One of my friends recently wrote an article about being dumped in the spring, which made me reminisce to an earlier time in my life, a time when I too went through a break-up during spring. She had been a grad-school roommate for a moment before we started dating. She became my first live-in girlfriend, and the split was messy. Right before she had started dating me, though, she had met someone online and gone on a date or two with the woman, a woman with whom she would later really hit it off.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Aiming The War
On the way home yesterday, during a one-day fundraising drive of NPR's local station--WSHU, I heard a[nother] news story about Don't Ask, Don't Tell. After Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Mike Mullen came out in favor of repealing the law a couple weeks ago, Army Chief of Staff General George Casey is calling for slower movement, based on a future year's worth of researching by the Pentagon on the effects of GLB folk openly serving in the military.
A lot of men in my family have served or are currently serving in various branches of the armed forces. My brother, an Airman First Class, should be coming home from Korea within a month. My grandfather, a retired Major in the Air Force, died while Chris was in Basic Training. I have uncles and cousins who have served or are still serving. I say this because I do not consider my perspective to be only that of a queer woman. Rather I want people to know that my stance in favor of repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is more largely from the perspective of one who is connected to the armed forces through loved ones even though I'm not IN the armed forces myself. From this perspective, I find it insulting to the quality of soldier that I know my family members to be to say that GLB people openly serving will create havoc and ruin the focus, drive, and commitment of the various branches.
I'm really sick of hearing the same old argument about not knowing the "impacts on readiness and military effectiveness" (Halloran quoting Casey), as if that is the real hold-up. I mean, kudos, for finding some language that will persuade those who only spend 10 seconds thinking about the issues, but when are we going to stop using the war card to claim why our soldiers aren't ready for change, as if GLBs in the military would be a change anyway?
Casey's words are similar to saying that left-handed painters might not be ready to paint next to openly right-handed painters because they all have a project deadline. It's irrelevant. What does the dominant hand or the sexual orientation of your neighbor really have to do with how well YOU perform, EVEN if it's a group project? Just as painters are trained to paint, soldiers are trained for combat (among other things), and the smaller details of the next person's physique or eye-color or sexual orientation, have very little to do with either person's ability to do the task they are both trained to do. I refuse to believe that our military isn't trained enough to be able to deal with the tiny changes that will occur if some random Joe's and Jane's are now able to say who they are really dating. And likewise, I refuse to let "war"--the soldiers' assignments--be the reason that we can't let everyone answer truthfully about something that has and should have very little to do with war.
I think people are missing the target when thinking that the possibility of growing pains is reason enough to not grow at all. I heard a guy saying once to a reporter who had just reminded him that gays and lesbians are already serving in the military that being openly gay in the military will cause tension and crisis in the living quarters. Unfortunately, no one was there to remind him that it is not being openly gay that causes tension. If one soldier's orientation effects another soldier's performance, it is only indirectly. What is REALLY effecting the performance and focus of the 2nd soldier is his/her/hirs own fear and anxiety surrounding gays in the military. Hello, homophobia.
Instead of trying to sell lying as a virtue to our GLB soldiers and their families and loved ones, why doesn't the military focus on eradicating the homophobia, not the "homo's."
A lot of men in my family have served or are currently serving in various branches of the armed forces. My brother, an Airman First Class, should be coming home from Korea within a month. My grandfather, a retired Major in the Air Force, died while Chris was in Basic Training. I have uncles and cousins who have served or are still serving. I say this because I do not consider my perspective to be only that of a queer woman. Rather I want people to know that my stance in favor of repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is more largely from the perspective of one who is connected to the armed forces through loved ones even though I'm not IN the armed forces myself. From this perspective, I find it insulting to the quality of soldier that I know my family members to be to say that GLB people openly serving will create havoc and ruin the focus, drive, and commitment of the various branches.
I'm really sick of hearing the same old argument about not knowing the "impacts on readiness and military effectiveness" (Halloran quoting Casey), as if that is the real hold-up. I mean, kudos, for finding some language that will persuade those who only spend 10 seconds thinking about the issues, but when are we going to stop using the war card to claim why our soldiers aren't ready for change, as if GLBs in the military would be a change anyway?
Casey's words are similar to saying that left-handed painters might not be ready to paint next to openly right-handed painters because they all have a project deadline. It's irrelevant. What does the dominant hand or the sexual orientation of your neighbor really have to do with how well YOU perform, EVEN if it's a group project? Just as painters are trained to paint, soldiers are trained for combat (among other things), and the smaller details of the next person's physique or eye-color or sexual orientation, have very little to do with either person's ability to do the task they are both trained to do. I refuse to believe that our military isn't trained enough to be able to deal with the tiny changes that will occur if some random Joe's and Jane's are now able to say who they are really dating. And likewise, I refuse to let "war"--the soldiers' assignments--be the reason that we can't let everyone answer truthfully about something that has and should have very little to do with war.
I think people are missing the target when thinking that the possibility of growing pains is reason enough to not grow at all. I heard a guy saying once to a reporter who had just reminded him that gays and lesbians are already serving in the military that being openly gay in the military will cause tension and crisis in the living quarters. Unfortunately, no one was there to remind him that it is not being openly gay that causes tension. If one soldier's orientation effects another soldier's performance, it is only indirectly. What is REALLY effecting the performance and focus of the 2nd soldier is his/her/hirs own fear and anxiety surrounding gays in the military. Hello, homophobia.
Instead of trying to sell lying as a virtue to our GLB soldiers and their families and loved ones, why doesn't the military focus on eradicating the homophobia, not the "homo's."
(The first picture is my grandfather in Korea. The second picture is from Vietnam. My grandfather is second from the right--the cowboy stance.)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
A long post or a short autobiography: My life in slices
Last Friday Drew and I had a play date in NYC to celebrate our three year anniversary. When I got home from work around 2PM, neither of us had eaten anything since breakfast and were quite hungry. The original plan had been to go into the city and straight to sushi happy hour deal before hitting up the MoMA. However, since we needed food at 2PM, we weren't waiting until we drove to the LIRR station, rode the 1.4 hours into the city, and spent another 20-30 minutes finding the restaurant to have a bite to eat.
Instead we changed our plans a little and grabbed a slice at Cataffo's, the nearby pizzeria. It hit the spot. The place is a little more than a shot-gun hole in the wall with a door up front and a door in back and four or so booths in between, across from the counter. And even though the large slice of cheese threatened to ruin my All-You-Can-Eat expectations for sushi, I was having a near perfect moment, sitting across from my favorite person, thawing as an authentic NY slice settled in my greedy belly.
It was such a meaningful start to our date that I thought about it hours later as Drew drove us back home from the train station, our MoMA and sushi and Penn Station tasks all completed. Pizza may be the food I've had more than any other food in my life. Hamburgers and chicken fingers definitely had a head start during my elementary school years when they'd be all I'd order at restaurants, but combined with years of not eating beef, and all those vegetarian years, and I think it's safe to say pizza makes the final cut.
My life seen through pizza's eyes is like a child's activity book page, a sequence of connect-the-dots which together form a crisp, if not rugged, image.
When I was growing up in a small Texas suburb, there was a pizza buffet place a block away--Mr. Gatti's. We lived on a the corner of a T-intersection and the only thing between the Mr. Gatti's and our house was a grown-over field with a baseball diamond. I remember being about as tall as the buffet line I was supposed to push my plate down. The tiny two-room restaurant was kept movie theatre dark because it was a movie theatre of sorts. The entire back wall of each room was screen, usually playing some film channel or sports event. I remember Sunday afternoons with extended family and birthday parties of friends and spontaneous week day nights. It saddened me to see it close after my parents divorced, a couple years before we moved away.
I hadn't known that Mr. Gatti's was a chain at all, but the next and last time I saw one, I was on a road trip to the 1999 State Wide Drama Convention in Corpus Christi with twenty other drama club teens from my high school. We had left the school early that morning, and on our way south out of town, some car stopped at a stop sign thought he had enough time to turn left in front of our bus to get on the freeway. He did not. The bus driver braked hard but we hit him anyway. My face slammed into the seat back in front of me. I thought my nose had fallen off. We all got out, walking slowly past the bloody car, and waited for emergency response vehicles. The teachers called our parents. Some went home, most stayed. We were told later that the man in the car died on the way to the hospital. We got a new bus driver, and since we hadn't planned on such a delay, ended up needing to stop off the highway to eat lunch before we arrived at the convention. There was some kind of chicken place and a Mr. Gatti's. I remember wondering if it had dropped down out of the sky, like Dorothy's house, to be a comfort on such a day.
Even after high school, a slice of zza was still a sign of safety. After a particularly rough school year, the summer between my junior and senior years of college I spent at NYU, reinventing myself as an artist and living off of the Sbarro two blocks away from my E 10th and Broadway apartment. The summer was unbelievably hot without air conditioning on the 9 floor sharing a space with four other women. Most of my roommates were already at internships or in class when I ate lunch. Sbarro offered air conditioning and cheap food outside of the NYU cafeteria, where eating alone was unusual. Sbarro, in that case, also offered me concealment, a way to blend into the city as just another independent on-the-go. Ever since, when I'm in an airport or breaking at an interstate rest stop--I always feel tempted to get the Sbarro, as if paying allegiance to a great mentor.
I ended up going to a small school for college in a town so close to Oklahoma you could drive there and back between classes. The newly manufactured Wal-Mart and the fact that we had KFC and Quizno's meant that Sherman, TX was on the map--the envy of rural towns to the east, west, and south of us. While small college towns are known for quintessential drunken party memories that "prove" college is the "best time in your life," my collegiate highlights are filled with the smell of baked cheese. Papa John's wasn't the only pizza place in town, but it was the closest at .5 miles from campus, and if you were a student, you could always get an $8 large. By the time I was a senior, and lived in a 4 bedroom apartment on campus with my best friend Amanda, the speed dial number for Papa John's was flaking off my cell phone. Our second floor windows always lit up late in the evening, were the frame for me working on a moquette or a Milton paper while Amanda bent over her neurobiology notes at the breakfast table. One of us would look up, decide it was time for a break, and order a thin crust, extra-cheese and green bell pepper pizza. We'd discuss the nerd projects we were so diligently attending and listen to The White Stripes latest CD. I imagine our silhouettes seen from the outside pulling away from the furniture and coming to life at the sound of the doorbell.
Drunken moments with pizza happened way more in graduate school than they did in college for me. And even then, I didn't have them right away. I finally left my home state when I went to graduate school in Washington D.C, and for a while there, I didn't eat much pizza at all. I was the brokest I've ever felt my first semester of graduate school, working part time checking at Balducci's to help pay for the extra class I was taking. Ordering pizza would have been a luxury that replaced grocery money for half a week. However, when a friend from college came to visit for her birthday, we hit the town. After a day on our feet, we had Sangria and tapas for dinner before finding an Irish pub in Georgetown. The night was still young when we wanted to leave, so we went to Adam's Morgan. This is when D.C's famous Jumbo Slice came into my life. Around 3AM the clubs were closing, my friend was even more wasted than I was, and we were waiting on a housemate of mine to pick us up. The light beckoning us like a herald angel lead to single pizza slices equivalent to half of a large pie somewhere else. My friend ended up loosing some of hers on the sidewalk, more in the car, and the rest in my bathroom, but I'm still a fan.
A few years after this first D.C. pizza experience, Drew, our friend Jean, and I get kicked off the penultimate Red Line train out of the city to Silver Spring because Jean took a bite of her (Dupont) Angelo's slice on the train. A literal bite. I still have a few pictures somewhere of us waiting on the platform for what we hoped would be another train. I've never been kicked out of a club, a bar, or even a party, so being kicked off the public transportation vehicle supposed to take me home was quite a shock. I remember planning the logically superior letters I was going to write about how unfairly we were treated and thinking I just needed to finish my pizza first.
After graduating with my MFA, living in Silver Spring, MD was cheaper than living in D.C, but I still had to find multiple jobs to help pay for bills. At one point, I was teaching three college courses, tutoring four hours a week, giving myself to Johns Hopkins research studies on malaria, and working as a hostess for a local Italian restaurant chain who sold pizza by the slice. The Germantown branch may have been in trouble for money laundering, and the place may have warranted my friends nicknaming it my Mob Job, but the food--as long as you stayed away from the salad--was excellent. I had a slice of pizza most nights I worked there and even got to take some extra pizza and rolls home. The chefs had crushes on me and the gelato maker was a sweet white haired Sicilian who smoked a cigar, sometimes inside the restaurant as we cleaned. At this time I was still broke, and I was a little scared of the men I worked for, but while it lasted, the smell of day old pizza warming in the oven was enough to make me feel content.
I left Silver Spring for Long Island, where most of my pizza experiences are Papa John's, with friends and games. These are all good memories, but the best two pizza moments so far since I've lived here have been the Brooklyn play date Drew and I had late last year randomly on a Monday--where we ate at a pinwheel, knish, and pizza joint near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge (photo above)--and last Friday's lunch right here near home. Maybe it's not so rare to have good pizza memories when the food has become number one in America for slumber parties, school day treats, and quick order meals. The vision of the USA that is touted on the TV is one where pizza is always eaten with a group. It brings a family together, it celebrates a little league victory, it takes the pressure off cooking and cleaning for a friends-night-in. And in my case, it can reveal illusions of family closeness, conceal temporary loneliness, and be a key part in celebrating my love of being in love. Once the memories are connected, the full image makes me thankful for having such a food staple in my life. Through thick and thin pizza will always be here.
Do you have a pizza memory to share? I'd love to read it!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Harmless Office Supply Or Identity?
I'm slowly coming to grips with my newly purchased planner.
I finally went to Staples and bought a 2010 planner. I'd asked for an academic one from work back in September but kept forgetting to follow up with the guy who does the shopping. And by November's end, an academic year planner just seemed silly. And then New Year's came and went, and with each passing work day, I've been using that teeny-tiny "future planning" yearly spread in the back of my 2009 planner. This past Sunday was the day I finally decided things had to change.
Even though my old planner was a mere 'weekly' calendar with no bells or whistles, I had gotten used to it--used to not having the monthly spreads every four weeks or so, used to not having the super helpful month tabs on the side, used to the pre-printed meeting hours not matching up with my usual workday/week. If I was going to spend my own money on 2010 planner, though, I wanted to get the planner of my dreams.
So after about 10 minutes of ogling the aisle, I am deciding between a small brown weekly/monthly and a tall handsome green weekly [only], and I decide to go with "size." Saying that I went with vanity makes it sound like I am a beauty-over-brains kind of girl, but I knew that by choosing the green one, I'd get both vanity and size. I'd get to be business but not boring. And that makes me practical, right? A more-bang-for-my-buck thing.
And then I notice a smaller, same shade of green, monthly [only]. I'm thinking: I could get both weekly and monthly [yes], have vanity [yes!] , and spend twice the money for the inevitability of not wanting to lug TWO planners around [no]. So I tell myself again that I'm being practical and decide to take the weekly green planner up to the register.
And yet, three feet before the register is a small table touting a bunch of planners for the new year. I owe it to myself to look. I skim over everything quickly, still clutching my green goddess, and then I see the words "weekly/monthly" printed on one of the larger ones. I flip it open, and it has monthly tabs as well. Examining the 'week' pages, I see that a workday goes from 7am to 9pm--good enough hours for my unusual schedule. Everything about this new planner is screaming "I'm The One!" Every thing, except for the hot pink cover. It's Staples brand, so I quickly go back to the aisle, surmise that yes, indeed this planner is one of only two Staples weekly/monthly's left in the store--both 'pank'--said in my thickest Texan.
Part of me, a large part, doesn't want to look at a hot pink planner for an entire year. I don't want to see it on my desk, I don't want to pull it out of my otherwise sophisticated Timbuk2 during meetings with school principals or intern interviewees. In short, I don't want to be the girl with the pink planner. I don't want everyone in 2010 who sees me to think I chose pink, and what a shade it is, over all the other possible colors available to me, as if I'm some sorority princess turned law school student. I may have once been blond, but I am not that girl.
I wanted the muted, olive green planner.
But my shame in my own vanity made me buy the pink one. Who am I to care what other people think (perhaps my biggest character flaw)? I don't have to fall prey to the simple gender binary. So what if I'm not a girly-girl. By owning one thing that's pink, even owning and loving one pink thing, I am not redefining my gender. It's just a pink planner.
(If you've read this far, then you probably understand why this detail has turned into a blog entry. No matter how many times I think it, this post is evidence enough that this pink planner is not just a pink planner.)
Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe my choices weren't spurred by vanity after all but by self identity (probably both), and I've been giving vanity all the credit. Maybe I needed to write about my Elle Woods planner to confirm for myself that my gender identity is not made by things that surround me, that I can still feel and be the girl who likes green even though I'm also the girl who sports pink.
And then somewhere in this thought I can't help but see this analogously, minutely, to how some people feel all the time. Some people, whether they identify as transgender or not, feel consistently let down by their circumstances. Maybe the clothes they have to wear match society's views about how they should dress but don't match their internal sense of self. And once I'm here in my thought process I start to fester about how crappy society's gender prescriptions can be and about how I support folks being true to themselves as frequently as they can. And then that thought of course leads me back to feeling bad about my pink planner purchase. Pink isn't me, so why did I let myself not follow my self? And then I feel doubly the schmuck because now I've tried to liken my trivial office supply list to a person's experiences with gender variance or gender nonconformity. Will the self shame ever end?
So, as I'm trying to come to grips with my purchase of the hot pink planner, I am forced to remind myself just how deeply Gender effects confidence.
* * * * *
I used to think my planner said I was stressed but well time-managed, organized and yet fun. Now, I'm not so sure. What does your planner look like? What features are a "must?" What does your planner say about you? Is this an accurate description?
I finally went to Staples and bought a 2010 planner. I'd asked for an academic one from work back in September but kept forgetting to follow up with the guy who does the shopping. And by November's end, an academic year planner just seemed silly. And then New Year's came and went, and with each passing work day, I've been using that teeny-tiny "future planning" yearly spread in the back of my 2009 planner. This past Sunday was the day I finally decided things had to change.
Even though my old planner was a mere 'weekly' calendar with no bells or whistles, I had gotten used to it--used to not having the monthly spreads every four weeks or so, used to not having the super helpful month tabs on the side, used to the pre-printed meeting hours not matching up with my usual workday/week. If I was going to spend my own money on 2010 planner, though, I wanted to get the planner of my dreams.
So after about 10 minutes of ogling the aisle, I am deciding between a small brown weekly/monthly and a tall handsome green weekly [only], and I decide to go with "size." Saying that I went with vanity makes it sound like I am a beauty-over-brains kind of girl, but I knew that by choosing the green one, I'd get both vanity and size. I'd get to be business but not boring. And that makes me practical, right? A more-bang-for-my-buck thing.
And then I notice a smaller, same shade of green, monthly [only]. I'm thinking: I could get both weekly and monthly [yes], have vanity [yes!] , and spend twice the money for the inevitability of not wanting to lug TWO planners around [no]. So I tell myself again that I'm being practical and decide to take the weekly green planner up to the register.
And yet, three feet before the register is a small table touting a bunch of planners for the new year. I owe it to myself to look. I skim over everything quickly, still clutching my green goddess, and then I see the words "weekly/monthly" printed on one of the larger ones. I flip it open, and it has monthly tabs as well. Examining the 'week' pages, I see that a workday goes from 7am to 9pm--good enough hours for my unusual schedule. Everything about this new planner is screaming "I'm The One!" Every thing, except for the hot pink cover. It's Staples brand, so I quickly go back to the aisle, surmise that yes, indeed this planner is one of only two Staples weekly/monthly's left in the store--both 'pank'--said in my thickest Texan.
Part of me, a large part, doesn't want to look at a hot pink planner for an entire year. I don't want to see it on my desk, I don't want to pull it out of my otherwise sophisticated Timbuk2 during meetings with school principals or intern interviewees. In short, I don't want to be the girl with the pink planner. I don't want everyone in 2010 who sees me to think I chose pink, and what a shade it is, over all the other possible colors available to me, as if I'm some sorority princess turned law school student. I may have once been blond, but I am not that girl.
I wanted the muted, olive green planner.
But my shame in my own vanity made me buy the pink one. Who am I to care what other people think (perhaps my biggest character flaw)? I don't have to fall prey to the simple gender binary. So what if I'm not a girly-girl. By owning one thing that's pink, even owning and loving one pink thing, I am not redefining my gender. It's just a pink planner.
(If you've read this far, then you probably understand why this detail has turned into a blog entry. No matter how many times I think it, this post is evidence enough that this pink planner is not just a pink planner.)
Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe my choices weren't spurred by vanity after all but by self identity (probably both), and I've been giving vanity all the credit. Maybe I needed to write about my Elle Woods planner to confirm for myself that my gender identity is not made by things that surround me, that I can still feel and be the girl who likes green even though I'm also the girl who sports pink.
And then somewhere in this thought I can't help but see this analogously, minutely, to how some people feel all the time. Some people, whether they identify as transgender or not, feel consistently let down by their circumstances. Maybe the clothes they have to wear match society's views about how they should dress but don't match their internal sense of self. And once I'm here in my thought process I start to fester about how crappy society's gender prescriptions can be and about how I support folks being true to themselves as frequently as they can. And then that thought of course leads me back to feeling bad about my pink planner purchase. Pink isn't me, so why did I let myself not follow my self? And then I feel doubly the schmuck because now I've tried to liken my trivial office supply list to a person's experiences with gender variance or gender nonconformity. Will the self shame ever end?
So, as I'm trying to come to grips with my purchase of the hot pink planner, I am forced to remind myself just how deeply Gender effects confidence.
* * * * *
I used to think my planner said I was stressed but well time-managed, organized and yet fun. Now, I'm not so sure. What does your planner look like? What features are a "must?" What does your planner say about you? Is this an accurate description?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Head versus heart: When does passionate explanation go too far?
One of the most rewarding parts of my job is getting to speak about GLBT human rights issues and with Long Islanders at school and in their places of work. I am always excited to see faces that had been stern or questioning come out on the other side of a workshop with smiles and understanding--even if the understanding isn't complete and some of the smiles are semi-forced. This happens often, but not always.
Last December I went to a faculty training, which went so well, that they invited me back for their next meeting. That was this past Monday. It was again an awesome meeting, one where hard questions were asked and discussions between thoughtful adults ensued. However, as with many workshops, we didn't have time to discuss ALL the questions. So, I've decided to email to the school my written response to the last question. As it is, I'm worried that it's a bit sharp, so, before I send it to an albeit 95% supportive school faculty/staff, I'd like to test the waters here.
Is the following question and answer set-up too "I used to teach argumentative writing for college students" in a bad way or a good way? The question originally in paragraph form, broken up into parts, reads:
1 Why are we addressing human sexuality issues with 10, 11, and 12 year old children?
2 Should we not give these children a chance to figure this out for themselves without putting labels on them and putting them into a situation that could cause them to be harassed and humiliated?
3 Are we not defeating the whole purpose of trying to protect these children from such [harassment and humiliation]?
In response to part1, part of reminding ourselves of heterosexual privilege means we need to remind ourselves of the pitfall of reducing GLBT issues to simple sexuality. Each straight person knows that his/her relationships and families are a HUGE part what we call our “lives.” GLBT people have spouses, mothers, and children too. GLBT people, as well as their family members no matter their ages should not be ignored or left out of times when it is expected or anticipated that we share about our families. And to speak specifically to 10, 11, and 12 year olds, don’t those children of GLBT parents have the right to see their own family structures represented and supported in school and society as well as the children of straight parents? So, we are not exactly talking about human sexuality, in terms of sexual acts. Indeed, I’m hard pressed imagining a time when middle school GSAs or classroom discussions of GLBT issues need to discuss acts of sex in any way, although I allow that there might be.
Last December I went to a faculty training, which went so well, that they invited me back for their next meeting. That was this past Monday. It was again an awesome meeting, one where hard questions were asked and discussions between thoughtful adults ensued. However, as with many workshops, we didn't have time to discuss ALL the questions. So, I've decided to email to the school my written response to the last question. As it is, I'm worried that it's a bit sharp, so, before I send it to an albeit 95% supportive school faculty/staff, I'd like to test the waters here.
Is the following question and answer set-up too "I used to teach argumentative writing for college students" in a bad way or a good way? The question originally in paragraph form, broken up into parts, reads:
1 Why are we addressing human sexuality issues with 10, 11, and 12 year old children?
2 Should we not give these children a chance to figure this out for themselves without putting labels on them and putting them into a situation that could cause them to be harassed and humiliated?
3 Are we not defeating the whole purpose of trying to protect these children from such [harassment and humiliation]?
In response to part1, part of reminding ourselves of heterosexual privilege means we need to remind ourselves of the pitfall of reducing GLBT issues to simple sexuality. Each straight person knows that his/her relationships and families are a HUGE part what we call our “lives.” GLBT people have spouses, mothers, and children too. GLBT people, as well as their family members no matter their ages should not be ignored or left out of times when it is expected or anticipated that we share about our families. And to speak specifically to 10, 11, and 12 year olds, don’t those children of GLBT parents have the right to see their own family structures represented and supported in school and society as well as the children of straight parents? So, we are not exactly talking about human sexuality, in terms of sexual acts. Indeed, I’m hard pressed imagining a time when middle school GSAs or classroom discussions of GLBT issues need to discuss acts of sex in any way, although I allow that there might be.
In response to part 2: First of all, I find the idea of letting the children fend for themselves, without guidance or support, is a very odd suggestion from an educator. Many people would agree that we shouldn’t just let a small child try to learn her ABCs or try to tie her shoes the first time, or try to brush her teeth for the first time without ANY assistance, support, or role models. As a society we don’t generally for anything let our children just fend for themselves (at least not right away). My experience shows that children understand faster when they receive encouragement and support and basic knowledge from adult models.
Secondly, GSAs (and classroom discussions around GLBT topics) are not places to LABEL the gay students as to separate them from others. I teach that every one has the right to label or not to label him/her/zie self; in fact, by definition and NAME, a Gay-Straight Alliance is a safe space where we come together and enjoy our differences and our similarities in a judgment free, harassment free zone. Most middle school GSAs are not political discussion groups or worked up about making waves in a school district. Middle school GSAs across the nation tend to be more socially focused. They are similar to other clubs: a space where friends with common interests and values can learn socialization and leadership skills by hanging out and or planning and implementing events together as a team. GSAs focus on eradicating the isolation and harrassment many students feel in adolescence.
(In response to part 3:) So no, I don’t think silence or ignoring the identities of students or their families is the way to promote an open honest space in which to grow and learn. NOR do I think that silence is the way to “protect” children from harassment or humiliation. This is how the world has been doing it, and it hasn’t worked yet. The truth is that we cannot protect children from their own inevitable sexuality. At this point in time, children are harassed and humiliated every day whether we ignore the GLBT issues or not. And yet, we have seen across the nation, that schools with GSA clubs and faculty/staff trainings tend to have more positive campus climate perceptions than schools without clubs or faculty/staff trainings. It is only with education, open minds, and visibility that we can begin to undermine the ignorance that causes people to harass and humiliate children based on some GLBT-related idea.
I am used to being asked questions that in most situations would be offensive (and sometimes are intended to be offensive), but these workshops are set up as safe spaces so that people CAN ask questions like this. It's better to get an answer instead of stewing in silence, hardened. Normally though, I get to respond in person with my own inflection and pacing. But I wonder, might this written response do a disservice to what attempts at helping this question-asker understand? Is possibly putting him on the defensive worth helping possibly numerous others?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Why Movies and TV (and most books) Suck
(Written Christmas Eve, Posted….today.)
Being in my mother’s house for the holidays has its advantages. I don’t have to get up or go to sleep on any schedule, like I imagine Snow White needed to do; I don’t have to see ANYONE that I don’t want to see and this is mainly because it would be hard to see them if I tried (which is the complete opposite of the main wife on Everybody Loves Raymond); and I don’t have to worry about wearing something cute and impressive each day like all those girls on The Bachelor (see previous list item). And this year it’s especially just TJ (my mother) and me, since she’s recently decided to divorce her ungrateful bum of husband, and my brother won’t be home from his tour in Korea until nearly April. Just us unwed girls.
One more advantage to a Texas Christmas is the number of TV shows and movies on cable I’ve been able to see. In fact, if it weren’t for movies, my sudoku book, and my recently purchased copy of Wicked the novel, I’d be terribly depressed--due to a sparse Internet connection and the fact that my partner and I once again are spending this holiday apart. But back to movies. Last night (23 Dec. 2009), after an all you can eat fried catfish special at The Flying Fish in Ft. Worth, TJ and I went shopping. And after driving our bags back home (with the windows down and not a jacket in sight) we cozied up to the movie Miss Potter with Renee Zellweger. It wasn’t my first pick of what we should watch, but my mother thought I’d enjoy it because it’s about Beatrix Potter—the children’s book author which I loved so much as a youngster.
I was fascinated to learn that many of the characters Potter created she did so while still a child herself, and that she’d always had a knack for painting and drawing. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the crux of the story lie not in the struggle of publishing and selling books, nor in the disapproval of her mother, but in the idea of marriage: for class or love or even at all. I’ll repeat that I did enjoy the film. It is only when being distracted while viewing or when contemplating the narrative arch afterward that I become exceedingly critical.
When the movie opens, Beatrix is a thirty-two year-old woman with an eighty year-old chaperone, unmarried and not seemingly unsatisfied with that. Her main goal is to find a publisher, which happens rather quickly.
The next phase of the story takes place as Beatrix plans the first book and becomes close with her publisher and his sister—another unmarried, unconventional, woman, Amelia. At first, I was excited to see a supporting lesbian character. I had secret hopes of Beatrix ending up with the sister whom it seems is very fond of her. Half way through the movie, though, the publisher asks Beatrix to marry him and she says yes, after asking Amelia for advice and blessing.
Beatrix here is right to ask the friend/sister of the would-be groom. Amelia initially based their friendship on the fact that they are both independent and unmarried. And yet, Amelia, put in this place has no other option but to say something like ‘it’s better to be loved’ and if you have that chance, take it.
The crux, as I mentioned earlier is that Beatrix’s mother and father do not approve of the marriage, for it does nothing for their standing in the world. And so, her parents cut a deal with Beatrix: she can keep the engagement and eventually get married with their blessing, IF she keeps the engagement secret through the summer. She agrees to this, and they take her to the country for the summer, hopefully to let her feelings for the publisher “cool.” In the meantime, the publisher gets sick and dies before Beatrix can even get back to London to sit by his bed.
Beatrix Potter stays unmarried, for the meantime, buys a farm or several in the country, and keeps making books and oodles of money. We know it is a happy ending to the movie because it says that eight years after Beatrix moved to the country, she married a childhood friend she met there. Oh, and by the way, she ended up buying 4000 acres to keep it from development and gave it to England for preservation.
What a major upset: the extraordinary accomplishments of this woman are mere margin scrawl compared to the power punch of not being able to live the life she wanted with the man she loved. And what is more upsetting to me is that I continually fall for this. Even though I was rooting for Amelia to get the girl, I was all mushy-hearted when the guy secretly gave Beatrix a beautiful ring in the lamp light of a snowy street. Mushy-hearted and jealous. And then I felt guilty for feeling that way and betraying my tie-wearing friend Amelia who couldn’t even ask the woman she loved to marry her even if she’d wanted.
What I can’t understand is whether my increasing want to get married (with a ring and dress and mostly all the other traditionally girly wedding things) is brought on by a bombardment of heteronarratives like the one in Miss Potter and most any other sort of drama—or if it is my increasing want to get married that is making me latch onto all of the wedding stories I hear/watch. I know that it’s an impossible chicken or egg scenario. However, I can’t help wondering if I’d feel the urge to tie the knot less if I were protected from watching any film or Television show with marriage as the underlying arch. (I know, I know—this wouldn’t leave much to see in network or cable TV, but it would help me from feeling like Monica from Friends, desperate for the day when I too can shop for a white dress.)
Being in my mother’s house for the holidays has its advantages. I don’t have to get up or go to sleep on any schedule, like I imagine Snow White needed to do; I don’t have to see ANYONE that I don’t want to see and this is mainly because it would be hard to see them if I tried (which is the complete opposite of the main wife on Everybody Loves Raymond); and I don’t have to worry about wearing something cute and impressive each day like all those girls on The Bachelor (see previous list item). And this year it’s especially just TJ (my mother) and me, since she’s recently decided to divorce her ungrateful bum of husband, and my brother won’t be home from his tour in Korea until nearly April. Just us unwed girls.
One more advantage to a Texas Christmas is the number of TV shows and movies on cable I’ve been able to see. In fact, if it weren’t for movies, my sudoku book, and my recently purchased copy of Wicked the novel, I’d be terribly depressed--due to a sparse Internet connection and the fact that my partner and I once again are spending this holiday apart. But back to movies. Last night (23 Dec. 2009), after an all you can eat fried catfish special at The Flying Fish in Ft. Worth, TJ and I went shopping. And after driving our bags back home (with the windows down and not a jacket in sight) we cozied up to the movie Miss Potter with Renee Zellweger. It wasn’t my first pick of what we should watch, but my mother thought I’d enjoy it because it’s about Beatrix Potter—the children’s book author which I loved so much as a youngster.
I was fascinated to learn that many of the characters Potter created she did so while still a child herself, and that she’d always had a knack for painting and drawing. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the crux of the story lie not in the struggle of publishing and selling books, nor in the disapproval of her mother, but in the idea of marriage: for class or love or even at all. I’ll repeat that I did enjoy the film. It is only when being distracted while viewing or when contemplating the narrative arch afterward that I become exceedingly critical.
When the movie opens, Beatrix is a thirty-two year-old woman with an eighty year-old chaperone, unmarried and not seemingly unsatisfied with that. Her main goal is to find a publisher, which happens rather quickly.
The next phase of the story takes place as Beatrix plans the first book and becomes close with her publisher and his sister—another unmarried, unconventional, woman, Amelia. At first, I was excited to see a supporting lesbian character. I had secret hopes of Beatrix ending up with the sister whom it seems is very fond of her. Half way through the movie, though, the publisher asks Beatrix to marry him and she says yes, after asking Amelia for advice and blessing.
Beatrix here is right to ask the friend/sister of the would-be groom. Amelia initially based their friendship on the fact that they are both independent and unmarried. And yet, Amelia, put in this place has no other option but to say something like ‘it’s better to be loved’ and if you have that chance, take it.
The crux, as I mentioned earlier is that Beatrix’s mother and father do not approve of the marriage, for it does nothing for their standing in the world. And so, her parents cut a deal with Beatrix: she can keep the engagement and eventually get married with their blessing, IF she keeps the engagement secret through the summer. She agrees to this, and they take her to the country for the summer, hopefully to let her feelings for the publisher “cool.” In the meantime, the publisher gets sick and dies before Beatrix can even get back to London to sit by his bed.
Beatrix Potter stays unmarried, for the meantime, buys a farm or several in the country, and keeps making books and oodles of money. We know it is a happy ending to the movie because it says that eight years after Beatrix moved to the country, she married a childhood friend she met there. Oh, and by the way, she ended up buying 4000 acres to keep it from development and gave it to England for preservation.
What a major upset: the extraordinary accomplishments of this woman are mere margin scrawl compared to the power punch of not being able to live the life she wanted with the man she loved. And what is more upsetting to me is that I continually fall for this. Even though I was rooting for Amelia to get the girl, I was all mushy-hearted when the guy secretly gave Beatrix a beautiful ring in the lamp light of a snowy street. Mushy-hearted and jealous. And then I felt guilty for feeling that way and betraying my tie-wearing friend Amelia who couldn’t even ask the woman she loved to marry her even if she’d wanted.
What I can’t understand is whether my increasing want to get married (with a ring and dress and mostly all the other traditionally girly wedding things) is brought on by a bombardment of heteronarratives like the one in Miss Potter and most any other sort of drama—or if it is my increasing want to get married that is making me latch onto all of the wedding stories I hear/watch. I know that it’s an impossible chicken or egg scenario. However, I can’t help wondering if I’d feel the urge to tie the knot less if I were protected from watching any film or Television show with marriage as the underlying arch. (I know, I know—this wouldn’t leave much to see in network or cable TV, but it would help me from feeling like Monica from Friends, desperate for the day when I too can shop for a white dress.)
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Faken Bacon
Yesterday, before going to work, I had a lunch date with my partner. I later described this meal to my coworkers as our Kindergarten Lunch Time. We made grilled cheese sandwiches in a waffle iron and played along with the interactive Super Readers TV show on PBS. The only thing I think that could have made the lunch even better is if we had had bacon in our sandwiches. Well, maybe bacon wasn't the only thing. You see, I foresee a long and happy future with this woman, a future filled with all kinds of wonderful lunches, but my right to a recognized commitment of the nature my parents used to have, is not acknowledged. I can't get married, not to my partner, not to any woman.
So for me, getting married is like eating bacon.
I know that I can survive without it, and part of me knows that I really shouldn't want it. And yet, I still do. I've looked into substitutes, like civil unions, turkey bacon, (or just plain not eating meat,) but it's not the same. While there are certain recipes when the replacement works just as fine as the original, there are always going to be times that only the real deal will do. And, there will always be the bottom line--the original just tastes better.
The question of the bottom line though is where we get sidetracked. America is so juiced up over the "why"--Why does 'real' bacon taste better?--that we don't see this is a red herring. All anyone needs to understand is that pig bacon and turkey bacon are different things, and therefore, not equal, right? Our Supreme Court already decided decades ago in the other civil rights struggle that separate but equal is inherently unfair. And yes, I'm waiting for all the fuddy-duds to come out of the cupboards and tell me that Life isn't Fair, that the World isn't Fair. Well, thank you Mr Dud, I do realize this. However, just because something is unfair doesn't mean that I should settle for it. Furthermore, when we are engaging in conversations about 'equality and justice for all'--about human rights and citizens' rights--we, in fact, are obligated not to settle for anything but fair.
So, when I watched 20 or so NY Senators yesterday, stand up, one-by-one and speak (overwhelmingly in favor) of marriage equality for same-sex[and gender] couples for two and a half hours, only to be flash frozen by the five minute roll call that destroyed the bill by eight votes, I couldn't help but be rubbed by the idea that here, even in NY state, I am not allowed to buy real bacon. Or at least, it's not available in any of the stores I'm allowed to shop. And this fact is enough to make me steam my way up to Albany and give them a little 'what for.' But in the end, whether NY state passes a marriage bill that allows the option to get married, my eyes will still be looking toward DC. Because I know that even if NY allows me to marry--and it would be an awesome appetizer--the real happy meal will be a federal law that allows me to have married rights, should I choose to get married, no matter what state I live in. Anything less is just another substitute.
So for me, getting married is like eating bacon.
I know that I can survive without it, and part of me knows that I really shouldn't want it. And yet, I still do. I've looked into substitutes, like civil unions, turkey bacon, (or just plain not eating meat,) but it's not the same. While there are certain recipes when the replacement works just as fine as the original, there are always going to be times that only the real deal will do. And, there will always be the bottom line--the original just tastes better.
So, when I watched 20 or so NY Senators yesterday, stand up, one-by-one and speak (overwhelmingly in favor) of marriage equality for same-sex[and gender] couples for two and a half hours, only to be flash frozen by the five minute roll call that destroyed the bill by eight votes, I couldn't help but be rubbed by the idea that here, even in NY state, I am not allowed to buy real bacon. Or at least, it's not available in any of the stores I'm allowed to shop. And this fact is enough to make me steam my way up to Albany and give them a little 'what for.' But in the end, whether NY state passes a marriage bill that allows the option to get married, my eyes will still be looking toward DC. Because I know that even if NY allows me to marry--and it would be an awesome appetizer--the real happy meal will be a federal law that allows me to have married rights, should I choose to get married, no matter what state I live in. Anything less is just another substitute.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Hesitant Feedback
She's working on her Masters thesis final draft which is due December 3--that's right, this Thursday. And when I was Skyping with my mother today, and she asked about how Drew's thesis was coming, I said: We don't talk about that right now. This was meant mostly as a joke, but it's true that Drew is not having a fun time drudging through the intro and conclusion. It's like when you move--at first, it's all very exciting. You get your large pieces of furniture in place, and then unpack your clothes, dishes, bathroom stuff, and special photos and decorations to make the place feel like home--and it does, but you still have a few more boxes looming in the hallway that need unpacking. Well, Drew has saved her crap boxes for the end, like all of us, and is naturally not as motivated to tackle the part of drafting with which she feels least successful. Enter me, the once writing professor turned professional homosexual.
While Drew has been working on her Masters over the last couple years, multiple people have mentioned that she is lucky to have a writing teacher for a girlfriend, or that she's got an experienced proofreader on hand, but what most people either don't realize or haven't had the chance to know is that Drew is an organized, articulate writer herself. Therefore, I rarely have seen or commented on her writing before it has been turned back to her by a professor. (see Side Note below.)
And that's why I like today. Not only did I a) get to see Drew's writing in the raw, but I also b) positively impacted (even if it was a very small impact) someone else's work. I felt, for twenty minutes or so, like a teacher. And it was the same sort of natural high I felt after I finished my last blog posting. But the look on Drew's face while we discussed her work reminded me why teachers aren't supposed to date their students. Even if I only imagined the hurt or annoyance or frustration I was causing, partly by being giddy and partly by being direct, I still imagined it, and I still felt hesitant to say what I thought. Part of the inherent power of being in a teacher/guide role is having good information to share--and to have something from inside you want to hold back that information for personal reasons is thwarting to the mission at large.
~
As I finish this, Drew is across the room on her laptop with furrowed brow and strained sigh. She listened to my suggestions in stride, but I know that has no bearing on her rocking out this thesis. Writing is a love/hate/poop relationship. You have to deal with some s*** before finishing your revolution. And Drew has come a long way, baby.
(Side note: Rarely seeing an unfinished draft both makes me proud and somewhat sad, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I like being useful, but I don't want to be "needed" for simple assignments, or even complex assignments. I want to be included in a conversation about whether the syntax of her opening sentence should be inverted, but I'm never going to be the go-to answer key.)
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Is being an Adult getting the best of you?
In September, I thought about blogging again, and attempted with this start:
"I've decided it is time to start writing again. The new school year is a reminder that we do start over, that I can start over. Sometimes I think I forget this, or shove it aside in favor of New Year's resolutions I won't keep or the renewal of spring. However, for as long as I can remember, the beginning of school has been the origin of my phoenix-ism. It was 9th grade that I became the girl without a past, eleventh grade that I solidified my status as the popular non-popular girl. And again in freshmen year of college, I shed my high school feathers in favor of mystery, artistry, and good grades. In fact, the return to school has always been more reflective of my life-altering behaviors and moods than any other seasonal period.
"I've decided it is time to start writing again. The new school year is a reminder that we do start over, that I can start over. Sometimes I think I forget this, or shove it aside in favor of New Year's resolutions I won't keep or the renewal of spring. However, for as long as I can remember, the beginning of school has been the origin of my phoenix-ism. It was 9th grade that I became the girl without a past, eleventh grade that I solidified my status as the popular non-popular girl. And again in freshmen year of college, I shed my high school feathers in favor of mystery, artistry, and good grades. In fact, the return to school has always been more reflective of my life-altering behaviors and moods than any other seasonal period.
"Unfortunately, each time I start to write, I have the fear that I've lost the ability. I guess I'm still under the impression that you 'snooze it you lose it.' And let's be honest: I haven't written a piece of non-fiction in a very long time.
"But I did start a piece this summer. I also started some poems. It will be three years this December since I've graduated with the MFA. Which means, three years ago, I was starting to teach my first college courses, and to finish my poetry thesis. I was also in therapy for being angry at myself and at my most recent ex. And, I was dating someone who was not good for me. I was living alone, struggling for a rent I couldn't afford, living off tuna and wheat thins. That semester was one of the best times in my life. And I know now that it was because I wrote and ran every day."
The question I'm asking myself today, as I sit recovering this blog here in bed, in too much pain to move, is if we know what makes us happy, why don't we do it more often?
Is it that we honestly believe we can't? Do we all have such subtle self confidence issues? When I was in high school I knew a guy who was an oil change mechanic, dating a college student. Neither of them had any money. And when he told me they had decided to go to South America for a week, my first response was HOW? He just looked at me and said, we bought tickets; we like to travel; we're going. Since then, I've tried my best to be like that. I wanted to go to NY. I went. I wanted to go to grad school in DC. I went. I wanted to have a successful long distance relationship. I did. And yet, I still can't manage to do the little things on a daily basis that make me happy: writing, art-ing, exercising.
Maybe I don't do what makes me happy more often because the little things don't cost money, and now that I'm an Adult these things which can always be there are the first to go. Maybe my life includes an unnecessary hierarchy of first giving up things that only sacrifice time (ex: jogging) before things that sacrifice money (ex: alcohol), even if both make me happy and one is technically much easier to get than the other. Is this our society's idea of what it means to be responsible? I feel like the motif in so many pieces of cultural literature between the Adult and the Child is one of the Child being told to sacrifice the dream for Adult responsibility. Er, not that alcohol is an adult responsibility, but having a good paying job that gives money for food/rent/happy hour is more of an Adult classified thing to do than spending an hour outside with your sneakers on.
My stepfather is a firm believer in this cultural motif, which is why I think he is a fiscal Republican and I am a liberal. He keeps waiting for me to get a 'real' job and start voting with the elephants based on the 'logic' of what 'makes sense' for the white upper-middle class pocket book. Which is why on a lot of accounts, I've always felt that my adult-self hadn't given up the dream--because I haven't given into to some people's ideas for me. I'm realizing now that the scale I've been using to measure isn't the one that matters.
Do any of you KNOW something makes you a happier you, and yet, still don't find the time for it in your routine?
The question I'm asking myself today, as I sit recovering this blog here in bed, in too much pain to move, is if we know what makes us happy, why don't we do it more often?
Is it that we honestly believe we can't? Do we all have such subtle self confidence issues? When I was in high school I knew a guy who was an oil change mechanic, dating a college student. Neither of them had any money. And when he told me they had decided to go to South America for a week, my first response was HOW? He just looked at me and said, we bought tickets; we like to travel; we're going. Since then, I've tried my best to be like that. I wanted to go to NY. I went. I wanted to go to grad school in DC. I went. I wanted to have a successful long distance relationship. I did. And yet, I still can't manage to do the little things on a daily basis that make me happy: writing, art-ing, exercising.
Maybe I don't do what makes me happy more often because the little things don't cost money, and now that I'm an Adult these things which can always be there are the first to go. Maybe my life includes an unnecessary hierarchy of first giving up things that only sacrifice time (ex: jogging) before things that sacrifice money (ex: alcohol), even if both make me happy and one is technically much easier to get than the other. Is this our society's idea of what it means to be responsible? I feel like the motif in so many pieces of cultural literature between the Adult and the Child is one of the Child being told to sacrifice the dream for Adult responsibility. Er, not that alcohol is an adult responsibility, but having a good paying job that gives money for food/rent/happy hour is more of an Adult classified thing to do than spending an hour outside with your sneakers on.
My stepfather is a firm believer in this cultural motif, which is why I think he is a fiscal Republican and I am a liberal. He keeps waiting for me to get a 'real' job and start voting with the elephants based on the 'logic' of what 'makes sense' for the white upper-middle class pocket book. Which is why on a lot of accounts, I've always felt that my adult-self hadn't given up the dream--because I haven't given into to some people's ideas for me. I'm realizing now that the scale I've been using to measure isn't the one that matters.
Do any of you KNOW something makes you a happier you, and yet, still don't find the time for it in your routine?
Friday, January 2, 2009
new year?
So, it's only a quarter until seventeen-hundred--meaning that the night time youth-group I'm working with hasn't been open even an hour, and I'm super bored and somewhat sick of being here.
Although I didn't really want to come in today, partly because it's one day of work sandwiched between four days off of work and partly because my partner and two of our closest friends are at home having a good time, I'm glad that I did come in today. There are a lot of youth here, somewhere between thirty and forty, and it's still early. If we weren't open tonight, some of these youth would not have a safe place, or a place at all to go. If we were not open tonight, some of these youth would be at home getting shit from their families, and some of them would be doing their best to try not to sound, look, or act "gay."
There is a new girl here tonight, an eighth grader, who has met a new support group. And there are a couple kids back from their first semesters of school away from home.---more later.
Although I didn't really want to come in today, partly because it's one day of work sandwiched between four days off of work and partly because my partner and two of our closest friends are at home having a good time, I'm glad that I did come in today. There are a lot of youth here, somewhere between thirty and forty, and it's still early. If we weren't open tonight, some of these youth would not have a safe place, or a place at all to go. If we were not open tonight, some of these youth would be at home getting shit from their families, and some of them would be doing their best to try not to sound, look, or act "gay."
There is a new girl here tonight, an eighth grader, who has met a new support group. And there are a couple kids back from their first semesters of school away from home.---more later.
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