Starshine Roshell – Page 3 – Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA

The Optimism of Anita Hill

Published on February 12, 2020

Law Professor Reflects on Her Past, Our Present, and Being a Symbol of Sexual Harassment

Before there was a Weinstein trial, before there was a Kavanaugh hearing, and before there were fed-up females shouting #MeToo in chilling harmony from rooftops ’round the nation, there was Anita Hill. Stoic, young, and starkly alone, she sat in an unforgettable teal dress before a pride of powerful white men and revealed the sordid details of her boss’s sexual harassment.

It was 1991, and her story might not have gotten any attention at all — except that this particular boss was about to succeed Thurgood Marshall on the United States Supreme Court.

Hill, an honors graduate of Yale Law School and the youngest of 13 children born to Oklahoma farmers, testified that during the years she worked for Clarence Thomas — including, ironically, at the government agency responsible for adjudicating sexual harassment claims — he had repeatedly asked her out, described his anatomy and sexual prowess, made reference to pubic hair on his soda can, and talked about porn depicting bestiality, group sex, and rape scenes.

Is Porn the New Sex Ed?

Published on January 27, 2020

The Conversations You Need to Have With Your Kids. Right Now.

Arizona and Washington are debating this month whether to provide sex education in schools. Colorado’s deciding if parents can opt their kids out of the curriculum. And North Carolina parents are protesting their high schoolers’ sex ed, saying it “encourages promiscuity” and “destroys childhood innocence.”

What none of them seem to realize is this: Sex education is happening. It’s happening. The only question is whether you want it to be accurate, or you’re comfortable with your kids getting their titillating tutelage from Alexis Texas and Kendra Lust on pervclips.com.

Period Parties

Published on January 14, 2020

Parents painting town red for daughters’ first menstrual moment

Biologically speaking, it’s never good news to discover blood exiting one’s body — and few girls would argue that getting their first period was a serendipitous splash o’ sunshine. In fact, reactions tend to range from embarrassed to freaked out to horrified.

But some moms are attempting to give the un-fun female phenomenon, um, a rosy glow by throwing their daughters “period parties.” Chronicled everywhere from the Washington Post to Parents magazine recently, the celebrations include crimson-hued treats like red velvet cake and occasionally, according to the BBC, a pin-the-tampon-on-the-vagina game. Comedian Bert Kreischer insists that his daughter’s Los Angeles friends all named their menstrual cycles at period parties; his progeny named hers “Jason” since it arrived on Friday the 13th.

I asked my friends if they’d ever thrown or attended such a fête. You know, like a bat mitzvah or quinceañera … but bodily fluid specific.

‘Divorce Coach’ in Your Corner?

Published on December 31, 2019

Pro Guides Aim to Pave Rough Road to Splitsville

If you’ve seen the new Golden Globe–nominated movie Marriage Story on Netflix, then you likely came away from it knowing three things for certain:

(1) The movie, starring Adam Driver and Scarlett Johansson, should have been called Divorce Story. (2) Divorce can be brutal, even for couples who aim to do it amicably. (3) Lawyers make everything worse.

Of course, the film offers just one perspective. Not all uncoupling couples will find their well-intentioned plans of a congenial split dragged down into the mud by ruthless attorneys happy to see them skewering one another’s characters in court.

But amid all the existential upheaval that comes from a marriage cracking apart, it does seem like handing over one’s precarious financial and emotional fates to a professional who benefits personally from litigation is an even worse idea than … well, than marrying that douche in the first place.

Ford v Ferrari v Female

Published on November 25, 2019

The Dude Porn of Gleaming Roadsters and White Men Behaving Badly

It’s the final lap of the grueling 24 Hours of Le Mans endurance race. The drizzling day has eked into night and back again as the remaining drivers — those who haven’t burst into flames or crumpled into smoldering metal knots — close in on the last of their 3,000+ miles of looping track. Behind the wheel of a Ford GT40, the apex of American automotive ingenuity up to that exact moment, our hero impels the machine past any reasonable expectations, her 7.0-liter V8 howling. But he’s bleary-eyed. The brakes are shot. And a cockamamie order from corporate has frayed his focus. As he guns the final straightaway, set to break his own speed record, only one thought roars through my head:

Ford v Ferrari is everything that’s wrong with men, packed into two very loud hours and 32 minutes.

No one asked my opinion of this movie. But since I was dragged to see it on a rare date night, and because (much to my husband’s relief) the Downton Abbey movie had already left theaters, I’m going to afflict you with a review just the same.

Best Husband So Far, Hands-Down

Published on October 29, 2019

An Ode to Mr. Roshell on Our 25th Anniversary

Before you, I never paid much attention to a boy’s hands. They just weren’t on my radar the way those other, more typical physical fixations were.

And yet, I noticed your manos right away. Soft, smooth skin stretched taut over long, elegant fingers. Just like a magician’s hands: nimble, busy, mesmerizing.

An artist, musician, and tinkerer, your hooks always seemed to be reaching for something to create, to play, to build. As both an extension of your industrious character and the pliant means of scratching your ardent itch to improve the world around you, your hands were ever grasping for a problem to solve, a brokenness to fix.

And just like a magician’s, they turned everything you touched into something better. Something beautiful. Something bewitching.

Surviving the Sierras

Published on October 15, 2019

Dragged Backpacking with Outdoorsy Old Men

The trees disappear above 11,000 feet. The bugs stop buzzing, birds stop chirping, and the day hikers — those normal folks out for a nice stroll, jean-clad and accompanied by a toddler or dog — vanish. All I hear is the wind blowing, stirring the rough gravel that replaces dirt at that elevation. That, and the deafening sound of the voice in my head: Why, Stone? Just … why?

This was my experience backpacking through the Sierras with my relentlessly outdoorsy grandpa, my dad, and their friends. They’ve been backpacking annually for four decades, but this was my first time venturing into the wilderness with only my sleeping bag, tent, and however much trail mix I could stuff in my pockets.

This backpacking brigade certainly had a few characters. First: my grandpa. A stark traditionalist and the second coming of John Muir, he loves the outdoors almost as much as he loves eating wheat bran for breakfast and talking stocks. Next: my father. He had just dyed his hair purple for one of his band’s rock shows and looked like he was climbing up the mountain to sell someone crack. Then there was Bill. A 75-year-old backpacking cyborg, Bill would only stop to eat a cashew or two before returning to his blistering pace.

Alex Morgan and Megan Rapinoe’s Goals Beyond the Goal

Published on October 10, 2019

Women’s World Cup Champions Are Using Clout to Spotlight Inequality

One is a self-proclaimed “walking protest” with fuchsia hair who sparked petulant tweets from the president. The other is a vocal vegan who riled up the Brits with her celebratory tea-time pantomime during a July game against England. Together, Megan Rapinoe and Alex Morgan led the U.S. women’s national soccer team to its second consecutive World Cup win this summer — and are hoping to rack up yet another victory in their next skirmish: a battle for equal pay.

The California natives and the team they co-captain have enjoyed much public glory as a result of their FIFA wins. In 2015, they were the first women’s sports team to be honored with a ticker tape parade in New York City, which they followed by visiting Barack Obama in the White House. Morgan was voted U.S. Soccer Female Player of the Year for 2018, and Rapinoe was named FIFA Women’s Player of the Year for 2019. Just last month, both were featured in Fortune magazine’s Most Powerful Women in Business issue.

Yet despite the honor and hefty profit they’ve brought to the United States Soccer Federation (USSF), they argue that the men’s team is compensated at much higher rates despite never having won a World Cup. Now, with the eyes of the world — and especially those of idolizing young girls — on them, they’re using their considerable clout to bring attention to that absurd discrepancy.

‘Unpregnant’: Born of Political Rage

Published on September 17, 2019

Talking with Authors of New Abortion Road-Trip Comedy Novel

It was 2011, and writer Jenni Hendriks was in her car, creeping through Los Angeles traffic, when a news story on NPR enraged her. South Dakota was imposing a 72-hour waiting period for any residents seeking an abortion — and that was in a state, mind you, where there was only one clinic providing the service in the first place.

“I just thought, these women are already driving hundreds of miles to get access to this! I was super pissed off,” said Hendriks. She called her writing partner Ted Caplan and blurted, “I know what we’re writing next! It’s a road trip — a road trip with your best friend.”

And so they did. This month, HarperTeen publishes their book Unpregnant, the fresh, funny adventure tale of Missouri high school valedictorian Veronica, who is Ivy League bound when she finds herself disastrously pregnant. Horrified that her life (and perfect image) will be derailed, she opts to secretly travel 994 miles to the closest place she can get a legal abortion without parental consent: at a clinic in Albuquerque, New Mexico. To do so, she needs the help of Bailey, the school’s turquoise-haired, combat-boot-clad freak — who happens to be Veronica’s ex-best friend. Along their way, odd couple Veronica and Bailey pinball hilariously from pawn shops to strip dives, facing down cows, ferrets, and Planned Parenthood protesters.

My Crisis of Comedy

Published on September 3, 2019

In unfunny era, comedian talks me off the Ledge of No Laughter

All I ever really wanted to do was to make people laugh: Strangers in the PTA meeting at my son’s new school. Colleagues in a supposed-to-be-serious work meeting. The poor lady doing my mammogram. I especially love it when readers tell me they snorted so abruptly at the local café while reading this column that latte foam spewed from their nose. Propriety be damned, I sincerely believe it’s always the right time for humor.

Except … maybe … right now?

Lately, in the face of political, social, and environmental crises, my life’s goal feels sort of futile. And worse than futile, it feels indulgent. Who wants to giggle and guffaw when every day’s news is more sobering than the last and the Amazon is burning, you guys? What could possibly be the value in wisecracking and wit slinging when we could be (should be!) phoning our senators, marching in the streets, shoveling money to sane candidates, maintaining a consistent “self-care” wine buzz and educating the shizz out of the next generation so they don’t wind up screwed and humorless like us?

I spoke recently with comedian Katie Goodman, who brings her Broad Comedy show to the Planned Parenthood Central Coast Action Fund’s Politics, Sex & Cocktails fundraiser on Saturday. Katie’s troupe of five feminist funnygals travels the country performing benefits for orgs like PP and the ACLU. They dress up in breast costumes while singing “Boobs Look Funny When You’re Having Sex,” don Russian accents for a bit called “Pee Tape Prostitutes,” and take Republican lawmakers to task with the country ballad “Get Out of My Vagina.”

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