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.
Monday, September 5, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)