Depression is a superpower. Because I have to fight hard to see the good in order to survive, this damaging, heartbreaking year still looks like my best one yet—even with getting hit by a car!
1.I’m grateful that I had Hillary Clinton with me in my heart every day. Her courage helped me to stand up to the biggest bullies in my life and pushed me to fight for my ideals. Fighting for her was fighting for me, for all of us. She married me to the premise that women are people and that LGBT people deserve equal rights and equal respect. She faced so much ugliness, gaslighting, horror, and humiliation and stayed herself throughout it all—working hard, doing her homework, having a plan, and standing up for those who need it. She and my wonderful campaign organizers and fellow volunteers made me into a better, stronger, and more hopeful person, and any future good I get to do will be thanks to them. Working on the campaign made me more connected to my neighborhood, my country, the world, and myself, and I hope to cultivate and honor that connection for the rest of my years.
2.I’m grateful that I fell in love this fall. It didn’t work out, but he’s a good sort, and something that doesn’t seem like it should be a big deal profoundly changed me. He got me writing a million paragraphs (and one poem!), kept me company through my election work, made lots of art with me and the library kids, and reminded me what it’s like to feel beautiful and sparky and ridiculous with someone. I remember the day I went ahead and let myself feel it: I drew stars all over the paper he’d given me to read and gave him an A+. Oh yeah, and then there’s the music—what if Frank Ocean hadn’t found his way into my heart? The most exciting thing is that even though the love is unrequited, I can still enjoy it—the love itself feels like a companion, even separate from him, and it keeps me warm and hopeful most nights. I think I’ll owe my future loves partly to him.
3.I’m grateful for retracing my steps and reconnecting with dear friends whom I briefly lost to divorce grief. It’s so heartening how friendship can just stay there and wait for you to be ready for it, how these reunions sometimes feel like no time has passed. I’m lucky to have so many generous and reliable hearts in my life.
4.I’m grateful for Hamilton, especially getting my niece and nephews obsessed! I got my four-year-old nephew a “Not throwing away my shot.” T-shirt for his birthday. My niece and I bond over our love of Lafayette (Well, he IS everyone’s favorite fighting Frenchman!) (Did you know he’s currently on black-ish? Merry Christmas to me!) I’ll never forget the drives to the comic shop belting out the king’s song, or the drive back from apple picking belting out everything. As a bonus, it seems like Hamilton might be one of the things holding our nation together, so yeah, I’m pretty glad it exists.
5.I’m grateful that I got to march for the Pulse victims, for Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, for reproductive rights, for religious freedom, against the evil Nazi president elect. It’s a good thing I like marching, because it seems like it’s time to do a lot more of it.
6.I’m grateful that I got to thank John Lewis, Hillary Clinton, and Cecile Richards for their work. Also very grateful that I didn’t faint when I met John Lewis—his handshake was so warm and his “Thank you for your work” was so humbling that I’ll feel fortified by it for years to come.
7.I’m grateful for my neighborhood. In Mt. Airy, you can staple a watercolor to a phone pole and it just stays there! That’s how loved and safe and curated I feel.
8.I’m grateful for my jobs. All three are rewarding, relaxed, and fulfilling. I’ve gotten to make so much art and friendship and happiness at the library, help so many students at the bookstore, and create a warm and productive bond with my tutoring student and his family. I’m especially grateful for my Lego Day playlist, for singing “Lean on Me” and “Shine Bright Like a Diamond” and “Love on Top” and “Everything is Awesome” with the kids and feeling like the luckiest person in the world, like a goddess surrounded by beautiful treasures, because that’s exactly what this year let me be.
November was a month that included a panic-inducing election, a near-relationship-thing that (predictably, it seems) turned to heartbreak, and an almost-total Thanksgiving fail in my part. I hope I can get unlost in December, I'll do my best.
I’m ashamed to admit that
it took me more than four decades to learn the above sentiment, and probably I’m
still in the long hard process of learning it. In my twenties, I remember
refusing to join the Gay Straight Alliance at Syracuse because I thought they
were too hard on straight people. When my feed erupted with grief about
Ferguson and Charleston and all the other white atrocities of the past few
years and my friends all called out for white people to wake up, I’m ashamed to
admit that it hurt my feelings. I’d been doing my best to fight racism and I
wanted credit for that, like some kind of get-out-of-racism-free card.
That’s white fragility—we’re
so used to not having to think about our racial identity that it feels
upsetting when someone asks us to examine our role in things. My entitlement
was in thinking that for acknowledging the existence of racism, I should
somehow get a pass, should get some kind of gratitude. The poets asking white
people to wake up weren’t necessarily even talking about me, but I felt
indignant anyway, entitled to credit and rewards for caring about justice,
which is really the bare minimum of what every human being should do.
Those at the top of the
privilege pile (Here I’m talking about white people, but this also applies to
male, straight, cis, Christian, and all of the other American entitlements) we
feel hurt when we’re questioned because we (unconsciously, I hope) think that
our status entitles us to be the ones doing the questioning, the shaping, the
defining of even the most deeply personal parts of other people’s lives.
The thing that makes me
the angriest about entitlement is the way that we colonize other people’s
identities. We superimpose our idea of what people should be and refuse to let
them define themselves. That is an evil coercion that threatens and warps the basic,
unique, loving perfection that each individual is born with. I would love to
see what we’d all be like without the personal colonizations of the power
One of the most sickening
examples of white entitlement is the idea I keep hearing from white people that
if people of color “showed more respect” to the police, they would not be hurt.
This is an abuser’s mindset, and there is absolutely no way for abused people
to win it. As someone who grew up with abusive parents, I can understand a tiny
fragment of what this might feel like. You bend and twist and hide and equivocate
to try and please your oppressor and create some kind of safety for yourself.
You learn the moods and whims and warning signs and you shrink yourself down as
far as you can go, but you always, always still get hit, hurt, punished. Or in
the case of so many people of color, murdered by police.
The insidious idea beneath all of this is the same one
that fuels rape culture: the assumption that if something bad happens to you,
you must deserve it. My mother broke
my heart when she suggested that Trayvon Martin must’ve done something we didn’t
embrace this false reasoning to protect themselves from the sadness all around
them, and I can feel compassionate about that, but it isn’t okay the way it
allows us to turn a blind, callous eye toward the people who need us most.
Blaming the victim is what allows all cycles of abuse to continue, what makes
the fight for fairness feel so impossible.
mostly writing this to expose my own very regrettable blind spots. Last spring,
in a fight about something only vaguely related, a former friend said that I’d
failed as a teacher because of my entitlement and cowardice. Mean, but not entirely
wrong. There were a million things that made me a bad fit for the classroom,
but there was also this:
retrospect, I think I felt entitled to a level of respect from the children
that was not directly proportional to my basic person-ness. As a white person
with primarily black students, I think that on some level I expected the kids
to treat me better because some creepy, awful part of me thought I was better. In times of stress, ugly
things came out of my mouth that I will never forgive myself for. At my last
school, I got livid when parents would rather talk to my African American grade
partner, despite the fact that she had four decades of experience on me, vastly
more insight into the children’s lives, and was generally all-around awesome. (She
tried so hard to convince me that I was a good teacher, to prop me up as I
collapsed under anxiety, and I should probably write her a letter of thanks.) I
went into education to fight the achievement gap and be a resource for African
American children, and I am deeply ashamed of how much gratitude I thought I
deserved for that.
entitlement is only a tiny piece of the sociopolitical tangle of life in those
classrooms, but it was a thread. I’m not telling you all this to ask for
absolution, but to share some important missteps on my road to imperfect but
steadfast allyship. I’m so ashamed, I’m so sorry, and thank you for sticking with
me in spite of my failures.
change things, we all have to be able to check our assumptions and examine our
underlying motivations, our ugly inherited selfishness about our place in the
world. Today, I try to be always ready to say I’m sorry, always ready to
listen. I feel so grateful to everyone who has been a bridge for me, who has
let me cross over into other circles and cultures and make stupid mistakes so I
can get better. It’s a very lucky life, and I’m going to keep trying hard to
I got this script and call list from the wonderful poet/activist Tatyana S. Brown and I'm planning to do the calls this morning--join me if you can!
"The situation is urgent at Standing Rock. Please show up by making phone calls. I've written a script for anyone who needs it (at the bottom) and am reposting this call for action from last evening:
They're shooting our unarmed people again at Standing Rock with tear gas, rubber bullets, and water cannons, in 24-degree bitter weather. Cops are breaking the law! Call 202-761-7690. Please share! Asap. I just did and left a message without yelling or swearing it wasn't easy.
Act now! Demand they stop this!! Contact Army Corp of Engineers 202-761-8700, National Guard 701-333-2000, White House 202-456-1414, ND Governor 701-328-2200, Amnesty International 212-807-8400
Call now. - This shouldn't be happening. #NoDAPL.
If you need a script to feel comfortable calling, use this:
My name is _________ and I am a US Citizen calling to demand that your institution enforce humane treatment of the Water Protectors at Standing Rock and actually stop all further construction on the Dakota Access Pipeline. Morton County Police and DAPL officials are putting lives at risk by aiming water cannons at peaceful protectors in below freezing conditions. The Water Protectors are simply trying to ensure clean drinking water for over 18 million Americans and further protection for our planet. Stand with them over big oil."
These weeks after Election Day have been so sad, but there is a silver lining--I've seen people reaching out with love so much to each other, and I've seen my local community pull together even more than before. Last Friday night I was lucky enough to attend a phone bank at Big Blue Marble Bookstore (Just a few doors down from my apartment because I'm the luckiest!) to make calls against Trump's plan to appoint white supremacist leader Steve Bannon as one of his top advisers. The call list only takes about a half hour and you can do it any time you want. If you're shy, call after five and leave voicemails--those are counted too.
We can't give up now. We have to do everything we can to preserve America's heart and soul and to protect our friends and neighbors from the swell of hate we're only just beginning to understand. The Bid Blue Marble is planning calls every Friday night, and I'll share the phone lists and scripts whenever I get them. Thanks for continuing to be awesome! <3 p="">
Though Hillary’s debate
triumph last Wednesday filled me with bratty, exuberant defiance, the fact
still remains that we all sat through ninety minutes of misogyny, gaslighting,
and rape culture. It was a night of calling Secretary Clinton (and by extension
us) stupid, incompetent, a liar. Trump actually came out and said that if she
didn’t want him to do bad things, she should have stopped him. We’ve been
through the “debunking,” dismissing, and discrediting of rape victims by both
parties. Though it was a wild relief to hear Hillary speak up so unequivocally
for our right to physical autonomy, it feels unfair that we should still have
to be fighting so hard for it. A lot has been written about how this is a
different election for women than for men, about the way Trump’s debasement of
women has gotten into our bodies. I hate the way it separates women from the
men in our lives and bonds us in a state of Get
the fuck off us, already.
Going into work after the
“grab them by the pussy” weekend (which, by the way, made the Internet what
I’ve always wanted it to be, a barrage of incensed women vowing snarlingly to
reclaim our space.) I sat down next to a female coworker I don’t know that well
and told her that I was feeling jangled. She knew exactly what I meant and
expressed her own wish for a blanket fort until the election is over. We had
trouble settling in, we were vigilant, both hyperpresent and not there at all.
That’s what Trump’s abuse and violation of women reminds us of: The times our
bodies were not our own, the vague threat that if we’re okay right now, it’s
only because they’re letting us be.
When I went to my tutoring job the same day, the dad
had the news on and Trump was dismissing his most recent accusers. Though I
shuddered at the situation and the sound of Trump’s voice, I tried to be jokey
about it while making it clear that I wanted the news to go away so I could
Nice Tutoring Dad said this:
“I don’t know why they’re talking about this. It
doesn’t even have to do with policy.”
I was done being jokey. My expression darkened and my
voice dropped all the way down.
“Yes. It. Does.”
(I didn’t say: Trump’s WHOLE policy is rape,
dehumanization, coercion, entitlement. Instead of “Make America Great Again,”
his slogan should be “Let Straight White Men Define, Harm, and Exploit
Everything and Everyone.” From stop and frisk to forced pregnancy to anti-gay
conversion camps to fetishizing the Second Amendment, Trump’s campaign is aimed
at using force to shore up the power of a majority that will soon no longer exist,
using fear to fuel oppression of people who are no longer willing to be
Nice Tutoring Dad did
turn off the news and I got my work done without a panic attack, but as I was
leaving, he put the news back on and when Trump inevitably appeared on the
screen, he said “There’s your friend.” Haha yes, my friend, the pussy grabber,
the stop-and-frisker, the child-rapist. His jokey comment took me out of any
sense of equality and put me solidly on guard, that awful closed-up feeling of
suspecting my safety is provisional. I didn’t know how I would go back to work
at that house.
I needed to find a way to
bridge the distance between my experience of the election and his and so,
emboldened by the thousands of women around the world who were stepping up to
tell their stories, I just came out and told him. I texted and told him that
I’m an “assault survivor” (both “rape” and “sexual” seemed like words I didn’t
want to text to an employer, even an informal one) and that the news made me
panicky and made it hard to concentrate on my student. He took it very well and
there has been no news on and no more insensitive comments. Sending that text
was a powerful moment for me, a genuine flawed human connection in the midst of
a professional relationship, one of those magically humane moments that always
manage to sneak in. But at the same time, why did I have to tell him that I had
been raped in order for him to be respectful about it—why isn’t it enough that
ANYONE had been?
This week I took to heart
the fact that while I have the courage/privilege/years of therapy to stand up
for myself, to come out and tell my story, there are so many women who don’t
have the words. For every generous soul who shares her story at #notokay, there
are countless others who blame themselves instead, who turn themselves inside
out to excuse and identify with their attackers, who lose the power of speech
entirely just when they need it most. I want to recommit to speaking up for and
In large ways and small,
the times our bodies are not our own changes us, changes our course like creepy
rocks in an otherwise lovely stream. For me, it’s the constant battle between
liberation and safety, between my openhearted adult self and my inner teenager
who is livid and snarling because she couldn’t fight off her attackers. No
matter how full my life is of flowers, cake, and kid-art, the past is still in
me: The drugged, helpless feeling, the favorite shirt covered with blood, the parts
left out of the deposition, the loss of connection, the struggle for hope.
With so much grace and
work, I’ve transformed my past traumas into superpowers. My pesky vigilance
gives me a knack for creating an atmosphere of acceptance and safety. My sensitivity
to persecution gives me a chance to be a voice for anyone who might need an
advocate. Knowing the true meaning of helplessness gives me the drive to always
believe I can make things better, to hang in there for the little changes that
add up to big ones.
Still, I’d love to go
back in time and lead my childhood self briskly and decisively away from every
abuser, every “you’re too sensitive,” every questionable babysitter, every
non-consensual bruise. I’d love to intercept myself on the way to one particular
party, wrap up my teenage self in blankets, and tell her she is so, so loved.
And I can, I do.
Every uncomfortable text,
every campaign call, every door-knock, every march and rally has been for that
little self, to show her she’s not trapped, to show her the love she deserves
and make the world a little safer for other little girls, for everyone.
I hate the things that
divide us, especially the disconnect I’ve always felt from men. The times that
I manage to bridge the gap are too precious and lovely to contain. In the last
few weeks, sprouting like a morning glory on a trellis of triggers, I’ve felt
something else: A reconnection to the part of myself that’s open, yielding,
willing to let my imagination run away with me in the best ways. In the safety
and strength of a sea of riled-up women (and a few adorably ally-ish men) I’ve
felt something strangely and miraculously like health, the knowledge that our
bodies are have infinitely more love and magic than oppression could ever
really take away, that the angry cries of Trump supporters are those of a dying
way of life. They’re trolling us because they are at the end of their
relevance, because their time is up. Part of me, most of me, is glowing pink
for whatever life comes next.
Over the summer, I felt
like Congressman John Lewis was one of the people taking care of me. Reading
parts one and two of March gave me a
deeper perspective on the Civil Rights Movement and a wider lens on what’s at
stake in the current election. During the time of pain, fear, and frustration
that followed Orlando, the sit-in on the congress floor gave me reassurance
that someone cared, that someone was fighting for both LGBT safety and gun
control improvements. John Lewis was at the center, giving me a sense of
purpose and forward motion in what could easily feel like a brutal and broken
So when I heard that he
would be stopping by our local Philly for Hillary office, I very nearly
swooned. I was grateful that I happened to be in the office for a canvass when
they found out, or I might have missed it—one of the synchronicities that
always keep me just a little bit mystical about things. I couldn’t believe I
would have a chance to thank him, and thank him, and thank him again for how
much he’d done for all of us all of his work and pain and sacrifice to try and
help our nation live up to the democratic, egalitarian place it is supposed to
Amy found me a copy of March Book Three to get signed. I wore
my favorite blue-flowered Democrat dress and left the bookstore early so I
could get in a little phonebanking before the big event. We were out on the
back patio calling because it was too loud and crowded inside. It was a hazy,
warm morning and everything was a little damp. Lots of the people I was calling
were getting their second call of the day because of multiple event
invitations, I guess, and they didn’t even mind, that’s how hardcore our local
Democrats are. One woman told me that she was setting up a voter registration
table outside of her house. Another asked me how she could work the polls on
Election Day. Even though I was being a pain and calling people while they were
a work, they often very kindly gave me a time to call back later. I love
Democrats, that’s one thing I know for sure.
I got through a LOT of
call sheets while we were waiting for the congressman to arrive. The
phonebankers were antsy that we might miss out, but our organizers assured us
they’d bring him to us first. I was on a call when he came through the back
door, and I had to hastily say “I have to let you go now, John Lewis just got
here!” to the nice voter on the phone.
I was shaking as I took March out of my purse for him to sign. I
was afraid to monopolize him and didn’t know how to approach him even though he
was right there, on the back patio of the what used to be the coffee shop where
I hosted poetry reading way back when. Luckily for my hero-struck self, my new
favorite organizer said “Let me introduce you to your biggest fan!” and brought
him right to me.
So far this year, I’ve
shaken the hand of a former president, our god-help-us-if-she’s-not-the-next
president, and the president of Planned Parenthood, but shaking John Lewis’s
hand was by far the warmest, deepest, and most meaningful. People snapped
pictures as he signed my book, and I blithered on and on, saying many, many,
thank yous and trying not to fall down. I got to tell him that his books
inspire me every day. The local paper took a picture of us with the book and I
would really, really like to have that photo.
One of the most humbling
and awe-filled moments of this fraught year came when he thanked me for my
work—the man who fought and suffered and worked harder for good than almost
anyone was thanking me for a few cozy calls, a few sunny days of knocking on
doors. I felt tiny and universal all at once.
After he was done
thanking phone-bankers, he went inside the packed headquarters and gave a
rousing speech about how he cried when Barack Obama won Pennsylvania, and then
again when he was inaugurated, and how he plans to cry when we inaugurate our
first woman president. He led the headquarters in a chant of “Yes we can!”
before he was quickly spirited out the back door and on his way.
I turned to the woman next
to me, who was looking as awed and joyed as I was, and said “That was a big
moment.” and she said “Yes it was.” And we were together in it then, in the
strength of unity and progress. I could feel the project of justice moving
forward, even though it is almost always maddeningly slow.
Sometimes it feels crazy
to believe in progress. The systems and blindnesses that oppress and brutalize
America are so massive and entrenched, sometimes it feels stupid and hopeless
to fight. Though sometimes I’ve felt lonely and lost, meeting John Lewis
reminded me that if we keep going, we can be a little piece of progress every
day. It galvanized my heart to keep working for racial justice, for gender
equality, and for LGBT rights because there is such a powerful wave of good
history and work behind us, pushing us forward like a wave. The warmth of his hand
let me let go of my failures and really touch the little bits of good I can
accomplish in this life. I will never, never stop saying thank you.
On Wednesdays and
Thursdays, I work three jobs. All three of them are superpleasant and I even
enjoy my commute, but by the eleventh hour of the day, I’m tired. During that
time, there’s this man. He’s on our side and has been friendly and supportive
all throughout the election season, until recently. Now, as I head out the
door, he always makes the same assertion: that Hillary didn’t do enough over
the summer, that she was “Just chilling and letting Trump do his thing.”
We’ve had a great time
chitchatting about the election, so much so that I even brought him a poster
from the convention and thanked him for all of his support, but I can see how a
summer of the misogynist, Trump-drunk news has skewed his view of the
proceedings. He keeps saying she never talks about her platform, though many of
us can recite it by heart by now. She’s been telling you, I keep wanting to
say, but you’re not listening.
As far as I know, this
friendly critic isn’t putting in any volunteer hours for the campaign, he’s
just sitting back and second-guessing a woman who LITERALLY worked herself sick.
I get through these moments with as much grace as possible, but I drive home
FUMING over both the personal and political implications. I’m deeply frightened
by the way that the news turned him against his own candidate, and VASTLY
irritated that I have to hear this feedback in the midst of a long workday.
What makes me the maddest
is that he and so many others have been so utterly poisoned by gender restrictions
that they can’t see or hear her, no matter how hard she works, no matter what
she says or does. Part of our disagreement might be media-choice based, because
I get my information from social media, from the campaigns themselves, and from
direct experience and he only gets it from the news, but there’s a deeper
problem here—it feels like they can’t see or hear her/us no matter what we do
because for millennia we’ve been taken for granted, our work has been
My sister, a full-time
mother of five and one of the hardest working people I know, told me this story—she
was at a kids’ birthday party and something got spilled, prompting a friend of
hers to remark, “Oh, I heard you’re really good at laundry.” Kate was
justifiably annoyed—she would probably rather be known for her photography skills
or for her Harry Potter Trivia prowess, but it really gave me a chance to
appreciate the undervalued work that has been going on behind the scenes
throughout all of human civilization. Where would any of us be without people who are good at laundry?
In the public sphere,
women run the risk of being just as overlooked. Recently we all learned that
the women of President Obama’s administration had to invent a special strategy
in order to be heard:
Which is cool that they
banded together and shine-theoried it up, but WHY ON EARTH should they have had
to come up with a scheme to get our arguably-first-feminist-president to call
on them? Men, why can’t you just hear us? (The most recent episode of Call Your
Girlfriend makes this point so much better: http://www.callyourgirlfriend.com/episode-63-everything-we-disdain/)
One of the things that
the “she doesn’t do enough” man in my workday doesn’t see is campaign headquarters,
where the volunteers are almost exclusively women. We work our multiple jobs,
some of us take care of families, and then we head back out to do the political
laundry in hopes of getting rid of the smelliest sweatsock of them all, Trump.
We’re not paid to do it, and though phone banking and canvassing is sometimes
fun, it is work, and we’re doing it for free, to keep things afloat the way
women always have. So don’t ever tell me that Hillary isn’t doing enough, or
that any woman isn’t. There are only fifty days left until the election and it’s
past time for men to get up off their asses and help us with the chores.
Following the advice of
happiness expert Gretchen Rubin, I chose a theme for myself last year on my
birthday. I was dating someone at the time so I might have been thinking more
snuggles, more connection, more being taken out for steak. In that respect, I’d
call the year an absolute flop-o-rama, but in so many unexpected ways, it was a year of more.
Last September when I
stood on the Port-A-Potty lined Parkway feeling oppressed by the preparations
for the Pope’s visit, I vowed to de-colonize my body as much as possible, and
that was a lightning-strike change that felt, paradoxically, like a religious
experience. I wanted to liberate all of the hoo-has and saw the world in a more
radical way. At first it was alarming and terrifying but eventually I figured
out that I have the power to change things for the better.
It was a loss. I lost my Unitarian
church, my circle of friends, and my underlying idea that if I was
well-behaved, I’d be loved and welcomed in the world. I’ve lost (I think) the
ability to be what any man expects of me. And though I experienced a drastic
reduction of fucks that I had to give, it was still a painful process. But as I
lost the just-take-a-deep-breath-and-be-accepting-of-your oppressor Unitarians
from my life, I gained something too—the realization that we all can be more
than religion and society reduces us to. I realized that while women and LGBTQ+
people are always asked to make ourselves smaller for others’ comfort, I didn’t
have to anymore, and more importantly, I could put myself to work trying to
reduce those limitations for others.
Luckily, it was an election
year, and I had the chance to hit the streets for women and fight for hoo-ha
freedom in very concrete ways. Primaries gave me the chance to clear hundreds
of sexists from my friend feed and stand up for the bullied-feeling handful of
pals that were feeling the weight of oh-no-we-have-to-keep-a-man-in-charge scary
Being loyal to Hillary
helped me to be loyal to myself. One night, fired up after the debate and scrolling
through facebook, I ended up accidentally standing up to one of the biggest
bullies in my life, someone I’d somehow thought was a little bit in charge of
me. Watching Hillary take decades of smear campaigns and bushels of hate-Tweets
and still do so much good in the world made me realize that being hated wouldn’t
necessarily make me less awesome. Recently I stood up to another of my life’s me-appointed
Svengalis and was surprised to see that my world did not come crashing down. It’s
given me the courage to realize that what seems an immovable force can actually
be dislodged, either easily or incrementally—I’m not helpless and don’t need to
be in anyone’s thrall.
to a positive lens on the world and trying to work for change has been somewhat
alienating. I’m still dragging behind me the heavy wagon of disapproval that I
can’t quite seem to let go of—they say you can, so maybe someday soon I’ll be
able to let all of the baggage slide Grinch-sled-style down the mountain.
Either way, I can see the world as a place where we can and should make a real
impact. I’ve shaken off a little fraction of the learned helplessness that
comes from having a depressed brain and from just living in the world.
definitely been a year of more—I branched out into tutoring, which is one of
the greatest joys of my life.
It was a lonely year, but
I really got a chance to hear myself think and retrace my steps to the
connections that mean the most to me. I made a TON of art and got the habit of
stapling it onto phone poles around the neighborhood. I FINISHED A BOOK! I did
my best to find an agent and publisher but that didn’t pan out, so I’m left
with an incomplete feeling that means I need to figure out what’s next.
After the election is
over, I’ll need ways to refresh and renew myself. That’s why my theme for age 42
is “Plant the Seeds.” I need time to cultivate, to rest, read, take walks,
watch things I haven’t seen before. I want to fill myself up with inspiration
so that good work will be able to germinate and grow. I want more time in the
woods, at the beach, with the people I love, with kind friends. I want to make
this a year of creative and personal indulgence, of sunlight and breeze and
rain, of treats for the muses. I’m satisfied with serious 41, and now I’m ready
to bloom and play.
I want to note that as I write these cheery posts, the
death toll of the summer is sticking with me and I am seriously considering
taking anti-depressants for the first time in my life. The best way through
still seems to be acknowledging the magic parts, though.
Room Where it Happens! I was there when Bernie Sanders moved
to nominate Hillary Clinton for our FIRST FEMALE MAJOR PARTY NOMINEE! Well, I
was outside eating a salad because Amy was having a leg cramp and we couldn’t
find a chair inside, but still.
The most moving moment of the convention for me,
though, was when the Mothers of the Movement spoke. Their courage puts every
single other thing in perspective. To experience the worst loss, the worst
injustice, and still have the hope and power to get on stage and fight for
change—how do they do it?! The entire convention broke out into a chant of “Black
Live Matter.” I couldn’t see the stage from the entrance we were guarding, but
I peeked behind the curtain and watched the crowd chant. It was one of the most
galvanizing things I’ve experienced. Our country and our party has a long way
to go toward being as inclusive, fair, and humane as I’d prefer, but to me that
day looked like concrete evidence that progress had been made.
And although, during other parts of the day, I was
irritated by the boo-y Bernie delegates, I can’t help but take comfort in the
fact that they were chanting for peace, even as we disagreed on the best ways
to get peace. When I was fourteen and the first Gulf War started, I ached to have been alive for the peace
protests of the Sixties. I’m sure there were protests, but from where I stood
it was flags and yellow ribbons as far as the eye could see. I wore a white
ribbon for peace and refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance at school,
cried when I was called anti-American. My mom was so awesome because she
marched through the suburban streets with me, two of my friends, and a boombox
playing Beatles songs. My friend Lynn even knocked on a few doors. Now, in
2016, delegates are chanting for peace and I can join a march every day if I
wanted to. So much better than my teenage dream of the 60s.
Brother’s Wedding: I thought it might be sad to go to a
wedding with my ex-wife as my plus-one, but this was an unequivocally joyful
day, an oasis of beauty and peace that showed me just how far my family has
come. Plus, this happened:
Disarm Hate Rally: It seemed pretty crazy to drive down to
D.C. in the middle of a heat wave. It was one. Billion. Degrees. on August 13,
but I thought it was important to have a positive catharsis about the truly
alarming parts of the summer, so we packed up all of the water and went.
As we walked across the field near the Lincoln
Memorial, it felt like crossing the dessert. A few people were standing in
front of the stage and many others huddling in cooling tents. A couple of
handsome young men came over and gave us Hillary stickers. Code Pink was there
being right about gun control and super-bummer-youth-voter-suppression-wrong
about the election. (It’s a weird year when I feel at odds with Code Pink.)
It seemed like synchronicity that a group of teenage poets
from my neighborhood spoke just after we arrived. The family next to us had
rainbow signs quoting The Lorax:
I was given a sign to wear that said this:
And I’m doing my best to believe it.
We met Gays Against Guns and signed a poster to
Orlando from the Newtown Alliance. Pro-gun control groups have been such a
source of inspiration and strength for me this summer, and I hope to work more
closely with them in the coming years.
After wards, we walked to the Lincoln Memorial and the
Martin Luther King memorial:
I thought a lot about why these edifices are there.
What we are really trying to accomplish as a nation, what America is truly
supposed to be—I don’t know. If, as Lin-Manuel Miranda would have us believe,
history has its eyes on us, how are we doing?
saved my life. No really. At the beginning of the summer, I was afraid to cross
the street. The world was full of bloodthirsty cars and I wasn’t sure if I’d
ever get back to my usual taking-long-walks self. But then the Pokéstops went
in and I forgot to be scared. Since the day I was hit by a car, people have
not-so-helpfully reminded me to be careful crossing the street, but I had more
than enough (maybe way too much) vigilance in my life BEFORE the accident—I wasn’t
interested in forming new fear-patterns in my brain. Collecting Pokémons
tricked the fear into not becoming permanent, and it got me moving again. Plus,
there are few things more happy-making than strolling down to the neighborhood
gym and chitchatting with strangers about really ridiculous things. The perfect
counterpoint to a way-too serious life.
Now the air smells like turning leaves and the morning
glories are blooming. I can feel my body relaxing into fall, ready for kids and
mums and art projects and WINNING THE DAMN ELECTION already. Thanks, life-changing
summer—I hope to keep planting those seeds.
Fourth of July! I didn’t get to do much in June, and with
the broken-arm grief it sometimes felt like all was lost, but when we drove up
to my sister’s for Independence Day, summer started to light up the way it’s
supposed to. Watching the Oswego parade with my sister and niece and nephews
gave me such a feeling of childhood joy combined with grown-up patriotism and
progress—the parade even included a giant rainbow flag and ladies dressed as
In between fireworks,
(both the mom-lit and city-provided varieties) swimming, and red-white- and-blue
“Patriotic!” cookies, my nephews asked a million political questions and I
showed them how to use the candidates’ issues pages so they could learn all the
points themselves. Holden really hates fracking and Kieran told me that
whenever he has a substitute teacher, the class asks who he or she is voting
for. My niece is the youngest person in her school’s Acceptance Coalition, so
they give me more hope for the future than anything else.
Open the Neighborhood’s PA Democrats’ Office! This
is where I felt the most at home this summer. Whether I was calling to ask
people to volunteer, making art to hang on the walls, or hearing the entire headquarters
sing “Happy Birthday” to Amy, I felt a sense of love, inclusion, and purpose—I felt
most welcome to be myself. There are only (thank goodness!) 71 days to go ‘til
election day, but I’m hoping to serve Planned Parenthood in some way after
this, so hopefully the love will keep inspiring me.
Filibuster and Sit-In! After Orlando, it was hard to deal
with the fact that friends and family didn’t always see the personal nature of
the tragedy, the implications of such a large-scale massacre of LGBT people.
When Chris Murphy, John Lewis, and Nancy Pelosi lead our lawmakers to really
take a stand for gun control, it felt like such a relief, like oh, thank
goodness, someone sees us. After decades of being ignored and/or vilified by my
own government, I’m grateful that public
opinion and grassroots activism has given Washington the push and the
permission to take a stand for LGBT people in so many ways, even if there’s
still a long way to go. Also, sending thank-you tweets to the sit-inners and
tweeting vigil pictures at Paul Ryan was pretty fun.
West Wing Rewatch and Hamilton Obsession! Though I certainly
favor either/or thinking that leans fully to the left, the West Wing has helped
me to understand progress as a long game, and one that is peopled by public
servants who, as Brené Brown would say, are doing the best they can. As much as
I am a raging partisan, it heled me to see that even when Paul Ryan is
forgetting what the fuck a gavel is for, is probably doing what he thinks is
best for the public good. It feels healthier to me to believe that everyone,
especially on the blue team, is really fighting hard to do the most possible
good. I get that the West Wing is fiction, but it’s just such great
counterpoint to my depression-brain.
providing the “How lucky we are to be alive right now!” of it all, (And another
awesome way to bond with the niece and nephews!) helped me to understand why we
HAVE partisan politics, why conflict and vehement disagreement are as much part
of our values and freedom and inclusion are/should be.
I feel extremely dorky and
sometimes freakish for believing in these things, but it’s just a nice way to
see the world. If I didn’t believe that I could be a genuine part of progress,
I don’t know how I’d ever get out from under the injustices I’ve seen.
That Made 2016 a Life-Changing Summer, Part One
In some ways, I’m just beginning to process the fact
that my summer began an intricate fracture and a harrowing surgery that
coincided with forty-nine of my people being brutally murdered in a nightclub.
But somehow, the magic of staying engaged and working for change kept me from
seeing the world as a pile of bloody bones. It was a miracle summer that
changed me in so many large and small ways. Hoping to honor the profound and
ridiculous experiences that I’ve been blessed with, in no particular order.
way the world looked out for me when I was hurt. From
the moment that I was hurt, passersby gathered to help. A pair of strangers
called 911 and stayed with me. A passing friend-of-a-friend brought me ice and
stayed to comfort me. My library friends came out and helped me to keep from
passing out, helped me to get the driver’s information. The driver waited with
me too. The EMTs and policemen were kind and helpful, keeping me calm in such a
scary moment. Nearly every healthcare professional I encountered has been
expert, thorough, and kind.
Most important, though,
has been Amy. She has sacrificed so much time to help me get through recovery
and to this place of near-health. Our original plan for the summer had been for
me to cover the store as much as possible so that she could take a vacation and
get some of her own medical stuff done, and I feel TERRIBLE that that didn’t
happen—I hope that I get to make it up to her somehow, thought she certainly
doesn’t expect me to. Every day I’m amazed that I pulled off the magic trick of
being best friends with my ex-wife, and I’m so, so lucky.
Philly for Pulse Vigil. I’ve already written about it here,
but that evening stayed with me. It made me so proud and grateful to be part of
such a diverse and activist city, to keep that closeness with my fellow humans
as we marched through the street and tried to remember the words to “Born This
for Black Lives. After
the murders of Philando Castile and Alton sterling, Amy and I decided to join
one of the many marches happening around the city. The march we chose was in a
cool Puerto Rican neighborhood I’d never visited before. There were metal palm
trees decorating the street corners and golden murals like everywhere. As we
marched, residents unfurled flags from their balcony like something you’d see
on the news, like being in history. The gnashing events of the week found expression,
everyone was rising up. I didn’t agree with everything the march leaders were saying,
but why should I need to? It was grief and revolution and honesty. After the
post-accident weeks I’d spent being afraid to cross the street, I was helping
strangers shut down an intersection, awed to be a body for them. My own
allyship has been fraught and deeply flawed, but it was a gift to be trying
still, standing up for justice in such a clear and tangible way.
and fireflies. While I was scared and stuck and
concentrating on growing bones, while I couldn’t write or draw or drive, I made
myself keep up on my walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes I was sad that I
couldn’t go further, but the flowers on these few blocks were different every
day. There was always something new to notice, and for the first half of the
summer, there were always fireflies. Being separated from usual summer goals
and preoccupations, I was able to look more closely at what was in front of me,
to slow down and take more notice.
I originally meant to put all of the things in one
post, but I got overwhelmed so I’ll have to space it out. So much to get to!
This has been a different kind of summer. While my arm heals, I've been skittish about swimming, so the beach hasn't dominated my life the way it usually does. Luckily, it's a great time to find all kinds of meaning volunteering for the Democrats and marching/vigiling for all kinds of change. I wish there were a lot less vigiling, but I feel lucky to have a chance to stand up for people when I can.
Good morning loves! I'm excited to join in the post-convention Dem fun. If you're not from Northwest Philly, you can go to https://www.hillaryclinton.com/events/, type in your zip code, and find an event near you. It's fun and easy and you'll meet lots of adorable people who want to make the world more awesome.
For local pals, I'll be posting my organizer's weekly updates here so you'll always know what we're working on. Her name's Kimberly and you can join her list at firstname.lastname@example.org
I hope that everyone enjoyed watching the Democratic National Convention last week, and that it gave you more hope than you felt after watching the GOP Convention, which left many of us feeling uneasy and aghast. Things are looking up for us in this election nationally, but we still need to work hard for every vote in Philadelphia to help to balance out the rest of this state. We would absolutely love to send a message that there is no place for Trump in this country, including Pennsylvania!
Here is a list of activities which we need help with this week. Please let me know if you are interested and available. If it is your first time volunteering, please feel free to signup for a shift via email, or give me a call with your questions: 541-301-3805. Thank you!
We are working hard to reach as many people as we can through phone calls this week, riding on the wave of excitement lasting from the DNC. If you are phone banking from home, please try to raise your numbers. We should be making a minimum of 50 calls at one time. When making 50 calls, you are likely only going to reach around 10-15 people, and out of those, only 1-2 people will actually come through as volunteers. You can save time by not leaving voicemails, but I will leave that up to you individually.
Stronger Together Phonebank:
Wednesday, August 3rd, 5:00 PM - 9:00 PM
NW Philly Office, 7133 Germantown Ave
Philadelphia, PA 19119
Make calls as a group in the office. Bring your laptop to streamline the data entry process, or call from the sheets we have prepared using your cell phones (We expect to receive burner phones any day now, but can't guarantee them tomorrow). Use the slogan "Stronger Together" in your script to emphasize how we need to come together as a country to face the issues head-on without fear-mongering and hate. You may also participate in this event from home - just let me know!
Weekend of Action!
We are going to have a big weekend of Voter Registration Events. There are two types of events this weekend - seated at a location, canvassing, or standing at a stationary, high traffic area.
Saturday, August 6, 9:00 AM - 9:00 PM
Sunday, August 6, 9:00 AM - 9:00 PM
Sign up for a 3 hour shift on Saturday or Sunday. Shifts begin at 9:00 AM, 12:00 PM, 3:00 PM and 9:00 PM.
Door-to-Door canvassing with VR forms. Our data team is putting together a list of areas with the highest population/lowest registration ratio. Bring a friend or find a teammate in the office to set out with.
Find a spot of your choosing or take a walk on a high traffic street with your clipboard and talk to everyone who you pass by. This is a very fun way to engage with the community and talk to those who you might not otherwise approach. Register those who need to sign up to vote, and remind passersby about the important election coming up.
Voter Registration at Parkway Central Library
1901 Vine St, Philadelphia, PA 19103
Saturday, August 6, 10:00 AM - 4:00 PM
Sunday, August 7, 1:30 PM - 4:30 PM
Sign up for any 2 hour shift to help us register voters in the lobby of Parkway Central.
You may sign up for any one or multiple two hour shifts in the office during these hours. There is always something you can help with - bring your phone and laptop if you have one to help with phone calls and data entry during any down time.
Monday - Friday, 10:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Saturday, 10:00 AM - 6:00 PM
Sunday, 1:00 PM to 8:00 PM
Be in touch and have a wonderful week. I would love to see you all!!"