I have studied, taught, and worked toward social justice since before I discovered the concept of social justice and began to understand the legacies of the multi-pronged struggles for justice, equity, and basic human rights. Still, as I have embraced and espoused an intersectional framework, I have continued to struggle with the ways in which ability fits within the race, class, gender, and sexuality framework that undergirds what I teach, write, and research.

I have been that professor that feels exacerbated and frustrated when that one more thing is asked of me. For instance, the captioning of videos for my classes. I still do not feel that it is my sole responsibility to make my classes accessible, in part because I lack the knowledge and training—but, mostly, the time—to do so. I think that the institution needs to take more responsibility and recognize that we need time and support to develop new skills. Support exists—extra time does not. (Our current model is not sustainable. . . more on that shortly.) But part of this institutional responsibility is mine. I have to shift my perspective about accommodations. I have to understand my own responsibility to make changes that impact these larger systems and structures.

I have been using the opportunity of our academic theme, Disability Visibility, to not only educate our students, but to educate myself. This is one of the privileges and benefits of working in academia—we always have the opportunity to learn alongside our students. In the spring, I will be offering a one-credit class on the topic of Disability Visibility, not as an expert on the subject but as a facilitator in co-creating an environment of learning.

I recently attended the NWSA conference and tried to attend as many panels as possible that dealt with disability. The first session I attended practiced some of the norms of disability accommodation that I do not regularly engage with (for instance, descriptions of the presenter’s physical appearance and the images on the screen and print outs or QR codes for “access copies”). I panicked for a moment. I was scheduled to present in the next time slot and I had not prepared accommodations. Was this the new norm and I was out of the loop? Yes and no.

Only the disability rights-related panels at the NWSA made such accommodations (of the sessions I attended, which were not that many). Such norms are still making their way into academia, even in the most progressive of spaces. At UMA, we have been slowly implementing tools like automatic closed captioning in Zoom and software that rates the accessibility of documents and materials in our BrightSpace courses. Perhaps we have also been assessing the efficacy of our accommodation processes. But I regularly hear from students who feel frustrated and othered by the process, and I hear stories from students whose professors refuse to accept the accommodations that are required of them.

One thing that I learned at NWSA is that I have been practicing many of the suggested techniques for accommodations and for working toward disability rights for as long as I have been teaching. I have developed accommodations for all of my students that have also benefitted me, for instance flexible deadlines. Sometimes these make more work for me, but they also allow me to feel less guilty if I fall behind in grading. (Since I give my students leeway, the least they can do is extend me the same!) By creating this accommodation, I changed the culture of the classroom. I often get emails from students about the struggles of their lives and asking for an extension; it is easy to say: “my deadlines are flexible for just such reasons.”

Through my work over the last year or so, I have also developed a larger understanding of what accommodations are all about. Disability accommodations are not (just) about making academia more accessible for students who live and work with disabilities, they are about transforming a culture of impossible expectations and arbitrary (and insidious) barriers that we are all expected to function within without complaint or recognition.

Two related ideas that came up at a panel at NWSA were sustainability and collective access. Impossible expectations are not sustainable for individuals or for institutions. Impossible expectations lead to burn out and I know that many of my colleagues and students are feeling this, even if only some of us are willing or able to admit it. Collective access means that we need to rethink the bigger picture of what our classrooms, campuses, and curriculum look like. This too can help us to live and work in a sustainable way and can also help us to better care for ourselves and each other.

Can we imagine a world where accommodations don’t exist because we have changed the structures, systems, norms, and expectations of our culture as well as the ways in which we treat each other and the ways we expect to be treated? The short answer is: yes, because we have to.

One of the panels I attended drew from the work of Ruth Wilson Gilmore who calls for the creation of “life-affirming institutions.” They argued that we can reimagine and transform academia which is, by design “inherently, intentionally, and iconically ablest.” Building on the idea of “prefigurative politics,” following the work of Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, they argued that “another university is possible” and, in fact, “it is already here.” If we live the world that we want, that we need, then we realize that that world already exists.

We collectively make the present and the future that we want to live in, even when the structures that we work and live within seem impenetrable and inflexible. Our academic theme is an opportunity to shape our institution and bend it toward a better way of teaching and learning for all of us.

I wrote this piece months ago. I thought it was pretty good and submitted it to a few publications, where it was quickly rejected. I meant to share it in my blog, but never got around to it. Sadly, it is still relevant, maybe even more so. I have included a related poem below as well as a side note about a book I started reading a couple weeks ago.

Young people are often discounted and dismissed. Their youth and experience, we assume, cannot compare to the wisdom of adults, especially in times of crisis. This might be why—as more and more Americans compare the current COVID-19 crisis to end-of-the-world stories—we ignore what young adult dystopian novels have to teach us.

One of the reasons we dismiss YA dystopian literature might be that the overwhelming majority of young adult dystopian novels are written by women, and even more feature female protagonists. Women and girls—so often the victims of patriarchal violence, so often the glue that keep families and communities together in times of crisis—know about the hardships of dystopia. We live the impacts of our dystopic patriarchal world every day, especially if we are further marginalized by race, class, or sexual orientation. So why are our Girls on Fire stories dismissed when the real world is faced with real dystopic crisis?

Lurie Penny describes, in “This Is Not the Apocalypse You Were Looking For,” an article  for Wired, how we Americans like our end-of-the-world stories: “Our heroes—usually white, straight men with traditional nuclear families to protect—are cut off from the rest of the world; the daydream is of finally shaking off the chains of civilization and becoming the valiant protector and/or tribal warrior they were made to be.” These heroes dominate our cultural landscapes and imaginations.

A Facebook post, from a self-proclaimed retired high school librarian who had read her fair share of dystopian literature, encapsulates the very problem with patriarchal imagination and adults’ attitudes: “don’t worry… somewhere a seventeen-year-old girl is working on a cure for COVID-19, if only she can decide which boy she is in love with first.” Even those who are familiar with the stories of YA dystopia are quick to dismiss the Girl on Fire.

This kind of attitude is common among adults. This kind of attitude will be our undoing. It is true that many of these novels have romantic plotlines, but these books are also about self-discovery, survival, resilience, freedom, hope, community, and the power of love. Penny notes that the current COVID-19 crisis has brought out a different story. Those on the front lines “are not fighters. They are healers and carers.” But this insightful article does not cite any of the stories that are over-shadowed by these powerful cultural myths, rendering them further invisible.

We see this tendency to turn our attention to the texts that have been inspired by, and produced in, our patriarchal American culture in some of the dystopian venn diagrams that have been circulating on social media. Typically, the only book that appears on such lists that was written by a woman is Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale, which makes the list as a token representation, at least in part, because of its popular television adaptation. It also makes the list because it is about the control and forced pregnancy of women’s bodies, which becomes more and more relevant every day. It is allowed to exist alongside the other texts that erase women from our visions of the future.

So, if we were able to step outside the boundaries that patriarchy has created for our imaginations, what might we learn from the end-of-the-world texts that center girls?

Community is important and we can only succeed if we work together.

The battles scars of trauma are real and lasting.

No matter how powerless we feel, there is always something we can do to make things better.

It is important to take care of other people, but it is also important to take care of ourselves.

No matter how dire circumstances may seem, there is always hope. We can always build something new.

These are only some of the lessons that YA dystopian literature can teach us, but we have to be willing to question some of our long-held beliefs about who we are as a country and who we want to be when the current COVID-19 crisis tapers off.

In order to better understand who we are and where we are going, we need to read new stories, and Girls on Fire stories are a great place to begin. Unlike adult dystopian stories, these stories have hopeful endings. We can teach these stories, and I’m hoping that the young people who read these stories, who take these stories to heart, will be the next generation of leaders who don’t get stuck in the tired old narratives that have shaped our contemporary patriarchal dystopia.

This Girl (Is on Fire)

A sense of humor

is important
in trying times--
 
toilet paper shortages
and social distancing
are fair game.
 
But when a retired
high school librarian
claiming vast knowledge of genre
posts:
“don’t worry
right now a 17-year-old
girl is working on a solution, but first
she has to decide
which boy she is in love with”
 
The joke’s on us.
 
Because belittling young adult
dystopian literature
is one thing
 
but trivializing girls
is the death of us all.
 
Side note: A student asked me if any of the YA dystopian novels I had read for my research took up subject matter that might compare to the pandemic. While plenty deal with similar scenarios, I could not think of any that really spoke to the current moment… until I picked up the book Recoil by Joanne MacGregor a couple of weeks ago. First published in 2016, this book is a little too close to home. So, if you like that kind of thing (like I do), check it out.

While I have enjoyed many novels considered “classics,” and many books in the capitol-L literature category, young adult dystopian literature is my go-to for pleasure reading. As I explain in my forthcoming book, Girls on Fire: Transformative Heroines in Young Adult Dystopian Literature, my obsession with YA dystopia became the subject matter for a class and for a book. And as I argue in both these settings, YA dystopia’s Girls on Fire provide a powerful lens for thinking about the future. But the stories of girls in the worlds of YA dystopia often share important similarities with their counterparts in dystopian Literature.

In Girls on Fire I analyze some of the similarities and differences, connections and inspirations, between and among young adult dystopian literature and dystopian Literature by women.* Several of these adult books feature teenage protagonists—usually just at the cusp of adulthood. In addition to the books I write about in Girls on Fire (like California by Eden Lepucki as well as In the Heart of the Valley of Love by Cynthia Kadohata), there are several interesting contemporary examples of adult dystopian stories that center not-quite-yet-adult protagonists like Memory of Water (2012; 2014 in the U.S.) by Finnish author, Emmi Itäranta and America Pacifica (2011) by Anna North.

Our vague cultural markers, like the age of eighteen, supposedly imbue a teenager with adult status though the reality of adulthood does not hinge on this marker. In the realm of dystopia, our protagonists have adult responsibilities and adult worries beginning in childhood, but they are often ignorant in the bigger picture of their society—the ways in which the past has shaped the present and the ways in which power and corruption have done the shaping. Becoming an adult—in both YA dystopia and adult Literature—means having the blinders removed and finally seeing reality for what it is, not what we have been brainwashed to believe.

This is the case in both Memory of Water and America Pacifica. In the former, the protagonist has been interning as Tea Master, an ancient profession reserved for men. Noria is almost through her training when her world shifts; her father dies, her mother moves away, and she is left to protect and discover secrets that change the course of her life as well as her community. In America Pacifica, Darcy lives in a world that revolves around her mother and their bare level of subsistence. When her mother disappears, she is left to uncover the secrets her mother has kept, secrets that not only reveal her mother’s hidden past, but also the potential for revolutionary change for the oppressed of Darcy's world.

Both girls, who are also women, put into motion the possibility of change in their oppressive societies. Both societies have reached the point where extreme corruption and greed have made life unsustainable; both Girls on Fire influence the tipping point in an attempt to restore balance. For Noria, the price is death, which comes about mostly through lack of communication and misunderstanding. But she leaves behind key information that shifts the roles of power and possibility by revealing the government’s generations of lies. For Darcy, the price is losing her mother and almost losing her life as she helps to topple the corrupt regime and then follows her principles and sets out on a lonely, dangerous journey to find people on the mainland.

In both cases, there is much more work left to be done. Though circumstances force these girls to grow up—to take responsibility not just for themselves, but for their community—their coming of age is similar to the coming of age for a society or culture. That shift toward hope for something better happens, but more development is needed. It takes time to mature into adulthood just as it takes time for a society to mature into a just, free, equal community. Girls on Fire survive their toxic, abusive, violent societies and spark progressive change. They provide inspiration and incentive for us to do the same.
 
*The main difference between young adult dystopian novels is the role of sex and romance. Typically, there is far more sex and far less romance. This is the case in America Pacifica where Darcy has very little experience outside of her life with her mother, but has still made out with a number of boys and agrees to have sex with a guard to get the information she needs. This is not, however, the case in Memory of Water where there is no sex and no romance besides the hint of love disguised as friendship.

One of the women in my YogaFit Warriors training wore a tank top on day two that said: “Peaceful Warrior.” She said that she had found it in her closet and it seemed appropriate. A veteran in our group said: “No one loves peace more than a warrior.” In my American Studies courses, with a diverse cross-section of veterans and civilians, I would have to agree.

In my work as a professor of American Studies, I teach about state violence—war, the prison industrial complex, poverty, structural racism—and the ways in which individuals and communities (and our nation and our world) are impacted. In my introduction to American studies this last fall, one of the students had a particularly difficult time with this material because her husband was currently deployed. It is not easy to read about the lies, the history, the patterns, and the hypocrisies of war, let alone when a loved one is on the front lines.

And, yet, the veterans I have had in my classes over the years have been some of the most critical thinkers and some of the quickest to see through the propaganda and lies—not only about war, but about American history, culture, and society.

Veterans need tools to help them reintegrate into society—to heal the wounds of war. In addition to tools for personal transformation (like those provided by YogaFit for Warriors), tools for critical thinking are also important. It might not be easy to face the truths of American war; it is certainly not easy to face the realities of American war. And America does not do enough to take care of its veterans, which is why we so need programs like YogaFit for Warriors.

It holds true here as much as anywhere else: we have to deal with our own shit before we can help other people deal with theirs. We have to deal with our own daemons before we might feel ready to fight the daemons with power. Healing the body and mind must happen before we can heal the nation.

In my forthcoming book, Girls on Fire: Transformational Heroines in Young Adult Literature, I conclude by considering “Utopic Visions for Dystopian Realities.” While the constant storm of Trump’s Presidency makes my book relevant in many ways, the recent news around Steve Bannon is exactly what I address in my conclusion. Below is an excerpt from my book. In fact, this is the end of my book. We all need a little hope; and we definitely need to talk more about a vision of the future where social justice has shaped our lives, culture, country, and world.
*
In his speech to his supporters at the Democratic Convention in Philadelphia, on July, 25, 2016, Bernie Sanders passionately declared that “We want nothing less than the transformation of American Society.” His message was timely, and especially appealed to young people. While it is clear that Bernie’s vision of transformation is progressive—it seeks equality and justice and an end to racism, sexism, homophobia, and all those other liberal policies—exactly what this transformed society looks like, is not clear. Nor is it easy. It will take work—a kind of world-building. This is the work of the future.

Meanwhile, similar words can have a different vision. Heather Digby Parton writes, “[Steve] Bannon is a radical white nationalist whose main objective, as he has openly admitted, is to blow everything up — essentially to destroy the existing social and political order.” In his first public appearance after Trump’s election, Bannon reiterates the “unending battle for ‘deconstruction of the administrative state’” (Rucker). Bannon’s words are more radical, but they do not sound all that different from Bernie Sanders’s words. Radicals on the left have also used the language of, for instance, blowing up the establishment. These are words that can inspire the disenfranchised (for instance, black people) as well as those who perceive themselves as being disenfranchised (for instance, white nationalists). Bannon’s words alone do not reveal the sinister motives and ideologies behind them that are so different from what Bernie Sanders’ words mean. After Bannon blows everything up, Parton continues, “What that leaves us with after the smoke clears is anyone’s guess, since he is notably vague on the endgame.” Here too, the future is uncertain. The vision of the future, after leaving the “existing social and political order” in ruins is vastly different for Bernie Sanders compared to Steve Bannon, but neither future is spelled out.

We might understand these two futures in the terms of Utopia vs. Dystopia. Bernie’s future is a utopia. We have a difficult time finding utopia in the U.S. and in our fiction—one person’s utopia is another’s dystopia and utopia can quickly turn to dystopia. Using YA dystopia as a lens is far more helpful. For instance, the futures that Girls on Fire navigate are always a result of forces that are already in process—the environment, our global health, political corruption, social chaos. The world that Bannon seeks to create is the world we find in YA dystopia. In fact, Bannon is a perfect model for almost any of the evil hegemons as well as the corrupt power structures we find in YA dystopia’s fictional futures. He has been compared to Darth Vader and Satan and has said in response, that “darkness is good” (Tani). But these comparisons might be giving him too much credit. His attempts to impose chaos might not be effective, and can remind us that, as Dustin McKissen argues, “If what we are looking at is a government with no one at the wheel, then this is an opportunity for each of us to step up and take our places as the real authors of history.” And if the person, or people at the wheel are pure evil, as they often are in YA dystopia, we need Girls on Fire even more.

Utopia has its value toward imagining more, but dystopia reminds us of the urgency of the present. Rebecca Solnit notes that transformations “begin in the imagination, in hope” (4). Dystopia keeps us accountable, reminds us of our collective responsibility. Dystopia even gives us hope, perhaps a more realistic vision of hope than utopia. Solnit describes hope in ways that mesh with dystopian stories: “Hope just means another world might be possible, not promised, not guaranteed” (4). Dystopia does not take for granted the progress of the past because this progress has, at least in part, shaped the dystopic world. Girls on Fire know that if they fail to act nothing will change. Solnit continues, “To hope is to give yourself to the future, and that commitment to the future makes the present inhabitable” (4). Girls on Fire are a source of hope; and we all have a stake in the future. But we also have to live in this world and keep it “inhabitable” for the future.

When the lights go out, who will be left to find a new source of light, to discover that human element of fire again?

The Girls on Fire are keeping the fire burning, stoking the fire and keeping watch to ensure that we don’t burn out or burn up.

I pour everything into my yoga teaching, but I have never really tried to develop my personal practice. I have been intimidated and frustrated by meditation (my monkey mind does not stop). I have been turned off by the easy excuses for mindlessness justified by skewed yoga teachings (like the idea that positive thinking alone can change the world--as if such a thing could undo systems of inequality). I have been skeptical of assumptions about the power of energy (like the chakras which are undetectable by the naked eye). But, once again, I find yoga (and YogaFit) changing my mind....

Despite the many physical and mental benefits I have received as a result of my yoga teaching (tools for managing and alleviating anxiety, balancing emotions, clearer thinking, improving body awareness, and increasing self-esteem), I thought that I did not have the time or the space—or the need—for a personal practice. Teaching was my personal practice.

As a life-long learner, any kind of yoga workshop or training inspires my teaching, but the recent Mind/Body Fitness conference I attended is the first time I have been inspired by a YogaFit training to develop my personal practice. As I note in YogaFit Full Circle: An Evolving Teacher Training (part one), between taking Level 4 in 2012 and taking Level 5, Pranayama, and Meditation and Mindfulness in 2017, I explored some of the world of yoga beyond YogaFit. This space, and my own evolution, found me ready to learn new dimensions and ideas that I had not been ready to integrate in the past.

In my evolving teaching, I have only dabbled in the “woo-woo” of yoga. These moments have been mostly experimental and exploratory; they come and go as I remember and forget and rediscover. It has taken a lot of time and integration—kinesthetically and ideologically—for me to be ready for a deeper understanding of breathing and meditation and a deeper understanding of myself. Through this time of exploration and integration, I find that a lot of the woo-woo actually makes sense. And some of it makes sense for my teaching and my personal practice. And the following, I think. makes sense to share....

Teaching Re-Commitment: breathing and yoga wisdom (in baby steps)
I am always telling my classes—yoga and cardio—to remember to breathe. Participants regularly thank me for this reminder. I give these reminders because I know the importance of breathing, mostly from my own practice. When I teach, I teach from my own body and if I am forgetting to breathe, then I know I need to remind my classes to do so.

But my one-day workshop on Pranayama really drove home the importance of breathing—not only of breathing, but of breathing effectively. The three-part breath and the principles of one breath per movement have been ingrained in my mind and body and cemented in my teaching; sometimes I would teach lion’s breath or alternate nostril breathing or equal ration breath, but these were often just attempts at variation and experimentation. I'm starting to bring in more breathing techniques like bee's breath, horse lips, and Amy Weintraub's Hara breath.

Effective breathing means not only emphasizing the inhale (as I always do), but also emphasizing the importance of the exhale. While I always say exhale, I had never thought about why the exhale is at least as important as the inhale. As my trainer (Kelly Gardener) said, “you have to let it all out to get it back in.” Further, we learned that 70% of the toxins in the body are released through the breath; if we are not breathing those toxins out, we are keeping them in. Optimal breath can equal optimal health.

Effective breathing means reversing the habits we have been trained into (paradoxical breathing where we inhale and suck in our stomach) and breathing all the way into the lungs, expanding the ribcage and the belly with the breath (what is referred to as lower body breathing). I had practiced this breath, but I had not understood what this kind of breath was actually doing for our bodies. I had not thought a lot about the function of the breath to nourish our bodies.

I had uttered things like “breath is life” and “breathing consciously is the simplest form of yoga,” but I had not fully integrated or embodied what these phrases mean. In a world that induces anxiety, breathing can slow things down and help alleviate to stress and to fuel every one of our bodily functions. This is particularly true of the nervous system, which can be relaxed and stimulated through breathing.

Breathing consciously can also help to keep us present in our lives—in the here and now, so to speak. A few months ago, I came across a quote from an ancient Chinese philosopher who said that if we are living in the past, we are likely depressed, and if we are living in the future, we are anxious. Only when we live in the present can we find peace of mind. This is one of my biggest challenges and I work to bring this focus on the now to my students as well as to myself.

Commitment to Personal Practice: daily meditation (KISS), positive affirmation, movement, music, mantra, and conscious breathing.
For most of my years of yoga, my personal practice has been synonymous with my teaching. The benefits I got from teaching were enough, I thought, even though sometimes I have felt the need to also do yoga just for me.

On my hiatus from YogaFit, I began to develop a personal practice, but this practice has been more reactive and sporadic than proactive and consistent. The tools I learned from Bo Forbes (myofascial release, interoception, and yoga for empaths) infiltrated my teaching, but were the foundation of my personal practice. So while I introduced “football” and other techniques with the tennis ball, my exploration of these tools have been mostly developed through my practice—suddenly feeling the need to roll out my feet or back, suddenly feeling the need to focus on my breathing.

My YogaFit training with Kelly Gardner (Pranayama and Meditation and Mindfulness) and Sandi Cartwright (Level 5) gave me permission to play with breathing and meditation, the tools to make my personal practice my own, and the impetus to establish a set of rituals that give my mind/body what it needs.

Kelly made breathing and meditation far less intimidating and easy to integrate. In fact, what I learned about meditation told me that I am already practicing meditation techniques; I am just not giving myself credit for “meditation.” Meditation is not about tuning out, but about tuning in; it is like “falling awake,” Kelly told us. And so even though I often feel like maybe I am not doing meditation right, at least I am doing it consistently. As Kelly assured us, trying is doing. I think about meditation now through the “keep it simple, sugar” acronym of KISS; no need to overthink meditation. In fact, that’s kind of the point.

In my development of my personal practice I am trying and doing simply. I have more than 19 days in a row of morning meditation—something I never thought I would be able to do. I am also less skeptical of positive affirmations and mantra (even though I remain skeptical of some of the claims that are made about “The Secret,” for instance).

I have reinvigorated my love of moving meditation and the power of music, and I practice conscious breathing far more often throughout my day. I have routine and flexibility; I decide what kind of meditation or breathing techniques I need based upon the moment rather than a prescribed plan, but I set aside time every morning. I continue to play with ideas and approaches and to evolve my personal practice for my own self-care as well as my continuing evolution as a teacher. While I look forward to where all of this will go, I am increasingly content with simply being here now. And that’s also something I thought was entirely impossible.

I officially began my yoga journey in 2005. I had taken a few yoga classes before I took my Level 1 training with YogaFit, mostly a summer session that my friend taught to the only two people who showed up (me and my husband). I regularly taught a variety of cardio classes and had taken a Pilates training program, but I still thought that yoga was just a bunch of stretching (and some woo-woo stuff I had little interest in). I took the training mostly because the Washington State University Student Recreation Center paid for me to go. My fitness perspective was changed forever. . . . But my yoga practice is still slowly evolving, mostly through my teaching.

This slow evolution is part of the point of YogaFit; they want you to take what you learn and practice and apply it, coming back for more when you’re ready. Many of the women I have met at YogaFit trainings find YogaFit and compete their 200-hour training certification in a few years. I have been working on my hours for about 12 years. My road has not been so direct. I have wavered from the YogaFit path because of the demands of my career in academia or my doubts in my ability and desire to fully commit to yoga. I have had to process and practice what I have learned at trainings—to teach it and integrate new ideas into my classes (amid my multiple other professional and personal obligations).

YogaFit has grown exponentially since I started my training. The depth and nature of the programming has also changed. When I began, there was much more of a fitness focus and in addition to the five levels, there were programs like YogaButt that were targeted to health club audiences. While it maintains the accessibility of “yoga for every body,” and makes yoga accessible to populations like my local YMCA, YogaFit provides a solid basis in yoga philosophy and tradition. It also encourages adaptation and innovation—permission to play and encouragement to take yoga beyond preconceived notions.

Today, YogaFit offers a 200-hour training and an additional 300-hour training (which qualifies for Yoga Alliance's 500-hour certification) as well as a 100-hour certification for YogaFit Warriors and a Health track (formerly YogaFit therapy). These programs are oriented toward not only teaching content, but also teaching how to teach and to integrate ideas from training into personal practice. The trainers I had—just two of the whole team—were amazing. Kelly Gardner brought wisdom and perspective from her work in the field of mental health (and was funny and full of practical accessible examples) and Sandi Cartwright was an excellent teacher, grounded and wise with a wealth of knowledge and a foundation of experience in the world of fitness.

Further, YogaFit offers a supportive community—the #YogaFitFamily that can be found at the Mind/Body Fitness Conferences across the U.S. and increasingly in social media spaces. Its emphasis on teaching and its commitment to community, as well as the ways it empowers women, has brought me back to YogaFit.

I never thought that I would do my 200-hours. There was a 5-year break between taking levels 1 through 3 and taking Level 4. I took Level 4, in part, because I was working on my book, Women and Fitness in American Culture, and felt I needed more training to make some of the arguments I was making. After taking the Level 4 training, I thought I had had enough. I learned a lot over the four days of training, but I never even thought I would take Level 5 training (the final “level” in the 200-hour certification). Level 4 included a lot of elements of traditional yoga, and I didn’t really see the relevance to my daily teaching.
In the five years since taking Level 4, I have explored some other yoga venues like the Yoga Journal Live conference in New York, and I have learned a lot of things that I have integrated into my teaching, largely because of the foundations that YogaFit gave me. In fact, what I learned from Bo Forbes in her workshops inspired me to pursue yoga further. So, I found myself back at YogaFit.

I also found myself back at YogaFit because I recently decided that I wanted to complete my 200-hour training, mostly because I wanted to further pursue my academic work in fitness, and in interdisciplinary approaches to yoga specifically. To be taken seriously, I thought, I needed at least my 200-hour certification (500 hours still seems out of reach!). So, while I found myself at the YogaFit Mind/Body Conference in Minneapolis for practical reasons, the full circle of yoga gave me so much more. Most of all, it gave me positive reinforcement of what I know, what I teach, and how important this work is to me and to my communities.

While I still struggle with some of the “woo-woo” of yoga, I can’t ignore the many connections and synchronicities that yoga generally, and YogaFit specifically, have made for me. My four days of training—one-day of Pranayama: The Science and Practice of Breath and Cultivating Prana, one day of Meditation and Mindfulness, and two days of Level 5: Integration—illustrated that I have absorbed so much more of yoga (and YogaFit) than I realized and reinforced the power of yoga in my teaching and my need to continue to develop my personal practice.

Through the conversations and connections with women who teach yoga, to the ideas and practices we explored, I returned home renewed, rejuvenated, empowered, and grounded. . . . And with new ideas, new tools, new visions, new inspirations, and new possibilities.
 
More on the development of my teaching and personal practice in part two….

Intersections and Beginnings
Years ago, at my first job interview I was asked which aspect of race, class, gender, and sexuality I paid the least attention to in my teaching and research. I was not prepared for this question. My go-to answer, probably like most candidates’ answers, was that I really worked to be sure that I covered all of these aspects in my teaching. Each time I named one, I would second-guess that answer and talk myself out of it--my rambling process made awkwardly verbal. Race was central. So was gender. Class cannot be separated from race. I think I finally settled on sexuality, but I didn’t really have a good explanation for why. I could say out loud that I didn't focus on sexuality because I was not ready to be "out."

There were many reasons I did not get that job. One of those reasons could have been my lack of development as a scholar. I had not yet written my dissertation. I was still trying to figure out exactly what I should concentrate my work on, exactly which sub-field I should seek employment in. I was also naïve about politics and appearances. Because I was a white woman seeking a position in African American studies, I was immediately discounted by most of the students and potential colleagues that I met. The political climate--and the students' raw need for a professor of color--created a pretty tense situation, and understandably so. My intersectional approach, my commitment to diversity and social justice, my excellent teaching record, my published book and many conference presentations, the respect I had earned among my colleagues at my home institution--none of these mattered.

I was only what my appearance reflected, and my discount-store suit, untamed frizzy hair, and overall lack of polish didn't help. As much as I wanted a job, I knew that this job was not for me (and I was right; it was a failed search). I could not be the person they wanted and, in fact, each constituency--the students, the faculty, the administration--wanted a different person. The students wanted a black person who could understand where students of color were coming from. The faculty wanted a scholar who understood intersectionality within and beyond African American studies. And the administration wanted a person of color that they could parade around as a symbol of diversity. I was only one of these people, and I wanted my work to speak for itself.

Through my work, I have matured as a scholar and have come into my own; I feel (mostly) confident, especially in my abilities as a teacher, and especially in my interdisciplinary/intersectional approach. My work has grown from my educational foundations in American studies, women's studies, and comparative ethnic studies, and has given me the tools to write about Hip-Hop, literature, television, pedagogy, and so much more. I have also had the privilege to reconcile my personal and political interests through my work related to my book, Women and Fitness in American Culture, and my current research project about young adult dystopia.

I have found that my specialization is in the connections between and among all of the areas that I (am forced to) work in, but it is not easy to navigate the spaces between and among. As I have continued to teach, research, and write about race, class, gender and sexuality, this interview question--and my inability to answer it--has been at the back of my mind and I have worked hard to be sure that I am doing justice to each tenant of intersectionality, especially in their interlocking/intersecting/overlapping. This is not easy work. But it is work that I am passionate about.

The sexuality aspect of my work has not developed at the same rate as the race, class, or gender components. My radical ideas about sexuality have mostly stayed at the fringes of my work and the edges of my life. I have been afraid to engage with sexuality as a component of intersectionality for a variety of reasons, mostly because it is difficult to come out as something specific when I am still struggling to understand myself. I have not engaged this vector of intersectionality because I have the privilege to ignore it.

Just like my whiteness dictated how I was perceived as a candidate for a job teaching about race, my assumed heterosexuality means that I don't have to worry about being judged, belittled, or dismissed because my gender and sexuality are queer. I can stay silent and let people assume what they want to. Many times in the past people have assumed I am a lesbian (or so I have been told). I don't wear a wedding ring. I teach women's studies. I talk about my dog but not my partner/husband. I must be a lesbian, right?
 
But the beauty of the work that I do is that I have the freedom to explore my personal and scholarly interests from a variety of angles. I can rework the pieces and fill in the gaps. Recently I decided—for personal and professional reasons—that I need to bolster that sexuality piece of the puzzle. So, being the academic nerd that I am, I selected a number of books and started my own little reading/research/writing project.

I find time to read these books in the spaces in between my other work and they have already begun to inform my teaching and my thinking. They have already helped me to know myself better, to feel more confident in who I am, to feel less shame is being queer. So, when I have some spaces, I will share some of these books and the interesting intersections they push and pull. I am not sure exactly where this project will lead, but I am excited for the ride.

Rachel Hills, The Sex Myth:
The Gap Between Our Fantasies and Reality

As a part of my personal/professional reckoning sexuality project, I will be sharing some thoughts on the books I am exploring. While I read this one a while ago, the author will be on our campuses this week, so I thought it was about time to share this blog!

The title of this book does not really represent what this book is about. The use of “the” to describe “sex myth” gives the impression that there is only one myth involved here when there are many myths that contribute to skewed understanding of the myths and realities. Further, the implication that we have multiple, plural fantasies, but only one, singular reality limits the possibilities of closing that gap. And, really, this book is about reality much more than it is about fantasy.

The title should be something more like: "How the Millennial Generation Navigates Hypocrisy and Hypersexualization." The “Our” in the title is most definitely interchangeable for Millennials generally, and Americans, Europeans, Australians, white, middle class, etc. specifically. But the book also provides diverse voices and works to represent sexuality beyond the heterosexual paradigm.

I consider this book a light, introductory read that shines light on a subject that is much deeper, more complicated, and embedded in a number of cultural institutions, ideologies, and practices. The author relates her own experiences and others’ experiences without judgment. She argues for a culture where sexuality “can be just one small part of the puzzle of who each of us is, instead of the load that defines us." She illustrates the ways in which young people define themselves through their sexuality, which is hindered by "the Sex Myth."

It is an interesting read, and the argument is valuable. This cross-cultural exploration of sexual myths, shows how the dominant ideologies of the white/Western world shape cultural norms and acceptable thoughts and behaviors. The anecdotal evidence that crosses several continents can only be so representative of the bigger picture. And yet, the stories are honest and genuine and the message of freedom is clear.

In my personal/professional project, this book gave me space to reflect upon what might have been different for me if I was coming of age today (and it had some interesting connections to my YA dystopia work and to my introduction to women's studies course). It reminded me just how sheltered I grew up and just how fucked up my sense of self and sexuality is. Sometimes I lament the openness and options that youth have today compared to the silence and assumptions of my youth. If I were coming of age today, would I feel more comfortable being open and honest with myself as well as with the world? Maybe. But today’s sexual environment is fraught with just as many roadblocks and potholes, they are just more varied and more menacing… and more potentially liberating.

Hills’ message seems to be more about the right to choose to not live up to the sexual hype and to be ourselves. How we should work collectively to change the limited structures of sexuality is offered a more passive solution. Her final paragraph proclaims: “It is we who are responsible for creating the future. We are creating it already, in the things we say, do, and choose to believe. The Sex Myth may be powerful, but we have the ability to dismantle it. You just need to cast off the stories and the symbolism, and let yourself be” (214). The shift from the collective voice of “we” to the individual voice of “you” might give the impression that making individual lifestyle (or ideological) changes is enough to “dismantle” the Sex Myth.

Choosing and enacting personal freedom is a start. We have to understand sexuality personally, politically, physically, mentally, and we can only begin to understand and rework our old ideas when new paradigms are available and accessible. Rachel Hills’ book helps us take steps in that direction, but we need far more tools in our toolbox.

From the first few notes of Spearhead’s album Home, I was hooked on Hip-Hop. This isn’t the origin story that most Hip-Hop heads tell, and it certainly fits with my demographics. As I am reminded any time I am in Hip-Hop spaces: I do not look Hip-Hop. I do not speak Hip-Hop. I do not move Hip-Hop (well kind of, sometimes). But I am a part of Hip-Hop.

I feel Hip-Hop—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, politically, pedagogically. I am Hip-Hop because Hip-Hop is so many different things. I have published and presented at academic conferences on the subject of Hip-Hop. I teach a multivalent vision of Hip-Hop to my students in a variety of academic classes and I choreograph “freestyle” fitness routines.
My teaching in both these spaces brings Hip-Hop to populations that might not otherwise engage with this culture and art form.

I love Hip-Hop for its power, its depth, its edge, its truth, its flow.

But it is easy to get distracted from the things that I love. I have too much to do, and I am spread too thin. I am interested in too many things, and I have too many commitments. When I have time to listen to music, I am often memorizing Group Groove choreography and I listen to the same ten tracks over and over again. I repeat a song over and over until the music and choreography are a part of me.

But this is also how I listen to music that I enjoy. I get obsessed with a song (or an album) and it haunts me and follows me, and the songs that resonate most with me often becomes a part of one of my fitness classes. Hip-Hop is part of this obsession, but to keep up with the Hip-Hop that isn’t most readily available--on TV, on the radio--takes work.

I stumble upon new songs. I circle back to favorites. I rediscover. And my friends and students send me links.

Last semester, I noticed that something felt off. I was busy (as usual). Generally happy (as usual). I was stressing over the details of life and feeling frustrated. I felt disconnected and disconcerted. I was reminded of the power of Hip-Hop when the BreakBeat Poets visited campus; I witnessed (again) this power of Hip-Hop through my students and colleagues. I realized that what was missing was my connection to life through Hip-Hop.

On my next long drive, I listened to Lupe Fiasco’s album, L.A.S.E.R.S. I was transported, pulled into that swirl of love, and politics, and beat, and flow, and soul. I felt renewed and reminded about what is important in life and why I love what I do. In the past I had connected with "Letting Go," "Words I Never Said," and "I Don't Wanna Care Right Now" but this time new songs on the album stuck out to me. I was haunted by "Beautiful lasers (2 Ways)" and “Coming Up” became a regular on my rotation and a part of my fitness classes.

Lupe Fiasco explains in his album notes: "Lasers are shining beams of light that burn through the darkness of ignorance. Lasers shed light on injustice and inequality. .... Lasers act and shape their own destinies. Lasers find meaning and direction in the mysteries all around them. Lasers stand for love and compassion. Lasers stand for peace. Lasers stand for progression. Lasers are revolutionary. Lasers Are The Future."

Lupe Fiasco’s words resonate beyond his music. It’s easy to pass by the moments, to let our lives run out in our responsibilities, obligations, distractions. Hip-Hop brings me home in ways that no other form of art and culture can. Hip-Hop saves my life over and over. It reminds me who I am and who I want to be. It reminds me that I am still coming up.

The first year I got involved with my university's colloquium theme was the year that "revolution" was chosen and I was asked to speak on the theme at our annual convocation event. It was exciting to explore this theme in my classes and to share an American studies take on revolution. The next year I found the food theme to be at least as fruitful in the classroom, and the excuse to focus on food meant that we could nourish our minds as well as our bodies. I was less excited by the bioethics theme that followed, but I found myself learning new things and expanding the tried and true topics that have made my classes engaging and challenging.

When our committee settled on "innovation," I wasn't really seeing how "innovation" was anything more than a tool to promote the idea of a linear path of progress that pushes forward in attempts to fulfill mainstream definitions of success, weaving--and sometimes challenging--myths along the way.

But, the theme of innovation nagged at the back of my brain. It got me thinking, and, ultimately this is the point of having an academic theme. Taking innovation out of these obvious contexts of science, technology, and business only makes room for further innovation. Somewhat obviously, innovation in the arts and humanities is coveted. We celebrate innovative filmmakers, innovative artists, innovative writers, innovative thinkers.

I never think about my work as being innovative; I think about it being flexible, dynamic, engaging, challenging, tireless. But seeking new ways of looking at old ideas is certainly innovative (as James Cook confirms for me in his framing of the theme at Convocation), and this is at the heart of my interdisciplinary teaching and scholarship. Interdisciplinary studies are studies in innovation, finding connections in spaces where strict boundaries are drawn, creating new methods and new forms of knowledge.

The innovation theme invites us to think about what we teach and how we teach it, and part of the point of such a theme is to approach it from a variety of angles. A quick search reveals ways of teaching innovation that coalesce with interdisciplinary approaches, like this Mind/Shift list of ways to teach innovation.

While there is a long list of innovative pedagogies, and maybe even a short list of innovative technologies, at play in my teaching, what is most immediately on my mind are my ongoing explorations of fitness in humanities and interdisciplinary contexts. In our AME/WGS 306: American Fitness class this fall, we will consider fitness in a variety of texts and contexts and through an interdisciplinary lens.

We expect to see fitness as a topic in the sciences. Bodies are measurable. Time, distance, expenditure are measurable. And in the social sciences--attitudes, behaviors, and demographics are measurable and comparable and surveys and interviews provide qualitative analyses. Interdisciplinary fields like women's studies considers strong women and women who break gender norms in sports and physical education as well as the ways in which gender is portrayed in magazines, for instance. These approaches produce important insights and a foundation for innovation.

Innovations in fitness are often met with the rigid resistance of minds and bodies trained in certain kinds of movement--linear, purposeful, exacting. People drawn to the linear, competitive aspects of running might be threatened by the choreography and hip movements of a Zumba class. People drawn to dance might resist the regimented movements of weight training or the aggressive nature of kickboxing.

Innovations in scholarship meet similar kinds of resistance. Interdisciplinary inquiry threatens definable boxes and known quantities. Certainly Luddites push back against innovations in technology, ethicists push back against innovations in science, activists push back against innovation in business. When innovation meets at the intersection of fitness and academia, push back is often stillness, a lack of engagement, a quiet anger, a refusal or inability to embrace change let alone the possibility of transformation.

I detail, analyze, and extrapolate many of these fitness innovations in my book, Women and Fitness in American Culture. I also continue to highlight the work of my colleagues in this field through resources on my culture and movement website and features on my blog. My students' blogs and projects this fall will help to make this class--and interdisciplinary inquiries in the realm of fitness--more dynamic and innovative. Those interested in such innovations can join our Google+ Community.

My initially limited view of innovation in business, science, and technology left me with an underdeveloped idea of what innovation means. Innovation challenges norms, disrupts comforts, and shapes expectations. Innovation is now a conscious hammer in my toolbox and I look forward to sharing this tool with my students this fall.

I meant to write this blog some time ago, inspired when Be Steadwell (B Steady) performed at UMA in connection with my Hip Hop class and sponsored by our Women Invigorating Curriculum committee and a Presidential minigrant. I have so many passions that it can be difficult to balance them all, and Hip Hop is one of those passions that is a common thread through all I do.

In the academic classroom, across disciplines, I use Hip Hop to talk about all kinds of issues from poverty to power to portrayals of women. In my fitness classes I use Hip Hop to inspire movement including two of my favorite Hip Hop yoga tracks: "Yoga Mat" by Stic Man and anything by MC Yogi. Hip Hop was what inspired me to dance outside the fitness box when I combined it with belly dancing.

But Be Steady's performance reminds me how important it is to promote women in Hip Hop by sharing knowledge of artists who don't get noticed in the narrow halls of mainstream Hip Hop. A recent interview with a graduate student working on a Master's thesis about women in Hip Hop rekindled my desire to share a few artists and observations about women and Hip Hop. But first things first...

Nicki Minaj and Monsters in the Mainstream

Whenever I teach about Hip Hop, students often argue adamantly that Nicki Minaj is an "empowered" female rapper, and she is often the only example, besides Beyoncé and Rihanna, students can cite. I am not here to argue that Minaj is or is not empowered (especially since empowered can mean many different things); instead, I want to use her as an example of the problems with mainstream American culture and Hip Hop culture. It is no secret that the few women who have found marginal success are conventionally attractive and often use sex to sell themselves and their work (like American culture demands as much as Hip Hop does). My students overwhelmingly cite Nicki Minaj as "proof" that women can succeed in Hip Hop. Many of my students find her to be "strong" or "successful" or "powerful."

Even in a song like "Monster" (Kanye West featuring Jay-Z, Bon Iver, and Rick Ross as well as Minaj), a song that is blatantly misogynistic and highly disturbing, she is seen as holding her own and being empowered. I even had a student post a video on a social media site with only the verse that Minaj contributes and with a very long analysis of the empowering lyrics supported by the image of Minaj's split personalities. When I asked her to contextualize her analysis within the song as a whole, she declined because she didn't think that the bigger context (a video where the only other women are dead, hanging from meat hooks and being dragged around or used sexually) really mattered because of how "empowered" Minaj was in this one part of the song. Later, when her mother asked her not to post such disturbing things because grandma might see, the student removed her post.

Women who want to achieve mainstream success also have to fit stereotypes and so sexual confidence can be exploited just as much as sexual exploitation. For instance, when Nicki Minaj adds her voice to songs by popular male artists, many women see this as positive. They see her as empowered, as playing the game with the big boys, as holding her own. But this empowerment is all in a context where she has to play their game to find a place for herself. For instance, as I was writing this I came across an article where a quote, "I have bigger balls than the boys" is featured in the headline. If the headline doesn't say it all, then the tagline does: "She has a body like Marilyn and a mouth like Eminem. No wonder Nicki Minaj is the hottest female rapper in the world." No matter how big her balls, she will only ever be a female rapper.

Female artists who play this game gain success. Those who don't will stay at the margins or will achieve success only in limited and limiting ways. So, maybe it is actually a positive that women don't gain mainstream success. Maybe this means that female artists aren't willing to play a game that makes them a victim, a margin, a window dressing, a receptacle. Because Hip Hop is a powerful and empowering art form, because it is a form of social and cultural criticism, because it gives voice to the voiceless, maybe mainstream success is not what female rappers should waste their time trying to achieve. Women rappers are already challenging mainstream conventions by their mere existence; their messages do so even more. Women with a voice, women of color with a voice, are a real threat to mainstream America. So, I share these examples because they shatter mainstream perceptions of women in Hip Hop.

Angel Haze

A student in my classes introduced me to Angel Haze. Her covers of "Same Love" and "Cleaning Out My Closet" take two popular and iconic songs and twist these songs to meet her experience as a black, pansexual female artist. Certainly the mainstream success of "Same Love" has exposed many people to Angel Haze since someone who is searching for Macklemore's song will inevitably find Angel Haze's version. This provides opportunities to educate--in and out of the classroom. When I show students Angel Haze's version of "Same Love," most remark that it is more real, more meaningful then the original. But, the original exploded Macklemore's career for a variety of reasons that speak to the politics of the mainstream. He is white and not gay, so the song is safer and can have "anthem" status. When Angel Haze adds her story to his message, she is exposing the limitations of the mainstream. Her identity, sexuality, and experiences with oppression are in the forefront, amplified with her talent for words.

Mainstream America is not ready for Angel Haze, and yet she recently recorded the theme song for the film 22 Jump Street. Another contradiction--this recording features Ludacris, lending it mainstream validity. In this song, she is singing for most of the song, and when she does rap she is rapping about the film's characters. She isn't seen anywhere in the videos I found for the song and no one listening would guess that she was anything but a "lesser" Nicki Manaj. So, again, mainstream success is limited. But it might be a start!

Invincible

This picture of Invincible is a powerful statement about women in Hip Hop as well as queer women. When I first saw this picture, it brought tears to my eyes. I bought Invincible's Shapeshifters album, a title that is exactly in line with my passions for flexibility, interdisciplinarity, and transformation. "Shapeshifters" and "Sledgehammer" are my two favorite tracks and I use them in academic and fitness spaces often. Invincible opens "Shapeshifter" with: "Music's not a mirror that reflects reality/ it's a hammer/with which we shape it." Taking this popular revolutionary phrase and adapting it to her purpose speaks to the power we have to shape culture if not also reality.

Her politics are clear through her lyrics, but more so through her community activism and the larger picture of the projects in which she collaborates. A co-founder of Emergence Media, she produces her own music as well as videos about topics like women in Hip Hop and gentrification in Detroit. She's also involved with Detroit Summer, "a multi-racial, inter-generational collective in Detroit that is transforming communities through youth facilitative leadership, creativity and collective action" and other such social justice work. Her music plus her activism only strengthens the hammer.

Eekwol

I don't remember how I came across Eekwol, an indigenous artist whose songs speak to experiences of colonization, violence, and freedom. Her songs "Too Sick" and "I Will Not Be Conquered" provide perspectives that "represent the truth." As her ReverbNation profile notes, "she holds a lifelong background of Plains Cree Indigenous music and culture, and invites the audience into a space of experimental hip hop unique to her land and place while respecting the origins of hip hop." Eekwol's work raises consciousness and connects communities.

She also speaks to the roles of women in mainstream Hip Hop in this interview/video that was created as a part of a seminar/presentation and a teaching tool for use in high schools. In educational settings, these artists can be used to make connections to our communities as much as they can be used to raise individual students' consciousness. Artists like Eekwol and Invincible combine art and politics in powerful ways.

Be Steady

Which leads me full circle to Be Steady, an artist I discovered via Words Beats & Life. I started watching her videos and songs and fell in love with her. I didn't really imagine that I would be able to bring her to UMA to perform. I was almost surprised when I booked her so easily. At first she seemed shy and humble, so when she started singing, and her voice filled our little event room, I was speechless. The first few minutes of her performance and her first song "Worthy," hooked the audience. (Fast forward a couple of minutes through my awkward intro and movement of the camera!) I often play this haunting song over and over.

From there, the performance unfolded with songs combined with commentary about her music--the art and the subject matter. She fielded questions from the audience and wove her answers into her performance. She addressed everything I hoped she would address--including questions of identity and sexuality. (Click here for part two of Be's performance). My students were so energized by her visit and shared her music with other students and through social media. Be Steadwell was an amazing performer, but because she was a down-to-earth person, her work reached students even more. Will she gain mainstream success writing songs about her love for girls? Probably not. Will her fans continue to love her music? Will she continue to evolve as an artist, to connect communities, and inspire people? Outside the mainstream, such growth and transformation are possible.

Hip Hop cannot be contained by the mainstream as much as mainstream representations limit what people know about Hip Hop. Our heroes circulate in different spaces. None of these women have messages that mesh with mainstream American expectations let alone the narrow confines of women and Hip Hop. But they are changing Hip Hop as much as their work is transforming minds and lives. All we have to do is listen... and pass it on.

Whenever I finish a project, when what I've written/birthed/sweated out goes off to the publisher, I start to find more sources that would be "perfect." I lament not finding them before I was finished even though I could not have included another source. In fact, the last of my writing process for my last book--and most things I write--is cutting out the excess, polishing the product.
 
There was a lot to cut from Women and Fitness in American Culture. It went through many incarnations and there was so much "perfect" evidence. But that doesn't mean that there weren't sources that would have been helpful, insightful, even key to the crux of my argument. The fact that there are always more examples to add to the mix speaks to the flexibility of interdisciplinary studies as well as the subject at hand.
 
Red Nails, Black Skates: Gender, Cash, and Pleasure On and Off the Ice is a book I not only highly recommend, but also wish I would have discovered before my book was written--for my own personal and professional reasons.
 
It is really quite ridiculous that I did not discover this book during my extended research process. In fact, as I scratch at the reaches of my brain, I am pretty sure that I clicked right past it. At one point I decided that I needed to narrow my scope of research, to only tangentially consider "sport." I wanted to consider sport mostly as it stood in for "fitness," as it narrows the overall quality of fitness to an athletic/competitive activity that relies upon the mastering of a set of specific skills. I remember scrolling by thinking "skating" is not "fitness." And it's not, but I didn't imagine at the time just how relevant skating is, at least in the context of Rand's work.

Since author, Erica Rand, is practically my neighbor and is a friend of a colleague of mine, and since I am pretty sure said colleague mentioned this book to me at one point, it is simply a travesty that I did not pick it up. Her arguments about pleasure, social justice, and queer bodies and queer approaches and spaces would have been helpful to round out some of my less developed arguments. For instance, while I write about the term "pleasure" scaring away participants, Rand boldly writes a whole chapter on the connection of skating and pleasure titled, "Skating Is Like Sex, Except When It Isn't" and in the first paragraph she proceeds to provide the best definition/description of sex I have ever read:

        For me, skating is a lot like sex. It's at once hot, intense, smooth, and sweet. It involves control, in ways that mix taking         and yielding it. It's rhythmic, you can improve with practice, little things can make all the difference, it can feel like flying,         and when it really works it's intensely in-body and out-of-body at the same time (46).

While I apologize, Rand embraces.

But the biggest reason I lament my oversight is that Erica Rand's book is so much like mine at the same time that it is so different from mine. It would have been helpful to have her book in a kind of role model/mentor kind of way. So many things that I was afraid to do with my book--tell my story (even the personal details), use myself as a research subject, put my body on display beside the product of my brain--Rand does with confidence, poise, and insight. She owns her work in a way that I want to own my work.
 
Even the structure/approach of my work has similarities to Rand's book. When I read her "Introduction: Skate to Write, Write to Skate," I felt like we had parallel projects. The thoughtful subtitles, the process laid bare, the personal narrative, the connection between the spheres of academia and physical embodiment/engagement, and the desire to reach audiences beyond academia, are all qualities that our work shares. She lays it out with confidence.
 
I lay it out with trepidation--a different language, a less-definable subject (skating is more concrete, fitness is diverse and abstract), an exploratory method, a distilling of theory, a weaving of less defined voices and more abstract ideas. I am still in the process of understanding how to do critical interdisciplinary work; and interdisciplinary theory and methodology will be one of my next research projects.

But, ultimately, for both of our works, transformation is the impetus. In conclusion Rand writes about "the principle of ethical fieldwork: Don't take from communities you study without giving back" (261). This is a principle that is embodied in my dual spheres of fitness and academia; for both of us, "fieldwork" is also life. She also reminds me that "there is not one single way to effect change ... in the rink only" or "to participate in anti-oppression struggles across categories of race, gender, sexuality, economics, and nation" (261). Academia and activism, pleasure and politics do not have to be binaries.
 
Our endings are even similar. She notes, "we need to get out there and do the work. And still, then again . . ." (261), while I note "if we are willing to do the work(out)." But neither of us can let that be the last word. I turn to final relaxation/rejuvenation. She turns to correcting a myth (that I perpetuate)--that Emma Goldman never actually said: "If I can't dance, I don't want to be in your revolution." But, Rand argues, she did express this sentiment. And to this sentiment, Rand adds, "And sparkle."
 
Next installment of additions and reconsiderations: Hanne Blank, The Unapologetic Fat Girl's Guide to Exercise: And Other Incendiary Acts.

In 2009 I was fortunate enough to have the experience of seeing Angelou speak at one of the largest events hosted by the University of Maine at Augusta. Students had dreamed big and worked hard to get Angelou as a speaker. We do not usually (ever?) have the budget for speakers of Angelou's fame or caliber. I will always remember that event, and her amazing, dynamic presence, but my "remembering" of Maya Angelou is not as a "hero" (as many people regard her).  My remembering is a lesson in critical consciousness.

As a complement and preparation to this event, in the spring of 2009, I taught a class about Maya Angelou. The event did not happen until late April so we had plenty of time to prepare. It was cross-listed between English, Women's Studies, Humanities (before we had an American Studies designator) and had multiple sites taught via compressed video. There were 40 students in this class and most were eager to have an opportunity to read Angelou's work and learn more about her. That's why they took my class. But this is not why I taught this class.

One student immediately dropped the class, noting that he thought this was a "read and write about it kind of class." We certainly read a lot--all of Angelou's autobiographies, all of her poetry, her short stories, her book of essays, and her children's books. We also watched videos of Angelou and considered her politics and her work as an African American woman writer. The opportunity to teach about Maya Angelou is an opportunity for engaged, critical, interdisciplinary education.

As my students know, I don't just teach about the great works or deeds of a person, even someone who is as great as Angelou. Instead, I asked students to consider Angelou in her social, cultural, and political context. I asked questions like "what is it about Angelou that makes her a 'hero' while other black women are vilified as dangerous or subversive?" And, "why I am I teaching this class about Angelou instead of a class about bell hooks or Angela Davis or Audre Lorde, for instance?" These are just two of the hard questions that we don't ask about our heroes.

I taught this class to give the students an opportunity to consider Angelou--her life and her work--deep and wide. And so even though I began the class proclaiming to not be a fan, and to not really love her work as her many fans love it, I learned a lot about Angelou and I really enjoyed reading her collected body of work. She certainly had a long, full life and has been an influential figure through decades of political shifts. She challenged racism and sexism and told her stories without fear or apology. She should certainly be on our list of heroes.

But we should see our heroes in more complicated light. The work I assigned for this class reflected the complicated nature I wanted students to explore. Students wrote academic papers, many of them analyzing her work and some of them critically considering her work in context. Some students took a stab at their own creative writing. Many dealt with their own histories of abuse. Students also created their own Angelou-inspired children's books. They were asked to share  what they had learned in class in a public setting, and many took Angelou into elementary and high schools. (And colleagues and I held a "Teaching Maya Angelou" workshop for teachers in three locations in Maine.)

The night of the event we had a "Welcome Table Potluck" where students could either make dishes from Angelou's cookbook or make their own recipes and tell their own stories. This remains one of my favorite assignments ever, and students brought friends and family to our pre-event potluck and post-event dessert and discussion. Some of us kept hoping that Angelou might make a surprise appearance, but I am sure she had no idea that this co-event was happening. I want to believe, for my students, that if she did, she would have stopped by ... at least for the grub.

The students embraced every assignment with passion that paid tribute to the works of Maya Angelou. One student even took on the project of collecting students' works and creating a book that was given to Angelou as a gift. The sad thing is, with all of this work that my students did, we don't know if Angelou ever received the book. Here's what happened:

When people hear that I taught this class and that Angelou visited campus, they assume I got to meet her. Not even close. (And I certainly didn't expect to meet her, ever, and I am okay with that.) I am not sure that anyone even ever told Angelou that there was a class being taught about her work. When I suggested that students write letters to her before the event, the organizers of the event pretty much freaked out. Because of stipulations in the contract (and no doubt due to her age), Angelou's visit was tightly controlled. There was a long list of don'ts and a limited number of people who could meet her. Any breech of this contract and they could walk away with our (very hard-earned) money. Understandable.

But what was not understandable to my students was why they could not present her with the gift of the book they created for her. Instead, the mayor of Augusta was invited to present her with the key to the city and the students' book was (supposedly) left in her backstage dressing area. I am sure that Angelou has received many, many such honors--the key to every city, the honorary doctorate, the accolades of millions. But, she may or may not have received a heart-felt collection of work produced by UMA students in her honor.

And this is one of the problems of heroes. The higher we hold you up, the harder it is for you to see the people. The more we scramble to provide appropriate honors (those that mayors and presidents deliver), the more we block out the honors of the little people who matter the most. I don't fault Angelou here but the layers of lawyers and keepers and contracts and event organizers and PR people who decide what an event like Maya Angelou speaking at a small, open-access university in Maine should be about.

I have been waiting for the opportunity to tell this story and, unfortunately, it is Maya Angelou's passing that has prompted me to share this "remembering." But it is an important lesson for all of our heroes--dead or alive. We made you heroes and we will examine every inch of your life and work so that we can better understand ourselves and our world. Then we'll look to see where we can make change.

Usually a snow day means that I don't have to leave the house. When the snow piles up outside, I can catch up on work... or ignore work and read in bed all day. Since the YMCA never closes and rarely cancels class, I still have to shovel snow and find my few die hards for yoga or cardio mix or Group Groove. And then I can go home and enjoy a nap or some frozebee (frisbee but frozen) with my snow-loving dog.

But this winter something odd happened, something I never thought would happen--I became a snowboarder.

I don't mean that I have gone snowboarding this winter. I did that a few times when I was in my early to mid-twenties. After a night of too much drinking and not enough sleeping, my friends would drag me to the mountain and then ditch me or wait impatiently while I tried to get my act together. I never really developed the skills, even when I stopped constantly falling, and I can't really remember enjoying the activity. Not really. It was especially gruesome when "fresh powder" was the prize and the day began before the sunrise.

But now I am a snowboarder, and I too crave fresh powder. I finally understand the appeal, the need to get first tracks. I actually look forward to boarding, and I have found myself boarding in conditions I never thought I would venture out in: below freezing temperatures, winds of 20 to 30 miles per hours, falling snow, even rain. I no longer panic at the thought of exiting the chair lift (though I still fall sometimes), and I find myself smiling at the simple thought of boarding down the mountain. Sometimes I don't even want to take a break!

It helps that I have been re-learning on a small mountain. The mountains of Maine can hardly be called mountains compared to out West. But, Hermon Mountain is a small, local mountain. It has one chairlift and the same faces, obscured by goggles and wind-burn, appear again and again. It has night skiing, which I have come to love far more than day skiing. Again, to my surprise. Since my husband is volunteer ski patrol, my season pass means I can board whenever I want. And since I don't have to pay, I don't have to worry about getting the most for my money (which was always added pressure).

When I took up snowboarding this season I couldn't remember how long it had been since I had been on a snowboard--twelve to fifteen years! There was still a learning curve, though not the same painful curve of the first time learning how to balance, stand up, fall down, crash, get up, keep the heel edge, risk a toe turn, fall down, get up, and finally point the board down the hill. After many falls, after over-thinking, after icy conditions, the first snow day and real powder of the season gave me the confidence I needed.

But it also gave me more than just confidence. I finally understood the allure of the sport. I did not control my board; it simply took me down the mountain and I swear there were moments when I must have been flying. It sounds cliché, but it is true. Boarding in fresh powder is beyond any other experience and it cannot be explained, only lived. I finally pointed down the hill and went faster than I ever thought I would want to go. And it keeps getting better.

I even ventured off of my small local mountain, visiting Big Rock in Mars Hill and actually feeling the burn of sustained boarding down a run that takes longer than a minute to get back to the chair lift. As the pictures here attest, I somehow also agreed to snowshoe up Big Squaw mountain and snowboard down it. Fun in retrospect, this day (and others since) reminded me that confidence can be broken and must be relearned. It also taught me that my adorable fun dog is really, really annoying once the snowboards are strapped on and we are trying to get down the mountain. (That's another story there.)

Now, I look forward to snow days (and lament the end of snow days as the weather gets "nice"), which has also helped me to remember the importance of self-care. Those papers will still be there to be graded. My inbox will continue to fill. But this winter I have learned a new skill and found a new love. I have found a lost part of myself, and I have rekindled a love that is as permanent, challenging, and ever-changing as a mountain.

In this blog I want to highlight the work of two important figures in the feminist fitness movement (some pun intended). As my title reveals, the common theme is the concept/lens of decolonization.

Among critical, interdisciplinary, feminist theories, decolonization is a complicated, variegated field of inquiry that overlaps with the theories and methods that form the basis of my inquiries in Women and Fitness in American Culture. For instance, the relationship between the oppressor and the oppressed--the colonial power and the colonized--is one of dominance and subordination. But there is also room to maneuver here--those who have been colonized must be decolonized.

"Decolonizing Yoga" is the title of Be Scofield's website and "Decolonizing Fitness" it the title of Mercado-López's forthcoming anthology. I first became acquainted with Decolonizing Yoga via Tiffany Kell's post--"Practicing Yoga While Fat"--and through Be Scofield's chapter in 21st Century Yoga--both of which I cite and discuss in Women and Fitness in American Culture. Decolonizing Yoga brings a much-needed perspective to the world of yoga, one that interrupts and challenges the feel-good liberalism and humanism that is often found in yoga spaces, and one that challenges what yoga means on and off the mat. In the "about" section: "After the [2013] Yoga Journal Conference the Decolonizing Yoga Facebook Page has highlighted the voices of queer people, people of color, disability activists and more in relationship to yoga and countering oppression in general."

(And since I'm writing about Decolonizing Yoga, I can't help but share this piece about two of my loves: yoga and Hip Hop: "From Gandhi to Kendrick Lamar: On the Cultural Defense of Yoga and Hip Hop.")

The story of how I became acquainted with Mercado-López and her work is filled with fated and seemingly coincidental connections. I was so excited to hear about her work, including: a presentation at NWSA (which I missed, but mentioned in my blog post on the subject of fitness at the NWSA); her related blog posts (which I wish I would have found before my book went to press), the most widely circulated being "Not Just Another Fitness Blog"; and her edited collection, whose CFP for "Decolonizing Fitness: Women of Color, Feminism, and the Politics of 'Fit' Bodies" is currently circulating and (I hope) gaining momentum. According to the CFP, "This anthology welcomes submissions that discuss the use of social technologies to expand definitions of fitness, dispel myths about health and exercise, and build supportive communities around the social and material realities of women of color."

Beyond my personal interest and passion, Scofield's and Mercado-López's work is important to the work of critical, transformative, feminist fitness in a variety of ways. Because my work in Women and Fitness in American Culture is limited by my own scope of experience, and because I meant it as a conversation-starter, the voices, perspectives, and subjects that "Decolonizing Fitness" promises will do much to move fitness out of the realm of thin, white bodies and standardized, whitewashed fitness spaces.

These two spaces for decolonization of fitness spaces and ideas are just a beginning--an exciting, inspiring, and enlightening beginning.

Fitness programs love t-shirts. Run a 5K, get a t-shirt. Lose the most weight, get a t-shirt. Part of a team, matching t-shirts. We don't even have to do anything physical--donate money, get a free t-shirt. Years ago, when I worked as a fitness instructor at the Student Recreation Center at Washington State University, this t-shirt announced a kind of motivational campaign that asked "what keeps you moving?"

Because I am a busy person, I am asked a version of this question quite often. Since I don't drink coffee and most people assume my energy must come from caffeine, usually my first answer is water. Some of it might come from my almost-daily Synergy kombucha tea. But, really, it is fitness that keeps me moving. The more I move, the more energy I have to keep moving.

I use the term "fitness" rather than "exercise" because fitness encompasses not only a range of activities, but a state of being and a mindset as well. Making a place for fitness in my life is more than just an exercise routine or a regimen--it is a recognition that strength, balance, flexibility, and endurance are building blocks not only for health and fitness but for life itself.

During the academic school year, I teach a fitness class (or two) 5 or 6 mornings a week. I don't teach the early morning (5:45 a.m.)classes, but 8:00 or 9:30 (or even 10:30 on Saturday) is early enough to still be "early" for me, a recovering night owl. Sometimes my 8:00 a.m. yoga class is really difficult to get out of bed for, especially when the dark Maine winter morning greets me and especially when I have been teaching or working late the evening before. But, I have to be there. People are depending on me.

This summer I decided to lighten my teaching load and gave up my Tuesday morning class, making Thursday morning my only "early" morning. My Tuesdays without yoga have generally been lazy and unproductive. I usually take a nap and sometimes I feel depressed for most of the day. I don't even start moving, so I can't keep moving. Thursdays are different. I'm done with class by 9:30 and I get an amazing amount of work done. It's a good reminder for me that I need to keep moving. Whenever I think about giving up one of my morning classes, I remember the way I feel after class. Perfect and amazing and ready to take on any challenge my day holds.

So, teaching keeps me moving. Yoga keeps me moving my body and my mind. Having a class of people waiting for me, keeps me moving. The transformation from cold, grouchy, tired, grumbly, angry to relaxed and energized--for me and my students--keeps us moving. And as transformative as yoga is, I get as much from my cardio classes. The types of movement may be different, but they are all part of a bigger fitness picture--a way of moving through life as much as through our bodies.

I am not a big fan of the t-shirt. I find them to be uncomfortable and unflattering. They choke me and they never fit right. They're hot and they restrict my movement. They are also a way of advertising a message on the outside of our bodies to anyone who is looking. They can be a way of branding ourselves, or communicating something that is important to us--clothing with a cause, a campaign, or an attitude. The t-shirt is practically disposable, moving from one trend to the next, even when the cause is a worthy one. And more than likely, someone's underpaid sweat--someone with no choice but to keep moving--made the t-shirt in the first place.

What keeps us moving is what we internalize; what keeps us moving is what we know that we need. We have to keep moving so that we can keep finding that feeling and so we can move ourselves as well as others. The t-shirt is one tool, but what's more important is what's underneath it.