Monday, February 23, 2009 - Posts
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Riffing slightly on the gasping that accompanied Michelle
Obama’s pulled back “executive” ‘do, Dana Goldstein makes an interesting point
about Obama’s hybrid feminism (third-wave, to some). Though Obama has dubbed herself the “mom in chief” countless times, pledging to work with military families,
dishing on work-life balance with women at Howard University, and presiding over a
feel-good children’s concert at the White House last Wednesday, Goldstein
notes:
… in unscripted moments and with
small gestures, you can see the old
Michelle Obama emerging from behind the Jackie O facade.
Most obviously, there is Michelle's tour of federal agencies, where she's been
pitching her husband's stimulus package and thanking tens of thousands of bureaucrats
for their service. A friend pointed out to me that these events are making
Michelle more visible than Joe Biden. That's true. Don't look
too closely, or you might see the Obamas' marriage for what it really is:
something quite like the infamous "two for the price of one" that so
terrified conservatives when it came to Bill and Hillary Clinton.
In the days before the Recovery Act passed, I, too, watched
as the listening tour took on a tone of subtle flackery. And yes, Obama is a
former hospital executive who shares a pillow with the man crafting national
health care policy. Yet I believe Michelle is really far more of a
traditionalist than anyone gets. More than I am, certainly.
Ta-Nehisi Coates’ bang-up profile of Obama
does the best job I’ve seen of fleshing out the first lady’s nostalgic, early ‘60s
view of America.
A child of Chicago’s
South Side and of a household with small-town values and traditional gender
roles, Obama is fiercely enamored of the “good old days,” of stoop hopscotch
and such, and it is the nation—blinded, somehow, by her blackness—that has
lagged behind in recognizing that. Despite the president’s lighter skin and Kansan roots, in
many ways, Coates argues, Michelle is the more American of the first couple.
The
superficial references to Camelot (and her “Mad Men” outfits—on the day she
hosted middle-schoolers in the East Room, she wore a mint green cardigan and conservative
pink tweed skirt, topped with the classic Jackie flip) contribute to the
impression that she is not interested in “two for the price of one.” She may be
or she may not. But the point is that, unlike her predecessors, she will do
both or neither if she damn well pleases. Though “Hillary Kissinger” empowered Obama to
eschew cookie-baking, the lack of scones at 1600 Penn is more likely to be because Obama's bad at it than because she feels social pressure to be a full-frontal working girl. That choice, I
guess—and the pretty clothes—makes her a lucky lady.
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Like Jessica, I can't see the Oscars as much more than Hollywood giving itself a big old sloppy wet kiss on national TV. But I thought there was a high moment and a low moment worth mentioning. The first came when Heath Ledger's family accepting his Oscar for best supporting actor. It was sad but, well real -- this was a family up there, a crew in a whole other sense, and the award had a meaning for them that went deep. The low moment came when, during the award for best adapted screenplay, they flashed up a section of the script for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. And it had a huge grammatical mistake! As I recall--and I could be wrong--it said something about an "inept silence"; the word they meant, presumably, was "awkward."
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A little shout-out for our new secretary of state, who, this past week, has been carving out her own brand of so-practical-it's-just-short-of-cynical diplomacy in China and elsewhere. Clinton was criticized for not publicly sticking it to Chinese leaders, like her husband did when he declared they were on the "wrong side of history." But what she's doing is much more interesting, and potentially effective. Clinton is giving up on the grandstanding because she knows it doesn't work. She didn't lecture Chinese leaders about human rights because "we pretty much know what they're going to say," Clinton said (candidly), causing all manner of diplomat to spill his scotch and soda in alarm. Chinese leaders have never responded to public scolding, so it's no use trying again. What she did instead is meet with a group of women involved in grass-roots and mildly subversive activism. This is strategic scolding of the kind Chinese leaders are sure to notice. And it gives a boost to the people who can actually make something happen in China. Clinton also spoke freely about Burma and North Korea in a way American diplomats never do. This is exactly why Obama chose her. She is the muscle behind his "negotiate with anyone" strategy. Sure, we'll negotiate, but only if it will work.
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Thanks to a bunch of great e-mails from readers (you are a smart and articulate bunch), I posted a piece about the recession and its potentially deleterious effect on marriages. I've got a follow-up question: If your husband or wife has been laid off, or if you have, is that affecting how you and she or he divide up who picks up the kids, does the dishes, takes out the trash, pays the bills? Is the person who's newly staying home putting in more hours on what's known as the "second shift"—the time for domestic chores that working spouses put in at either end of the day? Traditionally, women have shouldered more of this burden. Even as their rates of full-time employment have risen, the time-use numbers showing that men do less around the house have stubbornly refused to budge. I wonder if this round of layoffs is changing that. Please send your stories to doublex.slate@gmail.com, and I look forward to hearing them. E-mail may be quoted in Slate unless the writer stipulates otherwise. If you want to be quoted anonymously, please let me know.
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Despite the extraordinary long-distance diagnostic skills of Sen. Jim Bunning, R. Ky., who predicted at a Saturday Republican fundraising dinner that she’ll be dead in nine months, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg took the bench for oral argument this morning, just as she’d promised. Ginsburg underwent surgery for pancreatic cancer earlier this month. Her doctors are optimistic about her prognosis. As her clerks will tell you, Ginsburg doesn’t do drama. She also doesn’t miss court.
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A guest post from Slate intern Laura Bennett.
The XX Factor conversation in the wake of Facebook's revised Terms of Service raised some interesting points about why we use Facebook and what we expect from the site in terms of privacy and security. On Friday, Facebook returned to the limelight when a young man from Brooklyn, Paul Zolezzi, hanged himself in a playground shortly after posting his suicide note as a Facebook status update: "Born in San Francisco, became a shooting star over everywhere, and ended his life in Brooklyn...And couldn't have asked for more." According to the New York Daily News, friends saw the status update and commented on it ("Are you dying, or just staying Brooklyn? I hope it's the latter," one friend wrote), but no one took action.
The way Paul's friends reacted to his grim declaration points to the peculiar space that Facebook occupies: both fact and figment, reflection and projection. As Margaret mentioned, managing a Facebook profile has become a massive, multimedia exercise in self-creation that borders on fabrication. We can de-tag photos taken at unflattering angles, de-friend people for dramatic effect, and delete unsavory comments posted on our walls. Is it that spectacle of self-presentation, then, that makes a foreboding status update seem different from a scrawled suicide note?
What should the Facebook staff's responsibility be to react to red flags like this one? Founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg wrote in a blog post on Monday responding to the Terms of Service controversy that "[t]he trust you place in us as a safe place to share information is the most important part of what makes Facebook work." But what exactly are we trusting them to do? Just to give us our privacy, or also to monitor and respond to self-destructive content? Zuckerberg and his crew already boot users who misbehave, censor inappropriate photos, and take other behind-the-scenes steps to ensure a safe, smoothly run community. Should they intercede in situations like Paul Zolezzi's as well, or is it in the interest of trust and privacy to leave such intervention to others?
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I didn't love the entire Oscars telecast, but I did think there were some lovely grace notes, like Dustin Lance Black's speech (can we all agree it was the high point of the night?) and Kate Winslet's whistling, gap-toothed dad. And who knew Janusz Kaminski was so funny?
But what really made the night for me was the sheer number of foreign accents on display, from Penélope Cruz and her Spanish shout-out, to my dad's beloved A.R. Rahman. ("I chose love, and I'm here." Yes you did, you fillum king! Jai Ho!) Animated short winner Kunio Kato's minimalist and slightly absurd acceptance speech had me giggling all night. There's been a lot of talk about whether the night's big winner, Slumdog Millionaire, can be taken as an authentic portrait of India, or of Bollywood filmmaking in general. (See Dennis Lim's excellent Slate essay here.) I have a lot of conflicted feelings on that topic, but last night, at least, I was basking in Hollywood's internationalism.
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I just finished paging through the latest issue of Vogue, which the editors have billed as the "Power Issue." In addition to a profile of cover girl Michelle Obama, there are pieces on Carla Bruni, Silda Wall Spitzer, Melinda Gates, and Queen Rania of Jordan. Exceptional, intelligent, accomplished women, all. But I couldn't help noticing that all are famous chiefly in their role as helpmate to an even more famous husband. And, yes, all have turned that role on its traditional head, and yes, all were just as exceptional and accomplished before their marriages. But would they have been included in the issue without that new last name? The grouping seems to suggest they would not. (To be fair, there is also a story on Twilight author and self-made woman Stephanie Meyer, but she's not mentioned either in the cover lines or the editor's note, and relegated all the way to the back of the book. It seems almost tacked on; one never wants to be too matchy-matchy, and they'd already used so much first spouse in this issue!)
I don't pick up Vogue expecting it to be Ms., but still, this issue is clearly intended as a self-conscious departure from the usual breathless accounts of socialites who have just vacationed somewhere fab, or started fashion companies on a whim. It's meant to be Serious with a capital S, and to explore the ways women wield tremendous power in spheres outside of fashion. And it's precisely that intended scope that makes the implied definition of how power can be gained appear so incredibly narrow. In an odd way, it's collectively insulting to all the women included in the issue, who—as the profiles within prove—are anything but narrow-minded themselves.
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Willa, I wish I had enjoyed last night's Oscars as much as you did! I found Hugh Jackman—sweet and exuberant though he was—totally embarrassing to watch. The first medley was so awkward and triggered such an uncomfortable silence among my Oscar-watching crew that we decided to mute the second song and dance number and rewatch Joaquin on Letterman instead. (Ben Stiller's vaguely amusing parody got us in the mood.)
There were, though, two moments last night I think were award-worthy.
For most pathetic coverage of the red carpet, the winner is E! During the pre-show parade of wedding dress after wedding dress after wedding dress, Ryan Seacrest seemed like he'd never done a celebrity interview in his life ("Uh, have you thought about what you'll say if you win?" he asked Mickey Rourke, as though the answer to that could possibly be interesting). His co-host Giuliana Rancic took the level of professionalism down about 83 notches when she let out a little screech when Brangelina arrived, then sputtered "Oh my god I'm such a freak of nature! How about I scream like a freak when Brad and Angelina arrive?"
Don't worry, I won't do any medleys before I announce the next winner. For most pleasant surprise of the night, the award goes to Milk screenwriter Dustin Lance Black. Not only is he a total stud, but he was well-composed while delivering a powerful speech that struck just the right note. Get that boy in front of the camera more often!
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I'll take the bait, Willa. I found the Oscars as predictable and smarmily self-congratulatory as usual. Unlike Slate's Troy Patterson, who called the presentation of the acting awards by the five previous winners "a welcome development," I found it awkward and forced. The worst was Nicole Kidman, whose love of botox has rendered her face nearly immobile, thus making her tribute to Angelina Jolie in The Changeling seem insincere. The effort Kidman was exerting just to smile was gargantuan. I will admit, though, that I don't really have much of a stomach for this sort of thing. The Oscars comes at the end of awards season, and I don't find Hollywood giving themselves a new set of prizes every weekend especially inspiring. Am I hopelessly cynical, Slate women? Have I lost my sense of wonder? Check out the video of Kidman and Jolie below and see if you agree.
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