Happy International Women's Day
I recently finished watching Game of Thrones, the hit medieval fantasy show from HBO. One of the overwhelming things that I felt while watching the show was how awful existence was for women in the days of kings and castles, the days of rape and pillage.
Then I got up today and Facebook told me that it’s International Women’s Day. All day long Facebook told me that, as those I friend and follow shared and re-shared memes and shouted out the women that are important to them.
I have an irritatingly curious nature. I’m forever trying to figure life out, and I’m prone to fall into hours long rabbit holes reading about stuff.
Today I found out that International Women’s Day was first celebrated in 1909. It was started by socialists and labor unions in New York City. It got a spattering of support in pockets around the world over the decades and was formally recognized by the United Nations in 1975. Thank you Wikipedia, and the 26 other articles and sources I found on a 90 minute google rampage.
The thing is, I don’t remember ever hearing about International Women’s Day, until recent years when it popped up on Facebook. We didn’t learn about it in public school in the 80’s and 90’s. Not in rural Illinois.
I didn’t learn a lot of things in school, or in rural Illinois, but I left at 19, and outside of frequent trips to Chicago, I’ve barely been back. My education continued from rural public school to lots of other places in the most informal and non-classroom ways, and I’m not about to mansplain things I’m still trying to learn more about all the time, but it doesn’t take much digging or living to see that women are still fighting for equality for reasons that grow more important by the day.
I’ve never been good at caring about holidays. But this one, a day celebrating women, and bringing awareness to their significance and to their struggles. That’s a day worth celebrating.
And all this reading, and trying to figure out who it was that decided March 8th was the day we were going to celebrate women, got me to thinking about how almost all of my success as a writer is owed to two strong, beautiful, and wildly creative women.
Iris Berry, the editor of Punk Hostage Press out in Hollywood, CA. Iris Berry, the powerhouse poet, publisher, actor, punk band lead singer, and all around kick ass artist published my first novel, $100-A-Week Motel. She found me reading poetry on zoom, and then we discovered that we were both born on September 20th, and that holds great significance. You’d have to be a September 20 baby to understand. And somehow in a great stroke of fortune, Iris and Punk Hostage Press published my novel, and they’ve both been an incredible guardian and champion of my work.
Michele McDannold, the editor of Gutter Snob Books, the mother of www.magical jeep.com and dozens of wayward writers that span the continent. She also serves as editor of Roadside Press. Michele McDannold, my favorite living poet, the powerhouse organizer of dozens of readings and small press literature and art festivals. Michele has probably published more underground writers than anyone else in modern times, and she once asked me to be a Saturday night featured reader at a big weekend small press festival, before I’d ever even had a chapbook of poetry published. Michele and Gutter Snob Books published my second book Finding Jesus & Prayers To My Saints, a novella/poetry hybrid. Michele has cared for and believed in my work more than I often have myself.
So on this International Women’s Day, when my lifetime of education grew a little more and I finally learned more about the history of the occasion, I celebrate Iris and Michele. Two fierce women writers and publishers that took a chance on my writing, and because of them, more people call me a writer all the time. I owe them both debts of gratitude that grows as they continue to mentor me and my work.
Happy International Women’s Day. A day started by socialists and unions and I claim membership in both. This is one holiday I hope grows in celebration and awareness every year.