So Glad You Have Mary

Coming out of my therapist’s office the other day, I bumped into a straight mom I know from cross country (Owen has been running Varsity since freshman year). This mom is also a therapist who works in the building. I was a little startled and shy to run into her, so, after saying hello, I blurted out, “I see Mary!” gesturing at my therapist’s office. The mom smiled her warm, therapist smile, and said in a warm, therapist voice, “I’m so glad you have Mary!”

 

Another time, I overheard the following conversation between two straight ladies at the UU church where I sing in the choir:

 

Rainbow Love #1:       My son is seeing someone!

Rainbow Love #2:       Oh, really? That’s great! How’s it going?

RL #1:                         Well, they’ve only been on a few dates, but he seems like a sweet man.

RL#2:                          Oh, I hope it works out for them!

RL#1:                          I know, I know. You just want them to be happy, you know?

RL#2:                          Yes, I know exactly what you mean!

 

There’s nothing like being reduced to the status of cute, fuzzy animal by this brand of

straight benevolence to kick a girl in the ass.

 

I think this is what wears us down and does us in. Here we are, queers in suburbia – most

of us being careful not to use that terminology, even – volunteering for the PTO, having

mostly straight friends, working hard for “welcoming” churches, on town committees,

carpooling, smiling and nodding as straight parents say things to us like, “I’m so glad my

kids have had the opportunity to get to know you and your family – now they’ll grow up

knowing that gay people are just like us!” We are supposed to be grateful that straight

people are “ok” with us, even though so often these same “ok” folks never offer to go to

Pride with us, obviously don’t have the imagination or time to spend a few minutes

thinking about the reality of our lives or do anything else that will truly support us, just

happily pat us on the head and give us a wink and a nod. You cute little lesbian, you!

 

I’m glad I have Mary, too, but not because anything about me is broken or less-than or

worthy of pity and condescension. Mary helps me remember all the many, many ways that

I am whole.

 

My husband and I went to a Pi(e) party in the distant land of Jamaica Plain on March 15,

far, far away from our suburban lair. There were queers of all sorts at this party, and I

conversed with five or six different femmes alone. It was a haul to drive over there, and

we really had to push ourselves to get out of the house, but my gracious was it worth it.

Seeing all those flavors of queers situated us again in our skins. Being surrounded by

our people reminded us that we are unique, capable adults who think deep thoughts, have

complex and nuanced personalities, grown-up sexualities and so much more.

 

Best of all, my offering had a little picture of John Waters on a stick stuck in it, with a

speech bubble that said, “Have some (apple) pie, butt plug!”*

 

 

 

*see the chapter about Blossom (my hero!) in Carsick, our Queer Book Group’s most

recent read

Published in: on March 24, 2015 at 4:37 PM  Comments (2)  
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All Tomorrow’s (Straight) Parties

I recently requested to be removed from an email list of members of my ex-church who live in or near my neighborhood. One of the initiatives this year is a sort of “get to know your neighbors” series of shared meals, and I was tired of receiving emails about Spanish appetizers and wine tastings. Gosh, spend more time with liberal white straight people who dearly wish to believe I’m “just like them”? What a treat!

 

We’re about to be snowed in again. I said to Tex, “Well, maybe the boys can hang out with the K’s,” our neighbors. Tex said bitterly and referring to many disappointments from years past, “No, they’re probably going to their straight snow-bound parties to have fun.”

 

How ironic that one of the things some of the members of the above-mentioned church said when some of us queers were trying to initiate queer space in the supposedly “welcoming” congregation was ,“Your Gay Soirees sound like so much fun!” in a droll, slightly hurt, slightly hopeful way.

 

Tex and I were talking again about the whole “LGBT-friendly” caregivers support group we didn’t go to last night (see last post). When I asked the social worker if she was straight, she said in the most snippety fashion imaginable, “BISEXUAL!” Ah, I said, thank you for telling me. We hung up, and I muttered, somewhat snippety in my own right, “Yeah, you slept with a girl in college but you’ve been married to a man for 30 years and live a totally straight life!”

 

Tex and I were musing that there are straight people we know and love who are queerer than a lot of the folks who used to sidle up to me at church and confess that they were bisexual. It’s a cultural thing – are you at least somewhat conversant with what’s going on in the queer world? Or do you just want to trade in on that time you kissed a girl and thought it was ok so you can come to the rainbow glitter unicorn kaffee klatch that just sounds so cool?

 

Ok – if you say you’re queer, you’re queer and you get to come, I would never bar the door or do a pantie check or anything like that. But please, do say you’re queer! Don’t lurk! Agh, what am I trying to say. I guess something about just letting us not be just like you, not all of us are (I would say none of us are).

 

Derald Wing Sue says that so many of his academic white friends want to treat him like a white man because it makes them feel more comfortable and it maintains the power imbalance. In his book Overcoming our Racism: The Journey to Liberation, he describes a dinner date with a white male colleague, to whom, the entire evening, everyone in the restaurant gave preferential treatment. Sue attempted to discuss this with his friend, who had a big fit and denied everything. Sue writes, “It suddenly dawned on me that unearned White privilege is seen as a source of strength and that it provides Euro-Americans with the permission to deny its existence and use it to dominate others! I realized the insidious and seductive effect of White privilege on White Euro-Americans. Why should you want to give up a world that is made for you?”

 

My dear reader knows that I in no way believe that “Gay is the New Black” and in fact find that statement to be racist and idiotic, but I do think some comparisons with racism can be useful in understanding heterosexism and homophobia, and this is one of them. Wing goes on to say that whites have a stake in racism, because it props up the world they benefit from, just as straight people have a stake in homophobia for the same reason.

 

If an institution like a church is unable to see that work needs to be done in order to allow minorities their own cultural space then that right there is the reason there aren’t more minorities in the institution. It’s pretty simple, actually. It’s certainly why I left.

 

But where do I go now? The preponderance of queers here in the burbs are certainly doing their best to assimilate, keep a low profile. Recognizing what’s going on is the first step to doing something about the situation, I suppose.

 

Anyone want to come over for a party?

 

The Snow Day I Was Fierce

Here in the Boston area, school is cancelled. Once again. Tex has braved the streets to get to work, Seth is snowboarding, Owen is out shoveling for dollars, and I have been working from home.

 

Where a social worker from our town’s Council on Aging reached me by phone and now neither of us is happy. A while back, I had requested an LGBT-only caregiver support group be created locally, finding myself queer while caregiving my elderly parents, one of whom (my Dad) has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Lo and behold, the COA came through. Sort of.

 

The group is being billed as “LGBT-Friendly”, which made me mad. It’s a fucking “welcoming” congregation all over again! But then I settled down, saying to myself, well at least they’re doing something, and I put it on the shelf. But today when the social worker called to remind me about the meeting and then point blank asked me what I thought about it being “LGBT-Friendly” I fucking told her.

 

Not what I asked for, I said. And this straight woman who’s coming? It’s great that she’s accepting of all sexualities and understands that there might be queer people there. Really great. But do you see how that makes the group more about straight people than queer people? How almost for sure we queers will be forced to, consciously or subconsciously, monitor what we share? And I didn’t say this, but I sure as hell know that wouldn’t ever feel comfortable even tearing up in those circumstances, especially now that I’ve just had words with the group leader!

 

This does not sound supportive to me. Even though I could tell the social worker was bursting to read me, (“You ingrate! How can you say such things! Look how far over backwards we’re bending for your “special” requests!”) she managed to say nothing other than she hears what I’m saying but they have to do it this way for now in order to get enough people to run the group and she’ll be happy to check in with me afterwards for my feedback.

 

Guess what? I’m not sure I’m going to go after all, even if me not going means there aren’t enough people and makes me look like a flake or a jerk. Because, as my husband somewhat exasperatedly pointed out, this is not supposed to be work for me! It is supposed to be a support group.

 

She’s right, and we’ve been talking a lot about this lately. I guess it’s a pretty classic thing to happen to a community organizer and activist, but I find that I never relax. I organize fun, supportive, community-building events, and people have a good time and are supported, but I’m wrung out at the end from having run around making sure everything was going smoothly. I don’t relax much at all, to tell you the truth. Everything is work.

 

Did I mention that I’ve been sick for the past week? There’s been some slight improvement, but I’m still dizzy and my mind is hazy.

 

Talking with that social worker sent me right back to the couch. Damn it! Lately I feel like I just don’t have any barriers protecting me from this shit. Thin skinned. Wore the fuck down.

 

I need to spend time with real friends. I need to find ways to rest and relax with people who love me. I need to be fierce about protecting my health and wellbeing. I need to finish reading Daughters of an Emerald Dusk by Katherine V. Forrest, the absolutely ripsnorting conclusion to her high lesbo camp science fiction trilogy.

 

And I’m pretty sure that where I need to be the night of the support group is not at the Senior Center with a new group of strangers, but rather taking advantage of the loving support that already exists: in the living room, in front of the fire, with my reali-o, truli-o, very own family.

Ubi caritas*

This morning, I missed singing the second “Ubi caritas” — we’re doing three versions in choir – and I missed singing the first one for similar domestic reasons: it just seems like the better choice to stay home with my family.

I’m back singing more seriously after a few years’ hiatus, and I joined this new choir simply and purely to sing, nothing more. The choir director is a dear singing friend from my old voice teacher’s studio, gay as the day, the church requires nothing of me, unlike my old UU liberal hell that just about did me in, and I have made it a priority to practice, get to Thursday night rehearsals, and be there on the Sundays we perform. Singing is one of the things in life that truly feeds my soul.

I’ve been sick for about a week with some vague headache-y, vertigo-y, sore neck-y complaint that got so bad at one point I wondered if you can have walking meningitis the way you can have walking pneumonia. “C1 and C2,” said my chiropractor when I could finally get there (oh yeah – we’ve had a lot of snow here) and she grabbed me and wrung from my neck the sound of a machine gun, or perhaps a chainsaw. Recovery has been slow, despite this cathartic adjustment, and I’ve been missing from the heart of the family in a way I know is disconcerting for everyone.

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” whispered my stalwart husband last night as she kissed me goodnight. “I was starting to worry.” She, who has danced attendance, missing work to drive me to acupuncture and chiropractic appointments, brought me meals and reassured me when I started to freak out. And I’ve had to ask Martha** to step in for things like going to an accepted students afternoon at a local university with Seth, when I so dearly would like to be with him as he continues to freak out in various teenage ways about this very adult decision he’ll have to make in the next few months.

I was finally well enough this morning to get up early, as I like to do, muddle through some sudoku, write a little, read, meditate. It was snowing again, but that’s not why I stayed home from choir. I just wanted to be here, cooking, doing chores with Tex – who’s also been yearning for an at-home day to just putter and read – inhabiting the house. Shoring up the home.

*where there is love

**my ex, they boys’ other mom, she of the ever changing pseudonym

P.S. Noble sentiments indeed, from someone who decided not to stop reading out loud to Tex the chapter “Bernice”, about the heroic, renegade librarian, from our Queer Book Group’s current selection, Carsick by John Waters. The chapter includes a great deal of raunch, for example, the (fictitious?) book title, Clitty Clitty Bang Bang, had me and Tex falling about laughing hysterically, and sent a recently awakened and deeply horrified Seth back upstairs to his room for another hour.

Published in: on February 8, 2015 at 4:20 PM  Leave a Comment  
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Love Letter to the Methodists

Every morning I read the daily selection from my grandmother’s Meditations for Women. She and my grandfather were lifelong members of their small Iowa town’s Methodist church, and whenever I visited as a child, which was often, our family accompanied them to Sunday worship. It was boring and I wasn’t allowed to read, but I liked standing for the hymns, leaning against Grandmimi, who rustled and smelled like perfume and hairspray. She’d been in the choir her whole life, but in her 60s, she’d retired, her lungs no longer up to the work due to two bouts of childhood pneumonia. Even husky and wheezing, though, her lovely voice guided me effortlessly through each verse. I especially loved the Doxology, and I used Grandmimi’s Methodist hymnal when Tex and I were planning the music for our wedding. I didn’t want the watered down UU version, because to my mind, the gorgeous tune isn’t complete without the Methodist-God-the-Father words, and that’s the version that lives in my heart.

In 1975, when my grandparents and their two daughters and husbands celebrated “100 Years of Marriage” (50th anniversary for the elders, 25th each for the younger generation), I experienced a pivotal moment of political awareness in that same Methodist church’s Vestry. My Southern California cousin, (her Methodist church had hot pink pew cushions — my favorite color!) had brought along a friend for the festivities, a very soignee young black woman. As the two of them made their entrance into the Vestry, I had been watching one of the other guests, the black adopted daughter of a local family, probably around 7 or 8. I’ll never forget the look on that child’s face as the glamorous California girl swanned down the stairs, nor will I forget the alacrity with which her white mom got going asking the older girl how to do her daughter’s hair. That moment of awareness about race and racism and loneliness and community is forever twinned in my mind with the linoleum and florescent lighting, the smell of perked coffee and the taste of Vienna sausages, jello salad, and well done roast beef from the heart of the heart.

When my grandfather died, I wrote his obituary and spoke about him from the pulpit of that church. I did the same when my grandmother died.

In the suburban Boston town where I live, the Calvary Methodist Church wears a big rainbow stripe on its sign along with the words, “All Are Welcome Here.” An impassioned letter in the local newspaper from Calvary’s minister about how her church doesn’t agree with their denomination’s powers that be on the issue of gay rights caught my attention last year, and I filed her away as a potential ally in the organizing work colleagues and I are doing in town for queer youth. Sure enough, we learned that Calvary’s Reconciling Team was interested in supporting our efforts, and they subsequently provided pizza and drinks for the members of True Colors, a queer and allies youth theater troupe that performed at the middle school. To our delight, Calvary went a step further, offering their church hall, free of charge, to the members of the homeschoolers QSA for a dance they were planning (I’m the adult advisor). Go Methodists!

Oh, but then. Five days before our Drag Extravaganza, when everything was all ready to go, the music cued up, the decorations and snacks purchased, the outfits agonized over and assembled, the event page busily ticking along, the emails sent out, the fliers distributed, the chaperones standing by, I got an email from the minister asking me to call her asap. An issue about the dance we needed to discuss. All unaware, an innocent babe, a lamb to the slaughter, I gayly picked up the phone and punched in her number.

The issue, dear readers, was drag. All through the 30-plus-minute conversation, I tried to understand what it is about drag she finds inappropriate, why it is she’s not comfortable with it, but she just couldn’t seem to tell me. No amount of my explaining about the cultural significance of drag to the queer community, no amount of appealing to her conscience about the deleterious effects of cancelling their fun on the youth, no amount of reminding her that they had reached out to us and we had accepted in good faith, not even letting her know that this whole thing was feeling homophobic to me, nothing, nothing would shift her. At one particularly frustrated moment, I blurted out, “It’s not like anyone’s going to come in drag as Jesus or anything!” Oops. Out of all the cogent and righteous things I said that morning, I suppose that’s the only one she’ll remember. And she didn’t budge. Change the theme, or you don’t get the space.

We didn’t change the theme.

I’m not sure why she wasn’t able to be honest with me. If she had said, “We bit off more than we can chew. We’re sorry, but if we let you do drag in our church, the big boys will have my head.” (I guess probably she wouldn’t have said “my ass in a sling”, but that’s ok, I still would’ve known what she meant). If she had said, “Please work with me on this – what can we do? How can my church support you and still move forward as an ally without me losing my job?” or whatever it was that motivated her to lay down the law. Instead, she told me several times that now was not the time to educate her about drag (isn’t that what they wanted? to reach out to us and learn?) and kept assuming I would understand their discomfort. In the end, it came down to her saying that it’s her church and she gets to say what happens in it.

We have already found another venue and date, and this homophobic disaster has been a catalyst for the planning of a town-wide visioning conversation about how to provide more systemic and sustainable support for our queer youth. We are using this huge disappointment to our advantage, and I am excited by the prospects for education, community building, and fun (the Drag Extravaganza will be bigger! better! more bitchin’ and bodacious!).

I’m not so sure what will happen over at Calvary, though. They opened the door to us, and we came skipping in wearing feather boas and glitter – far, very far, from approved Methodist dress code. The wounds perpetrated on queers by Christians* are deep, persistent, debilitating. Stepping up to that reality, moving into that fraught and messy relationship requires resilience, self-education, humility, careful listening, being willing to get out of the way, creativity, imagination, empathy. The work is theirs.

I am moving on. I have no investment in facilitating any of it for them, any more than I already have by responding to their outreach, then giving up a chunk of my hide (as Grandmimi would have said) in a half-hour long conversation – and better me than any of the kids. But for the Doxology, for that small Iowa town Methodist church Vestry and what happened there, for the connection I feel every morning with my long-dead grandmother when I read that day’s “Meditation for Women” (on the inside of the back cover is written in Grandmimi’s hand: “There is only one kind of poverty and that is to have no love in the heart,”). For all of these, I hope Calvary can do it.

I hope they can open the door wider, not slam it shut.

I hope they can go on to earn their rainbow stripe.

 

* http://www.autostraddle.com/seeking-queer-theology-and-perfect-love-that-casts-out-fear-273260/

 

 

Mary Oliver, Lesbian Make-Out Point, and Suzanna Danuta Walters: Just How Personal Is the Political, Anyway?

I so did not know Mary Oliver was queer. I love her poems, of course, it’s damn hard not to, but she’s such a UU bastion of the straight, middle-aged, middle-class, white crowd that it never once occurred to me she was anything other than straight herself.

On a recent Sunday, I sang at a UU service where the straight, middle-aged, middle-class, white minister read the congregation two of her poems. They were beautiful and sacred and I loved them, of course, it’s damn hard not to, but the whole time I was thinking about her being queer and how that never seems to come into her poems and how that makes it easy for all these straight people to adore her and use her for their uplift but I can’t help feeling like she’s giving her queer love to people who get love from every other damn where and I need her love more.

I know I’m a queer one-note Sally. This came up recently in an argument Tex and I had about the Lesbian Make-Out Point. We often take the dog for a walk on conservation land, and many months ago, found the above graffiti on a trail marker. It cheered us up no end. Subsequently, we noticed that the graffiti had been painted over. The last time we walked there, I pocketed a sharpie, ready to bring Lesbian Make-Out Point back into the light. Tex said it wasn’t right. She said that the volunteers taking care of the conservation land work hard so that there’s nothing but nature and notices about deer ticks and poison ivy and pick up after your dog – that it’s not a political place, one way or another. She also said that even though she liked Lesbian Make-Out Point, she had the feeling that it wasn’t written in love.

I said that everything is political, that our voices are silenced everywhere, and that restoring Lesbian Make-Out Point had the potential to cheer up other silenced queers. But Tex felt so strongly about it that I just kept the sharpie in my pocket. My sense of the sacred and her sense of the sacred veered away from each other in this instance.

In her book The Tolerance Trap: How God, Genes, and Good Intentions are Sabotaging Gay Equality, Suzanna Danuta Walters makes the incredibly salient and important argument that queers and straight allies “have settled for a watered-down goal of tolerance and acceptance rather than a robust claim to comprehensive civil rights.” I am with her all the way on this. But then she goes on to trash – I mean utterly eviscerate – the movie “The Kids Are All Right.” This seems so odd, given the rest of the book’s astute observation and queer love, that I suspect something other than making a cogent political argument was driving it. Something personal.

With the whole Lesbian Make-Out Point thing, Tex was telling me that my personal political feelings were getting in the way of her worship (of nature). Well, Suzanna’s personal political feelings got in the way of me finishing her book, although I did eventually, and I highly recommend it. Her take on that movie, though, is distressingly unempathic and mean-spirited towards the suburban queers whose choices have taken them to a very lonely place. Choices, as always, deeply influenced by our homophobic, anti-women culture.

I’m still not sure I agree with Tex about not restoring Lesbian Make-Out Point, and I know for a fact that I would have done it if I’d been on my own. But I am willing to consider that something I experience as restorative and uplifting could be like a kick in the teeth to someone else. Some other queer, I mean.

I am not the first person to notice that we are the hardest on our own. It’s something the status-quo welcomes and foments: if we’re fighting tooth and nail among ourselves, it will be smooth sailing and business as usual for the powers that be. But how hard it is to separate out our politics from our personal! I don’t really think we can. We are desperate for connection, recognition, approval, adoration, amour. I know intellectually that my queer doesn’t have to look like your queer, that we all have our histories and pain, our own paths to follow and that we can only be who we are and do what we can. Additionally, I am quite certain that every single queer in the world, from the most conservative to the most radical, agrees that every other queer in the world should be able to live life fully and safely, that we’re on the same page there about the most basic of what matters. So as vulnerable as I am to perceived slights by other queers (“Where’s my poem about sister love? How can you trash a movie that may actually be talking about femme identity?”), I do my best to unwad my panties, take a deep breath, leave my sharpie in my pocket (or not), and get back to work on my answer to Mary Oliver’s most famous quote*:

 

I am making my small piece of the world a better place for all of us.

 

*“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Oh, Ivan

This morning when I was picking up a prescription at the drugstore, there was an ad on the counter that said something like, “One in six will get the flu (here there were 6 gendered figures, one of whom was a sickly green), protect yourself with the flu shot! 20%-off shopping coupon when you purchase your flu shot from us!” Then when I got home, I took a note about the ad because I wanted to write this post, and Tex, seeing the note, asked innocently, “Are you writing that to remind your folks to get their flu shots?”

Reading Ivan Illich is like eating the densest, most complex flourless chocolate cake imaginable. I have to go slowly and sometimes I have to take an extended break. But I’ve been reading Tools for Conviviality again recently, and am almost to the end. The reason the flu shot ad caught my eye is because Chapter V, “Political Inversion,” begins like this:

If within the very near future man cannot set limits to the interference of his tools with the environment and practice effective birth control, the next generations will experience the gruesome apocalypse predicted by many ecologists….The bureaucratic management of human survival is unacceptable on both ethical and political grounds….Man would live in a plastic bubble that would protect his survival and make it increasingly worthless. Since man’s tolerance would become the most serious limitation to growth, the alchemist’s endeavor would be renewed in the attempt to produce a monstrous type of man fit to live among reason’s dreams. A major function of engineering would become the psychogenetic tooling of man himself as a condition for further growth. People would be confined from birth to death in a world-wide school-house, treated in a world-wide hospital, surrounded by television screens, and the man-made environment would be distinguishable in name only from a world-wide prison.

Oh, Ivan. I know you knew that there was no stopping us from going where you warned us not to go. Look at us now! “Did you get your flu shot?” “What was your SAT score?” “I love your playlist!” and all the personalized ads everywhere. Recently, my sister-in-law sent us a screamingly funny email about all the ways you can use the poop emoticon on your phone, and anyone at all can faff about with untold numbers of computer programs that allow you to change up photos, use packaged beats to make a song, design faux movie trailers, and more more more. Looks like creativity, smells like Big Brother.

My copy of Tools was published in 1973, part of the World Perspectives series edited by Ruth Nanda Anshen. It smells terribly musty, the pages are yellow, the cover indicates that it’s a serious book in the hoary design language of yore. A holy object.

I may never know for sure, but I wonder if Ivan was queer – I mean, I know he was queer in the broader sense of being outside the norm – but I like to imagine that he co-founded the Center for Intercultural Documentation in Cuernavaca, Mexico in part because he had a thing for hunky Mexican men.

The worries of the world come upon me at any time of the day or night. I am in despair. There is no way out and we are doomed.

And yet Ivan bravely wrote and left his brave, brilliant words for me.

At the homeschool QSA, I wax lyrical about the work we’re doing in our community, and one of the members sighs and says, “That was so inspiring!” I read my erotica story about a very late-blooming boi at a sparsely attended event and afterwards hear from two of the audience members that that story was dear to them. One of my ESL students begins to question her mercenary-like concept of the reason you go to college – maybe it’s not so much about getting a diploma so you can get a high paying job, she’s thinking now, maybe it’s more about self-reflection and global connection. Both my sons agree that it’s important for them to attend a QSA-sponsored meeting to discuss ways of supporting local queer youth; Owen can’t come because he’s sick, but Seth shows up and stays for the whole time, and later tells me he thinks we’re on the right track and that there are definitely folks who will benefit. These things are not nothing and they are the best I can do.

I hear voices: Noam Chomsky’s exhausted monotone, Amy Goodman’s nerdy intonations, Mia McKenzie’s succinct, no-fucking-around turn of phrase, and (glancing at my bookshelf and picking out just a few) Lee Lynch, Christopher Isherwood, Bill McKibben, bell hooks, Radclyff Hall, Sarah Waters, Mary Renault, Tove Jansson, Amber Hollibaugh — and Ivan, oh, Ivan! I’m listening.

“Witness. Companion. Persevere. Stay human.”

Published in: on November 15, 2014 at 11:54 AM  Leave a Comment  
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Feral Queers

First of all, I’m sorry I left you hanging at a rather suspenseful moment last post! I’m happy to relay that my Dad is fine and both my folks are doing really well.

And now, to our irregularly scheduled blog post:

 

On a recent suburban evening, Tex and I took ourselves off to the local library where we were looking forward to participating in the Queer Book Group run by our simply marvelous local lesbian librarian. We were to discuss Orange is the New Black and for the very first time, Tex had finished the selection and I had not.

 

Imagine our surprise when we got there to discover two earnest straight white ladies sitting at the head of our QBG table with a clipboard and a lot to say. I remembered, just barely, hearing that our fearless lesbian librarian leader had engaged these folks to bring their knowledge about prison activism to our discussion that evening. Tex, however, didn’t have a clue, and was forced to leave the room when one of these horribly entitled, condescending gals sang out, “So, do you want to talk about QUEERS in prison now?” (No, certainly not with you, and plus, you don’t get to say queer, and double plus, you don’t know shit about it, so shut up!)

 

See, me and Tex are kind of feral queers, and when we manage to make it to a queer event, we just want to be with other queers. We live out here in the straight wilderness, having to don protective coloring and full-body armor, dodging homophobic bullets right and left, trying to keep our queer selves and dignity intact and functioning despite the lack of any kind of harbor of decency, and we are fucking tired. It’s desperate for us, no fucking joke.

 

After the straight ladies finally left, Tex voiced so many grumpy complaints that when we got home she had to write an apologetic email to our fabulous lesbian librarian. (“Dude, don’t give it another thought,” came the gracious reply.)

 

I managed to hold it together with the straight ladies, but I am sorry to say that I made the vomit gesture when same fabulous lesbian librarian leader reminded us that we’re reading Rubyfruit Jungle for next time. I hated that anti-butch/femme book (took it quite personally), but who cares? The QBG is so wonderful it doesn’t matter what we’re discussing, but somehow, I still couldn’t stop myself from reacting in this unfiltered fashion.

 

When Tex and I get around other queers these days, we get dangerously amped up. We tend to erupt with loud comments that are often uncouth, poorly timed, and unruly. We sputter, laugh too loudly, and make jokes in dubious taste, startling more decorous queers and potentially ruining our chances of finding new queer friends. Tex says she used to be disciplined in grade school for disrupting class, and that’s exactly how she feels now at QBG. And I’m so desperate for queer culture that any book, film or webseries QBG members recommend or say they’re enjoying, I shout, “IS IT QUEER?” so you might as well call me the queer one-note Sally and, as we know, she usually ends up eating lunch all by herself. Tex and I worry that we are crude, offensive, and generally unfit for polite company.

 

But isn’t it also true that we could all do with more queer love than we’re getting? Surely we’re not alone in this. Yesterday, at the homeschoolers QSA, one of the members related an episode where she bonded with a passing gay boy about her new jellies. She’s a modern queer teen on the go, with a coterie of fabulous friends of all sexualities and genders, and yet sharing a squeal or two with a sweet flaming stranger completely made her day. When she told the story, everyone at the QSA sighed and cooed and nodded and smiled and smiled.

 

We need each other so badly! So give up the sugar, my sisters and brothers. Smile at each other, break out a friendly wink, an air kiss, an understanding grin. Spread the fairy dust and queer up this old world. See each other and gather each other in.

 

 

 

Published in: on November 12, 2014 at 10:34 AM  Comments (3)  
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Who You Spozed to Be?

I’m white, and my parents are white. My Dad and I both have freckles and super white skin – he’s a redhead, even – and we are just darn white. Where we used to live, where I grew up, in University City, MO, the population slowly changed during my childhood until, by the time I was in high school, there were more black people than white people in our neighborhood and in my school. We were the “weird” university professor whites who didn’t hold with white flight and who sent their kid to the public school when other white folks preferred the private one even if they did maintain their funky house in the changing neighborhood. I got a better education than those kids did.

 

My Dad has always been a runner. He has always run in sweatpants and a sweatshirt and I am talking about the rattiest, torn-up, crappiest clothes you can imagine. He also wears a hat: don’t ask. One time during those white flight years, he was running in a nearby park, frequented by mostly black homeless people, drunk people, drug dealers, to whom, I’m sure, my father either said “hello” in his good-ol’-Iowa-boy fashion or ignored. This particular day, an inebriated black guy started running next to him as he pounded by in all his glory.

 

“Hey!” this guy shouted, a look of great curiosity and confusion on his face. “HEY!”

 

“Yes?” said my Dad, perhaps slowing just a bit but not stopping. “What is it?”

 

“I got a question for you!”

 

“All right.”

 

“My question is: WHO YOU SPOZED TO BE?!”

 

And no matter how my father tried to answer, nothing would satisfy, until he finally just ran out of the park, while the guy kept shouting, “HEY! WHO YOU SPOZED TO BE? WHO YOU SPOZED TO BE?”

 

Today I got home from therapy to an email from my mother saying my Dad had been peeing blood all night. I wrote back asking her to get the urology records from where they used to live, and I spoke with his new doctor’s office to let them know. Fortuitously, he has an appointment with the urologist this week. It took me about half an hour, which I recorded on my timesheet, something their estate lawyer has recommended I do (You Better Werk!).

 

The other day, I told Tex I’m going to get a lock of my hair dyed blue. Other older gals do it, and I am longing to splash my femme sexiness around the burbs a bit. I was so inspired by the Saint Harridan fashion show – all shapes, all sizes, all ages strutting their stuff in those fine, fine suits – and I want to share the love. Here, in the middle of the fecund jungle of middle age with teenagers and old parents and old pets, here in the thickly settled suburban life where we stick out like sore thumbs, this is where I am, femme soccer Mom, queering the minivan, neither one thing nor another, fucking with folks’ little (ageist, homophobic, misogynistic, classist, racist, ablest, dumb-ass) minds.

 

A neighbor just gave us some eggplants and we have a fridge full of other summer bounty produce. I’m going to cook a lot today, for friends and family. I have other housework to do, also. My work, my writing, my organizing, my relationships with family and friends, are as rich and juicy as all the ripe produce coming into the house.

 

Just fleetingly, I feel it: how I’m right here, being who I’m supposed to be.

Reduced Circumstances

These days when I ask my Mom how she and my Dad are doing, she says, “Just fine — as well as can be expected given everything that’s going on.” She says this quite cheerfully, as she has always been an upbeat, go-get-‘em kind of gal, and it usually makes me chuckle. Only a few months ago, way out on the other side of the country, she and my Dad were clawing their way through the days, dealing proudly and stubbornly with his sudden, debilitating depression and anxiety. Now they’re safely ensconced in a small rental house down the street from us, my Dad is medicated and much better, and my Mom has even been able to get back to some of her academic work (archeologists, like writers, never retire). But their lives are seriously smaller than they once were: they no longer drive, have asked us to be in charge of their finances, and have to depend on us for just about everything.

 
This past weekend, at the Saint Harridan pop up store in Jamaica Plain, I sat for a couple hours while Tex deliberated about buying another suit. As I sorted through fabric swatches, I was privileged to watch customers coming in. They would always be met at the door with a cheerful, “Are you in the market for a suit?” and, if so, would be respectfully and lovingly guided through the suit-buying process. First, Mr. Mary or Mr. Dom would help them with size, giving them jackets and slacks to try on. Over and over, I watched shy, plainly-dressed queers transform. With each step of the way, their faces would begin to clear, their eyes sparkle; they would begin to smile and not be able to stop. Their posture would straighten. By the end of their fitting, when they were actually feeling in their bodies what it was going to be like to be resplendent in a suit, they were radiating confidence. They went from being shy and easily overlooked, to shining like the stars they are.
The night of the super moon, me, my parents, and our little dog walked over to the park to take a look. Lots of people were there, straight families with kids sitting on blankets, other straight people in lawn chairs, probably some queers, too, but invisible to me. Only the straight people were visible. My parents and I sat on the grass for a while, and I liked being with the neighborhood folks, overhearing conversations. On the way home, my parents held hands, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen them do. I don’t think my father would have ever had the patience or desire to walk down the street like that previous to what one doctor called his “brain event”, which has slowed him and restricted his life so much.

 
I can feel very angry when I think about how queers are treated, how we are supposed to be content and quiet with so very little. When you first come out, you have this extended – often life-long – lesson in learning to live in reduced circumstances. Everything you took for granted when you assumed you were straight (i.e., human) gets eroded and takes on this sinister not-for-you quality. It’s stunning, and some of us never get over it, others of us are in denial, others of us die from it. Because of it. But I have found such sustenance in queer connection, so much love from people, who, like me, are marginalized and oppressed – we have such strength, urgency, and creativity. We do so much for each other. “When we started Saint Harridan,” says Mr. Mary Going, the founder of the company, “it wasn’t just about clothes. It was to change the world.”

 
I have felt enfolded and inspired and sweetly seen by my people and I am grateful for my minority status in that I feel I have a much better grasp of systemic injustices and why things are the way they are than some of my straight white friends who have never been up close and personal with being despised. I have never once wished I wasn’t queer, despite the daily battle to be seen, the danger, the hatred, misunderstanding, loneliness, rage and misery, because within these reduced circumstances – because of these reduced circumstances — lies all the love in the world.

Published in: on August 14, 2014 at 9:32 PM  Comments (1)  
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