Our recent reading, Queer and Catholic, was kind of a strange event for me to attend. I mean, Catholicism isn’t something I have much familiarity with beyond a pop culture understanding of ritual and what I have often viewed as somewhat antiquated edicts. Yet Christianity, of which Catholicism is large bearing branch of the Christian tree, a metaphor I learned in confirmation, is something with which I am all too familiar.
So, perhaps like many of you, I found myself glued to the coverage of the conventions the past few weeks. The political science feminist in me couldn’t help but watch the pandering train wreck that is Political Convention. In the midst of all the flag waving from both sides, it’s easy to forget that American Presidential Politics is not, and yes I’ll say it and some of you will perhaps gasp as the blasphemy, the perfect revolving center of my feminist universe. Most days, I don’t believe that being American is the most important part of my political identity. As a feminist activist, whether I believe I have personal agency or not (a Foucault discussion for another blog), I have to pay attention to the stories all around me about marginalized experience and resist the urge to center myself and my perspective in the process.
