Taking an idea from a friend's recently composed blog (Thank you, Patti), and a serious attempt to get back to writing the second chapter of my dissertation, naturally I decided to write a blog that captures my 2012. It was a year of ups and downs, but it was a year worth having a record of. Without further adieu: stuff that happened in 2012 that is worth mentioning:
January: After a grueling month of comprehensive exams in December, I took the month of January off. It was an amazing break. Molls and I also celebrated our one year anniversary with friends on News Years Eve. My advisor asked me to TA/co-teach a Feminism and Intersectionalty senior capstone course. This experience was amazing, especially the narrative performances at the end of the quarter. It helped me remember why performance is such a compelling thing.
February: I continued to take a break, but also began writing my dissertation proposal. It was something I began during my comprehensive exams, but required much more work. I was scheduled to perform in the Vagina Monologues, but an unfortunate incident prevented it. It was in this month, Feb. 10, when I was attending a burlesque show at Eden, that I received a call telling me that Molls had broken her neck. A dumb man, at a concert, crowd-surfed on her head and fractured a vertebrae in her cervical spine. I took off about a month and half to help with her recovery. In this time we returned to the hospital three times, went through countless doctor appts., and began her rehabilitation. I also learned that I passed my exams with distinction. I recieved a reward for Top Paper in Performance at the Western States Communication Association Conference, but was unable to procure it myself, and instead my friend, Cassidy retrieved it for me.
March: Molls's recovery was top priority. I worked on an ongoing project with my friend, Cassidy, for her dissertation. We worked with high-school-aged youth at at-risk high schools to teach them about privilege and oppression (there was so much irony in this.) The best part was that the students taught me more about my privilege by sharing their experiences, and we had a lot of good, open conversations with them about very hard things. At the end of the month, another friend of mine, Krishna, and I presented a workshop on femme identity at the Queer Youth Summit. It was well-attended, and a great experience. I also began teaching my favorite class at DU: Popular Culture and Communication. This class changed my orientation to teaching forever, and made me realize that it was indeed my "calling."
April was an excellent and busy month: I trained to become a Colorado Anti-Violence Program trainer. It was an intense and revelatory experience. I turned in my dissertation proposal, and then I passed my defense, making me ABD (All But Dissertation.) This didn't change a whole lot, except that it meant I was qualified to begin work on my dissertation. I also received the Rocky Mountain Communication GTA of the Year Award (a split victory with another GTA from CU Boulder.) I also received the Master of (Gr)Advocacy Graduate Teaching award from the DU Center of Multicultural Excellence's GLBT Gala.
May: I presented at the University of Denver Diversity Summit. I spoke about queer identities and the power of performance in educational settings. I also celebrated my niece's graduation from preschool into kindergarten. Lastly, I met the family I would nanny for the entire summer and into the school year. I also received word that I earned a Fourth-year Doctoral Fellowship to write my dissertation and that I would be teaching at Regis University in the fall.
June: Molls went back to work full time. It was a joy that she could go back to work, when for so long we didn't know what was going to happen. I celebrated my best friend, Dan's, graduation from PhD school. It was PRIDE weekend at some point, and that was fun. I began nannying for the best family ever. I found out the mother of the mother, of the family I nanny for, is a gay. This made the rest of my summer immensely easier, as I felt like I could work with children and not have to hide my partner. I also began research for a professor's book project on Blasphemy in the Muslim World. This was more hell than joy -- A means to a financial end.
July: July brought about Brandi Carlile at Redrocks (someplace I hadn't been since high school.) And I began to say goodbye to my best friend, Dan, who was leaving for a job in New Jersey. CAVP had their annual pancake breakfast where I was a volunteer. I also learned that I might have a job adjuncting at Metro for the fall.
August: For me, the commitment-phobe of life: Molls and I were officially Domestically Partnered in August. It was mainly so I could get health insurance, since I was leaving my employment at DU. But our friends, Rachel and Greta threw us the best impromptu celebration, complete with ice cream, glitter, and the Holy L Word. It was performance street art. Even though it may not have been radical, it was definitly subversive. Then I went to the Femme Conference in Baltimore, MD with Greta. We had a great time together, and the conference was an educational experience. I left feeling warmth, confusion, and generally good about continuing my dissertation project. After Baltimore, I flew straight to Dayton, OH to spend time with Molls's family. We spent time jetski-ing on the lake and going to the fair. I went to my first tractor-pull: it was so so loud! I was not expecting that! Molly was finally fully cleared to return to work and her case with worker's compensation concluded.
September: In September, it was hunker-down dissertation time. I began my interviews, 15 total. I thought I would have trouble getting 10, but eventually I got to a place where I had to turn people away. Interviewing took up most of my time.
October: October brought the Presidential Debate to DU. First of all, I was a runner for MSNBC because I really wanted to meet Rachel Maddow, but she didn't come to Denver: BOO! I did meet Cecile Richards from Planned Parenthood, and a couple of senators. It was a neat experience and I think if the whole PhD thing doesn't work out, I have a job opportunity running for television. More importantly, I was given the opportunity to be an usher at the actual Debate event, which meant I got to be on the floor for the Debate. It was a crazy experience. I was up from 4-midnight; I even had to board my dog. Seeing the Obamas in person was a magical experience. I wish the Prez would have been more on his A-game that evening, but it was a really neat experience, shared with great people. October also brought the leaving of Greta for Nebraska. We threw her one hell of a going away party, but admittedly, I was devastated to see her go. We cried and sung Glee songs on the way to drive her to her new car--something I will never forget.
November: Election time! I went door to door asking people to vote to re-elect Obama. Apparently it worked because he got a second term in office. Then I went to NCA in Orlando, which wasmy best experience at an NCA, yet. I had my first mini-job interview and I think for my first one it went pretty well. The best part: hanging out with my boys! Rich and Dan for most of the time, and Aaron, B, and Michael, too. I went to some great panels, and did a good research presentation of my own. I also got to speak about my advisor/mentor at a division business meeting, where she was elected as president for 2014. I was proud of what I did in Orlando and that I was able to relax and have a good time.
December: I turned in the introduction and first chapter of my dissertation. It was a really great feeling to just make movement on this gigantic project. With the help of my advisor I have been making steady progress. My birthday was earlier this month, and I was spoiled rotten. I received many gifts and I got to celebrate with friends, with family, and then with Molls at Root Down. Christmas has just passed and it feels so different than in years past, but still nice and relaxing for the most part. I am happy to spend time in the mountains with my family, and get in some much needed writing time.
I continue to apply for jobs and seek full-time/adjunct employment. The family I nanny for just had to give me up because the mother switched her schedule. While I am sad to leave the family, I am glad for the dissertating time. I will continue to write with my writing partner, Rob, with hopes we will be graduating in the Spring. I am thankful for my friends, family, and my partner. I am also thankful for my voice and ability to speak out and write for what is right and just, and continue to care deeply for people, for issues, for non-violence, and anti-violence, all while making time for yoga, running, and self-care (which includes A LOT of television watching!) I am thankful for my ability and continue sustaining this massive undertaking. My dissertation defense is April 26, so with that, I gotta get back to writing it! Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Call for Papers Queer Perspectives in Anzaldúa: Post/Borderlands
Call for Papers Queer Perspectives in Anzaldúa: Post/Borderlands:The writings and life of Gloria Evangelina Anzaldúa (1942-2004) havehad an immense impact in a variety of disciplines. Her oft-cited textBorderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987) is included in many university courses’ reading lists for its contributions to discoursesof hybridity, linguistics, intersectionality and women of colorfeminism, among others. Unfortunately, most scholars content themselves with the intricacies of Borderlands to the neglect of her corpus of work, which includes essays, books, edited volumes, children’s literature and fiction/autohistorias. This anthology wishes to expand our understandings of Anzaldúa’s work by engaging with her pre and post-Borderlands/La Frontera writings in an attempt to highlight the unrecognized contributions Anzaldúa offers. We invite submissions with the following, by all means notexhaustive, possible points of departure in Anzaldúa’s work:-Social construction of gender, sex, sexuality-Performativity-Power relations-Heteronormativity, Compulsory heterosexuality-Changing identities, resisting change-Spirituality, interconnectivity-Going beyond dualistic thinking-Trans-identities as nepantlera existence-Disidentification-Disability, illness-Openness-Queer epistemology. One page abstracts are due July 1, 2012 with submissions between 20-25pages (including all citations-Chicago style) requested by October 15,2012. Please send all correspondence to Elisa.Facio@colorado.edu AND betsydahms@gmail.com.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Overly Emotional
Lately I have been feeling overly emotional; almost crying at every twist or turn.
Today, I told my student, just start writing. Write your story, whatever it might be.
She told me, "I have no story worth telling."
I told her, "Everyone has a story."
I asked her how she would respond to Patricia Hill Collins's text, Black Feminist Thought, the reading for that day, just off the top of her head.
She confided in me, "I want to be an ally, but it is really hard." She is a white student, a repeater of mine, and we have always had a good connection. She is smart, she knows what is going on in terms of her privilege, she reminds me of me.
I validated her; affirmed that it is hard to be an ally. I also explained that it is her responsibility to confront the reasons why it is hard for her, to write about that. Mostly, I just told her to write. And I think I told her that because I too, need to start writing.
I almost started crying while my professor was lecturing today. This was for a few reasons, mainly, that it brought me back to my re-education. I remember being an undergraduate learning feminist theory; luckily, I went to a school where the feminist theory I learned was mostly women of color feminism/material feminism, feminist theory that matters, at least to me. And it changed me. I remember reading Alice Walker's, In Search of our Mother's Gardens, which I recently reread for my comprehensive exams, and all I could think about was how deeply impacted I was and continue to be by those women's words. I think that it is through these words that I learned more about myself, and my privilege, than I ever could have from white people writing about privilege (although, I think this is important as well.) I think it was so important because what I learned, was that their feminism was not meant for me, but at the same time, it was exactly meant for me.
Professor Kildegaard taught me about standpoint theory, which has been problematized as essentialist, exclusionary, and a slew of other things. While I can see these critiques, I will say that learning this lesson, that those from the margins see the dominant much better than those in the center see the margins, changed my life. I realized that much off the time I am on the inside, although my queerness, femmeness, lower-classness, complicates this. But although these multiple identities complicate my privilege, they do not erase the fact that I navigate the world as a white person, and that as a white person, I perpetuate many of the injustices I critique, although, I hope to work in solidarity with those around me. But my allyness does not dismiss the pain I have caused. This I know.
I have been working with high school kids, teaching them a "Disrupting Privilege" curriculum. You know what is hard? Teaching a bunch of students, who are students of color, immigrants, refugees, single mothers, lower-class that they still have privileges. And these students have been countlessly hurt by people who occupy similar positionalities as me. They have no reason to trust me. None. Except listen to their stories of being privileged and marginalized, of being pulled over by the police for being perceived as a bad kid, but which could definitely be attributed to the fact that this perception is due to her racial identity, as a black woman. I heard from a Latino boy that his family used to not be able to cook their traditional food without going to a special grocery store, but now Walmart and Target sell it. They read this as progress. They force me to confront my identities all of the time, to reign them in, attempt to facilitate conversations with and not at them.
I remember, as an undergrad, Dr. Conrad told me to never stop using my voice; that my voice was important. That was one of the first times I had ever felt that way. I remember reading Malcolm X and running back to my room. In tears, I wrote. I wrote that my privilege was ultimately connected to someone else's oppression, to violence, and to pain. I wrote that our histories were connected, and that they were connected because my whiteness is acceptable, whereas blackness and brownness, have not been, in normative society. I wrote, by hand, I scrawled. When went to work for an Environmental Organization that summer, they asked me, "What is the biggest issue facing our society." After listening to people drone on about capitalism, and alienation (which, are significant and very real problems) I said, "Racism." I was made to feel silly, slight head nods, and a "Yes, racism is one issue for sure," from the leader. I was in Boulder, so of course, I was made to feel silly. But my feeling was then, and is now, that racism, as complicated by other intersectional identities, is the biggest problem facing our society. I would change that now, maybe to say that white privilege is the biggest issue facing our society, as it really isn't about hate, but about normalization of whiteness, and perpetuation of whiteness as an ideology. Yes, I would change it to that.
My professor told me that she would be offended if I didn't ask her to be my advisor. I asked her immediately. She told me that she was invested in my work. I still sometimes question why? She had a student, an undergrad recently, who she said, reminded her of me, in a good way. She asked me to TA with her on a feminism and intersectionality class. She is a Chicana, queer, feminist. I do not know why she is invested in me, why she would want me to teach with her, work on a piece together. It is an honor. She is one of the only professors of color I have ever had. But I remember writing in my first class with her, reading performance work (the first day of class), reminded me of the work feminists of color have already been doing forever. I do not know women of color feminism better, or embodied in the same way as women of color, but my respect for it resonates in my body, in ways white feminism never has. I think that impressed her. One time, after confronting a weird situation in class, and leaving in tears, she followed me out, hugged me, and told me that what I said was important. That class was terrible, but it did confirm the notion that there is potential and possibility in the relationally we experience with those who are different than us. This does not erase our complicated pasts, and identities. We cannot ignore or deny those things. But we can work through them. We do work through them, when we are invested in making the world a little better.
I told my student to write her story about the challenges of being an ally; about what prevents her from committing to being an ally. This isn't to recenter whiteness, but to push her to a place where she has to reflexively engage with herself. I told her to start writing. Just start writing, see what comes out.
So, I came home, and this is what I needed to write because sometimes what we tell others, is really what we need ourselves.
Monday, January 2, 2012
I still believe that I am a writer, after this somewhat miserable break, after somewhat miserable comprehensive/qualifying exams.
The worst part: after you are done, you kind of forget what it looks like to live life among the normal. It's like that move about the war in either Afghanistan or Iraq (I didn't watch the film, except the end-so I don't really remember the details)and at the end after all of the horrible things have happened that this man, this soldier caused, he cannot even pick out cereal. He just walks to the cereal isle and stands there because he cannot do anything. It's as though all the things that normal people just do, without even thinking, escape him. And he just stands there, not even really looking, just lost, just waiting.
I still feel like I am not finished because really, in the end, I am not finished (This whole dissertation thing is just beginning); but, my body still isn't sure about whether or not I will be starting another question in a couple of days. Although we have discussed it, chatted about trying to reintegrate back into my life, my body has a hard time respecting that. Taking one books back to the library helped a little, playing copies amounts of virtual Scrabble, and real-life virtual video games, An entire eight season Office marathon, sexy time, dates with ma' boo and with friend, movies, all of it...my body is still unsure of what to do.
Yesterday, I broke down because I was so tired and I just needed to lay in bed, not doing anything, not even watching T.V. I just had to be done. I wanted to go to yoga today and I could not force myself to get out of my chair. I will go, but not today. I want to do a cleanse, but not yet, not until I get some semblance of normalcy bad in my life. I know it is graduate school, I know this is what is supposed to happen. I know taking these exams doesn't make me a smarter/better person, but it does make me think in theory, and thinking in theory does not always equate to the thinking about the body. And that is the most challenging thing, what does the body do after you have trained it to sit and type for hours on end. How do you train your mind to stop thinking "that" way, that pretentious academic way. What now? The performance anxiety should be calmed, but it isn't, because my body isn't sure what to do now, so there is anxiety about that? I am not sure how to reinvigorate the relationships that are invariably changed because of my six-month hiatus from their lives. And how do I think about myself, as a femme, a queer scholar, an intersectional feminist, and anti-racist? Does completing this project change how I think of myself? How could it not?
I am excited and nervous to proceed, not just with my project, but with my life. But I am gonna keep going, keep pushing towards reclamation of queer femme-ininity, and try to reforge new pathways through old relationships. I only hope they are as forgiving of myself, as I am trying to be.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Frustrating
The sheer amount of clothing stores/companies that appropriate Indigenous culture, customs, and values. While everything is a sort of cultural appropriation of something else, and nothing is really original, I think we can do better. Forever 21 and Urban Outfitters seem to be most guilty of this. This is almost worse (if ranking what is better or worse in this situation was useful) than turning Indigenous folks into mascots or costumes, because this is becoming engrained into the cultural imagination as o.k. Of course mascots and costumes are entwined in the perpetuation of stereotypes as normative and appropriate, but everyday-wares? It is not a tribute or honoring, it is identity/culture tourism and not everyone has the same freedom and mobility to move about these cultural identities and locations, as some more privileged folks do. Everything has embedded ideologies and messages, and we have to be self-reflexive shoppers. What does it mean to buy a knock-off of someone’s religious and spiritual garb and wear it to the bar. Seems disrespectful and tasteless to me; But hey, who am I?
TUMBLR
Make sure to check out my new TUMBLR: http://femmeinfinity.tumblr.com/
It is some of my originals, but a lot of reflags with comments. I will continue to post here, post my qualifying exams/dissertation proposal in a couple of days. Until then, see the very short things I am doing on my TUMBLR.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Policing femininity
I am getting really sick of all the "gate-keepery-ness" surrounding femme and femininity and even queer for that matter. This stems from a couple of things: 1.) The sort of butch-o-phobia that CAN come with claiming a femme identity, and 2.) People saying that femme is sort of ridiculous circa 2011. These are not compartmentalized, but are woven together, to sort of allow me fodder of frustration. This is also a rant. A RANT! An unorganized rant!
As I once wrote (Not that I am a mystical genius, just someone who cares about the interconnection of academic and public activist projects.):
If we are to express a desire for queer politics, should there be gate-keepers, who maintain a boundary of the queer canon, whilst others, should not have access to either identifying or being a part of the larger queer political movement? In doing this, who do we metaphorically put up a, “NO (insert marginalized groups) Allowed” sign for? And more importantly who experiences, the materialized e/affects of not being allowed to participate when bodies are dismissed?
I am just saying, and this came from Tumblr today, that there was all this discussion around being radical, about being queer, and then someone had the audacity to ask, "What's femme about pajamas?"
Fuck that, what isn't femme about pajamas? Just like the haters who say femmes don't need there own conference, because, hey, "What would we talk about?" I'm just saying if you would post that, you probably don't identify as femme (and all of the vast expressions emanating from that space) and should maybe ask it in a way that is indeed, asking a question; not with the underlying assumption that just because you don't know what we would talk about, doesn't mean we don't got some shit to throw down!
But again, back to pajamas. My hetero friend asked me once, after writing a paper, if she could identify as a hetero-femme. At first, I was like yeah, definitely. Gender is fluid, sexuality is shifting. I took too many gender studies courses and now I am open to anything...o.k. no, but seriously, it didn't bother me. Then I kind of got annoyed, I was like NO! Femme is my thing and a thing that femme lesbians do. It is rooted in a specific historical and history/cultural context, and it's mine. All mine. So then I thought about that, because that is what I do. Think about shit. All day long. And then I type about shit. And I read two books, one that had an outro by Judith Butler that may have changed my life and the other by these two fabulous sassy femmes who talk about femme as, "A sustained gender identity...a contestatory lesbian identity, a radical feminist position, and a subversive queer model"(Harris and Crocker 1-10). Damn. I wish I had written this book. As for the JB, I do not worship the ground she walks on, but I do think she is effing smart, and despite people thinking she's a white supremacist, with no desire to talk about race, or class-I think she is the opposite. And she's a philosopher, all philosophers are dense, complex, and theoretical. But what I like about this outro essay she wrote are the questions she poses, "If sexuality always threatens to dissolve identity, then what is the final status of those categories by which we seek to understand our sexuality? Are the conceptual means by which we guard against the very sexuality that we seek to affirm? When we seek to judge what will be lesbian, and what will not, do we purport to know precisely what we cannot know? The rush to judgment forecloses the anxiety over the unknown. And yet, was it not the unknown, the not yet, and not ever fully known that drew us here, drew us together, and still, auspiciously, holds us apart?"(Butler in Munt 230). So is holding tightly to our identities, holding us apart? Of course we cannot give up our identities, that isn't even what JB would be saying, but she is asking if they hold us apart and if there are ways to be both invested in material identities and work to disrupt the gate-keeperyness around them. This is not a neo-liberal project, this is a very real concern.
So I want to push back on people who say femme IS this, or it ISN'T that because really who knows? So, should my friend be able to identify as hetero-femme, in a post-structuralist utopian society-definitly; in the here and now, I guess if she is reflexive about what that identity means to me and people in my community, I am cool with it? I am looking for allies, in a world that renders me invisible (except for virtually.) To me, it insinuates that she is questioning heterosexual norms and recognizing that gender is performative and performance, and in the end that makes me feel like she is at least trying to negotiate femininity through a heterosexual lens that isn't heterosexist. And there is something to that, to opening up political spaces, for joining together. I don't expect this looks like some happy ending of a fairytale, alliances through and across differences are a lot of friggin work. Work that is very well worth it, work that should not be bound solely in visual identity characteristics; although always aware of the way the material is bound with the ideal/symbolic; but also bound up in the idea of not giving up on each other and being willing to say I am queer, no matter who ya do, in your bedroom, in the street, or for a camera.
So in the end, basically, I am saying wear your damn pajamas and revel in femme. Because femme is not an identity bound up only with the visual, but like any other identity, it is something we process over, write about, dress up as, and do. I will never think that, "Femme is who I am." I will think, "Femme fits most comfortably for me at this moment, at this space in time, but it may change (although I hope it doesn't too drastically, because I love my bad-ass boots and skirts.)" And most of all, I don't think we need gender identity police telling me that pajamas aren't as sexy as what a femme should wear, cause' I do femme, and I am wearing long underwear and leg warmers and I feel pretty sexy.
And to just talk briefly, I am sick of seeing all of the "Down with the butch-femme dichotomy" bullshit. To me that is just a perpetuation of mostly butch and trans phobia, because I feel like often accompanying these types of propaganda, are women, who claim femme identities, and say they aren't into butches. DO NOT GET ME WRONG! I do NOT think gender and sexuality have to be bound up in the same ways for every person; desire is so complex that it cannot be the same for everyone. But why does it have to be said in such a derogatory way? Like, oh, and that woman over there who prefers short little masculine bois, must be living in some archaic notion of heterosexual fantasy, because she is doing a take on butch-femme. Excuse me, let me bow down and kiss the feet of some folks OBVIOUSLY more enlightened. As I said, desire is complicated, but promoting yourself, while marginalizing another group, who obviously faces some serious friggin dangers everyday, is kind of annoying. Femmes face violence too, I am not tying to exhaust all of the options for ways of being and experiencing the world, but lets not put down a group for the sake of another. (I am probably perpetuating what I am saying not to perpetuate right now, but I am tired and it is getting late, and ma lady is almost home after being gone for a week, so excuse the fact that my brain is, uh, elsewheres.) I will support femmes who desire femmes, as long as they don't do that at the expense of butches, transguys, and genderfuckingqueers. Because like identity, our desires shift and grow over time and with experience and exposure, so you never know who you are going to meet, love, and let's face it, sleep with.
Goddess bless.
(P.S. I am annoyed at the autocorrect, and apologize for any of its stupidity.)
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
What the hell am I doing?
So I started this thing here: http://femmeinfinity.tumblr.com/
May migrate there eventually. The layout looks to be much more dynamic.
I have been prepping to take my comprehensive exams, which is a pretty hellacious process, when in PhD school. Of course, much of the reading and prep work was done during coursework, right? Right. Right? Well, the thing is, I have been at my University for FIVE years now, so things start to run together; while this is positive, it also means I just can't remember absolutely everything I need to know. I just can't. Perfection is unrealistic; and at this point I just want to pass. I will even revise if need be.
I have been prepping for this nasty one-month pits-o-hell to culminate, and the thing is, I keep having to do two things:
1.) Remember why I am doing this
2.) That I am excited to do my project, eventually.
I have had two nervous breakdowns, where I really thought I should quit graduate school, while I am ahead. I am not going to do this, but I think, as my lovely baldressed friend has said, "There are unreal expectations for people in academia," or something of that nature. And I have to remind myself, I will never have read everything. It just isn't possible. I also have to remind myself, to quit trying to out-queers A.) Other queers; and B.) Straight folks. It is too exhausting, and I am not that good at it. I realized the other night, while thinking about queer-femme identity, that I really shouldn't even be allowed to do the research based on my current appearance and attitude. Basically, I am exhausted...when people asked me what I was dressing up as for Halloween, I said, "I am putting on clothes that are not my pajamas." And I meant it. If I don't have to, I prefer to wear my sweatpants all day long. Not very femme of me. In fact, I put on bronzer today, and thought to myself, "Maybe this will make me look undead." Like I look dead, and thought makeup was somehow going to fix that.
But femme identity is so much more than visual presentation, or, "looking like what you are." But I feel like femme is rapped up in camp, in a performance of queering femininity. So what does it mean when I really can't imagine myself even leaving my apartment for a day (or three), let alone trying to femme it up when I leave! It's like, I just can't do it: putting on eyeliner seems like both a necessity; and an incredible burden; where if I don't wear it then another femme lesbian is going to notice and pull my funding...wait...I mean, take my femme card away.
But then, that is exactly what I want my project to focus on, that femme-ininity doesn't have to be a competitive thing, femme women shouldn't buy into the same ideologies that govern heterosexual female relations. It is more complex than this, I promise. But coming from a dead person, this is pretty good so far. Maybe my idea needs some bronzer too?
May migrate there eventually. The layout looks to be much more dynamic.
I have been prepping to take my comprehensive exams, which is a pretty hellacious process, when in PhD school. Of course, much of the reading and prep work was done during coursework, right? Right. Right? Well, the thing is, I have been at my University for FIVE years now, so things start to run together; while this is positive, it also means I just can't remember absolutely everything I need to know. I just can't. Perfection is unrealistic; and at this point I just want to pass. I will even revise if need be.
I have been prepping for this nasty one-month pits-o-hell to culminate, and the thing is, I keep having to do two things:
1.) Remember why I am doing this
2.) That I am excited to do my project, eventually.
I have had two nervous breakdowns, where I really thought I should quit graduate school, while I am ahead. I am not going to do this, but I think, as my lovely baldressed friend has said, "There are unreal expectations for people in academia," or something of that nature. And I have to remind myself, I will never have read everything. It just isn't possible. I also have to remind myself, to quit trying to out-queers A.) Other queers; and B.) Straight folks. It is too exhausting, and I am not that good at it. I realized the other night, while thinking about queer-femme identity, that I really shouldn't even be allowed to do the research based on my current appearance and attitude. Basically, I am exhausted...when people asked me what I was dressing up as for Halloween, I said, "I am putting on clothes that are not my pajamas." And I meant it. If I don't have to, I prefer to wear my sweatpants all day long. Not very femme of me. In fact, I put on bronzer today, and thought to myself, "Maybe this will make me look undead." Like I look dead, and thought makeup was somehow going to fix that.
But femme identity is so much more than visual presentation, or, "looking like what you are." But I feel like femme is rapped up in camp, in a performance of queering femininity. So what does it mean when I really can't imagine myself even leaving my apartment for a day (or three), let alone trying to femme it up when I leave! It's like, I just can't do it: putting on eyeliner seems like both a necessity; and an incredible burden; where if I don't wear it then another femme lesbian is going to notice and pull my funding...wait...I mean, take my femme card away.
But then, that is exactly what I want my project to focus on, that femme-ininity doesn't have to be a competitive thing, femme women shouldn't buy into the same ideologies that govern heterosexual female relations. It is more complex than this, I promise. But coming from a dead person, this is pretty good so far. Maybe my idea needs some bronzer too?
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Kenneth Burke: Blog Two, aka: You should probably stop reading now
Burke 2: “But speech in its essence is not neutral. Far from aiming at suspended judgment, the spontaneous speech of a people is loaded with judgments. It is intensely moral — its names for objects contain the emotional overtones which give us the cues as to how we should act towards theses objects…to call a [wo]man a friend or an enemy is per se to suggest a program of action with regard to [her]/him”(177).
Since last class I have been trying to decide if I am a materialist or an idealist (or something else entirely?) To me, these two aforementioned terms are too polarizing, but because I didn’t even really know what they meant, I figured I would spend some time with them during this week’s reading. This is also in light of Foust’s asking me to think of what to do with multiple and competing perspectives, which these different lineages of philosophy have.
The reason I bring this up, in the context of this quotation, is that to name or claim a certain identification with one of these terms is not a morally neutral act; meaning, claiming a materialist identity means something beyond the saying of it. From a critical cultural and performance aspect, it makes a lot of sense to think that speech and the signs that compose speech making, would be situated in larger contexts. Judgments seem to arise from our orientations, which are facilitated and maintained through our various contexts. To Burke, it seems the greatest context is that of piety, not only religious, but the devotion to what is right and wrong. To Burke, it seems this orientation guides the majority of our speech patterns.
But it isn’t that words, signs, symbols, speech are only contextual—but they are laden with emotion and affects (or the pre-linguistic impulse.) Maybe these too are based on context as well, and apt to change. But naming something evokes certain emotional currents in and through the body, so that a name has a visceral response. I am sure that my dog does not know what a name is, or even what “her” name is. However, when I say the sign, “Indigo,” she looks up. Her ears perk up and she often comes over to me. She does not know I-N-D-I-G-O is her name, but she knows the feelings/responses she gets to certain stimuli (my words/touch etc.) Is my dog’s name moral? In some ways yes, because I was the one who renamed her, when the name “Pepper” seemed too banal, and almost platitudinous for her black and white spotted coat. While she is a dog, there is still an amount of power that I am able to wield over her. Something similar can happen for the names we give people, the names we categorize them as— brown, black, white, gay, straight, friend or enemy. We have visceral responses to names, they can evoke a myriad of thoughts and feelings, and by labeling something as different or other, we are able to separate it, orient ourselves away from it, or towards it, or left wondering what to do when orienting oneself one way works in one situation and not another.
So am I a materialist? No. Nor am I an idealist. Materialism seems too intertwined with Marxism, and idealism is too tied up with well, ideals and not enough with material realities. But material realities are only understood through the ideas that make them what they are. So what’s left? Post-structuralism, with an intervention by queer/feminist scholars of color? Seems fitting to me. As for competing ideas and having to make sense of them—I think most ideas work well in tandem with other ideas, so that we can combine materialism and idealism, and post-structuralism, and feminism to allow ourselves an even deeper understanding of something. I think this has to be the case with naming something and with language more generally. Having multiple approaches to understanding language is useful, and it isn’t as though there are completely infinite options, but enough to really dig through the depth that is language making/using. Would Burke agree? I don’t know, but he’s taking on a huge project, so I can’t imagine he would be totally closed off to the idea of multiple interpretations, orientations, and motives.
Since last class I have been trying to decide if I am a materialist or an idealist (or something else entirely?) To me, these two aforementioned terms are too polarizing, but because I didn’t even really know what they meant, I figured I would spend some time with them during this week’s reading. This is also in light of Foust’s asking me to think of what to do with multiple and competing perspectives, which these different lineages of philosophy have.
The reason I bring this up, in the context of this quotation, is that to name or claim a certain identification with one of these terms is not a morally neutral act; meaning, claiming a materialist identity means something beyond the saying of it. From a critical cultural and performance aspect, it makes a lot of sense to think that speech and the signs that compose speech making, would be situated in larger contexts. Judgments seem to arise from our orientations, which are facilitated and maintained through our various contexts. To Burke, it seems the greatest context is that of piety, not only religious, but the devotion to what is right and wrong. To Burke, it seems this orientation guides the majority of our speech patterns.
But it isn’t that words, signs, symbols, speech are only contextual—but they are laden with emotion and affects (or the pre-linguistic impulse.) Maybe these too are based on context as well, and apt to change. But naming something evokes certain emotional currents in and through the body, so that a name has a visceral response. I am sure that my dog does not know what a name is, or even what “her” name is. However, when I say the sign, “Indigo,” she looks up. Her ears perk up and she often comes over to me. She does not know I-N-D-I-G-O is her name, but she knows the feelings/responses she gets to certain stimuli (my words/touch etc.) Is my dog’s name moral? In some ways yes, because I was the one who renamed her, when the name “Pepper” seemed too banal, and almost platitudinous for her black and white spotted coat. While she is a dog, there is still an amount of power that I am able to wield over her. Something similar can happen for the names we give people, the names we categorize them as— brown, black, white, gay, straight, friend or enemy. We have visceral responses to names, they can evoke a myriad of thoughts and feelings, and by labeling something as different or other, we are able to separate it, orient ourselves away from it, or towards it, or left wondering what to do when orienting oneself one way works in one situation and not another.
So am I a materialist? No. Nor am I an idealist. Materialism seems too intertwined with Marxism, and idealism is too tied up with well, ideals and not enough with material realities. But material realities are only understood through the ideas that make them what they are. So what’s left? Post-structuralism, with an intervention by queer/feminist scholars of color? Seems fitting to me. As for competing ideas and having to make sense of them—I think most ideas work well in tandem with other ideas, so that we can combine materialism and idealism, and post-structuralism, and feminism to allow ourselves an even deeper understanding of something. I think this has to be the case with naming something and with language more generally. Having multiple approaches to understanding language is useful, and it isn’t as though there are completely infinite options, but enough to really dig through the depth that is language making/using. Would Burke agree? I don’t know, but he’s taking on a huge project, so I can’t imagine he would be totally closed off to the idea of multiple interpretations, orientations, and motives.
Kenneth Burke Blog One
Blog One: Permanence and Change, “Orientations.”
Orientation is thus a bundle of judgments as to how things were, how they are, and how they may be. The act of response, as implicated in the character, which an event has for us, shows clearly the integral relationship between our metaphysics and our conduct. For in a statement as to how the world is, we have implicit judgments not only as to how the world may become but also as to what means we should employ to make it so. 14
Immediately, upon reading this portion of the text, I was drawn to Burke’s notion of, “Orientations.” After reading Sara Ahmed’s work on, “queer phenomenology and orientations,”(145) I see both Burke and Ahmed’s explanations of orientations as connected in intimate and important ways. Our orientations situate us in the world, and if we are oriented towards one thing, we are often oriented away from something else. Ahmed explains this through the metaphor of a compass; if we are turned north, we turned way from facing south (Ahmed 145.) Not to diverge too much from the topic, but Ahmed extends this metaphor to the concept of sexuality, saying we turn towards some love/sexual partners, while simultaneously turning our back to other possibilities. She claims that it is this process that reproduces heteronormativity.
While in a different context, I think Burke is making a similar claim: We make judgments about the world; these judgments are distinct and pull us in certain directions, while pulling us away from others ways of thinking and being in the world. Thus, our orientations are interpretive responses to certain events, or patterns. Our orientations are socially mandated, although not necessarily prescriptive. We find people, thoughts, and “machines,” to identify with, often based on our previous experiences. He explains this through the “chicken” metaphor. My yoga teacher described it this evening as the circular way we move through the world. She explained that when we come to our yoga mats, we disrupt the circular momentum in which we live. I think yoga has the power to reorient us to the world in different ways every time we come to the mat, experience that moment; we may be able to reenter the circular pattern differently. We may be able to approach a negative situation more positively, confront marginalization and injustice, and actually work towards liberation.
As Burke says, “Whenever there is an unsatisfactory situation, men will naturally desire to avoid it”(9). But how do we classify an “unsatisfactory situation?” Orientations, to Burke, often seem to be grounded in a religious, specifically, Christian context and moralistic structure. Gravitating towards a moral structure/conduct that emphasizes values such as, the Ten Commandments, guides experience, expectations, and choices. An orientation towards this sort of moral structure can collapse the possibility for other worldviews to exist/coexist with it. So often we hear that we fear the unknown, so we turn away from it and cast judgment. But in many ways, even this phrase is an orientation that in its utterance allows for an orientation of divisiveness.
However, according to Burke orientations are not fixed entities, however we do often become enmeshed in them so deeply that they are naturalized. Sometimes these orientations are harmful to one and to others who do not fit the order. But we are not simply doomed. We learn from experience, we make sense of the world through what we identify with; we orient ourselves to the world and others in specific ways. Like Ahmed, I wonder how orientations, especially in terms of sexual orientations, can draw us together or separate us. How do our identifications with one individual or group suddenly define us, and if we do not identify that way we become exiled from that group. For example, if my orientation is towards someone of the opposite sex, there is an assumption that it has always been that way and will always be that way. This reasoning propels heteronormativity, because it just seems natural to be oriented towards one thing (an opposite sexed individual) and away from another (same-sexed individual.) If we thought of orientations as fluid, what possibilities could be opened to us for disrupting the status quo, involving sexuality or any other marginalized identification?
Ahmed, Sara. "Queer Feelings." The Cultural Politics of Emotion. New York:
Routledge, 2004. 144-67. Print
Orientation is thus a bundle of judgments as to how things were, how they are, and how they may be. The act of response, as implicated in the character, which an event has for us, shows clearly the integral relationship between our metaphysics and our conduct. For in a statement as to how the world is, we have implicit judgments not only as to how the world may become but also as to what means we should employ to make it so. 14
Immediately, upon reading this portion of the text, I was drawn to Burke’s notion of, “Orientations.” After reading Sara Ahmed’s work on, “queer phenomenology and orientations,”(145) I see both Burke and Ahmed’s explanations of orientations as connected in intimate and important ways. Our orientations situate us in the world, and if we are oriented towards one thing, we are often oriented away from something else. Ahmed explains this through the metaphor of a compass; if we are turned north, we turned way from facing south (Ahmed 145.) Not to diverge too much from the topic, but Ahmed extends this metaphor to the concept of sexuality, saying we turn towards some love/sexual partners, while simultaneously turning our back to other possibilities. She claims that it is this process that reproduces heteronormativity.
While in a different context, I think Burke is making a similar claim: We make judgments about the world; these judgments are distinct and pull us in certain directions, while pulling us away from others ways of thinking and being in the world. Thus, our orientations are interpretive responses to certain events, or patterns. Our orientations are socially mandated, although not necessarily prescriptive. We find people, thoughts, and “machines,” to identify with, often based on our previous experiences. He explains this through the “chicken” metaphor. My yoga teacher described it this evening as the circular way we move through the world. She explained that when we come to our yoga mats, we disrupt the circular momentum in which we live. I think yoga has the power to reorient us to the world in different ways every time we come to the mat, experience that moment; we may be able to reenter the circular pattern differently. We may be able to approach a negative situation more positively, confront marginalization and injustice, and actually work towards liberation.
As Burke says, “Whenever there is an unsatisfactory situation, men will naturally desire to avoid it”(9). But how do we classify an “unsatisfactory situation?” Orientations, to Burke, often seem to be grounded in a religious, specifically, Christian context and moralistic structure. Gravitating towards a moral structure/conduct that emphasizes values such as, the Ten Commandments, guides experience, expectations, and choices. An orientation towards this sort of moral structure can collapse the possibility for other worldviews to exist/coexist with it. So often we hear that we fear the unknown, so we turn away from it and cast judgment. But in many ways, even this phrase is an orientation that in its utterance allows for an orientation of divisiveness.
However, according to Burke orientations are not fixed entities, however we do often become enmeshed in them so deeply that they are naturalized. Sometimes these orientations are harmful to one and to others who do not fit the order. But we are not simply doomed. We learn from experience, we make sense of the world through what we identify with; we orient ourselves to the world and others in specific ways. Like Ahmed, I wonder how orientations, especially in terms of sexual orientations, can draw us together or separate us. How do our identifications with one individual or group suddenly define us, and if we do not identify that way we become exiled from that group. For example, if my orientation is towards someone of the opposite sex, there is an assumption that it has always been that way and will always be that way. This reasoning propels heteronormativity, because it just seems natural to be oriented towards one thing (an opposite sexed individual) and away from another (same-sexed individual.) If we thought of orientations as fluid, what possibilities could be opened to us for disrupting the status quo, involving sexuality or any other marginalized identification?
Ahmed, Sara. "Queer Feelings." The Cultural Politics of Emotion. New York:
Routledge, 2004. 144-67. Print
Monday, September 5, 2011
Forgiveness_Rebecca Brown
I knew this was in my subconscious somewhere. I didn't write it, nor type it up. That was the work of Rebecca Brown, who when Googled, apparently is the lovechild of Satan, or something like that; and the typing a gracious Internet Soul. This is from her work, Tough Girls. I am sharing it here because this is my first year starting back to school and not commuting from somewhere else. Here's to forgiveness, healing energy, and beautiful words to come this school year.
--
Forgiveness, Rebecca Brown
When I said I'd give my right are form you, I didn't think you'd ask me for it, but you did.
You said, Give it to me.
And I said OK.
There were lots of reasons I gave it to you.
First of all, I didn't want to be made a liar of. (I had never lied to you.) So when you reminded me that I'd said it and asked me if I really meant it, I didn't want to seem like I was copping out by saying that I'd only spoken figuratively. (It is an old saying, after all.) Also, I had the feeling you didn't think I would really do it, that you were testing me to see if I would, and I wanted you to know I would.
Also, I believed you wouldn't have asked me for it unless you really wanted it, and needed it.
But then, when you got it, you bronzed it and put it on the mantel over the fireplace in the den.
The night you took it, I dreamt of arms. I slept on the couch in the den because I was still bleeding, even through the bandages, and I knew I'd stir during the night and need to put on more bandages and we didn't want me to wake you up. So I stayed on the couch and when I slept, I dreamt of arms: red arms, blue arms, golden arms. And arms made of jade. Arms with tattoos, arms with stripes. Arms waving, sleeping, holding. Arms that rested up against my ribs.
We kept my arm in the bathtub, bleeding like a fish. When I went to bed, the water was the color of rose water, with thick red lines like strings. And when I woke up the first time to change my bandages, it was colored like salmon. Then it was carnation red, and then maroon, then burgundy, then purple, thick, and almost black by morning.
In the morning, you took it out. I watched you pat it dry with my favorite big fat terry cloth tower and wrap it in saran wrap and take it out to get it bronzed.
I learned to do things differently. To button my shirts, to screw and unscrew the toothpaste cap, to tie my shoes. We didn't think of this. Together, we were valiant, brave and stoic. Though I couldn't quite keep up with you at tennis anymore.
In a way, it was fun. Things I once took for granted became significant. Cutting a steak with a knife and fork, or buttoning my fly, untying a knot around a bag, adding milk while stirring.
After a while, I developed a scab and you let me come back to bed. But sometimes in the night, I'd shift or have a nightmare, jolt, and suddenly, I'd open up again, and bleed all over uncontrollably. The first this happened neither of us could go back to sleep. But after a while, you got used to it and you'd be back asleep in a minute. It didn't seem to bother you at all.
But I guess after a while it started bothering you, because one day when I was washing out the sheets I'd bloodied the night before, you said, You sleep too restless. I don't like it when your bleeding wakes me up. I think you're sick. I think it's sick to cut off your own arm.
I looked at you, your sweet brown eyes, innocent as a puppy. But you cut it off, I said. You did it. You didn't blink. You asked me for it, so I said OK.
Don't try to make me feel guilty, you said, your pretty brown eyes looking at me. It was your arm.
You didn't blink.
I closed my eyes.
That night I bled again. I woke up and the bed was red, all full of blood and wet. I reached over to touch you and to wake you up and tell you I was sorry, but you were not there.
I learned more. To cook and clean, to eat a quarter pounder with one fist, to balance my groceries on my knee while my hand fumbled with the front door key.
My arm got strong. My left sleeve on my shirts got tight and pinched. My right shirt sleeve was lithe and open, carefree, like a pretty girl.
But then the novelty wore off. I had to convince myself. I read about those valiant cases, one-legged heroes who run across the continent to raise money for causes, and paraplegic mothers of four, one-eyed pool sharks. I wanted these stories to inspire me, but they didn't. I didn't want to be like one of those people. I didn't want to be cheery and valiant. I didn't want to have to rise above my situation. What I wanted was my arm.
Because I missed it. I missed everything about it. I missed the long solid weight of it in my sleeve. I missed clapping and waving and putting my hand in my pocket. I miss waking up at night with it twisted behind my head, asleep and heavy and tingling.
And then I realized that I had missed these things all along, the whole time my arm had been over the mantel, but that I'd never said anything or even let myself feel anything bad because I didn't want to dwell on those feelings because I didn't want to make you feel bad and I didn't want you to think I wanted you to feel bad.
I decided to look for it. Maybe you'd sold it. You were always good with things like that.
I hit the pawnshops. I walked into them and they'd ask me could they help me and I'd say, I'm looking for an arm. And they'd stare at me, my empty sleeve pineed to my shirt, or flapping in the air. I never have liked acting like things aren't the way they are.
When I searched all the local pawnshops, I started going to ones further away. I saw a lot of the country. It was nice. And I got good at it. The more I did, the more I learned to do. The braver ones would look at me directly in the eye. They'd give me the names and addresses of outlets selling artificial limbs, or reconstructive surgeons. But I didn't want another one, I wanted mine. And then, the more I looked for it, the more I wondered if I wasn't looking more for something else besides me severed arm. I wondered was I really searching for you?
It all came clear to me. Like something hacked away from me; you'd done this to me as a test. To show me things. To show me what things meant to me, how much my arm was part of me, but how I could learn to live without it. How, if I was forced to, I could learn to get by with only part of me, with next to nothing. You'd done this to me to teach me something.
And then I thought how, if you were testing me, you must be watching me, to see if I was passing.
So I started acting out my life for you. And then I felt you watching all my actions. I whistled with bravado, jaunted, rather than walked. I had a confident swagger. I slapped friendly pawnshop keepers on their shoulders and told them jokes. I was fun, an inspiration they'd remember after I'd passed through.
I acted like I couldn't care less about my old arm. Like I liked the breezes in my sleeve.
I began to think in perfect sentences, as if you were listening to me. I thought clear sentences inside myself, in trying to convince you, that I had never had an arm I'd lost.
Soon I didn't think the word inside me any more. I didn't think about the right hand gloves buried in my bottom drawer.
I made myself not miss it. I tested myself. I sat in the den and started at the empty space above the mantel. I spent the night on the couch. I went into the bathroom and looked in the tub. I felt nothing. I went to be.
I thought my trips to pawnshops, my wanderlust, were only things I did to pass the time. I thought of nothing almost happily.
I looked at my shoulder. The tissue was smooth. I ran my fingers over it. Round and slightly puffed, pink and shiny and slick. As soft as pimento, as cool as a spoon, the tenderest flesh of my body.
My beautiful empty sleeve and I were friends, like intimates.
So everything was fine.
For a while.
Then you came back.
Then everything did.
But I was careful. It had been a long time. I had learned how to live. Why, hadn't I just forgotten what used to fill my empty sleeve entirely? I was very careful. I acted like nothing had ever been different, that you never ripped it out of me, then bronzed it, put it on the mantel, left with it. I wanted things to stay forgot.
And besides, it was so easy, so familiar having you around. It was nice.
I determined to hold on to what I'd learned. About the strength of having only one.
Maybe I should have told you then. Maybe I should have told you then. But then I told myself, if you knew to leave it alone, then good. And if you didn't know, we needed to find that out.
So we were sitting in the den. You looked at me with your big sweet pretty brown eyes and you said, you whispered it softly like a little girl, you said, Oh, I'm so sorry. You started crying softly, your lips quivering. Can you ever forgive me? You said it slow and sweet like a foreign language. I watched you, knowing you knew the way I was watching you. You leaned into my and pulled my arm around you and ran your pretty fingers down the solid muscle in my sleeve. Just hold me, darling, you said. Just hold me again.
I ran my wet palm, shaking, on your gorgeous back. Your hair smelled sweet.
I looked at your beautiful tear-lined face and tried to pretend that I had never seen you before in my life.
Why did you do it? I whispered.
You looked at me, your eyes all moist and sweet like you could melt anything in the world. You didn't answer.
What did you do with it?
You shrugged your shoulders, shook your head and smiled at me sweeter than an angel.
Say something, I whispered into your pretty hair. Say something, goddammit.
You looked up at me and your sweet brown eyes welled up with tears again. You put your head against my breast and sobbed.
You made me rock you and I did and then you cried yourself to sleep as innocent as a baby. When you were asleep I walked you to the bedroom and put you in to bed. You slept. I watched you all night. You remembered nothing in the morning.
In the morning we had coffee. You chatted to me about your adventures. You cocked your head at just the right places, the way I remembered you did. You told me you'd worked hard in the time you'd been away. You told me you had grown. You told me how much you had learned about the world, about yourself, about honor, faith and trust, etc. You looked deep into my eyes and said, I've changed. You said how good and strong and true and truly different you were. How you had learned that it is not our acts, but our intents, that make us who we are.
I watched your perfect teeth.
I felt your sweet familiar hands run up my body, over the empty sleeve that rumpled on the exposed side of me. I closed my eyes and couldn't open them. My mouth was closed. I couldn't tell you anything.
I couldn't tell you that you can't re-do a thing that's been undone. I couldn't tell you anything that you would understand. I couldn't tell you that it wasn't just the fact that you had ripped it out of me and taken it and mounted it, then left with it then lost it, how it wasn't only that, but it was more. How it was that when you asked me, I believed you and I told you yes. How, though I had tried a long time to replace what you had hacked away from me, I never could undo the action of your doing so, that I had, and only ever would have, more belief in your faulty memory, your stupid sloppy foresight, than in your claims of change. How I believed, yes, I believed with all my heart, that given time, you'd do something else again. And then I thought, but this was only half a thought, that even if you had changed, no really really changed, truly and at last, and even if you knew me better than I know myself, and even if I'm better off than I've ever been, and even if this was the only way we could have gotten to this special place where we are now, and even if there's a reason, darling, something bigger than both of us, and even if all these even if's are true, that I would never believe you again, never forget what I know of you, never forget what you've done to me, what you will do, I'll never believe the myth of forgiveness between us.
--
Forgiveness, Rebecca Brown
When I said I'd give my right are form you, I didn't think you'd ask me for it, but you did.
You said, Give it to me.
And I said OK.
There were lots of reasons I gave it to you.
First of all, I didn't want to be made a liar of. (I had never lied to you.) So when you reminded me that I'd said it and asked me if I really meant it, I didn't want to seem like I was copping out by saying that I'd only spoken figuratively. (It is an old saying, after all.) Also, I had the feeling you didn't think I would really do it, that you were testing me to see if I would, and I wanted you to know I would.
Also, I believed you wouldn't have asked me for it unless you really wanted it, and needed it.
But then, when you got it, you bronzed it and put it on the mantel over the fireplace in the den.
The night you took it, I dreamt of arms. I slept on the couch in the den because I was still bleeding, even through the bandages, and I knew I'd stir during the night and need to put on more bandages and we didn't want me to wake you up. So I stayed on the couch and when I slept, I dreamt of arms: red arms, blue arms, golden arms. And arms made of jade. Arms with tattoos, arms with stripes. Arms waving, sleeping, holding. Arms that rested up against my ribs.
We kept my arm in the bathtub, bleeding like a fish. When I went to bed, the water was the color of rose water, with thick red lines like strings. And when I woke up the first time to change my bandages, it was colored like salmon. Then it was carnation red, and then maroon, then burgundy, then purple, thick, and almost black by morning.
In the morning, you took it out. I watched you pat it dry with my favorite big fat terry cloth tower and wrap it in saran wrap and take it out to get it bronzed.
I learned to do things differently. To button my shirts, to screw and unscrew the toothpaste cap, to tie my shoes. We didn't think of this. Together, we were valiant, brave and stoic. Though I couldn't quite keep up with you at tennis anymore.
In a way, it was fun. Things I once took for granted became significant. Cutting a steak with a knife and fork, or buttoning my fly, untying a knot around a bag, adding milk while stirring.
After a while, I developed a scab and you let me come back to bed. But sometimes in the night, I'd shift or have a nightmare, jolt, and suddenly, I'd open up again, and bleed all over uncontrollably. The first this happened neither of us could go back to sleep. But after a while, you got used to it and you'd be back asleep in a minute. It didn't seem to bother you at all.
But I guess after a while it started bothering you, because one day when I was washing out the sheets I'd bloodied the night before, you said, You sleep too restless. I don't like it when your bleeding wakes me up. I think you're sick. I think it's sick to cut off your own arm.
I looked at you, your sweet brown eyes, innocent as a puppy. But you cut it off, I said. You did it. You didn't blink. You asked me for it, so I said OK.
Don't try to make me feel guilty, you said, your pretty brown eyes looking at me. It was your arm.
You didn't blink.
I closed my eyes.
That night I bled again. I woke up and the bed was red, all full of blood and wet. I reached over to touch you and to wake you up and tell you I was sorry, but you were not there.
I learned more. To cook and clean, to eat a quarter pounder with one fist, to balance my groceries on my knee while my hand fumbled with the front door key.
My arm got strong. My left sleeve on my shirts got tight and pinched. My right shirt sleeve was lithe and open, carefree, like a pretty girl.
But then the novelty wore off. I had to convince myself. I read about those valiant cases, one-legged heroes who run across the continent to raise money for causes, and paraplegic mothers of four, one-eyed pool sharks. I wanted these stories to inspire me, but they didn't. I didn't want to be like one of those people. I didn't want to be cheery and valiant. I didn't want to have to rise above my situation. What I wanted was my arm.
Because I missed it. I missed everything about it. I missed the long solid weight of it in my sleeve. I missed clapping and waving and putting my hand in my pocket. I miss waking up at night with it twisted behind my head, asleep and heavy and tingling.
And then I realized that I had missed these things all along, the whole time my arm had been over the mantel, but that I'd never said anything or even let myself feel anything bad because I didn't want to dwell on those feelings because I didn't want to make you feel bad and I didn't want you to think I wanted you to feel bad.
I decided to look for it. Maybe you'd sold it. You were always good with things like that.
I hit the pawnshops. I walked into them and they'd ask me could they help me and I'd say, I'm looking for an arm. And they'd stare at me, my empty sleeve pineed to my shirt, or flapping in the air. I never have liked acting like things aren't the way they are.
When I searched all the local pawnshops, I started going to ones further away. I saw a lot of the country. It was nice. And I got good at it. The more I did, the more I learned to do. The braver ones would look at me directly in the eye. They'd give me the names and addresses of outlets selling artificial limbs, or reconstructive surgeons. But I didn't want another one, I wanted mine. And then, the more I looked for it, the more I wondered if I wasn't looking more for something else besides me severed arm. I wondered was I really searching for you?
It all came clear to me. Like something hacked away from me; you'd done this to me as a test. To show me things. To show me what things meant to me, how much my arm was part of me, but how I could learn to live without it. How, if I was forced to, I could learn to get by with only part of me, with next to nothing. You'd done this to me to teach me something.
And then I thought how, if you were testing me, you must be watching me, to see if I was passing.
So I started acting out my life for you. And then I felt you watching all my actions. I whistled with bravado, jaunted, rather than walked. I had a confident swagger. I slapped friendly pawnshop keepers on their shoulders and told them jokes. I was fun, an inspiration they'd remember after I'd passed through.
I acted like I couldn't care less about my old arm. Like I liked the breezes in my sleeve.
I began to think in perfect sentences, as if you were listening to me. I thought clear sentences inside myself, in trying to convince you, that I had never had an arm I'd lost.
Soon I didn't think the word inside me any more. I didn't think about the right hand gloves buried in my bottom drawer.
I made myself not miss it. I tested myself. I sat in the den and started at the empty space above the mantel. I spent the night on the couch. I went into the bathroom and looked in the tub. I felt nothing. I went to be.
I thought my trips to pawnshops, my wanderlust, were only things I did to pass the time. I thought of nothing almost happily.
I looked at my shoulder. The tissue was smooth. I ran my fingers over it. Round and slightly puffed, pink and shiny and slick. As soft as pimento, as cool as a spoon, the tenderest flesh of my body.
My beautiful empty sleeve and I were friends, like intimates.
So everything was fine.
For a while.
Then you came back.
Then everything did.
But I was careful. It had been a long time. I had learned how to live. Why, hadn't I just forgotten what used to fill my empty sleeve entirely? I was very careful. I acted like nothing had ever been different, that you never ripped it out of me, then bronzed it, put it on the mantel, left with it. I wanted things to stay forgot.
And besides, it was so easy, so familiar having you around. It was nice.
I determined to hold on to what I'd learned. About the strength of having only one.
Maybe I should have told you then. Maybe I should have told you then. But then I told myself, if you knew to leave it alone, then good. And if you didn't know, we needed to find that out.
So we were sitting in the den. You looked at me with your big sweet pretty brown eyes and you said, you whispered it softly like a little girl, you said, Oh, I'm so sorry. You started crying softly, your lips quivering. Can you ever forgive me? You said it slow and sweet like a foreign language. I watched you, knowing you knew the way I was watching you. You leaned into my and pulled my arm around you and ran your pretty fingers down the solid muscle in my sleeve. Just hold me, darling, you said. Just hold me again.
I ran my wet palm, shaking, on your gorgeous back. Your hair smelled sweet.
I looked at your beautiful tear-lined face and tried to pretend that I had never seen you before in my life.
Why did you do it? I whispered.
You looked at me, your eyes all moist and sweet like you could melt anything in the world. You didn't answer.
What did you do with it?
You shrugged your shoulders, shook your head and smiled at me sweeter than an angel.
Say something, I whispered into your pretty hair. Say something, goddammit.
You looked up at me and your sweet brown eyes welled up with tears again. You put your head against my breast and sobbed.
You made me rock you and I did and then you cried yourself to sleep as innocent as a baby. When you were asleep I walked you to the bedroom and put you in to bed. You slept. I watched you all night. You remembered nothing in the morning.
In the morning we had coffee. You chatted to me about your adventures. You cocked your head at just the right places, the way I remembered you did. You told me you'd worked hard in the time you'd been away. You told me you had grown. You told me how much you had learned about the world, about yourself, about honor, faith and trust, etc. You looked deep into my eyes and said, I've changed. You said how good and strong and true and truly different you were. How you had learned that it is not our acts, but our intents, that make us who we are.
I watched your perfect teeth.
I felt your sweet familiar hands run up my body, over the empty sleeve that rumpled on the exposed side of me. I closed my eyes and couldn't open them. My mouth was closed. I couldn't tell you anything.
I couldn't tell you that you can't re-do a thing that's been undone. I couldn't tell you anything that you would understand. I couldn't tell you that it wasn't just the fact that you had ripped it out of me and taken it and mounted it, then left with it then lost it, how it wasn't only that, but it was more. How it was that when you asked me, I believed you and I told you yes. How, though I had tried a long time to replace what you had hacked away from me, I never could undo the action of your doing so, that I had, and only ever would have, more belief in your faulty memory, your stupid sloppy foresight, than in your claims of change. How I believed, yes, I believed with all my heart, that given time, you'd do something else again. And then I thought, but this was only half a thought, that even if you had changed, no really really changed, truly and at last, and even if you knew me better than I know myself, and even if I'm better off than I've ever been, and even if this was the only way we could have gotten to this special place where we are now, and even if there's a reason, darling, something bigger than both of us, and even if all these even if's are true, that I would never believe you again, never forget what I know of you, never forget what you've done to me, what you will do, I'll never believe the myth of forgiveness between us.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
femme-in-finity
I have been missing my high-femme self (reminiscing on my first performance piece, which I may repost sections of here.) I used to write with her a lot. Then we got some shitty reviews...and so I stopped writing with her. In doing that, I feel as though I have let them win, those people who think that femme gender and sexuality is not subversive, and that it is really just straightness in disguise. Well she is slowly starting to reawaken. Caveat, I am femme, but I am am also a badass and love not being only femme all of the time, but opening up what it means to be femme to include a multitude of performances of femininity. However, my high-femme self has been feeling neglected, so with a new dress, rocker heels, and lots of eyeliner, this femme is reclaiming herself.
It was my goal to have a little fierce, femme, reclamation this weekend. My lovely bald-headed femme-panion and I have been talking a lot about wanting to do queer femme things with other femmes and to celebrate that femme-ness more. So I celebrated by putting on my heels, doing the eyeliner, and teasing my hair. Yes, teasing my hair.
I went to a drag show Friday after celebrating another friend's recent coming out. I ended up being pulled up on stage to answer questions relating to queer culture (thanks to my lovely friends and their, "Pick Her!" gestures/remarks!) I got my question correct, so I won a pretty, pink, sparkly crown. So Gay!
After the show, we went to the gayest, cowboy bar in denver to dance. Not even thinking, I wore the crown into the bar. Busting my femme outfit and the crown I made my way toward the bar. While standing there, I realized a lot of folks staring me. Growing self-conscious, I took the crown off off and handed it to my femme-panion, saying, "I look like a bachelorette." I returned to my place in line and immediately a woman at the bar said, "Are you a fucking bachelorette?" I started laughing, and said, "NO, I won that crown at a drag show!" She and her friends sort of sighed, laughed and gave me high-fives, exclaiming, "Awesome!"
Epic Fail: I look straight again.
I realize that I might look straight, and might get attention from men sometimes. I am femme, which is a precarious place to be. It looks like I should want to meet a nice man and settle down, have a little family. Bleck.
But really, it is super frustrating. When I am out with my friends, it is not uncommon for everyone to get a separate check, and for them to put my and my best man-friend's bill together. It is also not uncommon for me to be at a gay bar and be asked, "Are you really gay? But, you're so pretty." I was unaware only unattractive people could be gay, and even worse, I feel that this assumption is even more pronounced for women. In essence, the assumption is, only unattractive women can/should be gay. But unattractive to whom? Attractiveness does not transcend identity and culture, mainly, I like me a more masculine LADY! Something so hot about that. But I don't want my sexuality to be questioned or for there to be any assumptions that I might go back to being straight some day, by straight folks or even the LGBTQIA's in the larger queer culture. I feel that I have met some of the most amazing straight men in the world and if I can't get it up for them, I don't think I am just gonna switch it up at any time. Plus, I am in a monogamous relationship, so even if I was attracted to men or a man, it wouldn't matter because I am happily in louvre! (This is not a dis on poly folks, in fact some of you are my closest friends, with my deepest respect, it's just not for me! Nor is this a dis to bi folks...basically it isn't a dis.) I love dirty queers of all types; in fact I love some straight people, and homonorms too. We all make choices!
While I do not think sexuality is determined or fixed, being a femme sometimes positions me to be more solidified in my sexual identity as a lesbian so that people do not try to minimize it or say that it could simply change! As if ANYTHING regarding sexuality is simple!
And these experiences are not just my own. Many of us fierce, fabulous femmes, experience invisibility, are questioned by the outside, and even from within our communities at times. I want to continue to reclaim femme identity, talk to other femmes, and discuss how femmes are perceived by other queer women in the community. I feel a dissertation coming on...
Bring on femme Brunch!
--
something I wrote awhile ago, it's old and outdated, but the feelings still linger:
I wake up in the morning and I put on my gender and sexuality identity. Everything I do in the morning while habitual is done with intent. The eyeliner I put on my top lid, lining it with careful precision, the grey ankle boots I place on my feet—they are intentional choices. This is my femme drag performance, a parody of heterosexist assumptions of femininity, camped up for the benefit of subverting the dominant naturalized connection between sex, gender, and desire. How am I going to put on my white, femme, lesbian self today?
I need my eyeliner and boots in this crazy world we live in because for a femme lesbian they are both my resistance and my protection. They are my defense against the world, against pain, against being told that because my body fits that it really doesn’t fare well with a queer agenda. They are my resistance and my empowerment. I live in a world where I need my eyeliner and my boots because they are my survival. You see they are my protectors against the heterosexist army, my armor against being called a dyke and queer (and not in that good way.) They are a contradiction, not perfect in their construction, but flawed and complex.
Like my boots, I am in a constant process of change, picking up flack for not quite fitting the mold boots are supposed to. They are my resistance because I believe that when I wear them I change notions of what lesbians are supposed to look like and the ways they are supposed to authentically perform their queer-ness. They are my resistance both to the outside world, which sees me as straight but also to my own community that deems me not queer enough to fit in with their gender and sexual politics. Not gay enough to be queer not straight enough to be heterosexual.
--
It was my goal to have a little fierce, femme, reclamation this weekend. My lovely bald-headed femme-panion and I have been talking a lot about wanting to do queer femme things with other femmes and to celebrate that femme-ness more. So I celebrated by putting on my heels, doing the eyeliner, and teasing my hair. Yes, teasing my hair.
I went to a drag show Friday after celebrating another friend's recent coming out. I ended up being pulled up on stage to answer questions relating to queer culture (thanks to my lovely friends and their, "Pick Her!" gestures/remarks!) I got my question correct, so I won a pretty, pink, sparkly crown. So Gay!
After the show, we went to the gayest, cowboy bar in denver to dance. Not even thinking, I wore the crown into the bar. Busting my femme outfit and the crown I made my way toward the bar. While standing there, I realized a lot of folks staring me. Growing self-conscious, I took the crown off off and handed it to my femme-panion, saying, "I look like a bachelorette." I returned to my place in line and immediately a woman at the bar said, "Are you a fucking bachelorette?" I started laughing, and said, "NO, I won that crown at a drag show!" She and her friends sort of sighed, laughed and gave me high-fives, exclaiming, "Awesome!"
Epic Fail: I look straight again.
I realize that I might look straight, and might get attention from men sometimes. I am femme, which is a precarious place to be. It looks like I should want to meet a nice man and settle down, have a little family. Bleck.
But really, it is super frustrating. When I am out with my friends, it is not uncommon for everyone to get a separate check, and for them to put my and my best man-friend's bill together. It is also not uncommon for me to be at a gay bar and be asked, "Are you really gay? But, you're so pretty." I was unaware only unattractive people could be gay, and even worse, I feel that this assumption is even more pronounced for women. In essence, the assumption is, only unattractive women can/should be gay. But unattractive to whom? Attractiveness does not transcend identity and culture, mainly, I like me a more masculine LADY! Something so hot about that. But I don't want my sexuality to be questioned or for there to be any assumptions that I might go back to being straight some day, by straight folks or even the LGBTQIA's in the larger queer culture. I feel that I have met some of the most amazing straight men in the world and if I can't get it up for them, I don't think I am just gonna switch it up at any time. Plus, I am in a monogamous relationship, so even if I was attracted to men or a man, it wouldn't matter because I am happily in louvre! (This is not a dis on poly folks, in fact some of you are my closest friends, with my deepest respect, it's just not for me! Nor is this a dis to bi folks...basically it isn't a dis.) I love dirty queers of all types; in fact I love some straight people, and homonorms too. We all make choices!
While I do not think sexuality is determined or fixed, being a femme sometimes positions me to be more solidified in my sexual identity as a lesbian so that people do not try to minimize it or say that it could simply change! As if ANYTHING regarding sexuality is simple!
And these experiences are not just my own. Many of us fierce, fabulous femmes, experience invisibility, are questioned by the outside, and even from within our communities at times. I want to continue to reclaim femme identity, talk to other femmes, and discuss how femmes are perceived by other queer women in the community. I feel a dissertation coming on...
Bring on femme Brunch!
--
something I wrote awhile ago, it's old and outdated, but the feelings still linger:
I wake up in the morning and I put on my gender and sexuality identity. Everything I do in the morning while habitual is done with intent. The eyeliner I put on my top lid, lining it with careful precision, the grey ankle boots I place on my feet—they are intentional choices. This is my femme drag performance, a parody of heterosexist assumptions of femininity, camped up for the benefit of subverting the dominant naturalized connection between sex, gender, and desire. How am I going to put on my white, femme, lesbian self today?
I need my eyeliner and boots in this crazy world we live in because for a femme lesbian they are both my resistance and my protection. They are my defense against the world, against pain, against being told that because my body fits that it really doesn’t fare well with a queer agenda. They are my resistance and my empowerment. I live in a world where I need my eyeliner and my boots because they are my survival. You see they are my protectors against the heterosexist army, my armor against being called a dyke and queer (and not in that good way.) They are a contradiction, not perfect in their construction, but flawed and complex.
Like my boots, I am in a constant process of change, picking up flack for not quite fitting the mold boots are supposed to. They are my resistance because I believe that when I wear them I change notions of what lesbians are supposed to look like and the ways they are supposed to authentically perform their queer-ness. They are my resistance both to the outside world, which sees me as straight but also to my own community that deems me not queer enough to fit in with their gender and sexual politics. Not gay enough to be queer not straight enough to be heterosexual.
--
Thursday, July 21, 2011
hair politics
For some, hair is not a big deal. You get it cut short if you are a boy, trim the ends if you are a girl. Keep your hair as long as possible. Doing this ensures that it can be pulled up, or blown dry in a beautiful way. This is what girls are supposed to do. When I got older and became: 1.) A feminist and 2.) A lesbian, I decided that chopping off my hair would be a statement of my rejection of feminine ideals and would symbolize also, my ability to be sexy without my hair. For people who have known me a long time, they will attest to the fact that my hair has been every length, color, (including shaved, past my shoulders, pink, and now streaked with teal. It has always just been hair to me.
Last summer I began growing my hair. I wanted it to be long enough to put into a pony tail. So I barely cut it for about a year, which is quite the feat for me. It was rather long but also very bushy and dry. I began to get the itch to want to cut it. My friend buzzed her head and I remembered that liberating feeling of not worrying about my hair. Also, in many ways, my hair, wen it was shaved was one of the times I actually felt the most sexy. However, a portion of this came from feeling the urge to wear more eyeliner/makeup, huge earrings, etc.
Something I have discovered about myself: although I am a femme, I am a very low-maintenance femme and find a lot of peace in simplicity and not needing a lot of things, wearing a lot of makeup or expensive things. Part of me feels this because grad school is exhausting and I just cannot devote that much attention to myself and my appearance.
So I decided to cut my hair. This decision was a process in itself and caused several fights among the lady and me. So much anxiety even in writing this about getting rid of something as simple, yet complex as hair. To me, hair is rhetorical. It makes an argument for a certain kind of politics, reflects values, and is ideological. Basically: Hair Matters. It is raced, classed, gendered, reflects sexuality, religion, ethnicity etc. Cutting my hair short means changing the way people might view me, especially in terms of my sexuality. Will having short hair make me more obvious in terms of being outed about being queer? Is this even a bad thing? No, but is that what I want? To me, it is more than hair. It is an identity marker. And although I have never been attached to hair very much before, this whole process makes me realize how big of a deal all of this is to me.
My hair was very thick and hot and I felt like I needed something new. So I cut it. Not pixie-ish, but basically, the Victoria Beckham bob. Then I went camping and didn't see it in a mirror for two days. Coming home, washing, and styling it...I was excited. And the reveal. Argh. First of all: the two sides do not look the same. The left is longer and less blended than the right. So it isn't perfect, but that's what happens when you pay $20 for a haircut. I don't really feel hot anymore, it feels more like Kathryn has, "cute" hair, not hot and sexy hair. However, even from just sitting here typing this, I am beginning to like it more and more. But it is different, it is imperfect, and it is still sort of painful.
Last summer I began growing my hair. I wanted it to be long enough to put into a pony tail. So I barely cut it for about a year, which is quite the feat for me. It was rather long but also very bushy and dry. I began to get the itch to want to cut it. My friend buzzed her head and I remembered that liberating feeling of not worrying about my hair. Also, in many ways, my hair, wen it was shaved was one of the times I actually felt the most sexy. However, a portion of this came from feeling the urge to wear more eyeliner/makeup, huge earrings, etc.
Something I have discovered about myself: although I am a femme, I am a very low-maintenance femme and find a lot of peace in simplicity and not needing a lot of things, wearing a lot of makeup or expensive things. Part of me feels this because grad school is exhausting and I just cannot devote that much attention to myself and my appearance.
So I decided to cut my hair. This decision was a process in itself and caused several fights among the lady and me. So much anxiety even in writing this about getting rid of something as simple, yet complex as hair. To me, hair is rhetorical. It makes an argument for a certain kind of politics, reflects values, and is ideological. Basically: Hair Matters. It is raced, classed, gendered, reflects sexuality, religion, ethnicity etc. Cutting my hair short means changing the way people might view me, especially in terms of my sexuality. Will having short hair make me more obvious in terms of being outed about being queer? Is this even a bad thing? No, but is that what I want? To me, it is more than hair. It is an identity marker. And although I have never been attached to hair very much before, this whole process makes me realize how big of a deal all of this is to me.
My hair was very thick and hot and I felt like I needed something new. So I cut it. Not pixie-ish, but basically, the Victoria Beckham bob. Then I went camping and didn't see it in a mirror for two days. Coming home, washing, and styling it...I was excited. And the reveal. Argh. First of all: the two sides do not look the same. The left is longer and less blended than the right. So it isn't perfect, but that's what happens when you pay $20 for a haircut. I don't really feel hot anymore, it feels more like Kathryn has, "cute" hair, not hot and sexy hair. However, even from just sitting here typing this, I am beginning to like it more and more. But it is different, it is imperfect, and it is still sort of painful.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
It's true, I'm bored
Alright, alright, alright. Two posts in one day? Really? REALLY? Yes, really. Ma'lady is on a business trip and I am home alone, which is fine. I don't mind being alone, it is just different than what I am used to. During the school year I am generally surrounded by people-colleagues, office-mates, students, professors and the multitude of people that pass in and out of my life (through yoga, my family, Yogurtland/Pinkberry, roommates etc.)
So when I am alone I do crazy things-like obsessively watch television. And that is where my blog post stems from...Hoarders. I know for anyone who has followed me on the FB that I have been watching this show. The first time I saw it, I almost threw up. I just couldn't imagine how anyone could live like that, especially in the homes that were just so filthy and disgusted. I became intrigued. I watched as many episodes as possible on HULU and A&E. I watched as so many opened their doors to camera crews, therapists, organizers, their families (many of the family members hadn't been in the houses for several years) and many others. The show is designed to target a hoarder and get them help for their problem. The problem being, they have too much stuff and their homes are no longer usable. What fascinated me most were the people who could no longer live in their homes and were living in motels, shelters, a tent etc. I mean how could someone's house me so full of stuff that they can no longer live inside it? I mean with so many not having homes, having one that can't be used, flabbergasted me.
Of course these are very Western and white standards of normalcy and upkeep of the home. As I continued watching, I became increasingly irritated with the psychologists and therapists who came into the homes of the "hoarders." Not that I don't think hoarding is an issue, it obviously takes a toll on people, their relationships, and their families. As people get older they cannot navigate their piles so it becomes a hazard. For small children, they were born into the hoard and their motor skills aren't strong enough to move around and they need places to play, so the hoard is a definite problem.
But, what is most fascinating, was my reaction. Ma'lady could tell you, my house became immediately organized. I became freaked out that my sometimes mess could turn into a definite hoard, which now I don't think it could have, I am really not that messy of a person. For some reason the show made an impact on me and I think some of this might come from the fact that I think I was living in a sorta hoarda in EP. My stepfather was a definite hoarder-he never threw anything away; this left my mother with a tremendous amount of stress upon his passing. But also, in my former relationship, we always had one room (or loft) that was just full of stuff. Upon retrieving my last load of stuff, I realized how bad it had really gotten. I don't know that either she or I were "hoarders" because the rest of the house was not bad, and my new house is spic-and-span pretty much all the time, but I think we had the tendencies that I am so glad to be out of.
I actually do not have a lot of attachment to things. What I would be sad if I lost: My great great grandmother's earrings, my grandma's locket, my step father's pocket watch, my books, and a couple of clothing items. Other than that, I do not have a lot of sentimentality for objects and actually really do not like knick-knacks and little things and am glad to not have a bunch of things. I rarely took physical photos, and the few I have are either neatly displayed or packed up in boxes. I just wonder how I let the room get so bad and if it was me? what I have sort of concluded is that I think for a while I did have a problem with buying too many things, a full-blown shopping addiction-no, I couldn't afford that, but I just bought too many things I didn't have space for. I have always lived in small places, but finally have a storage unit and enough closet space for all my things and it feels really nice. I don't buy things I don't need and I rarely buy any new clothes-they come from the thrift store when they come, which isn't too often.
Hoarders just made me more self-aware about my personal space and enjoying it being organized and clean. I think I had kind of been waiting for my grown-up person gene to kick in (not that I was so messy or dirty), but I think I was waiting for my desire to love cleaning and organization to set in and it just wasn't. I thought I just didn't value that in my life. What I really think, it took me some time, a different living environment, and a desire to want to enjoy where I live-and wanting that space to be a certain way. Anywho, thanks Hoarders for showing me what I do not want to be.
So when I am alone I do crazy things-like obsessively watch television. And that is where my blog post stems from...Hoarders. I know for anyone who has followed me on the FB that I have been watching this show. The first time I saw it, I almost threw up. I just couldn't imagine how anyone could live like that, especially in the homes that were just so filthy and disgusted. I became intrigued. I watched as many episodes as possible on HULU and A&E. I watched as so many opened their doors to camera crews, therapists, organizers, their families (many of the family members hadn't been in the houses for several years) and many others. The show is designed to target a hoarder and get them help for their problem. The problem being, they have too much stuff and their homes are no longer usable. What fascinated me most were the people who could no longer live in their homes and were living in motels, shelters, a tent etc. I mean how could someone's house me so full of stuff that they can no longer live inside it? I mean with so many not having homes, having one that can't be used, flabbergasted me.
Of course these are very Western and white standards of normalcy and upkeep of the home. As I continued watching, I became increasingly irritated with the psychologists and therapists who came into the homes of the "hoarders." Not that I don't think hoarding is an issue, it obviously takes a toll on people, their relationships, and their families. As people get older they cannot navigate their piles so it becomes a hazard. For small children, they were born into the hoard and their motor skills aren't strong enough to move around and they need places to play, so the hoard is a definite problem.
But, what is most fascinating, was my reaction. Ma'lady could tell you, my house became immediately organized. I became freaked out that my sometimes mess could turn into a definite hoard, which now I don't think it could have, I am really not that messy of a person. For some reason the show made an impact on me and I think some of this might come from the fact that I think I was living in a sorta hoarda in EP. My stepfather was a definite hoarder-he never threw anything away; this left my mother with a tremendous amount of stress upon his passing. But also, in my former relationship, we always had one room (or loft) that was just full of stuff. Upon retrieving my last load of stuff, I realized how bad it had really gotten. I don't know that either she or I were "hoarders" because the rest of the house was not bad, and my new house is spic-and-span pretty much all the time, but I think we had the tendencies that I am so glad to be out of.
I actually do not have a lot of attachment to things. What I would be sad if I lost: My great great grandmother's earrings, my grandma's locket, my step father's pocket watch, my books, and a couple of clothing items. Other than that, I do not have a lot of sentimentality for objects and actually really do not like knick-knacks and little things and am glad to not have a bunch of things. I rarely took physical photos, and the few I have are either neatly displayed or packed up in boxes. I just wonder how I let the room get so bad and if it was me? what I have sort of concluded is that I think for a while I did have a problem with buying too many things, a full-blown shopping addiction-no, I couldn't afford that, but I just bought too many things I didn't have space for. I have always lived in small places, but finally have a storage unit and enough closet space for all my things and it feels really nice. I don't buy things I don't need and I rarely buy any new clothes-they come from the thrift store when they come, which isn't too often.
Hoarders just made me more self-aware about my personal space and enjoying it being organized and clean. I think I had kind of been waiting for my grown-up person gene to kick in (not that I was so messy or dirty), but I think I was waiting for my desire to love cleaning and organization to set in and it just wasn't. I thought I just didn't value that in my life. What I really think, it took me some time, a different living environment, and a desire to want to enjoy where I live-and wanting that space to be a certain way. Anywho, thanks Hoarders for showing me what I do not want to be.
I found this poem
My friend from college sent me this poem a few years ago. I sought about looking for it today after realizing something about it was still lingering with me. I found it, a very easy search through my gmail does the trick pretty nicely, and have decided to post it because I a bored and have little to do right now.
you see me naked
-elyse bellamy
I told myself I would keep my distance from you
And as the noise filters in I try hard not to wake up
Our bodies making good use of this futon and an old blanket
Your indescribable hands
Tangled in my hair
The sun rises, somewhere
A smooth blue glow on the horizon
And it seeps through the window as we're falling asleep
You held an apple to my lips before I could admit that I was hungry
You left your lighter in my car before I could admit I loved you back
And it's for real now
Because I'm in some girl's living room
Bodies lining the floor from the coffee table to the door and you're
Touching my stomach and
Whispering in my ear
Situation fades to backdrop whenever you're here
Now my t-shirt is wrinkled
My eyes are red and
I left my best defenses between the sheets of that bed
I'm brushing my teeth at the sink of an unfamiliar bathroom or
Watching a stream of steam and soap spiral down the drain
My skin slippery with shampoo
Trying to pretend that I'm not waiting for you to slip in through
that door that doesn't really close and
Kiss me on the mouth while I'm standing there with
Nothing
To hide with
Nothing to hide behind
A thin layer of chapstick the only thing
Keeping me intact
I let the towel crumple at my feet and
Find my way back to where you're waiting
On the pillow
I promised myself I wouldn't write a poem about this-
Shredded paper, oil pastels, your photograph clenched in my fist
But whenever my lips graze your cheek and my fingers find themselves
tracing your jaw
The only words that ever seem to surface are those three that
I'm not supposed to I'm not supposed to I'm not supposed to be
Saying and
In the back seat
Crushing a raspberry on my tongue
You reach out and make everything taste like a shiver
Pulling me into your coat and dissolving all discomfort-
(Was I cold? Is it winter?
Come here and do your magic and it'll all come flooding back…)
In a cheap motel
Moonlight spills onto the blankets
And you're smiling at me in the darkness so I cover my face
Worried you'll stare too long and realize that I'm not what you
wanted in the first place
And I need you too much
I think I need you too much
Because I passed out listening to the songs that you gave me and
Woke up alone, curled up on my bedroom floor
Feeling homesick for your fingertips and the pockets of your jeans
Waiting for something to go so wrong that there just isn't any
solution
And I can't believe that I fought this fever for so long
Now in the parking lot,
On the sidewalk
At the bottom of the basement stairs I stand there
Wondering how long we have before someone tells me not to touch you
and
Daydreaming about the next time I can fall into your arms
I just hope you know that this is new to me
And let's not talk about worthy,
I'm still struggling to understand this flickering image of December
Let alone the fact that you seem to accept all my flaws with
Open eyes and this gentle perfection
Your palm slipping under my head just before it hits the carpet
Spilling your drink on the sleeve of my jacket
Healing me with just one look and a carefully held breath
The memory of singing for you on the other side of the room
Shaking so violently I could barely remember the words
And the way you came to me when I had finished
Raw and perfect and re-assuring in my insecurity
Turned me shy in front of your eyes
Suddenly aware that you have that kind of x-ray vision I've been
seeking
And it occurs to me that if I keep shedding my armor
I might get hurt
But at this point I'm going to risk it
And let my gaze drift to you
Because I'm sleepless and helpless and I don't know what else to do
Stumbling through midnight, somewhere in town
Holding onto each other for dear life as the rain comes down
The clock is three hours fast but
We get the idea
He beats out a rhythm from the radio on the steering wheel
Changes lanes and
Switches gears
Icy tear-drops of water slowly slide down the glass
Your seatbelt forgotten
Your head in my lap
And if I had known you would see me naked
I would've washed my hands one more time
Because it's getting so easy to feel beautiful whenever your soul
touches mine
I want to take a picture
I want to remember everything
Because tomorrow morning I'll be in a place where
Nobody understands
And your warmth hasn't left me
My thoughts are a messy collage
Of everything I'm trying so hard to keep from fading
That conversation, that dollar bill, that mistake, that massage
Swallowing sobs and this scream that threatens to escape and call
your name
The silence impacted by my passion and who-knows-how-long-it'll-be-
until-I-see-you-again
And I'm making promises
Because I want to hold it all inside
And I'm replaying all the amazing things that you said
Over the achingly insistent voice in my head
And concentrating on emotions I'm doing my best to subdue
I realize there is no distance powerful enough
To keep me
From you
you see me naked
-elyse bellamy
I told myself I would keep my distance from you
And as the noise filters in I try hard not to wake up
Our bodies making good use of this futon and an old blanket
Your indescribable hands
Tangled in my hair
The sun rises, somewhere
A smooth blue glow on the horizon
And it seeps through the window as we're falling asleep
You held an apple to my lips before I could admit that I was hungry
You left your lighter in my car before I could admit I loved you back
And it's for real now
Because I'm in some girl's living room
Bodies lining the floor from the coffee table to the door and you're
Touching my stomach and
Whispering in my ear
Situation fades to backdrop whenever you're here
Now my t-shirt is wrinkled
My eyes are red and
I left my best defenses between the sheets of that bed
I'm brushing my teeth at the sink of an unfamiliar bathroom or
Watching a stream of steam and soap spiral down the drain
My skin slippery with shampoo
Trying to pretend that I'm not waiting for you to slip in through
that door that doesn't really close and
Kiss me on the mouth while I'm standing there with
Nothing
To hide with
Nothing to hide behind
A thin layer of chapstick the only thing
Keeping me intact
I let the towel crumple at my feet and
Find my way back to where you're waiting
On the pillow
I promised myself I wouldn't write a poem about this-
Shredded paper, oil pastels, your photograph clenched in my fist
But whenever my lips graze your cheek and my fingers find themselves
tracing your jaw
The only words that ever seem to surface are those three that
I'm not supposed to I'm not supposed to I'm not supposed to be
Saying and
In the back seat
Crushing a raspberry on my tongue
You reach out and make everything taste like a shiver
Pulling me into your coat and dissolving all discomfort-
(Was I cold? Is it winter?
Come here and do your magic and it'll all come flooding back…)
In a cheap motel
Moonlight spills onto the blankets
And you're smiling at me in the darkness so I cover my face
Worried you'll stare too long and realize that I'm not what you
wanted in the first place
And I need you too much
I think I need you too much
Because I passed out listening to the songs that you gave me and
Woke up alone, curled up on my bedroom floor
Feeling homesick for your fingertips and the pockets of your jeans
Waiting for something to go so wrong that there just isn't any
solution
And I can't believe that I fought this fever for so long
Now in the parking lot,
On the sidewalk
At the bottom of the basement stairs I stand there
Wondering how long we have before someone tells me not to touch you
and
Daydreaming about the next time I can fall into your arms
I just hope you know that this is new to me
And let's not talk about worthy,
I'm still struggling to understand this flickering image of December
Let alone the fact that you seem to accept all my flaws with
Open eyes and this gentle perfection
Your palm slipping under my head just before it hits the carpet
Spilling your drink on the sleeve of my jacket
Healing me with just one look and a carefully held breath
The memory of singing for you on the other side of the room
Shaking so violently I could barely remember the words
And the way you came to me when I had finished
Raw and perfect and re-assuring in my insecurity
Turned me shy in front of your eyes
Suddenly aware that you have that kind of x-ray vision I've been
seeking
And it occurs to me that if I keep shedding my armor
I might get hurt
But at this point I'm going to risk it
And let my gaze drift to you
Because I'm sleepless and helpless and I don't know what else to do
Stumbling through midnight, somewhere in town
Holding onto each other for dear life as the rain comes down
The clock is three hours fast but
We get the idea
He beats out a rhythm from the radio on the steering wheel
Changes lanes and
Switches gears
Icy tear-drops of water slowly slide down the glass
Your seatbelt forgotten
Your head in my lap
And if I had known you would see me naked
I would've washed my hands one more time
Because it's getting so easy to feel beautiful whenever your soul
touches mine
I want to take a picture
I want to remember everything
Because tomorrow morning I'll be in a place where
Nobody understands
And your warmth hasn't left me
My thoughts are a messy collage
Of everything I'm trying so hard to keep from fading
That conversation, that dollar bill, that mistake, that massage
Swallowing sobs and this scream that threatens to escape and call
your name
The silence impacted by my passion and who-knows-how-long-it'll-be-
until-I-see-you-again
And I'm making promises
Because I want to hold it all inside
And I'm replaying all the amazing things that you said
Over the achingly insistent voice in my head
And concentrating on emotions I'm doing my best to subdue
I realize there is no distance powerful enough
To keep me
From you
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Don't Know How to Act, INstallment II: Straight, White, Male Co-Workers from my Summer Job.
So after the last, controversial, yet hilarious, installment of "You Don't Know How tO Act I," comes another rousing rendition of my not-so-witty banter against my coworkers from my office job this summer. I don't know what it is about white, straight men that they feel like they can say whatever they want to me, and about me, but I was so friggin annoyed that a couple nights ago, after chatting with my friend, we decided the second, "You don't know how to act," had to come into existence.
I have never worked a corporate, or semi-corporate job before. This summer, I saw an ad for a job fair only requiring a college degree and two classes in math, which I have to grade standardized tests. I applied, was hired, and told to come into the center to grade math tests. A few things as caveats: I hate standardized tests, especially for math, and especially because they often determine how much funding a school/school district/state will receive. I think standardized tests often limit the learning process and benefit those who learn in sort of white, middle-class, normative ways. At the same time, by fifth grade, students should probably be able to estimate how many days are in a month and do some basic math based on that estimation. Also, I am broke and was in need of a part-time job and this seemed like a decent fit. Well, educationally, sure, I was over-qualified, but I am not above working for $10 somewhere part-time, so when they said they were going to pay me $10.75, I drove to Longmont pretty willingly.
I was seated in a room with at least 30 tables of 12 people each. We all had a computer monitor in front of us and each table is trained on how to grade a specific question. It isn't hard, I felt like I could pretty much get in, work, and be done. Of course with that many people, with that many egos, it was going to be a challenge to navigate those close quarters. For the most part, I was fine, but I began to realize how sexualized my body became and how devalued my mind and voice was because I am female. The couple times I alluded to my queerness, it was sort of brushed over. What I should also say, is that my experience is not at all unique I'm sure, and the fact that I am white frames my experience in a particular way, meaning, I am privileged even as I am disadvantaged in a corporate space. And while, I felt this more pronounced in the one space, I know from what I have read/heard from women of color, their bodies feel exposed pretty consistently, something I am not as used to. Also, living in the academy, while not intrinsically safe, and has caused pain for many, that has so far not been my over-arching experience (again, I'm white and educated, and I perform middle-class pretty well) so I see how my positionality reflects my privilege. Like my FB status, I am glad to be in the academy, despite its flaws. Luckily, I had two pretty great allies at the table, or maybe I was allied to them? Either way, I appreciate their voices and back up, but this is for the a-holes that felt the need to just blab off to me, because they don't know how to act.
To the white, d-bag meathead across the way:YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO ACT: It wasn't funny when you made that racial slur about Latinos and messing with one bean and the whole burrito. While I made sure to comment on the stupidity of that joke with an appropriate "Wha, Wha, Wha," when the Latino man at the end of the table sarcastically said, "I don't know that one..." when you made the comment about things being "retarded" I realized it was a pattern, not a one-time offense. While I am not about being P.C. being aware of the power and privilege that comes with the historical and political contexts of these words isn't about Political Correctness, its about caring about the ways our language influence other people's realities. Eff you for saying that it isn't the words, but my reaction to them, that makes them problematic! As if feelings, reactions, context, etc could be separate from the word itself? Then you had the audacity to tell me that I was close-minded and not willing to hear another side of the argument. While sometimes I am all for dialoguing and hearing voices of other people, in this case, I really didn't care what you had to say because what you were saying was hurtful to people (including me!), and allowing hurt to happen is something I won't stand to listen to-it wastes my valuable time and energy. I sort of draw the line at perpetuating pain towards others. Finally, when you asked me why I wanted to change the system, "What's wrong with the system," you said, and I said, "IT"S OPPRESSIVE," and you just laughed, I realized, the potential for any sort of dialogue process was worthless. I retract my high-five and fist bump from you, because YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW TO ACT!
To my sneaky senior-reader, who I thought was nice, but was constantly sexualizing me: You Don't Know How to Act! Being female always puts the female body on display, for women from other marginalized groups even more so. All women's bodies are constantly the aim of scrutiny and measurement (I just read an article about ways to talk to little girls that value their minds instead of their appearances!) Anyway, I thought you were a nice guy, sort of nerdy and unassuming, but a couple times you made really inappropriate comments to me i.e. when I had a Banana-flavored Tootsie Pop in my mouth (I won't go there, but you get the idea) and on the last day as I was exiting the bathroom, you said: I just want you to know you have beautiful eyes. Every time I come over to talk to you, they are just so beautiful. While I get this as a compliment, it seems inappropriate coming from someone on a superior position who gets to evaluate me at the end to see if I am re-hireable for future projects. Why don't I get to evaluate you?!?! Not that you did a shitty job, but I would definitely comment on such a thing. And why is my body up for evaluation? Would you have told a male employee how good he looked, or how nice his smile is? Probably not. Of course there are a multiplicity of reasons why you wouldn't do this but it doesn't give you a right to do it to me either. Sneaky senior-reder, YOU DON"T KNOW HOW TO ACT!!
Finally: Mr. Trainer: You Don't Know How to Act! If it wasn't enough that you aren't that good at your job of training, the fact that you do it in such a masculinist way makes me want to vomit. Thanks for making the single mom at my table feel stupid when she asked a question on a specific problem she was grading(last time I checked, it was your effing job to answer questions just like these!!!) But of course you felt that you could speak with her in a patronizing tone, I mean she is obviously horrible at what she does and doesn't understand at all, even though she was the best scorer at the table and EVERYONE knew that! More importantly, she was female, so that makes her less-valuable and in need of a good chastising every once in a while! Ugh. However, Mr. Trainer, wasn't just rude to her, he also forced a guy to sit down and finish listening to the presentation when he wasn't done talking. Of course with him he used a demanding, not patronizing tone, because he's a man and can handle it. He also got an apology later, something which my table mate did not receive. Maybe you should let me boss you around for awhile, see how it feels? Or I could treat you like the ignorant a-hole you are and we'll see how long that lasts? Mr. Trainer, YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW TO ACT!
With all of this said, my job is over and I do not know if I will ever return. It is good pay, but kind of a drive and crap-tastic hours. But the people are so charming, it makes it hard to stay away, she said sarcastically.
I have never worked a corporate, or semi-corporate job before. This summer, I saw an ad for a job fair only requiring a college degree and two classes in math, which I have to grade standardized tests. I applied, was hired, and told to come into the center to grade math tests. A few things as caveats: I hate standardized tests, especially for math, and especially because they often determine how much funding a school/school district/state will receive. I think standardized tests often limit the learning process and benefit those who learn in sort of white, middle-class, normative ways. At the same time, by fifth grade, students should probably be able to estimate how many days are in a month and do some basic math based on that estimation. Also, I am broke and was in need of a part-time job and this seemed like a decent fit. Well, educationally, sure, I was over-qualified, but I am not above working for $10 somewhere part-time, so when they said they were going to pay me $10.75, I drove to Longmont pretty willingly.
I was seated in a room with at least 30 tables of 12 people each. We all had a computer monitor in front of us and each table is trained on how to grade a specific question. It isn't hard, I felt like I could pretty much get in, work, and be done. Of course with that many people, with that many egos, it was going to be a challenge to navigate those close quarters. For the most part, I was fine, but I began to realize how sexualized my body became and how devalued my mind and voice was because I am female. The couple times I alluded to my queerness, it was sort of brushed over. What I should also say, is that my experience is not at all unique I'm sure, and the fact that I am white frames my experience in a particular way, meaning, I am privileged even as I am disadvantaged in a corporate space. And while, I felt this more pronounced in the one space, I know from what I have read/heard from women of color, their bodies feel exposed pretty consistently, something I am not as used to. Also, living in the academy, while not intrinsically safe, and has caused pain for many, that has so far not been my over-arching experience (again, I'm white and educated, and I perform middle-class pretty well) so I see how my positionality reflects my privilege. Like my FB status, I am glad to be in the academy, despite its flaws. Luckily, I had two pretty great allies at the table, or maybe I was allied to them? Either way, I appreciate their voices and back up, but this is for the a-holes that felt the need to just blab off to me, because they don't know how to act.
To the white, d-bag meathead across the way:YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO ACT: It wasn't funny when you made that racial slur about Latinos and messing with one bean and the whole burrito. While I made sure to comment on the stupidity of that joke with an appropriate "Wha, Wha, Wha," when the Latino man at the end of the table sarcastically said, "I don't know that one..." when you made the comment about things being "retarded" I realized it was a pattern, not a one-time offense. While I am not about being P.C. being aware of the power and privilege that comes with the historical and political contexts of these words isn't about Political Correctness, its about caring about the ways our language influence other people's realities. Eff you for saying that it isn't the words, but my reaction to them, that makes them problematic! As if feelings, reactions, context, etc could be separate from the word itself? Then you had the audacity to tell me that I was close-minded and not willing to hear another side of the argument. While sometimes I am all for dialoguing and hearing voices of other people, in this case, I really didn't care what you had to say because what you were saying was hurtful to people (including me!), and allowing hurt to happen is something I won't stand to listen to-it wastes my valuable time and energy. I sort of draw the line at perpetuating pain towards others. Finally, when you asked me why I wanted to change the system, "What's wrong with the system," you said, and I said, "IT"S OPPRESSIVE," and you just laughed, I realized, the potential for any sort of dialogue process was worthless. I retract my high-five and fist bump from you, because YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW TO ACT!
To my sneaky senior-reader, who I thought was nice, but was constantly sexualizing me: You Don't Know How to Act! Being female always puts the female body on display, for women from other marginalized groups even more so. All women's bodies are constantly the aim of scrutiny and measurement (I just read an article about ways to talk to little girls that value their minds instead of their appearances!) Anyway, I thought you were a nice guy, sort of nerdy and unassuming, but a couple times you made really inappropriate comments to me i.e. when I had a Banana-flavored Tootsie Pop in my mouth (I won't go there, but you get the idea) and on the last day as I was exiting the bathroom, you said: I just want you to know you have beautiful eyes. Every time I come over to talk to you, they are just so beautiful. While I get this as a compliment, it seems inappropriate coming from someone on a superior position who gets to evaluate me at the end to see if I am re-hireable for future projects. Why don't I get to evaluate you?!?! Not that you did a shitty job, but I would definitely comment on such a thing. And why is my body up for evaluation? Would you have told a male employee how good he looked, or how nice his smile is? Probably not. Of course there are a multiplicity of reasons why you wouldn't do this but it doesn't give you a right to do it to me either. Sneaky senior-reder, YOU DON"T KNOW HOW TO ACT!!
Finally: Mr. Trainer: You Don't Know How to Act! If it wasn't enough that you aren't that good at your job of training, the fact that you do it in such a masculinist way makes me want to vomit. Thanks for making the single mom at my table feel stupid when she asked a question on a specific problem she was grading(last time I checked, it was your effing job to answer questions just like these!!!) But of course you felt that you could speak with her in a patronizing tone, I mean she is obviously horrible at what she does and doesn't understand at all, even though she was the best scorer at the table and EVERYONE knew that! More importantly, she was female, so that makes her less-valuable and in need of a good chastising every once in a while! Ugh. However, Mr. Trainer, wasn't just rude to her, he also forced a guy to sit down and finish listening to the presentation when he wasn't done talking. Of course with him he used a demanding, not patronizing tone, because he's a man and can handle it. He also got an apology later, something which my table mate did not receive. Maybe you should let me boss you around for awhile, see how it feels? Or I could treat you like the ignorant a-hole you are and we'll see how long that lasts? Mr. Trainer, YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW TO ACT!
With all of this said, my job is over and I do not know if I will ever return. It is good pay, but kind of a drive and crap-tastic hours. But the people are so charming, it makes it hard to stay away, she said sarcastically.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
PRIDE Season is upon us
Well, it has been a long time since Blogging, but I finally have a few free moments. I feel that now PRIDE season is upon us, I need to put in my two cents about the complexity of a celebration based around fractured, non-cohesive and diverse identities.
The words of Jenny Schector from the L Word tend to haunt me whenever I think of gay pride. In the episode, not sure which one, Jenny has a conversation with an older woman about celebrating Gay Pride. It goes a little something like this:
Older Woman:What are you doing here?
Jenny:I'm celebrating gay pride, I guess.
Older Woman:You mean gay shame. That's what it really is
Jenny:Why?
Older Woman: 'Cos most of us have more shame than pride.
While Jenny is crazy and the writing for the L Word is less than sub-par, there is something profound about this quotation. Why do we need to celebrate gay pride? Is it because the rest of the year we live in gay shame? Or if we don't identify with the politics of gay pride then what? So these are some of my ponderings.
I often wonder why PRIDE? Why the name PRIDE; why such a need to focus on being proud; why the focus on equality discourse; why all the children; and why does it take the form of an all-to-often apolitical party, where GLBTQ people take their clothes off and make out with people on street corners? I am not saying these are necessarily bad things, as putting judgements on things is not necessarily the best way to understand them, but I am just curious about the purpose of PRIDE.
In the past I have usually attended sort of begrudgingly, with my partner at the time and I leaving early to catch a movie or hitting Sanchos on the walk back to City Park. I have not enjoyed the sort of normative GL politics that surround the celebration, romanticizing partnerships, marriage, children and families. It has always seemed to lack the sort of QUEER intent that could accompany such an event.
This year however, my lovely Lady has never been to a PRIDE celebration and she is excited to experience what it might be all about. I am mostly hoping to come home having adopted (a puppy, not a child) and maybe have scored some free schwag (promotional items, not mari-ju-wana.) I want her to experience it and I want to experience it with her. As she is not someone who has necessarily done a lot of "gay stuff" in her life, who knows what PRIDE may provide for her? A space to make communities visible; a reaffirmation of her identity? Who knows? But there may be some possibilities there and I am excited to witness them. And maybe, she will hate it.
This does not mean squelching my traditional feelings, that PRIDE should maybe be less traditional, but maybe opening up my thoughts to the possibility that PRIDE is sort of a weird thing and seems to reaffirm the sort of in-group/out-group dynamics that make me feel uneasy about identifying as part of a larger queer community in general. Basically, this year may be really different because I have been living in the city for the past year now, which provides me with a network of resources and friends not available to me before. If PRIDE is about community then maybe it will be a totally different experience to HAVE A COMMUNITY, or at least be a part of one.
Maybe it will be different to know that friends of mine will be performing drag, feeling a greater sense of relationality to the people and space? Like I tell my students everything is contextual, so an experience that happened once or twice may not be indicative of how I will always feel about it as the experience is bound to shift and change depending on circumstance and relationships!
Even greater than that, I think my politics have been shifting a bit because ever since this whole going through a life shift, I find myself wanting more stability, less fractured-ness, definitely not wanting to be polyamorous, and maybe wanting kids and a house someday. Wow, what a shift. Maybe that comes from the potential of positive thinking and living.
The other day my friend asked me to think back on my year and he asked me if I was happier with myself and my life. I responded, "Yes!" How could I not be? I have had an excellent year! I got to teach an sort-of-higher-level undergrad Comm class, presented a queer rhetoric paper in front of Dr. Chuck Morris (yep, that's his real name!), visited San Francisco, met my Lady my Lady, moved to Denver, had a TOP PAPER at WSCA, submitted my first pub (which was subsequently rejected, but hey,you gotta start somewhere), met some amazing people, saw Danielle Ate The Sandwich in a private house concert, went to three shows at the Wildflower Pavilion, saw my friends graduate, realized I was one official course away from being done with course work, had a panel performance accepted to NCA for the conference theme, did I mention meeting my Lady ;), moved to the Highlands, lost close to 50 lbs. making hiking, biking and living much easier for my body, had my best friend I hadn't seen in six years come to visit, started trying to deal with my conflict in a more constructive manner, started working on my inner-being a bit more, fell in love, realized I have THE most amazing dog EVER, and so so so many other great things. My life is full of light and love and I could not ask for anything more!
Shanti, Shanti, Shanti. Peace, Peace, Peace.
The words of Jenny Schector from the L Word tend to haunt me whenever I think of gay pride. In the episode, not sure which one, Jenny has a conversation with an older woman about celebrating Gay Pride. It goes a little something like this:
Older Woman:What are you doing here?
Jenny:I'm celebrating gay pride, I guess.
Older Woman:You mean gay shame. That's what it really is
Jenny:Why?
Older Woman: 'Cos most of us have more shame than pride.
While Jenny is crazy and the writing for the L Word is less than sub-par, there is something profound about this quotation. Why do we need to celebrate gay pride? Is it because the rest of the year we live in gay shame? Or if we don't identify with the politics of gay pride then what? So these are some of my ponderings.
I often wonder why PRIDE? Why the name PRIDE; why such a need to focus on being proud; why the focus on equality discourse; why all the children; and why does it take the form of an all-to-often apolitical party, where GLBTQ people take their clothes off and make out with people on street corners? I am not saying these are necessarily bad things, as putting judgements on things is not necessarily the best way to understand them, but I am just curious about the purpose of PRIDE.
In the past I have usually attended sort of begrudgingly, with my partner at the time and I leaving early to catch a movie or hitting Sanchos on the walk back to City Park. I have not enjoyed the sort of normative GL politics that surround the celebration, romanticizing partnerships, marriage, children and families. It has always seemed to lack the sort of QUEER intent that could accompany such an event.
This year however, my lovely Lady has never been to a PRIDE celebration and she is excited to experience what it might be all about. I am mostly hoping to come home having adopted (a puppy, not a child) and maybe have scored some free schwag (promotional items, not mari-ju-wana.) I want her to experience it and I want to experience it with her. As she is not someone who has necessarily done a lot of "gay stuff" in her life, who knows what PRIDE may provide for her? A space to make communities visible; a reaffirmation of her identity? Who knows? But there may be some possibilities there and I am excited to witness them. And maybe, she will hate it.
This does not mean squelching my traditional feelings, that PRIDE should maybe be less traditional, but maybe opening up my thoughts to the possibility that PRIDE is sort of a weird thing and seems to reaffirm the sort of in-group/out-group dynamics that make me feel uneasy about identifying as part of a larger queer community in general. Basically, this year may be really different because I have been living in the city for the past year now, which provides me with a network of resources and friends not available to me before. If PRIDE is about community then maybe it will be a totally different experience to HAVE A COMMUNITY, or at least be a part of one.
Maybe it will be different to know that friends of mine will be performing drag, feeling a greater sense of relationality to the people and space? Like I tell my students everything is contextual, so an experience that happened once or twice may not be indicative of how I will always feel about it as the experience is bound to shift and change depending on circumstance and relationships!
Even greater than that, I think my politics have been shifting a bit because ever since this whole going through a life shift, I find myself wanting more stability, less fractured-ness, definitely not wanting to be polyamorous, and maybe wanting kids and a house someday. Wow, what a shift. Maybe that comes from the potential of positive thinking and living.
The other day my friend asked me to think back on my year and he asked me if I was happier with myself and my life. I responded, "Yes!" How could I not be? I have had an excellent year! I got to teach an sort-of-higher-level undergrad Comm class, presented a queer rhetoric paper in front of Dr. Chuck Morris (yep, that's his real name!), visited San Francisco, met my Lady my Lady, moved to Denver, had a TOP PAPER at WSCA, submitted my first pub (which was subsequently rejected, but hey,you gotta start somewhere), met some amazing people, saw Danielle Ate The Sandwich in a private house concert, went to three shows at the Wildflower Pavilion, saw my friends graduate, realized I was one official course away from being done with course work, had a panel performance accepted to NCA for the conference theme, did I mention meeting my Lady ;), moved to the Highlands, lost close to 50 lbs. making hiking, biking and living much easier for my body, had my best friend I hadn't seen in six years come to visit, started trying to deal with my conflict in a more constructive manner, started working on my inner-being a bit more, fell in love, realized I have THE most amazing dog EVER, and so so so many other great things. My life is full of light and love and I could not ask for anything more!
Shanti, Shanti, Shanti. Peace, Peace, Peace.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Forgiveness
I started a post this morning and then decided to retract it because it wasn't written very well (which hasn't really stopped me before) nor was it what I think I really have wanted to say.
I should be working on a performance for my class tomorrow at 2 about pedagogical bodies and disciplining, especially female teacher's bodies into very rigid and oppressive systems. But I'm not. I explained to my writing class that I often have to write here before I can write anywhere else. So, before I do that, I have a couple of things waiting to come out.
I think both being broken up with and moving are two of THE BIGGEST crazy-makers out there. Luckily for me and everyone around me, I have gotten to do both in a matter of months. While I think I have done pretty well, considering that adding onto those two things a pile of stress from teaching, TAing, and actually being in a real class again, getting ready to propose comprehensive exam questions, and eventually a dissertation proposal, a mound of social stress, and what do you get? You get me. Me who is trying to wrestle with achieving inner-piece through meditation and prayer, but also trying to not be an emotional invalid, who doesn't let people to walk all over them anymore.
This is where that pedagogical body intervention thing happens. I think that for a long time I lived in a beautiful place and had this life that was beautiful. But for me being in that place was actually very stifling to who I am. And this is because of me, because of who I allowed myself to be when I was there. I allowed the lifestyle of the mountains to wash over me and actually overwhelm who I am as a person. Because when I was there, I wasn't me, or the most-authentic version of me that I eventually want to be (a person who really values diversity and richness of experience, also known as living in a place that stays open passed 9 p.m. in the winter, a person who is loud and outspoken for people and things she loves, and a person who needs change.)
Much like my first quarter of teaching, I tried to force myself to belong in a very rigid way to a community I was always on the outside too. I was always trying to be what a "cool" teacher is supposed to be like. I forced myself to lose a lot of what I value in the world because I wanted to be "cool." While this was me, as performance is never separated from identity, it isn't who I always want to be. I wore really specific clothes, business-casual, I tried to put on upper-middle class airs, with high waisted skirts and dressy shirts. I tried to be cool and calm and a bit sexy to get my male students to take note. I made sure everything was perfect, that my performance matched up with what was expected of me. A little "Hot for Teacher" never hurt anybody.
I hid from conflict, shied away. It was easier to just be quiet, just be small. Taking up space didn't seem to be my role in the classroom. Looking back, everyday, before class I would rush to the bathroom, to check that all of my hairs were in place, that I had nothing in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose. I would apply one last, fresh coat of beige to my face, covering up any pores, dusting off any black smudges of eyeliner or mascara. I would walk into that classroom, set my things down, perfectly. The room was tiered so the students sat above me, and the spotlight of their eyes focused intently. I felt like I was the center of attention and hated it so much, that I tried to avoid it at all costs. Avoid. Do not be loud. Let everyone be louder, make more noise, be better at everything for me. And my body suffered, my scholarship suffered, my heart suffered for trying to constantly be small.
I was doing my best, but I do not like that person. One of my written evals said, "She doesn't tell us what she thinks enough. She just turns it around, like what do you all think?" And this was written like a bad thing, like why could I not be gutsier to talk about my opinions? Why is it that sometimes the best most liberating spaces, squelch us the most? Or why can it be productive for some and all-consuming for others? This is as true a performance in life as it is in teaching. To be honest, I don't see a ton of difference between the two.
I am not a very good teacher. Yet. I am not the best at living my life yet either. But I love being in the process. Of pretty much making mistakes and then fixing them or letting some go unfixed. But what I am learning even more is that I am in process of forgiving. Of forgiving people who have hurt me, but mostly of forgiving myself and allowing myself the time and energy to heal the way I need to. Which, for all you unlucky people out there, is loudly, is proudly, in community. While this may not be what you are used to, while it may make me a bitch, or crazy, I think it is just a bit of the old me making a comeback. But because it is a process, I offer, this video/lyrics from the Glee Ep, "Original Songs." Because. I. AM. Rachel.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltA50HKyM14
What have I done? I wish I could run
Away from this ship goin' under
Just tryin' to help, hurt everyone
Now I feel the weight of the world is
On my shoulders
What can you do when your good isn't good enough?
When all that you touch tumbles down?
'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things
I just wanna fix it somehow
But how many it times will it take?
Oh, how many times will it take for me?
To get it right
To get it ri-igh-ight
Can I start again with my faith shaken?
'Cause I can't go back and undo this
I just have to stay and face my mistakes
But if I get stronger and wiser
I'll get through thisWhat can you do when your good isn't good enough?
When all that you touch tumbles down?
'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things
I just wanna fix it somehow
But how many it times will it take?
Oh, how many times will it take for me?
To get it right
To get it ri-igh-ight
So I throw up my fist
I will punch in the air
And accept the truth that sometimes life isn't fair
Yeah, I'll send out a wish
Yeah, I'll send up a prayer
And finally, someone will see
How much I care!
What can you do when your good isn't good enough?
When all that you touch tumbles down?
'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things
I just wanna fix it somehow
But how many it times will it take?
Oh, how many times will it take for me?
To get it right
To get it ri-igh-ight
I should be working on a performance for my class tomorrow at 2 about pedagogical bodies and disciplining, especially female teacher's bodies into very rigid and oppressive systems. But I'm not. I explained to my writing class that I often have to write here before I can write anywhere else. So, before I do that, I have a couple of things waiting to come out.
I think both being broken up with and moving are two of THE BIGGEST crazy-makers out there. Luckily for me and everyone around me, I have gotten to do both in a matter of months. While I think I have done pretty well, considering that adding onto those two things a pile of stress from teaching, TAing, and actually being in a real class again, getting ready to propose comprehensive exam questions, and eventually a dissertation proposal, a mound of social stress, and what do you get? You get me. Me who is trying to wrestle with achieving inner-piece through meditation and prayer, but also trying to not be an emotional invalid, who doesn't let people to walk all over them anymore.
This is where that pedagogical body intervention thing happens. I think that for a long time I lived in a beautiful place and had this life that was beautiful. But for me being in that place was actually very stifling to who I am. And this is because of me, because of who I allowed myself to be when I was there. I allowed the lifestyle of the mountains to wash over me and actually overwhelm who I am as a person. Because when I was there, I wasn't me, or the most-authentic version of me that I eventually want to be (a person who really values diversity and richness of experience, also known as living in a place that stays open passed 9 p.m. in the winter, a person who is loud and outspoken for people and things she loves, and a person who needs change.)
Much like my first quarter of teaching, I tried to force myself to belong in a very rigid way to a community I was always on the outside too. I was always trying to be what a "cool" teacher is supposed to be like. I forced myself to lose a lot of what I value in the world because I wanted to be "cool." While this was me, as performance is never separated from identity, it isn't who I always want to be. I wore really specific clothes, business-casual, I tried to put on upper-middle class airs, with high waisted skirts and dressy shirts. I tried to be cool and calm and a bit sexy to get my male students to take note. I made sure everything was perfect, that my performance matched up with what was expected of me. A little "Hot for Teacher" never hurt anybody.
I hid from conflict, shied away. It was easier to just be quiet, just be small. Taking up space didn't seem to be my role in the classroom. Looking back, everyday, before class I would rush to the bathroom, to check that all of my hairs were in place, that I had nothing in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose. I would apply one last, fresh coat of beige to my face, covering up any pores, dusting off any black smudges of eyeliner or mascara. I would walk into that classroom, set my things down, perfectly. The room was tiered so the students sat above me, and the spotlight of their eyes focused intently. I felt like I was the center of attention and hated it so much, that I tried to avoid it at all costs. Avoid. Do not be loud. Let everyone be louder, make more noise, be better at everything for me. And my body suffered, my scholarship suffered, my heart suffered for trying to constantly be small.
I was doing my best, but I do not like that person. One of my written evals said, "She doesn't tell us what she thinks enough. She just turns it around, like what do you all think?" And this was written like a bad thing, like why could I not be gutsier to talk about my opinions? Why is it that sometimes the best most liberating spaces, squelch us the most? Or why can it be productive for some and all-consuming for others? This is as true a performance in life as it is in teaching. To be honest, I don't see a ton of difference between the two.
I am not a very good teacher. Yet. I am not the best at living my life yet either. But I love being in the process. Of pretty much making mistakes and then fixing them or letting some go unfixed. But what I am learning even more is that I am in process of forgiving. Of forgiving people who have hurt me, but mostly of forgiving myself and allowing myself the time and energy to heal the way I need to. Which, for all you unlucky people out there, is loudly, is proudly, in community. While this may not be what you are used to, while it may make me a bitch, or crazy, I think it is just a bit of the old me making a comeback. But because it is a process, I offer, this video/lyrics from the Glee Ep, "Original Songs." Because. I. AM. Rachel.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltA50HKyM14
What have I done? I wish I could run
Away from this ship goin' under
Just tryin' to help, hurt everyone
Now I feel the weight of the world is
On my shoulders
What can you do when your good isn't good enough?
When all that you touch tumbles down?
'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things
I just wanna fix it somehow
But how many it times will it take?
Oh, how many times will it take for me?
To get it right
To get it ri-igh-ight
Can I start again with my faith shaken?
'Cause I can't go back and undo this
I just have to stay and face my mistakes
But if I get stronger and wiser
I'll get through thisWhat can you do when your good isn't good enough?
When all that you touch tumbles down?
'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things
I just wanna fix it somehow
But how many it times will it take?
Oh, how many times will it take for me?
To get it right
To get it ri-igh-ight
So I throw up my fist
I will punch in the air
And accept the truth that sometimes life isn't fair
Yeah, I'll send out a wish
Yeah, I'll send up a prayer
And finally, someone will see
How much I care!
What can you do when your good isn't good enough?
When all that you touch tumbles down?
'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things
I just wanna fix it somehow
But how many it times will it take?
Oh, how many times will it take for me?
To get it right
To get it ri-igh-ight
Sunday, April 3, 2011
John T. Warren, PhD
I have a prospectus due tomorrow for performative pedagogy. Prior to today, I had wanted to write it based off of a model by Dr. John T. Warren, a respected professor of Speech Communication at SIU Carbondale. I don't know if Dr. Warren passed away last night or this morning, but, inevitably I learned of his passing, this morning before attempting to write my prospectus. Grappling with and through tears, I continue to see my project inspired by his work. My desire is to work from recognizing my positionalities in the classroom as a way to make connenctions and build alliances with marginalized students. As an anti-racist, white, queer, woman, it is important to me that my students of color, my queer students, my female students, my differently-abled bodied students, feel that at least some place on this campus validates their experiences and privileges their bodily experiences. It is also my attempt to educate other white people about their whiteness, to be accountable to the places I am privileged, to make others accountable.
As Dr. Warren writes, "The erasure of the body is always a violent act a signal that the body should be, must be controlled and denied. Any erasure is indeed violent, but as cultural politics enter the vividness of the violence becomes more pronounced"(92).
He writes extensively on our racist education system and how we have been trained to privilege certain epistemologies, while marginalizing others. I very much saw myself in his struggle to work with a female student of color on her writing, as it was not at a very "proficient" level. However, what he comes to realize through the writing of the piece, and talk about performative poetics, that really, it is the racist education system that priviileges writing practice as a way of knowing above other forms of demonstrating knowledge (like oral interpretation, public speaking/student comments, performances/using the body) that structures how people in dominant positions view valuable forms of knowledge and learning (wow, that seems like an extremely convoluted sentence. Good thing this is not what I am turning in!)
As Warren marks with red pen all over this woman's paper, he realizes that he is marking all over her body, her experience. He explores how in his dominant positions, his privilege, has enabled him to say perform in this one very rigid way, mainly through writing. I love writing, I think it is an amazing way to explore and relay ideas. But should we judge all people on the same standard of what "good writing" is. I hope not, because I would be failing right now!
Anyway, I am interested in examining how being queer and female in the classroom affects all my teaching interactions. As both a professor and a student my queerness places my body in a precarious position because I do not "look" queer, yet I do not perform heteronormativity either. As a person who teaches about "others" my "othered" identities ultimately come into play, my body can not be left outside the classroom. In the end, however, this project is not about me, but about creating relationships with other people/students who are marginalized. How does my marginalization connect me to those marginalized students, while keeping me, from connecting with other more resistant students often in positions of power/domination.
Warren concludes the piece, "Until we resist the desire for absence, thereby embracing various bodies in all their excesses, we will continue to reify a system that inherently serves a racist and destructive agenda."
John T. Warren was an inspiring man, and an amazing anti-racist whiteness scholar in my field. His work, which at times has actually brought me to physical tears (and continues to this evening) will be greatly missed. He was supposed to speak at the University of Denver tomorrow I believe, and I was looking forward to hearing him speak, and getting to meet with him in office hours. While that will no longer be a possibility, I will continue to respect and engage with his work in this class and in the future. Peace be with his family, colleagues, advisees, and any one else affiliated with him.
As Dr. Warren writes, "The erasure of the body is always a violent act a signal that the body should be, must be controlled and denied. Any erasure is indeed violent, but as cultural politics enter the vividness of the violence becomes more pronounced"(92).
He writes extensively on our racist education system and how we have been trained to privilege certain epistemologies, while marginalizing others. I very much saw myself in his struggle to work with a female student of color on her writing, as it was not at a very "proficient" level. However, what he comes to realize through the writing of the piece, and talk about performative poetics, that really, it is the racist education system that priviileges writing practice as a way of knowing above other forms of demonstrating knowledge (like oral interpretation, public speaking/student comments, performances/using the body) that structures how people in dominant positions view valuable forms of knowledge and learning (wow, that seems like an extremely convoluted sentence. Good thing this is not what I am turning in!)
As Warren marks with red pen all over this woman's paper, he realizes that he is marking all over her body, her experience. He explores how in his dominant positions, his privilege, has enabled him to say perform in this one very rigid way, mainly through writing. I love writing, I think it is an amazing way to explore and relay ideas. But should we judge all people on the same standard of what "good writing" is. I hope not, because I would be failing right now!
Anyway, I am interested in examining how being queer and female in the classroom affects all my teaching interactions. As both a professor and a student my queerness places my body in a precarious position because I do not "look" queer, yet I do not perform heteronormativity either. As a person who teaches about "others" my "othered" identities ultimately come into play, my body can not be left outside the classroom. In the end, however, this project is not about me, but about creating relationships with other people/students who are marginalized. How does my marginalization connect me to those marginalized students, while keeping me, from connecting with other more resistant students often in positions of power/domination.
Warren concludes the piece, "Until we resist the desire for absence, thereby embracing various bodies in all their excesses, we will continue to reify a system that inherently serves a racist and destructive agenda."
John T. Warren was an inspiring man, and an amazing anti-racist whiteness scholar in my field. His work, which at times has actually brought me to physical tears (and continues to this evening) will be greatly missed. He was supposed to speak at the University of Denver tomorrow I believe, and I was looking forward to hearing him speak, and getting to meet with him in office hours. While that will no longer be a possibility, I will continue to respect and engage with his work in this class and in the future. Peace be with his family, colleagues, advisees, and any one else affiliated with him.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Something really smart was said
This post is sort of random and inspired by my X-Files watching, Bloody Mary, Chocolate/Chiles, coma I have induced myself into. Mainly I am writing this because, for some reason, I can't seem to write anything else, and I feel that maybe if I get this out I will be able to write something more "academic" again?
Yesterday, I was chatting with my ever-elusive best friend. For purposes of the blog I will call him Danimal Strassmonster. I was chatting with the Danimal because I had a horrendous teaching experience on Thursday. My mind was already sort of elsewhere, teaching 2-4 on Thursday which means the last day of the regular week in DU Land, and my lady was leaving for Portland, and I was trying to decide if First Friday at Tracks was going to be worth the potential repeat of last time or not? In the end, I decided no amount of emotional trauma was worth that, especially, not having my lady with me (although, admittedly I would have had the MOST AMAZING buffer of queers EVER) I went to a more queer party, Damn Gurl, put on for anyone who identifies as queer, like the Danimal, who is a straight man who identifies as queer. Anyway, I was hoping it would be more welcoming to him because the last time we went to First Friday he was practically told to leave because of his heterosexuality. While I am all for lesbian and female-only spaces, First Friday acts like it is open to anyone including allies, yet, was not at all welcoming to him. If it is an exclusive space, maybe that should be made more clear, or in fact maybe it should be made more QUEER! We are going to write some sort academic paper on this indiscretion.
Anywho, I am glad I did not go because my teaching experience has fed into my sort of heady, mindset a lot the past couple of days and I didn't need that when the "ex" and "bad friend from EP" were First Friday-ing it up. Turns out that indeed, the queer party was much more accepting of all of us, two queerly identified females, a couple of gay men, and two straight dudes. And according to Danimal it was the craziest place he has ever been. It reminded me of Drag Ball at Luther College quite honestly, an open place for the queers to gather. And it supports Prax(us), a non-profit, dedicated to ending human trafficking. Again reminiscent of the good ol' college days.
Anyway, when Danimal and I were talking about my teaching experience he made the amazing comment, that physiologically, the body is constantly shifting and so we are never the same person from one moment to the other. So this isn't a gigantic newsflash for anyone studying affect theory or the body in relation to identity, but it has made me rethink myself and my identities and my life and how I shift from moment to moment. One minute seemingly an angry queer, the next a an academic, the next a dog lover. I am all of these things simultaneously, but they also shift me constantly.
First of all there seems to be some sort of fear of making me angry circulating through the air. I am not an angry person, I am not mean. I am just not good at playing into white female civility and I refuse to try to do that to appease others, mainly other white females. That was the purpose of setting up the "You Don't Know How to Act" blog post and I refuse to play nice simply to brush over the fact that my feelings, my emotions have been deeply hurt and scarred by people, friends, a partner, even my sister who I thought loved me. I wrote that Blog to be funny with a tongue-in-cheek tone probably to cover up my feelings of being so hurt. I still have love for them, in a I love all humans, Kumbaya sort of way, but to reiterate, my feelings are still very bruised, the wounds still festering under the skin.
To anyone who thought I should have known that the ex was going to break up with me, I ask you to think about that from the perspective of someone trying to hold onto a relationship that had been falling apart for a long time. Holding on, determined to make something work. Although, this may have been naive, when I say 100% commitment, I mean it. Whether I should have seen it coming doesn't matter, because I DID NOT SEE IT COMING! "Should have" doesn't really figure in to this equation any more. To anyone who thinks I should be over it already should maybe consider the aforementioned fact. Remember that I was not the one emotionally cheating and finding an intense connection with someone other than my partner. Also, figure into the fact that as a 27-year-old intelligent woman (who many consider the upper-echelon of hottness ;-)) that being left for a 22-year-old is sort of a smash to the ol' ego. So imagine a partnership of three years dissolving, and then the girl it dissolved for suddenly turning up at all of your new social locations. While I should maybe be over it, over her, I am not. So every time she enters a room it makes me want to leave it. Every time I see my ex with her or without her, I become physiologically ill, because I am still so hurt that someone would do that to me. Then to have it thrown in my face. Now imagine that girl, that 22-year-old, trying to be friends in various ways with my best friends in Denver? Maybe other people, who do not experience things on such a visceral level, wouldn't care, they could just keep dancing, but I cannot. Maybe I will someday, but, to be honest, as much as I want to be over it, my life the past three years means too much for me to just let it go and pretend that it isn't a painful thing to have lost or one of the most painful ways to lose it.
Now that I am talking a bit more to my first female ex, I can't imagine how in the world she could talk to me after I did something similar to her. All I can think is, that maybe after three years, (The amount of time that we didn't talk and we dated other people, and her now being engaged to another wonderful woman) maybe after three years, I will be able to not feel so hurt and angry, for not only being left by my ex, but for being abandoned by several people who I thought were near and dear to my heart. I don't know what is going on in my former life, all I know is that I have not heard from anyone who was a part of it for a long time. And if nothing else, a little support or even an apology could potentially mean a lot.
To clarify though, and I am writing this because I don't want it to seem like the hurting is really where my heart is. Because it isn't. My heart is actually in this really beautiful place because I am pretty sure I have met and been dating the most amazing lady...quite possibly The One. I know...how cliche. But I am so in love with the new lady that I cannot say her name without smiling and being filled with joy. And there are lots of reasons to love her, but mainly, and I admit this to the world, she calls me on my shit, like no one else I have ever been in a relationship with. But mostly, she is just great. And I just love her. Because I am a person who generally chooses to love.
Danimal keeps telling me that because I am so happy, I should be happy for the other people in my former life for being happy. I am working on that, but for now, I just want to focus on my happiness and if and when those people who used to care about me want back into my life, you know how to contact me.
Yesterday, I was chatting with my ever-elusive best friend. For purposes of the blog I will call him Danimal Strassmonster. I was chatting with the Danimal because I had a horrendous teaching experience on Thursday. My mind was already sort of elsewhere, teaching 2-4 on Thursday which means the last day of the regular week in DU Land, and my lady was leaving for Portland, and I was trying to decide if First Friday at Tracks was going to be worth the potential repeat of last time or not? In the end, I decided no amount of emotional trauma was worth that, especially, not having my lady with me (although, admittedly I would have had the MOST AMAZING buffer of queers EVER) I went to a more queer party, Damn Gurl, put on for anyone who identifies as queer, like the Danimal, who is a straight man who identifies as queer. Anyway, I was hoping it would be more welcoming to him because the last time we went to First Friday he was practically told to leave because of his heterosexuality. While I am all for lesbian and female-only spaces, First Friday acts like it is open to anyone including allies, yet, was not at all welcoming to him. If it is an exclusive space, maybe that should be made more clear, or in fact maybe it should be made more QUEER! We are going to write some sort academic paper on this indiscretion.
Anywho, I am glad I did not go because my teaching experience has fed into my sort of heady, mindset a lot the past couple of days and I didn't need that when the "ex" and "bad friend from EP" were First Friday-ing it up. Turns out that indeed, the queer party was much more accepting of all of us, two queerly identified females, a couple of gay men, and two straight dudes. And according to Danimal it was the craziest place he has ever been. It reminded me of Drag Ball at Luther College quite honestly, an open place for the queers to gather. And it supports Prax(us), a non-profit, dedicated to ending human trafficking. Again reminiscent of the good ol' college days.
Anyway, when Danimal and I were talking about my teaching experience he made the amazing comment, that physiologically, the body is constantly shifting and so we are never the same person from one moment to the other. So this isn't a gigantic newsflash for anyone studying affect theory or the body in relation to identity, but it has made me rethink myself and my identities and my life and how I shift from moment to moment. One minute seemingly an angry queer, the next a an academic, the next a dog lover. I am all of these things simultaneously, but they also shift me constantly.
First of all there seems to be some sort of fear of making me angry circulating through the air. I am not an angry person, I am not mean. I am just not good at playing into white female civility and I refuse to try to do that to appease others, mainly other white females. That was the purpose of setting up the "You Don't Know How to Act" blog post and I refuse to play nice simply to brush over the fact that my feelings, my emotions have been deeply hurt and scarred by people, friends, a partner, even my sister who I thought loved me. I wrote that Blog to be funny with a tongue-in-cheek tone probably to cover up my feelings of being so hurt. I still have love for them, in a I love all humans, Kumbaya sort of way, but to reiterate, my feelings are still very bruised, the wounds still festering under the skin.
To anyone who thought I should have known that the ex was going to break up with me, I ask you to think about that from the perspective of someone trying to hold onto a relationship that had been falling apart for a long time. Holding on, determined to make something work. Although, this may have been naive, when I say 100% commitment, I mean it. Whether I should have seen it coming doesn't matter, because I DID NOT SEE IT COMING! "Should have" doesn't really figure in to this equation any more. To anyone who thinks I should be over it already should maybe consider the aforementioned fact. Remember that I was not the one emotionally cheating and finding an intense connection with someone other than my partner. Also, figure into the fact that as a 27-year-old intelligent woman (who many consider the upper-echelon of hottness ;-)) that being left for a 22-year-old is sort of a smash to the ol' ego. So imagine a partnership of three years dissolving, and then the girl it dissolved for suddenly turning up at all of your new social locations. While I should maybe be over it, over her, I am not. So every time she enters a room it makes me want to leave it. Every time I see my ex with her or without her, I become physiologically ill, because I am still so hurt that someone would do that to me. Then to have it thrown in my face. Now imagine that girl, that 22-year-old, trying to be friends in various ways with my best friends in Denver? Maybe other people, who do not experience things on such a visceral level, wouldn't care, they could just keep dancing, but I cannot. Maybe I will someday, but, to be honest, as much as I want to be over it, my life the past three years means too much for me to just let it go and pretend that it isn't a painful thing to have lost or one of the most painful ways to lose it.
Now that I am talking a bit more to my first female ex, I can't imagine how in the world she could talk to me after I did something similar to her. All I can think is, that maybe after three years, (The amount of time that we didn't talk and we dated other people, and her now being engaged to another wonderful woman) maybe after three years, I will be able to not feel so hurt and angry, for not only being left by my ex, but for being abandoned by several people who I thought were near and dear to my heart. I don't know what is going on in my former life, all I know is that I have not heard from anyone who was a part of it for a long time. And if nothing else, a little support or even an apology could potentially mean a lot.
To clarify though, and I am writing this because I don't want it to seem like the hurting is really where my heart is. Because it isn't. My heart is actually in this really beautiful place because I am pretty sure I have met and been dating the most amazing lady...quite possibly The One. I know...how cliche. But I am so in love with the new lady that I cannot say her name without smiling and being filled with joy. And there are lots of reasons to love her, but mainly, and I admit this to the world, she calls me on my shit, like no one else I have ever been in a relationship with. But mostly, she is just great. And I just love her. Because I am a person who generally chooses to love.
Danimal keeps telling me that because I am so happy, I should be happy for the other people in my former life for being happy. I am working on that, but for now, I just want to focus on my happiness and if and when those people who used to care about me want back into my life, you know how to contact me.
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