The Total Femme

A Very Gay Day

thetotalfemme — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 02:45:51 +0000

What a gay day! Owen came home cheerful as a little bat, dancing around, singing, humming. He said, “I hate having to go back to school on Mondays, but then after school I get to go to the GSA and it’s so much fun! That’s a good reason to like Mondays!” And Seth, who had run up the hill from basketball practice, later said, “Mom, when I was walking from the high school I was behind some kids and one of them said someone was a fag and one of the others said, ‘Don’t use the f word!’” I gave him five and asked him if he had a secret inner smile to that, and he said, “Kind of.” Then I asked both boys if they thought people were using “gay” and “fag” less as insults, and they both thought that there’s more awareness and less abuse of those words. Then Owen and I went off to the Friends of the GSA meeting where we talked about supporting the GSA at the middle school, ideas for a display in the media center, ideas for the upcoming dance which will be at the end of No Name Calling Week. And you may find this hard to believe, but I also ran into not one, but two gay people at the grocery store and had long conversations with both of them about their recent gay divorces. All in all, it was an extremely gay day. I wouldn’t have it any other way! OK????

From Our Home to Yours

thetotalfemme — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 02:27:04 +0000

(After a column we once saw in a local small-town Vermont paper by a local lifelong resident.)

Today, we solved a little mystery at our house. It had been over a week, and our half-gallon mason jar that we always put our homemade granola in (Mama sure can whip up a fine batch of homemade granola!) just wasn’t fitting on the shelf we always put it on. We really had to wedge it in there! What could have caused the larger dimension? When we first noticed it, we took out the mason jar, we compared it to another mason jar and we measured it across the top. We looked underneath, we attempted to screw the lid tighter but still! We were barely able to wedge it in there. We were baffled, and I think you know what we mean! We gave up our attempts and just decided we would live with it for a while. Daddy has his granola every night as a bedtime snack. As time went on, the level of the granola in the tightly wedged mason jar slowly went down. At last, the night came when Daddy dished out the very last serving. Now it was time to wash the mason jar. When Daddy went to wash the lid, what do you suppose he found? Why, there were two lids stacked inside the ring! So that was where that extra eighth of an inch came from! Next time, we’ll be more careful when we put on the lid! Ok, that’s all for now, folks. Talk with you next week! Eat all your veggies and go to bed on time, and here’s Mama’s recipe for that healthful and delicious granola of hers:

3 cups rolled oats

½ cup chopped almonds

¼ cup sesame seeds

2/3 cup maple syrup

2/3 cup canola or coconut oil

2 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp cardamom

pinch of salt

Mix everything together and spread evenly on a baking sheet. Bake at 325 until evenly browned to your satisfaction (1/2 to 1 hour). Stir every now and again. Store in a mason jar (watch the lid!). Keeps for a week or more.

Youth Group Yuck

thetotalfemme — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 22:30:57 +0000

After the publication of “I Hate You, Mom!” Jones (a regular reader of this blog and now a contributor; thank you, cherie!) kept emailing me to ask if Seth enjoyed himself at the youth group retreat after all, and I kept forgetting to email her back, so…this one’s for you, Jones!

And the answer is, not particularly. Plus, he was really tired, having been persuaded to stay up all night, which is not something he’s good at. The other day he said to me, when I asked, “I don’t really get it, Mom. I like the kids, the things we do are ok, but I just don’t like youth group.”

Not one to process, my Seth, that was about all I got from him (that was a lot!). I don’t know exactly what’s bugging him about youth group, other than both Linda* and I have really pushed him to go. But one thing that bugs the hell out of me is the sick-o attitude of many of the adults at church.

People are always gushing. Always going on about how amazing our youth are, how lucky we are as a congregation to have such amazing youth, who are so amazing and unbelievably amazing. It makes me gag. The kids don’t make me gag, I like the kids. Not all of them – many of them I don’t know – but the cutie pie 10^th grader who’s been helping with the LGBTQ organizing is a nice girl who I enjoy working with, and some of the others who I know I also like. But the way most of the adults go on, it’s really too much.

I mean, it’s practically masturbatory. “Our kids are so great – yes, just like that – oh, yeah, our kids are fantastic! Yeah! Oh yeah!” Because if the kids are great, we must be great also. So maybe that’s what Seth doesn’t like, I don’t know.

It’s so hard for kids to get a chance to actually do something meaningful when they are thwarted at every turn by over-eager adults like in our congregation, or teachers who are too overloaded to even see who they might uniquely be, and anyway, have to teach to the standardized tests, like in Seth’s high school. Everything everywhere is fakey fakey. Probably that’s what Seth doesn’t like, how contrived everything ends up being. I asked him if he had his way, what would his ideal life look like and he said he would longboard, play guitar, and take math and science. Would that he could! This is probably not a good time for me to go into a rant about how I wish he could homeschool again, now that he’s been thoroughly demeaned by 6 years of school and understands why homeschooling can be so great, but he said it, not me.

In the meantime, watch this, and send Seth some good vibes!

*My ex, his other mom; gets a different name in every post!

Birthday OTL

thetotalfemme — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 18:16:46 +0000

Teaching English to non-English speakers is transcendent and frustrating and I’ve been doing it since college. These days, my students tend to be Korean, thanks to the desire of many middle and upper class families in Korea to have their kids attain fluency in English. One of my current students is a 16-year old girl who is having to repeat 9^th grade in order to accomplish this goal, at a Catholic girls school, no less. She’s living with a friend of her mother’s from college, a family she had never met, out in the suburbs where it’s impossible for her to walk anywhere other than around the neighborhood. I try to bring her a little fun along with helping her with her homework and whatever tedious English work she has to do, by throwing in a lesson on swear words and the like every now and again.

At any rate, this often-frustrated but brave and cheerful student recently reminded me about OTL, something I’d learned from a previous Korean student far from home (and he was only 11). Don’t look at it as letters, look at it as an emotional state: the O is a person’s head, the T is their body and the L is their legs. Get it?

I am completely OTL about my upcoming birthday. It’s that one where afterwards they send you that magazine in the mail. Not that I’m not glad to have made it this far, because I certainly am! It’s just a little daunting, is all. Someone’s happy, though – Tex just pure-d loves that magazine!

Abe Rybeck Hugged Me!

thetotalfemme — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 03:47:40 +0000

I’ve been a Theater Offensive fan from way back, give them money when I can, and keep an eye on their doings, which is why I worked on getting True Colors to come to my town’s middle school as part of publicizing the new GSA as well as adding to the anti-bullying effort going on.

Theater Offensive is a queer theater organization, and True Colors is a youth troupe that builds a show from the ground up and takes it on the road, usually to high schools, but they’re going to come to our middle school in the spring. This evening, a group of us went to see a preview of their show, which is called “# Over the Rainbow”. The whole show was interesting, funny, sad and moving, my favorites being one called “It’s Not Catching” in which the phrase, “No homo!” is used and abused, and another about an American Muslim lesbian. Because True Colors is coming to my son’s school, I finally had an excuse to introduce myself to Abe Rybeck, the founding artistic director of Theater Offensive, who I’ve seen around for the past 20 years but our paths never really crossed. I admit it, I gushed. I told him I love him, and he very graciously told me he loves me too. It was definitely a crowning moment in my career as a queer.

I just feel so grateful to him for making queer theater available and accessible. I feel connected to him on some kind of queer grid or web, where we’re all doing what we can where we can with what we have. It’s a very satisfying feeling, a loving feeling. So, thank you Abe, for all you do for us. I’m out here in the burbs doing what I can as well. Together we’re changing the world. MMMmmmmmmwhah!!!!

A Happy Cautionary Tale from Across the Atlantic Sea

thetotalfemme — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 22:35:29 +0000

And now a word from my dear friend Jones, who is spending time in a southern French ville for several months with her dear bonny boys so that they become even more fluent in French than they already are. I visited her in October, and didn’t we have fun??!! We did, and we also got a chance to talk about so many things, including growing older with all its little surprises, as well as dealing with irritations such as the gaseous burbles of impatience and self-righteousness… In a recent email she says:

“I write this because I want to remember it! One – two – of my failings being impatience and a sharp tongue..this morning I was in the supermarket, not really in a hurry but going through the line often seems to generate a sense of self-importance as in, “I have better things to do!” …the person in front seemed to be taking her sweet time and the cashier did not present a very appealing picture: appeared sullen, no smiles, and with her triple chin, severe hair style and hairy upper lip, not quite the picture of a model “hotesse de caisse”.

When (at last!) it was my turn, she oddly began rifling through papers in the trash can, quite persistently until she found a slip of paper which she then began carefully to unfold and unwrinkle. All without saying a word. And LUCKILY I kept my mouth shut and didn’t voice my thoughts which were, roughly “what the f+** are you doing now?!” or more accurately, “Que fichez-vous maintenant?!” LUCKILY BECAUSE…she had dug up a 5 euro coupon for me and used it to reduce my bill! “We’ll just see if it goes through,” she murmured conspiratorily…

ps i have a hairy upper lip too!”

“I Hate You, Mom!”

thetotalfemme — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 23:24:30 +0000

In this inspirational/self help book I’ve been reading about GALS AT MIDLIFE, there’s a funny bit about middle aged women going through menopause who have teenage children going through puberty at the same time. It really is quite the combo.

Mama, the clown you punch and she comes bobbing back up again, that idiot grin on her face.

No need to go into too many details (church youth group retreat this weekend, Seth said he would go, he got special dispensation to get there late – this morning instead of last night — because of his soccer party yesterday, this morning he was saying he wouldn’t go and that he regrets every time he ever does what I say, growling and swearing in his new-man voice) but the upshot when I was calmly asking him for the umpteenth time to get out of bed, was the title of this post.

Hurt my feelings. Had to go sit on the couch and cry and reread bits of Get Out of My Life But First Could you Drive Me and Cheryl to the Mall? while he slammed into the shower. I had to come bobbing back up again. Tell him I don’t like him speaking to me that way and carry on.

I made him breakfast and got his stuff thrown together in a backpack. He bitched at me the whole time. I actually really understand – another similarity – he’s dealing with the excess of his life, the excess of interesting things to do. I’m sure he’s going to enjoy the retreat, but what he wants to do right now is go longboarding. It may be the last good weekend for that, and I’ve ruined it for him. So he’ll never listen to me again, he’s not going, he’s not hungry (meanwhile sneaking bites of breakfast – he’s of an age where his body’s growing so fast he can’t pull his hissy little “I’m not going to eat” fits the way he did when he was younger, there’s too much physical imperative to pack it in). And most definitely, he growls that I don’t know anything. At all.

But wasn’t I just writing in my journal this morning that it’s so hard and crazy-making to have to pick a couple of things and settle down? Like, what if I did this blog more professionally – I could turn it into a book, like mommywithapenis! What if I wrote erotica full time – I could be a sexy celesbian like Tristan Taormino! What if I went back to school to learn how to be a more effective social justice doer gal – I could change the world! What if I started singing and playing the piano again – I could have a band! What if I started studying Tibetan Buddhism really seriously – I could get closer and closer to “This Thing” (as Gerald Heard calls it, reported in My Guru and His Disciple by Christopher Isherwood)!

Instead I piece things together as best I can, trying not to get too scattered, trying to go deeper in a couple of key areas and to remember that whatever I pick, it will unfold to encompass all the things I think I have to go flitting after.

This is a lesson I am learning, a lesson I would like Seth to learn also, start learning, maybe earlier than I did.

This is a lesson he would like to shove up my ass.

Grin, baby, grin!

Epilogue

I put him in Tex’s truck (she and the dog were giving him a ride), saying how sorry I was it worked out this way, that I know he really wants to longboard, that I love him and I hope he has fun at the retreat anyway. “I won’t.” Maybe he won’t and we’ll both have learned something. I’m learning about him all the time, just the same way he’s learning about himself. I hope I’m listening, because that’s my mama job. And damn it, I really am sorry he can’t go longboarding today! Because I love him. And that, thank god, I know he knows.

For the Love of a Fag

thetotalfemme — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 16:48:24 +0000

I have been reading My Guru and His Disciple by Christopher Isherwood, and in it, he’s just met Don Bachardy. Because I’ve read Christopher and His Kind and also seen the dear dear movie “Chris and Don” and read other stuff by and about Isherwood, I am incredibly moved reading about their early years, knowing that they stayed with each other until Isherwood’s death. This morning, as I was on the way to my pilates class, I was thinking about their age difference – 30 years – and how that could have posed such an obstacle but it didn’t. Then I said to myself, “Thank goodness they found each other!” at which point I completely teared up and had to blink furiously and take a deep breath in order to keep driving safely.
Isherwood is an inspiration to me for so many reasons – his honesty as a writer, his refusal to compromise himself or hide his sexuality, his spiritual quest, his love for his friends, his sense of humor (dry!), the way he engaged intellectually with friends and colleagues, and his generosity and devotion to Don. That Isherwood’s books exist, that Don is still painting, that there is a documentary about them – what a gift to me as I face the challenges of being queer and married and a writer. What a gift to the world!
Other fag stories that have touched and inspired me deeply include writing by Mark Merliss (I wrote him a mash note! He wrote back such a nice thank you!), Robert Rodi, David Valdez Greenwood, E.M. Forster, John Preston, mommywithapenis, David Henry Hwang, James Baldwin, Richard Rodriguez, Mark Doty, Michael Bronski, J.R. Ackerley, W.H. Auden, Quentin Crisp, Mattilda – and doesn’t the list go on? Yes, yes.
On my shelf is a book edited by Joan Nestle and John Preston called Sister and Brother: Lesbians & Gay Men Write About Their Lives Together. In the introduction, Joan Nestle talks about exchanging long letters with her gay friend, Carl, “giving each other the courage to explore queerness,” and John Preston talks about “the connections that seemed to linger just below consciousness”. John’s agent, Peter Ginsberg, and an editor, Susan Fox Rogers, had had a conversation, writes John, about “why the recent burst in lesbian and gay publishing didn’t reflect the reality of their lives; that most gay men and lesbians had, in fact, warm and often powerful relationships with one another”.
Rereading the introduction – read it yourselves, it’s pure gold! – I am in tears for the second time today. How I love John Preston for talking so forthrightly about how sexy he found Joan, and other lesbians in his past! As if lesbians don’t reciprocate in finding gay men totally hot! Our queer sexualities unite us, even if we don’t always want to fuck each other (although sometimes we do). How I love Joan Nestle for her courage and warmth and her truth speaking – and for her love of John, for cradling his head to her generous femme bosom in the book jacket photo. This book is a love story between them, paying homage to other love stories between other fags and dykes. Obviously it’s time for me to reread this book, and I will, I will, but I wonder: where is the conversation today? Where is my fag brother who weeps over the doomed love of Aimee and Jaguar and the long love of Del and Phyllis, rereads The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, is inspired by May Sarton and Audre Lord, loves Jackie Kay and Nalo Hopkinson and Isabel Miller, gets off on the erotica and smarts of Carol Queen and Laura Antoniou, cheers on the pioneering efforts of Tristan Taormino, Amber Hollibaugh, and Minnie Bruce Pratt and finds the strength to go on in a harsh and imperfect world after reading the novels of Sarah Waters where our queer history is so lovingly and thoroughly brought to life?
Joan and John edited their book in 1994. 17 years later, what twists and turns has the conversation taken? What are we saying — fags to dykes, dykes to fags — and how are we encouraging each other to be our own unique, queer, evolving selves in a very fast-moving, confusing, jittery, juddery world?
Where does our love stand now?

Shakespeare Comes To My House

thetotalfemme — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 01:00:20 +0000

Last night, against all odds, me, Seth, and Owen made to see Actors From the London Stage in “The Tempest”. The performance was in Wellesley, far, far from where we live, and it was rush hour. I spent most of the day devising a plan, and this was it: Owen skipped soccer practice and we picked up a meatball sub and a pizza for dinner on our way to Seth’s freshman soccer team game. He was playing of course, in a town not particularly near Wellesley, but we went out there and watched them win, and then, people, we got on the highway. I’d printed out a regular map and a campus map, and had the information written down. (Perhaps you’ve guessed this already, but I don’t get out much. Also, I don’t know how to work the GPS.) I am happy to say that we made it in plenty of time, got really good seats, and despite some sibling bickering* (I eventually had to sit in the middle of them), had a lovely evening at the theater. There were just five actors, each playing multiple parts, at which they were amazing, the music was ethereal and gorgeous, and the whole thing was just brilliant. You felt yourself to be in such good hands with these actors, they were so skilled at what they were doing, so obviously in love with the language and the story.

This morning I had to walk the dog kind of early since Tex is out of town and I’m bachelorette-ing it. By the time I got back, the boys were awake and I didn’t have time to do my devotional reading or have a tiny moment of meditation. So I was a little off kilter, and then the boys bickered* again and then I had to go to work and when I got back, Owen was on this whole tear of speaking in a really silly English accent, and Seth was saying things like, “Owen, come hither!” and then bickering* with him and I was getting grumpier and grumpier. And then I realized that they had been inspired by Shakespeare, just as I was when I was a kid and first saw “As You Like It” – the language, the language! So I took a deep cleansing breath and let them have at it, congratulating myself on energy very well spent last night on our big adventure. Here’s to many more!

You taught me language; and my profit on’t
Is, I know how to curse.
–Caliban, Act I, scene ii, The Tempest

*fisticuffs and snarling

Dirt

thetotalfemme — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 12:48:38 +0000

I’ve been sad and upset lately, angry and frustrated by the reality of divorced parenting. I feel very strongly that now is the time to gather Seth closely in as he gets used to being at his huge public high school and looks for ways to engage with the world meaningfully. I don’t mean, “You can’t date and never may you spend time with friends!” but rather being solidly there for him and directing him, as best as we can, through the morass of adolescence.

For example, there’s a youth group at our UU church where I’m pretty sure he could find some good friends, as well as get the chance to play music that doesn’t involve the more competitive and possibly out-of-reach options at the high school. The problem is that communication between me and Olivia (my ex)* is tricky, and as the boys grow older and have more agency, I’ve let a lot of it go in a big way.

But things get lost in the cracks. If Olivia doesn’t know that I think Seth should go to a particular youth group meeting because they’re discussing music, then she won’t push him to go (as shy, sometimes anxious guys sometimes needs to be pushed), and that’s one more nail in that coffin in that he hasn’t had a chance to get to know the music-y youth group kids. The trouble with parenting with a person you’re divorced from is, surprise! you don’t usually get along or agree on the best path for your kids.

I used to always say that Olivia and I agree on the most important things, the health and happiness of our kids. That is true, and I am grateful that she loves them and cares for them as much as she does. However, it’s a great disappointment and struggle that our interpretations of “health” and “happiness” differ so greatly. Seth was at Olivia’s the day of that youth group meeting, and he didn’t go. I know it’s a small thing. But there are so many small things like it.

This morning, Seth had to get up early to go to band. I woke up even earlier, made some breakfast, made some lunches, puttered around, woke Seth up. You never know with a 15-year old, but this morning he was relaxed and mild. He ate breakfast (sometimes he storms out without it), he sipped on his fennel tea, quizzically informing me that it tasted like dirt, which made me laugh. Bang goes another attempt to find him a licorice tea he likes!

Our morning together – less than ½ an hour – was made up of moments like that. He needed sweatpants. I found some hiding in a drawer. I made sure he had bus fare to get to and from soccer practice. He wanted to wait 6 minutes before I drove him over to school, so we sat in the living room and the cat got on his lap. I asked him about his new cats at Olivia’s house and mentioned Nanny, the dog in Peter Pan. We drove off into an amazing sunrise and I couldn’t stop looking at the sky. I told him about our friend’s little boys in France who are yearning for Halloween (which they don’t do over there) and we hatched a plan to treat them to some candy from afar.

As I drove home after dropping him at the high school maw, there were tears in my eyes. I just went slowly and let the good wash over me. Olivia and I don’t work well together, that is just the way it is. If I concentrate on all of that shit, I won’t be able to appreciate these other, small, delicious, cozy moments with my boys where our blessing and the okayness of our family make themselves known. And guess what? It tastes like dirt. Not so much “pay dirt”, but “down in the dirt”, the dirt where things are nurtured, where they gather the strength and knowledge to come out, gorgeous, questing, alive, into the light.

*my little bloggy conceit is she has a different pseudonym almost every time I write about her