I want political campaigns to understand that my sexual and gender identities are not the sole source of my identity and certainly not the sole source of my backing of a political canditate. So, yes, your canditate might be phenomenal on trans* issues, when none of the other canditates really have much of anything at all to say, but if you canditate doesn't have much to say about the health care issue other than the slogan 'medicare for all', then I start to get suspicious. When I try to discuss with you how what's really needed is a comprehensive overhaul of the way that medicine is practiced in this country, and you hurry up and get off the phone with me, I'm not going to back your candidate. Period. I don't care how fabulous he is on trans* issues, I trust some of the other candidates to rise to the occassion when given a chance.
I want political volunteers to understand what when you think touting glbT issues should be the main point of our conversation, when I've already moved past ... I'm not going to vote for you candidate. I'm not a single issues voter. I never have been. I'm not about to start now. I'm not about to take everything else that defines me and toss it to the wayside for one thing about me. Is it important? Yes, it's very important. It's why I stopped voting Republican, right after they told me I wasn't a real person. I'm not going to get into the delicacies of what is/isn't a trans*American, except to say that yes, I see myself myself in that group, and yes, Rien IS my name, even if it's not legally so, and yes, I like zie/hir when describing me, but if you absolutely have to gender me, most of the time I prefer male genderisms. But that's not the point.
The point is, I also care about schools. I care about health care a lot more than that. Gay marriage doesn't really apply to me right now. Yes, I'd love for everyone to get married, but I'd also like there to be discussion on genderqueer and trans*Americans and how they matter too. And how the 14th Amendment just as equally applies to them as anyone else. Religion and personal squicks should not come into the discussion. If you defend free speech, you should be defending trans* rights.
I want campaigns (a very specific one) to understand that Medicare For All is a great slogan, but what about the fact that I was under my father's private insurance, but it just stopped at the St. Croix river because of arbitrary boundary lines? Why can't we discuss erradicating those lines and make insurance provide full coverage across the United States? Why can't we discuss tort reform? How doctors are billed? How patients are seen? Why if you go to Abbott Hospital with psychiatric issues you can wait up to 12 hours for a bed? Why aren't we discussing the personal stories, ways in which people have gotten screwed? Why can't we discuss the silent majority, the ones who have too high of premiums, but haven't had a medical tragedy yet? And ... how are we going to pay for it? Let's dicuss how to pay for these changes your canditate wants to make.
Let's discuss schools too - especially here in MN. Let's discuss national graduation rates versus MN graduation rates. Let's discuss funding for higher education - let's discuss the way that the future of America are consistently getting screwed by student loans. Let's discuss the economy and deficits and why why cutting GAMC is bad, and what to do about it instead.
Let's not assume, when I answer the phone and tell you that I am Rien and that I prefer sir, that GLBT is the core of my political existence.
I want everyone - and not just political campaigns - to understand being genderqueer and trans* is who I am. But there's so much more to me than that.
25 February 2010
15 February 2010
rape and blame (again. and again. and again.)
trigger warning: rape
Must we go over this again? Must we? Dear humanity, you fucking suck. No love, me.
Let's break it down, as it were.
"A majority of women believe some rape victims should take responsibility for what happened"
I just ... what? WHAT? WHAT THE EVERLOVINGFUCK?
Let me tell you something. It is NEVER a woman's fault when someone else lays claim to her body. EVER. Does not matter how drunk she is, what she was wearing, what she said two hours ago. NO IS NO. Period. No-one has the right to her body, and we shouldn't be okay with the fact that we live in a society that clearly seems to perpetuate this idea that there are times when a woman doesn't have a right to her own body, that victim blaming is okay, that women are somehow 'at fault' for their rapes.
I'm too tired, and too angry, and too sick of dealing with this to offer up my rapes again. I can't emotionally do it again, break them down, spit out all the pieces for the world to see. I just can't do it. But I've struggled over and over again with the idea that it wasn't my fault, that I didn't deserve it, and that no-one but me has the right to my body and what happens to it. This? This makes it harder. A majority of women in the UK, according to that survey, would blame me, in some part, for what happened.
I'm not going to sit here and defend those nights and my choices in them. Because you know what? IT WASN'T MY FAULT, NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT. I didn't consent and there is where it all ends. I didn't consent, game over. Period. End of conversation. There's no bloody fucking need to dig down and analyse what I was wearing, or what I said, or how I fucking existed inside of a space at any given time. Because to do that is to suggest that there exist circumstances in which I forfeit my body. And I refuse to accept that. Absolutely refuse to accept that. No matter what, I still retain the rights to my body.
There is no 'responsibility' to be had on me. Let's do this society, and a future society all a favour and start placing the blame SOLELY where it belongs. And that's on the men who did this to me, the men who do this, the perpetrators, and not the women. Not the ones who have had something stolen from them, but the stealers. I won't get into what was taken. I won't get into the devastation of my soul, the way I don't get to be made whole again. I won't, because I've done that, and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of defending myself. I'm sick of the fact that it's with people that I love, and yes, some of them are women. I'm sick of constantly living in a world where it is my fault. BECAUSE IT'S NOT AND IT NEVER WAS! [Maybe if I scream it loud enough, people will wake the fuck up.]
I'm sick and sick and sick and sick. And the saddest part? I don't know how to change a thing. I don't know how to make the world see that someone who doesn't consent isn't at fault. I don't know how to end the cycle of victim blaming. I don't know how to stop men and women from perpetuating that how a woman dresses or acts is groundwork for what might happen to her. I'm sick of thanking men for acting like decent human beings, because to do so is to increase their power over me. I'm sick of how defining this is, of how it doesn't go away. I'm sick of all the little times I feel guilted into thinking something must have been my fault. I'm sick of screaming IT'S NOT MY FAULT, because that should be a given.
I don't even know what to say anymore, I don't know how to start. I don't know how to say Lara took Timothy's 'side' and my mother just blamed me without seeing red and wanting to punch walls and throw up. I don't know how to tell of how many people yelled at me after the rape at 18 to go to the police. And the number who blamed me, somehow, for being a scared 18 year old, who didn't go to the police, who kept it hidden for two years. I don't know how to fully understand the fact that there is no justice for that. Because there wasn't, and even with Timothy there wasn't justice, not really.
And every day that a woman thinks that I need to bear some responsibility for what happened is a day that justice continues to cease to exist. It's so terribly unfair, over and over and over again.
crossposted in as many places as I fucking feel like putting it
Must we go over this again? Must we? Dear humanity, you fucking suck. No love, me.
Let's break it down, as it were.
"A majority of women believe some rape victims should take responsibility for what happened"
I just ... what? WHAT? WHAT THE EVERLOVINGFUCK?
Let me tell you something. It is NEVER a woman's fault when someone else lays claim to her body. EVER. Does not matter how drunk she is, what she was wearing, what she said two hours ago. NO IS NO. Period. No-one has the right to her body, and we shouldn't be okay with the fact that we live in a society that clearly seems to perpetuate this idea that there are times when a woman doesn't have a right to her own body, that victim blaming is okay, that women are somehow 'at fault' for their rapes.
I'm too tired, and too angry, and too sick of dealing with this to offer up my rapes again. I can't emotionally do it again, break them down, spit out all the pieces for the world to see. I just can't do it. But I've struggled over and over again with the idea that it wasn't my fault, that I didn't deserve it, and that no-one but me has the right to my body and what happens to it. This? This makes it harder. A majority of women in the UK, according to that survey, would blame me, in some part, for what happened.
I'm not going to sit here and defend those nights and my choices in them. Because you know what? IT WASN'T MY FAULT, NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT. I didn't consent and there is where it all ends. I didn't consent, game over. Period. End of conversation. There's no bloody fucking need to dig down and analyse what I was wearing, or what I said, or how I fucking existed inside of a space at any given time. Because to do that is to suggest that there exist circumstances in which I forfeit my body. And I refuse to accept that. Absolutely refuse to accept that. No matter what, I still retain the rights to my body.
There is no 'responsibility' to be had on me. Let's do this society, and a future society all a favour and start placing the blame SOLELY where it belongs. And that's on the men who did this to me, the men who do this, the perpetrators, and not the women. Not the ones who have had something stolen from them, but the stealers. I won't get into what was taken. I won't get into the devastation of my soul, the way I don't get to be made whole again. I won't, because I've done that, and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of defending myself. I'm sick of the fact that it's with people that I love, and yes, some of them are women. I'm sick of constantly living in a world where it is my fault. BECAUSE IT'S NOT AND IT NEVER WAS! [Maybe if I scream it loud enough, people will wake the fuck up.]
I'm sick and sick and sick and sick. And the saddest part? I don't know how to change a thing. I don't know how to make the world see that someone who doesn't consent isn't at fault. I don't know how to end the cycle of victim blaming. I don't know how to stop men and women from perpetuating that how a woman dresses or acts is groundwork for what might happen to her. I'm sick of thanking men for acting like decent human beings, because to do so is to increase their power over me. I'm sick of how defining this is, of how it doesn't go away. I'm sick of all the little times I feel guilted into thinking something must have been my fault. I'm sick of screaming IT'S NOT MY FAULT, because that should be a given.
I don't even know what to say anymore, I don't know how to start. I don't know how to say Lara took Timothy's 'side' and my mother just blamed me without seeing red and wanting to punch walls and throw up. I don't know how to tell of how many people yelled at me after the rape at 18 to go to the police. And the number who blamed me, somehow, for being a scared 18 year old, who didn't go to the police, who kept it hidden for two years. I don't know how to fully understand the fact that there is no justice for that. Because there wasn't, and even with Timothy there wasn't justice, not really.
And every day that a woman thinks that I need to bear some responsibility for what happened is a day that justice continues to cease to exist. It's so terribly unfair, over and over and over again.
crossposted in as many places as I fucking feel like putting it
05 February 2010
disjointed. and visceral gets used twice.
There are little pieces, and there are big movements and moments. And there's everything in the middle, all the stories untold, puzzles never finished. It's how we build identity, of both who we are and who we want to be. Like the way I know my mother really does care, even on some selfish level, about what happens to her grandmother, despite her assurances that she isn't upset about it. Like the way my uncle is deeply angry about what happened to his sister. Like the instances I let myself cry. There are little defining moments built into the massive movements; Tucked underneath a death, a wedding, and a tragedy are the caring, the anger, the crying.
I really need to work on that piece of non-fiction I wrote five years ago about the night my grandfather died. I was nine years old, and I didn't know him very well- he was old and too sick by the time I was old enough to want to know him. But I still sobbed and sobbed and sobbed when I heard he was going to die. I can remember looking out the window and seeing our reflections (my father was holding me as I sobbed) and seeing red – one of us was wearing it – and just crying my heart out. What does that little piece say? Today, I don't get worked up over his death, but sometimes, when I think hard enough about Bill's, I do. I never imagined a decade and half later that it would still be so visceral. William Francis. Born 1 Feb 1945. He died of a heart attack in the summer of 1995. That death, the death of an uncle that I considered my favourite person in the world, hurt. I didn't cry when I was told. I didn't cry until the funeral, and even then, I did it without provocation, when the priest was giving a prayer.
Those are the little moments.
I cry at death, and at senseless tragedy. I consider the most defining moment for my generation to be Columbine and not, as many wish every generation needing a moment would have, the 9/11 attacks. Columbine was guns at schools and we were all kids. We were so little. Perhaps this is clouded by what came after, of the memorial service my school held for the victims. Everyone then knew I wrote poetry, and I think they all expected me to write something that would be picked for this. Columbine, friend of mine. I didn't write it, but it was my poem, and the poem of my classmates, and the children across the country; it was our mantra, it threaded us together into one group. Unified, but only we could belong to that unity. We were all shocked and mourning, and Columbine belonged to all of us. 9/11 was the Pentagon, and fields, and the twin towers. It was away from us, on the East coast. It was visceral, yes, but it wasn't the slaughter of us, by us. It wasn't kids killing kids, it was a collective across the country, it belonged to the entire nation, and thus could never define us.
Four little words. A big moment full of little moments. Pieces of character we only reveal when we think no-one's watching. It's better than the lies we tell ourselves when we think no-one is watching.
I really need to work on that piece of non-fiction I wrote five years ago about the night my grandfather died. I was nine years old, and I didn't know him very well- he was old and too sick by the time I was old enough to want to know him. But I still sobbed and sobbed and sobbed when I heard he was going to die. I can remember looking out the window and seeing our reflections (my father was holding me as I sobbed) and seeing red – one of us was wearing it – and just crying my heart out. What does that little piece say? Today, I don't get worked up over his death, but sometimes, when I think hard enough about Bill's, I do. I never imagined a decade and half later that it would still be so visceral. William Francis. Born 1 Feb 1945. He died of a heart attack in the summer of 1995. That death, the death of an uncle that I considered my favourite person in the world, hurt. I didn't cry when I was told. I didn't cry until the funeral, and even then, I did it without provocation, when the priest was giving a prayer.
Those are the little moments.
I cry at death, and at senseless tragedy. I consider the most defining moment for my generation to be Columbine and not, as many wish every generation needing a moment would have, the 9/11 attacks. Columbine was guns at schools and we were all kids. We were so little. Perhaps this is clouded by what came after, of the memorial service my school held for the victims. Everyone then knew I wrote poetry, and I think they all expected me to write something that would be picked for this. Columbine, friend of mine. I didn't write it, but it was my poem, and the poem of my classmates, and the children across the country; it was our mantra, it threaded us together into one group. Unified, but only we could belong to that unity. We were all shocked and mourning, and Columbine belonged to all of us. 9/11 was the Pentagon, and fields, and the twin towers. It was away from us, on the East coast. It was visceral, yes, but it wasn't the slaughter of us, by us. It wasn't kids killing kids, it was a collective across the country, it belonged to the entire nation, and thus could never define us.
Four little words. A big moment full of little moments. Pieces of character we only reveal when we think no-one's watching. It's better than the lies we tell ourselves when we think no-one is watching.
15 January 2010
Who knew Haiti's tragedy held so much treasure?
I think the idea of fund-raising for Haiti- through a student group- so you can show how you're not 'heartless bastards' is despicable. I wish there were a word stronger than despicable that I felt was adequate, that is how FURIOUS I am.
At least when I was on the board we didn't gloat or seek out anyone with the two grand we gave away. We just did it because that was what we decided we were going to do with the money. It got asked about on a radio show for atheists, but that was it, the only press about it. But this?
This makes my blood BOIL. The first part? AWESOME. Let's find some organisations, let's donate, let's realise this is about 3 million people whose lives were already pretty shite to begin with. Let's realise this is about the need for clothing, for shelter, for preventing disease, for fucking clean water. Let's realise this has nothing to do with us, not even a little bit.
The second part? And the third part? OH HALE NO! You should not make this about YOU and your fucking precious UNIVERSITY ORGANISATION. NOT ONE FUCKING WHIT. If ANY media approach you without you pursuing them and want to talk to your organisation? Fine, I understand the human interest appeal of well-off, extremely privileged, mostly white kids giving to a nation of 80% poverty who are suffering and who have suffered natural disaster after natural disaster.
But to seek it out yourself makes you vain, it makes you vapid, it makes you vacuous! It does not make you look like compassionate people moved by the HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, BEYOND-WORDS TRAGEDY that has befallen a poor, impoverished nation. It does not make you look like you're an intelligent group of people, like you so desperately want to be. How pathetic do you have to be to want to seek gain from this? Not monetary gain, no, but still a gain. You want to prove to the world that atheists aren't heartless bastards? Stop mocking the quiet faith of people, start reaching across the table and working with religious communities, and for the love of everything that can be held dear to someone's heart, give money and don't shout it from the rooftops.
This is beyond disgusting, and beyond redemption. I am washing my hands, and I am DONE. I will NOT attach myself to these people. I refuse.
And if there is even a HINT that ANY publicity was sought after, I will rain whatever hellfire I can upon this organisation. There are few things in the world I despise more than anyone trying to make a GAIN off of terrible tragedy. Gain off of thousands and thousands dead and three million affected. GAIN. Who thinks that could possibly, EVER, be okay?
So bring it, bitches. Try me. I dare you.
At least when I was on the board we didn't gloat or seek out anyone with the two grand we gave away. We just did it because that was what we decided we were going to do with the money. It got asked about on a radio show for atheists, but that was it, the only press about it. But this?
Haiti relief! Let's find a secular org that's taking donations - I know center for inquiry is doing something, tons of groups/orgs are. Let's get on the train eh? ... [Name redacted], want to find some organizations for this? It's great PR! Also, we could easily get the Daily to write about it ... I'm all for cutting a few big checks here, but we should try to get a little publicity too. Y'know, we're not all heartless bastards and such.
This makes my blood BOIL. The first part? AWESOME. Let's find some organisations, let's donate, let's realise this is about 3 million people whose lives were already pretty shite to begin with. Let's realise this is about the need for clothing, for shelter, for preventing disease, for fucking clean water. Let's realise this has nothing to do with us, not even a little bit.
The second part? And the third part? OH HALE NO! You should not make this about YOU and your fucking precious UNIVERSITY ORGANISATION. NOT ONE FUCKING WHIT. If ANY media approach you without you pursuing them and want to talk to your organisation? Fine, I understand the human interest appeal of well-off, extremely privileged, mostly white kids giving to a nation of 80% poverty who are suffering and who have suffered natural disaster after natural disaster.
But to seek it out yourself makes you vain, it makes you vapid, it makes you vacuous! It does not make you look like compassionate people moved by the HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, BEYOND-WORDS TRAGEDY that has befallen a poor, impoverished nation. It does not make you look like you're an intelligent group of people, like you so desperately want to be. How pathetic do you have to be to want to seek gain from this? Not monetary gain, no, but still a gain. You want to prove to the world that atheists aren't heartless bastards? Stop mocking the quiet faith of people, start reaching across the table and working with religious communities, and for the love of everything that can be held dear to someone's heart, give money and don't shout it from the rooftops.
This is beyond disgusting, and beyond redemption. I am washing my hands, and I am DONE. I will NOT attach myself to these people. I refuse.
And if there is even a HINT that ANY publicity was sought after, I will rain whatever hellfire I can upon this organisation. There are few things in the world I despise more than anyone trying to make a GAIN off of terrible tragedy. Gain off of thousands and thousands dead and three million affected. GAIN. Who thinks that could possibly, EVER, be okay?
So bring it, bitches. Try me. I dare you.
28 December 2009
identity crisis
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.
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.
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.
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