Lovers Lie

I love waking you up just before I disappear into the freezing black of a winter’s morning, when I’m dressed in something flattering, professional, and uncomfortable, and you’re still naked, nestled between the sheets and our electric blanket like a flower petal pressed between two pages in a book.

I love waking you up, the light from the living room slipping in behind me through the bedroom door like a shy child, erratically illuminating pieces of the scene: your tangled mop of brown hair, your muscled arms, the rumpled sheets from where I fell asleep without you the night before; and I know I must look like a shadow as I creep towards you, my sock-clad feet rustling over the cheap brown carpet.

I love waking you up, especially when I know you only came to bed two or three hours ago, when I can tell you’re in a deep sleep by your heavy breathing, by the stillness of your limbs, and by the way you don’t roll over when I sit next to you on the creaky mattress, and I reach up to touch your forehead or your ear or your shoulder to try and bring you shuddering back to consciousness.

I love waking you up because you look at me through those tired blue eyes, realize who and what I am, and you smile and reach for me and say, “Good morning,” and I let you pull me down onto your bare chest while pretending, for the moment, that I have decided not to brave the cold and the boredom that lies ahead and instead stay at home in bed with you.

I love waking you up because when you hold me there, with the sheets bunching up between our bodies, and you tell me that you love me, and you tell me that you don’t want me to go, and you tell me that you miss me, I can whisper all the things I want to say to you when you’re awake, all those intimate confessions, all those things I’m too shy to admit to feeling for fear of your rejection I can say them then because I know that you never remember what I say to you when you’re in this half-conscious state as I wake you up to say goodbye. I can be honest and I can believe you because I know you’re too tired to lie to me then, too tired to invent what you think I want to hear.

I love waking you up. I love saying goodbye and I love closing the door behind me and hearing you turn back over to sleep and I love knowing for certain that while you might not remember me going, I remember you saying you’d miss me and I know you actually meant it for once.

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A Radical Notion: Feminism and the Figure of the Fembot (Part 1 of 7)

I. The Fembot: An Introduction

Photo of a Fembot
Photo by AI WILL DO via Flickr and Creative Commons

“Feminism is the radical notion that women are people”, explains theorists Cheris Kramarae and Paula Treichler (Mulvaney). Kramarae and Treichler are two of many theorists interested in the figure of femininity in common cultural practices. The field of feminist theory and critique has existed for decades and shows no signs of disappearing. With the rise of the information era, modes of representation have become more numerous and easily accessible. When people can present themselves to the world at large as something other than their physical self, questions begin to rise about what that physical self truly represented in the first place and how individuals communicated and shared this representation with others.

Judith Butler was the first to theorize that “gender is not a performance that a prior subject elects to do, but gender is performative in the sense that it constitutes as an effect the very subject it appears to express” (Butler 24). Butler goes on to cite performances of Butch/Femme and drag as ways in which gender performance is subverted. According to her, these are ways in which people may finally see the edges of the mask of gendered sexuality. These initial theories, published in 1991, have become even more complex with the modern-day figure of the online avatar, a techno-body that is consciously created by a user to their specifications. These avatars communicate the users’ desires of perception, that is, how they want to be perceived by other users on the Internet. In a way, these avatars-as-gender-performances are also drag, in the sense that other users recognize that the avatars they see around them are constructed, completely synthesized and completely unnatural. In cyberspace, all the World Wide Web is a stage, and everyone is performing.

The techno-body, while it may or may not relate to the actual body of the user, is always a gendered body. Whether it is obviously male, obviously female, or pointedly obscure, the bodies in cyberspace still conform to societal expectations of gender. This does not mean, however, that the culturally specific gender stereotypes must be read in the same way. Before the notion of cyberspace came into being, science fiction writers were already playing with the idea of a consciously gendered body, most often in the literary trope of the “fembot”. The fembot character has appeared countless times, in both written fiction and other media forms. She most typically presents as the robotic creation of a man who, for one reason or the other, longs to create the ‘perfect’ woman. The primary function of these fembots is, at least at first, to perform sexual acts for their creators. Yet, by the end of the story, they usually become something much more than their makers originally intended – either too intelligent for the creator to control or too jealous of the life the creator and other human beings lead.

The Fembot closely mirrors a more mainstream archetype, that of the Femme Fatale. Although the two are separated by the great gulf of ‘genre’ and time, their individual conventions inform and influence one another to the point at which they begin to provide meaning for each other in a larger sociological context.

Not human, yet still presenting a gendered human personality, the fembot occupies a liminal space in science fiction. Although read most frequently through the lens of feminist critique, they are much more than a mere platform for the discussion of gender politics. They are, after all, machines, and are often presented as becoming at least semi-conscious by the story’s end. This archetype offers theorists and critics a unique opportunity. When read not just from a strictly feminist point of view, but additionally in context with theories about machine intelligence and debates over technology, the fembot allows us to access a new angle of feminist theory: the woman as machine.

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Works Cited

Butler, Judith. Inside/Out: Lesbian Theories, Gay Theories. Ed. Dianes Fuss. New York: Routledge, 1991.

Mulvaney, Becky M. “Gender Differences in Communication: An Intercultural Experience.” Feminism and Women’s Studies: Welcome. Feminism and Women’s Studies, 05 Nov. 2005. Web. 06 Dec. 2010. <;.

If you enjoyed this section, you might like to read the rest of this paper:

I Write Because

“I write because there are some things I’m afraid to say out loud” was the quote in my senior yearbook, a string of words nestled beneath a picture of a girl who seems familiar and alien all at the same time, like a face remembered from a dream. I write because of who I am, because I am the youngest child in my family, because I was always the quiet one, because that was never who I was. I write because real life has no justice, no mercy, no philosophical basis of right or wrong, just indifference. I write because it makes me believe in God. I write because I want to believe in God. I write because I’m too shy to speak in public and because I adore the sound of silence, of the stillness of empty spaces which are filled with thoughts and memories and bare walls.

I write because I am not instinctual. I write because I need time to think, to order my thoughts on a page like a squad of reformed juvenile delinquents, all one drink away from going back to the clink. I write because I need to become a better person. I write because it makes me a better person. I write because I love the simplicity and complexity of words. I write because I want someone to fall in love with me. I write because I am in love. I write because, if I don’t, I worry he’ll fall out of love with me. I write because I am afraid of death. I write because I want to matter. I write because I don’t want to forget. I write because others have forgotten and I know how easy it would be for them to forget me.

I write because I love the feel of pen against paper, my fingers against keys, and because those seven years of piano lessons were a shameful waste. I write because we have always written, because these squiggles are a writhing tether back to a past we have no other way to visit. I write because I want to travel in time. I write because the sun comes up every day, and if he can do it, so can I, I can get up in the dark and create something to light the way. I write because, every day, I learn something new about the universe. I write because I need to hold on to the awe-inspiring ordinary events of the everyday. I write because I like reading my writing. I write because I like the thought of you reading. I write because you read it.

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