Will my small readership forgive me if I placate them with pictures of cute cats? Here’s Gemma and Caprica trying to share the awesomest toy of all: a cardboard box.

Anyhow, I am at work and should really not be posting, but I wanted to take a moment to reiterate my commitment to write once a week.

In that spirit, one quick thing that I can put out there is that I frequently do not agree with Dan Savage’s views on women, feminism, and lesbians, but I loved his response on yesterday’s podcast to the “STRAIGHT woman” who wanted to hook up with an authentic queer lady before getting married. “Leave the Lesbians Alone!!” Dan half-moaned over and over.

I couldn’t agree more, coming in the midst of what I have dubbed the Week of Rudness to Nice Gay Girls You Don’t Even Know. On Friday, S and I walked around Chinatown holding hands before seeing HP6. We were bothered by two different men. The first was on the job, sweeping out front of the McDonalds. It did not strike him as professionally inappropriate to leer at us, laugh, and call out, “Yeah, just keep holding hands, girls. Just keep holding hands. I looooove that. Mmmmm.”

I didn’t expect to be so angry. I dropped S’s hand, ran back a few steps, and got in his face. I yelled, “That is not appropriate, sir. Unless you want me to go talk to your manager right now you will stop. What is wrong with you?” The man cracked up and kept sweeping.

Not two blocks later a drunken-seeming man leered at us, gave us a truly disturbing visual once over, and made lewd noises. I truly almost hit this guy. I didn’t know that was in me. I think that the force of my anger scared him, actually. I didn’t hit him but cursed him out loudly enough that other people stopped to watch. It left me trembling with rage.

The very next day, S and I were cat-called by a homeless man in our own neighborhood. I stopped him cold, saying, “Don’t you even start, sir. That is not appropriate and I am sick of it. We are not here for you. Be polite.” Of course, the guy followed up with, “I’m sorry, ladies. Don’t mean to be rude. You’re just such pretty ladies. And I’m a pretty lady, too! I’m a pretty lady!”

Perhaps I shouldn’t waste my lecturing and sassy back talking on homeless folk with mental illnesses who honestly can’t help what comes out of their mouths. And yet–

WTF? This is my city- this isn’t what my life here should be like. I have chosen to live somewhere diverse and exciting and accepting and proud. While I know that many people don’t actually accept my life, I have come to expect that they accept that I don’t hide it and that they must treat me with the detached respect that they give all passersby on the street. I don’t like when that balance is threatened. Especially because all that I can do is not let it hurt me inside and react directly to the hecklers, let them know that their behavior is unacceptable. It’s a very unsatisfying position, but what else can I do?

I was born in the mid-80s; the summer than riot grrl was born I was living in Portland, Oregon, learning how to rollerblade and feed my newborn brother his bottle. I had cassette tapes of MC Hammer, Michael Jackson, and (perhaps predictively) the Indigo Girls. Although the scene was coalescing practically next door, with Bratmobile forming in Eugene, riot grrl completely passed me by. I was just too young.

I first became aware of riot grrrl in 1999, when 10 Things I Hate About You hit theaters. Good god, I loved that movie. Heath Ledger was so beautiful he made me ache. Julia Stiles was so gorgeous. And Kat was the most kick-ass high school senior I could imagine. Her favorite bands were Bikini Kill and the Raincoats.

My friends and I visited a bunch of fan sites for the movie and were surprised to learn that Bikini Kill was a real band. We’d thought it was a clever way of indicating how alt-punky Kat was. Of course, with the wisdom of age I’ve realized that she was so awesome because she was a feminist, a budding riot grrrl teaching herself the guitar, and quite possibly a baby dyke (come on, even we homos were entranced by Heath). No wonder Patrick was embarrassed to be seen at Club Skunk- it was a ladies’ club!

I sampled some Bikini Kill but it wasn’t working for me quite the way that Kathleen Hanna’s new band, Le Tigre did. Plus, I was pretty firmly wrapped up in L7, Garbage, the Sneaker Pimps, and the Donnas (and, still, the Indigo Girls). I loved the riot grrrl aesthetic and was ripe for its feminism but the music itself didn’t light a fire under me the way that more current music did.

I really found feminism a few years later, then I came out, and went away to women’s college. I listened to Dar Williams and got crushes on trans-boys and went to rallies at Beacon Hill after the Superior Court of Mass handed down the marriage decision. I read Jennifer Baumgardner and she changed my life. I was part of the third wave; I felt the fire; I was going to live my feminism and I was going to be the difference I wanted to see. When I read about the role that riot grrrl played in the very beginning of the third wave I finally had that feeling that so many friends had described before: I was certain and bitter that I had been born at the wrong time.

Why, oh why, had my parents not just gone for kids the year they married? Then I would have been 12 in 1991 and would at least have been able to hop on for the later years of riot grrrl. I would have gotten the zines and maybe even written one with my friends. I would have learned to play bass rather than the flute. I would have rocked the stage! Given that in my actual life I rocked nothing more edgy than the debate team, my fantasies about who I would have been if I’d been a riot grrrl might have been overblown. But hey, we’ve all got dreams.

Of course, things were different in the late 90s and early aughts. My friends and I didn’t worry that the boys in our life didn’t take us seriously as women–we demanded, however ineffectively, that they do so. We had Hillary Rodham Clinton and Alanis and all sorts of women role models who had proven that we could and would do it, too. Performing rage and change and smarts wasn’t as vital for us in the same way. While I wished that I could have been a riot grrrl I didn’t feel that was possible anymore.

After watching Itty Bitty Titty Committee I looked up the history of riot grrrl for the first time and was shocked to learn that “its etymological roots could be traced to the actual Mount Pleasant race riot in spring 1991.” Mount Pleasant? That’s my neighborhood! Proof positive that I really was born to be a riot grrrl.

Turns out, the Mount P riot was instigated by an altercation between a black policewoman and a Salvadoran resident (things haven’t changed, for all that 20 years have passed). Two nights of rioting followed the incident, with the neighborhood’s Latino community and hipster types taking to the streets to protest and the DC Metro Police responding with tear gas and rubber bullets. It was the worst racial violence in DC since Dr. King’s assassination, and it was headline news across the country. On the west coast, Bratmobile’s Jen Smith wrote about it in a letter, angry and wanting to respond. “This summer’s going to be a girl riot.”

I’ve been putting together a riot grrrl station on Pandora since I watched Itty Bitty and read up on the movement. It’s still true that I can’t really be one now. I really was born too late. Le Tigre split up and Kathleen Hanna married a Beastie Boy. Bratmobile’s members have been in tons of later bands but haven’t been up to much lately. Sleater-Kinney broke up and Carrie Brownstein works for NPR. The years of Revolution Girl Style Now! are over, much as I wish otherwise.

This post has been tumbling up in my head for a while, but I haven’t had time to write. So it seemed like fate when I played my most recent All Songs Considered podcast in the middle of last week. Carrie Brownstein joined Bob Boylen and co. to do a special episode called, “Do Record Labels Matter?” While in the past they have danced around Carrie’s role as a feminist icon and one of the best female guitarists in rock history, they have never come right out and discussed what it was like to be part of Sleater-Kinney until this episode. She was kind of embarrassed in an adorable way. The first label she featured was her old one, Kill Rock Stars, and she featured Bikini Kill’s “New Radio.”

I had known that Kill Rock Stars was important in the riot grrrl movement, but I hadn’t realized the scope of its roster. Bikini Kill. Sleater-Kinney. Nirvana. Elliott Smith. The Gossip. Harvey Danger. The Decemberists. Geez!

So here I am, newly relaunched on my policy career path, with a plan to go buy some more business casual blouses and shoes in a few hours, and a life that is surprisingly domestic, but I still wish I could have been a riot grrrl. Even though I was too young when it was a driving force of feminism and rock music, it kindles that wonderful fiery, passionate, youthful spirit of change and movement. Unlike the C(i)A of Itty Bitty I am not going to make zines or engage in semi-violent protests against the patriarchal hegemony, but I am going to keep playing my riot grrrl Pandora station and dancing around, wishing I could dial back the clock about 20 years. Revolution Girl Style Now!!!

our delightful kitchen

The transition to a new home worked out so well, since I only had one more week of my old unemployment routine. Within seven days, I had an offer that was pretty much a dream come true. The type of position that put me solidly on an advancing career track, in the field I wanted, with substantive responsibilities, and a salary I could live on. While I have worked more than 100 hours in the past 2 weeks, it’s exciting and challenging and exactly what I want to be doing.

We decided that Caprica needed a companion after the move. He wasn’t getting as much exercise with the dog he had lived with before. He was bored and lonely. He was also alone a lot more often, as I was finally out of the house during the day. So last weekend we adopted a kitten. S picked her out, and, I suppose, if we ever “divorce,” she’ll get Gemma and I’ll get Caprica. Yes, Gemma. We named her Gemenon, to match Caprica. She’s so tiny you can’t help but giggle at her head and she is a total hell-raiser. Within 12 hours she was trying to body slam Caprica! After about 4 days he has decided that he’s not going to demand that she leave, but he wants us to know that she is annoying. She definitely makes S happy, so even if she weren’t adorable I’d love her. But she is adorable:

Caprica fills 90% of the volume of this carrier. Gemma fills about 10%.

Anyhow, I haven’t made time to post here, despite rolling several ideas around in my head, because I’ve been busy, tired, and distracted for some truly wonderful reasons. New goal is to post once a week from here on out.

When N texted me to make sure I hadn’t been on a train, I told her that trains had minor accidents fairly frequently here, so even if I had been on a train I probably would have been alright. Shows what I know.

it's hard to imagine the physics of this train wreck

I waited almost 30 minutes to get an S bus, only to crawl along squished most inappropriately into the backside of a stranger in his forties. After picking up cat food, I was just too tired to wait for another bus. Sitting in the cab, I heard just how bad it was. At that point, four dead, seventy hospitalized.

Despite the internal bitchfest about the horrific commute and my rapidly increasing crabbiness level, the mere act of walking in the door the apartment seemed to deflate me. This was the worst accident in Metro’s history. Six dead. Seventy hospitalized. As the last light of the sunset faded, rescue workers were still looking for survivors and bodies.

I’m sorry now for my mean-spirited initial response. I can’t stop thinking about the hundreds of people who spent hours unsure if their wives and husbands and kids and friends had been on one of the trains- how many of the injured still haven’t been able to contact loved ones. I hope that those who are hurt recover; I hope that those who did not survive have peace tonight. I hope that I can remember not to be such a haughty city dweller that I react callously before I feel compassion. What a sad night.

the new Star Trek knocked my socks off

GWC’s Trek wrap up cast raised the question that had been on my mind since opening night: How emotional is Spock in this new Trekverse? Watching Star Trek again this afternoon provided a few insights. In TOS, Spock was more emotional as a young officer, more conflicted about his dual inheritance, more ready to act out. As Leonard Nimoy and the writers developed the character, Spock became more reserved, more purely logic-driven. By the time Wrath of Khan hit theaters, Spock looked more like the calculated, almost chilly Vulcan we have gelled in our memories as the core of the character.

Strangely, for a series reboot that is based on the obliteration of Vulcan, a planet not inconsequential to the Star Trek we know and love, I find Zachary Quinto’s new Spock to be a more complete, realistic rendition of all that Vulcans are meant to be. I think this Spock feels emotions just as deeply as Sarek told him, after his spectacular primary school brawling, that Vulcans could. Perhaps, though, Spock feels those intense emotions more frequently than most Vulcans , due to his human heritage. We see it flickering behind his eyes repeatedly, most notably when he turns down acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy.

This Spock appears to have less difficultly with actually suppressing his emotions than he does coping with the burden of the choice of whether to do so. The only time in the movie (aside from the childhood scene) that Spock seems truly unable to control himself is when Kirk attacks his reaction to his mother’s death. The rest of the time we see him struggle with the temptation to express his emotions, as though he aches for the catharsis that we full humans can achieve in giving reign to our feelings. For example, we can see him weighing how to respond to Uhura’s offered comfort/distraction after the singularity engulfed Vulcan. In that case he decides to act Vulcan, cover his feelings, acknowledge them and suppress them. Yet only hours later he considers a repeat offer and follows his human instincts and share a moment of tenderness with Uhura.

while no one can replace Nichelle Nichols as Uhura

Speaking of Uhura, she was the other puzzle that lured me back to the theater. Nichelle Nichols defined the character as more than just a space secretary. You could see the spark in her, and despite her long, long legs and short, short skirts, she was a strong woman. TOS Uhura was professional, quick, admirable, but not deeply developed as a person. That made the development we got in the new film all the more enjoyable.

Zoe Saldana nailed the role. She was smart, professional, confident, and owned her sexuality in a way that most love interests don’t get to. From her first scene in the cadets’ Iowa bar, the way she alternately flirted with and rebuffed Kirk showed that she knew she was in control. Withholding her given name seemed to be part of that control. Of course, it also set up a great blow to Kirk’s inflated sense of his own allure, once he inadvertently found out that she was not opposed to sharing her personal details with all potential love interests, just him.

Uhura’s simultaneous comfort with her body and her intelligence is highlighted somewhat ham-handedly in the scene where she arrives back at the down, strips down to her undies, and chatters to her roommate about translating Klingon distress signals regarding the destruction of forty-seven ships of the Klingon fleet by an unknown enemy. Even once Kirk crawls out from under the bed, she is completed unfazed by her semi-nudity, and escorts him out while continuing to discuss the meaning of her translation work. It’s funny, but it’s also bad ass. This Uhura knows that she’s hot and smart, and has the confidence to let people know who she is and what she wants. The only place she expresses any uncertainty is in the emotional realm: she is unsure what Spock needs from her following the destruction of his home world, and seems worried that she might not be able to provide it.

I like this version of Uhura. I’d like to see her character developed further as the reboot series continues, though. It’s ok not to have a starring female in this one, because it was concentrated so heavily on exploring new directions for the franchise’s two central characters, Kirk and Spock. That said, part of the reason that there was only one major female character in TOS who was never actually developed as a full human individual was the underlying sexism of the times. Uhura was in many ways an accessory, despite Nichelle Nichols’ amazing strong woman performance of the role. This reflected the level to which women were often discounted as major actors in society, the degree to which women were invisible. When I think about the ways that we see women portrayed in blockbuster cinema and prime time TV today, I am not sure we have achieved much progress. I’ll have to reevaluate that once the next Trek movie comes along. Hopefully that will deliver some better, juicier action for our Nyota Uhura to dive into.

good thing it's in beta because it needs some tweaking

I wonder whether Hanna, Emily, and Meghan anticipated the conversations they have started within various feminist and progressive and media circles? I have to assume that they had the savvy to commission such controversial essays for the first week’s posts, but I think they made a major mistake in focusing so intently on feminism and women’s issues in their first days. Most people don’t seem to be feeling the vibe of “intelligent women writers commenting on and writing about the day’s biggest issues, plus women’s content that you actually want to read!” Messaging and branding are essential to the launch of any campaign, and in this case, Double X missed the mark.

Despite my criticisms, I do like the site and its general mix of voices. Susannah Breslin drives me bonkers and she never has anything worthwhile to say. Rachel Larimore, on the other hand, is certainly not of my same stripes, but her posts are worth reading. I was thrilled to see LaToya Peterson with a guest post. Where is Dahlia Lithwick, though? She’s fantastic. The On-Ramp, a new blog on “work, life, and the recession,” is interesting and addresses current events in ways that you don’t see elsewhere on mainstream media sites. I enjoy Willa Paskin’s TV and culture pieces. In my opinion, there’s a lot to like here, so I’ve been reading the site, responding to the backlash on other sites I enjoy, and talking about it with friends (whose opinions on Double X are refreshingly all over the map). Strangely, I appear to be one of a small handful who have taken to the new site.

Emily B, Meghan O, and Hanna R

While there have been a mountain of complaints about Double X by its own readers and writers elsewhere, but no one has addressed what I see as the potential Achilles heel of the whole initiative: the editors are probably in this for the reasons they say, plus the opportunity to advance their careers, but why has Slate decided to get behind this venture? Especially in the midst of the worst existential crisis that professional media has ever faced, this is a huge risk. The reason, of course, is the money.

According to one marketing trade publication, the online “women’s content” segment is growing rapidly, and presents a fantastic source of as-yet untapped revenue. “Women’s sites, particularly those that are blog-based, present a unique opportunity to converse with a highly engaged demographic in real time,” writes Marissa Miley. Those on the other end of the conversation? Marketers and advertisers. That article wraps up:

The good news for Double X is that the space shows no sign of slowing down.

“We’ll be spending a lot more money in that space,” said Christine Peterson, VP-digital media director at Carat. “It’s just a smart way of approaching advertising for the right client.”

I don’t mean to say that the fact that this is part of a capitalist journalism and media structure should motivate us all to tune out in favor of exclusively reading niche publications that are non-profit or activist oriented with limited advertising. Not in the least. I am a proponent of maintaining a wide and varied media diet. I think it’s important to recognize, however, that at its roots, Double X is equally about making money by generating hits and readership as it is about creating a new space for women’s voices and perspectives within mainstream journalism.

The main complaints that I have seen from commenters and bloggers are that Double X is schizophrenic in its relationship to feminism, Double X is anti-feminist, Double X pretends to be feminist but is really anti-feminist, Double X should shut up about feminism already, Double X is helping to ghettoize women’s voices in media, and Double X should be more like XX Factor was. Wow, what a laundry list. If you’re a doubter or a hater, I wish you would give Double X a trial period and consider more carefully before making up your mind. Check out the pieces on the problematic construction of masculinity and Judge Sonia Sotomayor, while you’re at it. But, if you’re reading this Emily/Meghan/Hanna, get a new headline writer for the love of god! That’s my biggest beef.

What does a queer woman look like? There are three reasons that I think it’s important to ask. First, when we ask the question it reminds everyone how many different answers there are and how little can be presupposed. Second, asking begs response, which helps to increase our visibility within wider society. Finally, when we ask the question of ourselves individually, it helps us keep our perspective and be aware of how our identities as people and, specifically, as queer women have developed. After reading Katrina’s piece for TNG I’ve been thinking about what my personal queer woman looks like, what that means to me, and how it’s changed.

flowing golden tresses and pink lips, 2005

This queer woman loves being a tomboy. I am most comfortable in jeans, a women’s cut t-shirt with a hoodie, and sneakers. Cutting all my hair off was the most freeing and satisfying decision I’ve ever made regarding my appearance.

more my speed, 2009

Being a queer woman means that I am different than the majority of my female peers and usually ignored by the gay men who set our cultural agenda. I try to change that when I can. I’m a queer lady feminist geek news junkie, and I prefer to be known by the sum of those parts rather than as any one of them individually. I have a strangely clear, intense memory of reading David Leavitt’s The Lost Language of Cranes in college and really struggling with his preface. The preface, added upon the tenth anniversary edition of the book, said

Does a love object, particularly an unconventional one, confer identity upon the person who loves it? (Or him? Or her?) When I wrote the novel, I believed that the answer was yes, that an erotic attraction to men was, as Philip puts it to his mother, by necessity, “the most crucial, most elemental force” in a gay man’s life. “Whatever it is that we love, that is who we are”… Perhaps the line should read, whoever it is that we love, that is what we are.

Leavitt said that he no longer singles out the gay as the central characteristic of his persona. I struggled with this because I, too, felt that queer was a “what” rather than a “who.” And yet, I didn’t like reading that when Leavitt wrote his first novel, homosexuality had pride of place as the most important component in his constellation of self identity, but he felt that this position was reflective of his youth, and as he had aged other components came to the fore. I talked this out with friends gay, straight, and bi. The straights didn’t get the whole sexuality has pride of place thing at all, and the gays, while with me on that, agreed with Leavitt that it was likely the place we were at in life, destined to be supplanted as we aged.

The place I was at happened to be one where I identified very strongly as queer. While I was out as bi/more interested in women in high school, I had a boyfriend through most of it. When I arrived at college, I shed the boyfriend, joined the rugby team, and developed my first gay social network. It was powerful and fun. What was I? I would have told you that I was a big gay nerd overachiever. In that order. And I didn’t want to believe that I was probably going to outgrow that.

Like I said, I’m a queer lady feminist geek news junkie. Altogether. That’s important to me, these days, not trying to parse it. I bring who I am to everything I do, whether it’s writing or working, exercising or hanging out at a bar, talking politics or talking sci-fi. One thing that I am these days that I wasn’t few years ago is accepting of the fact that how I assess and understand who I am will continue to change.

Thus began what has been a time-consuming, sometimes frustrating, sometimes fun process of deciding what to do and where to go. I’ll be moving in with my girlfriend on June first, which is exciting. Finding a place has been a challenge. We’re deciding between a place in Mount Pleasant that is just outside what we set as our price range but is still affordable as long as my unemployment doesn’t last much longer and a place in Capitol Hill which is slightly less perfect but well within budget. Decisions.

Anyhow, that explains the two week silence. I’ve got upcoming posts planned on the new Star Trek movie and news analysis of the economy.

Since I don’t, you know, have an interview to prepare for by tomorrow, or anything else like that, I spent a good deal of my morning imagining who D.C.’s native super heroes could be. Actually, after coming up with some characters, then I started putting together back stories and asked my girlfriend what kind of costumes they would have, but she swatted me away and told me to ask her after work. After the jump, meet my D.C. costumed vigilantes, but first check out this amazing local news-produced piece on the Cincinnati squad:

Lady Freedom
The sun never sets on the face of Freedom. With her serene gaze, handy readily, steadily resting upon sheathed sword, and an inarguably awesome head piece, Freedom is an inspiring figure. That’s what Thomas Crawford was going for when he designed her in the 1850s, and so she remains more than one hundred years after moving to our nation’s capital. She may be strangely familiar to Hill dwellers and staffers who don’t get to use the special tunnels from the offices to the Capitol itself, as Freedom is the statue that gazes out across our city–nay, our nation–proclaiming our love of freedom to the world.

No one suspects that Freedom leads a rag-tag team of costumed heroes

Home Ruler
This unassuming (aren’t they always?) late-twenties bartender has a degree in Comparative Literature and wrote an honors thesis on independence-era literature in America and Colombia. He’s found that he makes more money mixing drinks than he could editing copy at a newspaper or taking an entry-level communications job, but he’s pretty happy. He’s a social guy. When he’s not working or donning the mask, he’s active in D.C. voting rights organizations. Statehood, in his opinion, is the only just solution; Congress has proved time and again that it is neither willing nor able to serve the interests of D.C. residents.

Peregrine Falcon
She spends her days in scratchy, uncomfortable nylon stockings, heels, and conservatively-cut suits, so changing into her spandex and sports bra is such a relief. At her day job, where she’s been since she graduated from college about ten years ago, she lobbies for the telecom industry. The irony of fighting injustice after she clocks out of a job based on perpetuating unfair treatment of paying customers is not lost on her; she’s fairly cynical but accepts complexity. PF enjoys spending her free time at the bars in Dupont Circle and also organizes a local book club.

Anna Costya
Anna is the single D.C. native of the bunch. Her mother’s family has been in D.C. since before the Depression. She’s fiery and fierce both in costume and out, and will not put up with your shit. She’s a student at American but struggles to pay tuition and keep her grades up. AC tends to be easily distracted, whether by hanging out with her childhood friends from the neighborhood or crime fighting or partying. She’s a regular at Phase One, but, of course, they don’t know her as Anna there. Like the eponymous river, Anna’s unique and beautiful… but dirtied and degraded by careless family and neighbors who don’t see her gifts. Sometimes this makes her bitter, but she also knows it’s a source of strength.

Escaleftor
Big E won’t tell you how old he is, but it’s north of forty. That doesn’t slow him down, as he stays fit by walking up and down the escalators at East Falls Church and Eastern Market each day. He sometimes feels out of place in the group as the only one without a college education, and he compensates by keeping his utility belt better stocked with gadgets than anyone else. Instead of continuing in school, he joined the Air Force after high school. Later he and his brother opened a business together, a small tourism memorabilia store near the Hill. His crime fighting specialty is monitoring the Metro for thugs, pickpockets, and left-standing ne’re-do-wells.

This is not actually a story about the end of the world. It’s a story about the love between father and son that is so powerful that it outlasts the end of the world. Wow, that’s kind of biblical and Christiany, when I put it like that. The boy has within him the genetic and biological inheritance/memory of a world he’s never known. He knows that his Papa keeps him safe and cares for him, lives for him and will die for him, and that is all he really knows. The man is haunted by the loss of his life, the death of the world, the understanding that they can give up and die sitting still or they can fight it and die on the road, but that they are going to die either way.

"Everything paling away into the murk. The soft ash blowing in loose swirls over the blacktop."

The end of the world frames the story nicely–strike that, what I mean is brutally and beautifully. McCarthy elevates an emotion that we all know, the drive to keep moving forward despite relative pointlessness, into a philosophy. I don’t know that I’ve ever read a postapocalyptic piece that was so bleak and yet so vital. What would it mean to be the last?

I have read and watched a great deal of postapocalyptic SFF. From the day I picked up Stephen King’s The Stand as an eighth grader stories about what humans do when we arrive at the end of all things have drawn me into a morbid appreciation of those choices. The measure of a person and of a society and of humanity is taken by what she/they choose to do in the face of death. I’m a kid in my twenties; I don’t often go through my day thinking about the fact that I am already dying and that in the end regardless of whether I leave behind positive change and beautiful children I will be gone and my life won’t matter except as a single data point in the aggregate. Works of postapocalypticism bring it to mind because it is those choices that we make when we not only know the end is upon us but feel it and believe it as well that define us. The man and his boy, much like Admiral Adama and the rag-tag fleet, don’t always make the best choices. They don’t always seem to grasp the consequences of their actions. But they carry the fire. That idea is cheesy, I know, but it made me cry:

Do you think there could be ships out there?
I dont think so.
They wouldnt be able to see very far.
No. They wouldnt.
What’s on the other side?
Nothing.
There must be something.
Maybe there’s a father and his little boy and they’re sitting on the beach.
That would be okay.
Yes. That would be okay.
And they could be carrying the fire, too?
They could be. Yes.
But we dont know.
We dont know.
So we have to be vigilant.

The little boy knows that we have to be vigilant in order to find the other good guys and to detect the bad ones. We can never stop being prepared to reach out but we can’t just hold our arms wide and try to embrace the world because the people who find us might be the ones who eat people.

A note on the punctuation, since I’ve quoted a fair bit: McCarthy eliminated the apostrophes in some contractions and not others. Normally I am annoyed by purposefully poor punctuation/grammar (see: e. e. cummings and the annoying fans who decapitalized his name to match his first person narrations) but in this case it gives the visual to the erosion of civilization. Some words, like days, run together and the separations between them become meaningless and unnecessary. Others hang tightly on to their silly signifiers despite the emptiness of meaning because it is one small way of hanging on to what was. The dialogue is also not captured within quotation marks. There is such a stark difference between the man’s internal monologue and his conversations with the boy that they aren’t especially necessary. Their absence reinforces humanity’s decay. The abruptly perceived words reinforce humanity’s essential inner fire.

When the boy finds sudden and unexpected new hope after the novel’s climax, he also finds faith in a god that his father rejected. The Road ends with a sudden extrapolation from the narrative to a removed and hypothetical meditation:

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

It is a promise that the end is not the end, and a prediction that it is also not a new beginning. The world will not simply heal itself and cycle onward after this cataclysm, but it will slowly heal and spin out in a new direction. Somewhere, hidden life replete with that rare shared spark of fire that gives some of us faith is stirring and living and keeping on. We do not know what it will be; we know that it will not be us; it does not matter because it will exist.