I went to elementary school with a boy named Jesse. I never met him. I never spoke to him. I'll never forget him. It was early one morning in our school's library that Jesse crossed my path. Historically low performing, Please Please Fund Us Elementary School adopted a rigorous language arts program that pitted students in competition to read the most books and earn the most points on comprehension quizes. At the end of each report card period our points could be cashed in for foil wrapped pencils or erasers that smelled faugely of fruit. The finest remuneration, earned only by the most bibliophile fifthgraders, included full-size stale candy bars and a Babysitter's Club calendar only 2 years out of date. Pursuits of such wonders, and desire to meet the minimum point requirements to avoid "silent lunch" brought many students to the library to find books and take their quizzes. Brought a few more to find trouble. On a rainy day in 1994, I was browsing the Judy Blume's when the trouble began. Jesse was in a huddle around a Where's Waldo.
I'm tellin ya. One of'ums nekkid.
Ain't niether! They wont put a nekkid lady is a kids book
Whatcher on the mountain page fer. The nekkid lady gone be on tha beach one.
I giggled overhearing them because I knew the pornographic picture book had been removed from the shelves long ago, and I had found the offending illustration on a dogeared page in a pediatrician's office. Our librarian was having none of it. Deftly she scattered the boys with scoldings and threats of silent lunch and they slunk in different directions. Jesse, DJ and Bubba (I wish I was kidding) Made their way to a bank of Apple 2Es to pad their foil pencil savings accounts.
Taking the quiz on the computer required logging in with our "real actual names." In a Southern farm town that couldn't fill the visitors side of a football stadium, getting kids to spell their "real actual names" was difficult. Bethanne logged in as Elizabeth Anne and Maybeth typed Mary Elizabeth. DJ became Daniel James, and JD was John David. Bubba had Robert E Lee Foote written on the inside band of his Fruit of the Looms. Jesse typed Jesus Lopez Junior. Billy Ray / William saw Jesse' s real actual name on the screen and called another huddle.
Billy Ray/William -- Whatcha type JeeZus for, Jesse?
Jesse / HaySoos -- That's my name. That's what they call me Jesse for.
DJ/Daniel James -- Lemme see that! Jesse! Yer name aint JeeZus! Ain't nobody named JeeZus but JeeZus!
JD / John David -- Only the devil call hisself JeeZus and not be JeZus.
Bubba / Robert E Lee Foote -- You gone go to the devil, Jesse
Jesse/HaySoos was eight. He was third generation in our shitty backwoods town, and ate far more boiled peanuts than black beans. He couldn't explain the distinct cultural differences between his family from Mexico and their families from South Carolina dirt farms. They didn't give him time to try.
A hand grasped a shirt collar.
A shirt collar ripped as Jesse/Jesus was pulled up from his chair.
A chair tumbled and hit the floor sideways.
So did Jesse.
Fists and feet and slurs fell from all directions. I ran farther into the stacks to hide and felt guilty for not knowing how to help him. Maybe it was a couple of minutes, or maybe it was 2000 years, but eventually the double-named Judases were pulled off.
"He says he's JeeZus! He caint just call hisself JeeZus! He's going to the devil sayin his Jeezus!"
Billy Ray/William, DJ / Daniel James, and Bubba / Robert E Lee Foote, howled in chorus.
I saw the blood on Jesse/Jesus's face. I shrank further and prayed I'd become invisible as he walked passed to the nurse.
The passion played before me in my school's library sat in my stomach like stale bread and sour grape juice. I'd seen boys beat each other up before. I'd seen them turn on their own. But I never saw a boy beat that badly unprovoked. I never saw a boy named Jesus. I was grappling to understand how a literacy quiz became a hate crime that I watched from behind Tales of a Fourthgrade Nothing. After school I asked my mama, "Why would somebody name their baby Jesus?"
"That's silly,"she told me. "Nobody names their baby Jesus. "
Showing posts with label True Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label True Story. Show all posts
Monday, October 21, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
Daddy's Girl On Board
Prompted by the book 642 Things to Write About, San Francisco Writers Grotto - "Your Father’s Car"
Let there be no mistake about it, I am a daddy’s girl. It’s rather strange actually, as I spent much of my formative years rarely seeing him, but he always fought to maintain as close of a relationship with me as he possibly could. That grew harder when my mother moved me to Texas just before I entered high school. He really came through for me after a bit (understatement) of drama between myself and my homophobic step-dad. On 10 hours notice, my dad drove 1,200 miles to pick me up and take me home with him. He did it in a red Ford Ranger.
In fact the red Ford Ranger, a secession of them actually, is the only vehicle I’ve ever known him to drive, It was the truck he taught me to drive in. It was the truck I crashed into a tree. It was the truck he drove me to middle school in every day, just to squeeze in 20 more minutes with me. It was the truck I rode around in the bed of surveying his family’s farm, or driving out to our favorite fishing hole. It was the truck I lost all bed riding privileges in when I jumped out at 25 mph to see what would happen. What happened was my first concussion. .
Most important, it was that truck we drove around in rather aimlessly to look at cows or houses or other things that didn’t really matter, while we had our deepest and most important conversations. I came out to him in that truck, and he accepted me. We talked about options for dealing with my teenage pregnancy in that truck, and he didn’t look down on me. He explained things to me and assuaged my fears in that truck, and he promised not to tell anyone when I cried. When times were really hard, it was the truck where we talked baseball and checkers strategies Where we debated politics for fun, and he told me stories of his reckless teen years to get me to laugh. It was while riding around in that red Ford Ranger that it was the most abundantly clear how much my daddy loved me.
It’s been a long time since I rode in that truck. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my dad. Texas to South Carolina is a long and expensive trip, and he drives a much bigger truck for a living without much time off. I am perpetually cycling between taking college classes or working to pay for college classes, so a cross-country trip isn't for me either. I guess I am lucky to live in an environmentally friendly city with less than efficient but very affordable public transit, but it means I haven't driven a thing since the last time I drove that Ranger. It's been about ten years.
But a warmer sun is rising now. I am finishing college and en route to my professional career. Daddy is getting closer to retirement and joining his daughters in Texas. He's also getting closer to Granddaddy; my partner and I are preparing to become parents. I know I'll never be anybody's daddy, but I hope I can be to my kids what my daddy is to me. Not highly educated, but very wise. A checkerboard psychologist, who knows all he needs to know about a man by the way he moves his kings. A man who never stops believing in me, especially when I stop believing in myself. A hanger of stars and a deeply flawed saint. As if there were any other way to start treading his footsteps, I'm saving up for a down payment on my own red Ford Ranger.
Let there be no mistake about it, I am a daddy’s girl. It’s rather strange actually, as I spent much of my formative years rarely seeing him, but he always fought to maintain as close of a relationship with me as he possibly could. That grew harder when my mother moved me to Texas just before I entered high school. He really came through for me after a bit (understatement) of drama between myself and my homophobic step-dad. On 10 hours notice, my dad drove 1,200 miles to pick me up and take me home with him. He did it in a red Ford Ranger.
In fact the red Ford Ranger, a secession of them actually, is the only vehicle I’ve ever known him to drive, It was the truck he taught me to drive in. It was the truck I crashed into a tree. It was the truck he drove me to middle school in every day, just to squeeze in 20 more minutes with me. It was the truck I rode around in the bed of surveying his family’s farm, or driving out to our favorite fishing hole. It was the truck I lost all bed riding privileges in when I jumped out at 25 mph to see what would happen. What happened was my first concussion. .
Most important, it was that truck we drove around in rather aimlessly to look at cows or houses or other things that didn’t really matter, while we had our deepest and most important conversations. I came out to him in that truck, and he accepted me. We talked about options for dealing with my teenage pregnancy in that truck, and he didn’t look down on me. He explained things to me and assuaged my fears in that truck, and he promised not to tell anyone when I cried. When times were really hard, it was the truck where we talked baseball and checkers strategies Where we debated politics for fun, and he told me stories of his reckless teen years to get me to laugh. It was while riding around in that red Ford Ranger that it was the most abundantly clear how much my daddy loved me.
It’s been a long time since I rode in that truck. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my dad. Texas to South Carolina is a long and expensive trip, and he drives a much bigger truck for a living without much time off. I am perpetually cycling between taking college classes or working to pay for college classes, so a cross-country trip isn't for me either. I guess I am lucky to live in an environmentally friendly city with less than efficient but very affordable public transit, but it means I haven't driven a thing since the last time I drove that Ranger. It's been about ten years.
But a warmer sun is rising now. I am finishing college and en route to my professional career. Daddy is getting closer to retirement and joining his daughters in Texas. He's also getting closer to Granddaddy; my partner and I are preparing to become parents. I know I'll never be anybody's daddy, but I hope I can be to my kids what my daddy is to me. Not highly educated, but very wise. A checkerboard psychologist, who knows all he needs to know about a man by the way he moves his kings. A man who never stops believing in me, especially when I stop believing in myself. A hanger of stars and a deeply flawed saint. As if there were any other way to start treading his footsteps, I'm saving up for a down payment on my own red Ford Ranger.
Daddy and Me
Riverbanks Zoo and Garden, Columbia SC, 2006
(The tortoise behind us is 100 years old.)
Thursday, October 11, 2012
National Coming Out Day, Confessions of a Small Town, Teenage Queer, All Grown Up
This photo was taken Oct. 8th, 2001, the day I came out of the closet, shouting into a microphone on the University of Texas at Austin campus. Because I've never done a damn thing half way.
Hey Kiddies! It's National Coming Out Day! Time for me to reflect that I have been out of the closet almost four times as long as I was in it, and I am very very old. It baffles me to think back on that 15, 16, 17, year old kid, so terrified of what she was, when now I don't know how to be anything but exactly what I am. I'm old, and lying and avoiding the truth takes far too much energy. I remember, night after night, day after day, i spent in prayer over the feelings I couldn't deal with, which became more and more unwieldy each day. I remember that never once, in two and a half years, did I pray for G-d to make me straight, but every time asked to be shown which path He intended for me. He eventually did, and I followed it, and it sucked, for a while.
I lost a lot, a damn lot, for being true to myself. Contact with my little brother and sister, being the biggest and most painful. Their father, my step-dad, didn’t want them exposed to any one who was gay, and that meant their big sister.I haven’t been able to speak more than a few words to them in 11 years, not even on their birthdays and Christmas. I also had to quit my favorite subjects in school and hide in the art classes because of the bullying. Yes, small town Texas is so bass akwards, the drama department is/was the least safe environment for gay kids. But there were a lot of victories, to. I found a community, thanks to the Austin non-profit Out Youth, and I found a voice. My skin became armor and I developed my biting wit, because nothing is more fun than making a bully look like an idiot with one good quip. I started writing the poetry that later made me locally famous. I learned that my well being deserved to be my first priority, and unlike far too many queer teens, I survived.
I also became obnoxious. The more and more those around me pushed that I was wrong for being a lesbian, the more lesbian I became. From the pretty blonde happily waving in the photo above, in a few months, I became a spiky haired, men’s clothed, facially pierced, in your face, junior bull-dyke, given to wearing t-shirts with slogans like “I can do everything your last boyfriend couldn’t,” and “hold my hammer while I nail your girlfriend.” My older sister jokes that when I met people for the first time, during those days, the introduction went like this, “Hi, I’m a lesbian, I like girls, I’m 100% queer! queer! queer! and I will probably bang your sister at some point. Oh, and my name is Mouse” As you can imagine, for the loved ones around me, this got old ...quick. It didn’t take long for my sister to give me the advice of my life, one day over lunch. “You’re a lesbian,” she said “and that’s great. That’s wonderful. But it’s not the only thing you are. You are smart, and creative and a pain in my ass and I want you to be all of those things because the whole package is far more interesting than the angry one-dimensional loudmouth you are acting like right now.”
It all seems so far away now. I honestly don't think of the anniversary of my coming out, until someone mentions National Coming Out Day, which heralded my own escape from the closet, 11 years ago. That, and somehow all that came with it, is but a dream on the mist. The pain. The fear. The triumph. The first kiss with a girl. Over the last decade I have been transformed. Shifted and settled into a woman who never tells people she’s queer, because it doesn't matter, but will tell everyone, if it comes up in conversation, about her precious wife, because nothing matters more than she. A woman who fights for equality because equality is the only right way, not so much because it directly affects her, because her marriage is perfect, legal or no. A woman who every once in a while, is shocked, momentarily, by the fact that she is gay, married to a woman, and that there are people in the world who think that these things aren't as natural and comfortable as tomato soup on a cold, rainy day. Being gay isn't a big deal to me. It was once, but is no longer my principle trait, just a weave in the fabric of who I am. Not to be hidden, not to be highlighted. Just a small part of the big, wonderful, picture.
This post is dedicated to all the men and women and people in between, young or not so young, who still must be themselves only in secret.It is my hope and prayer that all of you find the safety to live as you truly are. Wonderful, whole, individuals deserving of all the love in the world, from whomever you choose.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Legitimate
CAUTION: This post deals frankly with the topics of sexual assault, self-injury, and suicide. If you are likely to be triggered by these topics, please, take care of yourself and read with caution or come back next week for another post.
Rite of Passage
After my third sexual assault, I just quit caring. I thought of my body like the pin cushion on my grandma's sewing table, attacked again and again without ever changing much. Rape was all around me. At a young age I knew the terrifying details of my mother's molestation and of the attack which lead to my conception. Sexual abuse was a rite of passage. All the young girls went through it. Like menarche and pimples came the eating disorders and self cutting, symptoms of our common disease. Our trauma was common, but hardly communal. Each girl suffered in her silent world of shame and fear and self loathing. Each thinking she'd asked for it, had it coming, deserved it. After all, it happened to all of us. And though quiet confessions, me toos, were made, no one admitted feeling anything besides the pain when a hymen is ruptured. Few, if any of us knew the difference between being raped and having sex. We twelve year-olds entered adulthood with a vicious thrust. We knew our place as young women. We were walking warm respites. We were dens for serpents. We were holes to be fucked. This story doesn't turn to a happy ending. Therapy and group hugs, Vagina Monologues and Take Back The Night rallies do nothing for our shame, our hatred, our distrust. It is no big surprise when a woman is raped. And no matter what the feminists say, she was asking for it, by having the brash audacity to have a sheath between her legs, instead of a sword.
The words above were written in collaboration with women who have survived the unthinkable. Each broken and shattered by her attack. Each struggling to collect the pieces and rebuild. Each has recoiled at her lover’s gentle touch. Each wept, shook, and flailed in her sleep as she relived the attack in her nightmares. Each felt her pulse quicken with every knock on the door, every shadow on the sidewalk, every wandering thought that lead her back to where happened. Together they have paid in full for a new car for their therapists, as they learned to trust again and fight back menacing shadows. None were wrestled to the ground, or knocked on the head. All were acquainted with their attackers. Some were drugged. Some were coerced or threatened. A couple were unconscious when the attack started. All were, inarguably and absolutely raped.
There are some groups and individuals who believe that these women made it all up. That it wasn’t real. It wasn’t so bad, could have been worse. That their pain was not “legitimate.” But I have seen the cigaret burns on their ankles. I have cleaned the blood from their forearms. I have ridden in the ambulance when they have OD’d. I have held them while they wailed at two pink lines. The people who minimize and dismiss this torture, I would like to call monsters. I would like to rail and rage at them all. Shout at them “go get raped and report back!” Instead, I gather my sisters, my sorority of shadows, to love each other, and support each other as this debate in the headlines brings our pasts to surface again. Then, in silence, and to my own surprise, I am glad for Akin’s comments, ignorant, misogynist and cruel as they are. I am happy for his ignorance, because in a country where the danger of sexual assault is as present as the danger of a sunburn, it means no one he loves has been through what we have. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
**This post is dedicated to the brave women who shared their strength with me to make this piece possible. Our words and experiences are blended into one voice, because when one woman is attacked, every woman bleeds.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
An Important Lesson from Chickengate.
Yesterday, my partner and I did not go kiss in front of a Chick Fil A. We did not choose to abstain from the protest because my wife remains marginally closeted for professional reasons. We did not stay home because we couldn’t find information regarding which Chick Fil A to go to at what time. It was an experience we shared the night before that made us realize we don’t give a damn what Chick Fil A thinks.
Late Thursday night, like married couples do, my Sweetie and I quarreled. To vent my frustrations, I took our dog for a walk. Though I wasn’t gone long, when I returned my girl was already in bed reading a book. As I started to prepare for my shower, she took hold of my wrist and gave it a gentle tug, a cue to get in bed beside her. I was still in my street clothes and reeked of cigarette smoke, but I lay down on top of the covers and Sweetie pulled me into her arms. She stroked my hair and whispered “Baby, I’m sorry.” My, “I forgive you” was understood, but remained unsaid. Even after seven years, my wife’s embrace can leave me breathless. It was in that moment, as I intertwined my fingers with hers, and our cat wriggled his way into the middle of our cuddle, that I realized no amount of hate can touch this love.
There is no word can be said. There is no bill can be passed. There is no rock can be thrown, that will break-up this marriage. It is not a piece of paper stamped by a bureaucrat that makes us married. It is the way she bags up the trash for me to take it out. It is the kiss I place on her shoulder blade whenever I find myself behind her. It is the way we refer to each other as mom, or momma when talking to our pets, and shake our heads when we see the new “girls fashion” at Target. It is the box of her favorite candy hidden in the back of the pantry, and the bottle of my favorite tea picked up on the way home. It is learning to forgive the socks on the floor, but nagging about the leak under the sink. It is the frustration of one that other stayed late at work without calling. It is proofreading each other’s papers, presentations, and blog posts. It is giving in that she will talk on the phone while driving, but insisting that she use a bluetooth because I worry. It’s laughing at the same in-jokes for half a decade and learning to love the produce stickers on the freezer door. It is the day I realized my aversion to juice or tea made with corn syrup was entirely her influence. It is reserving every “I told you so.” It's being the human dictionary to her human calculator, and always being in awe of her uncanny googling skills. It is the way she really listens when I blather about evolutionarily maladaptive traits in arachnids, or socio-political theory as represented in The Hunger Games or other such pedantry. It's understanding each other's need for alone time and her coming to terms with my close friendship with my ex. It is forgiveness and learning to let go of grudges. It is that one thing each of us does that makes the other insane. It's the library fines incurred when I insist she read the book I just finished, and forget to renew it online. It is the midday text messages that say I am thinking of you. It is ending every phone call with “I love you” before “goodbye.” It is accepting that we will fight, and learning to fight fair. It is never going to bed angry, even if it means staying up til 2am, that make our relationship as impossible to put asunder as any legal marriage. No amount of waffle fries can ever take that away.
Late Thursday night, like married couples do, my Sweetie and I quarreled. To vent my frustrations, I took our dog for a walk. Though I wasn’t gone long, when I returned my girl was already in bed reading a book. As I started to prepare for my shower, she took hold of my wrist and gave it a gentle tug, a cue to get in bed beside her. I was still in my street clothes and reeked of cigarette smoke, but I lay down on top of the covers and Sweetie pulled me into her arms. She stroked my hair and whispered “Baby, I’m sorry.” My, “I forgive you” was understood, but remained unsaid. Even after seven years, my wife’s embrace can leave me breathless. It was in that moment, as I intertwined my fingers with hers, and our cat wriggled his way into the middle of our cuddle, that I realized no amount of hate can touch this love.
There is no word can be said. There is no bill can be passed. There is no rock can be thrown, that will break-up this marriage. It is not a piece of paper stamped by a bureaucrat that makes us married. It is the way she bags up the trash for me to take it out. It is the kiss I place on her shoulder blade whenever I find myself behind her. It is the way we refer to each other as mom, or momma when talking to our pets, and shake our heads when we see the new “girls fashion” at Target. It is the box of her favorite candy hidden in the back of the pantry, and the bottle of my favorite tea picked up on the way home. It is learning to forgive the socks on the floor, but nagging about the leak under the sink. It is the frustration of one that other stayed late at work without calling. It is proofreading each other’s papers, presentations, and blog posts. It is giving in that she will talk on the phone while driving, but insisting that she use a bluetooth because I worry. It’s laughing at the same in-jokes for half a decade and learning to love the produce stickers on the freezer door. It is the day I realized my aversion to juice or tea made with corn syrup was entirely her influence. It is reserving every “I told you so.” It's being the human dictionary to her human calculator, and always being in awe of her uncanny googling skills. It is the way she really listens when I blather about evolutionarily maladaptive traits in arachnids, or socio-political theory as represented in The Hunger Games or other such pedantry. It's understanding each other's need for alone time and her coming to terms with my close friendship with my ex. It is forgiveness and learning to let go of grudges. It is that one thing each of us does that makes the other insane. It's the library fines incurred when I insist she read the book I just finished, and forget to renew it online. It is the midday text messages that say I am thinking of you. It is ending every phone call with “I love you” before “goodbye.” It is accepting that we will fight, and learning to fight fair. It is never going to bed angry, even if it means staying up til 2am, that make our relationship as impossible to put asunder as any legal marriage. No amount of waffle fries can ever take that away.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Talk Nerdy To Me
We've all done it, though most of us won't admit it. We have all seen a beautiful person of our preferred gender across a crowded room and thought, "there stands an angel" or at least "there stands someone I want to bumb bodies with." When this occures the more daring will approach said heavenly creature and do our level best to make an impression that leads to a lifetime, or maybe a night of bliss. Some are better at this than others. I am not one of those people. But, I have had my share of success with the ladies and what follows is a greatest hits of my fortunes and follies of picking up chicks.
10 nerdy things I have done to get laid
1) Temporarily dyed my hair to match the dress of my prom date.
Did it work? Not at all
2) Turned paper "Conversation Heart" decorations into a little book asking girl out on a date.
Did it work? First Base
3) Won a party game consisting of anonymously writing a description of your dream date and asked a cute girl at the party if she wanted me to make that dream come true.
Did it work? Didn't even have to wait for the dream date to happen.
4) Sang love songs at Karaoke, dedicated to the woman I was hoping to bed.
Did it work? Everytime
4a) Acted like a wannabe badass and rapped Eminem at karaoke
Did it work? NEVER
5) Spoke Spanish to a girl from South America; said her name was beautiful.
Did it work? She was from Brazil
6) Took out an ad in a local weekly confessing my love
Did it work? Not even when combined with the breakfast I bought her to ensure she read the ad
7) Texted lyrics to love songs from her favorite band during the middle of the work day.
Did it work? Absolutely
8) Broke out dance moves inspired by high school musical choreography and Dance Dance Revolution.
Did it work? Not even a little bit
8a) Challenged the girl she was dating to a DDR off, 1980's teen movie style
Did it work? I did get out of my pants, but only because of all the jumping and stomping while not wearing a belt.
9) Talked about what I had learned in school about the principal exports and political environment of a foreign girl's home country.
Did it work? Could have, but this could also be attributed to introducing said girl to my friend, Jack Daniels.
10) One word. Shakespeare
Did it work? "Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie"
This post is dedicated to my wonderful partner of (damn near) seven years for falling for my goofy butt and saving me from the dating scene. I love you Spiderman!
10 nerdy things I have done to get laid
1) Temporarily dyed my hair to match the dress of my prom date.
Did it work? Not at all
2) Turned paper "Conversation Heart" decorations into a little book asking girl out on a date.
Did it work? First Base
3) Won a party game consisting of anonymously writing a description of your dream date and asked a cute girl at the party if she wanted me to make that dream come true.
Did it work? Didn't even have to wait for the dream date to happen.
4) Sang love songs at Karaoke, dedicated to the woman I was hoping to bed.
Did it work? Everytime
4a) Acted like a wannabe badass and rapped Eminem at karaoke
Did it work? NEVER
5) Spoke Spanish to a girl from South America; said her name was beautiful.
Did it work? She was from Brazil
6) Took out an ad in a local weekly confessing my love
Did it work? Not even when combined with the breakfast I bought her to ensure she read the ad
7) Texted lyrics to love songs from her favorite band during the middle of the work day.
Did it work? Absolutely
8) Broke out dance moves inspired by high school musical choreography and Dance Dance Revolution.
Did it work? Not even a little bit
8a) Challenged the girl she was dating to a DDR off, 1980's teen movie style
Did it work? I did get out of my pants, but only because of all the jumping and stomping while not wearing a belt.
9) Talked about what I had learned in school about the principal exports and political environment of a foreign girl's home country.
Did it work? Could have, but this could also be attributed to introducing said girl to my friend, Jack Daniels.
10) One word. Shakespeare
Did it work? "Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie"
This post is dedicated to my wonderful partner of (damn near) seven years for falling for my goofy butt and saving me from the dating scene. I love you Spiderman!
Monday, May 14, 2012
Picking Cherries
I planned not to post this particular piece, because it comes off a bit zealous and preachy, but my friend, Ian, has offered a strong point that I want to echo. This was posted on his Facebook this morning.
I once said in a group of near strangers that my politics were strongly tied to my religion. Having apparently not noticed that I had mentioned my long-term lesbian relationship 18 times, a few people recoiled and asked in tones filled with partisan disdain, "Are you a Republican?" Of course, I corrected them and spewed a little vitriol about the loud mouthed Conservative Christians that give the perceived minority Liberal Christians a bad name. The following post is inspired by a similar, though much more intimate situation. For the many of you reading this who prefer to have little to do with discussions of the Bible, I beg your indulgence and mean only to express my beliefs, not shove them.
Without further Ado, Picking Cherries
A few nights ago, my girlfriend, who is Jewish, came across a passage from the New Testament in a book she was reading. She asked me about the context, and then her love of asking me questions combined with my love of explaining things (something that makes us perfect for each other) and led to a pretty lengthy bedtime Bible lesson. I introduced the major players and defined some key New Testament vocabulary, and it was in the discussion of parables that my Dear One got confused. Illustrating by example I told her my two favorites of Christ’s teachings, the parable of the Good Samaritan and the parable of the Sheep and the Goats. Both are found in Matthew, or if you’re not a big reader, the musical Godspell. Having just been subject to a verse from Romans, condemning us, personally, for loving each other, she asked me, “If Jesus said to love everybody, how can Christians hate gay people?”
I was floored. How could I answer the greatest question in progressive Christianity to someone who, minutes ago, didn't know the definition of Apostle, and only 6 hours before the alarm clock was to go off? I took a breath, and found my words. “It’s called, cherry picking.”
“The Bible is huge,” I told her “and contradicts itself an amazing number of times. Because we can’t take it all in, we have to pick and choose what we remember. There are those, who chose to remember that which they think elevates themselves above others. Take Leviticus. We hear over and over the verse that it is an abomination for a man to sleep with a man, but how often to we hear the commandments to not touch your wife during her period or to stone rape victims, that are in that very same chapter? People pick and choose Old and New Testament alike. Some people find a verse that condemns something they don’t like and trumpet it like it is the only thing Jesus ever said. It’s sad, but it happens.
“But there is another kind.” I said. “I cherry pick the verses that make me feel good about life and other people. Jesus said to ‘Love G-d and love your neighbor as yourself’ to remove the plank from your own eye before attempting to take the spec from your brother’s and do your good deeds in secret, not for the praise of men. He taught kindness and generosity saying, 'that which you did for the least of your brothers, you also did for me’ and 'one cannot love G-d and money,' and He warned against pride with 'blessed are the meek and persecuted.' These are the parts I accept and apply to my own life, and I leave all that abomination stuff for someone else to thump. It’s cherry picking, sure, but I’m pretty sure my cherries are much sweeter than the ones that condemn for doing this…” I kissed her, closed my eyes, said a prayer, and went to sleep happy.
"I'm reading too much, trying to witnes too much. Somebody's got to pay attention. But there's too many acts of vicious stupidity & violent ignorance happening everywhere. Bigotry is winning over tolorance. Religious oppression over spiritual freedom, and God help me, hate is winning over love. I am alomost hoping that something really IS going to happen on December 21st. We can't go on like this." -Ian Egan
I once said in a group of near strangers that my politics were strongly tied to my religion. Having apparently not noticed that I had mentioned my long-term lesbian relationship 18 times, a few people recoiled and asked in tones filled with partisan disdain, "Are you a Republican?" Of course, I corrected them and spewed a little vitriol about the loud mouthed Conservative Christians that give the perceived minority Liberal Christians a bad name. The following post is inspired by a similar, though much more intimate situation. For the many of you reading this who prefer to have little to do with discussions of the Bible, I beg your indulgence and mean only to express my beliefs, not shove them.
Without further Ado, Picking Cherries
A few nights ago, my girlfriend, who is Jewish, came across a passage from the New Testament in a book she was reading. She asked me about the context, and then her love of asking me questions combined with my love of explaining things (something that makes us perfect for each other) and led to a pretty lengthy bedtime Bible lesson. I introduced the major players and defined some key New Testament vocabulary, and it was in the discussion of parables that my Dear One got confused. Illustrating by example I told her my two favorites of Christ’s teachings, the parable of the Good Samaritan and the parable of the Sheep and the Goats. Both are found in Matthew, or if you’re not a big reader, the musical Godspell. Having just been subject to a verse from Romans, condemning us, personally, for loving each other, she asked me, “If Jesus said to love everybody, how can Christians hate gay people?”
I was floored. How could I answer the greatest question in progressive Christianity to someone who, minutes ago, didn't know the definition of Apostle, and only 6 hours before the alarm clock was to go off? I took a breath, and found my words. “It’s called, cherry picking.”
“The Bible is huge,” I told her “and contradicts itself an amazing number of times. Because we can’t take it all in, we have to pick and choose what we remember. There are those, who chose to remember that which they think elevates themselves above others. Take Leviticus. We hear over and over the verse that it is an abomination for a man to sleep with a man, but how often to we hear the commandments to not touch your wife during her period or to stone rape victims, that are in that very same chapter? People pick and choose Old and New Testament alike. Some people find a verse that condemns something they don’t like and trumpet it like it is the only thing Jesus ever said. It’s sad, but it happens.
“But there is another kind.” I said. “I cherry pick the verses that make me feel good about life and other people. Jesus said to ‘Love G-d and love your neighbor as yourself’ to remove the plank from your own eye before attempting to take the spec from your brother’s and do your good deeds in secret, not for the praise of men. He taught kindness and generosity saying, 'that which you did for the least of your brothers, you also did for me’ and 'one cannot love G-d and money,' and He warned against pride with 'blessed are the meek and persecuted.' These are the parts I accept and apply to my own life, and I leave all that abomination stuff for someone else to thump. It’s cherry picking, sure, but I’m pretty sure my cherries are much sweeter than the ones that condemn for doing this…” I kissed her, closed my eyes, said a prayer, and went to sleep happy.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Crying for Cash
Beyond the torture that was the day to day in this hell hole, I sucked at the job. I took the insults personally and, in the three months I worked there, even though I worked on at least 10 campaigns, the only pennies I raised were for the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA). Despite giving up a dream of military service for a life of being gay, I couldn’t rake in a dime for the agencies fighting for the end of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell (I hear they did alright without my help) and being unable to legally commit to my partner, not a nickel came forth for ending The Defense of Marriage Act. Raising money for candidates running against the Tea Party was like squeezing blood from a cement turnip with a bad temper. It was only for the puppies that i could convince people to open their coffers. There is one reason for this, and one reason alone. Tears. I couldn’t help it. After hours of reading the same script about puppy mills and animal abuse the eye juice just flowed. I had recently begun fostering for a dog rescue and with every syllable, I imagined my fluffy little spaniel and the hard life he had escaped. My heart broke on every call and money poured in through the shower of my sobs.
I don’t know if the people I talked to were moved by my passion, or just felt sorry for me, but so much money was donated by my inability to control my emotions, that I was the number one call maker for that account. Being, at best, motivated by praise, and at worst, an attention whore, I was excited to see what awards and prizes I would achieve for my keen ability to weep my way into cash. My only recognition was my name, written in dry erase marker on wipe board, for one day. It was the most anticlimactic moment of my life, that didn’t include having sex with a man. It’s exhausting crying your eyes out for money, and I felt I’d earned an hour of PTO, or something to hang in my shared mini-cube at least. But no, my name, misspelled in grease pen, was my only reward. I quit that godforsaken venture the next day. It was better to be broke than living on the edge of emotional breakdown for minimum wage. What good did come from this worst job ever was the lines of verse you will see in my next Poem Of The Week, a piece titled, Think of the Puppies.
*UPDATE* I wrote "Think of the Puppies" on the back of a pay stub from that awful job, and after a week of searching, it is apparently gone with the money it endowed. Sorry Guys.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
I'm a Belieber!
At least a couple times a week, a pink rubber bracelet adorns my right wrist. Written in huge green letters is the name of my favorite tiny-tot pop star, Justin Bieber. Though this middle school millionaire doesn’t need any of my money, I shelled out the three dollars and fifty cents to support his work. I have obviously gotten a lot of guff for it, but I really don’t care. I love the Biebs.
For years before returning to college, I worked in preschools. If you have never spent forty hours a week surrounded by four-year-olds, you might not know that pre-schoolers love to sing, and they sing, ad infinitum, whatever they heard on mom or dad’s iPod on the way to school. Imagine if you will, the following lyrics from the mouths of students who have only recently graduated from toddler-hood.
“I kissed a girl and I liked it. Hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”
“How’d I turn my shirt inside out? … we’re all gettin’ hosed tonight”
“I see you drivin round town … and I’m like ‘forget you’” (If you’re lucky. Some kids' parents have the unedited version, and most four-year-olds are only just learning the concept of “cuss words”)
“Girl look at that body … I’m sexy and I know it”
“Last Friday night We went streaking in the park Skinny dipping in the dark Then had a ménage à trois”
“And I was like,“Baby baby baby Oh! Baby Baby Baby NO!” these songs are inappropriate for you! People who were recently three years old should not be singing about threesomes!
About this time, a friend dared me to create The Bieber Day Tweets, a project in which I created a Justin Bieber station on Pandora, listened to it straight for 12 hours and tweeted the experience live. Given that half the space on my iPod is taken up with Marilyn Manson and Nirvana, (what can i say? I love the 90s) I have to say that this was torture, but when one doesn’t drink, interesting bar-bets are hard to come by. I did get 4 new followers out of the ordeal so, I guess that’s a win. What I discovered during this aural assault, was that Bieber’s lyrics, though sometimes with a misogynist bent (referring to a girl as a prized possession) were largely family friendly. Annoying and repetitive as it was, I could listen to my class singing ‘Baby, baby baby” and “One less lonely girl” without my stomach turning. I quickly added the songs to the Center Time Playlist, along with the discovery of Taylor Swift’s song about short skirts and t-shirts and other karo-syrupy teeny-bopper love songs. There’s really not much that makes a stressful day in kinder-land brighter than a chorus of boys, decked out in their dramatic play center finest, belting Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me” In honor of taking my classroom from a pint sized musicall orgy to a place I was not disgusted to work, I support the Bieber. Baby baby baby, Oh Thank You!
For years before returning to college, I worked in preschools. If you have never spent forty hours a week surrounded by four-year-olds, you might not know that pre-schoolers love to sing, and they sing, ad infinitum, whatever they heard on mom or dad’s iPod on the way to school. Imagine if you will, the following lyrics from the mouths of students who have only recently graduated from toddler-hood.
“I kissed a girl and I liked it. Hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”
“How’d I turn my shirt inside out? … we’re all gettin’ hosed tonight”
“I see you drivin round town … and I’m like ‘forget you’” (If you’re lucky. Some kids' parents have the unedited version, and most four-year-olds are only just learning the concept of “cuss words”)
“Girl look at that body … I’m sexy and I know it”
“Last Friday night We went streaking in the park Skinny dipping in the dark Then had a ménage à trois”
“And I was like,“Baby baby baby Oh! Baby Baby Baby NO!” these songs are inappropriate for you! People who were recently three years old should not be singing about threesomes!
About this time, a friend dared me to create The Bieber Day Tweets, a project in which I created a Justin Bieber station on Pandora, listened to it straight for 12 hours and tweeted the experience live. Given that half the space on my iPod is taken up with Marilyn Manson and Nirvana, (what can i say? I love the 90s) I have to say that this was torture, but when one doesn’t drink, interesting bar-bets are hard to come by. I did get 4 new followers out of the ordeal so, I guess that’s a win. What I discovered during this aural assault, was that Bieber’s lyrics, though sometimes with a misogynist bent (referring to a girl as a prized possession) were largely family friendly. Annoying and repetitive as it was, I could listen to my class singing ‘Baby, baby baby” and “One less lonely girl” without my stomach turning. I quickly added the songs to the Center Time Playlist, along with the discovery of Taylor Swift’s song about short skirts and t-shirts and other karo-syrupy teeny-bopper love songs. There’s really not much that makes a stressful day in kinder-land brighter than a chorus of boys, decked out in their dramatic play center finest, belting Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me” In honor of taking my classroom from a pint sized musicall orgy to a place I was not disgusted to work, I support the Bieber. Baby baby baby, Oh Thank You!
Monday, April 16, 2012
Give Me Coffee and Everybody Lives
All hail to the goddess Cafeina, bringer of the day and slayer of zombies!
Mornings cannot begin without a dose of my favorite beverage, the purveyor of personalities, coffee. I am as ardent a holder of my morning coffee + cigarette routine as second grader with Autism. Every morning the same steps: set up the coffee, smoke a cigarette, drink the coffee, repeat steps 2 and 3 until brain fog subsides and I become human. My days have begun this way for nearly a decade, but now there is glitch in the system. The glitch’s name is Sebastian. Sebastian is the orange tabby who recently came to keep me company in my apartment, and he is squirming his way into screwing up my mornings. For some reason, he believes that as soon as my eyes open, I am supposed to do silly things like pet him and fill his food dish. He doesn’t seem to understand that pre-coffee mommy is a zombie, who would bite off his head if she didn’t have to bend down to reach it. Each morning, as I stumble to the porch with my first cup of brew he twists himself around my ankles and it is all I can do not to A, trip over him, B, step on him, or C accidentally pour hot coffee on his little mewing head. Perhaps it shows I am unfit to be a kitten-momma, but there I times I consider dowsing him just once to teach him to hold back on the cute until mom is sufficiently caffeinated, but it would waste my coffee.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Adventures in Pre-K, Stopped in his Bullying Tracks
Children can be cruel. It is difficult to witness kid-on-kid bullying and equally difficult to squelch it in your classroom. Picking on others is in the DNA of the grade-school set, and often it is not grown out of even in high school, even in adulthood. The seeds of meanness are sown early.
At one point ,while I was teaching pre-k, a snooty little five year old was practicing being a bully in my classroom. I called him on the carpet every time I heard and insult fly from his asshole-in-training mouth, and it was clear he was getting tired of it. One day this boy, sweetly said to me “Miss Becky?” And then, with all the I’m-the-Director’s-son-and-thusly-incorrigible attitude he could muster, proudly proclaimed, “You’re FAT!”
I looked down at his bespectacled grin and calmly said, “Yes, C*****, and you have blue eyes. What’s your point?” The smile ran away from his face and he looked confused. Wasn’t I supposed to be upset? Wasn’t I supposed to yell, or to cry? Why didn’t his words hurt me?
The truth is, they did.
As a result of bad genetics, permissive parenting, and growing up in the American South, I was a chubby kid, and am a chubby adult. I was actually very slim as a teen, but that was mostly due to Adderall and an eating disorder. This preschooler’s words jolted me back to my own grade-school existance and the constant taunts of my classmates. Still, I couldn't let on, and I refused to let this bully in the making have any satisfaction off of me. To keep my own pride intact, and more important, teach this kid something, I got down on his level, and stared him right through his coke bottle lenses. “Why would you say that, C*****? Were you trying to hurt my feelings?”He stared at the floor. I could tell he wanted to run away, but my authority figure status glued his Tom’s slip-ons to the floor. “Is it any fun when someone else hurts your feelings? What if a friend said your glasses look stupid” He pushed the lenses back up on his nose, without looking up.
“I wouldn’t like it” came his meek response.
“No, I bet you wouldn’t. Why do we try a little ‘treat our friends like we want to be treated’ for the rest of the day?” When he saw that a time-out wasn’t headed his way, he looked up, eyes brightening. “But, C*****, “ I asked. (I always say the kid’s name a lot when I’m trying to make a point) “What do we do when we hurt somebody’s feelings?”
“Say Sorry.” came his rote response. then he paused, as though trying to figure out if hurting a teacher’s feeling was a worse crime than hurting a friend’s, and if it would be repaired by the same phrase. He then quoted chapter and verse the lines I had taught all my students to recite when they are in the wrong. “I’m sorry I called you fat. Do you still want to play with me?” Knowing I had the right, like I had taught the kids, to say “no, I am still upset,” and walk away, I considered it, but I smiled as I stood up and ruffled his blonde curls.
“Sure, “C*****, let’s go play some Legos”
At one point ,while I was teaching pre-k, a snooty little five year old was practicing being a bully in my classroom. I called him on the carpet every time I heard and insult fly from his asshole-in-training mouth, and it was clear he was getting tired of it. One day this boy, sweetly said to me “Miss Becky?” And then, with all the I’m-the-Director’s-son-and-thusly-incorrigible attitude he could muster, proudly proclaimed, “You’re FAT!”
I looked down at his bespectacled grin and calmly said, “Yes, C*****, and you have blue eyes. What’s your point?” The smile ran away from his face and he looked confused. Wasn’t I supposed to be upset? Wasn’t I supposed to yell, or to cry? Why didn’t his words hurt me?
The truth is, they did.
As a result of bad genetics, permissive parenting, and growing up in the American South, I was a chubby kid, and am a chubby adult. I was actually very slim as a teen, but that was mostly due to Adderall and an eating disorder. This preschooler’s words jolted me back to my own grade-school existance and the constant taunts of my classmates. Still, I couldn't let on, and I refused to let this bully in the making have any satisfaction off of me. To keep my own pride intact, and more important, teach this kid something, I got down on his level, and stared him right through his coke bottle lenses. “Why would you say that, C*****? Were you trying to hurt my feelings?”He stared at the floor. I could tell he wanted to run away, but my authority figure status glued his Tom’s slip-ons to the floor. “Is it any fun when someone else hurts your feelings? What if a friend said your glasses look stupid” He pushed the lenses back up on his nose, without looking up.
“I wouldn’t like it” came his meek response.
“No, I bet you wouldn’t. Why do we try a little ‘treat our friends like we want to be treated’ for the rest of the day?” When he saw that a time-out wasn’t headed his way, he looked up, eyes brightening. “But, C*****, “ I asked. (I always say the kid’s name a lot when I’m trying to make a point) “What do we do when we hurt somebody’s feelings?”
“Say Sorry.” came his rote response. then he paused, as though trying to figure out if hurting a teacher’s feeling was a worse crime than hurting a friend’s, and if it would be repaired by the same phrase. He then quoted chapter and verse the lines I had taught all my students to recite when they are in the wrong. “I’m sorry I called you fat. Do you still want to play with me?” Knowing I had the right, like I had taught the kids, to say “no, I am still upset,” and walk away, I considered it, but I smiled as I stood up and ruffled his blonde curls.
“Sure, “C*****, let’s go play some Legos”
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