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December 5th, Two Thousand Four: Please lock your tray tables and put your seats in the upright
position as we prepare for our landing.
Yesterday I was finally able to stop moving for ten minutes since
I left for the UK AND got back home, which is why I pretty much
sat on my ass nearly all day with the pug on my lap. Today I was
able to catalog and list the pieces from the show (so everyone interested in buying them, lookie here, and remember that cash puts food on my table, but for the perfect
home, I'm also always glad to talk barter if moolah is an issue),
and go through some photos from the last couple of weeks, as well
as doing some needed housekeeping and spending some quality time
being maudlin with the piano. Tomorrow my plan is to sit with
my calendar and figure out what the heck I am doing and can do
in the next couple of weeks, since the rollercoaster HAS slowed
ever so slightly for the time being per my frenetic schedule.
Still short on brain cells, though, and not feeling especially...
communicative, so y'all get images rather than words, both from
the 202 show Friday and from the UK trip.
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| Carissa and I looking terrifyingly alert and awake (it was before cocktails, so.) |
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| Becca and Carissa being all shiny. |
Heather and Carissa, ever dapper. |
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| Fishing for drag booty. |
Those boys sure like their money. |
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| Becca glamorously co-opting the fuzzy hat. |
Jeffry, for whom running mascara and booze are performance, rather
than some folks (cough) constant existence. |
| ... and just a few UK pictures, including members of my new tribe,
since I was often too busy, wasted or distracted to take photos,
so I have few to offer. Bad, bad tourist. |
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| Gigglin' Seb. |
Dave, giving me some sugar. |
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| Tara and Dave, who are silly, and thus, beloved. |
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| Some drunken Irishman or another |
My poor sickly Rita and a depressed Sofia before I left, uncannily
resembling the state myself and my companions were in a couple
days of mayhem later (see below) |
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| Did I lie? Next time someone says I never post unflattering photos
here, they can bite my pasty and hungover ass, thank you very
much. |
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| William and Catherine |
John and Bri (putting their photo next to a headstone was unintentional,
I swear.) |
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| This headstone reads "In six months, she was tapd 66 times, had
taken 240 gallons of water..." and basically, didn't kvetch during
all these archaic surgeries. And no, it isn't Cher's grave. |
Fishmongers. Told ya. Hard as hell to get a bloody taxi out there,
but if I'd have wanted some smoked mackerel, on the other hand... |
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| a window from the middle of nowhere |
...some married lady or another. |
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| The Millennium Bridge at sunset (notice how in England, it's a
bit hard to TELL when the sun is setting since it, like, never
comes out in the first place?) |
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December 3rd, Two Thousand Four: Enjoy the crack!
This regional phrase, stated to me by the taxi driver dropping
half our tribe off at the Edinburgh airport Monday (which resulted
in me being rendered speechless, then turning to said tribe with
a "Did she just tell me to -- WHAT THE FUCK?!?" and a lot of giggling on their end at my expense, as they're
quite used to being told to enjoy the crack outside bathhouses
or backalleys) sums up the trip quite well.
While I generally don't object much to the term spinster when
applied to me, it's also not one I claim very often. In the case
of my remarks about the whole of this trip -- even thus far --
I assure you that I am very much a spinster, because there is
no fucking way in hell that an objective, factual account of my
misadventures here -- out of some embarrassment and complexity,
but far more out of greed -- will be given in full to the general
public. They also will not likely be given all that willingly
to many of my friends (I'm way too easy to interrogate: one just
has to look at me funny, and it all comes spilling out, which
is why they turned me away at the door when I applied for the
CIA). They most certainly will not be shared with my mother. Ever.
(And boy howdy am I glad she didn't go ahead and come with me
on this trip, for oh, so many reasons. The same is true for my
19-year-old cousin who briefly considered tagging along. And how.)
And now, in lieu of a real travelogue, for there are so few benign
and truly shameless moments that we'd be left only with the half
hour I was standing up as the lead matron in the wedding party,
an afternoon at the Tates and two cups of tea, I give you, instead.....
33 Rationalizations, Excuses and Clever Justifications for Some
of My Folly, Occasionally Confusing and Particularly Impulsive
Behaviour While in the UK:
1. Because I rarely participate in tourist traditions, and it
was truly about time that I got with the program. Given, another
sort of program, the type they tend to have at the Betty Ford
Clinic, may well be required afterwards, and to boot, most of
the European tourist traditions which I participated in are generally
only partaken by Jewish American Princesses in their formative
years, but so it goes.
2. Because some people may feel they are chocolate people, others
prefer vanilla. But when faced with a chocolate vanilla swirl
with a caramel ribbon, now and then, one takes the road less traveled
(of course, in the case of my well-traveled ass, the same cannot
be said for certain others who came in contact with me).
3. Because, really, what is a holiday in Europe without an endless
number of planes, trains and automobiles (roughly, four planes,
nine trains and ten taxis). Or the judicious application of copious
amounts of alcohol, well through breakfast daily, for that matter.
4. Because if you're going to stay up all night, you're going
to need to do SOMETHING the following day, preferably all day,
and over a couple days, to keep you both active and somewhat mindlessly
occupied.
5. Because I could. And that wasn't just MY excuse.
6. Because one has to be called a cheeky bitch while naked at
least once in one's life.
7. Three days and nights, eight people, three of which who gave
the rest of us most of their share, and forty bottles of wine.
8. Because one can only spend so many hours listening to me either
talking, or engaging everyone in incredibly loaded and often heavy
discussions, and there are a fairly limited number of things which
will truly shut me up or, alternately, reduce me to the occasional
grunt and monosyllable.
9. Because it seemed very clear that given the way weddings go,
and how exhausted the bride and groom often are afterwards, that
someone within their immediate vicinity should be the selfless,
generous one to be sure that their marriage is consummated, if
not by them, by said generous and selfless friend(s) in their
honor. Honor may, however, be too strong a term. Moreover, it
is an ancient Sumerian (or, if I'm easily proved wrong there,
Russian, Irish or, let's go with, New Jersey) wedding tradition
that it is terribly bad luck if NO one shags during the evening
of a wedding. Since, at a certain hour, it appeared quite clear
there were only two of us likely to be serious about pursuing
that particular esoteric and philanthropic aim, fate trumps free
will. Fate may, however, be too strong a term.
10. Because when you feel you've tried everything to avoid or
be rid of your jet lag, now and then you have to think inside my ... erm... outside the box.
11. Because it'd been too long since I really felt weak in the
knees.
12. Because at my age, flattery begins to become exponentially
more valuable on a daily basis.
13. Because there are, indeed, exceptions to every rule. This
is especially so with those rules and that exception which will
supply your friends a means to embarrass the bloody hell out of
you for years to come: it is both selfless and generous to volunteer
to be the butt of jokes so that your friends may have stories
which allow others to find them far more fascinating than they
actually are.
14. Because those who have had a wedding, at least once, need
to be told that really -- no, REALLY -- a very good time was had
at their wedding. They pay out the ass for this stuff, see.
15. Because ships passing in the night are pretty. And shiny. And it is a venal sin not to touch shiny things. Repeatedly,
and for impressively extensive lengths of time.
16. Because Seb fell off the wagon with smoking, and I didn't
want him to feel all alone: considering there are very few wagons
I have ever willingly gotten on, my choices were limited.
17. Because there wasn't any weed.
18. Because the formation of a proper tribe does have several
requirements. Did I mention the judicious application of ritual
wine already? So, yes, that, as well as the possibly more important
tribal hangovers. But there is also the matters of compiling numerous
embarrassments, collective and individual folly, to be shared
by members of the tribe and document their early history. Examples
of this include such things as members spinning round in large
circles, spilling items and/or soiling furnishings, leaving the
toilet seat up, putting ones selves in bizarre yoga postures for
fun and sport, passing out naked on the floor BESIDE the bed the
evening before one's wedding and having one's spouse-to-be share
the incident at the pub with all members of the tribe, dancing
to some form of bad music, and several particular items of my
own behaviour for which I shall not list the codes because I would
then have no cloak of anonymity under which to cower. It is also
vital that single members of the tribe either are present with
grossly unsuitable partners at some point, which no one else likes,
or, in lieu of such, must shag in such a way that makes it unbearably
and neverendingly obvious to all other members. This mating ritual
being directly and all-too-closely observed by the remaining members
at its inception, with bets and the like hedged as well, no matter
how implausible the pairing seems, I have discovered is also part
of the required code. Of course, written and oral tradition of
the tribe's formation is also vital, and some of us have -- again,
selflessly and generously -- attempted to accomplish both.
19. Because I'm broke, and in no position to turn down free entertainment.
20. Because a choice between a day in which you'd have to camp
out in a coffeehouse with loads of luggage for five or so hours,
and a day in which you spend an extra hour and a half on another
train, but through green countryside, and which ends with you
horizontal for some time sans luggage is not a difficult choice.
21. Because Dylan Thomas did it all the time, and just look at
him. Or not.
22. Because everyone living in the flats with windows immediately
facing yours haven't been anything exciting to spy on, and someone needs to raise the bar. We all know what an overachiever I am,
after all.
23. Because it has always been clear in my life that for whatever
reason, it is imperative that whenever I think I know what's what,
that I be thrown a curve ball to make me keep questioning everything;
that if I've forgotten something vital, or forgotten how important
certain things are to me, that the world feels the need to be
not at all subtle in reminding me. For instance, that community
and connection are in many ways, my lifeblood; that I need electricity,
I need to be shaken, I need to worry less about protecting myself
and more about being open, because even if I get stung or later
ache, the pros outweigh the cons; that play, whimsy, risk and
serendipity are essential parts of my nature I can't let be overlooked
or bogged down; that I need to follow my bliss, not just my politics
and idealism. And that nothing in my life will ever be at all
predictable.
24. Because it was high time some folks gave me good reason to
feel like a brat for calling it the (y)UK here, a habit I now
feel the need to drop.
25. Because otherwise, I'd not have seen a fishmonger while I
was here.
26. Because William Blake knew I was visiting his spirit again
while I was here, and he's always liked to fuck with me. "Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires," is hardly a subtle directive.
27. Because everybody loves a grinning idiot, as well as a hapless
romantic.
28. Because I really did need a vacation.
29. Because, as my friend Richard and I were discussing before
I left, about another travel story of mine entirely, sometimes
-- and often particularly in my life -- one finds that the relationships
you create, have and even sometimes ONLY conduct in passing, which
are unexpected, which are sudden, intense and strange, which may
or may not continue or occur again are the most influential, the
most memorable and illuminating. And my crass innuendo, pussyfooting
and alcohol units aside, THAT was exactly a lot of what happened
on this trip, in varied regards, and with more than one person.
30. Because exfoliation is important, and there weren't any washrags.
31. Because my heart, like my mind, works best when open, even
when it's weird, unsettling and precarious.
32. Because while I wouldn't exactly call Irony my friend, she
certainly has always been my steadfast companion.
33. Because sometimes, you really do just have to say what the fuck.
On an equally -- if not more so -- obtuse note, while sitting
out in the midst at a train station in the middle of nowhere,
I found myself watching the ground where the trains not stopping
at the station would pass by.
Before a train would come, the leaves would be settled on the
moss, moving only slightly now and then with a gentle wind. But
as a train would pass, suddenly, swiftly and intensely, they'd
fly up wildly, whirling top over stem, landing in an entirely
different position and place when the train had passed by; utterly
changed by something only momentary. Things have changed for the
train as well, for the route it took was then no longer exactly
the same route it was only a day or a few hours before. Would
that I wasn't set into a trance by the process, and rendered a
bit dumb by the simple symbolism, I would have had the mind to
try and capture it in a visual image.
Trite as it sounds, it's easy to forget sometimes that in many
ways, we're all both leaves and trains, in nearly every single
moment of our lives, even in the smallest things that seem meaningless
or commonplace. It strikes me as easy to forget that quite often,
the train doesn't stop and that that truly is not only okay, it
is, in many ways, a quintessential part of the human condition
which may not always be comfortable, safe or easy, but which is
needed and largely inescapable when we're really living.
So, post-trip, in many ways, I'm feeling whipped round wildly
like a leaf and as sudden, swift and fleeting as a train, everything
turned ever-so-slightly on its axis, but there's really no bad
in it.
Save the jet lag, much head-shaking, some hours spent playing
songs of longing on the piano too late at night and the fact that
I somehow managed to chap my nose, an effect I'm still seeking
out a viable explanation for.
(A quick administrative note: as I'm still settling back in and
am in a rush to get things ready for my show and the benefit tonight,
and because jetlag wasn't kind to me, I'm a bit behind with email.
A bunch of folks have asked about purchases from the body of work
for the show, and I'll do my level best to update the whole lot
tomorrow, with prices and remaining pieces available, as they're
all in a limited series. Anyone who mailed already can consider
themselves in queue for whatever piece they've asked about.) |
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December 2nd, Two Thousand Four: I'm back home.
I'm exhausted and still a bit woozy, though I did get a solid
night's sleep. I have many travel stories, some of which you simply
will never hear (not from me, anyway: pity I'm too poor to buy
the silence of others), but plenty which you will, once I carefully
craft a very purposeful spin on them.
But first, I need to figure out how to fix the hot water heater
in the building and then prepare a ton of art I left to finish
for the benefit tomorrow night.
So, later today or tomorrow, you'll get my mishegoss, I promise.
In the meanwhile, feel free to make up your own stories of my
travels, because chances are good that whatever you'd come up
with, no matter how far-fetched, they're milder, kinder and a
whole lot less confusing than my reality. |
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November 25th, Two Thousand Four: Dear Father of My Friend (who felt the need to let many of us
know, unsolicited and very dogmatically, what is and is not a
feminist issue),
I like you, oh Dad of my friend. But I am truly bothered by what
you said, and I feel the need to obtusely tell you why, even though
you may or may not read this.
What was being discussed was labiaplasty and cosmetic vaginal
"reconstruction" surgery. Specifically, this article here (which I'd also linked at the ST blog the same day). What aspect
of the article that was primarily being discussed, was the distressing,
though sadly unsurprising, aspect of the article in which the
plastic surgeons (who seemed to like to appear blameless in all
this, when they are nothing but, no matter their gender) both
stated that the number one reason women come in asking for these
procedures is because a male sexual partner made a disparaging
remark about their normal, typical genitalia as being unappealing
or "old-looking," and in one case, even financially rewarded a
female partner for having this done.
There's a lot of different things that might make something a
feminist issue. But a biggie, for me, is this: if who is suffering,
or suffering most, are women, and that suffering is caused in
whole, grossly or in large part by some from of oppression specific
to women, then we're in feminist issue territory, easy.
I know I already mentioned some of this stuff in my short reply
to you, before I had to stop replying for reasons I will mention
below, but the folks reading this didn't see it, so I'll need
to review.
Body of Evidence: The female genitalia is a big mystery to a whole lot of people:
especially men many times, but in many cases, to women -- the
owners of that genitalia -- as well. That, in and of itself, is
actually a feminist issue, because research, understanding and
education about the female genitals and female sexuality has been
obfuscated and misinformed in a lot of situations and times because
the actuality of that genitalia was wither felt irrelevant, or
contrary to social agendas. You'll note your daughter referenced
an aspect of this when she discussed how irritating it was that
Ensler essentially created a movement to create more awareness
about the female genitals... and did so using the wrong terminology
for them (and no, that's not arbitrary: the vulva IS the name
for the external female genitals, and the vagina the name for
the canal between the external genitalia and the cervix. Calling
the vulva the vagina would be akin to calling my mouth my esophagus.)
For instance, very few people like to really deal with the fact
that like it or not, most of the vaginal canal isn't very sensitive,
and doesn't feel very much, compared to, say, the clitoris, certainly
(with more nerve endings than ANY other part of the male OR female
body, by a long shot), or even the mouth or fingers. You'd think,
actually that our culture would be GLAD to disseminate that information,
since it'd be a big help to men with penis size issues, freaked
they can't satisfy a female partner, as they'd get to realize
that for one, even a few inches is reaching the sensitive bits
during penetration, and two, penetration itself is nothing to
get in a big tussle about since all by itself, for plenty of women,
it just doesn't do much physically. (Of course, both men and women
have HANDS, so anyone with size issues usually always has a larger
implement handy -- ba dum dum -- so it already shouldn't be an
issue if thicker or deeper penetration is what a woman wants,
but I digress.)
Very few people are also aware that the clitoris doesn't start
and end with that cute little button. That baby has LEGS, and
in fact, some of those legs extend around the vaginal opening
and into the labia, all of which ARE rich with nerve endings like
the little happy button is. So, when you cut them OFF or shorten
them, you effectively decrease, at least marginally, and potentially
substantially, sexual sensation.
(Of course, while the surgeons may or may not tell you or their
patents about this, you could ask a whole of of OB/GYNs about
it and they'd know, and likely NOT support these procedures, I
should add. I know that myself in a small way: I've read a few
and I've asked a few, too.)
Another popular myth that often goes unquestioned by men and women
alike is the Myth of the Tight Coochie. I get to hear about this
night and day with the young adults at Scarleteen. Sadly, one
gets to hear about it with adults, too. here's the scoop: ever
hear all the kind of talk like, "Oooh, she was so TIGHT!" Or,
"She was tight like a virgin." Or, "I'm just not tight enough
anymore, he says he can feel it. How do I get tight again?"
If not, then before talking about issues like this, it's time
to get a whole lot more exposure about folks' sexual reality.
In any event, that whole business is actually based in misogyny.
Why? Because when a woman becomes sexually aroused, highly aroused,
the vaginal opening and canal relax and loosen, as well as lubricate,
to make vaginal penetration, should it occur, pleasurable, rather
than painful. Nature is ingenious like that. Because the vaginal
canal is a strong, flexible muscle surrounded by other muscles,
it can loosen, yet grip anything inside it very snugly. This is
why you do not see women walking down the street and picking up
tampons that simply fell out of their heinies.
If someone is with a female partner who's vagina feels like a
vice-grip, if they have to batter their way in, if vaginal penetration
is either painful or just not comfortable for a woman, it is because
she is not aroused, is fearful, or is just plain not interested.
If and when a partial hymen is present, most of the time, as that
is AT the vaginal opening, and it is both thin and flexible, it
will not be what is causing pain or 'tightness." Rather, it is
the other things mentioned which are usually those causes. So,
guys getting all excited about the partners they had that were
"sooooo tight?" Are usually -- I'd gather in some cases unknowingly
-- celebrating, endorsing and elevating having sex with women
who are not sexually aroused, fearful, anxiety-ridden or interested
in penetration with that partner or at that time. A surgical procedure
championing "vaginal tightness" is a surgical procedure championing
physical discomfort and sexual dissatisfaction.
So, we have the fact that a surgery being marketed to women and
only to them, with claims of a "youthful" vagina -- which is an
effective elicitor of panic since most women, especially heterosexual
women, don't know that even an "elderly" vulva usually looks nothing
like their nightmare idea of it, and plenty still, even in their
teens or twenties, don't get that an adult vulva looks like a
post-pubescent vulva and that's that. It's being marketed with
the false pretense that the labia are merely decorative, with
NO mention that they're part of sexual sensation, as well as a
happy little gate that helps keep bacteria from the urethra and
vaginal canal. The surgeons are, in large part, dependent on women
NOT being educated about their own anatomy and their own sexual
function. We've got male partners, many of whom have seen very
few vulvas up close and personal, and are likely basing ideas
of what is and isn't perfect or lovely on retouched photographs
and adult film stars who have already HAD these procedures themselves
(and who are often faking their sexual excitement, no less). Some
of what is being marketed or suggested as an ideal is based in
the literal opposite of healthy female sexuality and sexual enjoyment.
Quelle surprise: None of this stuff is news to most women: many if not most of
us have, for as far back as we can remember, had to deal with
sexual partners who had NO idea of the difference between real
bodies and those of fantasy, who didn't know boo about our parts,
and with some, for whom our parts were merely a means to an end
on their part. We've been bombarded to various degrees by messages
our whole lives telling us we're too fat, too short, that our
breasts are too small or not perky enough, that our hair isn't
blonde enough, that our skirts aren't short enough or are too
short, that a bare face is really only lovely when made to LOOK
bare with judicious applications of makeup, and that any woman
who leaves the house without gross attention to her appearance
is a slovenly wretch. These messages come from people in our lives
of all genders, from television, movies, magazines, books, and
sometimes, even from total strangers. That what's been applied
to every aspect of our bodies is also applied now to our genitals
is no big shocker.
As I also mentioned in response to your statement, women are rarely
shocked or amazed that heterosexual women, above and beyond all
other groups, have more cosmetic surgeries than any other group,
and that one surgery is rarely where it stops. You questioned
why that might be, and this is one place where I simply had to
stop responding that day, because it's simply so obvious that
answering it seemed incredibly patronizing. But just in case you're
still wondering, I'll put it out there as simply as I can.
That is the case because heterosexual women are usually born and
bred to understand -- or rather, to be hit over the head with
until they wave a white flag -- that their value is PRIMARILY
what their value is to men, especially one primary male partner,
and that that value, while other aspects may be involved, is always
at LEAST in large part about sexual value and appearance, and
in some cases, primarily or even solely so. So, if a man, a group
of men, a woman or women insisting they know what men want (in
so many ways, for instance, Helen Gurley Brown has some SERIOUS
karma coming down her pipe), or culture as a whole sends the clear
and pointed message that a woman's genitals are neither beautiful
nor serviceable as-is, a whole lot of women are going to believe
that, and the vast majority of others they encounter -- including,
of course, the plastic surgeons they consult, as well as often,
sadly, their own male partners -- will NOT question them or encourage
THEM to question. And sadly, the level of absurdity this can reach
is such that if some of those women were to be told by a male
partner to have the surgery, and then told by a female friend
that is ridiculous, plenty would leap to the assumption not that
their platonic female friend -- who has no agenda here -- is trying
to be helpful and help them weed out crap and treat their bodies
with respect, but that, instead, she must simply have one REALLY
fugly twat herself and thus, be jealous her friend could have
the surgery. Oh, that I were kidding.
I'd gather that at least every couple of days at Scarleteen, over
the past six years, we have a women in her teens-to-twenties post
asking about removing her pubic hair, that it's gross, that her
boyfriend prefers if she does, and how can she do it and remain
TOTALLY hairless at all times with no bumps or stubble, et cetera.
Just as often, I'll see posts about vaginal "smells" and "smelly
vaginas," from users of both genders, when it's incredibly likely
that if an infection is not present, the scent being noticed is
healthy and normal. Boobs are another biggie. And much of this
sort of thing is reported as arising from some guy's comments.
Now, I don't make this stuff happen: this is what is posted.
Given the fact that we do have less male users than female (which
is, market-wise, always a given with sex education as opposed
to sexual entertainment: the market is skewed towards far more
women of every age perusing sexual information and education,
and far more men sexual entertainment), it is INSANELY rare that
we EVER see a post from a young man asking how to remove HIS body
hair, or worried that HIS genitals will not smell okay to his
partner, or asking if HE can remove a portion of his genitals
known to be part of sexual function and arousal for aesthetic
reasons or because a female partner has stated she prefers it.
Off the top of my head, I can think of about five times total
over the years a male person has posted about a female partner
making a disparaging remark about their body or their genitals.
And I've experienced the same soft of (im)balances with the adult
sex advice work I have done, as well as in all sorts of literature
and studies on this sort of thing. (Which is NOT to say things
would be better if women started making as many disparaging remarks,
or men were held to destructive and impossible beauty standards,
mind you.)
So, okay. As may be obvious, I could go on. And I understand that
you feel that talking about data, about these sorts of en masse
experiences, about statistics is apparently not valuable, and
I really couldn't miss what you said about women posting data
about feminist issues making "feminists resemble fundamentalists
Christians."
Feminist Missionaries: I have to tell you something. I don't know if you meant it that
way or not, but that is actually very often a cloaked way of saying
"Now just shut the hell up." Just like calling feminist women
"feminazis" is, for instance. Fundamentalist christians are all
supposed to follow one book, one set of edicts, for one aim. It's
about God, and in large part, about trying to save people who
live differently than you do who do not want to be saved.
Feminists are ALL over the map, and most of us WANT everyone to
be diverse, varied, have different approaches, different opinions.
Which is part of why we do not have a Feminist president Elect
to tell us what is and is not a feminist issue as you did, and
I can assure you that if for some weird reason we decided we needed
one, it'd be a bit of a conflict of interest for that person to
be male, to say the least (which isn't so say there are not feminist
men: I've met a decent lot of them, but I assure you, they're
not likely to be telling feminist women what feminism is and is
not).
Feminists have many, many books, from many perspectives. We have
many different people we respect, whose words or actions we may
seek to follow or be guided by. And most of us don't want to "save"
anyone: we want to make life more equitable, better, more just
and whole for ourselves and for all other women who want the same
thing. We want women to be able to exist in a place and a way
where they have the information and the agency to make real choices
for themselves, and NOT for the choices they are given to be both
half-assed AND fed by their ignorance, lack of self-worth or lack
of agency.
I get intense about labiaplatsy, that's for sure. But I've met
very few people, colleagues, and so forth who are very well-versed
not even in feminism, but in human sexuality, in women's sexuality
and sexual anatomy, who are NOT intense about it, because we know
too much to be blasé. If I posted how many letters I get weekly
from sexually dissatisfied heterosexual women publicly, most men
would plotz. I say most men because...most women already know
this is the case. And it's not the case because men can't be satisfying
lovers, because penises are evil, or because women are frigid
bitches. One very big reason it is the case is EXACTLY because
of issues like this, where women and men alike are expressly being
SOLD on, and pushed towards, things which very directly AID women
in being sexually dissatisfied and personally and interpersonally
dehumanized. I can barely read those letters sometimes because
they are so damn depressing, with women looking every stupid place
they're told to to become satisfied which are all EXACTLY the
last place they should be looking as they are often designed to
have the opposite effect.
So, you can argue up and down that things like this aren't feminist
issues. But men aren't directly suffering from labiaplasties,
from the endless push to make one's body resemble a blow-up doll
and from constant endorsements that it SHOULD, from spending MORE
money -- from a disparate economic platform, no less -- on changing
themselves physically for situations and relationships in which
they should be accepted as-is gladly, for paying money -- and
in this regard, for irreversible procedures -- to assure their
own unhappiness. Women are, and women are all too easily because
it feeds into one of the ways in which they are oppressed as a
class, a class often defined by, ironically, those unsatisfactory
tidbits between their legs.
Like I said, I like you, Dad of my friend. I know you're a good
guy. But I also know some things you probably don't, especially
about my own body and the experience of women, just like you may
know things I don't about your own body, and certainly about your
experience as a man. And ultimately, the only way, really, to
bear out whether something is or is not a feminist issue is to
see what happens when some brilliant day, women really ARE held
and treated as equal in all things, and as far greater than sexual
toys or objects. If that happens, and a little while down the
road when the dust settles we've still got women getting labiaplasties
en masse, then you get to be right in that it was NOT about women's
oppression.
I'm often not all that attached to being right or wrong. But with
something like this, and with all the other things I know related
to this, I'm willing to bet your daughter, myself, and a bucketload
of other women and men alike seeing this AS a feminist issue aren't
off-base. Because I don't see lesbians getting it. Because I do
see the most vulnerable, targeted groups of women when it comes
to very anti-feminist messages asking about it most. Because I
don't see women who CAN tune out the stupidity of the cultural
messages they're sent about their bodies, women in egalitarian
relationships with male partners who DO have a clue about their
bodies having this stuff done. Because I've already seen letters
and 'net posts from women who regretted the hell out of having
this done and realizing they made really dumb choices based on
misinformation and their skewed sense of self and value. Because
a man or woman who knows any woman to be his equal and whole and
valuable as she is, who respects her and her body -- be he a sexual
partner, a spouse, a surgeon or a profiteer -- would NOT make
comments or push one-sided sexual agendas like the article and
my experience in a related field have reported, and would, instead
-- without carrot and sticking her in ANY regard -- be reminding
the woman he or she cares for to look exactly as she does and
be exactly who she is, with or without his permission or assignment.
Because if this were not a feminist issue, no woman would be looking
to anyone else for an opinion on the value of her body or its
parts in the first place.
(Me. Scotland. Now. Ugh. I'll catch y'all next week.) |
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November 22nd, Two Thousand Four: Today is a day off from printing, assembling and framing the
pieces for a benefit show.
Of course, not only is it not a real day off -- I have two photo
updates to this site to do today, a world of housekeeping, errands,
emails, the whole lot -- but I wish I didn't have to take a day
off from that work.
I had a wonderful weekend, though I had very, very little time
where I wasn't working on these. Thing is, this is the stuff that
makes me the happiest, where I can work from the second I wake
up, when the sky is still dark, to well after midnight, then wake
up at six again the next day and get started with no lack of enthusiasm.
Friday night through yesterday was such a beautiful time for me.
When I work hands-on like this, when I have ideas I can finally
bring to fruition, when I can have my artwork literally in my
hands, it's just so much fun to get in my zone. I turn up the
music, I toss on some incredibly silly clothes, I have a glass
of wine or some special smoke, I keep a plate nearby with a hearty,
dense bread and some olive oil or nut or mushroom pate, I light
a bunch of candles, I dance and sing while I work; I feel whole
and drink in collective energy coming from who knows where. Tiny
details magnify, things creatively come together as if they were
being channeled, I can feel my own intensity in my face. When
I finally do tire, it's no struggle to fall asleep: I just float
away.
I'm really thrilled about these pieces. Some are from the Body of Work series from some time ago which has had text waiting for it, some
are from Context (though that still has another way it's going to be worked, but
I have to figure out how to make tiny boxes first), and a couple
others are conceptual pieces -- of which I want to do way more
-- that have been spinning in my brain until I finally figured
out how to execute them.
It should be noted that I'm not exactly a typical digital artist.
I, in fact (perhaps because of formative years spent close to
the Amish, who knows), have spent most of my life as something
of a luddite. I refused to learn to drive for forever (of course,
I lived in the city, so it wasn't that necessary), and I prefer
not doing it now. In college, when word processing machines were
starting to come out, I refused to even use an electric typewriter.
Instead, every few weeks, I'd but a $5 manual typewriter from
the Goodwill and use it until the ribbon wore out: if ribbons
were no longer made for that machine, it'd go back or into a closet
and I'd just buy another $5 manual.
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My father was one of those geeks learning to use computers WAY
back in the day, and I remember all to well fighting with him
that no, I did NOT need to learn DOS, and who the hell would want
to spend five hours programming to make the letter A blink, anyway?
My main love of digital media is about efficiency of cost more
than anything else: digital media is often a starving artists'
best pal.
So, more anecdotes set aside for another, less busy day, I am
ELATED when I can work hands-on, even if part of the work is digital.
I am well aware you can do overlay with Photoshop, but I don't
care much for how it looks: when I want overlay, I want more dimension,
I want more light, and I also want the experience of finding the
perfect placement of things with my hands, not my mouse.
I have two more pieces to do, the two Context sets, one of five
pieces of varying size, one of two pieces of identical size. Some
of these -- the textual pieces -- are of very small pieces, 4x6
at a minimum, which I like. I like the intimacy of small work,
I like the attention it demands: one has to get close to it to
find out what it is, rather than being able to whiz by and see
it all. I especially like smallness with work that is about large,
serious issues: it strikes me as providing a really interesting
irony.
There's something else that's been going on lately that I think
added to my energized artwork over the last week or two. It's
a delicate matter, so I'm going to try and tread lightly. Of course,
ever the bull in the perpetual china shop, I may well fail at
that. So it goes.
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Photography: 10.24 & 11.11 (self-portraits)
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I popped a cherry in the last couple of weeks. Shocking, I know,
who knew that a woman of my age and...erm...extensive field research... had any left? But I did.
Over the last few months, based on some things some of my photo
subjects and friends have said to me, issues and ideas I've had,
collective community stuff, I've been batting around the notion
that due to the nature and genre of my work, it might be interesting
to do some of it in women-only spaces, or to perhaps request in
writing that say, part of my personal site or certain galleries
and such, be for female-ID'd folks only. Why? There are umpteen
long answers to that, and it is certainly an extensive discussion
with tentacles in so, so many things, but the Cliff's Notes is
this: not just women's sexuality, no matter a woman's orientation or
the lot, but the female body in general, tends to often only be
presented under the eyes of men or even expressly for men, or
seen as pornography all too often no matter what. (I think it's even often overlooked that by virtue of who is
being catered to, the language and approach used, etc., many WOMEN
are excluded from viewing the female body in anything but a male-centric
or misogynist way. After all, it's difficult to look at the female
body in say, an advertisement trying to sell women on smelling
better or becoming prettier or thinner -- for men -- or in the
context of pornography, where if the visuals don't do it, the
language makes clear that their bodies serve one express purpose
only. Playboy says, right on the cover, it is a magazine for men. On Our Backs, a for-lesbian sex magazine, has no similar text that states
it's for women. Why is that: is it because it's not allowable,
or creates an economic issue, or because it's unimportant or irrelevant,
maybe since it's thought of as a given that men are always watching?
Don't know these answers yet.)
So, I'm curious about if and how my work might change if that
was NOT a given sometimes, if I or my subjects knew it was not
a given. If in the back or front of my head, I did not work knowing
how some of my male viewers respond, and was not tempering or
changing things because of some of those known responses, and
the feelings they sometimes leave me with.What it might or might
not change for ME as an artist, for my subjects, for the work
I produced, for my ideas, not what, if anything, it would change for the men not participating.
I'm curious as to if that boundary could be respected per a request
with an explanation without enforcement or yelling. I'm curious
about how it's assumed that everyone and anyone is entitled to
be discriminating in who they take to bed with them, but that
one is seemingly not entitled, with very personal, often sexual
art, with one's body in art, to do same (which isn't actually
true: it's fully culturally acceptable for that gate to be economic
or reward-based). Suffice it to say, that whole issue, of female
sexuality or the body being in many ways either formed and molded
by or for men, usurped perhaps, and certainly adapted, even skewed,
often, and doing work which presents it, becomes a little more
strange when one doesn't even take men into one's bed. (Moreover,
let's not forget that when I did finally stop taking men into
my bed and came out with the fact that I no longer thought I was
bisexual on this site, some of the response to that from some
of my male readers was... well, it was pretty yucky. I got a few
"You haven't met the right guy," yets, clearly someone unaware of the breadth of my XY-adventures.
And I even got a couple "It's not fair to discriminate that way," comments, even. Yep, more than one; nope, not kidding, and both
from straight men, who likely did NOT feel the same stardards
apply when it comes to them and the leather daddy who lives down
the lane. Which is not to say these folks sum up an entire gender,
and that's the whole point here: it's to say that experiences
like this, from a common denominator, effect me and all my work,
and I'd like to know what life and shared, as well as solitary,
creative life might be like without them.)
In a word, I'm intellectually curious: my Dad and some of my best
teachers instilled it deeply in me to always question everything,
especially those things which seemed to go unquestioned most.
I like to question things, to ask questions, often with no real
investment in what the answer is, just wanting to find new things
out. I think, really, I'm often far better at asking questions
than I am at providing answers.
So, I fished the idea around to a bunch of people of various genders.
Even doing that, in and of itself, was interesting. For instance,
I discovered that when I started talking about nude female art,
most of my straight male friends within one sentence said "porn,"
rather than art, with no additional information (and a few were
pretty surprised, amused and confounded when I pointed out the
unconscious swap), something which did not occur with my female
friends and colleagues. I also discovered that my female friends
I hadn't talked about this already with got very excited. I also
hit up upon a clear assumption that I don't ALREADY discriminate
in what work or part of myself I show to whom: that clearly everyone
is getting to see everything, that there's not plenty of my work
only some, by various criteria or at certain times, have seen
which many have not or have not yet. Tip: I'm even more prolific
than I appear here. And... that the vast majority of my male friends
got it completely, could see the larger issues, didn't take it
as a personal affront, and that THEY started asking all sorts
of questions about it, some that even I hadn't thought of. With
a couple, actually, it turned into phone conversations spread
out over several nights, where in the end, it was these GUYS pushing
me to really play with this idea, to create these spaces, to see
what might come out of it, sometimes to the point that I had to
nudge them to calm down a little, since I was in the idea stages
and it wasn't likely going to be immediate, so they'd just have
to...well, wait not to see. I actually discovered that week I had more male allies
in my feminism -- easy, interested allies -- than I thought I
had.
But.
I had one very close male friend (who shall remain nameless: I
feel funny enough discussing this publically, and if it hadn't
had big, overarching effects on me, I likely would not have; I
had intended to stay mum) who, in essence, did NOT like the idea.
At all. Who called it everything from destructive to dangerous, who said
I was hurtful and sexist, who said I was "banning people just
because they had a penis," who was angry, who said he was worried
about my well-being, who felt it was unethical of me to even suggest,
and with whom there seemed to be no productive, objective way
to discuss the idea and the question, let alone come up with other
answers, different suggestions, what have you. Again, Cliff's
Notes, but I am trying to tread lightly.
Over a couple of days, things went from bad to worse, in short
-- from what I could interpret -- because I wanted very badly
to be able to address women's issues sometimes, for women, about
women, without de facto sharing it with men, or making it about
men. Because, even in that conversation, I was trying not to exclude
him by discussing this with him, by posing the question to him,
but was not being allowed to do that or come to any of my own
conclusions, even with only my own experiences, while at the same
time was told it wasn't at all okay to do that without him elsewhere,
either, that he had to be included. A paradox, this. Because I
wanted to be able to look at some of these things in an isolated
way to try a new road that may or may not lead to the same places.
I get angry when I hear Americans going on about worries regarding
terrorism, when women are raped hourly, when women are nearly
always murdered or assaulted by men in a relationship of some
sort with them, etc. and none of THIS terrorism seems to ever
be a vital concern. I was talking about this and some other things.
Just a 411: think twice before telling a woman who was sexually
assaulted by a gang at 12 that while rape may be traumatic for
women, the rapists have trauma too because of their karma, so
it's really traumatic for everyone. Just think about it and what
you might be saying, perhaps even without realizing what's coming
out of your mouth.
Our last messenger conversation ended with me sitting here speechless,
when, after difficult discussions I was trying to have about sexism,
he told me he felt I had "kicked him in the balls."
He eventually sent me a short letter telling me that he couldn't
be my friend anymore until I no longer felt oppressed by men as
a woman, because he was a man, and that that severance was a gift,
from him to me. (Which really, I hardly knew what to do with:
given the way I make and structure my life, the things I opt out
of -- and often pay for opting out of -- it's not so much a personal
issue for me as a general one, but if someone wouldn't be my friend
or peruse my work until women didn't feel that oppression as a
whole, does that mean I lost this friend for life, as real gender
equality wasn't likely to occur in my lifetime? And why do I have
to pay for that, and how WAS this for MY benefit?)
For a few days, I was hopping mad. I wrote up a couple responses
in which I sounded like either a giant harpy or a women's studies
prof who just got passed over for tenure. I deleted them. For
a day or two more, I was just really sad and disapointed. And
then, you know what? I felt okay. I felt, actually, energized
and more aware and free. Like, in the Free To Be, You and Me way, but less pink and dated. And not because anyone gave me
those feelings.
I didn't feel this way because I was okay with possibly losing
a friend, because I was not and am not okay with that: it depresses
the hell out of me. Instead, I think I felt this way because I
realized that that whole experience made me face a fear I didn't
even realize I really had: that asking these questions, that suggesting
these sorts of things to men close to me, however tentatively
and academically, would change the landscape, as it were, would
create loss for me. I didn't fully realize until then that often,
I withhold these things from my male friends, I don't share them
very much, I am afraid to even bring them up, despite the fact
that with many male friends, we've certainly spent countless hours
discussing delicate issues of theirs which may or may not include
me, which may personally even exclude me, and despite the fact
that I do tend to go to great pains to always speak to people
compassionately about pretty much everything. It made me realize
that it's utterly reasonable of me to expect my friends to be
able to handle this stuff and still be my friend, not to freak
out or waver at potentially powerful, provocative ideas; to treat
me with patience and respect and moreover, to trust me and to
be accountable for their own stuff. (Once upon a time, and with far less weighty matters, Becca found
herself waiting on me in another room after a night out, and shortly
realized why was because I had fallen into a lovely pile of three
other women, and we were getting busy with sweaty pursuits. With
little more than a toss, the heterosexual and married Becca shrugged
it off with a simple, "This just isn't about me," and no later
fuss about it. I'm allowed to expect and even ask for that approach
at appropriate times from my friends, and certainly hope they
feel likewise.)
I need to be able to extend that same trust and find out if it
holds, rather than living in such a way where I instead simply
avoid my half of it; avoid getting answers or responses I don't
like.
It made me realize that I could handle the worst happening with
this stuff, on that personal level, even if I didn't like it and
it made me unhappy, and that I'm more unhappy when I don't put
it out there; when I don't take those risks at all, and that not
doing that just isn't being true to myself or anyone around me.
It renewed my faith in myself, reminded me that I often do ask
good questions that are very much worth asking and that, moreover,
I have the right to ask them and am entitled to -- especially
with people who have never had any reason to mistrust me or be
unsafe with me -- be honored and given the benefit of the doubt
in many things. And that by all means, it's vital that the people
I have in my life fully expect me to be maverick, and are down
with that, because it's a huge part of who I am and pretending
it isn't, or withholding that aspect, robs me bloody blind.
And that is a real gain. Maybe things will eventually work themselves
out with my friend, maybe they won't: could be I still need to
find more ways to try and make some of these issues more clear
to some people, could be he's just not somewhere where he can
see these issues more broadly, as bigger than him or me. I don't
know, but I do know I might have needed the whole of that experience,
and what I gleaned from it. It provided me a wake-up call, it
provided me energy, and it provided me a hefty dose of freedom
and a shot of courage, all of which I think I not only felt working
over the last week or two, but which shows in the work I finished.
| That all said, I took some photos of the finished work this morning.
Mind you, I suck at photographing work under glass; I'm not really
set up here to photograph objects like that, and the photos really
don't do these justice, especially since how they look changes
radically with what light is on them. I'll plop up the remaining
pieces when they're finished, but until then, I want to share. I really hope these sell, both for the GLBT youth center's benefit, and
so I can recoup some time and my cost, but I have to say, they
feel like babies: I'll be sad to part with them. In the chance
they don't all sell, or you and yours want any, give me a shout:
most are intended to be printed and assembled at least five or
ten more times (the numbers on the lover edge, middle, are the
number of the piece and how many will be made). They aren't cheap,
but they're not unreasonably priced, either. |
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(FYI: if I see any of these as someone's LiveJournal icons or
some such, I will completely PLOTZ in the worst way so per usual,
y'all want to use something, please try that newfangled thing
where you, like, ask me.)
I'm looking forward to hopefully being able to do more of this,
now that I've had the chance to play with the techniques: I think
I can actually render pieces like them far better than this given
more materials and time to work. It'd be so fantastic to find
a way to be able to do more creative work that wasn't web-based.
And per the full color, dual-photo overlays, I am endlessly fascinated
with how unrandom seemingly random patterns are, how organic lines
and shapes so magically coincide in places, how two completely
different layers create a fusion of something entirely new, yet
not inharmonious (quite the opposite) than either are alone.
With that geekery, I'm off to eat some lunch, then get the new
photosets up. Not sure if I'll have time or not to update the
journal again before I head out to Scotland and England this week,
and I won't be updating while I'm gone. Revisiting to Ludditeville,
I'm not one of those folks who gets withdrawal from the computer
when away from my office: I'm glad to have the time away. Withdrawal
from my dog and my bed, is something else entirely.
OH! One more thing. I took a break yesterday to go with Becca to
her sisters and look at a big litter of free spaniel/lab puppies
who were just a week old. If Sofi takes to this little girl in
a couple visits between now and two months from now, and she doesn't
look like she'll get TOO big, when they're ready to leave their
Mama she may just end up with her doggy companion. (Sadly she
appears to dislike other pugs and other toy breeds on sight. Even
that's a misnomer, since she refuses to even LOOK at them. My
dog has the diva temperament of a sodding drag queen, I tell you.)
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November 19th, Two Thousand Four: I just realized yesterday that if I can print on acetate (either
via my photo printer, or simply by xeroxing unto it, which is
less ideal than direct printing, but should still work), I am
going to be completely stoked, because I can do some things that
were only real in my brain before, and have some pieces for the
show/benefit done with it, no less.
This is why taking workshops in a media you don't work in can
be a serious boon; you end up cross-pollinating. |
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November 17th, Two Thousand Four: Yeah, I'm still not really here.
Some of why is the aforementioned existential crisis and its seemingly
viral behaviour. Some of why is relationship issues and awkward
changes that aren't really gelling. Some of why is that I am really,
really feckin' busy.
I leave for the (y)UK on Thanksfornothing, and before I leave
I need to:
- Have at least six pieces for the District 202 benefit done (as
it'll be WAY too soon after I get off a plane coming home with
what will likely be horrendous jet lag), and they're all pieces
which involve 3-6 photos each, framing and arranging.
- Learn to expertly use Adobe Elements in the process.
- Lay out and have printed an artists mission sheet for the showing
at the benefit.
- Finish editing at least five photosets (one done, one near completion).
- Update this site with two of those photosets.
- Add about twenty new photos to the portfolio.
- Deal with ST funding stuff.
- Finish two new articles for ST.
- Rehaul the Scarleteen blog (done!).
- Get started on yet more little book-finishing details.
- Get started on putting together two different book proposals
I can work on while away, so that I can feasibly get a contract
for a new book before the sex ed book is on the shelves.
- Clean my house so that my housesitter doesn't have to live in
my sodding mess AND I can come home from the trip to a tidy place.
- Get organized for the trip, including arranging a ridiculous
combination of nicotine patches and sleeping pills so that I do
not go completely batshit on the 8-9 hour flights.
- Update SL.
- Make doctor's appointments for when I get back.
- Tie up loose ends/invoicing with a couple photo clients.
- Find money somewhere. Now, where did I put that buried treasure
map...?.
- Answer emails and voice mails that have been gathering dust.
- Chill the hell out and get some damn sleep.
As a side note, last Thursday and Friday were two of the most
nonstop-craptastic days I have had in a LONG time.
My day Thursday began by waking up, stretching... and spilling
a glass of cold water from the night before all over myself. Well,
no need for a shower, I guess.
The morning wasn't that torturous. Neko Case's "I Want To Burn Bridges," may well have been the soundtrack to the subplot, sure. And I
did try to make coffee with beans I forgot to grind, then walking
the dog remembered at THAT moment that I had accidentally blown
a friend of a friend off who wanted to pick my brain about writing
for a living a week and a half ago. Blown off as in, she likely
sat waiting for me at a coffeehouse none too thrilled. Ugh. To
top it off, for whatever reason, post-election the occurrences
of adults coming to the Scarleteen boards with "Respect yourself, ladies -- save sex for your husband! Jesus
wants you to!" crap have multiplied. I don't know what that's about (do these
folks feel they have carte blanche to harass without impunity
now?), but Thursday, as for several days now, I had to invest
time chasing Thumper around, reporting to ISPs and what have you.
After catching up with Hanne on the phone (certainly one of the
lone pleasant parts of my day), I decided to opt out of boxing
and hit a trail on my bike instead, because it looked like a beautiful
day, and up here at this time of year you never know when it'll
be the last one. So, jeans, thick socks, sneakers, tank top, cotton
shirt, bigass outdoor sweater, scarf, gloves and hat later, I
headed out. And fucking froze my ass off. It was 28 degrees, I
discovered after riding a mile or two, and riding was bizarrely
difficult. A few more miles away from home, I found out this was
because my back tire is this close to flat. Joy. I biked the other
half of the trail and the way home back, my thighs waving white
flags in my face and singing miner's blues anthems cacophonously
in my ear.
In cleaning my room to do a photoshoot later, I knocked over anything
and everything unto anything and everything, making the process
infinitely more difficult.
The shoot went well enough when the phone took a break for one
whole minute from ringing, which wasn't often. During this stint,
one of said phone calls was from a probono client who had emailed
me a week ago asking if I could do some quick staff shots, to
which I said fine...and she called to tell me that in two hours
would be a good time. Eep!
So, I finished shooting, then rushed around the house trying to
get out of here on time to go take those shots.
Segueway: we have had continual problems with the timer for the
outdoor and hall lights here at the building. By the look of the
font printed on the how-to on the boxes, these things are circa
1940 at the earliest, and they are NOT growing old gracefully.
Basically, at this point the timer to the front hall box is just
broken. It doesn't run at all, and thus, it doesn't matter what
time you set it to. Ridiculously, I have had to explain this more
than once to more than one person. After weeks of all of us literally
feeling our way up the pitch black stairs blindly, and one tenant
starting to use a lantern to roam the halls (I kept looking for
the gondola), after trying to fix the damn clock, the landlord
finally sent an electrician in. This man could not have given
less of a shit if he'd tried. He simply came, rushed in, asked
what time we needed the lights to go on, turned the dial on the
timer with no functional clock to that hour, then went to leave.
I stopped him asking exactly how the box would know it was 4:00.
He informed me that's because the timer was set to then. I explained
five different ways that that was lovely, but since it's also
not wired to a psychic friends hotline to tell it WHEN it is 4:00
as the clock itself is no longer working that was not going to
do much good. Either he was stupid or thought I was, because he
left doing nothing else -- at five to four, mind you, when he
easily could have waited a few minutes to test his theory -- assuring
me it would go on. Of course, it did not.
A few more days of darkness later, I got one of the two other
handymen (we have a serious too many cooks issue at this building
anymore) to rig the front hall system to the back one so that
I could simply have the lights on manually, all the time, which
is far better than no lights. And we, tenants, and I, caretaker,
sang hallelujah.
That is, until they bizarrely started going off again, and I again
started getting the (validly) annoyed phone calls. This was a
flummoxing mystery until the other caretaker called, as I was
trying to rush out the door to go take those photos, who asked
me if the lights -- which I'd yet again turned back on manually
the night before -- were on. Seems for the past couple days, he'd
stopped by to mess with it, by turning off the manual and setting
the timer when there STILL was no functioning clock for it. I
explained for the 346th time WHY this was not effective and begged,
pleaded for the lights to simply remain on until the landlord
just got a bloody new system. I also begged and pleaded for him
to let me off the phone, as I was running late and about to miss
my bus. Neither bouts of begging were effective, I nearly had
to just hang up on him as he once more tried to seemingly pretend
a timer could be set on a device in which there is no working
timekeeping mechanism.
...and I did miss the bus. So, I waited for the next one, which
would get me there fifteen minutes late, and with only a half
hour to shoot the woman who has to leave at 6:15, but since you
can't hail a street cab here anywhere but downtown and my back
bike tire was flat, I had no other options.
THAT bus was late. Eventually, it came, and a bunch of us got
on. I settled in, starting to thumb through our alternative weekly.
People started to sound restless, and I looked up to discover
we're at least a mile off route, and jumped up to double-check
what bus it was and am told it was the 12, not the 17. Quite a
few of us insisted the electric sign said otherwise, but as we
ran off, alas, it said 12. I'm doubting that many of us read it
wrong, but I could only grumble as I ran the other direction,
hoping to catch the NEXT 17. By 6:00, it hasn't come, and I gave
the fuck up and walked back home. I went to the boiler room and
turned the lights back on manually before I trudged up the stairs.
I couldn't find the number for 202 to call and explain what had
happened, so I tossed their name in google, but forgot a space
and I got this, instead.
It's SO nice, I have to say, on an awful day to be reminded --
just in case I forgot -- how fuck all ugly people can be. And
yes, queer people everywhere ARE indoctrinating youth so that
we can continue to build our massive, secret Gay Army. Drag queens
are our soldiers, so by all means, guard your eyes. There are
few truisms in life, but as we all know, nobody likes an acrylic
nail in their cornea. In case you missed the point of that piece?
Even IF we pretend that the kids at 202 aren't often doing all the things I see them doing there -- reading,
talking, practicing dance moves, surfing the net, drawing, doing
homework, just hanging out at their recreational center -- and
are instead hooking up all the time, are we going to then suggest
that public schools no longer have say, the prom, since teens
hook up there and we pay for it? Or that church groups get tossed
out because teenagers hook up there? Heck, we'd best stop paying
for street repairs: too many people meet on streets and end up
in relationships. Apparently it's okay for straight kids to develop
romantic relationships anywhere they want: but anywhere queer
kids do it should be removed immediately. Hell, we'd best just
burn the place to the ground to make sure it doesn't infect anyone
else.
Ugh.
Then Friday morning, over a tough talk that spanned a few hours,
which I had to interrupt with a phone conference with the ACLU,
The Girl and I agreed that for now, we're going to "just friends"
status.
I am married to my work and the whole world, not to a single person.
I have pretty much always been married to my work and the whole
world. I imagine I always will be, and for the most part, I choose
to be. I sometimes internally scoff at struggling polyamorists,
for I believe I have achieved geoamory.
So, when someone I'm with starts to want more time, more commitment,
when it becomes clear, through actions and words that either now
or later they want far more, one reaches an impasse. I'm cautious
about things like this, because I've been in similar places before
where the other person is in that spot, and decides to stick around,
stay the course and either try and make those wants and needs
vanish, or lies in wait hoping I'll change. Neither are healthy
for anyone in my book, and either going on tends to disintegrate
the relationship all around.
And that's a big part of what has been going on.
Part of what seems to happen, too, is that "my way" can look so
appealing to others when I handle it with grace, that even though
it doesn't seem like what they want, they try and make it work
for them without all the things that are in my life which make
it work for me.
But the thing is, "my way" isn't most people's way, and without
all the things that go along with "my way" -- the constant determination
and drive, the work and causes which I'm dedicated to, the activist
ideals I grew up idolizing, the love of solitary life -- I don't
imagine my way is very satisfying. Heck, there are plenty of times
when I wish my life and my nature were different, where I could
have truly all-encompassing love affairs, have my relationship
be THE most important thing, rather than my work. Where I wish
that it didn't seem to be so that I just can't do all of those
things at once; that rather than one or two people, the whole
world didn't have my heart.
Butcha know, the more years I put on this ass, the more obvious
it is that just isn't the case; it just isn't my nature or aligned
with the choices I've made, and that's why, over the last few
years, I tend to come to the table with all those cards on it
as clearly as I can, and try not to agree to -- actively or passively
-- more than I know I can truly make room for, because that just
isn't fair to anybody.
I hope someday I can have a family -- that's part of what the
Girl was starting to want to look towards -- I really do. But
if and when I can get there, I imagine I'll like have to pick
work + kid, or work + lover/life partner, and likely not both.
Even with either combination, it's going to have to be a pretty
unusual or unique situation, and I don't see it happening for
a while.
Oh, there's more, but some of it just isn't for here, and some
of it is just kvetching upon kvetching and that list up top there
is poking me in the side repeatedly like an insistent child. But
it is promising me a cup of coffee. With ground beans and everything.
(Just an administrative note: for members or groupies of the religious right, you may note
that nowhere will you find me commenting in YOUR spaces about
what you should or should not do, telling you who your God is
or should be, sharing the secret memos he left with me for you,
or discussing your "choice" of sexual orientation. So do not come
here and do so to me: if you question holding back, look to your
big black book, which I know for a fact does not put a stamp of
approval on using it as a battering ram. You may find it shocking,
but there is no shortage of places where people like myself can
find the information you're sharing, and should I decide I need
a lobotomy with a promise of Heaven, I'll be sure and look you
up. But in the meantime, keep your sanctimonious mitts off my
stuff.) |
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November 7th, Two Thousand Four: Not really here, just waking up, about to build a set to photograph
a portrait client today. Still on hiatus.
But.
I love Harvey Fierstein THIS much.
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November 5th, Two Thousand Four: Having an existential crisis, wish you weren't here.
In short, I’m going to take a little time away from this particular
page because of said crisis. While community is a beautiful thing,
and I love y'all, being the person standing naked at a party where
everyone else is dressed is a bit much at the moment. To boot,
a double helping of bad news today on the possible job front and
related woes have added new, improved crankiness, bitterness and
really annoying whining to my current emotional malaise.
I may post an entry or two in the members area during the aforementioned
hiatus. I might not. Photo updates and members entries -- if they
do occur -- with be noted here, per usual.
Yesterday, after looking at the joke that is my budget, I figured
out that since, as of November 1st, I’d made a promise to myself
that I would try, for one year, to buy no new clothing (I can
make things, I can remake things, I can have Naked Lady parties,
I can buy from the Goodwill, I can barter, and things like basic
socks and such don’t count, but no more new things for a year),
I realized that gave me enough leeway that I could renew my low-income
memberships to NOW, NARAL, Oxfam and Amnesty International. Which
I did, and which was, per usual, a great comfort. I took a long
walk. I scrubbed the hell out of my floors. I mowed the building's
lawn and I pet a puppy. I stood up for myself when in a certain
situation, my willingness to be an active activist being grossly
taken advantage of. Today, after doing some more cleaning, I may
well make a sign that reads “Free hugs for heartbroken citizens,”
and walk around the neighborhood with it.
I’ll likely read a few more articles like this one, this one, this one and that one.
I will try my damnedest to ignore common sentiments right now
like the idea that all American politics and parties need to appeal
to one religion, like the idea that we’re all unified or can be
by “family values” which are completely exclusive; like the feeling
that I’m more isolated than ever before, which is likely something
pervasive with many people, even those who aren't as far outside
of “typical” American life as I am. I will also do my damnedest
to remain the person who always says, when anyone feels the need
to inform me about incredibly minor and itty-bitty “victories”
(which often aren't, because for almost every one, there's a larger
loss that undoes them), that it still isn’t anything close to
enough. That almost-equal rights for women, for gays and lesbians,
for the lower class, for international minorities, for blue-collar
workers, for the very young and the very old are not only NOT
equal rights, we don’t have SHIT right now, still, that even comes
CLOSE to “almost-equal.”
I will not entertain discussion right now, as I tend not to most
of the time, about how, for instance, the success of the civil
rights movement was because people suddenly woke up and stopped
being racist, rather than because people suddenly had to abide
by punitive laws. I will not, right now, be told that things are
perfectly okay by those for whom it has always been okay, and
for whom are not impacted or are far less impacted by the extension
of our current cultural madness. An evangelist who tells me that
“faith-based,” government is fine has no call saying such to a
person whose faith is not included. I’m deeply concerned and distressed
about losses on all sides in the war in Iraq, I am concerned about
terrorism all around, but given that at least one in five women
have been and will continue to be raped, a clear form of terrorism
that remains no real priority for the guys in charge, and that
violence against women has dramatically increased in Iraq and gone totally unaddressed (including that to dozens of female
American soldiers, whose rapists usually leave the military with
honorable discharges), and easily 25% of American women have experienced
domestic violence, my concerns about terrorism are hardly new,
nor are they gated by borders or focused on one man or one country.
I will not set myself up for more heartbreak right now, like I
did when I found myself spending an hour last night reading extensive
online journal conversation from young people IDing as conservative
discussing how great it is that the gay marriage bans passed because
supporting gay marriage is supporting the spread of AIDS and the
moral decline of our nation. I skipped training yesterday because
while I love Dante, I just was not up for another educational
session explaining why, for instance, it is not any different
or somehow more prescriptive for a child to have a heterosexual
teacher who states he is married than it is to have a homosexual
teacher who states he is partnered.
And I’ll give myself time and space to feel what I’m feeling,
to consider what needs consideration, to regroup, to try and manage
the basics so I can get back to managing and addressing the big
stuff.
Hang in there, kids. I’ll send you a postcard and I’ll be back
soon.
(By the way, after we've had a horrid dearth of even tiny Scarleteen donations the last bunch of months, I was surprised to find this
morning that apparently the election results caused a handful
of people to see the importance of supporting comprehensive sex
ed. Thank you. Thank you. And a special thanks to you-know-who-you-are, who after I mentioned
in passing that I was again overdue on a needed dental visit,
made a big donation expressly for my teeth. Bless.)
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November 4th, Two Thousand Four: Yesterday morning, I wrote. I did it a bit more several times
a day, but I was sluggish, I was slow, I was truly unmotivated
to do so, because of how I was feeling. Likely having spent the
day before volunteering from dawn until dusk, then staying up
all night when I was already short of sleep from a pile of days
previous had an obvious effect on my energy levels.
So, I spent most of the day, uncharacteristically, in bed, hugging
The Girl, the dog and the cats, watching movies (I always need
a Harold and Maude fix when I’m at my lowest), avoiding the outside
world because I knew that I was so emotionally fragile that if
even one person said word one about the election, or asked how
I was, the sympathy would be my undoing. “Are you okay?” is the
most awful phrase in the world to hear when you aren’t.
Today, I need to get outside. I need to clean house for a photo
client I have coming up from Iowa this weekend. I need to make
some phone calls, deal with some building maintenance, send out
some bills, have a long meditation session. I need to yet again
sit with my budget and figure out where next month’s rent is coming
from (the world spins and yet, some things never change, do they?).
Today, I need to post this and then do my level best to let it
go for a while.
November 3rd, Two Thousand Four: I don’t really need to know, at this point, who the next President
of the United States is officially. (It’d be nice, but at this
point, it’s not necessary, especially since it’s fairly obvious.)
I’m not sure that’s the crucial matter right now even if somehow
Kerry still pulls off a win, because that is unlikely to fix everything
else, to fix the real issue.
I know, already, things I didn’t want to know.
I know, looking at the electoral map, that the most progressive
states, the states with most of the largest cities, the U.S. cities
most at risk or already harmed by the terrorism -- both from inside
and outside the nation -- that was so central in this election
to many (and ironically, since New York and D.C. were incredibly
easy Kerry wins from the get-go, which should, but apparently
did not, say something to the rest of the country about how those
most at risk most certainly do NOT feel safer with Bush in office),
those with often the highest minorities, those with the highest
GLBT populations, those with the most single women, those who
are the most educated (and that’s not a barb by any means, I’m
speaking statistically) visually have the appearance of either
being in the process of being pushed into the oceans or into Canada.
I know that all 11 states with a constitutional issue up to vote
on gay marriage made a very clear statement that no, we are NOT
equal and we do NOT deserve equal rights, something which shouldn't
even be a question. I know I listened to news last night in which, chillingly, the
exact same sort of language once used to justify racial segregation
was used about equal marriage rights.
I know that we have a Republican senate, and one which includes
intensely anti-choice evangelicals, social -- different than fiscal
-- conservatives like Bunning, Thune and Coburn, an obstetrician
who has said that doctors performing abortions should receive
the death penalty (I did, for the record, read a statement from
an antiabortion minister who ALSO did NOT support the death penalty
OR the killing of Iraqi civilians, so it does seem that not EVERYONE
with that stance is so terrifying nor so flagrantly hypocritical),
has made comments about “’rampant’ lesbianism in some public schools,”
and who has called native American treaties “primitive documents.”
I know that last night, watching election coverage at Becca’s,
I saw footage of a gathering at Republican headquarters where
a huge sign was being held up that read “W is for Women.” And that that sign was being held up by a MAN, something which perhaps shouldn’t have surprised me, but which
made my heart ache and my anger rise all the same.
I’ve known the whole time that for me, John Kerry was certainly
a better choice personally, and per my opinion, a better choice
nationally and internationally, but. He’s still a man. He’s still
a white man. He’s still a heterosexual white man. He’s still an
affluent, heterosexual white man. That list could go on. The point
is, setting his many virtues aside, he still wasn’t someone representing
very well -- or who really could, in some, but not all, of the
same ways Bush can’t -- for women. For the poor. For minorities
of every variety: economic, social, sexual, racial, national,
gendered (and no, most Christians and social conservatives are
NOT a minority, sorry folks, but you don’t get to have it both
ways, and the writing is clearly on the wall this week). The same
people who have basically always gone underrepresented, or been
treated as Daddy’s wee children who require protection and vague
charity, not viable rights and the treatment of equals.
I’ve known for some time that, as I listen to a two-party system
treated almost identically to how team sports are -- and with
the same levity -- that the whole democratic system isn’t something
I belong to (and boy oh boy, has this election more than any made
me bloody well tired of being classed a Democrat simply because
I’m not a republican. It’s like being classed a Jew because you’re
not Christian. Binaries seem to be all people can see all too
much of the time.) While all that might seem it’d make my disappointment
with this less intense, it seems to have done the opposite, because
in many ways, yet again -- with potential and actual leadership,
with such an early concession, with seeing the breakdowns of votes
as they come in -- I feel, yet again, like my rights, my needs
and my own representation have all been taken over by that of
the proverbial Big, Rich (or looking to become rich) White Man,
and that any seeming concern or concession for those rights of
me, mine (and thus, everyone) is naught but patronizing lip service
given to keep Him in charge so that he can keep right on making
my choices for me and furthering his own aims with my rights firmly
underfoot.
(Every now and then, I entertain myself with a little fancy. What
would happen if the ONLY two big Presidential candidates running
were women? Or what if both were gay? What if both were still
straight, affluent men, but one was Jewish and the other atheist?
What if both were poor? What if neither were white? In other words,
what if of the candidates offered, there were NONE which could
appeal to the usual sexism, racism, classism or homophobia? Of
course, these truly ARE flights of fancy in our culture, and for
obvious reasons many people strangely seem never to consider.)
I know I heard, last night, during the coverage, endless references
to terms like “moral issues,” and “religious values,” with seemingly
not even a pause to remember that there is no one standard for
any of these things, that the U.S. and the world are chock-full
of an incredibly varied array of religions and spiritual beliefs,
and an incredibly varied and always personal, array of morality,
personal and community ethics and values, and that those terms
are simply publicly palatable terms for theocracy, which is the
literal opposite of what we’re supposed to be having in the United
States where the founders of the nation sought to create a haven
from exactly that.
I know that I watched a huge part of the nation apparently concerned
with terrorism continue to pay no heed, glean no awareness of
the “terrorism” -- and for the purposes of clarity, and because
blind rhetoric irks the heck out of me, let’s go ahead and define
terrorism like the dictionary does, as the threat or use of violence,
often against the civilian population, to achieve political or
social ends, to intimidate opponents, or to publicize grievances
-- the cultural intimidation, the seize and capture of civil and
human rights right here at home, by our own people and by our
own government, which was even at the root, sadly, of the very
founding of this nation on the land we robbed, starved, tortured
and raped to house it.
I know that it was those falsely-assumed to be unilateral “moral
values,” many of which not only conflict with the religious tradition,
Christianity, they claim to stem from, but which also seek to
justify and defend sexism, racism, homophobia, xenophobia and
classism that gave Bush the popular vote.
In other words, I know that more than half the nation I live in
holds dear to it now far, far different things than I thought
it did, and eschews issues, rights and ideals I sincerely felt
it did -- we did --value.
I wept as I fell asleep in the wee hours of this morning, and
I’d like to be able to clearly express why, because I’m guessing
it’s for different reasons than one might think.
I think I’ve met only one or two other people in my life who grew
up the way I did, who were reared with the sorts of things and
situations I was, who kept on in their lives with the things I
have. Certainly, there are at least a few more out there, but
the point is, I am aware my situation is unique.
When I grew up, before and after we came out of literal hiding
in Amishville due to my father’s antiwar and civil rights movement
work and his draft-resisting, the heroes I was given, the names
that had resonance, the role models I was given were people like
Martin Luther King, Jr. and Coretta Scott King. Rosa Parks. Abbie
Hoffman. Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie. Joan Baez. Phil Ochs.
Allen Ginsberg. Gloria Steinem. JFK. Ralph Nader (oh, how the
mighty have fallen). Angela Davis. Nelson Mandela. Elie Wiesel.
Union leaders, grassroots activists, folk singers. Understand
that I was not reared taught or thinking these people were rebels
or radicals, but that these were our real cultural leaders. Certainly,
in many ways, I was undoubtedly a more educated, a more politically
savvy child than most, but in this respect, I was divorced from
reality.
I grew up reading, intensely, passionately and constantly from
the time I was about three. We didn't have television when I was
a kid, but I did have the library and thus, piles and piles of
books, and I was allowed to read whatever I wanted to, even when
I know both my parents were sure I couldn't yet comprehend it.
I read vesrions of the classics for children and tired at the
originals, I read the newspaper, I read Judy Blume, and I remember
having a series of books for chldren that were biographies of
notable women in world history that were my loves. When we had
enough money for me to order books of my own from the book club,
I'd consider and reconsider what I could have with extended deliberation,
and the day books were to be delivered, I'd be as excited as someone
about to go out on a first date, every time. For the brief time
my parents were together, I had a Dad who did my caretaking and
homeschooling and a mother who worked. Neither of my parents or
the people reguarly around me in my early childhood ever told
me there were things I couldn't do or aspire to because of my
sex, economic or social strata. Neither of my parents ever dumbed
me down. I didn't do well in school because anyone was pushing
me or talking to me about college, I did well in school because
I loved school, I loved learning anything and everything. I grew
up in groups and in areas where it was not up for question that
every single one of us on this planet deserved equal rights. Eh,
enough nostalgia, you catch my drift.
Last night, after a morning of doorknocking, when Becca, Heather
and I were out on the busy corner of Franklin and Hennepin holding
signs, jumping and waving for visibility before the polls closed,
a family came up with a little girl with her own, handmade sign
she’d asked her parents to let her make and take out, and tears
welled up in my eyes because it made me so sentimental about my
own idealism, when I was wee, now and everywhere in between. I
thought about all the big and little grassroots campaigns, activism
and the like I’ve been involved in in my life, everything from
what I do now with sexuality and feminism, to being brought along
on INFACT protests (including chiding store owners to remove Nestle
products, something which must have looked awfully weird coming
from an 8-year-old), to creating my own tiny campaigns in my youth
for things like animal rights. The vast majority of my jobs and
work in my life have been socially or politically activist work.
I can think of only one or two years in there when it wasn't,
and even during those years, I was always doing something small
on the side. I've heard so many people keep saying they'll be
so happy when this election is over so that they can go back to
their lives without having them intruded upon or dominated by
politics, so that they can enjoy TV without political messages,
and it strikes such a bitter note in me because this stuff usually
IS my life, it's saturated at all times, in part by choice, in
part non-optionally, and heck, I don't even watch television.
For people who barely know me, don't know or comprehend my history
who have said "You have to START fighting for our/your rights,"
I don't even know what to say: I bloody well always have been,
since I could walk.
Even with my father’s disappointment with his own activism, and
the struggles from it, one needs to understand that I grew up
always having the clear, unwavering idea that despite its bloody
history, amidst all the imbalances and trodden rights, that America,
and the people of America, were, at their very root, fair people,
people who deeply cared about human and civil rights for everyone, people who were kind, people who wouldn’t simply fight for their
own personal rights, but for the equal rights of everyone, and
not just nationally, but all across the globe. Peaceful people,
smart people, people who thought that even with it’s small flaws,
the constitution was a document and a set of rights well worth
protecting. People who could say, “You and I are different, we
have different lives and different beliefs, but I’m not going
to take yours away so I can further mine: we can work it out so
there is allowance for both, as was intended when this nation
first began.”
I’ll be 35 years old next year, and it was shocking to me that
last night, as I tried to fall asleep in the wee hours and felt
my body begin to weep, that I felt like a kid who just got definitive
proof that Santa Claus wasn’t real.
I feel naive as hell today. Certainly, I’ve always been aware
I’m an idealist of sorts. I think what I wasn’t aware of, or just
didn’t fully understand until I was trying to fall asleep last
night, is that I am incredibly, overwhelmingly American. That
I AM patriotic. If I were not to such a degree, all of these things
wouldn’t be the forceful, heartbreaking and overwhelming blow
which they are. I deeply believed in all of this stuff, and not
lightly. A whole lot of it is the core of who I am, and believe
it or not, that’s news to me. (Possibly because through so much
of my life I have been told I ws unpatriotic or un-American, but
also possibly because I thought the same of myself.)
Maybe other people my age got their “No, Virginia, there is no
Santa Claus” message before me: after all, the voting in my age
group was actually down yesterday, not up. Maybe the people my
age and a little older with kids also passed on that message:
the youth vote, despite expectations, was not all that greater
than it was four years ago, and while a majority of them voted
Kerry, it’s also typical for young voters to vote for a challenger
(and I’d be willing to bet many guessed on their ballots for every
other candidate: after all, most adults I know did). If Martin
Luther King, Malcolm X, Abbie Hoffman, JFK were still alive and
well things’d be different: maybe some of their deaths sent the
strong anti-Santa message too clearly already. But maybe not:
maybe people like that were just stars passing in the night (and
often being shot out of the sky, no less), the likes of which
we will never see again.
Maybe I’ve been an idiot. I think that worry is part of what has
me so out of sorts and so disillusioned right now, the concern
that I put my bets on the wrong horse when it comes to this nation,
not a given election, but the nation itself. That all the work
I’ve done, all the work I’ve believed in, doesn’t have the value
and the possibility I’d always thought it did. That I was even
more optimistic, more idealistic, than I knew. That even despite
being well educated, being politically informed above and beyond
the norm, that even with knowing full well the level of corruption,
the level of bigotry, the levels of hate around me, I’ve been
naive and haven’t seen them clearly for what they are, for how
very prevalent they are.
I have no idea where that leaves me, because these feelings take
away a decent lot of the anger that I’ve always used to fuel me
to be an activist, to speak out, to act out, to work for things
I thought were not just important to me, but to pretty much everyone.
My heart just hurts. I feel ungodly tired, and not in a physical
way from so much work on this stuff the last few weeks, or even
from so much work on these things during my life, but from the
loss of not just the motivating anger, but more importantly, the
motivating hope I managed to find a way to always feel at some
level.
Likely, I haven’t lost the anger. At the moment, it’s probably
just covered in a big, wet blanket of disappointment. Likely I
also haven’t lost the hope, but that I have not actually worries
me more this morning, rather than providing comfort. Would my
hope, my idealism, my deep love for what I’ve always held as valuable
about this nation (and perhaps, also my stubbornness) keep me
from ever leaving it, even to my great detriment, or even when
it is nigh unto impossible that I could accomplish anything, even
when my rights and cvilil liberties became so further infringed
that I’d be in very real danger or suffer far more intensely?
I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be out of character for me.
Over the next few months, I do feel I should go ahead and gather
up the paperwork on emigration, assess the costs and the viable
possibilities (this is something I've been looking intooff and
on for years now, so I'm more aware than most that it's nothing
close to easy, nor as simple as it looks). I should ping the couple
I know in Chiapas with a free trade co-op and see if I can’t finagle
a visit sometimes in he next year. I love Quebec, but since it’s
been a big life hope that I could manage to spend the golden years
of my life working some soil in Mexico, when considering emigration,
it’d be sound for me to consider going there sooner, rather than
later. Ironically, for as many people over the years who have
said "Don't go!" far more people have said, "You don't like it,
then fucking well leave." (Which, suffice it to say, is not only
a clear sentiment that activism from selective arenas isn't often
welcomed, but also speaks volumes about people's understanding
of the emigration process, especially for those of us who are
socially and economically disenfranchised here, and who have been
from day one.)
I also feel I should, while I’m considering that, consider how
I might stay as well. Given the effects the US has on the rest
of the world, and could continue to have, given the approach to
the international community by the US as us vs. them, I'm beginning
to wonder how helpful it would even be to leave, how much difference
I would feel. Certainly, having healthcare, getting Scarleteen
funded, being in a place where I have greater equity as a woman,
as a dyke, as someone with faith but whose faith is not within
the religion currently running my country would all be massive
bonuses. But what if where I chose to go managed to become seen
as an enemy? How far would even be far enough?
We did deliver Minnesota here, and Minneapolis is such a wonderful
city, one where I AM surrounded by good people, where I'm not
surrounded with bigotry, where I do feel safe and welcomed. Where
I feel at home. Heck, when we were out doing visibility on the
busy streetcorner Tuesday night, our mayor even drove by, honking
enthusiastically and giving us a thumbs-up. I love my community
here. (I confess to falling into a typical sarcastic cynicism
election night, when it was clear things were going badly, that
I suggested to the table of women around me that lesbian seperatism
in rural America was an option: after all, if I could manage to
make my nonviolent belief system vanish, we could be assured that
with a socially conservative administration, we could simply shoot
anyone who posed a threat. I also suggested that perhaps the easiest
route was to convince Canada to just adopt Minnesota: we share
a border and most of us have more in common with Canadians than
Americans anyway.)
And though I am plagued with doubt right now for the little voice
I’ve had inside me all my life that says, “We can do this, we
can change things, every hardship is also an opportunity,” right
now, it is possible that it is.
What I don’t know is how much ability and agency I’ll have to
do that, as well as how much of my chutzpah I can really drum
up anymore. Getting by in the most basic way is still so hard
as it is, and it’s entirely possible over the next few years that
my avenues for the small income I can make from this site, from
photographic work, from Scarlet Letters when we do have advertisers
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