Wednesday, April 28, 2010

The Welfare Queen

The Constructed Identity of the, “Welfare Queen,” and How She Affects Welfare Policy

Oral Presentation at California State University Northridge, Gender and Women's Studies Conference on April 27, 2010


“She has eighty names, thirty addresses, twelve Social Security cards and is collecting veteran's benefits on four non-existing deceased husbands. And she is collecting Social Security on her cards. She's got Medicaid, getting food stamps, and she is collecting welfare under each of her names. Her tax-free cash income is over $150,000.”


This famous quote was spoken by President Ronald Reagan during a campaign speech in 1976. You may have heard of the woman he is describing. This thief, this fraud, this parasite, is the very well known public enemy number one, called the Welfare Queen.

Who is this Welfare Queen? Although she is not any one person in particular, she is used to define the thousands of poor mothers who rely on the state for economic aid in order to support their families. The public identity of the welfare queen situates herself in a particular intersection of society that is determined by race, sex, and class. This identity defines welfare recipients as lazy, immoral women of color, with many children, who are incapable of properly socializing their offspring and seek to use tax payers’ hard earned money to fuel a criminal lifestyle. This public identity has been embraced by many Americans over the years, as well as politicians, who use the identity of the welfare queen to establish punitive policies to control the personal and economical lives of poor mothers.

In 1996, President Clinton passed the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity And Reconciliation Act. This changed how much public aid families could receive, as well as the ability of the state to interfere and coerce the behaviors of poor mothers. Some of the restrictions outlined in this article are restrictions on eligibility, the 5 year lifetime limit of aid for any individual, severely limits immigrant women’s access to benefits, and requires that over 60% of a state’s welfare recipients be working. Not only do states have to prove that this mandatory quota is being achieved, but, “…each state’s plan must explain how the state plans to discourage out-of-wedlock births.”

One architect of the 1996 welfare reform, Charles Murray, was quoted saying, “The only way to combat the, ‘culture of poverty’ is to end all government welfare supports, forcing impoverished urban single mothers to behave more responsibly, or starve.” Another contributor to the reform was quoted as saying, “goodbye welfare queen, and hello working mom.”

In 2008, the Poverty in America Survey, administered by National Public Radio, the Kaiser Family foundation and the Kennedy School of Government, found that 57% of respondents stated that welfare support causes women to have more babies. Indeed, the identity of the welfare queen is still pervasive today, still causing the American public to be reluctant to pay into a welfare system that would propel poor mothers out of poverty, and feel more comfortable paying for a system that monitors and controls poor women’s lives.

Because all Welfare recipients are entrenched in the stigmatized identity of the Welfare Queen, the state promotes and supports what’s called the, “work first” model of motherhood. The “work first” model suggests that any job, no matter how low paying, is better than no job. This is because of the belief that welfare moms aren’t capable of properly socializing their offspring. This model is contrary to the, “intensive mothering,” model, which is the social norm, and declares the utmost importance of the mother’s presence in the child’s socialization process.

However, poor mothers are actively resisting this model, as well as the stigmatized identity attached to it. There is another model of mothering that some poor mothers have created for themselves. This model is called the, “mother as provider,” model and dictates that any job won’t do if it does not pay a livable wage. These women are resisting the state sanctioned, “work first,” model and are instead fighting to get the education needed to properly provide as a head of household. Currently, a state does not have to support a University education, and many recipients who attend higher education must also fulfill compulsory work requirements, as well as the unpaid labor that is parenting.

I wanted to insert myself into my research because I, myself am a welfare recipient. I had a beautiful daughter, and ended up a single mother receiving no child support. In my own navigation of the welfare system here in California, I have noticed that these sexist, racist and classist policies that govern mine as well as hundreds of thousands of other women’s lives are actually counter- productive. Yes! Tax payer dollars, energy, and my precious time are consistently spent trying to prove to the state that I am a decent human being. Social Workers are paid to monitor me and meet federal quotas.

I feel these resources could be used much more effectively. By examining my own thoughts, experiences and feelings about being on welfare, as well as the thoughts, feelings and experiences of other women in my position, I realized that here exists a dire need for our own voice as poor mothers to be inserted into this system that so profoundly affects our lives.

For my research, I desired to search out and examine the voice of the poor mother. To do this I used my own blog and journals as a source for auto-ethnography, as well as the blogs of other women like me. I fortified this data with ethnographic interviews with additional women who receive welfare benefits.

What I found seemed to echo itself with every personal account of every poor mother that I came across. We are made to feel ashamed of ourselves. Because of that, we often hide the fact that we are on welfare from other people. Social workers have numerously made all of us cry tears of frustration at one point or another.

I also found that we do have agency. We are mothers. We want respect. We want to be successful. We don’t want to be poor. We want our children to be proud of us. If given the tools necessary to succeed, we can, and will. Through many conversations, the reality of the need to form a coalition of poor mothers and poor mother allies is not only apparent, but of the utmost importance to the world.

If what Ghandi once said is true, if poverty is truly the worst form of violence, than the state has the responsibility to correct its abusive actions. These degrading policies are based on patriarchal, nuclear family values and mythical norms that are simply not the reality of many families today.

The reality is that being a poor mother is not by nature a character flaw, and we certainly should not be subject to punishment and stigmatization because of who we are. We have something to say. Listen to us, and we will tell you what we need in order to raise happy and healthy children. We are the bringers of the future. legislators, children, and society as a whole would benefit from our voice.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

loud dreaming


Right before or during my mensus, my dreams get very intense. My dream life is pretty vivid normally but sometimes I have one that just stays with me. I had one of those last night, and I started bleeding today.

I have a dream geography. There are places that repeat constantly. I have different dreams, but the places are always the same. A hotel with red paisley carpet. An indoor/outdoor mall that has a special indigenous peoples area. Within that area is a Bontanico with all kinds of Goddess and witchcraft items. Adjacent to the hotel is an airport. There is an apartment building near a beach, if I walk on that beach I come to a long inlet to an island where the people are all pagan, and there are pagan festivals all of the time. Its a sanctuary for me. There is also a small town in the mountains, surrounded by forest. Behind the town are mountain paths and secret places. Before reaching those places there is a yellow house on a hill, surrounded by oak trees. A group of women have turned the house into some sort of Goddess temple, along with a pre-school, and I go to many different functions in this house in many different dreams. Last night's dream started in this house.

I grabbed a group of little kids including my daughter and my godson. It was night and there was no moon. It was very dark. I couldn't see but I seemed to know where I was going. We wound up a small mountain trail, surrounded by forest. I came to a grove of trees. I couldn't see, but I knew that the trees circled around me in a half moon. I spread my arms wide and turned my palms upwards. The children were behind me, quiet but not necessarily paying attention to what I was doing. Suddenly, a snake fell from a branch above my head and it sank sharp fangs into my right hand. My hand and arm felt like it was on fire and I grabbed the body of the snake with my left hand, trying to yank it off. It let go but then bit my left hand. I tried to crush the snake in my fist and felt its little bones begin to break. But then I stopped when I realized that I might kill it. I didn't want to kill it. I just let go. It released my flesh and fell into the darkness. I was no longer afraid although the pain was intense. I told the children to go back down the mountain and call an ambulance from the yellow house. I felt like they would have no trouble finding their way back. I wondered for a moment if I was going to die, but that thought passed, and I sat quietly waiting.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

creep (short fiction)

This is the new revision of, "emerging," I changed the narration and I really like the way it turned out. Would love any feedback!

Creep



The Other looks at me and as such he holds the secret of my being, he knows what I am. Thus the profound meaning of my being is outside of me, imprisoned in an absence. The Other has the advantage over me.
Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness



Morgan had thrown practically the entire contents of her closet on to the bed. Every single pair of jeans pushed the flesh of her hips into bulges that spilled over the belt, under the unyielding waist band. Morgan remembered hearing the condition be described as, “front butt.” She sighed as her phone alerted to her a call with the plaintive tones of Radiohead. “I don’t care if it hurts, I wanna have control…”
“Okay, fine. Fuck. Pick me up in an hour.” Her voice sounded raspy with defeat. Morgan wanted nothing less than to be in bed watching the final episode of, “Battle Star Galactaga,” for only the sixth time. She always cried when Starbuck becomes an angel and flies into the sun. Morgan gnawed on her finger nails and contemplated what compelled her to let her best friend talk her into going to this holiday party. Whatever it was, it infected her deepest insides and drained the color and flavor out of every blushing rose or sweet jasmine that might have thrived ever in her own life.
Only three days before Morgan had gone to the doctor to get her yearly pap smear and breast pummeling from the 68 year old Persian doctor who was the only doctor on her HMO that had any sort of decent parking on the west side. In his thick accent blasting breath that smelled like cigars, soil, garlic and goat cheese, he told her that although Morgan’s cholesterol and heart seemed fine right now, if she didn’t lose some serious weight she would be, “In trouble.” He said she had an eating disorder and recommended that she go to Overeater’s anonymous. Shaking his head at her chart, he clicked his tongue and told her that her triglycerides were high and that is the kind of fat that is in cake and chocolate. He patted her on her belly and asked her how many slices of pizza she was hiding in there. Morgan had never heard of Overeater’s Anonymous so she googled it that very evening, in the privacy of her studio apartment which overlooked a dirty alley but was by the beach, and found a meeting to go to that very night.
The meeting was held at the YWCA. It was a small brown building that housed a daycare, and the meeting took place in what looked to be a kindergarten classroom. The walls were covered with cardboard animals and their names, construction paper cut outs of yellow, blue, red and green, topped off with the alphabet that looked down upon the various women who were there. Morgan was puzzled because although there were some women of size in the room, many of the women were actually perfectly thin. The bigger ones were talkative and chatted with other big women while the slight ones sat quietly with their eyes pointed downward. A pale woman who was shaped like an overstuffed Christmas stocking and dotted with rusty freckles smiled down at Morgan.
“Is this the OA meeting?” she asked inquisitive, aqua eyes framed by electrically charged orange hair.
“Oh yes, you’re in the right place. They put all of us fatties with the anorexics and bulimics because we all have eating disorders. Unfortunately, they have the kind that makes them perfect and we have the kind that makes us like huge, ugly, eyesores to like, everyone else, right?” She winked at Morgan like this was a secret that was now in her trust.
At least the skinny ones were doing the world a favor by making themselves the painted canvas of feminine, barely there attractiveness that society holds so very dear, even though they are told they are sick for trying so hard. As if everyone else isn’t trying to do the same thing one way or another. Overdeveloped outsides wrapping around their underdeveloped insides, thought Morgan to herself. She felt like a very different beast entirely. She was worse than lazy. She was selfish for not conforming to what was declared beautiful, seeing but uncaring of the blithe she was imposing on eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she walk down the cracking sidewalks and sat self consciously in straight, fragile, plastic chairs.
Instead of transforming food into energy, Morgan’s body transformed it into walls. Borders upon borders of flesh that most would not dare to cross. Layers that shield from any form of outward intimacy. Her body was a fortress. Morgan effectively hid her treasures, showing to the world only bulging, dimpled flesh. The frail, tiny anorexics looked at the compulsive overeaters a bit fearfully, as if they might slurp them up at any given moment. Morgan never went back.
“Shit,” she said. Morgan’s best friend was going to be there in ten minutes and she was still standing naked over her hills of clothing. She sighed and settled on wearing what she always wore. A faded, black, long sleeve shirt, paired with a dark, olive green skirt that pretty much swept the ground when she walked. She covered this with an oversized hoodie, also a faded black, completing what looked to be a hippie-ghetto burka.
“I see you dressed in your usual camouflage,” said her best friend as Morgan emerged from the front door.
“It is a war zone out there.” She replied back promptly.
Her best friend threw her arms around her and squeezed a quick hug. As Morgan pulled away, she reached over and brushed a strand of dark hair out of Morgan’s small eyes. “Well c’mon then. We’ll smoke a joint on the way and you’ll feel better by the time we get there.”
As they passed the joint in the car, Morgan’s best friend babbled her gripes with her boyfriend. When she first introduced him to Morgan, she said that Morgan really needed to meet this guy and start getting out and dating again. She said he was Morgan’s dream guy and so Morgan agreed to go with him to see a local band. Morgan didn’t wonder why her best friend insisted on coming too, since it was a good band. Dream guy was kind, handsome, and played steel string guitar. His long hair framed big, chocolate eyes and his skin was rich like a mocha latte drink. Morgan liked him immediately and something stirred inside that she hadn’t felt in such a long time.
“I told you.” Said her best friend, “If I wasn’t married I’d be all over him in a hot second.”
As night ticked away into morning, Morgan sat alone at the bar tossing back shots of cheap tequila. Her best friend and dream guy had been making out on the sawdust dance floor for the past 45 minutes. Her best friend stumbled over while he went to the bathroom. “ I knooooooooow, I’m a Biisssshhhhhhh. Zshoooo hate me? Pleeeeeeeeeeeash don’t hay meeeeee.” Pitiful eyes were threatening to spill more than beer.
“I don’t hate you. I just think that you are completely fucking retarded. But I don’t hate you.” That was a year and a half ago, now Morgan’s best friend is separated from her husband, and is living with dream guy in a two bedroom house with a pool and a palm tree in the back yard.
The party took place in a retail store. In the front of the store was a hot pink, tinsel tree. The dirty cement floor had been painted with green and gold glitter and a fold up table with wine, crackers and cheese was displayed next to the cash register. Morgan made her way towards the table and busied herself with the task of pouring some red into a plastic glass.
As she adjusted her gaze upwards, she saw something that immediately turned her stomach into a brick. It was William. William was her best friend’s uncle. Seven years ago, when Morgan was working out of a seedy club next to railroad tracks and the freeway, Uncle Will came in and she ended up going home with him. She had always wanted to fuck him and she knew he had his eye on her, it seemed like the perfect place to explore the kind of fantasies that can only be played out on another’s body. She had played the role of the shy sex object and he played the role of the L.A. prince who could whisk a girl away from all of the filth. He pretended he could love her and she pretended that his dick wasn’t smaller than a light-flow tampon. She also pretended to cum multiple times. Morgan wasn’t sure why she had put on such a performance, maybe trying to make him feel good about himself. She went home before the sky exploded in pinks and yellows by the waking sun. He called her two weeks later which seemed insulting to Morgan at the time. She never returned his call.
“Morgan?” he asked.
“That’s me.” She smiled and tried not to look like a person about to jump overboard.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I know,” she replied, “I’ve put on a few pounds.” His mouth did not respond so she quickly added, “Wow! It’s been forever, hasn’t it? How have you been?”
“Great,” he finally smiled. “I’m married now.”
“Cool.”
“How about you?” He was still looking at Morgan in this half puzzled, half concerned way and his voice dropped. It made her despise him intensely even though she knew he was a nice guy.
“Yah, it’s um, really great. Really great!” Morgan knew what was coming next.
“I heard something bad happened to you?”
“Yah, well, I was raped. But, I’m fine now, that was a pretty long time ago.” But never long enough for her to forget the feeling of that pressure on top of her, that drilling into her, poisoning her well. He had tried to make her look at him. She smiled even wider to reassure Uncle Will that everything was indeed, great.
“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you. If you need anything…”
“Yes, yes, thanks. I’m fine, really. Um, excuse me for a minute?” Morgan began to back away and accidently bumped into the flimsy table, knocking a bottle over. The dark red Chianti pushed its way through the nice, white linen covering the cheap table and Uncle Will grabbed the bottle and tried to confine the spill. Morgan turned and made her way towards the bathroom. Her best friend intercepted her with wide eyes and a sheepish grin.
“Oh my gawd oh shit, honey! Uncle Will!” she giggled apologetically. “I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here. Fuck! He never said he was coming, I swear!”
Morgan pushed past her. She felt like she was burning up. Something rose within her that was primitive, hurling her body towards the doors. Her numb hands pushed the glass and it gave way into the crisp night. The darkness reflected nothing back to her and so she fixed her eye on the darkest spot in the furthest distance, and she began to walk towards it.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

is it the apocolypse?

Is it the end of the world?

Today I'm thinking that it might be.

There is a Miley Cyrus video where she is working a pole coming out of an icecream truck. Here she pole dances at the teen choice awards.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/10/miley-cyrus-teen-choice-p_n_255338.html

In the DRC, girls my daughter's age are being raped with machetes and machine guns as a systematic weapon of war.
http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/africa/08/11/congo.rape/index.html

Also in the Congo, boys younger than my daughter are being used in the battlefields, as shields.
http://www.fallingwhistles.com/splash/index.php

All of this is over the minerals used to build my lap top that I'm writing this post with. Yours too.
http://www.globalissues.org/article/87/the-democratic-republic-of-congo


In Uganda, people whose sexual preference is not hetero, and those who "aid and abet" homosexuals, can be put to death or imprisoned.
http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1946645,00.html

There will be a new law in Utah that will prosecute women who have miscarriages with homicide.
http://community.feministing.com/2010/02/in-utah-miscarriage-criminal-h.html

Friday, January 29, 2010

emerging (short fiction)

“Okay, fine. Pick me up in an hour.” My voice sounded defeated. I hated people. I really hated Christmas. I hated my best friend for making me go to this retail Christmas party, when I could be in bed watching the final episode of , “Battle Star Galactaga,” for only the sixth time. I always cry when Starbuck becomes an angel and flies into the sun.

Shit, she was going to be here in ten minutes. I had thrown practically the entire contents of my closet on the bed. Not one pair of jeans would fit. The doctor shook his head at me the last time I was sitting on his table. In his thick, Persian accent blasting old man breath, he said I had to lose weight. He said I had an eating disorder and told me I needed to go to Overeater’s anonymous. I actually went. They put all of us fat, compulsive eaters in the same room with the bulimics and anorexics. We all had eating disorders they said. I was just lucky enough to have the kind that makes you a huge, ugly, eyesore to society.

At least the skinny ones were doing the world a favor by making themselves the picture of feminine, barely there attractiveness that society holds so very dear, even though they are told they are sick for trying so hard to get that acceptance from other people. As if everyone else isn’t trying to do the same thing. Overdeveloped outsides wrapping around their underdeveloped insides. The fatties, however, we are very different beasts entirely. We are worse than lazy. We are selfish and nonconforming to society’s standard of beauty, uncaring of the blithe we are imposing on eyes narrowed in scrutiny as we walk down cracking sidewalks. We are sick for not trying hard enough for outward validation.

Instead of transforming food into energy we transform it into walls of flesh. Borders that most would not dare to cross. Layers upon layers that protect us from any form of outward intimacy. Our body becoming something that we can hide behind, showing to the world only bulging, dimpled flesh, becoming invisible underneath it. The frail, tiny anorexics looked at us compulsive eaters fearfully, as if we would slurp them up at any given moment.

I sighed and settled on wearing what I always wear. A faded, black, long sleeve, knit shirt with a dark, olive green skirt that pretty much scraped the floor when I walked. I covered this with an oversized hoodie, also a faded black, completing my modern day burka.

“I see you dressed in your usual camouflage,” said my best friend, who is always trying too much to get me to go out.

“It is a war zone out there.” I replied promptly.

“Well c’mon then. We’ll smoke a joint on the way and you’ll feel better by the time we get there.” She said patronizingly. I tell my friends that pot makes my social phobia better. I even have my card. The truth is that all I want to do is lay in bed, in my bedroom that I painted a deep, endless indigo, whether I was stoned or not.

As we passed the joint in the car, my best friend babbled to me her gripes with her boyfriend. When she first introduced him to me, she introduced him as my dream guy. Certainly he was kind, handsome, and played guitar. His long hair framed big, dark eyes and his skin was rich like a mocha latte drink. I liked him immediately. She wanted us all to go out to the Malibu Inn together to see this amazing singer/songwriter from Hawaii. As we were driving to his house to pick him up, she looked up at me and said that she would want him for herself if she weren’t married. At the show they ended up making out all night long while I tossed back shots of cheap tequila. That was a year and a half ago, my best friend is now separated from her husband, and her and my dream guy are still together.

In the front of the store was a cheap, tinsel tree. The dirty cement floor had been painted with green and gold glitter and a fold up table with wine, crackers and cheese was displayed next to the cash register. I made my way towards the wine and busied myself with the task of pouring into a plastic glass.

I adjusted my gaze upwards and saw something that immediately turned my stomach into a brick. It was William. William was my best friend’s uncle. Seven years ago, when I was a stripper working out of a seedy club off of San Fernando road in Glendale, Uncle Will came in and I ended up going home with him. I had always wanted to fuck him and I knew he had his eye on me, the strip club was a perfect place to explore desires that both of us knew were only topical. I had played the role of the shy sex object and he played the role of the L.A. prince who could whisk a girl away from all of the filth. He pretended he could love me and I pretended that his dick wasn’t smaller than a super absorbent tampon. I also pretended to cum multiple times. I’m not really sure why, I guess I was trying to make him feel good about himself. I went home before the LA sky was dyed pink by the waking sun and he called me two weeks later. I never returned his call.

He was looking at me quizzically. I tried to avert my gaze, to disappear, I was in a panic. Uncle Will began to make his way towards me. Before I knew it, he was a foot away from my face.

“Rachel?” he asked.

“That’s me.” I had nowhere to run.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“I know,” I replied too quickly. “I’ve put on a few pounds. Wow! It’s been forever, hasn’t it? How have you been?”

“Great,” he smiled. “I’m married now.”

‘Um, awesome!” I tried to nod my head in approval but ended up spilling some red wine on my shirt.

“How about you? I hear you have a kid now?” He was still looking at me in this half puzzled, even concerned way. It made me despise him intensely.

“Yah, it’s um, really great. Really great!”

“I heard something bad happened to you.”

“Yah, well, I was raped. But, I’m fine now, that was a pretty long time ago.” I smiled even more to reassure him that everything was indeed great.

“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you. If you need anything…”

“Yes, yes, thanks. I’m fine, really. Um, excuse me for a minute?” I began to back away and accidently bumped into someone. I turned and made my way to the bathroom. My best friend intercepted me with big eyes and a sheepish grin.

“Oh my god, honey. Uncle Will!” she giggled. “ I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here!”

I nodded and kept walking. I passed the bathroom and kept going until I was out of the store, blanketed in the crisp, LA air that signaled winter in Southern California. I fixed my eye on the darkest spot in the furthest distance and began to walk towards it.