On my way to work this morning, listening to WMBR, I heard a song called “Your Mother Wants to Know”. In the waning days of my last boy’s childhood, I have been grieving many of the things that did or didn’t happen when my boys were little. I couldn’t quite understand all the lyrics to Scrawl’s song, but the big heartbreak of it made me cry.

Yesterday, during the three-hour wait for Owen’s eye specialist appointment, I read the latest Time from cover to cover, including a mom ed by Kristen van Ogrtop about her relationship with her college-going son and her perhaps vain hope that he will vote in the upcoming election. He almost never communicates with her, which sounded very familiar, but then she said that sometimes he does send her a cheerful emoticon, which is way more than I get from Seth, now a sophomore down in Florida. But every day, I get to see Seth’s legacy in the form of the graffiti lite he and pals used to do using post office labels. Stuck up on the stop sign at the end of a nearby street is his attempt to wake people up: WHO IS LEONARD PELTIER? Damn, does that always make me smile!

I took my daybook with us to the doctor’s office yesterday, knowing how long the wait would be, and somewhere between home and there, I lost it. It’s a mystery, because it’s a whole big notebook and you would think Owen and I would have noticed if it dropped out, but it is gone. Blipped into another dimension, the way our sweet kitty Frankie used to do – there one moment, and the next, gone, baby, gone. Frankie always managed to find her way back to our dimension so she could curl up on Seth’s bed and keep him company through the night, but my day book seems to be enjoying its sejour and I have a feeling I’m never going to see it again.

In the daybook, I scribble notes about what’s going on with my queer organizing, observations, thoughts, plans. I’ve got people’s contact information, to do lists, long rants, “State of the Organizer” sections where I check in about the other parts of my life informing my activism work. It’s a record, a chronicle, a history. I’ve even been asked to archive my daybooks with The History Project, the LGBT history organization in Boston. Now there’s going to be a three month gap.

Tex comforted me, saying that the act of writing things down has value in and of itself. Like journaling, I guess, even if you never see it again, you can feel better and have a clearer head afterwards. But I feel a responsibility to the queer community to leave a record of our queer organizing in the suburbs, not only because our history so easily gets lost, but also because I am so incredibly grateful to the queers before me who made an effort to write things down so they wouldn’t disappear, speaking to me in their own unique bent voices. We need each other so badly, past, present and future.

“Mom, I’ve lost my phone and my ipod so many times,” said Owen soothingly as he accompanied me back to the doctor’s building so we could check the parking garage where perhaps my daybook had fallen out. “I know just how you feel.” I remember those times, how sad he was, how he had to weather the shock of being forcibly parted from all his personal, meaningful minutiae.

I feel I’ve let my people down by being so careless; my Buddhist readings urge me not to be attached, to resist following the stories told by my ego; I keep looking for my daybook in the places I last saw it, knowing it’s not going to be there, just like ol’ George Carlin becoming more and more ridiculous as he looks for his lost keys.

Yesterday, I lost my daybook. Yesterday, I spent over three hours with Owen, outside of time, the way doctor’s waiting rooms always are, just chillin’. We got so bored we started reciting a favorite poem from the boys’ childhood: “Kansas City Octopus”, and Owen was so sweet to me later that thinking about it makes me tear up. Tex, spooning me in bed last night, whispered, “All is not lost! There are so many reasons to live, honey! Don’t give up!” And in the form of a post office label, Seth reminded me that he has a good and justice-minded heart.

I’ll get another daybook. I’ll keep writing the story of family.

Who’s That Lesbian?

Like many long-term couples, Tex and I have little code words, inside jokes and years-long continued conversational topics to keep us engaged and amused. Here in the suburban wasteland, whenever we see a likely candidate walking around, we quickly spell out “W”, “T” and “L” in ASL, then sing this little song, “Who’s that lesbian? Hey, who’s that lesbian?”

Yes, we are complete goobers.

Last week was the fourth year Tex and I attended Women’s Week in Provincetown, a dyke-a-palooza that’s been going strong for over 30 years. One of the highlights for me of this full and thought-provoking eight days was Cris Williamson’s song-writing workshop. Having come out late, I did not experience the full impact of her 1975 “The Changer and the Changed”, the ur-album of lesbian music, and really, knew very little about her. During the course of the three-hour workshop, where 16 of us wrote a Women’s Week theme song together, it became apparent that Cris is actually a lesbian guru-goddess-grandmother-top, whose dedication to her own art and her own people is unwavering and fierce.

If I thought anything about Cris before meeting her, it was only to snobbishly dismiss her music as cheezy and outdated. Seeing her in Ptown as she played a show every single day, signed albums and connected with her fans at Womencrafts every single day, did fundraising for her latest album every single day (as I believe she has done for many of her previous 30 or so albums), was incredibly inspiring. Who’s that lesbian? A shimmering jewel in our crown, that’s who.

In previous years, I have used Women’s Week as a writer’s retreat. This year, Tex and I decided to just go and be, hang out together and apart, give ourselves over to the energy and plunge ourselves into the great sea of women. I still took care of some writerly business, however, and did two readings and a signing. I also went to a writer’s workshop at the Provincetown library with 90-year old poet Hilde Oleson, as well as the workshop with Cris.

As a writer, I am constantly distracted by my commitment to activism. As an activist, my writing can suffer by being too precious or political. In addition, rather than sit my ass down and write, I find it a hell of a lot easier to roll up my sleeves and get to work scheduling meetings, responding to emails and following up on the thousand and one other urgent organizing tasks.

In Provincetown this past week, I worshipped at Cris’s feet, basked in Hilde’s wise and humorous presence, continued political conversations with Women’s Week friends, shop owners and other Ptown year-rounders, brainstormed with Tex about how to lovingly and effectively address racism against American Indians in the mostly-white dyke population. I began to feel something I don’t often feel: fully and truly myself. Integrated. Standing in my power as femme, writer, activist, mother, daughter, wife, observer, critic. Goober. It was incredible.

Re-entry into our life in the “liberal” suburbs was rough. But every time we go to Provincetown, we come back more committed to that integration, something queer people have been historically denied. And last night, our grassroots organization, Mystic LGBTQ+ Youth Support Network (Queer Mystic), celebrated over a year of programming and opening queer space for queer youth. Local folks, queer and straight, youth and adults, sat in a circle and talked about our lives, our wishes for our town and the progress that has been made. Today, I am sitting my ass down and writing this post, the first in many a moon.

Who’s that lesbian? Hey, who’s that lesbian? Stay tuned.


Me, Alli and Eve’s verse for the Women’s Week theme song, “This Place”:

Do you see?

How the light inside you beckons fearlessly?

Do you see?

How it flares within you so relentlessly?

Do you see?





Published in: on October 19, 2016 at 10:29 AM  Comments (4)  
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“At Least All of Mine Are Normal”

Recently, whilst riding on public transportation, Tex ran into the partner of a femme friend of ours. They exchanged hearty, butchly greetings and a handshake, and just as the other butch was getting off at her stop, she leaned over and whispered to Tex something upsetting that was going on in the life of her step-kid, our friend’s child from a previous relationship. Tex was horrified – this was none of her business! She really didn’t want to know! And why did the other butch need to dump it on Tex in the first place? “Didn’t she feel the love?” Tex lamented, when she told me about it later.

I’d say the other butch did feel the love and that was exactly why she felt safe to share her step-parenting burden, however maladroitly. The nuances and heartbreaks particular to being a butch step-parent are hardly anything that the straight world would “get”, and, unless we child-rearing queers make a real effort, it’s straight folks who make up the bulk of our parenting co-travellers. I imagine the sordid details of her step-child’s life just burst out of that other butch, perhaps even despite herself. The shock and gladness of running into another butch step-parent in the middle of her regular day – come on, how often does that happen? – made the upsetting information simply fly out of her mouth.

I used to bemoan the conservatism of my sister dyke moms, who, it seemed to me, did nothing but toe the line. Where were the other radical queer parents, interested in homeschooling, in questioning the imposed medical wisdom, who were going head-to-head with schools about racist, sexist, homophobic-yet-beloved practices? I guess we were all just trying to survive as best we could in the face of the onslaught. My go-to has always been trying to figure out how I can fuck things up; this is not everyone’s go to and that has to be ok.

After I came out to my cousin as bisexual, lo, children, these many, many years ago, she reported back later, somewhat wryly, that my aunt, upon hearing the big gay news, remarked smugly, “Well, at least all of mine are normal!” No one wants to have a queer kid, even now. For example, I believe that the desperate efforts made by straight liberal parents here in the burbs to be “supportive” of their genderqueer, trans, otherwise not “normal” children, stem from a deep sense of failure and loss; it’s a full-on overcompensation. Just as angry tirades and sobbing jags stem from the same oppressive cultural messages: not-straight equals failure. How much more pressure on queers who have kids, choose to have kids, flying in the face once again of heteronormativity, good god, people – if your gaybes aren’t normal than it is really, truly, absolutely, you god damn fooly YOUR FAULT!!!! A whispered phrase into the ear of a fellow butch step-parent who appeared like magic on that train the other morning, well, maybe it saved that butch’s sanity just a little bit, just one more day.

Published in: on May 18, 2016 at 9:45 AM  Leave a Comment  
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What we talked about on Tuesday

One of the QSA members brought in the below on Tuesday, and we spent a long time discussing the content. My mind is a little bit blown that the word “queer”, so liberating and yummy and bath-water-warm for me, is bitchy and bullying and nasty to many of the youth now, the, um, qu…, um,  under-the-rainbow youth? Not to mention all the other extremely interesting, troubling issues she brings up.

What do YOU think, dear Reader?

Published in: on May 18, 2016 at 8:36 AM  Comments (4)  
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Where Two or Three…

Every week, I reserve my Tuesday morning for the homeschool QSA, never knowing how many kids are going to show up.

Sometimes no one comes at all. I’ll sit for a while, reading a book or writing something, just hanging out, keeping the space open. Then I’ll go home and have an early lunch.

Sometimes it’s just me and one other kid. Sometimes, that kid really needs to talk and we stay for the full 2 hours. Sometimes, it’s been awkward, because that kid would much rather be interacting with peers and we don’t stay much over 30 minutes.

Today, I thought it might be me and one kid, and I told him that two people can change the world. Another kid showed up, and I said three people can do even more to stir things up. We got started by looking at a 1971 copy of Life magazine that was kicking around, and I talked about how gay rights have changed since that time, which led to a discussion about liberal lip service, “just like you” folks, the isolation of not knowing about queer history and having to reinvent the wheel all the time as well as assuming homophobia is just your own personal hell because Americans like to think everything is about the individual instead of looking at systemic oppression. We talked about how some of their peers feel that the era of GSAs is over, thinking themselves too cool or too sophisticated to ever darken the doors of such a passé group. We talked about queer space and why it’s important. We got to talking about how a radical queer movement has a lot to teach the straight mainstream population, for example, about sexuality and gender norms. Another kid showed up, kind of late, and we talked about liberal lip service again, something she is just beginning to explore and understand.

We also planned our next meeting, which will be open to younger kids, a Junior QSA, and we planned the upcoming GSA Summit we’re co-sponsoring with Queer Mystic: “Combating Lethargy in Your GSA”.

Yesterday, Monday, after a miserable 2 ½ hours at the assisted living place trying to comfort my sad and lonely mother, talking to the administrators about some communication problems and the fact that said sad and lonely mother had pressed her call button Sunday night and no one came to check on her until 3 hours later, I drove off feeling pretty rough. Panicking about where Tex and I will be when we’re old, how we can prepare. Feeling old and lonely right then. Feeling very “what is the point?”.

As we meandered through our discussion this morning at the QSA, we got onto the topic of paths not taken, and I mentioned my little fantasy of what if I had gone to live in San Francisco with the super-radical queers. One of the kids said, “But maybe you’re more needed here, and you’re making more of a difference here than you would out there. Maybe the work that you’re meant to do is here.”

Every Tuesday morning I make the commitment to spend two hours with members of the homeschool QSA. Can I get an amen?

Published in: on February 23, 2016 at 2:02 PM  Comments (1)  
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Am I in the Right Place?

Yesterday, halfway through the homeschoolers QSA meeting, there was a knock on the door. We all turned to look, and the young person who had knocked looked in turn at us. Then she asked shyly, “Am I in the right place?”

Oh readers, is there not one among you who has not asked perself* the same question? I may be 54 and ticking here in the suburban sprawl outside of Boston, but I still have magical thinking that I’ll be able to do it all over again on the other side of the country (San Francisco, here I come!) or in France (J’arrive, mes vieux potes!), or Japan (Yoroshiku onegeishimasu!).

Certainly my poor mother must be pondering that question, as she never in a million years thought she would find herself living in a nightmare version of yucky college dorm meets tacky low-budget cruise ship (aka assisted living). In this new “home”, all the waiters know her name but none of them can manage to make the water hot enough for a real cup of tea, and her husband of 60 years has been replaced by a toddler: oblivious, food-driven, extremely cheerful except when he lets out all the stops in abusive temper tantrums.

Tex and I had a date recently – we went out to eat. It was a cute little place, very neighborhood-y, full of other folks on dates, families with kids. We had a lot to talk about, and were quite engaged with one another, so it wasn’t until later that we realized how unbelievably straight the culture in the room had been. I am quite sure that every single one of the patrons sharing space with us that evening, if canvassed, would swear up and down to “be ok” with queers. Why, the tattooed bearded young man waiting on us even referred to us as “ladies”! But the cumulative effect was that we both woke up the next morning feeling slimed. In his brilliant and restorative book Covering: The Hidden Assault on our Civil Rights (Random House, 2006) Kenji Yoshino speaks about the effects of having to move always in a straight culture, “I felt like Gulliver waking in the land of the Lilliputians, battened down by infinite and infinitesimal threads. Any one of them would have been easy to break, but collectively they immobilized me (p. 61).”

Yesterday, I managed to go sit for a wee bit at the Diesel in Davis Square, drinking a decadent Somerville Smog. The queerness soaked into me and felt me so much better (as Owen used to say when small). I didn’t have to ward off; I could just settle in and smile.

Am I in the right place? Oh heavens, how can I know? If I was in San Francisco, maybe me and Carol Queen could hang out and maybe I’d get to explore being femme in more depth than I have the opportunity to do where I am now. If I was in France I would know how to say all kinds of queer stuff in French and could hang out where Gertrude and Alice did. In Japan? Maybe I’d be doing research on the history of queer in Nihon and flirting with sweet Japanese butches… But here I am, with my best and sweetest Texan butch, two excellent sons, a kitty with more toes than he knows what to do with, a very upstanding terrier gentleman and many, many other blessings. And I do feel that I am very definitely in the right place when I’ve helped open queer space for queer youth, like Fridays at the Queer Mystic drop in night. The youth who come in laugh more, stand up straighter, the look in their eyes becomes less guarded. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, actually. And yes, the girl who’d been looking for the homeschoolers QSA was also in the right place that day, and we welcomed her into the fold.




*Per (

per (person), per, per, pers, perself. Called “person pronouns,” these are meant to be used for a person of any gender. Compare Phelps’s phe pronouns, which are also based on the word “person.” John Clark created “per” pronouns in a 1972 issue of the Newsletter of the American Anthropological Association.[203]

Use in real life and non-fiction: Person pronouns were one of the sets of pronouns built in to MediaMOO for users to choose from.[204] Richard Ekins and Dave King used these pronouns in the book The Transgender Phenomenon (2006).[205]

Use in fiction: In Marge Piercy’s feminist novel, Woman on the Edge of Time, 1976, Piercy used “per” pronouns for all citizens of a utopian future in which gender was no longer seen as a big difference between people.[206]


  • Nominative: When I tell someone a joke per laughs. (Or person laughs.)
  • Accusative: When I greet a friend I hug per.
  • Pronominal possessive: When someone does not get a haircut, per hair grows long.
  • Predicative possessive: If I need a phone, my friend lets me borrow pers.
  • Reflexive: Each child feeds perself.

On Pronoun Island:



Published in: on February 3, 2016 at 11:59 AM  Comments (1)  
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Electric Blue

When I wrote the post below, Bowie was already dead. I had my suspicions thanks to a text from a femme friend (“Oh, no, David Bowie!”) but I was resisting looking it up because I didn’t want it to be true.

“David Bowie Our Brixton Boy RIP” reads a billboard pictured in the Daily Mail article that I found first when I finally did look, along with a tweet from Iggy Pop, “David’s friendship was the light of my life. I never met such a brilliant person. He was the best there is.” There were a lot of other pictures, but those were the two that made me sob. I cried all day, on and off, and yesterday I cried in therapy, too. Even though I felt a little silly – weeping like a Beatles freak about a dead rock star? Honestly.

But I was a Beatles freak, albeit 15 years after the original phenomenon. I did wait around in front of the Dakotas with my sister Beatles freak, until John finally walked out and we got to say hey we love you to him, because he was that important to me. My favorite Beatle. I sobbed all night when he was killed, too. Because music and art, as much as literature, holds me in place in the world.

As soon as I started looking elsewhere, I saw posts comparing Bowie to Bill Cosby, saying he was a child rapist. My initial reaction was to defend him and to be angry with the people saying those things: we’re grieving here! Bowie, with his twisted, gorgeous creativity, forged a yellow brick road heading in the opposite direction of normal. Showed me a way out of oppression, long before I knew I wasn’t straight. That’s why I’m crying – part of me is him, somehow.

I don’t want to think about Bowie being a child rapist. I don’t want him compared to Bill Cosby. It was the seventies, things were different, youth had more agency, people were considered to be in charge of themselves, even their sexual selves, at a much earlier age, what male rock star in the 70s wasn’t having sex with teenage girls? (This from the woman who hates Lolita more than words can say…) And he saved so many lives of us freaky little queers! Tex vividly remembers seeing him on “The Midnight Special” when she was still in the single digits, and people, he is freaking queer as shit in that show – check it out if you want to be cheered up! She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, and what’s more, when her mother commented he was bisexual, she got to have a little discussion about that interesting way of being a grown up.

I so wanted to grow old with Bowie going ahead of me, giving me strength as he continued to make art about being human.

I was getting more and more pissed off, but being on the defense committee was distracting me from being able to mourn.

So you know what? I forgive him. I can’t say the same about Bill Cosby and still think it’s way, way off base to compare the two, but I sure as hell have a better understanding of why certain people might find it in their hearts to offer forgiveness.

We need our heroes, and no matter how much we wish otherwise, our heroes are always human.

Bowie, living in an electric blue room in my heart now, and forever.












Published in: on January 13, 2016 at 10:16 AM  Comments (1)  
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Nothin’ Matters and What if it Did?

When I starting hanging out with Delany second semester freshman year, it was an incredible relief. I had finally found someone I could relate to in the sea of stuck-up preppies who inhabited the honors floor where we both lived. I was queer but didn’t know it – just always experienced myself as the outsider – and she was an art school student; neither of us fit in. We delighted each other, however, finding a creative soul connection that I am grateful for even now, though we haven’t seen each other in many years. One of the things we did was make up little songs about dorm life, such as “Snack Bar Guy” and “Karina Bolton”, about the goofy junior who made us laugh while serving us late-night ice cream sundaes, and my very sweet but strange and extremely studious roommate. It was so freeing to have found someone to observe the weirdness with, to laugh with. Perhaps the phrase, “Nothin’ matters and what if it did?” started as a song, but it soon became our mantra. We would toss it off after discussing failures in love, in class, in politics (it was 1981 and our newly-elected president, Ronald Reagan, was making his evil presence known). I know we thought “Nothin’ matters…” the height of sophistication, an arch, nuanced, adult reference to the complexities of life, both tragic and hilarious. We used it to mask our real and desperate feelings of inadequacy, both of us having been sheltered in our own ways, both of us tender and innocent and striving desperately to be ourselves in that miserable pressure-cooker environment of crazy in that long-ago freshman dorm.

I think of that phrase a lot when I’m reading Pema Chodron, trying to wrap my head around the challenge of fully experiencing life while not telling made up stories about it. Being completely on the dot and not giving into your trip, as she says in her funny, left-over-from-the-seventies way. Not telling stories! That is not so easy for a writer. But also: that phrase Delany and I tossed around with such urbanity, filled with self-hate, actually, and a longing for love,* has grown up along with me and my understanding of what it means to be human, to be alive and creative. First of all, it connects me with that hopeful, naïve 19-year old, way back in the day. I’ve got one of those right now, as it happens: Seth is 19, entering his second semester of college. He’s as lost and as hard on himself as I was, and I hope to hell he’s got a few friends to keep him company. Second of all, it just does begin to sound very Buddhist to me. In a funny, left-over-from-the-eighties kind of way.

The regular reader of this blog (and you know who you are), may recall that these past two years have been ones of great upheaval in the Total Femme world. My father has had serious health problems, my parents have needed a great deal of care, Tex hit the mid-century mark and I am even older – we have lost a bit of youthful elasticity, I tell you! — and Seth had a miserable last semester of high school. Cats died. Owen turned 16 with a vengeance. Homophobia continued to grind away at the souls of your hard-working, suburban queers and the gender binary reared its ugly head hither and yon. And Jesus, Mary, Equal Rights, did the world continue going to hell! I know I’m not the only one waking up in the night utterly paralyzed with grief about the heart-breaking particulars of, say, global warming (stop thinking about the bees and go to sleep; stop thinking about the polar bears and go to sleep; stop thinking about the orangutans and go to sleep).

“When we wake up,” says Pema Chodron, “we can live fully without seeking pleasure and avoiding pain, without re-creating ourselves when we fall apart. We can let ourselves feel our emotions as hot or cold, vibrating or smooth, instead of using our emotions to keep ourselves ignorant and dumb. We can give up on being perfect and experience each moment to its fullest. Trying to run away is never the answer to being a fully human being. Running away from the immediacy of our experience is like preferring death to life” (When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times by Pema Chodron, Shambhala Publications, Inc., Boston, MA, 1997, p. 72).

Delany and I were desperate to be fully human beings. We were gob-smacked by the onslaught of information coming at us that first year of college, so many ways of being in the world, so many things pointing up our ignorance, so much chaos. “Nothin’ matters and what if it did?” made a little space in the madness, gave us a moment to breathe and regroup. And of course, we knew perfectly well that we actually meant the opposite, because we were experiencing everything so deeply and with such drama. It did matter. It does matter. Everything matters and nothing matters; that essential human matter continues to occupy me intellectually and spiritually. I expect it always will.




*not too much later, admittedly influenced by Iggy Pop and still not out, even after a very short but sweet romantic interlude with another girl, I wrote a song called, “Dogsbody” about wanting to be used, used up, use me up! because I truly thought I wouldn’t get love any other way





Published in: on January 11, 2016 at 11:53 AM  Leave a Comment  
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As Much Tongue As Possible

I don’t know a ton about Solstice celebrations, but I’m getting ready to cobble something together for tonight’s supper. Tex, Owen, Seth back from college, my mom, my dad and I will sit down with beeswax candles burning, bits of holly from our front yard bushes strewn about, and pretty white carnations in small vases here and there on the table. I’ve got in mind a reading about impermanence, transition, the more things change…

Tex and I are once again project managers of a move for my parents, this time from their rented house down the block to an assisted living unit. The facility is less than two years old and all the folks we’ve dealt with over there have been very kind and very helpful.

We’d been told not to wait until it was an emergency, and it isn’t an emergency, not quite, but my incredibly stoic mother is stressed more than I’ve ever seen her. It turns out my dad is getting more and more “grouchy”, as she put it, by which she means he’s refusing to do anything, won’t shower, and swears and is abusive to her when she tries to awaken him in the morning. Add to this mishegas about their cat (too boring to go into, but the cat is psycho and needs constant care), and she’s about ready to topple.

A friend of ours told us about an assisted living facility in town – her mother is there – and a unit just came up, not a moment too soon.

Last year at this time, we went as a family to a play at the high school, and my folks came to the Christmas Eve service I sing in. This year, not a chance. Not only is my father unable to track anything for that long, he’s got to be close to the bathroom or there might be calamity. Like watching a kitten grow, it’s been hard to notice how much more debilitated he’s become, but it is time, it is past time, to get them more support.

This morning, Tex took my mother over to the facility to look at the unit. It’s not perfect, and it’s quite small, but once they get in there, they’re first in line for other units that come up. And once in there, my mother can get up, go downstairs for a cup of tea and to read the paper, and someone else – a professional someone else – can deal with rousing my dad, helping him shower, getting him his breakfast. “Every single member of the staff has been trained on dementia,” the staff member who was showing them the unit told them. “There’s nothing we haven’t seen, and nothing we can’t handle.” Tex said my poor, wrought up mother’s whole body sagged with relief, and tears came to her eyes. The woman I have never seen cry except for at the bedside of her just-deceased father!

Tex said she told the staff member that my father had been a scholar of 17th century philosophy, had honed his mind his entire career, and that neither of them could have imagined that he would lose that mind, and that both of them were completely without recourse. “We will help you,” the kind staff member repeated, and Tex and I were both crying when she told me about it.

“You start to empathize a little too much,” a sweet gay man in Ptown told Tex when the two of them got to talking about elderly parents this fall (in the way you can get to talking with queer strangers in Ptown). “You start to imagine your body is going down, your mind is going – and that might happen, you will get old, but not yet, honey. Not yet!”

This morning, when Tex and my mom got back to their house, Tex and I were in the basement, assessing the books and file cabinets, figuring out what to move. Suddenly, Tex pulled me into a fierce hug and whispered, “We’ll get through this, baby, and it will help if we have as much tongue as possible!” Since then, we’ve been kissing in corners all day, in-between tears, in-between serious conversation.

My father slept until noon, then came out of the bedroom wearing the orange toque we gave him for his birthday, drew himself up, and asked, “Are we moving?”

I can’t imagine what the world is like for him now – a strange planet. He asked me at the library the other day if I was checking out books (I was returning them in the bin) and he couldn’t seem to remember what cds were, but he is being so brave. We’ve learned that he might not be able to remember details, but that he retains the emotions around things, so we are telling him that we love him, that this is to give his overwhelmed wife some relief, that it will be all right.

Next week, the two of them will be living in a new place, having to learn new routines, but safer and more cared for.

Tonight we’ll light candles and read together and share a meal, as we’ve done so many times since we had to move my folks here a year and a half ago.

Calling back the light. Celebrating the green. Loving each other.

Published in: on December 20, 2015 at 4:25 PM  Comments (3)  
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When Queer Activists Have Gone Too Far..?

Some of my socks have “L” and “R” printed on the toes.

This morning, I found myself growling, “FUCK YOUR OPPRESSIVE SOCK BINARY!”


Published in: on December 17, 2015 at 1:03 PM  Comments (2)