Imaginary Woman Writer Project for Diverse Woman Writer's Course
For this project, I was required to create a woman writer who had been marginalized in some way and write her works. It was a challenging assignment, as I had to create literature that she had written.As the project went along,I found parts of myself showing up in my author, as I have also been marginalized in ways in my life. I am proud of the work I have produced for this project, and hope others can gain new understanding and insight into what it is like to be a woman who is independent, outspoken, and part of a religion that is not mainstream. This project has five parts: A Biography of the woman writer, a Short Story, and a Poem she wrote, a Critical Essay analyzing her work, and this here, the Reflection on the project as a whole. Continue to scroll down the page to read all of the assignments.
"Gypsy Rose" by Jessica Galbreth.
IWW Biography
Conjuring Up A Woman of the Shadows: A Biography of Rhiannon Conn
The first thing people should know about Rhiannon Conn is this: she survived the Salem Witch Trials. Her survival speaks to the strength of her faith and Wiccan talents. Rhiannon went against the grain, no matter what it was, and even her survival of the Burnings showed everyone just how resilient she was. Not even Death himself could contain her.
The Conn family came to America for the same reasons everyone else did: to escape tyrannical Europe and have a better life. The family was small, just Rhiannon, her father, Connell Conn, and her mother, Mealla. Rhiannon was only sixteen when they arrived from Ireland. They came to America to escape the religious zealotry of Europe, because they were practicing Wiccans.
Little did the Conns know, life in Puritan Massachusetts was just as tyrannical and restrictive as the land they had left. They learned rather quickly though. Their first Sunday in Salem, they stayed home from church, unaware that every member of the village was expected to attend church. When half the town showed up at their doorstep to question why the Conns were not in church, they realized quite quickly that blending in would be to their advantage.
The family did a fairly good job, too, except for Rhiannon. She refused to conform. Her family was newly immigrated from Ireland, and they had their Old Ways that they believed in. Rhiannon and her family fit the mold of the Puritan Salem in some ways: they were white, of Irish/Scottish descent, and they spoke English just as their neighbors did. But at age sixteen, Rhiannon was no ordinary teen. (Hansen)
The most important thing to know about Rhiannon is that she was a writer. She had been writing since she was three, and her mother and grandmothers were teaching her the alphabet and Wiccan traditions. By the time she was five, she was writing tales of knights and witchy princesses. By the time she was seven, she was copying spells from the families' grimoire to learn, and writing down the myths and legends her grandmothers had told her of.
By the time Rhiannon was sixteen, she had filled up six diaries, wrote thirty stories, and over one hundred and fifty poems. She wrote to live, and lived to write. Writing allowed her to escape from reality, or make sense of the reality around her. She wrote nightly in her diaries, not only wanting, but needing to chronicle her life.
She was such a good chronicler, in fact, that it is known exactly what she looked like and how rebellious she was, as in this excerpt from her published diaries, Dianic Diaries: Musings of Thy Wyrd Woman:
I fit the Irish lass profile, alright. Slender, with ruby lips, bright, intelligent hazel eyes and a mop of long, curly, fire-engine red hair that is impossible to tame! One day, so sick of constantly shoving my long curls out of my face, and much to my family's horror, I took a knife and cut my hair to just below my chin. From that day on, mother insisted I wear a bonnet at all times in public! The scandal of a girl with short hair!
Rhiannon, however, was not content with just the short hair. She couldn't stand dresses, either. In another excerpt from the Dianic Diaries, she tells of her father's tiredness of her constant need to rebel. In the privacy of the Conn home, Rhiannon had taken to wearing her older brother's pants. One evening, weary of his daughter's rebellion, Connell asked, “Is it your desire to become a man, Rhiannon? Or do you take pleasure in hurting your father? Do you desire the company of a fellow woman?”
“Connell!” Mealla Conn cried, shocked. (Burch)
Rhiannon then replied, “It is fine mother. I have nothing to hide. I do not desire the company of a woman, nor do I wish to make you angry, father. What I desire is freedom! Freedom to ride a horse as a man does, and wear breeches, and have short hair, and do work as father does. I wish to sleep out under a full moon, and converse with the wolves and gather the herbs for our potions! I want to write! I wish to be free!”
Connell disagreed. “I see the religious fervor in this community. If we are to survive, we must follow their rules. If you feel you must write, write as a man would. Sign your works as R. Conn. Have it printed in a place other than here. Start behaving like a woman!”
It seemed the discussion was over, but in Rhiannon's mind, the debate had just begun. That night, in her diary, Rhiannon wrote: 'I cannot abide by father's wishes. To present myself as a Puritan would be to present myself as a lie. I am strong, capable, and independent. I can do whatever a man does, and maybe even do it better. And as for the Puritan God, it is not my God. I believe in my own Gods and Goddesses, and I have never feared any of them. If I wish to wear the clothes of my brother, I will! I will one day be a writer known all over the world, but especially in America, too! I will write of the tales of the Gods and Goddesses that have been told for centuries. I will write of my travels and adventures, and all the danger I encountered! I will be as well respected as any man has ever been!'
Rhiannon's desires would come to pass, but first, she would need to survive Salem. Her constant need to be different eventually came to the attention of the town's leader, Cotton Mathers. For once, when Cotton accused her of being a witch, he was right. From Rhiannon's diary, it is known that her family begged her to renounce her religion like they did, but Rhiannon refused. This is where she stopped writing in her diaries.
She was led to the town square, tied up to a stake, and a ring of kindling was set on fire. What has never been revealed, however, not through her diaries, poems, or stories, is how what happened next, happened. It is only known from the accounts of others that were there, that the fire started burning, there was a lot of smoke, and when it cleared-Rhiannon was gone. Not gone as in burned up, but just-gone. When the townspeople rushed to the Conn house to find her, they found an empty house. All three Conns were gone, and they had taken only clothes, their religious items, and Rhiannon's writings.
What happened to the family between the time they fled and the time Rhiannon resurfaced in New York at age twenty-two is unknown. When she was twenty-two, she met two bisexual men while in New York, Owen Desmond and Teague Riodan, both of whom had also come from Ireland. The three struck up a friendship that ultimately turned romantic. The village in New York that they lived in was very open. People knew of the relationship between Rhiannon and the men, but none spoke of it. It was just-there. One main reason no one spoke of it was that, Owen and Rhiannon were known throughout the community as healers, and they were often seen making calls to various households.
At the age of thirty, Rhiannon was ran over by a horse carriage and died instantly. Her lovers came across her works after her death, all the diaries, poems, and stories. They decided to honor her while still respecting her privacy. They created a publishing company, named Roaring Fires, and published three tomes of Rhiannon's work, ironically under the pseudonym her father had once suggested, R. Conn.
They published her fairy tales and Wiccan myths/fables with the title, Thy Goddess, Thy Moon, and Thy Sidhe: A Compilation. The next volume they published was full of Rhiannon's poetry, titled Circle of Secrecy. The third, and final, works of Rhiannon's that they published, was her diaries, titled, Dianic Diaries: Musings of Thy Wyrd Woman. The publishing company became so successful because of Rhiannon's work, that the men published all kinds of occult works and expanded into different cities across the country. Owen died at age fifty, and Teague followed one year later. All three are buried next to each other in a New York cemetery.
Works Cited
Galbreth, Jessica “Gypsy Rose” Painting. Web. 7Th February 2012.
http://www.epilogue.net/cgi/database/art/view.pl?id=84106
Burch, Nora “Irish Names from Ancient to Modern” Article. Web. 7Th February 2012.
http://www.namenerds.com/irish/lists.html
Hansen, Cauleen Background knowledge. Self.
The first thing people should know about Rhiannon Conn is this: she survived the Salem Witch Trials. Her survival speaks to the strength of her faith and Wiccan talents. Rhiannon went against the grain, no matter what it was, and even her survival of the Burnings showed everyone just how resilient she was. Not even Death himself could contain her.
The Conn family came to America for the same reasons everyone else did: to escape tyrannical Europe and have a better life. The family was small, just Rhiannon, her father, Connell Conn, and her mother, Mealla. Rhiannon was only sixteen when they arrived from Ireland. They came to America to escape the religious zealotry of Europe, because they were practicing Wiccans.
Little did the Conns know, life in Puritan Massachusetts was just as tyrannical and restrictive as the land they had left. They learned rather quickly though. Their first Sunday in Salem, they stayed home from church, unaware that every member of the village was expected to attend church. When half the town showed up at their doorstep to question why the Conns were not in church, they realized quite quickly that blending in would be to their advantage.
The family did a fairly good job, too, except for Rhiannon. She refused to conform. Her family was newly immigrated from Ireland, and they had their Old Ways that they believed in. Rhiannon and her family fit the mold of the Puritan Salem in some ways: they were white, of Irish/Scottish descent, and they spoke English just as their neighbors did. But at age sixteen, Rhiannon was no ordinary teen. (Hansen)
The most important thing to know about Rhiannon is that she was a writer. She had been writing since she was three, and her mother and grandmothers were teaching her the alphabet and Wiccan traditions. By the time she was five, she was writing tales of knights and witchy princesses. By the time she was seven, she was copying spells from the families' grimoire to learn, and writing down the myths and legends her grandmothers had told her of.
By the time Rhiannon was sixteen, she had filled up six diaries, wrote thirty stories, and over one hundred and fifty poems. She wrote to live, and lived to write. Writing allowed her to escape from reality, or make sense of the reality around her. She wrote nightly in her diaries, not only wanting, but needing to chronicle her life.
She was such a good chronicler, in fact, that it is known exactly what she looked like and how rebellious she was, as in this excerpt from her published diaries, Dianic Diaries: Musings of Thy Wyrd Woman:
I fit the Irish lass profile, alright. Slender, with ruby lips, bright, intelligent hazel eyes and a mop of long, curly, fire-engine red hair that is impossible to tame! One day, so sick of constantly shoving my long curls out of my face, and much to my family's horror, I took a knife and cut my hair to just below my chin. From that day on, mother insisted I wear a bonnet at all times in public! The scandal of a girl with short hair!
Rhiannon, however, was not content with just the short hair. She couldn't stand dresses, either. In another excerpt from the Dianic Diaries, she tells of her father's tiredness of her constant need to rebel. In the privacy of the Conn home, Rhiannon had taken to wearing her older brother's pants. One evening, weary of his daughter's rebellion, Connell asked, “Is it your desire to become a man, Rhiannon? Or do you take pleasure in hurting your father? Do you desire the company of a fellow woman?”
“Connell!” Mealla Conn cried, shocked. (Burch)
Rhiannon then replied, “It is fine mother. I have nothing to hide. I do not desire the company of a woman, nor do I wish to make you angry, father. What I desire is freedom! Freedom to ride a horse as a man does, and wear breeches, and have short hair, and do work as father does. I wish to sleep out under a full moon, and converse with the wolves and gather the herbs for our potions! I want to write! I wish to be free!”
Connell disagreed. “I see the religious fervor in this community. If we are to survive, we must follow their rules. If you feel you must write, write as a man would. Sign your works as R. Conn. Have it printed in a place other than here. Start behaving like a woman!”
It seemed the discussion was over, but in Rhiannon's mind, the debate had just begun. That night, in her diary, Rhiannon wrote: 'I cannot abide by father's wishes. To present myself as a Puritan would be to present myself as a lie. I am strong, capable, and independent. I can do whatever a man does, and maybe even do it better. And as for the Puritan God, it is not my God. I believe in my own Gods and Goddesses, and I have never feared any of them. If I wish to wear the clothes of my brother, I will! I will one day be a writer known all over the world, but especially in America, too! I will write of the tales of the Gods and Goddesses that have been told for centuries. I will write of my travels and adventures, and all the danger I encountered! I will be as well respected as any man has ever been!'
Rhiannon's desires would come to pass, but first, she would need to survive Salem. Her constant need to be different eventually came to the attention of the town's leader, Cotton Mathers. For once, when Cotton accused her of being a witch, he was right. From Rhiannon's diary, it is known that her family begged her to renounce her religion like they did, but Rhiannon refused. This is where she stopped writing in her diaries.
She was led to the town square, tied up to a stake, and a ring of kindling was set on fire. What has never been revealed, however, not through her diaries, poems, or stories, is how what happened next, happened. It is only known from the accounts of others that were there, that the fire started burning, there was a lot of smoke, and when it cleared-Rhiannon was gone. Not gone as in burned up, but just-gone. When the townspeople rushed to the Conn house to find her, they found an empty house. All three Conns were gone, and they had taken only clothes, their religious items, and Rhiannon's writings.
What happened to the family between the time they fled and the time Rhiannon resurfaced in New York at age twenty-two is unknown. When she was twenty-two, she met two bisexual men while in New York, Owen Desmond and Teague Riodan, both of whom had also come from Ireland. The three struck up a friendship that ultimately turned romantic. The village in New York that they lived in was very open. People knew of the relationship between Rhiannon and the men, but none spoke of it. It was just-there. One main reason no one spoke of it was that, Owen and Rhiannon were known throughout the community as healers, and they were often seen making calls to various households.
At the age of thirty, Rhiannon was ran over by a horse carriage and died instantly. Her lovers came across her works after her death, all the diaries, poems, and stories. They decided to honor her while still respecting her privacy. They created a publishing company, named Roaring Fires, and published three tomes of Rhiannon's work, ironically under the pseudonym her father had once suggested, R. Conn.
They published her fairy tales and Wiccan myths/fables with the title, Thy Goddess, Thy Moon, and Thy Sidhe: A Compilation. The next volume they published was full of Rhiannon's poetry, titled Circle of Secrecy. The third, and final, works of Rhiannon's that they published, was her diaries, titled, Dianic Diaries: Musings of Thy Wyrd Woman. The publishing company became so successful because of Rhiannon's work, that the men published all kinds of occult works and expanded into different cities across the country. Owen died at age fifty, and Teague followed one year later. All three are buried next to each other in a New York cemetery.
Works Cited
Galbreth, Jessica “Gypsy Rose” Painting. Web. 7Th February 2012.
http://www.epilogue.net/cgi/database/art/view.pl?id=84106
Burch, Nora “Irish Names from Ancient to Modern” Article. Web. 7Th February 2012.
http://www.namenerds.com/irish/lists.html
Hansen, Cauleen Background knowledge. Self.
IWW Story
Erin and the Creatures
The day that Erin was kidnapped by banshees began as any other day. Erin was awoken before the sun deigned to rise by her father, who would give her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Then he would say what he said every day before he went to work the fields: “Mind your Gram, lassie. 'Tis a bloody shame your mother passed into the Summerland, and Gram is sad to this day. Be a good lass, Gram loves ye more than the sun and moon, as does I.” Then he would be gone, out to work the fields until the sun fled the sky to hide for the night. Erin would then snuggle down deeper in the quilts and fall back asleep for awhile, until Gram shook her awake.
Then Erin would bathe and dress and Gram would have the morning meal already prepared. Erin would eat and clean up after the meal, then it was out to start chores. Since they lived on a large farm, there were many chores to do. Erin's main responsibilities had to deal with the livestock on the farm. Her favorite thing about the farm were the animals, so her family decided she would care for them. While Erin loved the animals, she wasn't so fond of cleaning up after them.
Whenever Erin would complain about her chores, her Gram would begin lecturing her. According to Gram, one needed to be a 'proper young lady, mind your manners, and dae the work of womenfolk.' The men went off exploring and having adventures. They could come and go as they pleased, wear and speak and behave how they wanted. Even though Erin was only thirteen, her elders expected her to do the work of a woman, and it was her Gram's job to train her for a future husband.
Erin was not interested in learning to be a wife. Living in Ireland, the beauty and mystery frequently bewitched her. The Emerald Isle, Ireland is called, and the explosion of green everywhere sent Erin off into dreams and flights of fancy. Erin frequently vexed her family, because her Gram would instruct her to go milk the cows and churn the butter, she would step outside with a pail in her hand, see the countryside, and Ireland would begin to sing to her.
Yes, sing to her, for Ireland's stunning jewel of earth was enchanting for Erin. She would gaze around at the emerald fields, the rainbow-hued flowers, the birds diving and chattering...and the bucket would drop from her hand and she would be off, running through the fields to the forest that lay beyond the fields. Her Gram, after finishing up one chore or another, would walk outside to make sure Erin's chores were getting done, only to raise her face to the sky and spit curses out into it as she saw the fallen milk bucket...and no Erin.
When Erin would return, hours later, as the setting sun sprinkled gold across the green land like a leprechaun spreading his fortune, Gram would grab onto Erin and say, “Child, dae not I tell ye to milk thy cow and churn thy butter? Ha' I not warned thee o' the sprites and spirits tha' hide in yonder wood?”
Erin would show her remorse, and apologize for vexing her grandmother so, and her grandmother, unable to stay angry at Erin once the big, fat tears began to run down Erin's cheeks, would pat Erin on her golden hair and say, “Dae not cry, I aim to keep thee safe, 'tis all I hope for thee. I hope also, lass, to have milk from yonder cow for dinner tonight.” Then Gram would smile, kiss the top of Erin's head, and go back to what she had been doing.
On this particular day, she actually felt like doing her chores. She milked and fed the cows, tended the garden, fed the chickens and collected the eggs....and that was when it happened. She had just collected the last egg from the coop when a shadow fled across a field before her eyes. The movement was quick, so quick that Erin was sure it was a trick of the light. Just when she had convinced herself that she had gone on another flight of fancy, the shadow fled across the field again. It moved very fast, too fast to be her father plowing the field.
She shielded her eyes from the sun, and strained to see what the shadow was. There, to the right! Erin's heart beat faster. The shadow was faster this time, and much, much closer. Any lingering thought of her father vanished. The shadow was tall, very tall, and looked like it had slim, wide arms. It was running, and, Erin noted with panic, headed directly for her.
Erin just had time enough to think, “Why, it appears to be a tree!!” As the scream rose to her throat, it was silenced by the shadow. Arms that ended in tree limbs grabbed her around her waist. Erin was in shock, and wondered what it could be. When she looked up and saw red eyes and razor sharp teeth, she cried, “Banshee!!”
The banshee was half woman, half tree. It had no idea what its name was, or how long it had been in the forest. It had a vague idea of being all woman at one time, but now its only thought was “Kill. Kill the woman. Make her one of us. Kill.”
Erin was terrified, of course, and thought that not one soul had seen her carried of by the demon spawn. Her Gram was washing the the floors, her father tending the fields. There was no one else, or so she thought. But something had seen it, and this creature was flying up, up into the sky and headed straight for the faerie Gathering Hall. On this particular day, she actually felt like doing her chores. She milked and fed the cows, tended the garden, fed the chickens and collected the eggs....and that was when it happened.
Sunflower burst into the Gathering Hall, her tiny rainbow wings flapping furiously. The other faeries gathered there looked up in surprise. Faeries always entered the Hall in joy and happiness, gliding in softly and finding a spot to gather with their other faerie friends. Sunflower was the gentlest of them all, always a kind word for all, calm and beautiful. To see her upset was practically unheard of.
Calla, the head of the Faerie Queendom, spoke sharply. “What has you vexed so, Sunflower?”
Sunflower cried, “A Banshee at the Patrick house! She took the small girl tha' lived there and took her away!”
The faeries were in a uproar. A banshee kidnapping had not happened in centuries, so for a child to be taken-
“All faeries to me!” Calla cried. “We fight the banshees! Sunflower, lead the way!”
Erin got thrown onto the ground. It felt like they had been traveling for years. The sun had set by now, and the stars burst into the night sky. Erin was in a wide circle, devoid of anything but dirt. Her arms were scratched and bleeding from the banshees limbs. Her hair snarled, her clothes torn. She curled into a ball, but still dared to glance up. Seeing one banshee was bad enough, but now she found herself surrounded by them. Their red eyes glared down on her, their branches held up in menace.
Erin wanted to cry, but held back. She thought of what her Gram would do in this situation. Her Gram, who had spent years teaching Erin of the dangers of the supernatural, would not be afraid, Erin decided. Gram would speak up, and fight back with all she had in her. One of Gram's speeches came back to her: “If you find thee amongst banshees, ye must fight, lass. Fight with all ye have! Banshees love the weak! Be strong, Erin! Be strong!” Summoning Gram's fiery spirit, Erin shouted,“Wha' dae you want?! Take me home, immediately! I command thee! You have no use for me here!”
Guttural sounds came from the banshees. Erin could only deduce that they were speaking in their own language. One banshee, the largest of them, began stumping towards her. It bent down, bringing one of its branch arms to scrape down Erin's face. Erin screamed as the branch sliced through her cheek like a knife through hot bread. She held up her fists thinking if she had to die, she would die fighting. She felt like the end was near...
A wail began at the back of the circle of banshees and began to go around. More banshees joined in. The banshee that had attacked Erin hissed and uttered a curse in its guttural language: “Goen stchein frouch!” Erin met the banshee's glare and saw above the evil creature, tiny rainbows flitting around all the banshees. She gasped. “Faeries are here now, too!” she cried. “Gram was right about everything!” Then blackness welcomed Erin.
The banshees were angry. They did not like their plans interrupted. The Queen banshee demanded a young woman to consume, and the young woman was to be the Queen's only. To have her plans interrupted, especially by the filthy faeries, vexed all of the banshees. They snatched with their arm limbs at their heads as the faeries dived in and out among the branches and skin, sprinkling the faerie love and banishment spells all over the banshees. One banshee screamed a war cry as it tore one faerie in half.
The faeries gasped and paused for a moment as one of their own fell to the ground and the rainbow-hued wings turned black. The banshees took advantage of the momentary pause and several more faeries rained down to the ground. The Faerie Queen darted upward, out of the reach of the banshees. “I must take my true form.” She thought. “This is a desperate situation, there is no other way.”
The Faerie Queen transformed from a tiny faerie into a giant who dwarfed even the tallest banshee. Calla was easily over twenty feet tall, and she glared down at them all. Her hair was the color of spun gold, and her wings were the color of Erin's father's corn. Her eyes were the green of Ireland, and she wore a gown the color of the moon. Her crown had the full moon in the center, surrounded by a half moon on each side and sparkling with precious gems all over sat upon her head. In her hand was a golden scepter with the full moon resting upon it.
The banshees fell back, even the Queen banshee, Morrigan, herself. Calla waved her scepter around the banshee circle and watched as each banshee went up in flames like tinder that had had a thousand years to dry. In an instant, the Faerie Queen was surrounded by ashes of the banshees. With another wave of her scepter, the ashes scattered to the four winds.
She gestured to the remaining faeries. “Take our lost ones to the Gathering Hall. We will mourn them later. Now, I must take the child back to her home.” Then the Faerie Queen waved her scepter over Erin. Erin's scratches, even the one that had torn her cheek open, disappeared. Her hair smoothed out and her clothes unwrinkled themselves. The dirt fell from her body. Another wave of the scepter and Erin rose into the air in front of the Faerie Queen. “Time to return to your father and Gram,” she whispered.
Gram and father paced back in forth in front of the fire. Gram was twisting her hands. “My lass, my lass!” she cried. “She has been taken by something dreadful!” Suddenly, Gram stopped and listened. “Lad, listen!” she shouted to her son-in-law. “Erin's returned to us!” Gram leapt to the door and flung it open. Lying there, fast asleep, was Erin. Quickly, she raised her eyes to the night sky and caught a flash of a rainbow-hued wing. “Thank ye, Faerie Queen, for returning my wee lass to me.” she whispered.
The day that Erin was kidnapped by banshees began as any other day. Erin was awoken before the sun deigned to rise by her father, who would give her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Then he would say what he said every day before he went to work the fields: “Mind your Gram, lassie. 'Tis a bloody shame your mother passed into the Summerland, and Gram is sad to this day. Be a good lass, Gram loves ye more than the sun and moon, as does I.” Then he would be gone, out to work the fields until the sun fled the sky to hide for the night. Erin would then snuggle down deeper in the quilts and fall back asleep for awhile, until Gram shook her awake.
Then Erin would bathe and dress and Gram would have the morning meal already prepared. Erin would eat and clean up after the meal, then it was out to start chores. Since they lived on a large farm, there were many chores to do. Erin's main responsibilities had to deal with the livestock on the farm. Her favorite thing about the farm were the animals, so her family decided she would care for them. While Erin loved the animals, she wasn't so fond of cleaning up after them.
Whenever Erin would complain about her chores, her Gram would begin lecturing her. According to Gram, one needed to be a 'proper young lady, mind your manners, and dae the work of womenfolk.' The men went off exploring and having adventures. They could come and go as they pleased, wear and speak and behave how they wanted. Even though Erin was only thirteen, her elders expected her to do the work of a woman, and it was her Gram's job to train her for a future husband.
Erin was not interested in learning to be a wife. Living in Ireland, the beauty and mystery frequently bewitched her. The Emerald Isle, Ireland is called, and the explosion of green everywhere sent Erin off into dreams and flights of fancy. Erin frequently vexed her family, because her Gram would instruct her to go milk the cows and churn the butter, she would step outside with a pail in her hand, see the countryside, and Ireland would begin to sing to her.
Yes, sing to her, for Ireland's stunning jewel of earth was enchanting for Erin. She would gaze around at the emerald fields, the rainbow-hued flowers, the birds diving and chattering...and the bucket would drop from her hand and she would be off, running through the fields to the forest that lay beyond the fields. Her Gram, after finishing up one chore or another, would walk outside to make sure Erin's chores were getting done, only to raise her face to the sky and spit curses out into it as she saw the fallen milk bucket...and no Erin.
When Erin would return, hours later, as the setting sun sprinkled gold across the green land like a leprechaun spreading his fortune, Gram would grab onto Erin and say, “Child, dae not I tell ye to milk thy cow and churn thy butter? Ha' I not warned thee o' the sprites and spirits tha' hide in yonder wood?”
Erin would show her remorse, and apologize for vexing her grandmother so, and her grandmother, unable to stay angry at Erin once the big, fat tears began to run down Erin's cheeks, would pat Erin on her golden hair and say, “Dae not cry, I aim to keep thee safe, 'tis all I hope for thee. I hope also, lass, to have milk from yonder cow for dinner tonight.” Then Gram would smile, kiss the top of Erin's head, and go back to what she had been doing.
On this particular day, she actually felt like doing her chores. She milked and fed the cows, tended the garden, fed the chickens and collected the eggs....and that was when it happened. She had just collected the last egg from the coop when a shadow fled across a field before her eyes. The movement was quick, so quick that Erin was sure it was a trick of the light. Just when she had convinced herself that she had gone on another flight of fancy, the shadow fled across the field again. It moved very fast, too fast to be her father plowing the field.
She shielded her eyes from the sun, and strained to see what the shadow was. There, to the right! Erin's heart beat faster. The shadow was faster this time, and much, much closer. Any lingering thought of her father vanished. The shadow was tall, very tall, and looked like it had slim, wide arms. It was running, and, Erin noted with panic, headed directly for her.
Erin just had time enough to think, “Why, it appears to be a tree!!” As the scream rose to her throat, it was silenced by the shadow. Arms that ended in tree limbs grabbed her around her waist. Erin was in shock, and wondered what it could be. When she looked up and saw red eyes and razor sharp teeth, she cried, “Banshee!!”
The banshee was half woman, half tree. It had no idea what its name was, or how long it had been in the forest. It had a vague idea of being all woman at one time, but now its only thought was “Kill. Kill the woman. Make her one of us. Kill.”
Erin was terrified, of course, and thought that not one soul had seen her carried of by the demon spawn. Her Gram was washing the the floors, her father tending the fields. There was no one else, or so she thought. But something had seen it, and this creature was flying up, up into the sky and headed straight for the faerie Gathering Hall. On this particular day, she actually felt like doing her chores. She milked and fed the cows, tended the garden, fed the chickens and collected the eggs....and that was when it happened.
Sunflower burst into the Gathering Hall, her tiny rainbow wings flapping furiously. The other faeries gathered there looked up in surprise. Faeries always entered the Hall in joy and happiness, gliding in softly and finding a spot to gather with their other faerie friends. Sunflower was the gentlest of them all, always a kind word for all, calm and beautiful. To see her upset was practically unheard of.
Calla, the head of the Faerie Queendom, spoke sharply. “What has you vexed so, Sunflower?”
Sunflower cried, “A Banshee at the Patrick house! She took the small girl tha' lived there and took her away!”
The faeries were in a uproar. A banshee kidnapping had not happened in centuries, so for a child to be taken-
“All faeries to me!” Calla cried. “We fight the banshees! Sunflower, lead the way!”
Erin got thrown onto the ground. It felt like they had been traveling for years. The sun had set by now, and the stars burst into the night sky. Erin was in a wide circle, devoid of anything but dirt. Her arms were scratched and bleeding from the banshees limbs. Her hair snarled, her clothes torn. She curled into a ball, but still dared to glance up. Seeing one banshee was bad enough, but now she found herself surrounded by them. Their red eyes glared down on her, their branches held up in menace.
Erin wanted to cry, but held back. She thought of what her Gram would do in this situation. Her Gram, who had spent years teaching Erin of the dangers of the supernatural, would not be afraid, Erin decided. Gram would speak up, and fight back with all she had in her. One of Gram's speeches came back to her: “If you find thee amongst banshees, ye must fight, lass. Fight with all ye have! Banshees love the weak! Be strong, Erin! Be strong!” Summoning Gram's fiery spirit, Erin shouted,“Wha' dae you want?! Take me home, immediately! I command thee! You have no use for me here!”
Guttural sounds came from the banshees. Erin could only deduce that they were speaking in their own language. One banshee, the largest of them, began stumping towards her. It bent down, bringing one of its branch arms to scrape down Erin's face. Erin screamed as the branch sliced through her cheek like a knife through hot bread. She held up her fists thinking if she had to die, she would die fighting. She felt like the end was near...
A wail began at the back of the circle of banshees and began to go around. More banshees joined in. The banshee that had attacked Erin hissed and uttered a curse in its guttural language: “Goen stchein frouch!” Erin met the banshee's glare and saw above the evil creature, tiny rainbows flitting around all the banshees. She gasped. “Faeries are here now, too!” she cried. “Gram was right about everything!” Then blackness welcomed Erin.
The banshees were angry. They did not like their plans interrupted. The Queen banshee demanded a young woman to consume, and the young woman was to be the Queen's only. To have her plans interrupted, especially by the filthy faeries, vexed all of the banshees. They snatched with their arm limbs at their heads as the faeries dived in and out among the branches and skin, sprinkling the faerie love and banishment spells all over the banshees. One banshee screamed a war cry as it tore one faerie in half.
The faeries gasped and paused for a moment as one of their own fell to the ground and the rainbow-hued wings turned black. The banshees took advantage of the momentary pause and several more faeries rained down to the ground. The Faerie Queen darted upward, out of the reach of the banshees. “I must take my true form.” She thought. “This is a desperate situation, there is no other way.”
The Faerie Queen transformed from a tiny faerie into a giant who dwarfed even the tallest banshee. Calla was easily over twenty feet tall, and she glared down at them all. Her hair was the color of spun gold, and her wings were the color of Erin's father's corn. Her eyes were the green of Ireland, and she wore a gown the color of the moon. Her crown had the full moon in the center, surrounded by a half moon on each side and sparkling with precious gems all over sat upon her head. In her hand was a golden scepter with the full moon resting upon it.
The banshees fell back, even the Queen banshee, Morrigan, herself. Calla waved her scepter around the banshee circle and watched as each banshee went up in flames like tinder that had had a thousand years to dry. In an instant, the Faerie Queen was surrounded by ashes of the banshees. With another wave of her scepter, the ashes scattered to the four winds.
She gestured to the remaining faeries. “Take our lost ones to the Gathering Hall. We will mourn them later. Now, I must take the child back to her home.” Then the Faerie Queen waved her scepter over Erin. Erin's scratches, even the one that had torn her cheek open, disappeared. Her hair smoothed out and her clothes unwrinkled themselves. The dirt fell from her body. Another wave of the scepter and Erin rose into the air in front of the Faerie Queen. “Time to return to your father and Gram,” she whispered.
Gram and father paced back in forth in front of the fire. Gram was twisting her hands. “My lass, my lass!” she cried. “She has been taken by something dreadful!” Suddenly, Gram stopped and listened. “Lad, listen!” she shouted to her son-in-law. “Erin's returned to us!” Gram leapt to the door and flung it open. Lying there, fast asleep, was Erin. Quickly, she raised her eyes to the night sky and caught a flash of a rainbow-hued wing. “Thank ye, Faerie Queen, for returning my wee lass to me.” she whispered.
IWW Poem
Roses Blooming Under A Full Moon
We race through the forest, you and I...
Dare I let you kiss me?
The moon guides our path as our feet fly....
Fly over the bed of the forest, you and I
I stop, and you catch me around the waist
We fall down together, you and I, in no hurry to make haste.
Your lips taste like milk
Made out of silk.
Your skin tastes of the sweat of hard work.
The full moon shines brightly upon us, dispelling the murk.
Your strong hands plunge into my hair, and I lose my breath as you kiss me,
My clothes loosen, then become free.
You and I under a full moon, on a bed of leaves colored rust,
Skin to skin, full of lust.
Love and lust, filling, filling...
Roses blooming, blooming.....
I feel a moment of panic, until I find,
That the moon has risen from behind...
The moon flows over me like a cooling spring,
And I am free,
And I am free.
Translation from Gaelic by Cauleen Hansen
We race through the forest, you and I...
Dare I let you kiss me?
The moon guides our path as our feet fly....
Fly over the bed of the forest, you and I
I stop, and you catch me around the waist
We fall down together, you and I, in no hurry to make haste.
Your lips taste like milk
Made out of silk.
Your skin tastes of the sweat of hard work.
The full moon shines brightly upon us, dispelling the murk.
Your strong hands plunge into my hair, and I lose my breath as you kiss me,
My clothes loosen, then become free.
You and I under a full moon, on a bed of leaves colored rust,
Skin to skin, full of lust.
Love and lust, filling, filling...
Roses blooming, blooming.....
I feel a moment of panic, until I find,
That the moon has risen from behind...
The moon flows over me like a cooling spring,
And I am free,
And I am free.
Translation from Gaelic by Cauleen Hansen
IWW Critical Essay
Weaving a Spell:The Creation and Evolution of a Feminist Author
For Rhiannon Conn, to live was to write, and she wrote for herself. Yes, in her diaries, she proclaimed she wanted to be a published author, but when her father, Connell Conn, suggested she write under the pseudonym of R. Conn, Rhiannon flat out refused. Rhiannon wrote that she told him she would 'rather be an unpublished nobody than a fake somebody'. (Desmond, Riodan, and Conn 1). Rhiannon Conn was a feminist before the term 'feminist' was even thought of.
Through the process of writing freely about anything and everything that fascinated her, Rhiannon Conn offered up a strong feminist viewpoint in all of her works. Women were portrayed as the fighters, the heroines, the ones who were saved by other women or they saved themselves. In her short story Erin and the Creatures, Erin fights back against those who are trying to harm her, and another woman winds up saving her. Other women in her works rebel against the standard dress code for them, how and where they should speak, and other themes.
Unafraid to speak the words others long to say, Rhiannon “spoke up and spoke back” (Lewis). Rhiannon used sexual imagery and cursing in much of her work, both of which women were considered banned from. She told the stories she wanted to tell, male influence be damned. She was a voice for other women who were afraid to talk about anything controversial, and she made sure that men knew they weren't the only ones in control. While her work remained a secret throughout her life, it was, ironically, her two male lovers who wound up setting it free.
While in Rhiannon's mind she believed she had freedom, in Puritan Massachusetts during the Burning Times, she really was anything but free. For her safety, and that of her family, she had to hide her writings, unable to publish her work. This was a hard burden for Rhiannon to bear, and she kept her writing hidden always. In fact, it wasn't until she died at the age of thirty that her two boyfriends, Owen and Teague, collaborated together to publish her works, under, ironically, the name her father had once suggested: R. Conn. Even when it was published, and throughout their lifetimes, only a select few knew R. Conn was really a woman. To the vast majority of the public, R. Conn was just a man who wrote from a woman's viewpoint. (Burch)
The largest influence in shaping Rhiannon's feminism was her religion. Her parents had raised her to practice Witchcraft, and in Witchcraft teachings, the feminine is celebrated as sacred and divine. This made Rhiannon ahead of her time. Doreen Valiente's Charge of the Goddess, even though it was written centuries after Rhiannon's death, seems to sum her up perfectly. It states, in part:
And ye shall be free from slavery; and as a sign that ye are really free, ye shall be naked in your rites; and ye shall dance, sing, feast, make music and love, all in my praise.
For mine is the ecstasy of the spirit and mine also is joy on earth; for my Law is Love unto all Beings (Valiente, 11-14).
Rhiannon, even at a young age, became enamored with knowledge, and as such, spent many hours with both of her Irish grandmothers who raised Rhiannon on tales of all manner of supernatural beings, especially faeries, whom they referred to as the Sidhe. The Sidhe (pronounced like she) are, according to author Ann Moura, referred to as the “Faerie Folk of Ireland”. Also arising from the Faerie legends are the Banshees. Moura describes the Banshee as: “...the ghostly figure of a wailing woman, sometimes washing bloody linen, that foretells a death.” (Moura, pp.139)
Rhiannon frequently tapped into her grandmothers' knowledge to write her supernatural tales, as evidenced very clearly in one of her short stories, Erin and the Creatures. In it, Rhiannon tells of a girl, who, upon ignoring the advice of her grandmother, is kidnapped by banshees, only to be rescued in short order by the Faerie Kingdom. True to her feminist form, Rhiannon takes a childhood legend and makes it into her own. She turns the Banshees, typically seen as human women, into tree-women hybrids. A female faerie rescues the heroine, and the Head Banshee is defeated by the Faerie Queen. Instead of dying at the hands of the Banshees, Erin is returned safely home.
Rhiannon was not only educated in Irish legends and folklore, her grandmothers educated her about sex. Long before the days of anatomy and sexual education classes, her grandmas and her mother were ahead of their own times, and made sure Rhiannon knew all about the mechanics of sex. This sexual knowledge also strongly influenced her writing. While the faerie tales could be read by children and adults alike, her diaries and poetry were strictly for adults.
One of her tamer, and most famous, poems is Roses Blooming Under A Full Moon. The poem, filled with metaphors, is actually Rhiannon's description of the loss of her virginity. She states in her diary of the experience: “To-day I am fifteen! To-day I lost my maiden-head! I bled, but I have no fear. The Goddess made sure I had no fear.” (Desmond, Riodan, and Conn 81). The poem, dated just two days after her first sexual encounter, states, in part:
You and I under a full moon, on a bed of leaves colored rust,
Skin to skin, full of lust.
Love and lust, filling, filling...
Roses blooming, blooming....
(Desmond, Riodan, and Conn 23).
Rhiannon approached sex with, yet again, her strong feminist views and wrote about sex frequently. She knew something that took other women centuries to figure out: every woman, and she alone, owned her body. If a man possessed it, it was only briefly, and the woman was to maintain full control at every encounter. It has been speculated that Rhiannon, while able to attract men with her good looks and free spirit, may have bewitched the men she was with after her own sexual encounters, because, even when she was living in tiny Salem, no one ever accused her of being a slut.
In the Puritan world, Rhiannon tried desperately to adhere to the social norms as closely as she could bear. If she had come to the New World an orphan, her strong will and rebelliousness would have spelled certain death of not only her work, but her own life. However, Rhiannon's strongest drive, love, love for herself and love for her family, kept her writing in the dark. Her spirit was caged for many years, and it wasn't until she moved to New York with her boyfriends that she dared open the cage door slightly.
It wasn't until 1980, when a woman found Rhiannon's work preserved in a trunk in her grandmother's attic and had it all republished, that Rhiannon finally gained the recognition she so desperately wanted in her time. For the first time in nearly four centuries, her work was published under her full name instead of R. Conn. Many women read her works and recognized the feminist undercurrent running throughout Rhiannon's work.
Rhiannon Conn's work is still read to this day, and even taught at some colleges and universities. She had an innate ability to capture that Other side most women have, where on the one side is what society expects women to be, and the Other side is how they really are (Lewis). Her work is to be remembered for its insights on the inner workings of the female species, the psychology of females, and the lasting impact her works have had on generations of people.
Works Cited
Burch, Norah. Irish Names From Ancient to Modern. Web. 15 Mar 2012.
Desmond, Owen, Teague Riodan, and R. Conn. Thy Goddess, Thy Moon, and Thy Sidhe: A Compilation. 3Rd ed. New York: Roaring Fire Press, 1722. pp5-50. Print.
-Circle of Secrecy. 5Th ed. New York: Roaring Fire Press, 1722. pp1-25. Print.
-Dianic Diaries: Musings of Thy Wyrd Woman. 10Thed. Chicago: Which Witch Publishing, 1989. pp.1-40. Print.
Lewis, Kati. "Speaking Up and Speaking Back." SLCC, Salt Lake City. 28 February 2012. Lecture.
Moura, Ann. The Evolution of a World Religion: Origins of Modern Witchcraft. 1st ed. St. Paul: Llewellyn, 2000. pp 139. Print.
Valiente, Doreen. "Poem-The Charge of the Goddess."
Doreen Valiente Organization. Doreen Valiente Foundations, n.d. Web. 15 Mar 2012.
For Rhiannon Conn, to live was to write, and she wrote for herself. Yes, in her diaries, she proclaimed she wanted to be a published author, but when her father, Connell Conn, suggested she write under the pseudonym of R. Conn, Rhiannon flat out refused. Rhiannon wrote that she told him she would 'rather be an unpublished nobody than a fake somebody'. (Desmond, Riodan, and Conn 1). Rhiannon Conn was a feminist before the term 'feminist' was even thought of.
Through the process of writing freely about anything and everything that fascinated her, Rhiannon Conn offered up a strong feminist viewpoint in all of her works. Women were portrayed as the fighters, the heroines, the ones who were saved by other women or they saved themselves. In her short story Erin and the Creatures, Erin fights back against those who are trying to harm her, and another woman winds up saving her. Other women in her works rebel against the standard dress code for them, how and where they should speak, and other themes.
Unafraid to speak the words others long to say, Rhiannon “spoke up and spoke back” (Lewis). Rhiannon used sexual imagery and cursing in much of her work, both of which women were considered banned from. She told the stories she wanted to tell, male influence be damned. She was a voice for other women who were afraid to talk about anything controversial, and she made sure that men knew they weren't the only ones in control. While her work remained a secret throughout her life, it was, ironically, her two male lovers who wound up setting it free.
While in Rhiannon's mind she believed she had freedom, in Puritan Massachusetts during the Burning Times, she really was anything but free. For her safety, and that of her family, she had to hide her writings, unable to publish her work. This was a hard burden for Rhiannon to bear, and she kept her writing hidden always. In fact, it wasn't until she died at the age of thirty that her two boyfriends, Owen and Teague, collaborated together to publish her works, under, ironically, the name her father had once suggested: R. Conn. Even when it was published, and throughout their lifetimes, only a select few knew R. Conn was really a woman. To the vast majority of the public, R. Conn was just a man who wrote from a woman's viewpoint. (Burch)
The largest influence in shaping Rhiannon's feminism was her religion. Her parents had raised her to practice Witchcraft, and in Witchcraft teachings, the feminine is celebrated as sacred and divine. This made Rhiannon ahead of her time. Doreen Valiente's Charge of the Goddess, even though it was written centuries after Rhiannon's death, seems to sum her up perfectly. It states, in part:
And ye shall be free from slavery; and as a sign that ye are really free, ye shall be naked in your rites; and ye shall dance, sing, feast, make music and love, all in my praise.
For mine is the ecstasy of the spirit and mine also is joy on earth; for my Law is Love unto all Beings (Valiente, 11-14).
Rhiannon, even at a young age, became enamored with knowledge, and as such, spent many hours with both of her Irish grandmothers who raised Rhiannon on tales of all manner of supernatural beings, especially faeries, whom they referred to as the Sidhe. The Sidhe (pronounced like she) are, according to author Ann Moura, referred to as the “Faerie Folk of Ireland”. Also arising from the Faerie legends are the Banshees. Moura describes the Banshee as: “...the ghostly figure of a wailing woman, sometimes washing bloody linen, that foretells a death.” (Moura, pp.139)
Rhiannon frequently tapped into her grandmothers' knowledge to write her supernatural tales, as evidenced very clearly in one of her short stories, Erin and the Creatures. In it, Rhiannon tells of a girl, who, upon ignoring the advice of her grandmother, is kidnapped by banshees, only to be rescued in short order by the Faerie Kingdom. True to her feminist form, Rhiannon takes a childhood legend and makes it into her own. She turns the Banshees, typically seen as human women, into tree-women hybrids. A female faerie rescues the heroine, and the Head Banshee is defeated by the Faerie Queen. Instead of dying at the hands of the Banshees, Erin is returned safely home.
Rhiannon was not only educated in Irish legends and folklore, her grandmothers educated her about sex. Long before the days of anatomy and sexual education classes, her grandmas and her mother were ahead of their own times, and made sure Rhiannon knew all about the mechanics of sex. This sexual knowledge also strongly influenced her writing. While the faerie tales could be read by children and adults alike, her diaries and poetry were strictly for adults.
One of her tamer, and most famous, poems is Roses Blooming Under A Full Moon. The poem, filled with metaphors, is actually Rhiannon's description of the loss of her virginity. She states in her diary of the experience: “To-day I am fifteen! To-day I lost my maiden-head! I bled, but I have no fear. The Goddess made sure I had no fear.” (Desmond, Riodan, and Conn 81). The poem, dated just two days after her first sexual encounter, states, in part:
You and I under a full moon, on a bed of leaves colored rust,
Skin to skin, full of lust.
Love and lust, filling, filling...
Roses blooming, blooming....
(Desmond, Riodan, and Conn 23).
Rhiannon approached sex with, yet again, her strong feminist views and wrote about sex frequently. She knew something that took other women centuries to figure out: every woman, and she alone, owned her body. If a man possessed it, it was only briefly, and the woman was to maintain full control at every encounter. It has been speculated that Rhiannon, while able to attract men with her good looks and free spirit, may have bewitched the men she was with after her own sexual encounters, because, even when she was living in tiny Salem, no one ever accused her of being a slut.
In the Puritan world, Rhiannon tried desperately to adhere to the social norms as closely as she could bear. If she had come to the New World an orphan, her strong will and rebelliousness would have spelled certain death of not only her work, but her own life. However, Rhiannon's strongest drive, love, love for herself and love for her family, kept her writing in the dark. Her spirit was caged for many years, and it wasn't until she moved to New York with her boyfriends that she dared open the cage door slightly.
It wasn't until 1980, when a woman found Rhiannon's work preserved in a trunk in her grandmother's attic and had it all republished, that Rhiannon finally gained the recognition she so desperately wanted in her time. For the first time in nearly four centuries, her work was published under her full name instead of R. Conn. Many women read her works and recognized the feminist undercurrent running throughout Rhiannon's work.
Rhiannon Conn's work is still read to this day, and even taught at some colleges and universities. She had an innate ability to capture that Other side most women have, where on the one side is what society expects women to be, and the Other side is how they really are (Lewis). Her work is to be remembered for its insights on the inner workings of the female species, the psychology of females, and the lasting impact her works have had on generations of people.
Works Cited
Burch, Norah. Irish Names From Ancient to Modern. Web. 15 Mar 2012.
Desmond, Owen, Teague Riodan, and R. Conn. Thy Goddess, Thy Moon, and Thy Sidhe: A Compilation. 3Rd ed. New York: Roaring Fire Press, 1722. pp5-50. Print.
-Circle of Secrecy. 5Th ed. New York: Roaring Fire Press, 1722. pp1-25. Print.
-Dianic Diaries: Musings of Thy Wyrd Woman. 10Thed. Chicago: Which Witch Publishing, 1989. pp.1-40. Print.
Lewis, Kati. "Speaking Up and Speaking Back." SLCC, Salt Lake City. 28 February 2012. Lecture.
Moura, Ann. The Evolution of a World Religion: Origins of Modern Witchcraft. 1st ed. St. Paul: Llewellyn, 2000. pp 139. Print.
Valiente, Doreen. "Poem-The Charge of the Goddess."
Doreen Valiente Organization. Doreen Valiente Foundations, n.d. Web. 15 Mar 2012.
Reflection Essay for the Entire Course
Cauleen Hansen
Kati Lewis– Instructor
English 2830
April 28th, 2012
Denied our rightful place,
we transformed the obstacles
nto a concrete image of our oppression;
a border linking our lives;
a symbol of our connection;
a stage for our angry words
(Hershey, 21-26).
I used to be under the impression that a feminist was a man-hating lesbian. I couldn't have been more wrong. After having a semester of reading works by various women writers, I have come to the conclusion that not only can anyone be a feminist, but that I am one as well. Seeing all the ways in which women were beaten, massacred, torn down, raped and belittled, really made me realize how much some men hate women.
As I read works such as Joy Harjo's She Had Some Horses, Edwidge Danticat's The Farming of Bones, and the Japanese compilation book, Forbidden Stitch, I realized, for the first time, how oppressed women have been globally, and for centuries. As I became more aware of feminist struggles, I started noticing how women are still being oppressed to this very day. Women are treated as sub-human creatures who are a step lower on the rung from men. Men are just not getting the fact that women are perfectly capable of caring for themselves.
I believe completely that there is a Republican War on Women happening right here in the United States. I have watched in shock, signed petitions, Tweeted, posted, and emailed male legislators to back off their attack on women. Right here, right now, there are men who will deny women access to basic health care. Right here, right now, they are viciously attacking Planned Parenthoods across the country, making decisions for women and their bodies. Telling women that they cannot have an abortion under any circumstances. Telling the women's doctors how to care for their patients. It makes me sick.
Having the Diverse Women Writers course gave me the courage to get involved with Planned Parenthood, not as a consumer, but as an advocate for their services. I learned during the semester that two women in my class alone, (and it was a small class) had been victims of rape. I have an online friend who was also raped. Planned Parenthood can support all of them.
I found myself struggling at times throughout the semester to not start hating all men, myself. I have still not figured out why men feel the need to viciously attack women any way they can. I am a survivor of abuse too, and it is disheartening to see so many women torn down with hatred. It's not just hatred men feel against women, they also like to use them as sex objects. Fat women are disgusting, thin women are beautiful. If a woman is in charge of her life, she is a cunt. If she speaks her mind, she is a cunt. If she has sex with more than one partner, she is a slut.
Another thing I started to notice was all of the media forcing their tripe down society's throat. Magazines like Playboy and Hustler airbrush all of their models to fit society's views of women. Women are photographed nude and put out there for men to drool over. Their vaginal lips are airbrushed the most, because society views a woman's plumbing as disgusting.
When I did my Imaginary Woman Writer project, I couldn't help but base my character off of myself. I thought, “ I am diverse myself.” I am German and Irish, I speak my mind, I am not a Christian, I wear what I want... all these things I put into my fictional female writer. I think it was Stephen King who once said to “write what you know” so I started with that and added other elements in as well. It was a challenging project, yes, but I learned more about my Irish background, and the fact that I like who I am.
I was able to learn more about how to research competently, so when it came time to work on a group project, the Diverse Woman Writer project, I was able to get a better picture of what I needed to do. It also introduced me to another great feminist author, Sandra Cisneros. Now that the course is over, I find myself seeking out more feminist authors, wanting and needing to learn of the mistakes of the past and the ways I can contribute to help correct them in the future.
Works Cited
Hershey, Laura. Flights. Poetry by Laura Hershey. Web. 26Th April 2012.
Kati Lewis– Instructor
English 2830
April 28th, 2012
Denied our rightful place,
we transformed the obstacles
nto a concrete image of our oppression;
a border linking our lives;
a symbol of our connection;
a stage for our angry words
(Hershey, 21-26).
I used to be under the impression that a feminist was a man-hating lesbian. I couldn't have been more wrong. After having a semester of reading works by various women writers, I have come to the conclusion that not only can anyone be a feminist, but that I am one as well. Seeing all the ways in which women were beaten, massacred, torn down, raped and belittled, really made me realize how much some men hate women.
As I read works such as Joy Harjo's She Had Some Horses, Edwidge Danticat's The Farming of Bones, and the Japanese compilation book, Forbidden Stitch, I realized, for the first time, how oppressed women have been globally, and for centuries. As I became more aware of feminist struggles, I started noticing how women are still being oppressed to this very day. Women are treated as sub-human creatures who are a step lower on the rung from men. Men are just not getting the fact that women are perfectly capable of caring for themselves.
I believe completely that there is a Republican War on Women happening right here in the United States. I have watched in shock, signed petitions, Tweeted, posted, and emailed male legislators to back off their attack on women. Right here, right now, there are men who will deny women access to basic health care. Right here, right now, they are viciously attacking Planned Parenthoods across the country, making decisions for women and their bodies. Telling women that they cannot have an abortion under any circumstances. Telling the women's doctors how to care for their patients. It makes me sick.
Having the Diverse Women Writers course gave me the courage to get involved with Planned Parenthood, not as a consumer, but as an advocate for their services. I learned during the semester that two women in my class alone, (and it was a small class) had been victims of rape. I have an online friend who was also raped. Planned Parenthood can support all of them.
I found myself struggling at times throughout the semester to not start hating all men, myself. I have still not figured out why men feel the need to viciously attack women any way they can. I am a survivor of abuse too, and it is disheartening to see so many women torn down with hatred. It's not just hatred men feel against women, they also like to use them as sex objects. Fat women are disgusting, thin women are beautiful. If a woman is in charge of her life, she is a cunt. If she speaks her mind, she is a cunt. If she has sex with more than one partner, she is a slut.
Another thing I started to notice was all of the media forcing their tripe down society's throat. Magazines like Playboy and Hustler airbrush all of their models to fit society's views of women. Women are photographed nude and put out there for men to drool over. Their vaginal lips are airbrushed the most, because society views a woman's plumbing as disgusting.
When I did my Imaginary Woman Writer project, I couldn't help but base my character off of myself. I thought, “ I am diverse myself.” I am German and Irish, I speak my mind, I am not a Christian, I wear what I want... all these things I put into my fictional female writer. I think it was Stephen King who once said to “write what you know” so I started with that and added other elements in as well. It was a challenging project, yes, but I learned more about my Irish background, and the fact that I like who I am.
I was able to learn more about how to research competently, so when it came time to work on a group project, the Diverse Woman Writer project, I was able to get a better picture of what I needed to do. It also introduced me to another great feminist author, Sandra Cisneros. Now that the course is over, I find myself seeking out more feminist authors, wanting and needing to learn of the mistakes of the past and the ways I can contribute to help correct them in the future.
Works Cited
Hershey, Laura. Flights. Poetry by Laura Hershey. Web. 26Th April 2012.