Ashley Judd, Misogyny, and Me

Ashley Judd and I have a lot in common. She’s only a few years my senior, and she grew up about 80 miles north of my own Eastern Kentucky hometown.  We were both sorority girls in Lexington and are fanatic about the University of Kentucky’s basketball team.  Our paths overlap in that “we almost know each other” way that connects many Kentuckians: her great-aunt and uncle lived next door to my own great-aunt and uncle in a suburban Lexington neighborhood for decades, I know plenty of people who knew her in her UK Kappa days, her hometown is quite near my beau’s, etc.  I pride myself on being a Kentuckian, and Ashley Judd is one of the Commonwealth’s most famous daughters.  Needless to say, I’ve followed Ashley Judd’s career quite closely over the years.

When Ashley’s manifesto about women’s bodies and misogyny appeared on the Daily Beast Monday, I took notice.It was hard not to notice, to tell you the truth.My twitter stream and Facebook feed were filled with female friends applauding Ms. Judd. People forwarded me the link to the article again and again. As nearly everyone knows by now, Ashley Judd appeared on a Canadian talk show in March and her appearance was dissected by a number of entertainment media sources which cited her “puffy” appearance.Earlier this week, Ms. Judd took to the Daily Beast website to discuss the societal implications of the criticism she’d endured.  Now, I read the article with trepidation, for I’ve often found her writing and socio-political stances to be a bit grating. And, I have to say, I was exceptionally torn, both by the message she presented and by my own response. 

As I read the article, I found myself cheering Ms. Judd’s defense of herself and her looks.  It was a subject that hit painfully close to home.  A day earlier, at Easter dinner, I’d found myself cringing as some relatives clumsily and tactlessly “complimented” my recent weight loss.  I didn’t want to explain that I am coming off an emotionally difficult year, which had been capped off by a month-long bout with bronchitis and a week’s worth of debilitating stomach pain.  I didn’t want to acknowledge the tacit implication that I'd needed to lose some of the weight, nor did I want to deal with my grandmother’s admonition that I didn’t need to lose any more.  I tried to graciously shrug off those statements in the spirit of family and holiday, but they hurt my feelings.  As I read Ashley’s defense of her recent steroid treatment for a sinus infection, I empathized deeply.  Not only had I just felt the need to defend myself against weird back-handed compliments, I had also recently dealt with the “Wow, you look like shit” comments when receiving a similar drug regimen.  I didn’t need the added stress of external criticism, and I could certainly understand the points Ashley raised in her own defense.

Now, I thought that Ashley's Daily Beast article was a little formal and academic for the pages of a political tabloid.  The use of “inter alia” is perhaps not fitted to The Daily Beast’s readership,  but I’m guilty of the same writing crimes.  When I feel defensive, or when I feel I’ve been challenged, I also tend to become verbose.  I sometimes cringe when I look back at some of my earlier published work; I was immediately reminded of this fact as I read Ashley’s article.  This is a woman who has been hurt by her critics in a very personal attack, I thought. She is smart and accomplished, and she wants to fire back with the tools at hand.  In her case, it’s a brand-new MPA from the Harvard K-School.  As always, Ashley Judd presented herself as a hyper-reality version of me.  It would make for a neat little story about the sisterhood and solidarity of Kentucky women if I ended this essay here, except for one small problem: I was one of the people who called Ashley “puffy.”

On March 17, as most of y’all know, the UK basketball team played a tough, tight game against Iowa State in the second round of the NCAA Tournament.  In a weekend fraught with upsets, the outcome seemed fairly dubious for a moment.  Nobody wanted to look away from the game for second.  And yet, there it was – a break in play coverage to interview our Most Famous Fan.  The truth is, I didn’t care what Ashley had to say about being in the Yum! Center, or about the team’s style of play.  I just wanted to watch the game.  As I recall, a crucial foul was not shown (y’all refresh my memory – it may have even been a technical?) because we were cutting to an interview with Ashley Judd.  In my frustration and anxiety about both the game itself and the manner in which it was being broadcast, I rashly posted an ugly, petty statement to my social media accounts:  “Nobody cares, Puffy Ashley.”  The following Monday, Ms. Judd would go on to the Canadian talk show appearance which sparked the controversy over her appearance.

Now, sports fans say a lot of ugly things in the moment.  The blessing and the curse of the Facebook Timeline format is that it easily allows you to go back and review your words. Around the time that I criticized Ms. Judd’s appearance, I also criticized sportscaster Bobby Knight for being a notorious blowhard with a vendetta against Kentucky; I’m sure that the General’s famous gin blossom worked its way into the conversation at some point.  It usually does. I similarly criticized Iowa State’s star player, Royce White, who was previously thrown off Minnesota’s team for an incident of theft and assault. As I review these statements, I’m not altogether convinced that I criticized Ms. Judd because I am guilty of covert misogyny, or that I was tacitly buying into the patriarchy (the aspersions that her article casts upon women who criticize other women’s looks).  I do know, however, that I am guilty of committing ad hominem attacks against Ms. Judd, Coach Knight, and Mr. White.  In the case of Ms. Judd and Coach Knight, they are celebrities whose attitudes and public statements often annoy me.  In the case of Mr. White, I was simply scared of his dominant style of play. 

When I said “Shut up, Puffy Ashley,” what I meant to say was “I don’t always enjoy your work as an entertainer and a celebrity.  I often find you grating and preachy.  I find you to be a bit of a know-it-all.”  I have long taken issue with Ms. Judd for the fact that her political stance on the Eastern Kentucky coal industry fails to account for the economic structure of our shared homeland.  I have often disdained her status as our basketball team’s Premier Fan, because it often seems she is only there when the cameras can focus on her the most*.  What I meant to say was, “You are a beautiful woman who is clearly having a rough day. Perhaps the camera shouldn’t rest upon you for so long.  Besides, there are tens of thousands of other blue-clad fans who’d gladly give an interview.” But I didn’t.  Instead, I went for a personal attack, which any first-year student of philosophy, politics, or law can point out as a cheap and lazy rhetorical device.  My own words were reprehensible, and I thank Ms. Judd for pointing this out to me.**

After the Iowa State game, UK’s star forward Terrence Jones tweeted an odd little anecdote.  It seems that Ashley Judd had been clowning around in the Locker Room with the team after the game.  Somehow, she made it out of the gym and halfway down I-65 with Terrence’s iPhone.  It seemed an odd little aside after a hard-won game, but a small contingent of the internet portrayed this in an ugly light.  I saw more than a few wink-and-nod tweets that asked why an older, beautiful, white woman had taken off with a young, handsome, athletic black man’s cell phone.  The implications were far-fetched and seamy.  And completely baseless.  To me, this portion of Ashleygate was the real story of objectification and misogyny.  It was barely removed from the Victorian implication that actresses were whores.  I thought of these ridiculous stories as I read Ashley’s article, and I was forced to compare them to my own gut reactions.  My immediate counterargument to the Daily Beast piece was that Ms. Judd has chosen a career as a Professional Pretty Person.  She once appeared on that wildly popular UK Hockey poster wearing nothing but a jersey. Wasn’t she inherently buying into the patriarchy through her very own life choices, essentially objectifying herself? Or was I, in effect, blaming the victim?

We live in a culture which commoditizes celebrity. We pick our favorites as though we were picking ice cream flavors.  We consider ourselves perfectly justified in critiquing the looks and lifestyle choices of people whom we’ll never meet.  We find it perfectly acceptable to criticize celebrities whose weight falls outside proscribed norms.  And, we expect them to take it.  While Ms. Judd’s defense of herself is far from perfect – it’s a little too patronizing and rhetoric-heavy for my tastes – it is a commendable step in starting a real dialogue about the issue of objectification.

I don’t find myself as moved by Ms. Judd’s missive as many of my fellow Kentucky women.  It wasn’t the “go-girl” manifesto that many of my friends experienced.  And yet, it made me think.  It made me think about how women discuss other women.  It made me think about how men discuss women.  And it will hopefully move us all to choose our description of others’ looks a little more carefully.  And for that, I am quite grateful.

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*I’m blatantly rooting for that cute little Josh Hopkins to take up the mantle of Most Famous Fan, but that’s another story for another day…

** I told you I get verbose when I’m defensive. Touché, Ashley.

Unscientific Horse Betting

April 6th was opening day of the 2012 Keeneland Spring Meet. I ventured out on opening day with some friends to celebrate my birthday. We sat in a box for probably the first and only time as I won it as a silent auction item for a local charity. Keeneland boxes are at the bottom of the grandstand (mezzanine level) and aren't available for purchase. They've each got a plaque on them with the name of the box owner. Lots of horsemen and old blood in Kentucky. Many of them sit empty during the races: if the owner doesn't have a horse running, they might not be in town.

Anyway, it was beautiful.

During my time in Kentucky, I've come to realize that not everyone knows about horses, and not everyone is an expert in making bets at the track. Some of those who study the racing forms judiciously end up leaving with empty pockets, while others with dumb luck (like myself) leave with enough money to pay for valet and the bourbon consumed while betting. That's what I call winning!

Here is my completely unscientific betting strategy.

Rule 1: If the name resonates with you, bet on it.  This name had "mac" one of my favorite foods, combined with "mayo," a condiment that I abhor. Alas, it was a loser.

Rule 2: If you lose your first bet of the day, you need to make 2 bets on the next race to recover your money. I chose these because they weren't favorites, but they weren't longshots. Guessed correctly on both! (Error in the photo, the Don't Tell Sophia bet yielded $9.20 since it was a $4 bet)

Rule 3: Forget the "strategy" you used to win in the previous race and pick a name you like.  This was a long shot, so I picked him to show. He ended up winning. No complaints from me!

Rule 4: Actually remember the name "Noble's Promise" from a bumper sticker you see in your neighborhood every day. It says "I believe in Kentucky-bred Noble's Promise." Remember it was a Derby horse last year. Bet on it. Make money. Next, pick a name you like. This is probably no coincidence that the name I like is related to food. See Rule 1: Mac & Mayo.

Tell me: How do you choose your bets?

Kentucky Places: Keeneland

1949 crowd scene, via Keeneland.

When the HerKentucky team put together our list of Favorite Things earlier this year, it was no surprise that most of us mentioned Keeneland.  It's pretty much a universal thing -- everyone who's spent any time in Lexington loves Keeneland.

One of my very favorite things about going to Keeneland is that the track is always catching my fancy in new and unexpected ways.  Sometimes, I'm overcome by the majesty of the horses and the thrill of the races.  Other times, I'm struck by the beauty of the grounds, completely amazed that I'm standing less than a mile away from the clutter of the airport and the sprawl of Man O' War Boulevard.  Some days, the track is so filled with friends, classmates and acquaintances that I barely have time to place a bet amidst all the catching up.  Most often, however, I find myself getting lost in romantic notions of the track's 75 year history. 

1950 Paddock scene, via Keeneland.

Now, I love hearing about the glory days of horse racing.  I simply can't get enough of those movies like Seabiscuit and Secretariat, or any of those racehorse biographies, or any other stories of the history of the sport.  I love the idea that racing was once  a national phenomenon, and I am fascinated by the idea that thoroughbred racehorses were once celebrated as celebrity athletes.  Every time I walk the paddock at Keeneland, I envision a time long past, when everyone took horses as seriously as we do in Lexington.

via Keeneland.

  What's your favorite part of a trip to the track?

{You can read more thoughts on Keeneland from the HerKentucky team here. My article in the latest issue of Ace Weekly magazine provides an overview of the Keeneland experience for first-timers.}

Staycation

We didn’t go anywhere for Spring Break. In fact, it feels like I’ve been in Kentucky for the past five years. Something about having a baby is not conducive to vacationing. Go figure.

I love Kentucky. Don’t get me wrong but any place can start to feel like a cage after too long.

In a desperate attempt at a getaway, we left Thursday afternoon for Kentucky Lake for a long Easter weekend away with family. I’ve written about my love of the Lake before but this trip was a little different. I don’t think I’ve ever spent substantial time on the Lake this early in the year. And while it’s been warm, it hasn’t been warm enough to enjoy the traditional water-based activities.

So, on Friday, my grandmother and I took Griffin the Golden Pond Planetarium at Land Between the Lakes. My little boy has been particularly fascinated with the sun, moon, and stars of late so I started searching for an outlet a couple of weeks back. I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t even know Land Between the Lakes had a planetarium.

I was surprised to see the extensive schedule and we ended up seeing a show in the afternoon about the IBEX. It was a little advanced for a two-year-old but he still loved it and we got the schedule for summer night observations in the observatory.

We had a wonderful afternoon and the planetarium wasn’t the only surprise. As we drove the length of LBL (thanks Foss Maritime!), I couldn’t believe how much it had to offer. From elk and bison to hiking trails galore, I saw an entire summer of adventure stretching in front of us.

I know it wasn’t an escape to a tropical isle. But just when I thought I couldn’t drive the same street one more time, it was nice to reminded there were roads left untraveled so close to home.  

~ Sarah Stewart Holland 

Race Recap

Today, a few days out from the Run the Bluegrass half marathon, I can truthfully say that I only have positive memories of the race. At the time, I thought I’d never forget the searing pain in my hamstrings or the growing animosity I felt toward the hilliness of the Bluegrass. In the moment, the race was physically and mentally difficult. In retrospect, it was nothing but inspiring.

At the starting line, I saw a woman with a t-shirt that read, “I’m a Stage 4 cancer survivor. I run for those who can’t.” I got choked up at that. It put things into perspective.

Somewhere around the 3 mile mark, I got to read the cape of a woman in front of me. Hers was another inspiring story. It read:

WONDER WOMAN. Heart attack survivor – 1/2/12.

I picked up the pace and carried on a little conversation with her, telling her that I was so impressed. She said that her heart attack wasn’t going to slow her down. Shortly after she got out of the hospital, she was on the treadmill and ready to go. She was wearing a heart rate monitor and was determined to finish. I wish I’d checked out her bib number so I could see how she did.

I know these weren’t the only two stories of normal, ordinary people overcoming adversity. Maybe they were extreme instances, but every runner out there had overcome something to give it their best that morning. I’d overcome a fear of being considered too out of shape to ever run.

After the race, a lot of people – friends and family – told me they were proud of me because they could never imagine running a half marathon. My advice to them was to find something equally as scary, to set their mind to it, and accomplish it. My half marathon doesn’t have to be your half marathon. Maybe your half marathon is swimming a certain number of laps in the pool. Maybe it is walking to the end of the driveway. Maybe it’s approaching your boss to negotiate a better work situation or salary for yourself.

It’s all about the challenge and the preparation to accomplish the goal. The medal at the end is just a sweet reward.

Kentucky Fan At Keeneland

It's almost that time again! Keeneland opening weekend is coming up and with the recent BIG UK WIN, why not get decked out in your UK Blue for the races?

1. Tibi Lace Dress, 2. Forever 21 Dress, 3. Milly Dress, 4. Milly Dress

What are you thinking of wearing to Keeneland?

Writing the Rivalry

Over the past week, a lot of ink has been spilled about tonight's UK-U of L game.  With two Kentucky teams in the Final Four, the national sports media has subjected us to many trite musings about "legacies" and "dynasties."  We've heard ridiculous tales of old men erupting into fisticuffs.  We've heard stories of houses divided.  We've been taken to rural towns and urban areas.  We've been introduced to hillbilly fans and soon-to-be-millionaire players.  And yet, none of these stories -- and I'm pretty sure I've read them all -- has captured what it actually feels like to be a basketball fan in Kentucky during the most intense rivalry week of all time.

All week, I've known that I had to write something about tonight's game.  With each passing day, it's seemed harder and harder.  With each cliched story about the Calipari - Pitino rivalry or the mania across the Commonwealth, I've felt that I had less to say.  But, I am a writer in Kentucky.  I write a sports column for a Lexington magazine.  I write for two blogs about Kentucky life.  And I am a passionate University of Kentucky basketball fan.  I have to say something, right?

As I sit in front of the computer screen with a few minutes left before tipoff, I don't know how to convey a Kentuckian's love of basketball.  How do I explain taking First Grade P.E. classes in the same gym where King Kelly Coleman -- the greatest high school basketball player in Kentucky history -- once played?  How do I explain that a family friend -- one of my town's most prominent citizens -- is remembered not for his civic accomplishments or his well-respected, successful children but for the fact that he played a season for Coach Rupp?  How do I set to paper the many times this winter when my brother and I were terrified to ask our father  (a retired coach) about his cancer recovery, opting instead to joke with him about ridiculous plays and matchups? (Little Brother believes a 2-3 zone conquers all...) 

A few weeks ago, my father and I were walking through the Pikeville Wal-Mart when a little old lady stopped us.  She was riding in one of those store-provided motorized wheelchairs.  Daddy and I were both wearing UK blue which, she said, told her that we were Good People.  She then asked me to get another of the motored chairs and drive it across the Wal-Mart to her husband.  At that moment, it hit me.  Our blue shirts signified a tribe, a bigger whole to which we all belong.

Over the past several days, I've heard the UK-U of L feud portrayed as existing along racial and socio-economic lines.  I've heard that it is a rural versus urban matchup.  To me, it's much simpler -- it's the team into which we are born, the tribe to which we choose to belong.  It's as simple as being born in an Eastern Kentucky county rather than one close to the big city.  It's where your parents attended school, or the team they chose to support.  It's the subtle nuances of which Louisville neighborhood you live in.

I suppose, in the end, there's no way to explain it if someone hasn't lived it.