Monday, February 12, 2018

Why Maame Biney Matters in 2018

Why Maame Biney Matters in 2018

In this dark time of Trump, it is perhaps poetic justice—or just karma—that the rising star of the US American team is an 18-year-old immigrant born in Ghana, the first black speed skater in US history at the Olympics (along with Erin Jackson, long-track, whom we shouldn’t forget).

But I want to talk about Maame because she defines what this country is about.

Her parents are separated, her mother in Ghana, but her father in the US.  While she still talks to her mother, she fell in love with the US, and at 5, chose to live with her father.  He took her to a skating rink on a lark, and when she proved to have talent (albeit in speed skating, not figure skating), he worked extra and gave up much to support her immense, budding talent.

To complete her training, she was taken in by a white host family in Salt Lake City, who her father waxes poetic about as not caring about race, but perhaps he shouldn’t.  In the current environment, I understand, but Maame is America: the ambitious immigrant.  She doesn’t need apologies for making the team.  Increasingly black athletes are finding standing in sports once considered mostly white.  Gymnastics saw it with Gabby Douglas, then Simone Biles (the latter of whom was also known for her infectious personality).  Now we have Maame and Erin in speed skating.  The white-power narrative will argue that blacks are “taking over,” but this is silly, a fear reaction because territory once perceived as theirs is no longer white-washed.

That helps everyone.  Athletes seek to excel, or should.  Greater competition means athletes are challenged to excel more.  Whining about increased competition is a sign of weakness and insecurity.  Do white athletes need a “handicap” in order to make the Olympic team?  I don’t think so.  The US sends her best.  Any color.  We’re fortunate to have a large enough population to send so many athletes.  200+ compared to some countries excited to send just 3-4, none of whom have any chance of medaling.  Just to participate is enough.  We shouldn’t whine.

Back to Maame.  She hails from a continent/country the US president recently labeled a “shithole,” and why should we let in people from such places?  To make it worse, her father isn’t rich.  He put everything he’s earned into his daughter’s training.  They are not the Trump White House’s idea of “ideal immigrants.”  Yet when she earns medals in South Korea, I wonder what the current administration’s reaction will be?  Will she get an invitation, with Trump trying to coopt her victory to lessen backlash for his “shithole countries” remark?  Or will she be politely ignored?  If she’s invited, frankly, I hope she declines, but that is her decision to make.

In the end, Maame is just a girl, a high school senior.  And like any other girl, she has dreams.  She wants to win gold, and then she wants to become a chemical engineer.  And if a lot of people at universities all across the US dream of the latter, very, very few have any hope of the former.  Yet it’s the later on which I think we should focus.  Maame is special, she has a rare talent, but she’s also just like any immigrant in that she wants a better life, and has dreams shared by a lot of other Americans, from truly Native Americans, enrolled in any of the recognized native tribes, to Americans from older immigrant groups dating back before American independence, to more recent immigrants, whether through Ellis Island or other venues.

America is about people with dreams.  And to my mind, the best thing Maame brings to the Olympics and this country is her laugh, her hope, her drive, and her dreams.  In short, she brings herself.

Go, go, go, Maame.  You are this country, this United States.  We got your back, girl.  Go win some Olympic hardware.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

In Memoriam: Calvin Edward Reames, Sr., K9RWP

Ed Reames, c. 1945
As some of you are already aware, my father’s health—physical and mental—has been failing, especially since autumn.  In late January, he caught pneumonia and was admitted to the hospital.  He never regained conscious awareness and was placed on palliative care.  At 3:15pm, Eastern time, February 10, 2017, he died, almost exactly 92 years and 5 months since he entered this world.

Social media has become the communication currency of our time, and supposedly nothing on the Internet ever really disappears.  Ergo I want to tell you about my father so HE won’t disappear.  This is my own reflection.  No one’s life can be understood by any single individual in it.  We’re too multifaceted.  The father I knew wasn't even the father my brother knew, as we were born almost 18 years apart--he at the beginning of the Baby Boom and me at the very tail end.  Yet my father raised a writer for a daughter, so I feel the need to eulogize him as I knew him.  Others will have other stories, more or less flattering.

Born on the now-infamous date of 9/11, 1924, in Gorham, Jackson County, (Southern) Illinois, he survived the Tri-State Tornado at only 6 months of age.  With him in her arms, his mother ran for the railroad tracks and got on the opposite side from the mile-wide monster bearing down on them, then laid her own body over his; the tornado leapt the tracks and spared them.  Perhaps that was an omen for a charmed life.  On the face of if, his life might not seem particularly charmed, but he survived the Depression, a world war, and mostly made good on the American Dream.  He even lived long enough to see his Cubbies win the World Series.

Iva Mae Gregersen Reames & Daddy
The eldest of 13 children, he grew up in a family who were poor even by Depression-era standards.  It made him generous, occasionally foolishly so.  Yet if he decided someone was “his” (family or friend), he saw it as his obligation to help.  That conviction stemmed less from abstract ethics than from an innate kindness arising out of his recall of what it meant to be in need.  Sometimes people say, “Well, I managed …” and expect others to suffer as they had.  Daddy could do that, too, but mostly he didn't.  If he could prevent someone from suffering, that made him happy.  He just wanted a “Thank you.”  When he was in the war, he sent virtually his whole paycheque home to his mother each month to help care for his younger brothers and sisters.  He kept $5.  Yes, $5 went much further then, but as an unmarried corporal in the US army, he made about $65 dollars monthly in 1944.  So he kept 1/13th of his income and gave away the rest.

US Army Corporal, 126th AAA Battalion, 1943
That, perhaps better than anything, exemplifies his fundament nature.  It’s in our actions and choices that, I believe, we reveal our true selves.

He liked to laugh, and kid, but never cruelly.  For some families, a disparaging jest is meant as back-handed affection, but that wasn’t heard in the house in which I grew up.  When I was younger, I was frequently teased because I walked right into comments with potential double meanings.  Perhaps one of the values of getting old(er) is that I’ve aged out of being an easy target.  Yet I never learned to hear what others said as an opportunity for ribbing because my parents didn’t find that sort of thing funny.  My father's sense of humor was devoid of sarcasm, as he thought it mean-spirited.  Some of that owed to his own mother, who—to hear him talk about her—should have been beatified immediately upon her death.  But I also believe it owed to having lived through real struggle himself.

To his mind, the world is mean enough.  He saw no need to make it meaner via our interactions with people about whom we should care.  It's partly for that reason, and a basic aversion to drama, that he was a much-desired member of the pastor-parish relations committee at our church in Lakeland, Florida.  His presence tended to tamp down exaggerated crises and occasional bouts of flailing (which is actually a bit funny, given his own tendency to worry).

My father had a will of iron, and a quiet ambition easily overlooked.  For instance, when he decided to stop smoking, back before I was born, he’d just received a new carton of cigarettes for Christmas.  He threw them in the trash and quit cold turkey because he’d decided he was done.  He took up a pipe later (I think largely for image), but decided he didn’t want to do that, either, and just put down the pipe one day.  That was it.

"The Lineman," Normal Rockwell
When Daddy decided to do something, he did it.  “Failure is not an option”: Apollo 13’s motto.  Well, the men (and women) who got Apollo 13 home are my father’s generation.  When he returned from the war, he was one of millions looking for a job.  He tried on several, but finally decided to work for the telephone company because communications seemed like the future.  Before the war, he’d wanted to be a pharmacist, yet circumstance had curtailed the college degree required.  So he began showing up regularly in the hiring offices of General Telephone Electric (GTE), asking for work.  He made himself annoying.  But squeaky wheel gets the grease, and finally they sent him north as a telephone lineman … in January … during a blizzard.  He was a relatively little guy (wiry but short), and they doubted he’d last 2 days.  They figured it was a good way to get rid of his terrier persistence.

Daddy on right, GTE employee award
He persisted for 40+ years, and retired as a (self-taught) senior engineer in the mid-1980s.  Never tell a Reames, "You can’t do that."

The guys who’d worked under him at the end liked him so much, they kept coming to visit him for years after.  He had that effect on people, whether at work, at church, or as a ham radio operator ("This is K9RWP calling...").  They sensed he truly cared about them, and responded in kind.  He wasn’t a boisterous or especially outgoing person, but he was still an extrovert.  He’d strike up conversations with strangers in lines at store check-outs.

Especially if there was a baby involved.

Daddy & his Great-granddaughter, Leila
See, Daddy loved babies.  And babies loved Daddy.  Maybe as a result of being the eldest of 13, but he could burp them, change a diaper pronto, or make them laugh.  He so enjoyed watching little kids, especially as he aged; he’d break into a grin just to see them playing at a distance.   He was never among the “Children should be seen and not heard” crowd.  To his mind, children should be talked to and played with.  They would inherit the earth.  When my son was born just a few months after my mother's death, Daddy said, “He’s my little replacement.”  At the time, I worried his words were fatalistic.  But he went on to survive my mother by almost 20 years, and now, I see his words as an expression of continuity.  We are our ancestors.

Daddy, Grandson Ian & Licorice as a kitten
So my son, Ian, is his replacement, in the larger sense.  When we look forward, we also look back to where we came from.  I tried to insure that Ian got to know his Grandpa, who was there just days after he came home from the hospital after birth, and was there when he graduated from high school, even paid his first bill for books at college.  Because that’s who Daddy was.  If he didn’t get to attend college himself, he made sure both his kids did, and his grandkids.  For him, that was an achievement.

As I said…the success of others, especially friends and family, seemed to Daddy the same as his own.

Yet his generosity and empathy extended beyond just people.  Daddy was a cat magnet.  We used to joke that if he sat down and there was a cat within 50 feet, pretty soon, that cat would be on his lap.  He liked dogs, to be sure, but dogs (and horses) were my mother’s favorites.  Daddy liked cats, and they liked him.  Dogs are forgiving.  They’ll stay with even an abusive owner; but cats leave.  They don’t put up with crap.  Daddy?  Even semi-feral cats trusted him.

Daddy and his "napping partner," Licorice
So while he was raised in a time when animals were tools and food more than family members, and he certainly went hunting from a young age to help put food on the table, I think he, more than my mother, had a soft spot for animals.  I remember in the ‘70s, he decided we were going to raise rabbits for food, and bought a pair of does.  Well, it didn’t take long for yours truly to make pets not only of the does, but of the first litter of babies.  All of them had to go to homes where they’d be pets, not dinner.  And while I’d made the pronouncement, it didn’t take much to convince my father.  Shooting a wild squirrel for the stew pot (especially when hungry) was one thing; killing the rabbits one fed regularly and took care of was another.  So our venture in home-grown meat failed miserably (to, I’m sure, the rabbits’ collective relief).  Yet it wasn’t just due to my agitating.  I don’t think Daddy could have killed a one of them, even if I hadn’t protested.  They had names, after all.

He wasn’t a saint.  None of us are.  The cliche applies: we're a mix of vices and virtues, like shadows against the backlight of the sun.  Age softened some of his, while exacerbating others due to a failing filter.  Among other things he did well, Daddy was a champion worrier.  He worried about anything you can imagine (and then some).  Perhaps that owed to growing up in such an unstable era as the Depression when it seemed anything could happen, but for instance, he would remind me constantly to hold onto handrails while going up and down stairs.  It seems trivial, but he genuinely angsted over me falling at home and hurting myself when nobody might find me for days.  So I (mostly) hold onto rails, because I hear his voice in my head, telling me to.

The irony, of course, is that he was in much more danger of falling, yet he didn't tend to worry about himself.  Before he moved up to be near my brother, I tried to get him to buy one of those Life Alert systems.  I even employed the ultimate weapon: his grandson (Ian), to beg.  He refused.  He’d be fine, because he’s of that generation when all a man should need was himself, a gun, a good job, and a driver's license.  And oh, boy, getting him to relinquish that driver's license as he went increasingly blind from macular degeneration was quite the battle, one my poor brother largely had to face when Daddy moved north to Kentucky in his last years.  Daddy never did let go of the worrying, though.

He could be impatient, and critical, too, sometimes overly so.  I never wanted to sing in front of him because he, like many of his siblings, had an excellent ear and I was, well, usually a little flat.  He could hear it, and would say so.  But the one he was most critical of was himself, if he failed to live up to his (very high) standards of what he thought he ought to do.  Some of that, I lay at the feet of his own father, at least as my mother told it to me.  Yet in contrast, as noted earlier, he was often delighted by the success of others.  As a child and young woman I wanted to succeed not because I feared his critique (except about my singing), but because I basked in his happiness when I did well.  He could be downright embarrassing in his bragging.  If failure, especially his, was not an option, he didn't feel the need to build himself up by tearing down others.  He was happy to share the spotlight, or even to applaud from the sidelines--and mean it.  Again, maybe that owed to being one of 13, but I think it went deeper, back to his fundamental worldview: “You and me,” not, “Me or you.”  He was quietly ambitious, but not especially competitive.  Except at cards.  Then all bets were off (sometimes literally).

Daddy with Mama, Christmas, c. 1990
One of his most outstanding virtues was his loyalty.  For instance, he fell in love with my mother and stayed married to her for 51 years, then never remarried.  While it might have been nice for him to remarry, I don't think it was in him; it would have felt like "replacing" her, and to his mind, she had no replacement.

After her death in 1997, I recall going through old pictures of her with him, one from just after the war, which showed them out with friends.  Keep in mind that my mother, from childhood until after the birth of my brother, was…pudgy.  While on the shorter side, my father was never heavy in his youth.  In fact, he got quite buff during WWII: broad-chested and slim-waisted.  But as we looked at that picture of my mother next to her friends, he pointed to her with tears in his eyes, and said, "She was the most beautiful of them all." Yup, the "pudgy" girl.
Idalee Brouillette, c. 1944

But he was right: Mama was a stunner.  I know that, now, people say I look a lot like her, and I’m honored it’s so.  But I was never as pretty as she was, especially in her youth, and I think my father felt bedazzled that this beautiful, black-haired Brouillette girl decided she was going to marry him, and that was the end of it.  Her family was better off financially during the Depression, even with Indian blood; they had a farm with a full section, and a car, and enough money for my grandfather to send my mother and her sisters into town to go to school when he thought the teacher at the school on Buttermilk Hill was unqualified.  So I suppose you could say Daddy "married up."  But to Mama’s mind, she’d won the deal, getting the determined, smart guy.

See, long before they met in person, Mama had gone with her best friend Annie to Gorham High School for a day, visiting.  In math class, the teacher put a problem on the board and asked the class to solve it.  Only one student could:  my father.  He got up and wrote the solution on the blackboard, and Mama was enchanted.  She asked Annie, “Who is that guy!?”

March 8th, 1946, wedding picture
Some years later, she married that guy.

In many ways, my parents were quite different people.  My mother was progressive in thought beyond her time, naturally empathic and perceptive, a bookworm introvert with a steel spine when she needed it and the amazing ability to keep 5+ people’s business in her head without forgetting anything.  Everything I know about organization (and I’m pretty good at it), I learned from my mother.  My father was conservative, protective, supportive, more intelligent (in sheer IQ), but less emotionally intelligent (EQ), more driven, but less philosophical.  Yet they created a unique alchemy of spirit.  They didn’t share common interests—Mama loved reading novels, Daddy never read fiction, Mama loved watching murder mysteries, Daddy preferred ball games or the news.  Yet they looked out on the world in the same direction, and that’s what mattered.

Ed Reames in high school
In the end, what can I say but that Daddy was the epitome of the Greatest Generation.  And now he’s gone.  I won’t say we’ll never see their like again, because nobody knows the future.  They weren’t perfect—racism was an institutionalized assumption enshrined in segregation, women barely had the vote, LGBTQ wasn’t even talked about—but we, in our current America, could take a page from those who survived abject poverty and economic collapse without government safety nets, then went on to save the world from fascism.  They did it not by grand deeds, but by the simple heroism of young men and a few women storming a beach at Normandy or Iwo Jima, a lot of whom never came home.  Daddy used to joke that he chased Hitler all over Europe but never caught him.

Daddy, you did catch him.  You were part of the men and women who stopped him.

You are my hero.  You are the real Captain America.

I’m privileged and grateful to be your daughter, and I love you, forever.

Now for the standard: Ed Reames is survived by his son, Calvin Edward Reames, Jr., and his daughter, Mary Jeanne Reames (me), by three grandchildren: Samuel Edward Reames, Selena Marie Reames, and Ian Andrew Reames-Zimmerman, and by one great-grandchild, Leila Jolie Janney.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

The Princess Who Became a General

Today, I feel old.

Maybe it’s because my back and joints are hurting more than usual and Aleve just isn’t cutting it.  But I’ve had rheumatoid arthritis since I was 29, so I don’t usually associate the pain with age.

Maybe it’s a function of the post-holiday blahs.  The tree is empty, the fridge is full of left-overs, and days are short while nights are long.

Or maybe it’s because my son is leaving home in less than two weeks.  He starts college at UNL this spring and is moving into the dorms.  That’s exciting, and he’ll be back in the summer—but soon, my nest will be empty part-time.

Yet I think the real reason I feel old today owes to the first news to hit me in the face when I woke up this morning.

Carrie Fisher is dead.

Remember that line Han Solo delivered in the garbage compactor?  “I have a bad feeling about this.”  That was my reaction when news broke of her heart attack.  2016 has been an especially shitty year for pop-icons, from David Bowie to Alan Rickman to Prince.  My thought was, “2016, you can’t have HER.”  Then news came she was improving.  The Christmas-day death of George Michaels, whose music—along with Prince’s—I danced to in college and grad school made me hope he’d be the last one 2016 claimed.  According to family reports, Carrie Fisher was stable.  Princess Leia would live to fight another day.

Except she didn’t.  The damn 2016 garbage compactor got her.

I admired Carrie Fisher a lot: her honesty, her courage, her wit, her talent.  I read Postcards from the Edge not long after it came out and thought, “Wow, unlike a lot of celeb authors, this woman can actually write.”  But I didn’t actively follow her career.

The author, 13th birthday, Sept. 23, 1977
Also, in the eternal “Star Trek vs. Star Wars?” comparisons, I always wind up on the Trek side.  Make no mistake, I loved Star Wars and saved my allowance to watch it four times in the theatre when it first came out in 1977, plus I managed to sneak in a tape recorder to tape the dialogue.  (This was well before VCRs.)  Yet watching Star Wars four times wasn’t really a lot, even for a 12-year-old with limited allowance.  Of more importance were the elaborate recreations of portions of the film that I did that summer with two male friends, one of whom had a film camera and visions of making movies himself one day.  The recreations required costumes, including a white dress and attempts to get my hair into double buns that were never quite BIG enough.

But my chest was big enough.  With a pre-teen’s delicious, slightly scandalized attention to detail, I’d noticed that Leia didn’t seem to be wearing a bra under her virginally white princess dress.  I’d matured on the early side, so if I didn’t have enough hair, I did have enough breast.  I decided that if Princess Leia could go braless, so I could I.  My mother disagreed.  Even if most of her attitudes were advanced for a woman born in 1924—she’d marched for ERA—letting her almost-teen daughter out of the house without a bra was not something she could condone.  So I wore my bra out of the house…then took it off for the filming of our amateur effort.  I might not have Princess Leia hair but I had Princess Leia boobs.

That Fisher wasn’t wearing a bra* might seem like a funny thing to remember about the first movie—but not really.  Princess Leia represented a fundamental seismic shift in the portrayal of women onscreen, so it seems perfectly in line that she went braless.

As mentioned above, I’m really more of a Star Trek fan than Star Wars, and I was cast as the lone female character in childhood make-believe games long before our pre-teen attempts to refilm parts of Star Wars.  In fact, as a young girl playing with the boys down the block, Star Trek was our go-to.  Bobby was Captain Kirk, Kevin was Mr. Spock, and I, of course, was Lt. Uhura.  I didn’t get to do much because Uhura didn’t either.  Nichelle Nichols broke a lot of barriers with her role, but 1960s Uhura wasn’t Uhura of the reboot.  Back then, it was, “Hailing frequencies open captain.”  Or getting captured by Klingons or Romulans so the boys could rescue me.

Occasionally, I complained about this, and might get “upgraded” to Chekov or Sulu (not McCoy, he was too old).  But mostly I was Uhura, and also—as noted—I didn’t do much unless I needed to be rescued because that’s what happened to women in the TV shows we grew up on, although in Star Trek that honor was typically reserved for the pretty, blond, (white) love-interests of Kirk.  It’s of note that we (children) just transferred that role to Uhura without much thought for the racial divide.  For our youthful disconcern we can thank Roddenberry when he insisted a black woman could sit on the bridge.  To us, that she was a woman mattered more than that she was black.  That’s a good thing.

But it’s also worth noting that the boys found it easier for a white girl to play a black woman than for a white girl to play a white (or even Asian) man.  That’s not so good a thing.  The gender divide became more significant than the racial divide.  (And I don’t think it an accident this country elected a black man as president before a white woman.)

The advent of Princess Leia, however, changed the dynamics yet again.  Even if Lucas&Co did put her in that stupid gold bikini.

So let me clarify that if I wasn’t necessarily a Star Wars fan over Star Trek, I was a huge fan of Princess Leia.

1979-80, Drum Major

When I first saw Leia grab Luke’s blaster to defend herself?  I wanted to stand up and cheer.  Instead, I think I sat in my seat in the theatre with my mouth open.  Then she told Luke, “Into the shoot, flyboy!” and Chewy, “Get this big, walking carpet out of my way.”  And that scolding she gave both Han and Luke?  “I don’t know who you are, or where you come from, but I’m grateful.  But from now on, you do as I tell you.”

See?  I can still recite her lines (without looking) all these years later because I recited them to myself so MANY damn times then.

So yes, I loved Star Wars (if not as much as Star Trek).  But Princess Leia became a HERO for my 12-year-old self.  She was competent.  And the sassy I wasn’t (and never would be).  She was also (apparently) smart, like Meg from A Wrinkle in Time.  The era in which I grew up warned girls: “Let the boys win,” and “Don’t be smarter than the boys; they won’t want to date you.”  Unfortunately, that’s still true.  Smart girls might be sexy now, but not if they’re smarter than the boys.  That, however, is the topic of another post.

What I want to focus on is just how different Leia was, as an icon for girls my age.  Yes, there were other powerful, strong, smart women—not least the Meg I mentioned above from Madeline L’Engle’s work.  Female SF/F authors from L’Engle to LeGuin had been blazing trails for women well before Star Wars hit theaters.  But such female icons weren’t found in mainstream film and books—never mind an international blockbuster.  It didn’t hurt that Princess Leia was able to do all this and still be considered attractive.  Yes, the stupid gold bikini helped, but long before Return of the Jedi, teen boys and young men saw Carrie Fisher in her white dress and hair buns and blaster and saucy remarks, and they fell in love.  They also watched her tame cocky Han Solo, who followed her lead (at least sometimes).  So it became more acceptable for a woman to be in charge.  Young boys who grew up on Princess Leia never questioned that a woman couldn’t handle a blaster or run a rebellion.

Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia kicked down the damn door.  Nichelle Nichols cracked it, but Fisher blew it down.  After Leia, it became increasingly acceptable to see women onscreen take their fate into their own hands.  She made possible Ripley from Alien, Sarah Conner from Terminator, and Xena, the Warrior Princess.  A space princess with a blaster had gone before one with a sword and chakram.  The Grrl-Power Genie was out of the bottle and she wasn’t going back in.

So today I feel old, but also oddly buoyed.  I was witness to a revolution.  I got to see Princess Leia explode onto the screen at an extremely formative time for me.  Princess Leia gave my 12-year-old self a wholly new idea not only of a woman as a hero, but of what “princess” might mean outside Disney.

I won’t say I am who I am—a university professor—due to Princess Leia.  Waaaay too many streams fed that river.  But Princess Leia was part of it because a young girl on the cusp of womanhood saw another young woman grab a blaster from her “rescuer” and rescue herself (and him, too).  So I never went to college for an “MRS.” degree.  I went to school for my degree, and I pursued my career.  Yes, I got married and had a kid, because being one’s own person doesn’t mean one has to do it alone.  But when, many years later, I got a divorce, I still had my career, and eventually, I bought the house I wanted with a mortgage in my name alone.  So just as Princess Leia went on to become General Organa (without Han Solo), I went on to become a tenured professor, grad chair, and to start our Ancient Mediterranean Studies Program as its director.  If I’ve not published as much as I’d like, family reasons (divorce and raising a kid not least) got in the way.

But I think Princess Jeanne did okay on her way to Dr. Reames.

The Author in 2016.
Now Princess Leia has returned to the Force, at least in any physical embodiment beyond film already in the can.  Those of us who had our eyes opened when she grabbed that blaster will have to go on without her.  It’s our turn to be a model for the girls (and boys) who come after us.

Are we there yet?  Hell no.  We just elected a president who bragged about grabbing pussy without consent, and that didn't, apparently, disqualify him for a significant voting block.  Only about 63% of women report sexual assault and notably fewer of those cases ever see the perp convicted.  Women still make only 80 cents on average for every man's dollar.  We're a looooong way from there yet.

But young princesses do turn into generals, and young or old, we’re bad-asses who can save ourselves—and you, too.

Peace, Carrie Fisher.

(*For the record, it turns out she actually had gaffer tape on her breasts, but I didn’t know that then.)