I’ve been at a conference all day, listening to media scholars volley and bandy about ideas and concerns, as well as research and methodological questions related to television comedy. Though fascinating conversations were forming around me all day (I fumbled through a well-intended but unformed question too, because I make myself participate in these conversations), I was distracted by some sad news my partner imparted to me as I was waking up: Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore are separating.
As someone who has no personal investment in marriage, it might be odd that I would react to news about the split in this way. Though I disavow the wedding industry and the societal privileging of married couples, nor treat monogamy as a sacrament, I do like to see couples make it. I was sad when the Gores announced their divorce and am pulling for Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith to work it out.
Part of why this news hit me so hard has to do with projection. The move to Madison and transitioning into a life in the academy presents its own challenges. But my stepbrother was killed in a car accident this past summer, sloughing his mortal coil just shy of his 30th birthday and leaving behind a wife and baby daughter. I am still processing my grief over the loss, and keep returning to Avey Tare’s Down There for catharsis (a musical selection he would have hated). My mom’s best friend’s ex-husband passed away this month as well. In addition several friends back in Texas are planning weddings, returning to school, having children, and throwing birthday parties. I’m not lonely in Madison. I’m making friends. And between course work, class prep, administrative meetings, and writing and editing responsibilities, I don’t have time to be lonely. But while I love the work I’m doing, it’s hard to not have the time to reinvest in old friendships.
Recently, a few marriages dissolved within my friend group and, given the circumstances, I especially ache for the women in these partnerships. This causes me to reflect on my own partnership. My partner and I celebrate our eight-year anniversary next January. He is incredibly supportive of me and my professional aspirations. He also has his own projects, and I am incredibly proud of his contributions. But it’s hard to work through twelve-hour days and then come home and reconnect when you’re exhausted. It’s also challenging to expand our friend group beyond people in my program, which I hope doesn’t create any strain. But partnerships of any sort require tremendous attention and investment. Folks also change over time within them. In a 27-year marriage, both spouses evolve into different people. The challenge then becomes evolving with one another and not turning into enemies or more often strangers, which is precious and rare.
Gordon and Moore were married a year shy of my entire life. I will not speculate foul play, though I reserve the right to be disappointed in Moore if he takes up with Peaches Geldof. What most resonated with me about their union was that it was a demonstrably feminist marriage. Both partners voiced the importance of consensus, mutual respect, shared parenting responsibilities, equality, and balance. They also work together in a band, and thus constantly reconcile the band’s needs and their individual artistic inclinations. Gordon also had to deal with sexist assumptions about her husband’s instrumental prowess and routine dismissal of her musical contributions, even though she possesses one of rock’s most evocative voices. A few of my friends sustain romantic partnerships with professional colleagues. Such relationships are possible, but require compromise, attention, and negotiation.
Sonic Youth plan to finish their tour. For selfish reasons, I hope the band stays together. If they continue to create interesting, vital music, I want them to push on. There is some precedence for Gordon and Moore’s current position. The White Stripes, Quasi, Smashing Pumpkins, and Fleetwood Mac continued making music despite members’ romantic dissolution, though none of those groups had a high-profile couple with Gordon and Moore’s marital longevity. But I would be just as happy if the pair moved on to other endeavors. In 1988, artists Marina Abramović and Uwe Laysiepen ended their long-term relationship by meeting each other in front of the Great Wall of China after walking great distances. Once they saw each other, they said goodbye and continued their long journeys walking in opposite directions. Perhaps Gordon and Moore will do something similar in South America next month. If they do, it’s been a good run.
When I saw the film version of Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel Persepolis, it was a pretty rad time to be a feminist moviegoer. In the last month of 2007 and the first month of 2008, this movie came out, along with Juno and 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days. Having just completed a girls’ studies course, I was ecstatic that three different movies, each from a different country, were released with complex, resilient protagonists who were girls and young women.
Two of these movies earned Oscar nominations a few months later. Juno won Best Screenplay. Persepolis was nominated for Best Animated Feature, but unfortunately lost to Ratatouille. 4 Months, which documents the harrowing day of one college student trying to procure an illegal abortion for her roommate during the last years of Nicolae Ceauşescu’s in Romania, won the Palme D’Or at Cannes earlier in 2007, but failed to receive any nominations. For some reason. Perhaps it escaped nomination as a technicality, but I don’t understand why no one, particularly writer-director Cristian Mungiu or lead actress Anamaria Marinca, got any Academy recognition. Perhaps because it lacked the allegorical importance of No Country For Old Men or There Will Be Blood and cut to very real (and tremendously gendered) issues facing real people in the real world, many of whom reside in developing nations.
But it is really no matter. No Country, There Will Be Blood, Julian Schnabel’s The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, and Todd Haynes’s I’m Not There were but more examples of what a very fine time this particular two-month period was for movies. But 4 Months was easily my favorite movie of that year. The movie whose source material will be the focus of this post was a very close second.
Having seen the movie upon its U.S. release, some context has changed considerably upon revisiting Satrapi’s autobiography about coming of age inside and outside of Iran from the late 70s to the early 90s, a time period where the country witnessed the fall of the Shah (aided by the United States), the swift and crushing oppression of its citizens by Islamic extremists, a devastating eight-year war with Iraq, and the neighboring country’s launch of the Persian Gulf War. In late 2007, we were still living under the Bush Administration, so the country’s positioning as part of the “axis of evil” was in my mind, but being pretty ignorant about the country’s political history and our involvement with it past the Iran-Contra Affair, Bush’s branding of the country read more as a promise that the United States were, in fact, going to try and spread democracy by force to all of the Middle East, snatching up its real or imagined WMDs and drain its oil resources in the process. And I knew about President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and was disgusted by his views on the Holocaust and heartened by the student protests around his adminstration, but was not yet aware of just what a dangerous despot he is.
This was, of course, before this year’s highly controversial presidential election, which Ahmadinejad “won” by a suspiciously high margain over rival candidate Mir-Hossein Mousavi, an Independent reformist. At the time, what seemed more present in our minds in the states was what Twitter was doing to help cover and contextualize the civic protests and how quickly mainstream broadcast news was going to incorporate the still-emergent micro-blogging site’s Tweets into their 24-hour cycle, regardless of how accurate they were.
As a result, I was a little jaded by the “Twitter users coverage of the Iran election is going to change news reporting” angle many seemed to be taking and instead wanted to know more about how the election was fraudulent, why certain people (specifically journalists, protesters, students, and politicians) were being arrested, what the stakes were, who was doing a good job covering this news story, and, most importantly, what circumstances led to the current iteration of Iran. Remembering that local branches of Barnes & Noble were donating proceeds to the Paramount upon purchase last weekend, shilling out my money to the big box chain for the sake of preserving a historical movie theater seemed as a good an opportunity to buy the book that may provide answers.
And, I’ll be honest. Reading the book left me with more questions than anything else (a similar feeling came over me when reading Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns, two books whose timelines stretch past the 70s-90s, but contain a considerable overlap in terms of time with Persepolis, focusing on what was going on with ordinary people in Afghanistan, another contentious Middle Eastern country that borders Iran). It was hard not to check some ugly American tendencies I have toward Islamic traditions — particularly toward its views on marriage, sexuality, gender politics, and dress. At the same time, I was incredulous of how pro-West rhetoric and ideology, alongside our smuggled trinkets of popular culture, could possibly reform a nation, or at least save a person.
Luckily, Satrapi is skeptical of both and, like me and other feminists from all over the world, has a lot to negotiate. She grapples with these issues head-on. She argues with teachers against the physical restrictions and societal double standards that come with the hijab and the burka (sidenote: I know that Faegheh Shirazi, who teaches Middle Eastern Studies at UT and rejects traditional Islamic dress, has written and taught courses on gender and clothing in the Middle East, but any other suggestions for further reading are welcome). She watches her female peers grow up to only want marriage and children, in large part because these are the only things their nation’s leaders believe define their worth. Particularly poignant for this co-habitator, she regrets getting married to a man named Reza because they could not legally live together (or even walk the street) without proof of marriage, dissolving the marriage and leaving for France.
Satrapi is a smart rebel who reads constantly, thinks clearly, and never backs down from an argument. She yells at authority figures who bully her or deny that there are any political prisoners in Iran after learning about the loss of her grandfather, who was son and prime minister to the ousted king (a tie that Satrapi suggests is not uncommon).
Luckily for Satrapi, she gets through all of this with the love and support of her politically aware and resistant parents, their friends, and one rad paternal grandma. Not so luckily, she also knows and meets lots of folks who suffered for speaking up, speaking out, or just living in the wrong house during an aerial bombing. Something tells me that many Iranians could recount similar tales of horror.
Satrapi also learns that the ways of the West are not always ideal, either. While a pre-pubescent in Iran, she hangs Iron Maiden posters on her wall her parents smuggle from a vacation in Turkey when the government lifted border restrictions. She defiantly walks around her neighborhood, blaring Kim Wilde’s “Kids in America” from her Walkman while sporting a Michael Jackson pin. But noting that their daughter’s rebelliousness is hardly a phase and that escalating conflict with Iraq could mean the imprisonment or death of their mouthy teen, her parents send her to live with a friend of her mother’s in Vienna.
Satrapi finishes high school, barely scraping by as she finds odd jobs, dates dumb boys, takes a lot of drugs, and runs into authority figures who want her to tow the line and behave. She also falls in with a group of radical misfits who dabble with nihilism, Marxism, hair dye, and punk. While Satrapi initially finds a home with these punks and new wave kids, she soon discovers their privilege has made them cowardly, pretentious, self-righteous, entitled, and lazy. Her outsider status also makes her cool, her Austrian peers clearly jealous by what she has seen and experienced without really processing the weight of it between drags off their joints and skims through their copies of the Marx-Engels Reader in their well-appointed bedrooms. It’s small wonder that, when Satrapi finally returns home to Iran after she finishes high school homeless and afflicted with bronchitis, she washes off a punk stencil from her bedroom wall. And while she’s sad that her mother gave away her cassette tapes, she probably wasn’t going to listen to them anyway. She would’ve kept the Kim Wilde tape, however.
So, ultimately, I do feel this revisit of Persepolis helped clarify my feelings about the state of Iran. It also left me with several questions and a need to know more. Ultimately, though, it left me with the sense of universality that exists between people, especially tough, smart women and girls, while at the same time recognizing the particularities that inform their realities. And continues to inform them. Back in June, Satrapi spoke out against the election results with filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalba. Something tells me that her grandmother, who passed away shortly after Satrapi moved to France at the close of the book, would be proud.