Shut up, Canice » Pop Culture

52 Titles: Sara Marcus’ “Girls to the Front”

caniceleung — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 02:01:14 +0000

I started going to hardcore shows when I was 15 or 16, probably getting out to one a week during my high school and university days. Ten years on, I’m lucky if I have time to make it to one or two in a year — that distance (and time) has given me space to reflect on the space for young women in what was then, and even more so now is, a male-dominated, hyper-masculine subculture. So obviously, obviously, I bought Sara Marcus’ much-anticipated book about the riot grrrl scene. Punk music, check. Feminism, check.

When I started going to shows, riot grrrl was a punchline, reduced to a fashion footnote for corny photo spreads in the YM and Seventeen magazines my older sister bought — plastic hair barrettes, Doc Martens, pigtails, DIY shirts with shit scrawled on them. It was no longer an actual genre — I’d missed the boat by quite a few years, and it seemed as though hardcore punk (from which riot grrrl was an off-shoot) had settled into a state of true, unshakeable apathy. The punk of the ’70s was about the youth voice; class struggle in the ’80s; consciousness-raising (veganism, grassroots activism, zines about all kinds of political/personal struggles, Hare Krishna) in the early-mid ’90s. But hardcore punk in the late ’90s/early 2000s was about moshing, violence, wearing North Face and Nike Dunks, posturing about ‘honour’ and ‘friendship’ — really, a euphemism for being catty to people who weren’t in your crew. The personal had obliterated the political. It’s still like this, in 2011, except now people wear less streetwear and more black/skinny jeans/plaid. I still love the music but then, as it is now, there were just a few ways for girls to find their way into the community, which boiled down to two main approaches:

You could be one of the boys: take photos (that was me!), make zines, mosh, maaaaaybe start a band if you were really brave and liked people talking shit about you, or…
You could be the slut: the girlfriend to some dude in some band or the coat-rack in the back.

Anyway, my own experiences really informed the way I read her book, drawing parallels between our ten-year difference in punkhood. You know, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…

One of the big themes was about how riot grrrls (all teenaged girls, really) had no agency or voice when the national discourse turned hand-wringing over their sexualities, their morals, and just about everything else in their lives. It was the ’90s, and there was the March on Washington, the emergence of the Christian right. These days it’s mostly the same — pre-teens slut-shamed in the New York Times after being gang-raped, ridiculous abortion legislation, crisis pregnancy centres, SlutWalks, still about the Christian right and their purity balls and virginity vows (you should read Jessica Valenti’s “The Purity Myth” for more on that).

The most beautiful thing I learned about riot grrrl was that it took the feminist rhetoric of “creating safe spaces” for women and made it real; not just that, but they made it the backbone of their community. It’s easy to be a feminist, hard to be a feminist activist. They went to shows and forced boys to make room in the pit by linking arms in a circle, right up front by the bands, creating a space where women could be part of shows without being moshed over. They started meetings and chapters, where issues of rape, harassment, incest and body image were freely discussed. They lived together, started bands together.

Still, feminism, even a punk version of it, wasn’t without flaws. Most kids who can afford to go to shows, buy records and merch and go on roadtrips aren’t scrabbling in the dirt and feeling oppression firsthand; like pretty much every musical scene since MTV has been an exercise in suburban angst and the odyssey to find belonging with other middle-class misfits. Plus, they are 17, and who can blame them for not being cognizant of post-secondary academics such as Germaine Greer, Andrea Dworkin, Judith Butler, Naomi Wolf, etc., etc., and their concepts on class, race, oppression, privilege, and blah blah blah big feminist words. So yeah, of course riot grrrls were a little oblivious to the dynamics of race and class in their scene.

In any case, what eventually happened is riot grrrls who were feminist (without knowing exactly that they were) became shamed, sort of, for not being up to snuff on said ideas. Anyone’s who’s ever read the comments section on a feminist blog is saving themselves $50,000 in gender studies tuition — pretty much a roomful of edumacated, enlightened gals trying to out-academicese each other. THE PERFECT term for this is “Oppression Olympics.” I can’t remember now whether this phrase was attributed to riot grrrl Erika Reinstein in the book or if I’m borrowing it from an awesome riot grrrl’s blog, but it’s a problem that has not gone away. It can be discouraging trying to remain energized about feminism when it’s become OK for feminists to harp on other feminists for not “owning up to their privilege” or being a white girl and not understanding race relations, or dimensions of class/sexuality/so forth, or shaming people for things they could not have controlled (i.e. having a penis, being white, taking ballet lessons when they were 6 years old), rather than saying, “Hey, women who are feminist and also grew up with privilege can immensely helpful as allies and partners in dismantling all kinds of privilege.”

So, lots of tendrils that still resonate, 15 or 20 years on. More than anything, I mourn the loss of riot grrrl not for its music, but because young women are marginalized in punk unless they are brave enough, have the wherewithal to. I don’t believe it’s a conscious decision for guys in the hardcore scene to exclude women, it’s just a natural extension of the bravado and machoism that exudes from the music. There’s an important lesson here — not just for some now-obscure musical/political scene that came and went within the span of oh, eight years — but for all feminist activists who give a damn and want to do something useful. So to borrow from hardcore vernacular, stop being so fucking negi.

Things I believed in when I was 12 — but no longer do

caniceleung — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 18:40:23 +0000

Writing a feminist column, I got the occasional irate reader. Most of them are nitpicky and miss the point, while others are straight up incomprehensible. Up until this point, my favourite one was a rambling, angsty Facebook message from a first-year male, white, university student from Calgary, who said there should be men’s studies if there are to be women’s studies, and then argued that feminism was actually a deep conspiracy to overthrow men because some feminists “would like more equality [than men], which is by no means equal.” Equality ≠ equal? Then, oblivious to the fact that humanism has already been invented (maybe that doesn’t come until second year philosophy?), he suggested we call feminism “humanism” and focus on men AND women. Brills!

Anyway, it was my favourite letter, until I received this one from Brett Lovett — or rather, from his email but penned by his “daughter” who wishes to shame me for my sinning ways. All bold-face emphasis is mine:

Subject: Feminist relationships

Your column is full of bad choices and bad advice. [Ed's note: I really liked this column.]

You’re living with your boyfriend outside of marriage is a sin against God and the Bible.
You’re a liar when you say Canadian society has left behind housewives and made breadwinner. This is a Bible Directed and God given pattern for society.
Your assertion that finding cuts to Pride Toronto is not a good thing. On the contrary homosexuality is evil according to my Bible and we’re instructed not even to think about what these people might practice.
Being pro-choice is evil, i mean killing unborn Canadian boys and girls. According to the Bible it is God who gives life. Abortionists will one day have to stand before God and give an account.
Over coming gender role is against God, and the Bible. He made male and female and commanded in the Bible not to mix up these roles.
Commitment and marriage are not ideas, but Commandments in the Holy Scripture.
You disagree with March for Life Protesters: Pro-life versus your pro-death policy—again evil and sin in God’s Bible.
A woman’s right over her body does not include killing her unborn child who is a distinct person separate from the mother not apart [sic] of the mother.

Your opinions are against God and God’s Word. Your battle is against Truth, the Bible, and the Lord. Jesus came that we may have life, Satan comes to kill, steal, and to destroy. Your need to repent from your sin and turn to Christ for salvation!

Esther Rose Lovett
Grade 6 student

Touche, Esther. In response, here is a list of things I believed in when I, too, was a 12-year-old girl in an evangelical Christian church, but no longer do:

That morality is dictated, not self-determined. The thing about religious folk is that they rely on someone else to give them a moral compass. It’s a difficult task, having to rationalize why you believe in the things you do, isn’t it?
That the Christian church can still function as a moral compass for society. Y’know, not just a group of shrill hand-wringers seeking to involve themselves in people’s lives despite Biblical teachings that tolerance and leading by example is how to teach the gospel, not shaming practices. Does the term moral relativism mean nothing anymore?
The circular logic of Christian morality: Because Christianity happens to espouse some moral concepts (don’t lie, cheat, steal), the church claims ownership of these, and uses it to stoke the argument that because society already uses these concepts, it must therefore continue to be that way. I should call this ‘theocratic creep.’ Oh, and no other religion (Islam, Judaism) or prevailing common sense can haz credit for telling people to be decent human beings. You’re either with us, or are totally anti-moral, abortionist savages.
Same thing as above, but replace “lie, cheat, steal” with “gender division of labour/domestic roles.” Oh, and other religions (Islam, namely) are evil for repressing women! But it’s cool if we do it, right?
That Christians are immune to Canadian legal definitions! Which is to say, by golly, it doesn’t matter if fetuses are not people under Canadian law, Christians are going to keep calling them distinct people! You can’t kill something that, until it’s about 7 or 8 months, can’t survive on its own, OK? Go make your own micro-nation in Alberta, already.

Canice Leung
Grade 6 feminist

P.S. I don’t feel bad mocking a 12-year-old girl because, as is probably not even necessary to point out, it’s her dad who wrote half of this (or maybe she’s one of these Jesus Camp types?).

My childhood best friend, the Cantopop superstar

caniceleung — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 03:16:24 +0000

From left: Mom and me, Ellen, Jamie, circa 1994?

You’d think the title of this post is an exaggeration, but I’m not lying. Her name is Ellen Joyce Loo. See? She even has a Wikipedia page.

When I was nine, we were three — Jamie, Ellen and me. We shared one of those best friend necklace sets you could buy at Ardene’s; ours were puzzle pieces that fit together. If I’m not muddling memories, mine said “Best”; Jamie’s “friends”; Ellen’s “forever.” Not too long afterwards, Ellen moved to Hong Kong.

Of course you eventually forget these things; you forget about people. A few years back, my mom mentioned that Ellen was now a musician in Hong Kong, in a band called at17. Oh, that’s novel, I thought. Didn’t think much of it, because I don’t remember Ellen being particularly musical — Jamie was that stereotypical Asian kid whose parents enrolled her in Kiwanis competitions and made her practice four hours a day. Ellen and I were just tomboys with bowl cuts that fucked around playing Lego and Power Rangers, or whatever. I remember she had a raspy voice.

Then at dinner a few weeks ago, at some hole in the wall in Scarborough, I noticed her on the television screen. It was at17 in concert, but a karaoke version with her vocals blanked out. They were playing in a huge 10,000-person stadium on a round stage. Like friggin’ U2 — and even U2 don’t have their own karaoke disc.

That’s Ellen on the right, with her bandmate Eman Lam, via xooob.com

So apparently they are a big deal. I downloaded some stuff, and they don’t suck. They even write their own music, which, if you know anything about Hong Kong Cantopop, is an extreme rarity. The band’s Wikipedia page describes their music as folktronica; the term sent my sister and me spasmodic laughter, but it does seem oddly fitting. Lots of acoustic guitars; folky, harmony-heavy vocals; sometimes veer into bossa nova and jazz sometimes; layered with pop beats. Alas, they also throw in breathy Mandarin ballads, which is, like, basically a requirement to be a Chinese singer.

Here’s one of their songs. My grasp on emotive Cantonese words is weak, and when it’s set to music my comprehension is straight-up atrocious, so I don’t really know what they’re saying:

at17 – Never Been Kissed (Acoustic)

Oddly enough, Mark McKinnon, the Chinese correspondent for the Globe and Mail, wrote a feature on Beijing’s burgeoning music scene not too long ago. It’s funny — for the longest time Hong Kong and Chinese music was known for being completely homogenous, and now bands are playing SXSW.

Like most everything else in China, the music scene moves at hyper-speed. When I was in Hong Kong for the summer of 2005, I found only one indie music store — it was a little basement hole in Tsim Tsa Tsui, around the corner from the Star Ferry, that sold mostly metal, punk and rock CDs for ridiculous import prices. I knew of one metalcore band, King Lychee, which is made up of ex-pats and locals and has now been around so long they’re considered a grandaddy of Asia’s metal/hardcore scene. There were no straight-up hardcore bands.

When I visited Shanghai in December, my boyfriend and I looked into catching a show while we were there — most of the bands are in Beijing, but oh, there are a lot more of them now than there were in 2005. They have lots of hilarious Engrish names, such as “Unregenerate Blood.” (My doctor sister says in medical terms, this would mean they have a congenital blood disorder in which they lack plasma to produce blood, or something.)

Anyway, so it just goes to show how out of touch I really am with my second home, and how quickly the arts scene there has matured. Ten years ago, no Hong Kong musicians wrote or performed their own songs. They were gussied-up vocalists with photogenic looks and the physicality of lithe little fawns. Ellen seems like the kind of girl I’d still be friends with: her band is named after a Janis Ian song; she published a book of photography (shot with a Revue 35CC); her favourite actors are Cate Blanchett and Maggie Cheung (張曼玉); she covered “Hallelujah” in the style of Jeff Buckley:

More on hockey: Whither our golden girls when Games are over?

caniceleung — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 17:13:55 +0000

‘Cause I’m beating this horse good and dead before I move onto another topic to rage about, I wrote about hockey again, this time for my Metro column:

Both our hockey teams struck Olympic gold in Vancouver. The next day, hockey fever raged on for the NHL. But whither the women after the podium is packed away? Is there support for women’s hockey beyond the Games?

I polled a few hockey-obsessed friends: The answer was no. For one, there’s no high-profile league; even if there were, the game lacks speed and finesse, one said. Another said women don’t excite the way pugilistic NHLers do. Wait, where did that fuzzy feeling go? I thought we were proud of our golden girls.

Despite limited interest in the game itself, I love women’s hockey. The players push the envelope of what’s seen as acceptable for “the fairer sex.” Look no further than the constant chortling about lesbian players and coaches, and about Team Canada’s cigar-and-beer-fuelled celebration (which I maintain was a tongue-in-cheek jab at how male players celebrate) to understand its place in our social fabric.

Female hockey players have always been a bit subversive. The sport began with men, and as a result, fans have come to see the boys’ version as the way it ought to be played. Now, women are adopting it, but with a style that’s all their own. I must be among a minority of those who would welcome that kind of play — if this wasn’t the case, a North American league like the NHL would exist by now.

There are some examples of women in men’s hockey: Hayley Wickenheiser in European leagues; Manon Rheaume in NHL exhibition games — but one league said Wickenheiser shouldn’t play with men, while Rheaume was dismissed as a publicity stunt. Still, everyone rubbernecked — eager to see if these gals could overcome that unspoken notion that men always outclass women, and actually beat a guy.

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, acknowledging that some spectators will never be inspired by women for their sheer athleticism; that she will always be good … but only for a girl.

Add to that the talk that women’s hockey ought to be removed from the Olympics. Supporters cried foul, citing limited opportunities and underfunding, maintaining that it will just take time to establish the sport and develop a deep talent pool. I hope that’s the case. That would be golden.

What I didn’t have room to add was an observation that when it comes to women’s sports — not just hockey — we tend to love it with our minds, in a cerebral, affirmative sort of way that says, ‘Yes! We support your right to play any game you please (but I don’t have to watch it, right?)’ while we will always love men’s sports more intensely, elementally, and we will feel that love with our hearts — from the very core to the tips of our raggedy-ass, blue and white Maple Leafs clown wigs. No one ever sits on the edge of their couch in double overtime, hands locked in prayer and brow furrowed, fervently in prayer to the hockey gods, waiting and hoping their bunch of breathless and exuberant women to hoist a silver-plated cup, y’know?

I suppose you can’t force anyone to feel a pure sense of joy and passion for something if it doesn’t strike you that way, but I wonder how much of it is manufactured by a celebrity-driven, money-soaked, extremely powerful league and sponsor system, and how much is rooted in the athletes themselves and their willful determination. I don’t believe female players feel their love for their sport any less than male players do, nor that they are limited in passing on that sentiment to their audience. If you do, you should read Roy McGregor’s first hand account of the cigar-and-booze celebration, which made me love the women’s team all that much more.

Okay, so not quite fulfilling my New Year’s resolution to blog once a week

caniceleung — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 16:38:57 +0000

At least not here. But I did, for This Magazine last week, on how hockey is, in its modern incarnation, an elitist and un-Canadian sport. Saying as much is apparently is a kind of controversial thing to do while the nation is stoking its Olympics-fuelled sense of patriotic pride and the men’s Team Canada hockey team is on their way to a gold medal win. Oh, well.

Any sport that requires such a money sink is self-stratifying. It’s a terrible social phenomenon happening not just in amateur sports, but also in skyrocketing university tuition, extra fees required even in public school, laptops and other technological gadgets that are now virtually mandatory in academic and professional spheres. It also means at the highest level, the NHL, as in many other places in life, those that succeed are the ones that can afford it. It’s disheartening that all these opportunities are moving further and further out of reach of low-earning Canadians families.

…

When [hockey is] put on a cultural pedestal, it demands a fairness and accessibility that befits the morals of the country it represents. I think most Canadians believe we are a fair, free and equal country. Hockey, if it ever did represent that, doesn’t anymore.

The spirit of a nation comes from its people, emblematic of their shared experience, ethnicity, history or culture. Our spirit is that we lack all these, and instead take polite pride in them all. We are not one dish, one national dress, one language, one music (I would defect if Anne Murray or Celine Dion were our national chanteuses). How, then, can Canada reduce its sport to just one?

Read the whole thing here. I plan on elaborating a bit more on growing up in Hockeyville Richmond Hill later on this blog.

The Dragon Lady

caniceleung — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 03:28:59 +0000

Ah, Wikipedia. It always seems to be the night I’m scrambling to finish some other writing that I come across a subject that grips me, sending me down a rabbit hole of Googling and complete focus derailment.

Which is how I came to learn about Anna May Wong, a second-generation Chinese-American actress with Taishan roots. She started in silents but transitioned into talkies, but was forgotten for many a year as many a Hollywood star ends up. She was friends with Marlene Dietrich, her co-star in Shanghai Express (still below), and Leni Riefenstahl (isn’t that some terrible irony?) and for a while seemed to be headed for superstardom.

But Wong’s career hit an intersection of bad politics and yellow peril. It forced her into insulting stereotypical roles as evil dragon ladies, temptresses, or China dolls, which Wong was critical of. California’s anti-miscegenation laws (repealed in 1948) prevented fraternization, on or offscreen, between Asians and whites. It prevented her from landing lead roles, where she would have had to star opposite white men. In a famous case of yellowface, she was passed over for the heroine role in Pearl Buck’s “The Good Earth,” which is about Chinese peasants, in favour of Luise Rainer.

Oh, and then because she chose the dishonourable career of acting, the Chinese people hated her for being a lascivious embarrassment to her people. Even so, she left for China, hoping to to discover a troupe of fellow Chinese actors that would enable them all to create their own opportunities. She also sent diary newsreels back to Hollywood, allowing theatergoers to explore China in a non-racist way. (I joke a lot about how Taishan people speak in the “hick” Chinese dialect, but in all seriousness, Wong sounds like a very smart, resourceful woman.)

The anti-miscegenation laws probably had some part in her never marrying, too. The above clip of jazz staple “These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You),” here performed by Ella Fitzgerald in 1957, was co-written by Eric Maschwitz, a Brit with whom Wong had a lasting but obviously impossible romantic connection. A true torch song.

I always get obsessed with these injustices done toward women (and the Chinese, for obvious reasons… Rape of Nanjing, anyone?) — but this one runs a little deeper, since Wong seemed to be boxed in despite her best efforts. This one gets my feminist gas face.