Foil Pencils, Hate Crimes, and Judy Blume.

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by the most bibliophile fifthgraders, included full-size stale candy bars and a Babysitter's Club calendar only 2 years out of date.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. "

Gay Marriage Will Destroy Society, as told in musical theater

I really am my most insightful at 0100. Late last night, or early this morning, as I was brushing my teeth, a song from Fiddler on the Roof was playing in my head. Figuring how it got there was futile, so I moved on to thinking about the theme of the musical play. That's when my mind made the crazy pants, midnight jump from musical theater to Gay marriage. I know, right. Musicals to Gays? How do those connect? That’s about the time my wandering mind fell upon an upsetting but undeniable truth. This schmaltzy community theater staple holds a stern warning about just what a real and dangerous threat to traditional marriage Homosexual matrimony truly is.

The big opening number of Fiddler features the full cast, the entirety of the village, singing proudly of the importance of tradition. [I like this version] As the story progresses, the three oldest daughters of the protagonist, Tevye, come of age and marry. Each in ways further challenging the tradition they sang about approximately a half hour before. The lynchpin of this chain of events is the eldest daughter, who defies tradition by eschewing the arrangement to the well off butcher, to live in poverty with the tailor she is mad for. It was marrying for love that rocked the entire community. It set in motion the snowball that led to the youngest of the three committing the unspeakable act of marrying outside the Jewish faith. This defiance found  her wed to her beloved, but divorced from her family. In an hour and a half of adapted for Broadway Klezmer music, a family is torn apart by breaking tradition to marry for love. If bucking tradition simply by marrying without Daddy’s permission can wreck a fictional family, real-life Gay marriage will blow traditional marriage off the map.

It is a tiresome argument that the conservative Right pontificate about preserving traditional marriage, and the liberal Left waste their breath trying to convince the Right that they have no idea what the words traditional marriage mean. Surely Tevye and company can be trusted as the guardians of tradition. The tell us that marriage is a business deal between man and a father, for the privilege of marrying / getting rid of a daughter.

If we take a look and the traditional marriage practices of the last thousands of years or so, a traditional marriage is a transaction of property. Asking for a lady's hand sounded much less "make me the happiest man alive" and much more "I offer a cow for your lovely daughter.  Two goats for the ugly one" Then bargain was signed and sealed. A contract. A marriage contract?  Yes. Such a thing was the bond of matrimony back then and is remains to this day. The Ketubah  is alive and well and an integral piece of a Jewish wedding and marriage. Of course, over time it has stepped far from the exchanging of livestock for women, but despite the PR makeover, it descended from documents signed to close a sale.

Now, let’s step away from all the Jewyness for a second, because marriage as business has never been specifically Hebraic. The royals of Europe were just as without choice in partner, forced to marry for politics’ sake.  The practice of betrothing a child even before birth was common in Asia. In fact, today up to 90 percent of marriages in India arranged*.  

Even in the Land Of The Free marriage is about money, or was until the 1960s. Women often entered college seeking an M.r.s. Degree first and a Bachelor's in something or other as a fall back. It was always hoped by women and their families that they would "marry well" What does it mean to marry well? A woman used whatever charms she had to rope a man who would be a good provider for her and her children. Provider, in this case, is a euphemism for meal ticket.

It wasn't until the Women's Liberation movement of the 1970s that marriage started to inch its way toward becoming a partnership of equals. Less than forty years ago marrying for money was the status quo. Marrying for love was the domain of harry legged bra burners, if they chose to marry at all. If the traditional marriage all those law makers are trying to protect are the unions of a man and his property or a financier and his whore then Gay marriage is a terrific threat. When heterosexuals marrying for love challenges traditional marriage, equal marriage rights for Gays will destroy it. It's hard to maintain patriarchy in a same sex relationship, but more than that,  Gays won't marry for money.

The very definition of Gay or Homosexual is loving someone of the same sex. The kind of love that can not be ignored or repressed for long, no matter how deeply it’s shoved to the back of a closet. For heterosexuals, love is a feeling, a state of being, perhaps. For Gays, love is identity. We are who we love. The search for financial security from a partner or hope of finding a sugar daddy exists among us, but these couples aren't the ones standing in line for days to obtain marriage licenses. This is what terrifies the conservative lawmakers who, in their younger days, married a swell gal though she married a cash cow. These older gentleman have come to resent their loveless relationships to the point of tapping feet in airport bathrooms and posting photos of their private parts on Twitter. They want what we have, so they are doing their damnedest not to let us enjoy it.

But we do enjoy it, every single day. Every morning we kiss our partners out the door. We read news apps together over coffee. We go to absurd lengths to build our families. We embrace at every opportunity. We fight, and we make up. We nag and we negotiate. We reluctantly take out the garbage. Our tastes in movies and music somehow meld overtime. We become fans-by-marriage of the other's beloved sports team. We warm up to our would-be in laws  We forget which box our Menorahs are stored in and create makeshift ones out of glass bottles. (Okay, maybe that's just my family.) My point is, Gay people are married in their hearts and minds and daily lives all around you. In states where it is legal and in states where it is constitutionally forbidden . And all of us are married in our way, out of love and nothing but love. The traditionalists watch us, green-eyed and fuming. They know that when marriages are bound by heart strings, the tetherings of purse strings are as steady as a fiddler on the roof.

 

TRADITION! 

*Citation - abc 20/20

The Play(ing) is the Thing.

We do not quit playing because we grow old; we grow old because we quit playing.
Oliver Wendell Holmes


Down down baby down down the rollercoaster shimmy shimmy coco pops shimmy shimmy .... Thats all I can remember of the chant I sang daily while clapping my hands in intricate patterns with a friend, sister, or cousin. More of the Crocodilla chant remains in my memory, and maybe some Miss Mary Mac. But I don't recall any of the rules of hopscotch, and I can't remember the last time I laid eyes on a jumprope or hula hoop. Some say these are the trappings of the children and the childish, and are right to be left behind. I disagree. Such are the harborors and hearteners of imagination, and the lack of inhibition to enjoy it freely. It was playing, and when you're little, playing is unlimited supply of happiness carried in your pocket for instant access.

I wonder when I forgot to how to play. When the occupation of my imagination shifted from the elaborate melodramas of Barbie and Ken to poetry and blog posts? When did my bicycle cease being a Kentucky Derby winner and become a clothes rack? When did I trade doll clothes for computer screens? When did the matchbox cars in my palms get replaced by mice? Why are the toys which abound in my apartment silent and still? What happened to me? What happened to all of us?

When I was a kid, playing Barbies was one of my favorite things to do. I never bothered changing her clothes or brushing her hair, and none of my dolls had their shoes anymore. But hours a day, my Barbies, Skippers and Kens were actors in my little mind's grotesque theatre. Skipper was often left to fend for her little brother after Barbie launched herself off the top the Dream House and Step-dad Ken descended into alcoholism. When I figured out I could replace the dolls’ heads after I had ripped them off, bloody revolutions took place in my playroom and the monarchy of the tyranical Queen Barbie was overthrown again and again. Many dolls met their horible demise under the wheels of that hot pink remote control car. Sometimes, Barbie took Little Sister Skipper to the movies, and bought her popcorn.


However they were engaged, my little actors could go on all day. Living, and dying for love or greed, beating the wolves away from the door, or being maimed or eaten by them, and burying Skipper’s dog in the back yard again and again. An endless parade of scenes from the imagination of a young child who probably needed some therapy. My teddy bear, Theodore Edward Behr, became my son and I taught him to dance, cradled him in my arms as we slept behind dumpsters in the rain, and sent him off to his grandmother's to die from everything from chicken pox to AIDS. Yes, I am sure I needed therapy. But as twisted and aberrant as it may have been, it was play. It was imagination. It was escape into a world of my creating that played by my rules. And it was fun.

Along the way our dolls were replaced by dollars. As we went from training wheels to training bras our drive and desire to play relpaced by our desire to drive. Why did it slip away? Was it when the forth grade girls who swung from the monkey bars became the fifth grade girls who climed to sit on top of them and talk about boys? Was that the beginning of the end? Was it because the sixth grade girls and boys had no more recess time at all? Was it because our cutesy cartoon backpacks couldn't carry the burdens of a nineth graders homework, or because high school brings more burdens than books alone? All I know is, by graduation playing anything but hooky was gone for good.

As a pre-school teacher, I watched my four-year-olds engage in elaborate stories of home and harth in the dramatic play center. Laughing uproariously as they dressed in ridiculous ensembles of donated clothes, and found fanciful occupations for mundane items, like tiny dented pans and plastic carrots. I watched them from behind glass. Their's was a land to which I had no passport.

Across the room at the Leggo table, odd assemblage of squares and rectangles were cars for superheros, or superheros themselves. Evil monsters who shot lasers out of their armpits battled T-rex dinosaurs that could fly and devour Monster trucks in one bite. At least that's what their makers told me. All I could see was bright colored blocks, stuck together seemingly at random. I walked the room an outsider. I observed their play, monitored their safety and waited for the teacher who would be my relief, because center time was just so boring. One can only watch birds at a feeder for so long, knowing they themselves have forgotten how to fly.

Wanting so badly to reconnect with my floor sitting, doll playing, imagination of past, I conducted an experiment today. I took out the box of toys I keep for the children I babysit, and tried to play with them. I dumped them on the floor and let my imagination go, hoping I could tap into that childhood bank of playtime memories with ease. The most I could come up with was a Beanie Babies Basset Hound protecting a stuffed chicken from a hungry alligator puppet. This lasted approximately fourteen seconds. I was better with the matchbox cars, racing and crashing into each other, and I made a half hearted Potato Head Picasso. I turned circles and waved my arm to make Buzz Lightyear soar through the galaxy, and bounced him and Woody up and down, having a conversation to which i could put no words. My attempts at play were empty. Forced and void of imagination. Going through motions. All a shallow hull of what used to be purest joy that filled my days and my young spirit. Frustrated, I gave up on playtime, and turned to the computer. At the very least I could enjoy a few rounds of Candy Crush Saga, or shoot a few zombies. That's playing, right? Kind of? Maybe? That's when I remembered the old copy of The Sims I came accross when clearing out some boxes a few weeks ago. I loaded it up and created a few characters. I turned on god-mode, the setting that removes the characters' free will and makes their every move up to you, and whatever your imagination deems. They aren't Barbie Dolls exactly, but I'm sure I can think of some kind of dramtics for them to portray. Maybe I will even let them live.

VIDEO POST - Poetry Live In Austin -

Mouse With A Machete goes officially multimedia! Woot! Huzzah! Hot Damn! Fabulous!

And various other exclamations of excitement and joy.

I started writing poetry and 8, and performing it at 18. For an number of years I held a high place among the denizens of the Austin open mic scene, even taking home some cash for featured performances. After a hiatus of enjoying a brand new marriage and seeking a degree, I hit the stage with poetry taken to a whole new level of bare honesty and craft.  This video was taken and a live performance in Austin, TX. 

Austin Hot - Mouse

For more videos of poetry and other performances, go like our Facebook page.

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The Higher Callings of Flowers and Chocolate

It’s Valentine’s Day and Facebook and Twitter are blowing up with statuses, images, tweets, and memes expressing more vehement oppositions than we saw through the entire election season. Single people are out in droves protesting the grave elitism of chocolate and flowers, baring their jealousy with fangs and herbicide  Sympathetic couples declare that it’s “just another day” and “show your partner you love them everyday.” More romantic couples are trying to convince such V-day haters to stop peeing on their Poptarts. Or in this case, Russel Stovers. It’s war out there people. Perhaps that’s why Cupid is depicted as an archer. But there’s much more to this holiday than the joining lips of lovers, and spitting mouths of singles. It appears that no one seems to get the point of the love potion tipped arrows.
Like most holidays, St Valentine’s Day begins with a legend. We like our legends here. It gives us the power of shouting ‘It’s just a made up bogus tradition” around any holiday or festival we are not fond of. Still, the legend of St. Valentine is one we should all consider carefully, before setting any Hallmark stores ablaze. As it is told, In third century Rome, Emperor Claudius Gothicus set many laws oppressing the Christian minority in his state. One of these edicts was that Christians were not allowed to marry. A minority group denied the right to marry by the government? Rings familiar doesn’t it?

Saint Valentine, who was Valentinus at the time, defied the Emperor by committing the brash crime of showing empathy and kindness and performing marriages of gay .. I mean Christian couples. For his troubles he was arrested and eventually beheaded. All for the sake of equal rights for those whom the law of the land prohibited their marriage.

Kind of a different perspective from let’s all eat chocolate and have sex while we point and laugh and single people, right? Saint Valentine worked in direct opposition of the government performing marriages the state had banned. Then he lost his life for it.


What would our reactions be if such occurred today? How would we feel if a pastor was arrested and beaten, and hanged all for the crime of acting on the belief that marriage is a human right and not a heterosexual privilege? How much would we, gay or ally, appreciate his sacrifice? Would we begrudge this modern martyr the honor of smelling a few roses and eating a piece of chocolate? Would we even accept that we picked the coconut one, because we celebrate the life and work of a person so important to ending our struggles? Do the Whites bitterly continue to clock in while only the Blacks take Martin Luther King Jr day off? Should single people curse such contributions and acts of love for those prohibited from marrying? Or do we all salute the overcoming of barriers to equality and those who worked and died for it?

It is my hope and plea, to all of those who decry Valentine’s Day to consider it’s deeper meaning. To understand how the actions of one man 18 centuries ago, apply so directly to the struggles of right now. Rights now. For all who hate or celebrate, remember too look beyond the pink and red, and perhaps see the rainbow waiting behind it. Look past smoochy couples, and perhaps see how that kiss will not seal a wedding ceremony for so many of your friends, or for yourself.
We have come far. We have so much further to go. Single or in a relationship, If you believe in equal rights, smell a flower, eat a chocolate, and remember the man who started this fight.

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.

Daddy and Me

Riverbanks Zoo and Garden, Columbia SC, 2006

(The tortoise behind us is 100 years old.)

To The Geekier Go The Spoils

          Let me state right of the bat this one point, You're Welcome. If you are wondering just what Mouse With A Machete, can do for you that is wondrous and amazing at this time, I bring you a post that not timely, nor topical. The results of the election, and the up coming month of madness are not featured or discussed herein. As a point, that should be made, I have already written too much about these topics in telling you I will not mention them further. So anyway, without another syllable of prologue, enjoy. 

Versus The Wall

They called him The Wall, because he always seemed to disappear into blank white space as you stared into his empty gray eyes.  He sat, straight backed with his hands clasped in front of him, on the Champion’s Table. This man had never been defeated and he was all that stood between me and victory, glory, and women.  It had been a long hard road since I signed my name on the competitors list at noon. It was now almost one and I left behind me a wake of steady-eyed carnage. I had taken out Lazy-eye Joe in an instant. The Conjunctivator was a worse challenge. The oozing pink goo made keeping eye contact difficult. After a long struggle of more than a minute the affliction that turned my stomach ended the engagement when the pink-eyed freak was forced to blink. It was a Pyrrhic victory. I had to reject the half-time hot-dogs because my stomach was still unsettled by the disgusting eye disease.

All that was behind me as I climbed the steps of the stage for my final contest. I nodded a greeting to my competitor which was not returned, and took my seat across from him. We both removed our glasses in preparation for the  battle. He sat motionless as I tensed and relaxed my hands, and rubbed my knuckles into my eyelids. His hands remained gently folded, and I placed mine flat on the table between us and leaned forward. The referee spoke.

“Ok boys, I wanna see a good clean fight, now.There’ll be no speaking, no making faces of any kind. This is the big show now so there’ll be no time limit, no ties. This is a battle to the blink!” We nodded our ready and the ref raised the indexes of both his hands and counted down “2...1...stare”

The first thing I was ever taught about staring contests, beside don’t look away, was too keep your breathing even. I counted my breaths, four in and four out, and locked my eyes on the gray pools before me. A true contender knows that looking at something and placing your eyes on it are very different actions, and the latter is the key to victory. The Wall knew this, too,  because I watched his eyes glaze over as mine did. He wasn’t seeing me at all, and less than a second later I wasn’t seeing him.  I felt a bead of sweat of my neck as I became aware of the judges watching us, two on each of us and one on the table. It’s an awful lot of people to be hanging around when you are doing your level best not to be distracted. I tried to return my thoughts to my breath in-2-3-4 out-2-3-4, but it was no use. The cloth on the table began to darken at the edges of my hands. I was a goner.
Silence is required during preliminary matches, though there is always a few minutes of loud celebration after each one. This is not the case at the final bout. After the starers pass the one minute mark anything goes from the audience. There are bets laid between fans on who will distract the players first, and by what means. It is, with certainty, a beautiful woman who takes home that prize. Once a man lost his concentration at the flashing of the side of a small but lovely breast. This year’s victor was chosen when his competition was distracted by a woman’s scent. Just a spritz of perfume was added to air near our platform. I enjoyed the familiar smell but my opponent, The Wall, was allergic. Not a second after the olfactory assault his nose wrinkled, his eyes teared, and yes, yes, he sneezed! The judges called it. I was the winner! I searched the crowd for the lady, my savior who sprayed the perfume. It was impossible to find her, there must have been ten people in that room. I shouted “Who was she? Where did she go!” as grabbed and shook the shoulders of my friend and coach. “Where is the girl with the perfume?” He just looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“There was no girl, dude. It was the Febreze Ninjas. They sprayed the whole crowd.” I hung my head. My deliverer was not a fair and lovely maiden, sure to join me in the hentai viewing room, but a small group of bandits who roam all Geek-Cons spraying air freshener at groups who are lacking in their hygiene. I took the trophy when my name was announced, but it was a Pyrrhic victory.

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.

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.

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.

Chickengate 2012

The very concept of this image is bullshit.

Let me tell you why.




Ok Friends. Listen Up. I am clearing up this Chick-Fil-A confusion right about now. It goes like this. IF THE COMPANY TAKES YOUR MONEY AND USES IT, OR GIVES IT TO PEOPLE WHO USE IT TO DO THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE, DON'T GIVE THEM YOUR MONEY. See, nice and simple. The Chick Fil A boycott has nothing to do with First Amendment rights (at least as far as I know, no one has been pepper sprayed, God Help Us if they have) The CEO of Chick-Fil-A, has every right in the world to say anything he want about Jesus Hatin' Turd Punchers ‘til his tiny little black heart’s content, and we can call him A Bible Thumping Nazi Dingleberry all we want. It's not about words. It's about MONEY. Words are what we are slinging around to to convince each other to either stop spending money on tasty tasty waffle fries on principal, or to buy more of them because, you know, fuck the gays.

Now let me be clear. CEO, Dan Cathy’s comments SUCK, and are what lit this fire, but it is the laundry list of anti-gay organizations and hate groups that receive a cut from your purchase of nuggets and hand squeezed lemonade that are the real issue. I believe I speak for all gays everywhere when I say we really want to get married and we get our feathers ruffled when people do shit on purpose to make sure that never ever ever happens By GOD! Because, you know, all gay people kick puppies and drown kittens in sewers. What we REALLY can't stand is our family and friends (the ones that still speak to us, precious few that they are) giving money, even indirectly, to these groups that think we were all minted straight (ha ha) from Satan's asshole.


Armed with the truth about how the company donates our hard earned cash,  we took to the interwebs and made damn sure everybody knew exactly where their money was going, so that they could make the informed decision to stop giving it to Chick-Fil-A. After all, they love their gay friends and family more than lightly breaded chicken breasts. We took over Facebook and burned out everyone we know with photoshopped images of cows holding signs ala Westboro Baptist. Yes, we got a little uppity. We posted a ton of statuses, and we wore our rainbow tube socks to work two days in a row. Our Bad. But can you really blame us? We're not twelve months removed from all the Occupy Wall Street shenanigans and all the action we are calling for is to eat at KFC and make out in a parking lot for a couple of hours. Even if our boycott dollars are made up tenfold by right-wing dollars, everybody now knows what they are getting along with their peach milkshakes, and if nothing notable comes from the Chick-Fil-A Same Sex Kiss Day, it will provide the country with some free Lesbian Soft Core, and that means everybody wins!







This semi-gratuitous, hot lesbian make-out, featuring one of our country's finest defenders of freedom, is brought to you by the demise of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, the discriminatory policy those damn illiterate cows fought to keep in place. 

A Brand New Day

 IanEgan

The world is moving quickly these days. It seems every time I sit down to blog, a news ticker announces that eight things have happened that fundamentally change what I was going to write about. It is very hard to keep up. Frustrating as it is to my blogging muscles, I cannot but take it as a good thing. Everything you’ve ever known is now the dice in a world wide game of Farkle and all you can do is hang on till the dice are thrown.

Never in my memory have I seen so much support for my people, the queers. I know that 10 years ago, the little baby dyke I was would never have thought everyone from the President of the United States to Kermit J Frog would support her right to marry. Hell, when I was pulling my books out of a vandalized locker or outwitting my taunters only one state offered civil unions. The possibility of gay marriage existed only in the tenacious optimism of a seventeen year old. It’s been a decade that I have campaigned fruitlessly against Chik Fil A, and in twenty four hours my Facebook newsfeed was wallpapered in photoshoped images supporting equal marriage, notes and statuses condemning the company, and invitations to at least a dozen protests. It was pretty overwhelming to the rural Texas high school student who was told observing a day of silence in protest of bullying was a safety concern.

As November 6 inches closer and closer, people talk a lot of crap about President Barack Obama, and I am sure a lot of it is deserved. Gun control, bailouts, birth certificates mean a lot to a lot of people. But this little lesbian doesn't give a damn. What President Obama has done in the last four to fix, or screw ,the economy, (depending on your point of view) stands only dimly next to the dominos that he has tipped in the direction of my freedom. Brick by brick the wall that stands between my family and full rights of citizenship is being dismantled. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is dead, just a few years too late for this aspiring Air Force Officer. DOMA is on it’s way out, another laundry list of policy changes  and the right to call my wife my wife is officially on the table for his next term. Seeing these wonders on the horizon, when, even as young as I am, I never thought they could happen, doesn't leave any room in my heart for immigration, or health care, or Fast and Furious. It is far too filled with hope of Live and Let Love, and happiness that a new day is dawning in this country. A day that my loved ones and I can finally be proud to call the USA home. Finally feel that we belong here.

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!

Poem of the Week! "Wishes"

When the dance floor is in my living room,

The hottest shorty in the club is the 

Fat bitch

Pop-lockin, booty shakin, and signing the lyrics to the goddamn song,

All at the same time. 

When the open mic is in my living room,

Two dissonant chords on an out of tune guitar

Sound like Heaven

And Fire

And not at all like a sick cat

Dying, cumming and giving birth 

All at the same time.

And when Prom Night is in my living room

I'm not corseted into a slinky black dress

Giving hand gun hand jobs to the quarterback

Fuck That!

I wear a red tuxedo

White carnation

And have the captain of the color guard on my arm. 

But screw the prom!

Screw the dance floor!

And screw the open mic!

They are not big enough, 

For my living room

Because my living room

Is a wondrous place

With a couch that has only seen kisses.

Symphonies play on kazoos.

Stars shine in the daylight,

and Spacemen plant flowers on the moon

The bookshelves overflow with words

Reverberating off the walls in

Singing syncopation,

Or maybe just singing

Andy Warhol on the walls

Having tea with Dali 

On an oriental carpet 

Made of Unicorns

And when the WORLD is in my living room, 

The only oil in our oceans

Will sleep safely in the

Earth at the bottom.

We won't need it;

We'll have jet packs.

People in rainbow shirts will get married more often

Than people in red shirts die on

Star Trek!

When the world is in my living room

We won't judge each other by the

Colors on our skin because

Our skin will be colored

In poster paint and glitter pens

Proclaiming messages

Of peace

and Peace will be preached

By all the world's religions

The only wars fought will be

Between fourth graders

on the playground

With packs of playing cards

And everyone will have

Their own theme music

YES!

When the world is in my living room

There will be no more Republicans

And no more Libritarians

And no more Democrats

Because each individual will govern

Him or herself with kindness

Compassion, generosity.

Not caring for the sick and the needy

Because there will be no sick

And no needy

When the world is in my living room.

But Screw my living room.

It's time to bring my living room

To the world. 

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'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.

Alden by Egan

Alden by Egan

I really wanted to write a post around this comic, but anything titled "Adventures with Tequila" isn't going to contain any behavior worth bragging about. Still, I adore this cartoon by my pal Ian Egan. A link to the full series is in the sidebar. 

Crying for Cash

Ian Egan

For a few horrible months in 2010, I worked as a telemarketer for a “progressive fundraising agency.” This job consisted of getting cussed out and hung up on by people who already confirmed their strong belief in causes about which I was calling. It amazed me how people who freely gave each month to causes they believe in, from protecting the environment to securing equal rights, could come up with such vile names to call me for asking for a few pennies more. It didn’t help that I worked 4-9, which is amazingly enough when everyone in America has just sat down to dinner. People don’t like being asked for donations with an organic tofu “meat”loaf on the table. The best part was when I was personally accused of some kind of grassroots level unforgivable sin just for working there. One woman told me that she understood it was hard to find jobs in this economy, but what I was doing was a lower calling than begging for change on the streets and knocking over liquor stores.   Keep in mind everyone I talked to was a card carrying Democrat who had volunteered to put his or her name on my call list, yet they gripped their credit cards to their chests like dying infants when I called, fending off the attack on their purse strings with horrific epithets. This job was truly cruel punishment for the brash crime of needing some 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.

Poem of the Week! - Butterfly

My eyes flit around the room like butterflies,
From beautiful flower of face to face.
I dance in a garden of souls
Whose words touch me more deeply
Than hands ever will.
But my butterfly eyes cannot light too long
On one flower,
For fear that I will be caught staring.

What if he knew
How much I want him to know me
Or that I would that I would happily flit my wings
In his butterfly net?

But butterflies don’t flutter long with their wings ripped off
And Poets are too pretty for my own good.