The Ugly Reality: A Response to Ashley Judd

    If you're like me, you're a big fan of heart-pounding thrillers with strong female heroines like Double Jeopardy and Kiss the Girls. You may also enjoy sentimental films that make you laugh, cry, and ponder the relationship between faith and morality such as my personal favorite, Simon Birch. Or maybe you connect with a Southern drawl and the woes of the dark histories, in which case you're drawn to Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood or A Time to Kill. If you fit into any of these categories, I'm sure that you, like myself, have enjoyed the dramatic talents of Ashley Judd.

    But, whether or not you're a fan of any of the movies listed above, you probably have read about the Ashley Judd firestorm created this week, when the star wrote a searing criticism of the objectifying, "misogynistic" assault on women perpetrated by mainstream media. After much chatter that Judd's cheeks have appeared "puffy" in recent television appearances, Judd decided to respond on behalf of herself and the sisterhood of women at large. The Daily Beast article has gone viral, and feminists, journalists, and Judd fans everywhere have applauded her apt and meticulously worded argument against an intrusive and female-degrading industry. Her vocabulary makes it evident that a Harvard education has not gone to waste on this girl, and judging by her sass, neither has a Southern upbringing.

    Having been a Judd fan since the late 90's, and considering the fact that I am a female, I feel semi-qualified to pitch my two cents into this conversation. Let me begin by confessing that I have seen Double Jeopardy so many times that I've nearly memorized it word for word. I also firmly believe that every woman should perfect a strong jab punch and decent upper-cut because of Kiss the Girls (Bring it, Cary Elwes).

   That being said, when Judd's article hit the press this week, I initially read it with great delight. I love her tenacity, spunk, and unapologetic ownership of her personhood and her body. Go girl! But, when I reached the article's end, something felt a little off. Sure, Judd makes a accurate observation that the objectification of women in our culture is wrong.    W-R-O-N-G. But, with an acting career that has often kowtowed to our culture's demand for illicit, meaningless, and gratuitous sex, when did Judd become such a passionate guardian of feminine inner beauty?

    While I love Judd's girl-power edge and some of her more wholesome fare, I feel most confident approaching many others of her films with a finger securely placed on the fast-forward button. From tongue-in-cheek chick flicks ala Someone Like You to edgy mysteries ala Eye of the Beholder, Hollywood has enlisted Judd on several occasions to promote a culture of casual sex and disposable lovers. Though it presents an innocent enough veneer, (who doesn't feel compassion for a barefoot, pregnant teen living out of a Wal-mart?) Where the Heart Is vacillates between presenting sex as a weapon that incurs molestation and unplanned pregnancies, and relying on the presence of casual sex for many of the film's more humorous moments. And, then there is the dark thriller, Twisted. The name alone sums up the plotline, so we won't even get into that one.

     Judd has also, unfortunately, been a party to this misogynistic system by shedding her own clothes for several roles and leaving nothing to the imagination in the way of sexual intimacy between two people. Otherwise smart films like High Crimes and Double Jeopardy would have been much better sans the one or two (completely unnecessary) salacious scenes. While it is incredibly entertaining to watch Tommy Lee Jones chase a fugitive Ashley Judd across the country, I prefer to watch the TNT version, censored to perfection.

   This isn't meant to be an indictment, but rather an observation. Judd ultimately arrives at the conclusion that men don't bear the blame alone, but that women (herself included) become entangled in, and even promoters of, a degraded female sex.

"Patriarchy is a system in which both women and men participate...It is subtle, insidious, and never more dangerous than when women passionately deny that they themselves are engaging in it."

But she fails to acknowledge that the media which she so passionately accuses is the same media that vaulted her to success, touting her as well, a sex symbol. Indeed men and women, actors and audiences, have contributed to the media machine's insistence that sex is sport and bodies are toys. When this is the case, all humans are devalued to their potential as a sexual partner. And if that's where our value truly lies, then it is perfectly acceptable for us to critique one another's waistlines, bust sizes, and yes, even cheeks.

    For the record, I happen to think Ashley's cheeks look just fine. Anyone with two eyes and a pulse will agree that she is still a beautiful woman. But, now that she's opened this conversation and invited others to join in, I hope it becomes evident just how deep this issue runs. The rude commentary on Ashley's puffy cheeks only skims the surface. In a world where young girls are bought and sold on the streets nightly, where predators lurk in every corner of the internet, and where babies are abandoned by unwilling fathers, it's clear that somewhere along the way we allowed sexuality  to trump personhood. So, the question left to us today is, what role are we playing in this unfolding disaster?

   And Ashley, I'll always love watching you kick the bad guy's butt. I hope that you're one day able to find the justice that you seek.

When They Don't Come Back

     It’s funny how a simple sound, like the ring of a telephone, can affect you. At the pregnancy center where I work, every time our phone rings I become excited. And fearful.

     

     A couple of months ago, just before closing time, a sweet, smiling girl came in accompanied by her frowning fella. They had rushed across town to reach our center before we locked up for the night. The boyfriend had done the calling and appointment making. Unusual. They were in need of a pregnancy test. And one look at his furrowed brow made me think the boy may have confused us with a medical clinic where he could "fix" the problem.

    I brought the sweet girl back to a counseling room. With the door closed, her smile dissolved and she poured out her deep hurts and fears. She became real and honest and fragile in our quiet little space. When it was time for the pregnancy test, she and I both took a deep breath. While escorting her to the bathroom, I noticed my co-worker, full of wisdom, compassion, and motherly care, talking with the boyfriend in the lobby. His hands were open and his brow was no longer furrowed. The clock ticked in the background, it was getting late. Finally, the sweet and fearful girl cracked open the bathroom door and invited me inside. The test results would appear in just a moment...

    Blackout. In an instant, the lights died and we were suddenly swallowed by shadows. The sun had long since punched out for the day, and our bathroom door opened into a hall with no windows so that not even the moon could lend a helping ray or two. I felt and grasped my way out to the lobby, where my director appeared with a single flashlight to rescue us. We all smiled in the darkness and spoke quietly. Time to improvise. The girl and the boy said they'd like to finish their appointment even in the dark. So, I left my co-worker counseling the fella by the blue glow of a cell phone. I couldn't help but smirk at this bizarre turn of events. The timing of the blackout seemed impeccable. And strangely, there was no storm outside. No overblown fuse. We had seemingly been chosen at random for a counseling foray into the dark ages. So, in the flickering light of our little AA-powered plastic lantern, the sweet girl and I peered down at the pregnancy test.

    Positive. We sat in silence. She looked at me, her eyes welling up with many things she didn't need to speak. Of course, she could love this baby. But her boyfriend could not. Without his help, she didn’t see how she could provide for herself, much less a little one. In our dim little room, with two pink stripes staring at us, she confessed to me that she did not know if she would become a mama. We talked for what seemed only a few more minutes, but ended up being closer to an hour. When we walked out to the still dark lobby, the frowning fella was now smiling. He’d told his counselor of his surprise that everyone remained so calm in the blackout. No one got upset. No one treated the unforeseen issue like a crisis. Maybe his girlfriend’s pregnancy was the same way. Maybe it wasn’t the crisis that he felt it was.

     They said they'd like to come back again, together. They asked me to make an appointment for an ultrasound. In my heart, celebration was well under way. The next day I called them. He texted back. I made the appointment.

     And they never showed.

     Every time a new client calls for an appointment, I welcome her with hope in hand, ready to offer it freely to her. But, then fear grips me for just a moment. What if she talks and shares and cries...what if we are greeted again by two thin pink lines...and what if she walks out our door and never comes back? To know that a life exists right now, but that it might not exist tomorrow is heart-breaking. And when tomorrow comes and goes, and that life is perhaps extinguished, it is a tragedy. What if I meet yet another sweet girl unknowingly traveling the road to destruction, and she heads down that path anyway?

    It's never simple for me to process this real concern. So, daily, I must return to the promise of my Father’s involvement and investment in these girls, in their babes, and in my life as well. Colossians 1:16-17, “For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

“Unspeakable joy all day long and every day, was my happy experience. God, even my God, was a living and bright reality, and all I to do was joyful service.”                           - Hudson Taylor

On the Days When I Feel Small

  Two nights ago, I laid in bed tossing, turning, adjusting and readjusting my pillow, unable to go to sleep. Over and over my mind reconsidered the events of my day, and the longer I pondered, the more deeply unsettled I felt.

  Earlier that day, just before I shut down my computer and left the Pregnancy Center where I work, my boss shot me a quick e-mail and asked me to post a link to Facebook. It was an article urging readers to petition their Virginia state senators concerning a bill that would be voted on the next day. This bill, SB 484, proposed an update to Virginia's "Informed Consent" legislature. Basically, the bill required that every woman seeking an abortion first have an ultrasound performed prior to any procedure. Myself and my friends who work with pregnancy centers know that many women who see the image of their unborn child, already taking the shape of a little person with fingers, toes, legs, and arms, ultimately change their mind and decide against having an abortion. So, that evening I posted the link to Facebook and even sent a pre-written e-mail off to my State Senator asking for their participation in voting in this new bill. This is Virginia, after all, a notoriously conservative haven for advocates of life like me. I had no doubt my petition would be well received by some dark haired, middle aged Republican man somewhere with a slight Southern drawl and an approving smile. And, I went home feeling content that I had done my part as a lover of life. Way to get involved in political advocacy, Natalie. You are a truly an exemplary American citizen.

   Yeah. Right. Such an exemplary American citizen am I, that I had no idea who my represented my county in the state senate because I have a history of skipping out on local elections. I learned my lesson when I checked my inbox later on and saw that I had already received a pre-written response to my pre-written letter. But, as I skimmed the opening lines I realized this was not a reply from the charming, blue-blooded, baby-kissing state senator that I'd expected. The representative from my local area is a woman and she supports a woman's right to choose. Her letter expressed that she felt requiring an ultra-sound would be unnecessary, costly, and harmful to a pregnant woman's health and she would therefore, not vote in favor of the SB 484 "Informed Consent" bill. I literally gasped. I scoffed. I scatched my head in disbelief. This woman and I were diametrically opposed in our convictions. And at the end of the day, she is the one who gets to vote in the state senate.

   If you're not on the same page as me, let me explain further why this nagged at the very fabric of my being. I love life. I mean, I really really love it. I think every life is valuable, intentionally created, and deserves to a have a go-around on this spinning blue sphere where we live. I love babies. And I love women. And as a counselor, I've seen the painful effects of abortion over and over and over again. It's not just about the ending of an infant's life (which is unjust enough). It is an experience that pierces the souls of women who go through it. It haunts them, hangs on through the years, and rocks them to the very core. It not only has serious physical risks (infertility among them) but it can leave emotional scars that stubbornly refuse to heal decades later. So, when I hear words like "Informed Consent", I interpret this as meaning that a woman has a right to know the risks involved with the path she is choosing. She has a right to see the body in her belly that already has her nose and bears a striking resemblance to a person. A bill asking for Informed Consent wouldn't stop abortion. But it would inform a woman about what's going on in her body before she makes a potentially life altering decision.

   I share this with you all, because I can't share this with my state senator Barbara Favola. Additionally, before I hit the hay on the evening of our correspondance, I read about several major corporations that use the cells of aborted fetuses to test and design their products, PepsiCo among them. I realized that this battle is not only to be fought in the chambers of state and national legislators, but also in the corner offices of major companies that stand to benefit from the process of abortion. Like slavery, this systematized de-valuing of human life has penetrated the social, politcal, and economic spheres of our country. And this recognition two nights ago left me feeling very, very small. When I closed my eyes to sleep that night, I saw an ummovable, impenetrable wall in front of me growing larger by the moment, as state and national senators and representatives and Pepsi and seeminly a million others all lay their bricks on top of this fortress. I thought of David standing in front of Goliath with a small stone and a sling.

  And then I remembered who won that battle. And, I think it will help me sleep a little more peacefully tonight.