Montreal Trip Pictures

Montreal Anniversary Trip, a set on Flickr.

Another Busy Week

I returned from Montreal this afternoon, before a potentially major winter storm hits DC tomorrow. Pictures from my trip will be posted here in a little while. I'm having the first of two surgical procedures beginning tomorrow morning. Posting then may be impossible, though staggering back to and from the hospital may prove far more challenging than writing.

Quote of the Week

"Every writer, like everybody else, thinks he's living through the crisis of the ages. To write honestly and with all our powers is the least we can do, and the most."-Eudora Welty

Tales from a Quaker Phone Sex Operator (Full Version)

I posted this full column too early and had my hand gently slapped by the powers that be. Now, however, the entire piece can be shared with you. It was originally published by Friends Journal in its March edition.

______________________

Loving the Difficult People by Karen Ainslee (Not her real name)

A phone-sex operator as a spiritual healer? No, I didn’t start out the work with this intention. But that is where the path led.

“You’re a sweetheart, Karen. Always have been,” the caller tells me in his heavy Appalachian accent.

“Thanks, Wyatt. I try to be,” I reply. “You are, too.”

“I mean it, Karen. You’ve always been a sweetheart.”

I repeat my comment, and try to move the conversation toward something else. Wyatt has a tendency to go on and on with these platitudes. It’s not that he lacks intelligence—far from it. What he does lack are good verbal skills, especially a good emotional vocabulary. He’s an industrial engineer and comes from a family who did not particularly value education or the ability to be articulate. Nonetheless, my relationship with Wyatt has been among the most intimate of my life.

It’s not a relationship between equals; it’s more like a parent-child or therapist-client relationship. I am a phone-sex operator, and Wyatt was one of my customers for over six years, until that relationship reached the limits of usefulness to him and we became “friends,” or at least social acquaintances. Although I still know him only over the phone, I have his real name and address and carry a photo of him in my wallet.

I love him.

I love him for his courage, for he has survived truly horrendous abuse as a child. I love him because I have journeyed with him into some of the darkest places in his mind, and I cannot be that intimate with someone without loving him. I love him for his spirituality, for, although his fundamentalist Southern Baptist religious style is quite different from my own, I know that spirituality is a real force in his life, something that helps him stay more or less sane.

“I wake up every day and thank God I have never killed anyone,” he told me once. And, another time, “I have seen evil, face to face.”

In addition to his abuse, Wyatt has suffered other losses. His high-school sweetheart, to whom he was engaged to marry, died at a very young age (I have never found out the cause of her death). That same year, his best friend died in a traffic crash, and two other significant people died within two years (I also do not know any details about who they were or how they died).

The full link is here.

Saturday Video

Why no pills today?
Bitter tears
7:00 A.M. and wasting away
Bitter tears
Why no knock on my door?
Bitter tears
What did I come here for?
Bitter tears

How much do you need
Bitter tears
Give me love and see me bleed
Bitter tears
Please don't hurt me tonight
Bitter tears
I've lost the will to fight
Bitter tears

It's our intimacy that I'm missing, you see
When there's no one around
Our intimacy it's what's missing for me, Aaah

If I go then I'll go clean
Bitter tears
Making love inside a dream
Bitter tears
Burn the books of history
Bitter tears
Build a home for you and me
Bitter tears

Hopeless Friend

Listen, my hopeless friend
Listen, my hopeless friend
Come inside and drop your coat
Wash your hair you smell like a goat
Listen, my hopeless friend
Listen, my hopeless friend

Ain't you got no shoes to wear?
Ain't you got no blues to share?

You used to think about magic
And how to fit in
Now you think about madness
And how to stay thin
How to stay thin

Listen, my hopeless friend
Listen, my hopeless friend

Ain't you got no shoes to wear?
Ain't you got no blues to share?

You used to think about magic
And how to fit in
Now you think about madness
And how to stay thin
How to stay thin

Midwinter FLGBTQC Gathering

Midwinter FLGBTQC Gathering , a set on Flickr.

A few pictures to share.

Tommy Can You Hear Me?

Tommy can you hear me?
Can you feel me near you?

Tommy can you see me?
Can I help to cheer you.
Oooh, Tommy.

Notice

February will be my busiest travel month for a while. I leave for Montreal on Thursday and will not return until Tuesday afternoon. Posting between February 28 and March 5 will be limited to the Saturday Video and the Sunday Quote of the Week.

I will post pictures here upon my return.

Tales from a Quaker Phone Sex Operator

I'd like to republish part of this article from the latest edition of Friends Journal. This will be of particular interest to my feminist readers. Because this is a very emotionally intense article, it carries with it a Trigger Warning.

_________________

A phone-sex operator as a spiritual healer? No, I didn’t start out the work with this intention. But that is where the path led.

“You’re a sweetheart, Karen. Always have been,” the caller tells me in his heavy Appalachian accent.

“Thanks, Wyatt. I try to be,” I reply. “You are, too.”

“I mean it, Karen. You’ve always been a sweetheart.”

I repeat my comment, and try to move the conversation toward something else. Wyatt has a tendency to go on and on with these platitudes. It’s not that he lacks intelligence—far from it. What he does lack are good verbal skills, especially a good emotional vocabulary. He’s an industrial engineer and comes from a family who did not particularly value education or the ability to be articulate.

Nonetheless, my relationship with Wyatt has been among the most intimate of my life. It’s not a relationship between equals; it’s more like a parent-child or therapist-client relationship. I am a phone-sex operator, and Wyatt was one of my customers for over six years, until that relationship reached the limits of usefulness to him and we became “friends,” or at least social acquaintances. Although I still know him only over the phone, I have his real name and address and carry a photo of him in my wallet.

I love him.

To read the entire work, subscribe to Friends Journal.

Always Be a Good Boy, Don't Ever Play with Guns

 

For the past few months, gun control has taken a large place in the national discourse. Pundits, talking heads, columnists, and average Americans have spoken passionately about banning particularly dangerous firearms. I believe we need to take a strong stand, but in order to succeed, we have to take into account the latent violence that exists within each of us. Guns have played a role in shaping the development of many American lives, even those of proud liberals.

The war we wage is not against guns as a whole, but rather the offenders who use them to kill innocent people. As a pacifist, I often find myself taking a position on this issue far outside the statistical norm. I oppose wars and armed conflict on any sort, but I know I must also keep an open mind whenever possible. Orthodoxy of any form is distasteful to me and often to blame for the overheated, noxious atmosphere that materializes whenever the issue of gun control is raised.   

An obsession with guns might be harmless enough, if kept in its proper context. More of us that might care to admit have a history with firearms, even if we don't want to confront it. We often rationalize our conduct earlier in life, though examining our upbringing in this forum might be a worthwhile endeavor.   
 
My mother is fond of telling a story. Prior to having me, her first child, she was convinced that she would raise me very differently. This was the ambition of many hippie parents, both then and now. The ethos is the same today. Her attitude towards motherhood, in the beginning, was super serious, unsmiling and adamant. One might say she was driven to be the best parent in the history of recorded time. 

No child of hers would ever play with toy guns. This was a point upon which she was especially forceful and emphatic. She would never compromise, nor back down. Denied access to plastic toy guns, I began to improvise. I grabbed bits and pieces of the upright vacuum cleaner, and held them against my shoulder blade like a shotgun. Kow! Kow!

My grandmother was aghast. In a great show of uncomprehending disgust, she took me to K-Mart and purchased four brand new toy guns for my personal usage. After our return from the store, I played happily, running around outside, formulating a thousand imaginary war games of my own creation. My mother learned her lesson and never stood in my way again. 
 
A little later in life, my father took me out into the country several times for target practice. I found the experience fun and enjoyable. There's something oddly thrilling about the loud boom of a shotgun blast. Dad's 12 gauge kicked back hard against my shoulder with an unforgiving ferocity. Until I adjusted properly, the experience was painful and a little scary. One had to respect a weapon that announced its presence so definitively and with such dramatic emphasis.

In time, I outgrew my interest in weaponry, though I have retained an interest in military history that now sits uneasily with me from time to time. As we age, our focus often changes substantially, but is, upon further analysis, merely a variation upon a theme. No one is suggesting that all guns be outlawed, of course. Even if they were, a substantial void would be left behind. We can't airbrush history, nor can we remove the cultural context. But this shouldn't be an impediment to reform.

If we removed guns from our societal framework, what would appear in its place? I can't help but think that some new form of weaponry would be created. Over the past several centuries, we have become a more empathetic, compassionate world in many ways. We no longer burn witches at the stake. Several U.S. states have abolished the death penalty, as have several countries. But every so often, an act of ultra-violence occurs, reminding us that we have a long way to go.

Quote of the Week

"Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires."- John Steinbeck

Saturday Video

Beetlebum
What you've done
She's a gun
Now what you've done
Beetlebum

Get nothing done
You beetlebum just get numb
Now what you've done
Beetlebum

And when she lets me slip away
She turns me on all my violence is gone
Nothing is wrong
I just slip away and I am gone

Nothing is wrong
She turns me on
I just slip away and I am gone

Beetlebum
Because you're young
She's a gun
Now what you've done
Beetlebum

She'll suck your thumb
She'll make you come
Coz, she's your gun
Now what you've done
Beetlebum

And when she lets me slip away
She turns me on all my violence is gone
Nothing is wrong
I just slip away and I am gone

Nothing is wrong
She turns me on
I just slip away and I am gone

After Hours

One, two, three
If you close the door
The night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
And say hello to never

All the people are dancing
And they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

If you close the door
The night could last forever
Leave the wine-glass out
And drink a toast to never

Oh, someday I know
Someone will look into my eyes
And say hello
You're my very special one

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

Dark party bars, shiny Cadillac cars
And the people on subways and trains
Looking gray in the rain,
As they stand disarrayed
Oh, but people look well in the dark

And if you close the door
The night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
And say hello to never

All the people are dancing
And they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

Cause if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again
I'd never have to see the day again,
Once more
I'd never have to see the day again

Midwinter Gathering Decompression Thoughts

Two days removed from the conference, there is much still on my mind. For starters, I've rarely been to gatherings more self-consciously friendly and inclusive. Many attenders have experienced deeply hurtful forms of rejection based on sexual orientation and gender presentation. Aware of that, extra effort was made to make sure no one sat alone during meals and that newcomers were greeted warmly.

The dynamics were especially different because, as is true for many liberal Quaker gatherings and Meetings, there were more women in attendance than men. I would estimate that the split was 60/40, female versus male. This is unusual. LGBT gatherings can be top heavy with queer men, but not here. I remember how the Gay/Straight Student alliance in my college days was predominately composed of gay men.

Warmth and inclusion aside, the gathering was not without its flaws.

Certain young mothers can be obnoxious at times, convinced that they are pursuing the most perfect manner of parenting imaginable. One of them tried to put the other parents on a guilt trip for not including their children along with the adult activities. This, I have found, works better in theory than in practice.

Childcare exists for a reason. Young children fidget and usually do not easily sit still. Within minutes, they wish to roam around and explore. I don't reject the basic premise of the experiment. We hope that children will find a place among adults and, upon their return, the rest of their home Meeting.

Only the very introverted, quiet, and shy children can easily embrace our silent Worship. I, for one, hope that when it comes time for middle school and high school, our children will have the willingness to participate fully. As is true for many faith groups, adolescent rebellion combined with forming identity means that Quaker Meeting is discarded for a time, often for years. 

Branching out a little more, Midwinter was enjoyable, but utterly overwhelming. Being bisexual, I've always felt caught in between two very different societal constructs. At the gathering, I could speak a different language among other native speakers. That is a part of me that I usually suppress around straight people because they don't understand it. I honestly feel indebted to both heterosexuality and homosexuality but not necessarily a part of either, if that makes sense.

It felt liberating to recognize that I'm not as much of an oddball as I have thought in times past. As I've written about from time to time, I wear elements of women's clothing in addition to men's clothing. Because of this, I'm usually paranoid about being discovered. Little did I know that my bunkmate and three other men dressed in the same manner I did.

I talked extensively to an older man with a pronounced southern accent. He sounded like and acted like my Alabama grandfather. It was a reminder of home, especially now that I am most usually among people who are not from my native region. When it came time for bed, I noticed my fast Friend wore a negligee and made no apologies for it.

It was nice not having to be overly cautious and fearful. I found commonality in ways I'd never expected or even anticipated. Still, the parallel universe in which I was a part began to drain me by the end of each day. I was stretched in unimaginable ways. But I will take back quite a bit with me. I already have.

A Few Pictures of the Gathering

Does Class Matter? (Yes, It Does)

 
I have just returned from the annual FLGBTQC Midwinter Gathering. In one of the workshops I attended, we focused exclusively on class and classism. I'm very glad that we did. Neither topic is as easy to define as one might think. I share here the queries that guided our discussion

Does Class Matter among Friends and other Faith Communities?

1. In what class background were you raised?
2. What class do you identify with now?
3. Why do you identify with that class?

Following that section, discussion took on a different focus.

a. Can you remember a time when you acted differently around Friends because you were aware that you had more or less money or power than they did? What were your experiences from that exchange?

b. What might we do when we see or feel these things both within Friends and within the larger community? How can we become transformative agents rather than remaining blind to the problem?

I discovered that class means different things depending on location, region, financial circumstance, level of education, and myriad of other factors.