned) boarding houses or worked from home. They moved frequently, following their men to new operations. They had to assimilate in communities often hostile to immigrants. They provided the comforts of a home without many of the supplies and amenities available in urban areas.

By the middle of the 19^th century, with mining communities expanding in the East, textile mills sprang up near sources of industrialization. While the men worked in the mines, some women began working outside the home in several fields, often related to clothing.⁷ Women and children, with their smaller frames and hands, could often perform tasks in cramped spaces or work which required dexterity many men lacked. The mills required long hours in harsh conditions--and the female workers often still had to run the house when they arrived home. Some of these women were integral to the start of the Labor Movement. Many of these industries, and the women workers they relied on, provided the capital for costly mineral exploration and made mining possible.

The women in these early, Eastern mining towns were essential to the mine's operation, as they performed the menial household work and supplied necessary services. They allowed both married and single men to pull treasure from the ground without worrying about the time-consuming daily tasks of living. This dictated a hard life for the women, even more so as America moved westward.

 

---

1. Anthony F. C. Wallace, St. Clair: A Nineteenth-Century Coal Town's Experience with a Disaster-Prone Industry (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1987), 3.

2. Ibid., 2.

3. Ibid., 70.

4. Ibid., 96.

5. Ibid., 78.

6. Ibid., 79.

7. Doris Weatherford, Foreign and Female: Immigrant Women in America, 1840-1930 (New York: Facts on File, Inc., 1995), 205-206.


 Image courtesy of Library of Congress - http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/

 

On Christmas Morning

He claps his hands, his face suffused with joy, and runs off to write a Christmas wish list. He's giddy at the idea of waking up there; he wonders what they'll have under the tree, and how they'll spend the day.

I sit alone, smothering the bitterness roiling at the one disrupting our lives after years of indifference and absence, and instead focus on the happiness it will bring the one I love.

I sit alone, avoiding thoughts of the deafening silence I'll hear when I wake at a reasonable hour, instead of at the crack of dawn with warm little hands nudging me and a squeal of delight, "Santa came!"

I sit alone, refusing to listen to that slithering whisper in the back of my mind. What if he likes it better there?

I sit alone, wondering if he'll come home and ask, innocent and unaware of the rending of my heart, "Mom, can I go live with him?"

I sit alone, anticipating silence.

Thanksgiving: Generations

I scurry about the house, jittery, focusing on the preparations. It’s always like this. In the hours before everyone arrives, the idea of the family dinner intimidates me. I try to conjure ideas for witty conversation while spreading table cloths and pulling dishes from cabinets, but when the time comes, all wit escapes me.

Seasons mark the passage of time, like generations retiring to make room for the young. Some people like spring. The new growth and cool showers rejuvenate them. Others like summer, basking in the sun and outdoor fun. Then there are those who baffle me with their affinity for the snow and teeth-chattering short days of winter. My favorite is autumn. I love the warm colors falling like rain drops from the trees. I love the metallic tang in the air when I step outside. I love Thanksgiving, and a large family dinner. Everyone leaves their far-flung corners to gather for sustenance, physical and emotional.

I set out silverware and plates, arrange napkins, and devise a centerpiece. As I move about the long, make-shift arrangement of tables lined end-to-end, I envision everyone, already in their chairs, chattering and laughing as they wait for the feast. As I notice a similarity of traits in my clan, the image focuses on three figures.

My grandfather sits at the head of the table. His balding head gleams in the soft light, his large frame cocked to the left, with his elbows planted on the table. His huge hands, seamed with wrinkles and age spots that belie my childhood memories of a man in his prime, link loosely together just below his square chin. Thin lips press together in the slightest of smiles. It’s difficult to tell if his smile is the outward expression of a sense of superiority, which lies just below the surface, or simply mild amusement. There's something fantastic in his shoulders, in the way he holds them, as if an invisible mantle hangs upon them that bestows a greater…everything. He pulls his shoulders back and holds them straight, steadfast. They embody the pride he carries with him, like a coat of armor, inspiring admiration for the soldier of years past. His shoulders have carried large burdens, too heavy for many men. They embody strength and security. But armor can shield too well, preventing true closeness and intimacy. I'm certain I'll never peel that armor back quite far enough to see what hides underneath.

Then I picture my brother. He sits much looser, without the obvious rigid control of the man beside  him; he projects less visible tension. But as he shifts in his chair, I spot the signs of restlessness. He’s never still for long. His hands, so similar to his grandfather’s, are gentler in some indefinable way. They rest upon the table, then cradle the back of his head as he leans back with a sigh. The arms are thinner, more sinuous. But his shoulders mimic his ancestor's. Not quite as broad, but they have the same lines. I see the deeper differences, though. These shoulders speak of more pain endured and truly felt; absorbed rather than deflected. They do not offer the same inviting impression of security. More vulnerable, less guarded. But I know they shelter something within. The armor isn’t as thick, but it’s made from the same resilient material and formed from the same mold.

Last, I see my son in my vision. The thought brings a tightening in my chest; an unbearable ache, a need to hold him and keep him always within my reach. He squirms in his chair, that dazzling, mischievous smile lighting upon anyone who looks his way. Overwhelmed by the larger-than-normal crowd and all of the attention, his eyes flicker to me for reassurance.

He reminds me of the leaves swirling in a blustery autumn breeze, free and loose. Yet his excitement prompts a virtual vibration of his entire body, invisible energy on the verge of explosion. He sits straight, then leans to grab the cup belonging to the person next to him, then shifts to look at the people at the far end of the table who erupted in laughter, his green eyes opening wide in surprise. Between his bursts of movement, I catch a glimpse of his hands and his smile; the hands of a small child, the smile of a cherub. But when I look closer, I notice his hands are large for a boy his size, with long, slender fingers--exactly like his grandfather’s and uncle’s hands. He reaches to rub his ear, brushing away the bronze-red hair that tickled it. He has a slim neck, with the spot under his ear that I can’t help nuzzling whenever he allows me to restrain him for the briefest moment. He has the shoulders, too. They aren't as big or as broad, of course. On a child, they look as fragile as the whisper-thin bones of a hummingbird. But potential inhabits his shoulders. I try to imagine the man he will become, but it's too soon, and the picture eludes me. I pray he won't encounter too much pain, but I know he will bear his share. I hope when he meets challenges, he learns to absorb what makes him grow and learn, and manages to deflect what can damage his soul. His shoulders will carry burdens, and his hands will bear scars. Just like his grandfather and uncle.

I finish the settings, making small adjustments, fidgeting until it's just right. The aroma of rich food--turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie--fills the air. I admonish my son to stop playing with the napkins I just folded and scoop him up as he giggles. I bury my face in that precious spot on his neck, inhale his little boy scent, and endure the painful swell of love he brings to my heart.

The others arrive, and I hug my grandfather and brother. As each embrace me, my cheek nestles against their shoulders. They comfort me and calm my nerves.

 

Image courtesy of Apolonia at FreeDigitalPhotos.net