trigger warning: suicide
There are words, dancing and slipping and twirling in my head. And they don't come out. They stay there, time and time again. Whether it is emails to Liv, or the Christmas card for Ben, or the letters to Jay, or the rainbows- the dancing glittering rainbows that don't really require words, but contain them anyway- for Cassie.
And then they are gone, and I try to recreate them, and I cannot.
Sometimes they are stories that will never get told and exist in something that was once my memory, but is now worse than Limbo, for it doesn't exist at all. Some of them are stories of my life, and some of them are just stories. And none of them exist any more.
I can feel the jumble of 26 characters drifting away, the passion, the love ebbing down and away, and it's not like the tide because I cannot feel it coming back at all. There is no nipping in the middle of the night of words that get pressed to paper, or pixels to screen. They stay, circling in my head until they are gone.
I am losing my words and I do not know how to find them.
If you asked me six months ago, I would have killed myself and left no words why. And now, now I don't want to die, but still there are no words. There is nothing like comfort, yet there is so much to say. There is the blank screen, and the empty page, and the pens scattered across the room, and a blinking cursor.
I have written my whole life- it is what I am and who I am. I wrote them when I was broken and they were a comfort. I called out to the empty universe and sometimes it wrote back. And now? Now am I not quite so broken in that same way, but the words have gone with the broken. It's a different sort of broken, and I don't know how to fix it.
I am losing my words and I do not know how to get them back.
Once, I thought if I only stopped taking the pills, maybe I would be terribly miserable and depressed, but I could have my words. It wasn't to be. I stopped cold turkey and had vertigo and headshocks and dug up that old razor blade that I sneaked back out of Liv's room after he took it from me. And it was then, when I had rivers of red and I realised what I was doing to myself, I went back on the pills, and the vertigo stopped, and my head stopped shocking, and I lost the desire to dance lines across my skin in some attempt to feel, to breathe, to love, to create. I always said I would trade anything to get my words back if I lost them. But not this. Turns out there was too high a price to pay- who knew?
And the words stayed dancing and twirling and skipping and slipping in my head. Nothing came to pass.
Maybe this is growing up. Maybe the fact that I've been far better at getting out and DOING things is the point.
I think of Andy and of Garrett and of standing up and using action, and it's wonderful, and a rush, but then I think 'wouldn't it be nice if all the words in my head could join it?' and they never can. And maybe that's growing up, and maybe that's how it's supposed to go. I don't know.
I use/d words as my escape, as my outlet, as my screaming at an unfair world. I took all the unfairness of Timothy's assault and made them beautiful words, dancing a story of two unlikely male lovers across the pages. They, those two fictional men that Jay got me to fall in love with, got me through the worst of it- they kept my sanity. And in high school, when I thought I couldn't bear to live any more, the words skittered across the pages in some sort of cliched, tragic, suburbian poetry that Jason could probably recognise if he saw it. But they kept my sanity.
Now, now something else doesn't keep my sanity- it regulates it so I don't feel as if I am losing it. There is nothing to calm from, there is nothing to keep, for I already have kept it, if that makes any sense at all.
My words have defined me for so long, and now I activist around the place, and I volunteer for politics and believe that my actions make a difference. My words saved me, but my actions are bigger than me. And maybe that's how it's supposed to be, phone calls to people sick of politics, trying to get them to care [oh, how I love the crotchety people- they make this humanity seem real. It's what my words used to do], or protests, or actions, or organising groups of people in a united effort. Maybe it's trying to end a war, or speaking out about why 17-year old girls are NOT like Hitler, not even a little bit. Maybe that's what this is, this life, and that's how this is supposed to go.
So words, whatever you were, and whatever you are, and whatever you will be. Maybe this is goodbye, and maybe this isn't.
Maybe I am just lonely and missing people and missing actions and phone calls and ending wars and tagboard with handwritten signs. Maybe I am missing them instead of words and they are the pieces of my identity now. I don't know.
And you know what?
There's something terrifying, yet brilliant about that.
28 December 2009
18 November 2009
Ray Comfort's Book is Immoral
I have issues with taking a copy of a public domain scientific book that you vehemently refuse to acknowledge the reason and science behind, and writing a 50 page introduction to that book that attempts to debunk the science and logic behind that book.
I am, of course, talking about Ray Comfort's '150th Anniversary Edition' of Darwin's On The Origin of Species.
The introduction ... attempts to dubunk everything in Darwin's book, and talks up Creationism/ID as some rebuttal against Darwin. I don't even know, okay? I stopped when he invoked Hitler. [Comfort, you have officially Godwined your own introduction. Epic Fail.] I just don't even know where to start with this ... look, the only thing I can add right now is that at the end of it, Comfort offers up Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, and Christianity and compares them to jumping off a plane, and tells you why Christianity is your only parachute. I wish I were making that up. But Ray Comfort means never having to say you're kidding.*
And then I'm supposed to pray.
And then I'm supposed to read this book? Apparently not. Apparently I was given a free book to not read it, but to only read the introduction and realise how terrible Reason, Science, and Logic are.
Now to the immorality of it. I just ... I don't get it. Maybe immoral isn't the best word, but it's the closest one I can think of. At best it's dishonest, which is ... oh yeah, immoral. In that vein, I set out to do all I could to keep this immorality away from youngling college students. So I put on my hat, grabbed two bags, tossed on a sweatshirt and headed out to the Ray Comfort people handing out free books at the U. I walked past the first group of people and got a book. I walked past the second group, got a book. I walked past the third group, got a book. Fourth group, book. Fifth, book. Then I doubled around, took off my sweatshirt and hat, and repeated. After the second rotation, I starting asking for one for my roommate who was in class, or at work, or in lab. Some groups gave me two, some didn't. After my 22nd book, on attempt to get book 23 and 24, two of the groups were restocking at the main table. I approached for my book, but one of the other men recognised me, and denied me the book. A woman then told me she recognised me too.
The mission was aborted, but I walked away with 22 books. One of which is actually for one of my roommates, one of which is for me.
Stitch, in the picture, is posing with all 22 of them. [That quilt, I'd also like to point out, was made by my mother 17 years ago.]
That leaves 20 books. What the heck should I do with them? Any thoughts?
*There's this blogger I follow, Cleolinda, who writes Movies in 15 Minutes, a popular blog doing exactly what it sounds like- writing hilarious recaps of movies. She even has a book for those really interested. Well, she's done M15M for the Twilight books. And one of the things she's said about them is ... "Twilight means never having to say you're kidding". So I stole that line from her. Sorry Cleo!
I am, of course, talking about Ray Comfort's '150th Anniversary Edition' of Darwin's On The Origin of Species.
The introduction ... attempts to dubunk everything in Darwin's book, and talks up Creationism/ID as some rebuttal against Darwin. I don't even know, okay? I stopped when he invoked Hitler. [Comfort, you have officially Godwined your own introduction. Epic Fail.] I just don't even know where to start with this ... look, the only thing I can add right now is that at the end of it, Comfort offers up Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, and Christianity and compares them to jumping off a plane, and tells you why Christianity is your only parachute. I wish I were making that up. But Ray Comfort means never having to say you're kidding.*
And then I'm supposed to pray.
And then I'm supposed to read this book? Apparently not. Apparently I was given a free book to not read it, but to only read the introduction and realise how terrible Reason, Science, and Logic are.
Now to the immorality of it. I just ... I don't get it. Maybe immoral isn't the best word, but it's the closest one I can think of. At best it's dishonest, which is ... oh yeah, immoral. In that vein, I set out to do all I could to keep this immorality away from youngling college students. So I put on my hat, grabbed two bags, tossed on a sweatshirt and headed out to the Ray Comfort people handing out free books at the U. I walked past the first group of people and got a book. I walked past the second group, got a book. I walked past the third group, got a book. Fourth group, book. Fifth, book. Then I doubled around, took off my sweatshirt and hat, and repeated. After the second rotation, I starting asking for one for my roommate who was in class, or at work, or in lab. Some groups gave me two, some didn't. After my 22nd book, on attempt to get book 23 and 24, two of the groups were restocking at the main table. I approached for my book, but one of the other men recognised me, and denied me the book. A woman then told me she recognised me too.
The mission was aborted, but I walked away with 22 books. One of which is actually for one of my roommates, one of which is for me.
Stitch, in the picture, is posing with all 22 of them. [That quilt, I'd also like to point out, was made by my mother 17 years ago.]That leaves 20 books. What the heck should I do with them? Any thoughts?
*There's this blogger I follow, Cleolinda, who writes Movies in 15 Minutes, a popular blog doing exactly what it sounds like- writing hilarious recaps of movies. She even has a book for those really interested. Well, she's done M15M for the Twilight books. And one of the things she's said about them is ... "Twilight means never having to say you're kidding". So I stole that line from her. Sorry Cleo!
27 October 2009
PostSecret at the U of M
So I attended, on the 23rd of October, the PostSecret event at the U of M. [That link takes you to the Facebook page, where you can see the 375 uploaded secrets from [mostly] my collection of postsecrets over the years.
The event started with Frank sharing some of his favourite secrets, as well as the stories behind them. Interwoven in this was the story of his parents, both not really 'getting' the postsecret thing [and it's true- I've found it's really hard to describe postsecret to someone, even after buying them the book and placing a personal secret on the last page]. Frank showed some secrets that were banned from the PostSecret books, for various reasons. And then he shared that Wal-Mart has refused to carry any of the books, which really surprised me. And made me gleeful a bit at the same time. Makes me like the books a little bit more. And then Frank concluded, and told the story of how his wife flew his father out for one of the PostSecret events, and I thought that was really touching, that his father started to get it. I wish my mother got it. I wish I'd mailed in that secret that I stuck in the back of her book. I wish PostSecret was something she and I could share. But I digress.
Then the mics opened up. And here's where it not only got really personal, but it was the point I'd been waiting for; sitting in a dark room with strangers and sharing secrets or stories, or asking Frank questions. And something odd happened. I got up and shared my secret. With 498 strangers. I talked about the secret that has changed my life, and still changes my life, in different moments everyday. Of how it's not even my postcard, but it is very much my secret. And I realise this is going to sound like I'm being coy or something, but I'm leaving that secret in that room, and in that bunch of secrets I linked to. Other people shared secrets, and stories, and cried, and hurt, and it was sad and beautiful all mixed into one. At the very end, a slideshow/video played.
When I left the event, someone I didn't know was going to be there- a friend- came up and approached me and told me how brave I was. I'm not sure if I'm brave. I'm not sure if I've ever been brave, in all the secrets I've kept or created. I've been human though, and so have the secrets, and I suppose that's all that matters. And I suppose that's it.
It feels like words can't really explain the experience of PostSecret, because as much as it is images and stories, it's also tears and laughter, and pieces of humanity that are allowed to just be. Putting that into some sort of adequate phrasing or elegant words ... I can't do that. So I hope this sufficed.
The event started with Frank sharing some of his favourite secrets, as well as the stories behind them. Interwoven in this was the story of his parents, both not really 'getting' the postsecret thing [and it's true- I've found it's really hard to describe postsecret to someone, even after buying them the book and placing a personal secret on the last page]. Frank showed some secrets that were banned from the PostSecret books, for various reasons. And then he shared that Wal-Mart has refused to carry any of the books, which really surprised me. And made me gleeful a bit at the same time. Makes me like the books a little bit more. And then Frank concluded, and told the story of how his wife flew his father out for one of the PostSecret events, and I thought that was really touching, that his father started to get it. I wish my mother got it. I wish I'd mailed in that secret that I stuck in the back of her book. I wish PostSecret was something she and I could share. But I digress.
Then the mics opened up. And here's where it not only got really personal, but it was the point I'd been waiting for; sitting in a dark room with strangers and sharing secrets or stories, or asking Frank questions. And something odd happened. I got up and shared my secret. With 498 strangers. I talked about the secret that has changed my life, and still changes my life, in different moments everyday. Of how it's not even my postcard, but it is very much my secret. And I realise this is going to sound like I'm being coy or something, but I'm leaving that secret in that room, and in that bunch of secrets I linked to. Other people shared secrets, and stories, and cried, and hurt, and it was sad and beautiful all mixed into one. At the very end, a slideshow/video played.
When I left the event, someone I didn't know was going to be there- a friend- came up and approached me and told me how brave I was. I'm not sure if I'm brave. I'm not sure if I've ever been brave, in all the secrets I've kept or created. I've been human though, and so have the secrets, and I suppose that's all that matters. And I suppose that's it.
It feels like words can't really explain the experience of PostSecret, because as much as it is images and stories, it's also tears and laughter, and pieces of humanity that are allowed to just be. Putting that into some sort of adequate phrasing or elegant words ... I can't do that. So I hope this sufficed.
19 October 2009
Laughter is so healing.
I love laughter. I love how good it feels to laugh. I love how infectious it is. I love that people who laugh are happy. I love how pure, and simple, and beautiful it is. Not laughter at a television show, or a funny joke, but pure, happiness. That sort of laughter. I love that you can laugh about nothing, about everything, about life and the simple moments. About tiny pieces of humanity that are, in that moment, whole.
I never thought I'd be saying this Saturday night. Saturday night when I curled up and sobbed and wondered why I didn't have anything to help me fall asleep.
I think I dwell too much, sometimes, on what happened; it's so easy to have happen, and then I'm back there and it's real all over again. Sometimes it's incredibly way too easy to get so lost. And Saturday night, I was lost. I was so lost. And I hadn't slept, and I didn't know how to make it from point A to point B, I didn't even know where points A and B were. And so I did what I usually do, and pretended that it was all okay, and that there was nothing wrong, and that I was fine. And usually, that works. [The nights, like Saturday night, and right now, that I sleep on the couch, I think it doesn't work so well, and my room-mates can totally tell and are judging me for it- hey- it's not paranoia if they're really after you.] Usually, I do something like bake, or go shopping, or get out of the damned house and go to a party and drink away.
But something was different about Sunday. I asked a room-mate to 'hang-out' with me [and he, darling that he is, agreed even after we both acknowledged that we fail utterly at the concept of 'hanging out']. And I don't know how to explain it ... but I found the ability to laugh. To really laugh. To get go and stop thinking so much. And it was beautiful. I'm not sure if my room-mate wants to take credit, but if he does, it's all his [And the Recount Story of the Day™ posts with comments from the Kare11 boards. Oh, the goddamn insanity of that election]. I could go on about how surprised I was that it was a him, given the anniversaries and circumstances, but maybe ... maybe that's how it was supposed to happen. I'm not a karmic person. I don't believe in fate. But I do know that if I don't open up and trust, even on tiny friendship levels, I'll never be able to do it- I'll always be walled off. I had another friend send me a really moving, wonderful email after my room-mate went to bed- after I'd sent him a really emotionally email on Saturday night. And it was so relieving to read it, and maybe that's because of the healing laughter with my room-mate from earlier.
But it was love and happy and some degree of peace- and trust. All in tiny steps.
And as long as I've got that love, that trust in tiny steps, and as long as I have healing laughter, I think I'll be okay. I think I'll be able to get through the rest of today, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
I never thought I'd be saying this Saturday night. Saturday night when I curled up and sobbed and wondered why I didn't have anything to help me fall asleep.
I think I dwell too much, sometimes, on what happened; it's so easy to have happen, and then I'm back there and it's real all over again. Sometimes it's incredibly way too easy to get so lost. And Saturday night, I was lost. I was so lost. And I hadn't slept, and I didn't know how to make it from point A to point B, I didn't even know where points A and B were. And so I did what I usually do, and pretended that it was all okay, and that there was nothing wrong, and that I was fine. And usually, that works. [The nights, like Saturday night, and right now, that I sleep on the couch, I think it doesn't work so well, and my room-mates can totally tell and are judging me for it- hey- it's not paranoia if they're really after you.] Usually, I do something like bake, or go shopping, or get out of the damned house and go to a party and drink away.
But something was different about Sunday. I asked a room-mate to 'hang-out' with me [and he, darling that he is, agreed even after we both acknowledged that we fail utterly at the concept of 'hanging out']. And I don't know how to explain it ... but I found the ability to laugh. To really laugh. To get go and stop thinking so much. And it was beautiful. I'm not sure if my room-mate wants to take credit, but if he does, it's all his [And the Recount Story of the Day™ posts with comments from the Kare11 boards. Oh, the goddamn insanity of that election]. I could go on about how surprised I was that it was a him, given the anniversaries and circumstances, but maybe ... maybe that's how it was supposed to happen. I'm not a karmic person. I don't believe in fate. But I do know that if I don't open up and trust, even on tiny friendship levels, I'll never be able to do it- I'll always be walled off. I had another friend send me a really moving, wonderful email after my room-mate went to bed- after I'd sent him a really emotionally email on Saturday night. And it was so relieving to read it, and maybe that's because of the healing laughter with my room-mate from earlier.
But it was love and happy and some degree of peace- and trust. All in tiny steps.
And as long as I've got that love, that trust in tiny steps, and as long as I have healing laughter, I think I'll be okay. I think I'll be able to get through the rest of today, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
11 September 2009
on the callousness of humanity
We live in an era of instant news. We live in an area where no matter the privacy or legal concerns, information can be obtained at a price. The IAAF has conducted a humiliating 'gender' test on a young South African athlete named Caster Semenya. [And I could go into how the terminology is all wrong, and how it shouldn't be called a gender or a test at all, but that's an entry for another time.] News that this test was being conducted was made public just before a World championship race the young woman was running in. News of her test, possible results, and questions about her 'gender' have been shouted from around the world. South Africa is protecting and defending one of their own in the best ways they know how.
I cannot imagine being Caster Semenya right now. I cannot imagine my entire life being torn up, and the topic of my body seen as something the entire world has some sort of right to know. I cannot imagine the private shame behind her public face. I cannot imagine what it must be like to not only lose the chance to live my dreams, but to also face the possibility I might 'fail' a 'gender' test [wtf? I didn't even think that was possible. How can you fail a test like this?]. I cannot imagine any of that.
But my heart aches for Caster Semenya tonight. Because the results of her humiliating and degrading test are back. And she has not yet been notified of the results- as I said, South Africa is protecting one of their own. But this information was obtained (and likely for a large sum) and is being spread across instant news channels.
THIS IS AN 18-YEAR OLD GIRL. Who was not famous before her Berlin run. Who is ONLY famous because of this test being conducted. And the media show no mercy. And really, why should anyone expect them to have any compassion for Caster Semenya? Reporting about her brings news- people buy papers, click on news stories, turn into the special report on the evening news. It's sickening. Absolutely sickening.
Her entire life is in the spotlight, and she and her family have not been properly notified. And everyone is eating up this news- and I can't blame media entirely for it, because it's the people too, who demand the news, who read it, who think they have a right to publicly discuss someone else's body. I can't even wrap my head around how angry I am about this. Why? Why do we fall prey so easily to the idea of instant news? Why do we accept that this is somehow okay? That personal, private, medical tests are somehow our right to have knowledge of? Why has no-one at the IAAF considered what this whole ordeal, 'pass' or 'fail' on this test, might do to Caster Semenya? Why has the media not considered this, entertained their own humanity just this once, and left this affair private?
Why have scores upon scores of people failed Caster Semenya?
My heart aches for her, tonight.
I cannot imagine being Caster Semenya right now. I cannot imagine my entire life being torn up, and the topic of my body seen as something the entire world has some sort of right to know. I cannot imagine the private shame behind her public face. I cannot imagine what it must be like to not only lose the chance to live my dreams, but to also face the possibility I might 'fail' a 'gender' test [wtf? I didn't even think that was possible. How can you fail a test like this?]. I cannot imagine any of that.
But my heart aches for Caster Semenya tonight. Because the results of her humiliating and degrading test are back. And she has not yet been notified of the results- as I said, South Africa is protecting one of their own. But this information was obtained (and likely for a large sum) and is being spread across instant news channels.
THIS IS AN 18-YEAR OLD GIRL. Who was not famous before her Berlin run. Who is ONLY famous because of this test being conducted. And the media show no mercy. And really, why should anyone expect them to have any compassion for Caster Semenya? Reporting about her brings news- people buy papers, click on news stories, turn into the special report on the evening news. It's sickening. Absolutely sickening.
Her entire life is in the spotlight, and she and her family have not been properly notified. And everyone is eating up this news- and I can't blame media entirely for it, because it's the people too, who demand the news, who read it, who think they have a right to publicly discuss someone else's body. I can't even wrap my head around how angry I am about this. Why? Why do we fall prey so easily to the idea of instant news? Why do we accept that this is somehow okay? That personal, private, medical tests are somehow our right to have knowledge of? Why has no-one at the IAAF considered what this whole ordeal, 'pass' or 'fail' on this test, might do to Caster Semenya? Why has the media not considered this, entertained their own humanity just this once, and left this affair private?
Why have scores upon scores of people failed Caster Semenya?
My heart aches for her, tonight.
21 August 2009
words on a page, pixels on a screen.
I write this entry every year, about my father. I do it on his birthday. He's never seen any of them, and I doubt he ever will. I could share them, but he's not sentimental like that, and I'm a little too shy about them to show him them. I shouldn't be, but then again, my father and I have an unusual relationship. It's how I come to write these blog posts about him- fill in the blanks in our relationship, if only just a little. Some would even argue we don't have a relationship at all.
And yet.
He's influenced a lot more of my life than I realise. Though I guess I do realise since I'm writing it all down. My love of the stars comes from him. My grammatical sense comes from him. My belief and commitment to self-expression comes from him. There are stories behind all of these, things from growing up that have stuck with me, nestled under my skin and stayed there.
He showed me the moon through a telescope, and planets, and stars. And once, when I was little, he drove all of us North so we could all see Aurora Borealis. When I was in Hilo, and Ipo and I drove up Mauna Kea and broke cloud cover and saw the stars- all of Orion and the Big/Little Dippers too low on the horizon to be seen, and Mars at its brightest, I cried on the way back down because I missed my father so terribly much. Astronomy translates to 'law of the stars' which is not only the title of a blog, it's also my screen name. It's not only a tribute to something I've fallen deeply in love with- even if I fail at the maths involved to do it properly- but also a tribute to the person who made that love possible. I fell in love with space because of him. I've even stolen his book Lost Moon, about Apollo 13, and that movie still makes me cry. I joke about man never landing on the moon (thank you, Mr. Spriggs and Earth Science class debates. Appreciate that one), but really I find it fascinating and beautiful. The flight, journey, and experiences of Apollo 8 make my heart sing. I wish I could have been alive for that. I wish we could go back and instill in the next generation a love of the stars. I wish I understood the mathematics behind astronomy, because I know he does, and I would love to have something more in the stars to share with my father than just the stars themselves.
One time, I was printing something off in his office, and he took it upon himself, before printing, to point out to me that the shortened form of "until" is 'til and not till. So I changed it, and I've used 'til to this day. And I judge you for poor grammar. Their/there, your/you're, its/it's, 'til/till, than/then etc. Sometimes I judge less harshly than other times. Sometimes I mess up myself. But I do judge. I judge myself too, if that helps. And anyone who knows me well enough, knows that I love the comma. I love it to death. I am comma happy and proud. I once had a beta who went through and corrected every little comma "error". I never had her beta for me again. Because, really, it's a damn comma. It's not like, I'm using it, badly, or, anything [ow, that hurt to type. I'm sorry for your eyes]. I just toss it in where I take a breath, or pause my train of thought. I don't get marked down on papers for it, that's all I'm saying. But I remember being so attached to my father, so desperately wanting him to like what I'd written, so shy about it, that when he corrected the grammar instead of commenting on anything else about it, an intense desire to never mess up grammatically like that again was born. And I do mess up. But at least now I hope if my father ever reads things that I write, he'll have more to say about what's actually written. Not all influences are happy influences, but at least this influence isn't terrible. I don't think it's terrible. I think it's more about how tiny moments shape us, most of the time when we're not even paying attention. And it's why I have a love of father/daughter relationships in my writing, when I actually write. Because little moments matter.
Sometimes those moments are tiny, and unrecorded, and it's only after a series of them that you realise they're there at all. My father is the quiet sort of man. He doesn't speak very much about things; he generally tends to let my mother be the voice about things. But I like to think that despite my hair changing colour, and the crazy protests I organise, my atheism, and all the massive ways in which I've managed to screw up, he's proud of the fact that he has a daughter who isn't afraid of herself (okay: secret time. I'm terrified of myself. Don't tell him I said that). Because I change my hair colour in some strange defiance of what I'm 'supposed' to be. Because I pick the things that matter and go after them with a ferocity that cannot be tamed. Because I believe what I believe and refuse to back down. Sure, he makes jokes about my hair, and tells me not to let it be so short; and he never really says anything about what I get involved with, except sometimes to ask clarifying questions; and true, we've never spoken about the fact that I decided to stop going to church and am very openly an atheist, but there's also that quietness about him, that way he speaks without uttering a word. Then again, it's the silence that gets to me, the words not spoken, the fact that I can't decipher his jumbled strand of 26 characters that somehow spell out 'I love you'. I don't know for certain, but I like to think he's proud. If only because entertaining the adverse makes my heart break up into tiny pieces that can't be properly glued back together.
We have an unusual relationship, based off interpretations of silences and blown up images of the moon. We're an interesting dichotomy- I'm an exceptionally open person with my emotions- especially love. I tend to give it all away the first chance I get. On the other end, my father holds those pieces close to himself, guards them, and will only break them free under the rarest of circumstances. I've seen my father cry twice, and one time made it into a (very) short piece of non-fiction, about the night my grandfather- his father- died. The other time was at the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial, when we were walking the footprint. I don't know if he was crying then, I wasn't brave enough to turn around, but his voice was thick with emotion. I have to sift carefully through his alphabet for the ways he says 'I love you'. Sometimes I find it easily. Sometimes I can't find it. But I know it's there.
I write this entry every year, about my father. I do it on his birthday. He's never seen any of them, and I doubt he ever will. But I'll write them, every year, as a testament and a tribute to him.
He is my father, and I know he loves me.
And yet.
He's influenced a lot more of my life than I realise. Though I guess I do realise since I'm writing it all down. My love of the stars comes from him. My grammatical sense comes from him. My belief and commitment to self-expression comes from him. There are stories behind all of these, things from growing up that have stuck with me, nestled under my skin and stayed there.
He showed me the moon through a telescope, and planets, and stars. And once, when I was little, he drove all of us North so we could all see Aurora Borealis. When I was in Hilo, and Ipo and I drove up Mauna Kea and broke cloud cover and saw the stars- all of Orion and the Big/Little Dippers too low on the horizon to be seen, and Mars at its brightest, I cried on the way back down because I missed my father so terribly much. Astronomy translates to 'law of the stars' which is not only the title of a blog, it's also my screen name. It's not only a tribute to something I've fallen deeply in love with- even if I fail at the maths involved to do it properly- but also a tribute to the person who made that love possible. I fell in love with space because of him. I've even stolen his book Lost Moon, about Apollo 13, and that movie still makes me cry. I joke about man never landing on the moon (thank you, Mr. Spriggs and Earth Science class debates. Appreciate that one), but really I find it fascinating and beautiful. The flight, journey, and experiences of Apollo 8 make my heart sing. I wish I could have been alive for that. I wish we could go back and instill in the next generation a love of the stars. I wish I understood the mathematics behind astronomy, because I know he does, and I would love to have something more in the stars to share with my father than just the stars themselves.
One time, I was printing something off in his office, and he took it upon himself, before printing, to point out to me that the shortened form of "until" is 'til and not till. So I changed it, and I've used 'til to this day. And I judge you for poor grammar. Their/there, your/you're, its/it's, 'til/till, than/then etc. Sometimes I judge less harshly than other times. Sometimes I mess up myself. But I do judge. I judge myself too, if that helps. And anyone who knows me well enough, knows that I love the comma. I love it to death. I am comma happy and proud. I once had a beta who went through and corrected every little comma "error". I never had her beta for me again. Because, really, it's a damn comma. It's not like, I'm using it, badly, or, anything [ow, that hurt to type. I'm sorry for your eyes]. I just toss it in where I take a breath, or pause my train of thought. I don't get marked down on papers for it, that's all I'm saying. But I remember being so attached to my father, so desperately wanting him to like what I'd written, so shy about it, that when he corrected the grammar instead of commenting on anything else about it, an intense desire to never mess up grammatically like that again was born. And I do mess up. But at least now I hope if my father ever reads things that I write, he'll have more to say about what's actually written. Not all influences are happy influences, but at least this influence isn't terrible. I don't think it's terrible. I think it's more about how tiny moments shape us, most of the time when we're not even paying attention. And it's why I have a love of father/daughter relationships in my writing, when I actually write. Because little moments matter.
Sometimes those moments are tiny, and unrecorded, and it's only after a series of them that you realise they're there at all. My father is the quiet sort of man. He doesn't speak very much about things; he generally tends to let my mother be the voice about things. But I like to think that despite my hair changing colour, and the crazy protests I organise, my atheism, and all the massive ways in which I've managed to screw up, he's proud of the fact that he has a daughter who isn't afraid of herself (okay: secret time. I'm terrified of myself. Don't tell him I said that). Because I change my hair colour in some strange defiance of what I'm 'supposed' to be. Because I pick the things that matter and go after them with a ferocity that cannot be tamed. Because I believe what I believe and refuse to back down. Sure, he makes jokes about my hair, and tells me not to let it be so short; and he never really says anything about what I get involved with, except sometimes to ask clarifying questions; and true, we've never spoken about the fact that I decided to stop going to church and am very openly an atheist, but there's also that quietness about him, that way he speaks without uttering a word. Then again, it's the silence that gets to me, the words not spoken, the fact that I can't decipher his jumbled strand of 26 characters that somehow spell out 'I love you'. I don't know for certain, but I like to think he's proud. If only because entertaining the adverse makes my heart break up into tiny pieces that can't be properly glued back together.
We have an unusual relationship, based off interpretations of silences and blown up images of the moon. We're an interesting dichotomy- I'm an exceptionally open person with my emotions- especially love. I tend to give it all away the first chance I get. On the other end, my father holds those pieces close to himself, guards them, and will only break them free under the rarest of circumstances. I've seen my father cry twice, and one time made it into a (very) short piece of non-fiction, about the night my grandfather- his father- died. The other time was at the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial, when we were walking the footprint. I don't know if he was crying then, I wasn't brave enough to turn around, but his voice was thick with emotion. I have to sift carefully through his alphabet for the ways he says 'I love you'. Sometimes I find it easily. Sometimes I can't find it. But I know it's there.
I write this entry every year, about my father. I do it on his birthday. He's never seen any of them, and I doubt he ever will. But I'll write them, every year, as a testament and a tribute to him.
He is my father, and I know he loves me.
17 August 2009
Not quite the fox (or, Kate II)
I don't know why I'm doing this but for some reason I feel I need to. Last year I attempted suicide and successfully failed. An oxymoron but it fits. Since then I have had to tear down who I was and rebuild from nothing. I've had to change feelings and thoughts that have been embedded in me since before kindergarten. Expression is what I fear of not being able to show. Art and writing is who I am ...
This was said by Kate, it is that quote I was looking for, back on the day I missed her terribly.
A month and a half ago I attempted suicide and I'm not ready to call it a successful failure. If you have questions, ask them. I find keeping this to myself only increases the constant tension in my chest. It's so hard to keep a lie straight when you don't know who knows which versions of the truth. [[You are neurotic and depressed does not mean that you are sad.]]
But I like this quote of Kate's. I like it because for her, it was true. For her she climbed out, and made it, and found her art, her life, love. I like it because when I read it, I miss her terribly, but I think, 'hey, if she did, so I can I'.
I like it because Kate said it, and maybe I'm not the fox, maybe there's things I'm not quite so brave on, but maybe, just maybe, for this I can brave enough.
15 August 2009
is it school tiem soon? Why yes, it is.
And I'm really excited about some of my classes this semester. And then after ... I get to go change the world. How exciting! How do these two classes NOT sound like some of the most amazing classes, ever? And uh, I think we can say that I'm in the discipline of medical geography, as that's what my senior thesis will *crosses fingers* be about. Not to mention I'll be interning at Children's Hospital for the semester as well.
Geog 3371W Cities, Citizens, and Communities
GEOG 3411W Geography of Health and Health Care
Yay! Only 24 more days!
[[There's other classes too- they're just not cool enough to mention]]
Geog 3371W Cities, Citizens, and Communities
This course is about how structures of class, race/ethnicity, gender, and sexuality combine to produce varieties of urban experience in the United States. The course will also deal with why the city--why urbanization as a distinctive process--shapes those social structures in particular ways. The course centers especially on the city as a crucial locus for capitalism and on capitalism as irrevocably a socially made and contested process. It is a hallmark of capitalism that it leads not only to the making of different kinds of urban environments and histories. It also relies upon and fosters social differences. Through discussion, lecture, case study readings (including two books and a variety of articles), and group projects we will try to come to a more layered understanding of what makes the American city tick.
GEOG 3411W Geography of Health and Health Care
This course surveys medical geography, a subdiscipline which encompasses a broad range of geographical work on health and health care. What distinguishes medical geography from the discipline of geography as a whole is its thematic focus on health and health care. It shares with the discipline a remarkable breadth of theoretical approaches, methodologies and sub-themes. In other words, medical geography does not differ from the rest of geography in theory or method. It is distinctive only in subject matter. This courses uses medical geographic examples to explore three groups of theoretical approaches in geography: ecological approaches, which systematically analyze relationships between peoples and their environments; spatial approaches, which employ maps and spatial statistics to identity patterns of single and associated variables; and social approaches, including political economy and recent humanist approaches, which address issues related to both space and place. Students in the course are encouraged continually to consider the relationships among research questions, philosophical assumptions, and appropriate methods as well as to question the complementarity and inherent tensions among different theoretical approaches.
Yay! Only 24 more days!
[[There's other classes too- they're just not cool enough to mention]]
06 August 2009
Not of the colour of wheatfields.
There was something Kate said once, a long time ago, back when we both had some innocence to spare, that I have been searching the internets for, and cannot find. I suppose that is how it goes, sometimes words disappear from the internet. Today has been a long enough, bad enough day, and not even friends could make it better. And the words from Kate that might have offered some comfort have gone and cannot be found. Today is a dark day, and a good day to be missing Kate.
I don't think some of you know the story of Kate, and it would take too much time to tell, but she was the first person I loved unconditionally. She broke my heart.
She still makes my heart ache and yearn and want. Want so badly. She is the colour of raven, the blackness, the void. She is found in the tinniest of corners, corners left black and dark, lonely and forgotten. She is everything that makes my heart race with desire, everything that it means to have the Earth crack and threaten to swallow you whole.
She was mine, a long time ago. And now she is off in the world, belonging to someone or something else. But she is always in the corners, always the colour raven, always the depths of my desire, always always always. Somewhere, deep inside, pieces of her still belong to me. Our adventures and that slow, painful, different sort of coming of age ... those, those are mine.
Say hello, and say goodbye. Tell her something for me, when you find her in that blackness, that void. Tell her I love her, ask her if she loves me, still. When you stumble upon the right sort of colour raven, tell her I am the not quite the fox, I cannot be so brave, but always always always shall I hope.
I don't think some of you know the story of Kate, and it would take too much time to tell, but she was the first person I loved unconditionally. She broke my heart.
She still makes my heart ache and yearn and want. Want so badly. She is the colour of raven, the blackness, the void. She is found in the tinniest of corners, corners left black and dark, lonely and forgotten. She is everything that makes my heart race with desire, everything that it means to have the Earth crack and threaten to swallow you whole.
She was mine, a long time ago. And now she is off in the world, belonging to someone or something else. But she is always in the corners, always the colour raven, always the depths of my desire, always always always. Somewhere, deep inside, pieces of her still belong to me. Our adventures and that slow, painful, different sort of coming of age ... those, those are mine.
Say hello, and say goodbye. Tell her something for me, when you find her in that blackness, that void. Tell her I love her, ask her if she loves me, still. When you stumble upon the right sort of colour raven, tell her I am the not quite the fox, I cannot be so brave, but always always always shall I hope.
22 July 2009
This city is love.
Mpls is a lot of happiness all rolled up into one. Tonight I walked in a parade on short notice (side tangent: I never get to watch parades any more!), and then afterwards, the Mayor and I were heading the same way, so I got to talk to him and explain 'Atticus' to him. 
And then after that I thought it was such a nice night out, I would just walk home. I did, and took a few snapshots of my city along the way. And fell in love with it, just a little bit more.
Mpls is the best city in America, I think. I often tell people that half my heart belongs to Hilo, half to Mpls, and half to the Central African region. But there’s a different kind of giving of my heart to each. The Central African region is where my activist heart belongs, where the barest pieces of my humanity come out. It is my passion, and my heart beeps for it. Hilo was the place where I was lost and found pieces of myself, and learnt to love. It was a place to start over, to find some peace.
Mpls, on the other hand, is a place to live when you’ve got some sense of the rest. It has infrastructure, skyscrapers, an awesome bus system, more lakes than you can know what to do with, and the river (not to mention a really kick-ass mayor). At some point more than a year ago, I was walking down Nicollet Mall and I had the sense that this city actually belonged to me, in the way that we can get possessive about cities. I think it was the people along the Mall, and the scent of roasting pecan nuts that pushed me over the edge. Every time I leave the city and return to see the skyline, I’m filled with this sense of home, something I hadn’t really felt since Hilo.
It is mine, and it is love.
And then after that I thought it was such a nice night out, I would just walk home. I did, and took a few snapshots of my city along the way. And fell in love with it, just a little bit more. Mpls is the best city in America, I think. I often tell people that half my heart belongs to Hilo, half to Mpls, and half to the Central African region. But there’s a different kind of giving of my heart to each. The Central African region is where my activist heart belongs, where the barest pieces of my humanity come out. It is my passion, and my heart beeps for it. Hilo was the place where I was lost and found pieces of myself, and learnt to love. It was a place to start over, to find some peace.
Mpls, on the other hand, is a place to live when you’ve got some sense of the rest. It has infrastructure, skyscrapers, an awesome bus system, more lakes than you can know what to do with, and the river (not to mention a really kick-ass mayor). At some point more than a year ago, I was walking down Nicollet Mall and I had the sense that this city actually belonged to me, in the way that we can get possessive about cities. I think it was the people along the Mall, and the scent of roasting pecan nuts that pushed me over the edge. Every time I leave the city and return to see the skyline, I’m filled with this sense of home, something I hadn’t really felt since Hilo. It is mine, and it is love.
11 July 2009
short story of mis-adventure
I seem to be quite good at having mis-adventures (and going to the hospital, but that's a far longer story for anyone who would want it). For instance, in mis-adventureland, the last time I attempted to come home after visiting my parents, the bus broke down on the freeway and we sat there for four hours waiting for them to get their shite together. That was last time. 'Never again,' I vowed. Ha. That all went to hell last night.
So I'm on my way to visit my parents, like good daughters do, my dad and I have just picked up my sister from Mad-town, life is great ... and then a tyre blows. No prob. (This was not the infamous tyre change on the Chicago Skyway of four years ago. More details on that if you're particularly interested.) So we're on our way again, we stop for some food, the drive now about an hour and a half behind schedule. We get back on the interstate ... and blow a second tyre.
Yep, you read that right. We blew two tyres in the span of two and a half hours.
Luckily we were about 45 minutes from my parents', so my mum was able to drive and get us while we waited for the tow to come. At some point Officer Noah (the nicest state trooper in WI) came to sit with us and stayed with us until the tow came. And then we were in Waukesha, the armpit of the world. Only about three hours past schedule.
Someone tell me why these mis-adventures keep happening to me?
So I'm on my way to visit my parents, like good daughters do, my dad and I have just picked up my sister from Mad-town, life is great ... and then a tyre blows. No prob. (This was not the infamous tyre change on the Chicago Skyway of four years ago. More details on that if you're particularly interested.) So we're on our way again, we stop for some food, the drive now about an hour and a half behind schedule. We get back on the interstate ... and blow a second tyre.
Yep, you read that right. We blew two tyres in the span of two and a half hours.
Luckily we were about 45 minutes from my parents', so my mum was able to drive and get us while we waited for the tow to come. At some point Officer Noah (the nicest state trooper in WI) came to sit with us and stayed with us until the tow came. And then we were in Waukesha, the armpit of the world. Only about three hours past schedule.
Someone tell me why these mis-adventures keep happening to me?
25 June 2009
Farmer's Market and Thunderstorms
I was already planning on waking up sometime between six and seven, but it was really nice to wake up to a thunderstorm. Rain! Thunder! Lightning! More rain! And then I willingly went out in it to the Mpls Farmer's Market!
The farmer's market, by the bye, is simply amazing. Yes, there are some booths there that sell grocery produce, but most of the booths sell delicious, home (mn) grown fruits and veggies. For a very good price, too! For $20 I got ...
six cucumbers (grown in MN)
a bushel of sugar snap peas (grown in MN)
a handful of yellow potatoes (grown in MN)
a honeydew melon (grown in MN)
a watermelon
a quart of strawberries (grown in MN)
I sampled the sugar snap peas from all the booths that had them, and then went back to the booth with the yummiest tasting ones. I was going to do that with the strawberries, but it was obvious which booth has the best ones. (Ohmygod, yes, in-season, locally grown, non-watered down and grocery-storeized strawberries are one of the best things on the planet.) The woman I ended up getting them from, told me after I sampled one and told her I would be back that when I came back, they would be gone. And she was close! When I bought them another woman there was buying up quart after quart after quart of them! And I was there at 7am! I'll bet she sold out well before 9.
I wanted some rhubarb, but a) I only had $20 on me and b) no-one had any that looked decent. Ahhh, maybe next week.
The farmer's market, by the bye, is simply amazing. Yes, there are some booths there that sell grocery produce, but most of the booths sell delicious, home (mn) grown fruits and veggies. For a very good price, too! For $20 I got ...
I sampled the sugar snap peas from all the booths that had them, and then went back to the booth with the yummiest tasting ones. I was going to do that with the strawberries, but it was obvious which booth has the best ones. (Ohmygod, yes, in-season, locally grown, non-watered down and grocery-storeized strawberries are one of the best things on the planet.) The woman I ended up getting them from, told me after I sampled one and told her I would be back that when I came back, they would be gone. And she was close! When I bought them another woman there was buying up quart after quart after quart of them! And I was there at 7am! I'll bet she sold out well before 9.
I wanted some rhubarb, but a) I only had $20 on me and b) no-one had any that looked decent. Ahhh, maybe next week.
17 June 2009
an unexpected Tuesday
Where to start?
Monday night I started feeling ill, my roommate even noticed how pale and clammy I looked. Spent the whole night in agonising pain. At some point, I decided I'd go to the clinic in the morning, and ask my roommate to take me. Well, morning comes and it's pretty obvious that the clinic isn't going to be able to help me. So my roommate accompanies me on the bus, through the med school, through the hospital, to the ER. [Note to Fairview University: finding your ER sucked monkey balls. Please, please, please find a way to make it easier]
And then once in the ER, I spent nine hours there. NINE. Mostly so they could figure out if I was dying- and if I was, how quickly I was. Yeah, so they tuck me in the hospital room, and then give me morphine and saline. And then things get a little murky. They did give me magazines to read (trashy ones; I now know all the gossip on Jon and Kate), and then told me my bladder was swollen to the size of Lake Tahoe (I could have told them that- hello, pain!), but they weren't totally certain that was all that was wrong with me, because I was also hurting on my right side. And they wanted to do a pelvic exam to make sure nothing down there was also breaked, and I properly freaked out and holy cow were they nice about it. They didn't give me a xanax, but they gave me something like it, and I went to happy place.
Then the happy place was gone because they walked into the room (and WOW was I looped up on meds) and were like, 'ok, we're here to take you for your CT scan!' and I properly flipped out on the poor transport guy, who went and got the doctor, who was nice enough to explain that they wanted to make sure I didn't have a kidney stone or something, since y'know, there was pain. Well, as it turns out, no kidney stone, but the doc comes in and is like, 'oh yeah, your appendix. It is breaked'. At this point, it's been five hours since I've been in the ER, and I'm just glad they've given me something to justify everything they've been doing to me [I tried, very looped-up-ily to protest the CT scan]. So then the surgeon comes to talk to me, and tells me that she looked at the CT scan and saw that the tip of my appendix was very inflamed. However, she wasn't certain whether my appendix was inflamed because it was broken, or whether it was inflamed because my bladder swelling to the size of Lake Tahoe was fucking with everything else inside. So she said she'd have to consult her surgeon supervisor and then get back to me.
My roommate came, at some point, though I'm not sure when. At some point too, they gave me more morphine for the pain that was coming back, so everything got all fuzzy and happy all over again.
Two freaking hours later a different surgeon guy comes in and tells me they're not doing the surgery, that they're fairly confident that my appendix is not going to explode all over the place or anything and that YAY! I can go home. So then ER doc comes in, tells me he's giving me lots of meds, that he's pretty confident the infection has spread to my kidneys, so he gives me meds for my kidneys, meds for the bladder swelling, and vicoden.
Wow. So he basically said, 'Hey, Rien, let's send you to a happy place for a few days, shall we?' and then I went home. I got home at 5:30pm. I got to the ER around 8am. And now I have happy meds, meds that turn my pee orange (freaked me out the first time it happened), and meds that make everything better. One of the meds, the one that turns my pee orange, says to avoid meat and dairy while on it. The other med says to avoid direct and artificial sunlight while on it. And the vicoden just says come to a happy place.
Also, last point! IF you and I are ever in a situation where adhesive might possibly be used on me? Don't let it be. I am allergic. No matter what. If it's got any sort of 'stick' to it, it will harm my skin. Even medical tape, which is only supposed to stick to itself, and not skin, will leave nasty red welts on me.
(case in point: where they attached the gauze pad after pulling my IV out- she used cloth, medical tape and today I woke up and pulled it off to find welts. Also-also, the stuff they used to secure the IV- yup, I've got a nice red patch on my skin from that- that one actually took a thin layer of skin with some of it- which you can kindof see in the picture, but not really.)
Monday night I started feeling ill, my roommate even noticed how pale and clammy I looked. Spent the whole night in agonising pain. At some point, I decided I'd go to the clinic in the morning, and ask my roommate to take me. Well, morning comes and it's pretty obvious that the clinic isn't going to be able to help me. So my roommate accompanies me on the bus, through the med school, through the hospital, to the ER. [Note to Fairview University: finding your ER sucked monkey balls. Please, please, please find a way to make it easier]
And then once in the ER, I spent nine hours there. NINE. Mostly so they could figure out if I was dying- and if I was, how quickly I was. Yeah, so they tuck me in the hospital room, and then give me morphine and saline. And then things get a little murky. They did give me magazines to read (trashy ones; I now know all the gossip on Jon and Kate), and then told me my bladder was swollen to the size of Lake Tahoe (I could have told them that- hello, pain!), but they weren't totally certain that was all that was wrong with me, because I was also hurting on my right side. And they wanted to do a pelvic exam to make sure nothing down there was also breaked, and I properly freaked out and holy cow were they nice about it. They didn't give me a xanax, but they gave me something like it, and I went to happy place.
Then the happy place was gone because they walked into the room (and WOW was I looped up on meds) and were like, 'ok, we're here to take you for your CT scan!' and I properly flipped out on the poor transport guy, who went and got the doctor, who was nice enough to explain that they wanted to make sure I didn't have a kidney stone or something, since y'know, there was pain. Well, as it turns out, no kidney stone, but the doc comes in and is like, 'oh yeah, your appendix. It is breaked'. At this point, it's been five hours since I've been in the ER, and I'm just glad they've given me something to justify everything they've been doing to me [I tried, very looped-up-ily to protest the CT scan]. So then the surgeon comes to talk to me, and tells me that she looked at the CT scan and saw that the tip of my appendix was very inflamed. However, she wasn't certain whether my appendix was inflamed because it was broken, or whether it was inflamed because my bladder swelling to the size of Lake Tahoe was fucking with everything else inside. So she said she'd have to consult her surgeon supervisor and then get back to me.
My roommate came, at some point, though I'm not sure when. At some point too, they gave me more morphine for the pain that was coming back, so everything got all fuzzy and happy all over again.
Two freaking hours later a different surgeon guy comes in and tells me they're not doing the surgery, that they're fairly confident that my appendix is not going to explode all over the place or anything and that YAY! I can go home. So then ER doc comes in, tells me he's giving me lots of meds, that he's pretty confident the infection has spread to my kidneys, so he gives me meds for my kidneys, meds for the bladder swelling, and vicoden.
Wow. So he basically said, 'Hey, Rien, let's send you to a happy place for a few days, shall we?' and then I went home. I got home at 5:30pm. I got to the ER around 8am. And now I have happy meds, meds that turn my pee orange (freaked me out the first time it happened), and meds that make everything better. One of the meds, the one that turns my pee orange, says to avoid meat and dairy while on it. The other med says to avoid direct and artificial sunlight while on it. And the vicoden just says come to a happy place.
Also, last point! IF you and I are ever in a situation where adhesive might possibly be used on me? Don't let it be. I am allergic. No matter what. If it's got any sort of 'stick' to it, it will harm my skin. Even medical tape, which is only supposed to stick to itself, and not skin, will leave nasty red welts on me.
(case in point: where they attached the gauze pad after pulling my IV out- she used cloth, medical tape and today I woke up and pulled it off to find welts. Also-also, the stuff they used to secure the IV- yup, I've got a nice red patch on my skin from that- that one actually took a thin layer of skin with some of it- which you can kindof see in the picture, but not really.)
13 June 2009
snapshots
I watched the sun rise this morning over the city from my window. And I thought ... I could go outside with my camera and take a picture of how misty the skyline looks in the fading cold blue ... but I didn't. I stayed put. And y'know, then I got to thinking about all the pictures I've never taken. Of places, of events, of people. Of myself. There exists one picture of me with my turquoise and pink hair, and that's the picture that heads this blog. That's it. My hair was turquoise and pink for months, and I never bothered to sit and take a picture of it. In fact, in the chronology of my hair, very few pictures exist of it in the many many many different styles and colours I've had it in. Pictures don't exist of beautiful clouds, or parties, or the way my room looked before I rearranged it. Or for that matter, how the room looks now that I HAVE rearranged it.
I joke about the fact that during the year I lived in Hilo, I only took 23 pictures (ok, I just looked- there's 41- and that doesn't include the storm surf ones since I didn't actually take those). And there were some I could have taken, had I known the mountain was clear, but that's a different can of worms (she knows who she is and what she did). There's so much beauty in this world, in this life, that exists only in my head ... in fading memories, and in some memories so vivid I doubt I'll ever let them go. There is the sunrise over the badlands, at five in the morning- we were up at 4:30 to hike out and watch the land turn from black to pink and gold. I had my camera. I stood there with it, snapped a few obligatory shots, but then I drifted off from the group and sat on this little outcropping of rock and just ... watched. And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Nothing in a picture can describe the way the light crept across the dark bluffs like hope. Nothing. Light and airy and beautiful. There was the time in Hilo, on the mountain, thousands of feet up- breaking the cloud cover and looking at the stars. Really looking at the stars. Seeing the Milky Way and Mars and probably a few of the other planets. Seeing the whole of constellations. Wishing and wishing and wishing that we weren't on the 19th parallel, but 30 parallels up, so that we might see Aurora Borealis. That too, even without bands of colour dancing across the sky, is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
I saw my city glow this morning, at 5:04, and there's nothing to prove that it ever happened. But it was there, a snapshot now, and it was beautiful.
I joke about the fact that during the year I lived in Hilo, I only took 23 pictures (ok, I just looked- there's 41- and that doesn't include the storm surf ones since I didn't actually take those). And there were some I could have taken, had I known the mountain was clear, but that's a different can of worms (she knows who she is and what she did). There's so much beauty in this world, in this life, that exists only in my head ... in fading memories, and in some memories so vivid I doubt I'll ever let them go. There is the sunrise over the badlands, at five in the morning- we were up at 4:30 to hike out and watch the land turn from black to pink and gold. I had my camera. I stood there with it, snapped a few obligatory shots, but then I drifted off from the group and sat on this little outcropping of rock and just ... watched. And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Nothing in a picture can describe the way the light crept across the dark bluffs like hope. Nothing. Light and airy and beautiful. There was the time in Hilo, on the mountain, thousands of feet up- breaking the cloud cover and looking at the stars. Really looking at the stars. Seeing the Milky Way and Mars and probably a few of the other planets. Seeing the whole of constellations. Wishing and wishing and wishing that we weren't on the 19th parallel, but 30 parallels up, so that we might see Aurora Borealis. That too, even without bands of colour dancing across the sky, is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
I saw my city glow this morning, at 5:04, and there's nothing to prove that it ever happened. But it was there, a snapshot now, and it was beautiful.
09 June 2009
an emotional missive to men
You do not get to joke about rape to me. Not now. Not ever. I don't care the context, I don't care that you don't want to read a blog entry about rape that holds a particular slice of my heart. Fine. Don't read it. But don't come joking to me about how women look in all the wrong places for men. No, they don't. They look in all the right places. The problem is, the wrong kind of men are there.
Let me tell you something else: it's NOT a women's fault. Not here, not now, not ever. Not even if she's wearing a pretty dress, or plastered, or flirting with you. Know who's fault it is? The so-called man who decided he had a right to her body.
But do you know what? It might also be a little bit of your fault. For telling women it's their fault, for catcalling them, for making sex/rape jokes, for diminishing them based on their appearances, for not standing up to your friends, but especially for this- for continuing to propagate this cycle we have that seems to suggest that when a woman is raped or otherwise sexually assaulted, she must do everything she can to prove she wasn't somehow 'asking for it'.
Angry yet? Especially if you don't do any of those things? Good. You should be. I'm plenty angry. I practically have a checklist before I leave the house: things I mustn't dress, say, or do, lest I invite any sexual advances. Am I wearing proper clothing? (Remember, anything that might excite a boy, even the smallest bit, is not permissible, otherwise it's an invitation for sex.) Check. Am I not smiling at boys and holding conversation with them like I would to any other person? (Remember, inviting conversation is an invite for sex.) Check. Am I walking as unattractively as possible and not doing anything that might otherwise excite a boy? (Remember, even such an act as opening an umbrella can be seen as sexy, and thus as an invitation for sex.) Check. Am I not existing as a female? (Remember, even the very act of being female is an invitation for sex). Che- wait a minute. Damn. Still female. Can't go out today. Guess I'll go lock myself in my room. Maybe tomorrow I won't be female. Dammit! And I got everything else right too!
Though, this one time I did leave the house, checklist be dammed. I was 18 years old, and working at the main library of the college I was at. It was a fantastic job, on the top floor, and most of the people who wandered into my section were either there looking for a certain publication, or they were there to study (the lower levels were fantastic for socialising and group projects. My little corner of the library was wonderfully quiet- and had the added bonus of having decent chairs). For about two weeks I got to know a boy there who used my section to study. One night, at the end of my shift, when my section of the library was closing, he asked me what I was up to, and I told him I had to study back at the dorms. He asked me if I wanted to come back to his dorm and study, as there was no longer a decent quiet place to study in the library.
I'm going to stop there, but for all you men out there who think that women somehow are at fault here- where was the fault? Was it because I didn't know him? Because I only met him in the library? What if he'd been a classmate? What if we'd already lived in the same dorm and he was just down the hall? And oh goodness! I didn't even mention what I'd been wearing that night! What part of that, of that tiny sliver of that night, what part of that was my fault? Because if it had been you, none of that would be second-guessed would it? Because in the six years since that night, I've had many a person tell me exactly where I went 'wrong': didn't I realise that merely by talking to him I was giving him an invitation for sex? Didn't I realise that an offer to study was code for 'let's go fuck over at my place'? Didn't I realise that my shirt might have been a bit too short, or my pants a bit too tight? Didn't I realise I couldn't go off with any boy, none at all, no matter how much I thought I could trust them? Didn't I realise I must have been asking for it?
Man alive, all the things I didn't realise from that night, and we hadn't even left the library! Imagine all the things I didn't realise later. Imagine all the things I did. I didn't realise trying to remove myself from a dangerous situation meant I was playing hard to get. I didn't realise him wanting sex at any cost meant just that. I didn't realise saying-begging-pleading 'no' and 'stop' really meant yes. I didn't realise the loss of my virginity would come with so much force and pain and shame and self-doubt and loss of self-respect. How silly of me.
Now, some of you are reading this and thinking, 'No, no, not me. Not me at all. Would never.' You're one of the Nice Guys, right? And well, that was an easy situation up there, right? I mean, you ask a girl over to study after getting to know her, then you study? Easy, right? What if it's not studying? What if it's a party, or a date? And what if she's been having alcohol- lots and lots of alcohol? What if it's a party, and she's sober, but she looks smoking hot in that mini-dress and you've had a few beers so you start on making the lewd comments about how decent she'd be in bed? Even if you don't touch her, are you still the Nice Guy then?
Women get blamed a lot for being raped and assaulted while drunk. Women are also told to 'take it' from men (drunk or otherwise) who make sexual comments towards them. Most of the time those comments come when men have been consuming alcohol. From there things quickly deteriorate, and so much more often than I think men think to realise, misfortune befalls a woman. Coincidentally, it seems that men who have misfortunes befall them while drunk can blame everyone but themselves- 'Man, I went over to Kenny's party last night, had way too much to drink, and when I woke up this morning, someone stole my shoes!' And then everyone from Kenny to that kid you're not even sure was at the party is blamed. A woman is raped at Kenny's party and suddenly there's a litany of excuses for why it was her fault. 'She was dressing like a slut!' 'She knows what happens at party's like Kenny's!' 'She was drunk!' As if those are any justification for a man deciding what happens to her body when she lacks the ability to consent- or for that matter, not consent.
About two years ago, a man I'd met a year earlier was visiting some roommates of mine. He and I managed to hit it off, and I invited him over for a farmer's market dinner. Dinner went well, and we settled down to a dessert of cheesepuffs, chocolate ice cream, a bottle of vodka, and some films. I did five shots in under two minutes, and then proceeded to drink the rest of the bottle- he had a single shot. Look, I'm not proud of myself for it, not at all. We all do stupid things. Many of us have done stupid things while drunk (I've gotten enough of the calls and texts, and read enough Facebook status updates to know this very well). You tell me though- was my stupid choice a justification for what happened afterwards? If so, why? If not, why the bloody hell do so many of you go around and blame women for being drunk when they've been raped or assaulted? If all I'd done was drunk-dialed and posted sappy messages on Facebook, and he'd left me alone, we'd all have a nice laugh over how stupid I got while drunk. Suddenly rape is thrown into the mix, and it's all my fault. All of it. Didn't I realise I wasn't allowed to drink in the presence of a man? And alone at that? Well, shit, by the time I realised that, I lacked the capacity to make any decisions about what was happening to me. Did I deserve it, then? My own mother has told me that it's my fault for being drunk. Never mind him, over there, thinking that for some reason he's got some say over a drunk, incapacitated woman's body. Never mind him, thinking I was passed out and deciding that was the opportune time to have sex with me. But before I started drinking, didn't I realise what a bad man he was?
For both those times, wasn't I just looking in the wrong places? Can't look for men in libraries or your own home, it seems. But let me ask you this- if those are the 'wrong' places, what are the right ones? These incidents didn't happen in bars, and they didn't happen with strangers. One of them happened with someone I thought I could trust. Wasn't I wearing provocative clothing? Have I forgotten the checklist already? Dammit. Wasn't I just saying all the wrong things? What else was on that checklist? Oh, right. Shitfuckdamn, I existed. Wasn't that enough?
Absurd, yes?
Because it doesn't matter if I was looking in a 'wrong' place (still waiting to hear a right and wrong place are), or dressed 'provocatively' (I swear, I could wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt and still be provocative), or even if I said something, or did something to suggest, in any way, shape, or form that sex would be occurring that night. What matters is that I never consented. Ever. Sure, I'd consenting to kissing while drunk, but that doesn't matter either. Yes to one is not yes across the board. I never consented and two men decided that their wants overrode my desires not to be violated. That's all that matters. Period.
*
For those of you who think that you're that decent guy, that guy that would never do a terrible thing to a woman ever, ask yourselves- how many sex jokes have you made? How many women do you talk up their appearance to? How many women do you label based solely on the clothing they choose to wear? How many of your brothers have you listened to discuss in a vulger the antics of a night of sex and let it stand? How many of you have convinced or coaxed a woman to have sex after she's said no? Some of you have done none of this. Well, good on you, but don't come to me for any accolades. Someone, I'm not sure who, said it best when she said that "men don't deserve any praises for not-raping women: thanking them for that- for acting like how a decent human being should act- only increases they power they hold over women."
Some of you are decent men- not enough of you, but some of you. Now find a way to pass it on, yeah?
Let me tell you something else: it's NOT a women's fault. Not here, not now, not ever. Not even if she's wearing a pretty dress, or plastered, or flirting with you. Know who's fault it is? The so-called man who decided he had a right to her body.
But do you know what? It might also be a little bit of your fault. For telling women it's their fault, for catcalling them, for making sex/rape jokes, for diminishing them based on their appearances, for not standing up to your friends, but especially for this- for continuing to propagate this cycle we have that seems to suggest that when a woman is raped or otherwise sexually assaulted, she must do everything she can to prove she wasn't somehow 'asking for it'.
Angry yet? Especially if you don't do any of those things? Good. You should be. I'm plenty angry. I practically have a checklist before I leave the house: things I mustn't dress, say, or do, lest I invite any sexual advances. Am I wearing proper clothing? (Remember, anything that might excite a boy, even the smallest bit, is not permissible, otherwise it's an invitation for sex.) Check. Am I not smiling at boys and holding conversation with them like I would to any other person? (Remember, inviting conversation is an invite for sex.) Check. Am I walking as unattractively as possible and not doing anything that might otherwise excite a boy? (Remember, even such an act as opening an umbrella can be seen as sexy, and thus as an invitation for sex.) Check. Am I not existing as a female? (Remember, even the very act of being female is an invitation for sex). Che- wait a minute. Damn. Still female. Can't go out today. Guess I'll go lock myself in my room. Maybe tomorrow I won't be female. Dammit! And I got everything else right too!
Though, this one time I did leave the house, checklist be dammed. I was 18 years old, and working at the main library of the college I was at. It was a fantastic job, on the top floor, and most of the people who wandered into my section were either there looking for a certain publication, or they were there to study (the lower levels were fantastic for socialising and group projects. My little corner of the library was wonderfully quiet- and had the added bonus of having decent chairs). For about two weeks I got to know a boy there who used my section to study. One night, at the end of my shift, when my section of the library was closing, he asked me what I was up to, and I told him I had to study back at the dorms. He asked me if I wanted to come back to his dorm and study, as there was no longer a decent quiet place to study in the library.
I'm going to stop there, but for all you men out there who think that women somehow are at fault here- where was the fault? Was it because I didn't know him? Because I only met him in the library? What if he'd been a classmate? What if we'd already lived in the same dorm and he was just down the hall? And oh goodness! I didn't even mention what I'd been wearing that night! What part of that, of that tiny sliver of that night, what part of that was my fault? Because if it had been you, none of that would be second-guessed would it? Because in the six years since that night, I've had many a person tell me exactly where I went 'wrong': didn't I realise that merely by talking to him I was giving him an invitation for sex? Didn't I realise that an offer to study was code for 'let's go fuck over at my place'? Didn't I realise that my shirt might have been a bit too short, or my pants a bit too tight? Didn't I realise I couldn't go off with any boy, none at all, no matter how much I thought I could trust them? Didn't I realise I must have been asking for it?
Man alive, all the things I didn't realise from that night, and we hadn't even left the library! Imagine all the things I didn't realise later. Imagine all the things I did. I didn't realise trying to remove myself from a dangerous situation meant I was playing hard to get. I didn't realise him wanting sex at any cost meant just that. I didn't realise saying-begging-pleading 'no' and 'stop' really meant yes. I didn't realise the loss of my virginity would come with so much force and pain and shame and self-doubt and loss of self-respect. How silly of me.
Now, some of you are reading this and thinking, 'No, no, not me. Not me at all. Would never.' You're one of the Nice Guys, right? And well, that was an easy situation up there, right? I mean, you ask a girl over to study after getting to know her, then you study? Easy, right? What if it's not studying? What if it's a party, or a date? And what if she's been having alcohol- lots and lots of alcohol? What if it's a party, and she's sober, but she looks smoking hot in that mini-dress and you've had a few beers so you start on making the lewd comments about how decent she'd be in bed? Even if you don't touch her, are you still the Nice Guy then?
Women get blamed a lot for being raped and assaulted while drunk. Women are also told to 'take it' from men (drunk or otherwise) who make sexual comments towards them. Most of the time those comments come when men have been consuming alcohol. From there things quickly deteriorate, and so much more often than I think men think to realise, misfortune befalls a woman. Coincidentally, it seems that men who have misfortunes befall them while drunk can blame everyone but themselves- 'Man, I went over to Kenny's party last night, had way too much to drink, and when I woke up this morning, someone stole my shoes!' And then everyone from Kenny to that kid you're not even sure was at the party is blamed. A woman is raped at Kenny's party and suddenly there's a litany of excuses for why it was her fault. 'She was dressing like a slut!' 'She knows what happens at party's like Kenny's!' 'She was drunk!' As if those are any justification for a man deciding what happens to her body when she lacks the ability to consent- or for that matter, not consent.
About two years ago, a man I'd met a year earlier was visiting some roommates of mine. He and I managed to hit it off, and I invited him over for a farmer's market dinner. Dinner went well, and we settled down to a dessert of cheesepuffs, chocolate ice cream, a bottle of vodka, and some films. I did five shots in under two minutes, and then proceeded to drink the rest of the bottle- he had a single shot. Look, I'm not proud of myself for it, not at all. We all do stupid things. Many of us have done stupid things while drunk (I've gotten enough of the calls and texts, and read enough Facebook status updates to know this very well). You tell me though- was my stupid choice a justification for what happened afterwards? If so, why? If not, why the bloody hell do so many of you go around and blame women for being drunk when they've been raped or assaulted? If all I'd done was drunk-dialed and posted sappy messages on Facebook, and he'd left me alone, we'd all have a nice laugh over how stupid I got while drunk. Suddenly rape is thrown into the mix, and it's all my fault. All of it. Didn't I realise I wasn't allowed to drink in the presence of a man? And alone at that? Well, shit, by the time I realised that, I lacked the capacity to make any decisions about what was happening to me. Did I deserve it, then? My own mother has told me that it's my fault for being drunk. Never mind him, over there, thinking that for some reason he's got some say over a drunk, incapacitated woman's body. Never mind him, thinking I was passed out and deciding that was the opportune time to have sex with me. But before I started drinking, didn't I realise what a bad man he was?
For both those times, wasn't I just looking in the wrong places? Can't look for men in libraries or your own home, it seems. But let me ask you this- if those are the 'wrong' places, what are the right ones? These incidents didn't happen in bars, and they didn't happen with strangers. One of them happened with someone I thought I could trust. Wasn't I wearing provocative clothing? Have I forgotten the checklist already? Dammit. Wasn't I just saying all the wrong things? What else was on that checklist? Oh, right. Shitfuckdamn, I existed. Wasn't that enough?
Absurd, yes?
Because it doesn't matter if I was looking in a 'wrong' place (still waiting to hear a right and wrong place are), or dressed 'provocatively' (I swear, I could wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt and still be provocative), or even if I said something, or did something to suggest, in any way, shape, or form that sex would be occurring that night. What matters is that I never consented. Ever. Sure, I'd consenting to kissing while drunk, but that doesn't matter either. Yes to one is not yes across the board. I never consented and two men decided that their wants overrode my desires not to be violated. That's all that matters. Period.
*
For those of you who think that you're that decent guy, that guy that would never do a terrible thing to a woman ever, ask yourselves- how many sex jokes have you made? How many women do you talk up their appearance to? How many women do you label based solely on the clothing they choose to wear? How many of your brothers have you listened to discuss in a vulger the antics of a night of sex and let it stand? How many of you have convinced or coaxed a woman to have sex after she's said no? Some of you have done none of this. Well, good on you, but don't come to me for any accolades. Someone, I'm not sure who, said it best when she said that "men don't deserve any praises for not-raping women: thanking them for that- for acting like how a decent human being should act- only increases they power they hold over women."
Some of you are decent men- not enough of you, but some of you. Now find a way to pass it on, yeah?
08 June 2009
Defence of the Mayor?
"Well, he’s [Governor Pawlenty] gonna get his butt kicked by Barack Obama, but that’s another thing ..." Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Rybak.
Now, I didn't actually see the video until my roommate asked me to watch it and tell him what I thought. I called Rybak arrogant; my roommate severely disagreed and told me he didn't have to defend the mayor to me. Which, granted, he doesn't have to, but why not? Especially because he should.
Let's break it down:
I think that right now, for being Mayor, Rybak the best person running for the job- he has experience running this city, crime is down, he has plans to revitalise downtown and get businesses/jobs back to the city, and I've met the guy, and he's a pretty decent guy. However, this could come back to haunt him (especially if he finishes considering a gubernatorial bid and winds up running). Also, it should be noted, and here seems like a good place in which to note it- it's not that I disagree with what the Mayor was trying to say. I think if he'd said 'You know what, I think if Obama keeps his momentum up, no-one's going to be able to beat him- especially not Pawlenty,' then I wouldn't have any issue at all. None. I wouldn't be making this post at all. My issue is the severe arrogance that was displayed by the Mayor, and how my roommate feels that doesn't warrant any sort of defence at all!
Anything- and I repeat, anything- can happen before the 2012 elections. Maybe the Republicans will regroup and embrace the moderates that have been sitting on edge, desperate for them to get their act together (please, please, please this!); maybe Obama/the Democrats will push their health-care reform package forward without enough bipartisan support and it'll go down in flames (it seems leading Republicans aren't happy with Obama on this right now). Maybe Obama's press coup comes to a screeching halt and the fallout is badly managed. Maybe maybe maybe ... I could go on and on. But it's only been four months and 19 days since Obama took office- that's a long time left in his first term to severely mess something up and lose favour with the American public. Combine that with Republicans getting their act together, and the next election could go either way. That's actually the beauty of politics, and anyone in politics themselves who doesn't understand that fact should get out- now.
If right there wasn't enough of a reason for someone to want to defend Rybak's arrogance to me, here's another one: I support R.T. Rybak. Quite a lot. I volunteer with his re-election campaign. Clearly I like the guy (aside from this whole arrogance thing, he's kindof a hard guy to NOT like). And if I- a supporter- find what he said arrogant how many others will as well? If you don't think his arrogance (whether perceived or actually is slightly irrelevant) is worth defending- especially to a supporter, why not? That's what I don't understand. Because look: the Democrats are seen as arrogant- again, whether they are or not is irrelevant- it's the stereotype held by their opponents. It's how Democrats come across- and it's really bad that they do. This, coming from me, an educated white-girl living in an extremely progressive city, who might consider myself a Moderate Democrat if only they didn't piss me off so much. Like with this. Holding the high seats of power only lasts for so long. Let's ask the Republicans how long ago it was that they had control of the House, Senate, and White House? And now look where we are. Political tides change- and they change quickly. Alienating anyone in the middle- or even anyone from the other side who could very quickly hold the power reigns, just strikes me as stupid. Especially when you alienate them in such a stupid way. (To be fair, it's not like the Republicans are without fault- see previous posts for that- but right now it's a Democrat who's pissing me off).
Knowing all of that, and looking at what Rybak said, you should jump to defend his actions- or at the very least, go through and explain why you think Rybak should be allowed to act this arrogant!
Unless there's something I'm not understanding about politics, and it's perfectly ok for those whose party is in charge to go off and act like superior, condescending, jerks? I know! Let's ask the Democrats from six years ago about that one!
02 June 2009
Rummage Hopping!
Otherwise known as garage sales, for those of you not from my little corner of the world. I was back down in Milwaukee this weekend, seeing my parents, my sister, and some friends who still happen to live there.
It all started so innocently. Ali and I didn't intend to spend Saturday afternoon rummage hopping, but that's how it ended up. Quite by accident. I wanted to take pictures. Ali can't resist a 'sale' sign. (No, really, she can't. She will stop her car in the middle of the road, jerk it into a U-turn, and chase the sign down.) And it being a rather fantastic Saturday day, there were plenty of brightly coloured signs for us to chase. Most of them were bust. In fact, I think just about all of them were bust. Except for the one with the very lonely old woman who wanted to talk our ears off. We ended up getting candles and a coffee mug from her. That house was particularly funny: you had to follow a set of brightly coloured signs to get to her house, nestled in some winding sub-division. At one of the corners, another family had taken advantage and had set up their own rummage sale. (Crappy one, though. Ali and I didn't even stop. We could tell.)
I walked away with ... a Maxine coffee mug, a beeswax candle, a candle shaped like a castle, and two Avon body washes (some woman was clearing out her extra stock). And something else, I know I'm forgetting. Alas. All in all, it was a good Saturday. And Ali time! I do miss (and love) my Ali time!
It all started so innocently. Ali and I didn't intend to spend Saturday afternoon rummage hopping, but that's how it ended up. Quite by accident. I wanted to take pictures. Ali can't resist a 'sale' sign. (No, really, she can't. She will stop her car in the middle of the road, jerk it into a U-turn, and chase the sign down.) And it being a rather fantastic Saturday day, there were plenty of brightly coloured signs for us to chase. Most of them were bust. In fact, I think just about all of them were bust. Except for the one with the very lonely old woman who wanted to talk our ears off. We ended up getting candles and a coffee mug from her. That house was particularly funny: you had to follow a set of brightly coloured signs to get to her house, nestled in some winding sub-division. At one of the corners, another family had taken advantage and had set up their own rummage sale. (Crappy one, though. Ali and I didn't even stop. We could tell.)
I walked away with ... a Maxine coffee mug, a beeswax candle, a candle shaped like a castle, and two Avon body washes (some woman was clearing out her extra stock). And something else, I know I'm forgetting. Alas. All in all, it was a good Saturday. And Ali time! I do miss (and love) my Ali time!
28 May 2009
Israel and 'loyalty' law.
This is more than slightly disturbing.
Are you serious? The first one makes Israel not a democracy, but a democratic theocracy- which is what people should be calling it, in my opinion (and even then, I'm wary on the democratic bit of it).
The second is just a disgusting attempt to silence the controversy out of which Israel was born. That's akin to the United States passing a law banning the commemoration of any Ameri-Indian massacre, or commemoration of the Trail of Tears, or any Ameri-Indian resettlement. There's a difference between being ashamed of your past and outright trying to erase it. There should be nothing wrong with saying 'yes, our nation-state was created in extreme controversy, but that's not enough of a justification to un-create it'. Nothing at all with letting people commemorate what they wish.
And what are the ramifications of breaking said law?
Are you kidding me?
The bill is part of two draft laws proposed by the Israel Beiteinu.
The first is the Loyalty Oath Law that obliges all Palestinian Israelis to pledge allegiance to the Jewish identity of the state.
The second is the Nakba Law, which bans commemoration of the 1948 dispossession of the Palestinians as a result of the creation of Israel.
Are you serious? The first one makes Israel not a democracy, but a democratic theocracy- which is what people should be calling it, in my opinion (and even then, I'm wary on the democratic bit of it).
The second is just a disgusting attempt to silence the controversy out of which Israel was born. That's akin to the United States passing a law banning the commemoration of any Ameri-Indian massacre, or commemoration of the Trail of Tears, or any Ameri-Indian resettlement. There's a difference between being ashamed of your past and outright trying to erase it. There should be nothing wrong with saying 'yes, our nation-state was created in extreme controversy, but that's not enough of a justification to un-create it'. Nothing at all with letting people commemorate what they wish.
And what are the ramifications of breaking said law?
the bill stipulates one-year imprisonment of any person who makes "such public statement"
Are you kidding me?
26 May 2009
Free, but NOT equal
I'm not a single issues voter. I'm really not. If I were, I wouldn't consider myself a moderate. But the issue of whether marriage should be allowed for any two consenting adults has me seriously considering switching sides (among other things). I don't know how to explain to people who are against this that denying me the opportunity to marry someone who is the same-sex as me, is a crushing blow to that piece of my identity. It's not the only piece of the vast number of pieces that comprise my identity, but it's a haunting piece all the same.
There is already so much to cope with when not fitting into someone else's specially designated box for you. I don't like boxes, I don't check myself off into them. When forced to, I often check ones that people will blink their eyes at- and that's the point. Genderfucking is something I've been known to do. I like challenging people's perspectives of not only what I am, but what's ok, what's permissible, what's acceptable. I am acceptable in whatever form I so choose. I don't have boxes. I am genderqueer and proud. My sexuality isn't any of your concern, and has thus far not been able to fit into anyone's pretty little label for it, so I leave it as just mine. If you don't like it, that's fine: no-one ever said you had to be involved in my sexuality at all. But you know what? I get two days a year where none of that matters. Where I can go walk around a park and I can be me- whomever that is- and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's Pride, and it's the best two days out of the year because no-one assumes anything about me- they just let me be.
I get two days: how many days do you get?
I'm not going to defend myself- my gender, my sexuality- to anyone- and nor should I ever have to. Like I said, if you don't like it, no-one said you had to be a part of it. But California's recently upheld ban shatters my heart. The idea of letting people vote on who gets to have basic, fundamental rights is absurd to me. It has been this whole time. I don't understand how either party can make statements like, "I believe marriage should be left up to the states" and no-one calls them on it. Not enough people stand up and say, "wait a minute. This sounds a little ridiculous to me- human rights up for votes?". Jerry Brown, the California Attorney General said it best in this statement about Prop 8: put the fundamental rights of a minority group to a popular vote. There's no denying that it does, and that we willingly allow it to continue because we've all been conditioned for the hetero-normative life-style. Which is sick. The idea that I must find someone to love, to marry, to have, to hold, that is the opposite-sex as me, and that we must strive for some capitalist dream just sickens me. I've never wanted a part of the capitalist dream. For goodness sake, I want to work for a non-profit/NGO. I'm not in this world, this life for the money, or the white picket fence. I'm also sure as hell not in this to love someone that only fits into pre-prescribed boxes. People aren't boxes! Love isn't boxes!
All people are equal. Some are just more equal than others.
Well, congratulations California, you've just exemplified this statement to the highest degree.
I want to scream that this is so easy of an issue to come down on. That regardless of beliefs, or personal aversion too, no-one should have their rights stripped away. I don't get how this works in the United States of America. I don't get how we can allow personal opinions to so cloud the legal area. I don't understand how personal discriminations can become law. I don't get how I'm supposed to be ok with this, how I'm supposed to rise above it. I don't understand how others can't see how simple this is. Why would you deny me the opportunity to marry someone that I loved? Me. Hannah. With crazy hair, and pies, and a determination to be a voice for the voiceless. Why? Why do I matter less than others? Why is it so bad that I might want to get married to a woman someday? Why is it allowed to be legal that I cannot? How can bans exist in 18 states against gay-marriage? Am I supposed to be comforted by six states allowing gay-marriage. 6/50 is STILL failing, and yes, it's a step in the right direction, and yes, I understand that this is a long path.
But it's one step forward and two steps back; the state of California just denied me a basic, fundamental right.
I'm not going to sit here and be ok with that.
There is already so much to cope with when not fitting into someone else's specially designated box for you. I don't like boxes, I don't check myself off into them. When forced to, I often check ones that people will blink their eyes at- and that's the point. Genderfucking is something I've been known to do. I like challenging people's perspectives of not only what I am, but what's ok, what's permissible, what's acceptable. I am acceptable in whatever form I so choose. I don't have boxes. I am genderqueer and proud. My sexuality isn't any of your concern, and has thus far not been able to fit into anyone's pretty little label for it, so I leave it as just mine. If you don't like it, that's fine: no-one ever said you had to be involved in my sexuality at all. But you know what? I get two days a year where none of that matters. Where I can go walk around a park and I can be me- whomever that is- and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's Pride, and it's the best two days out of the year because no-one assumes anything about me- they just let me be.
I get two days: how many days do you get?
I'm not going to defend myself- my gender, my sexuality- to anyone- and nor should I ever have to. Like I said, if you don't like it, no-one said you had to be a part of it. But California's recently upheld ban shatters my heart. The idea of letting people vote on who gets to have basic, fundamental rights is absurd to me. It has been this whole time. I don't understand how either party can make statements like, "I believe marriage should be left up to the states" and no-one calls them on it. Not enough people stand up and say, "wait a minute. This sounds a little ridiculous to me- human rights up for votes?". Jerry Brown, the California Attorney General said it best in this statement about Prop 8: put the fundamental rights of a minority group to a popular vote. There's no denying that it does, and that we willingly allow it to continue because we've all been conditioned for the hetero-normative life-style. Which is sick. The idea that I must find someone to love, to marry, to have, to hold, that is the opposite-sex as me, and that we must strive for some capitalist dream just sickens me. I've never wanted a part of the capitalist dream. For goodness sake, I want to work for a non-profit/NGO. I'm not in this world, this life for the money, or the white picket fence. I'm also sure as hell not in this to love someone that only fits into pre-prescribed boxes. People aren't boxes! Love isn't boxes!
All people are equal. Some are just more equal than others.
Well, congratulations California, you've just exemplified this statement to the highest degree.
I want to scream that this is so easy of an issue to come down on. That regardless of beliefs, or personal aversion too, no-one should have their rights stripped away. I don't get how this works in the United States of America. I don't get how we can allow personal opinions to so cloud the legal area. I don't understand how personal discriminations can become law. I don't get how I'm supposed to be ok with this, how I'm supposed to rise above it. I don't understand how others can't see how simple this is. Why would you deny me the opportunity to marry someone that I loved? Me. Hannah. With crazy hair, and pies, and a determination to be a voice for the voiceless. Why? Why do I matter less than others? Why is it so bad that I might want to get married to a woman someday? Why is it allowed to be legal that I cannot? How can bans exist in 18 states against gay-marriage? Am I supposed to be comforted by six states allowing gay-marriage. 6/50 is STILL failing, and yes, it's a step in the right direction, and yes, I understand that this is a long path.
But it's one step forward and two steps back; the state of California just denied me a basic, fundamental right.
I'm not going to sit here and be ok with that.
22 May 2009
The end of school means ... projects!
My first project was scrapping off an old table on our front porch, sanding it with as much sandpaper as I could find, and then painting it light green. I don't promise pictures any time soon, as I'm not done with it- there's a few other things left to do. Possibly a second coat of paint, and definitely a seal coat or clear coat or some sort of top coat to make it not-so-rough.
Then I might actually finish up a milk-poll that I took among my friends (and others- the response rate on that thing is phenomenal), mapping the price of milk with location so people can see nationally- and possible internationally, though I'm not sure if I want to convert all the international data- how much a gallon of milk costs. Or how much a gallon of milk cost back when I did the poll, way back when.
At some point I will attack my summer reading list ... which mainly consists of books that I've bought but have not read, as well as a few books that people have recommended to me. Currently I'm reading this book about Charles Schulz (Titled Schulz appropriately enough) and it's fascinating because he grew up in St. Paul and worked in Mpls, and then moved his family back to Mpls. What's awesome is I can recognise all the street names.
School starts again on the 15th, and I'm ... not at all excited. I just want this degree and to get school the hell over with.
Then I might actually finish up a milk-poll that I took among my friends (and others- the response rate on that thing is phenomenal), mapping the price of milk with location so people can see nationally- and possible internationally, though I'm not sure if I want to convert all the international data- how much a gallon of milk costs. Or how much a gallon of milk cost back when I did the poll, way back when.
At some point I will attack my summer reading list ... which mainly consists of books that I've bought but have not read, as well as a few books that people have recommended to me. Currently I'm reading this book about Charles Schulz (Titled Schulz appropriately enough) and it's fascinating because he grew up in St. Paul and worked in Mpls, and then moved his family back to Mpls. What's awesome is I can recognise all the street names.
School starts again on the 15th, and I'm ... not at all excited. I just want this degree and to get school the hell over with.
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