Monday, July 3, 2017
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Last Sunday was the Equality March, where LGBTQ folks, allies, and Women’s March stalwarts gathered to show our pride and solidarity and to protest the Trump regime. As my BFF/ex-wife and I walked into the crowd at Farragut Square, we happened upon a wave of woohoos. A marching band in matching purple T-shirts played “We’re Not Gonna Take It” and I felt old when only a few people looked fired up about that. When they played “Born This Way,” I jumped around in sincere joy at my people’s unofficial anthem.
It was certainly the biggest LGBTQ demonstration I’ve ever been in, though of course it was teensy compared to the D.C. Women’s March. Amy was carrying a pinwheel she’d made herself!
and I’d painted a sign that said this:
Since November, protests have come to feel like a second home to me. I take so much comfort in the signs, both the clever puns and the classics:
I’ve been chanting “This is what democracy looks like!” for twenty years, and I was amused by the addition of “Racist, sexist, anti-gay, Donald Trump, sashay away!” The crowd grew at every intersection, and was ebullient until we reached the White House—you could hear the boos and the “Shame, shame, shame!” chants from many blocks away. When we got there, we noticed snipers on the roof, but maybe they are always there. Though we were literally targets of the Trump administration, I felt completely safe. I know that’s partly a function of privilege, (It’s much safer for me in protests than it is for people of color, Muslim folks, and trans folks, a fact I try not to take for granted.) but being with The People tends to make me feel at home, whether I’m canvassing, marching, or just going in for my weekly therapy appointments at Women Organized Against Rape. Connection is what keeps me strong and happy, the opposite of helpless, knowing that we are many and we will not be silenced.
After the march, Amy and I sat down in the shade outside the Museum of Natural History to catch our breath and have a snack. I needed to go in to use the restroom, and as I got metal-detected and wanded to get into the museum, a thought occurred to me: Everything in the entire Smithsonian is mine. The Hope Diamond and all of her mineral friends, the Ruby slippers, the Washington Monument, every fountain and path and sunken sculpture garden, it’s mine. Ours. It belongs to everyone at every intersection.
This is not and has never been a country that belongs only to straight white men, and I’m glad that so many of us are working to turn away from that default and toward ourselves and those who need our support.
On the way home, Amy and I happened to pass the National Cathedral (Picturing Jed Bartlett there, crushing out a cigarette in the transept…)I wanted to gaze up at the architecture and see if I could get inside to look at the stained glass, which I hadn’t seen since a school trip when I was twelve. (The fact that I ran out of film on that trip still haunts me. Thank goodness that’s not a concern anymore!) Amy, legs sore from marching, kindly waited outside in the turnaround while I went to explore.
The outside of the building was as awe-inspiring as I’d expected, but it was the windows that really transported me, brighter to my eyes because of all the rainbows I’d just spent the day with. Pictures don’t do justice to the saturated colors, which looked like the other-worldly light that I picture when I do chakra meditations. A choir was singing, and as I walked around lit up and mesmerized, I realized that I must look odd walking around a cathedral with my rainbow-ribbon pigtails, pride fest beads, spiked collar, and beribboned leather cuff, but I thought of course I’m in a cathedral all prided up, this is my cathedral too. Doubly so.
My Catholic ancestry and upbringing means that I share responsibility for the horrors of our past, but it’s never occurred to me that I could take ownership of the beauty too. Every rich, shining pane of glass, every flying buttress, belongs just as much to my queer, pro-choice voice-having lady self as it belongs to the pope himself. Maybe I’ll go to the Vatican someday and check out my Sistine Chapel, my Rafaels, my golden dome. As much as the horror is mine to inherit and try to correct, so is the light.
And the same goes for America. I’m used to taking part of the responsibility for the Native American genocide, for slavery, for the School to Prison Pipeline, sharing in those problems and knowing they are mine to help fix, but I’m also ready to claim the good things. I visit the Hope Diamond as often as I can because it’s beautiful and ours, just like President Obama’s legacy is beautiful and ours. We can hold hope in our hand and let it sparkle, never let anyone take it away.
Thursday, June 1, 2017
Sunday, May 28, 2017
This post owes a lot to my favorite piece of street art from the DC Women's March (below) and to Elizabeth Gilbert, Gretchen Rubin, and Elizabeth Craft, whose podcasts Magic Lessons and Happier have been steering me back toward my happiness wheelhouse these past few weeks.
Last Monday in therapy, I got to a breakthrough point that was as relieving as an exhale. Closing a volume on a particularly ensnaring story, I felt space open up around me in a way that I haven’t felt in years. The urgency, defensiveness, and vigilance that has always fueled/plagued my life has, for the moment, receded.
Friday afternoon, just before being let out of a phone session early (Because of happiness!) I told my wonderful therapist (SERIOUSLY. Call Women Organized Against Rape if you need help even a little. (215) 985-3333. https://www.woar.org/ ) that in order to preserve this lovely margin that has opened up for me, I want to make my life as soft as possible, to give myself every advantage over the harshness that is unavoidable both in my head and in the world. Here’s what I have so far, in no particular order:
1. Be imperfect.
2. Just sit for a minute.
3. Take pictures of flowers and other beautiful things.
4. Think about chakras.
5. Plant things and see if they grow.
6. Read chick-lit books and pretty magazines.
7. Read in bed.
8. Sit in the park.
9. Treat the neighborhood mini-libraries as oracles.
10. Write whenever and whatever I want.
11. Build up my money cushion.
12. Read children’s books, especially biographies of cool-as-heck ladies.
13. Keep Hillary in my heart.
14. Do yoga at home and in classes.
15. Leave places whenever I want and then
16. Go back whenever I’m ready.
17. Never have a classroom again.
18. Call a hotline whenever I need it even a little bit.
Women Organized Against Rape: (215) 985-3333
William Way LGBT Community Center Peer Counselling: (215) 732- 8255
19. Always have a therapist.
20. Keep taking Prozac.
21. Give others margins too--be slower to judgement.
22. Learn to distinguish between microaggressions and annoyances and then
23. Push back as often as needed.
24. Block any number I want to, for any reason.
25. Date in real life, not online.
26. Expect softness from partners, and give it.
27. Continue to not watch Twin Peaks. Fuck off, Dead Girl Town!
28. Sleep in.
29. Go to bed early.
30. Go back to bed.
31. Take naps.
32. Keep being addicted to Insight Timer and sending strangers around the world “Thanks for meditating with me” messages.
33. Keep loving Yoga Nidra and other guided meditations.
34. Keep swimming.
35. Keep getting on the elliptical, even if it means sometimes having to watch the news.
36. Be late for stuff.
37. Or be early.
38. Earn the amount I deserve to, which is at least $50 an hour for tutoring and creative coaching.
39. Keep having jobs that allow me to regularly stop and put cash in the bank, I’ve loved that feeling since my waitress days.
40. Look at baby animals.
41. Walk in the woods and around my magical neighborhood (which has woods too).
42. See my niece and nephews.
43. See my siblings.
44. Go to the beach, alone or with family.
45. Get haircuts.
46. Get my car washed.
47. Canvass for candidates I believe in.
48. Donate to good causes whenever I can.
49. Call the government a few days a week. (Daily Action and ResistBot really help with this!)
50. Get in marches, protests, and demonstrations whenever I want to.
51. Make, enjoy, and photograph street art.
52. Use my art museum membership.
58. Make soup.
59. Have breakfast for dinner.
60. Look at gemstones.
61. Visit the Hope Diamond, which I think is the most existing thing I’ve ever seen.
62. Learn the names of birds, butterflies, flowers.
63. Read Rumi every day.
64. Listen to happy podcasts! (Right now I’m bingeing Magic Lessons.)
65. Write a haiku sometimes.
66. Wash the dishes and do the laundry.
67. Enjoy my time working in the bookstore with Amy.
68. Buy one feminist book per month.
69. Watch movies.
70. Accept invitations but
71. Cancel plans whenever I need to.
72. Ditto for calling in sick.
73. Keep fresh flowers in the house.
74. Send mail.
75. List gratitudes and accomplishments daily.
76. Say thank you, I love you, and I’m sorry easily.
77. Be a guest house for emotions and other things recommended by Rumi.
78. Go on mini-artist-dates whenever I get a little pocket or time.
79. Or do nothing.
80. Always be doing The Artist’s Way.
81. Do self-help books, or “emotional sudoku” as Maria Bamford calls them.
82. Watch, read, and listen to funny ladies. (And, okay, other funny folks too.)
83. Honor my sacred alone times: Fridays after yoga, Sunday morning swimming, whatever else comes along.
84. Make alone time on family visits.
85. Always have good candles, notebooks, incense, and meditation stones.
86. Goof around in thrift stores.
87. Drink wine and watch Steven Universe.
88. Believe that the Universe loves me and wants to shower me with gifts, blessings, and synchronicities.
89. Admit to being a romantic.
90. Have pretty clothes.
91. Say yes to free stuff.
92. Keep umbrellas, headphones, lipstick, cardigans, and chargers EVERYWHERE.
93. Increase my IRA deposit whenever I can.
94. Turn off the phone.
95. Or just go ahead and scroll through Instagram.
96. Play games.
97. Watch sitcoms.
98. Notice and enjoy silence.
99. Celebrate having a body.
100. Say no to things I don’t like.
101. Allow for the possibility of grey areas.
102. Assume good intentions.
103. Use and celebrate my voice.
104. Treat everyone, especially myself, as if we were The Prodigal Son/Daughter/Non-Binary Child.
105. Look at collections, varieties, arrays.
106. Enjoy my friends.
107. Have some tea.
108. Believe fortune cookies, encouraging tea bags, and other messages from the Great Whatever.
109. Keep a stock of tea lites.
110. Notice magic every day.
111. My neighbor once told me that “Living in a community is a constant state of forgiveness and self-forgiveness.
112. Put loving myself first, always.
What are your ways? ❤ ❤ ❤
Monday, May 1, 2017
Monday, April 24, 2017
I was superexcited to see The Decemberists Friday before last, but I almost didn’t get to enjoy it. While the crowd waited between bands, the venue (presumably at The Decemberists’ behest) played an old-timey country album that reminded me of every won’t-somebody-please-worry-about-poor-white-racists post I’ve scrolled past since the election. I’m sure it was a perfectly respectable album, but it made me feel so creepy and rotten and is-indie-rock-unintentionally-white-supremacist (probably) that I almost left.
But then the band came on and for a little while, the rotten feeling went way. I remembered how good (if Bush-era bleak) the band is and settled into the very enjoyable task of looking at Colin Meloy’s lovely face. We were only a few songs into their tenth-anniversary rendition of The Crane Wife (Which, okay, is not the most soothing album.) when I saw a scuffle starting up a few people away, right in the middle of the crowded general admission floor. A short, mean-faced blond guy with the demeanor of all the social nightmares was yelling at a woman, calling her an asshole for asking him not to dance into her.
I offered to switch places with the woman and did my best to be big and silent and ignore the guy, but he just transferred his yelling onto me.
“Thanks, FEMINIST,” he hissed. “What are you, gonna wear your PUSSY HAT?”
While I was trying to keep my space on the floor next to this jerk, the woman he’d originally been yelling at told me that The Decemberists had been her band with her late husband, and she’d asked the man to stop dancing into her so she could enjoy the experience. Seems pretty fucking reasonable to me.
“Just so you know, I’m gonna stand here.” Said the guy, and pushed his shoulder into mine.
“You can step away from me,” I said, but he pushed back harder onto my shoulder.
“Okay, I’m going to get security, I told him, and struggled my way out of the crowd. I told security that there was a guy at the center of the crowd harassing women, and I never saw whether it got taken care of or not. I felt guilty for leaving the woman in there with him, but I didn’t have it in me to persevere back to my spot. I stood on the margin of the crowd and tried to get back into the music, but it was hard. There was another argument going on nearby, so it was hard to un-jangle. I felt an emotion I’ve felt on and off since the election, the feeling that all of us, the grieving woman, the shoving guy, the backup singers, everybody, are adrift in this soup of fear, loss, and anger, with no way out.
And then they played their new song. Introduced as “This is kind of a state of the union…” the song went:
Everything is AWFUL…”
The crowd went bonkers, and I went bonkers with joy. I felt my jangledness and trauma move and shift out of my body as I jumped around, bobbed my head, squealed, smiled, sang along, and clapped in true fangirl fashion. You could feel the audience breathe a sigh of relief, let go of a little of the weight of this moment in history.
In that spirit, I have some things to say to the reason I ended up on the margin of the crowd.
Dear Trumpish Guy in the Middle of the Decemberists Crowd,
I guess you’re what they mean when they say that misogynists and bigots are emboldened by the Trump regime, though hate has always seemed pretty shameless to me. Either way, what I see in you is the opposite of boldness. I see a deep, broken, desperate cowardice, a poisonous avarice that makes you feel entitled to more space than you have earned, a greedy urge to shore up your own lack of self-worth by colonizing everyone and everything. It must be exhausting.
And you know what? Women are not going to let our bodies be claimed. The pussy hat may have been put away with the winter clothes, but this is our time, and you are a tarnished shard of a gender structure that is already broken, that has already abandoned you. We’re not yours. This isn’t your world anymore. Give up and get on board or be washed away in the tide of your own hateful limits.