Saturday Video

I thought to myself, "Why Not?"



I've paid my dues
Time after time
I've done my sentence
But committed no crime

And bad mistakes
I've made a few
I've had my share of sand
Kicked in my face
But I've come through

And we mean to go on
and on and on and on

We are the champions - my friends
And we'll keep on fighting
Till the end

We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions of the World

I've taken my bows
And my curtain calls
You brought me fame and fortune
And everything that goes with it
I thank you all

But it's been no bed of roses
No pleasure cruise
I consider it a challenge before
The whole human race
And I ain't gonna lose

And we mean to go on
and on and on and on

We are the champions - my friends
And we'll keep on fighting
Till the end

We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions of the World

We are the champions - my friends
And we'll keep on fighting
Till the end

We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions

A Word of Thanks

My Daily Kos post of yesterday received nearly 300 comments. Before I get started, I want to thank a couple of people on the boards who came to my aid in the midst of many sarcastic, short-sighted, and skeptical comments. I also want to thank Birmingham Friends Meeting, who provided me moral support when I was trying to put out about eight fires simultaneously. I love you deeply and miss you tremendously.

If I were a first generation Quaker, I'd know immediately that I'd be living a hard life, one where I'd be on trial often and in jail frequently. Systems were in place to supervise children whose parents were in jail. Having stated the history, I pray for the courage and the peace of mind to respond to those who have their own issues with organized religion. If I am to be faithful to the courageous Friends who came before me, I know that I must speak my mind in the face of criticism.

This is my responsibility. The founder of Quakerism, George Fox, deliberately interrupted Anglican church services, convinced that his way was the best and most accurate. Unlike Fox, I happen to believe that no faith or lack of faith is any better or any more superior. But, I take great pride in what I believe. It forms the basis of my identity. Should I share it with others, the intent is never to win converts. Suspicion and fear take us in directions that are not healthy. If all a person knows to do is start punching or criticizing, this leaves no room for mutual understanding.

To some, it seems tough and empowering to flex muscles and fight fire with fire. I'm not out to judge, but what I will say is that no one really ever took the opportunity to make the connection that I was seeking. If it had been up to me, we'd have discussed the link between our very religious First Wave feminists, and the skepticism of organized religion that exists among many today. But being that no one even gave me the opportunity, everyone started projecting their own fears instead. I don't think many of them really understand religion at all, aside from it being some Bogeyman.

The criticism I have received since then is pretty tone-deaf. Some want to pin a transgression or two upon me that isn't accurate. I have no inclination to have a war of words with people who aren't listening anyway. If they ever could look outside of their insular worldview, a dialogue could be opened. But instead, they want to be right. Diplomacy isn't about right or wrong.

Feministe is barely functioning as it is. Sometimes it goes a whole week before being updated. Their approach to me is hardly an insult, but it is a wasted opportunity. Let's really talk. Let's not return fire. I don't think certain people are really capable of being anything more than attack dogs.

Friday Thought

Blindness often creates hyper vigilance, waiting for an attack. Speaking the truth in love is sound and liberating.

When Someone Attacks Your Religious Beliefs

I want to thank readers of my blog for being tolerant and accepting of my posts about organized religion. It is a pleasure to write among fellow Quakers and fellow believers. You have shown a kind of intellectual maturity and tolerance I rarely experience. I have occasional rubbed a few people the wrong way, but it has never been difficult to smooth over rough edges with the right words. Those who paint my readers and friends with the same sarcastic, skeptical brush haven't made acquaintance with the people I have. I'm glad that most readers will give me the benefit of the doubt and know that the very last thing on my mind is to win converts to Christ.

Starting on Tuesday, I began to post about the particulars of my faith, particularly my belief in God and in Christianity. I received some extremely strong criticism and was accused of proselytizing. I faced a tremendous amount of hostility. In reality, I was only sharing the particulars of my faith, in an informative way, but not in a way that implied I wanted people to believe the same way I do. I have made the acquaintance of other people of faith and have even had several diaries rescued and put up on the front page of Daily Kos. I'm thankful for the Street Prophets Kos group, where I have found many like-minded people.

Feministe is a website for young Feminists. My references to organized religion there have been met with extreme suspicion and at times anger. I must admit I do not understand people who assume that religion in any form must be destructive. All I was trying to show was the link between feminism and Christianity, but that opportunity never materialized. I was eventually shut down by everyone, then the moderator. Should you wish to read through this extensive hyperlinked thread, start about a quarter of the way down when I, cabaretic, begin to share my thoughts.

This post is not a way to vent about the way I was treated, but rather it is a plea that we not let our real or imagined issues with organized religion get in the way of teachable moments. To Feministe readers, I was not trying to force feed my Quakerism to a group of people who resisted it and had no interest in the first place. They were not ready to hear it on its own terms. Someday they may, and someday they might not. That's up to them.

I hold no grudges, but I am frustrated by people who believe that religion is automatically evil. As I kept posting, I found that, unlike other venues, the more I tried to define myself and my own beliefs, the angrier and less tolerant comments became.

Should anyone want to better understand the conundrum I found myself in, they can use the link here. In short, I ran into a group of people who would not tolerate my right to religious expression. I found myself besieged on five sides by people who simply would not listen and did not care. I have occasionally discovered comments along those lines in other articles, but I've also read overtly religious diaries that are treated with reverence and respect.

These are some of the comments I received.

1. Many people find your opinions to be proselytizing and obnoxious, and so we have grown to dislike you. That’s not persecution, not matter how much you may wish to model yourself on the central figure of a death cult that has been used as the justification for mass slaughter an extraordinary number of times.

2. Officials what you say about Quakerism is true, I am actually pretty sure that your fellow Quakers would be utterly horrified to hear about your exploits trolling feminist forums, “promoting” their cause even when asked not to, and being completely dismissive of the reasons offered by women here as to why they are not interested in your religion and not interested in hearing more.

     3. Joking, I noted something that I thought was very harmless. 

                    Honestly, you would make an excellent Quaker.

          The response was not what I was expecting at all.

           To me this comes off as super creepy

I spent three hours talking past people who did not want to give me the benefit of the doubt. My entire point was not to convert or win souls to Christ. Rather, I wanted them to see that Quakerism is indeed a feminist religion, and that their automatic fears about any organized religion might be a little paranoid. I see now that this is a conclusion they will have to reach on their own.

But in the meantime, I hope these people make peace with organized religion. We're all aware of the evil that religion has produced, but I tend to fault individual people more than I do a belief system. As George Carlin put it, "There are no bad words. Bad thoughts. Bad intentions. And words." To me it takes a kind of courage to reexamine Christianity and religion with different eyes, eyes that aren't automatically looking to find fault.

I grew up in the Bible Belt, and once I rejected the predominant cultural mindset. And then I looked at what I had been taught earlier in life, and saw that there was much worth there. Any system devised by human hands will be imperfect, which is why there must be constant reform. The challenge for me is recognizing the groups who will hear me, just as they chose to hear or not to hear Jesus, and then share my strategy to bring us together. My motives are a little Utopian, but then again, I care for people enough that I want to bring everyone to the table.

Healing

The next couple of days will be full of doctor's visits, so I won't have the time or energy to post much. As I often do, I want to show an accurate picture of the life of a person with mental illness. This is why I have no problem sharing the particulars of what I go through with you.

Each of us, well or sick, has a tendency to look only through our own eyes and our own perception. As I wake up for another day, my dreaming concluded, I see my blurry bedroom through my eyes and my own thoughts. In an effort to show the best, most accurate picture of my life to the outside world, I periodically turn the focus towards myself.

Last week, a new medication caused severe side effects. Often my energy level is lethargic, but in a matter of a few days, I had more energy than I've had in years. That was my first red flag. Most men I know have more than a passing interest in sex, but mine became an outright obsession. In other times in my life, I would have used this new capacity for the benefit of a partner, since all of that energy has to go somewhere. It was out of proportion to the way it should have been, another red flag.

I have to be careful in introducing stimulants to the already hefty number of medications (13) I take daily. Two of them can cause mania unless I am careful to closely monitor my health. For every medication one adds to the cocktail, the possibility of interaction increases. In this case, my psychiatrist cautiously treated fatigue by adding a chemical stimulant, only as an experiment. In this case, I'll chalk it up to a failed medication trial and be thankful I knew enough to keep it from getting completely out of hand.

The first two or three days were fine, but then I began to experience disturbing side effects. These may seem fanciful. I imagined that a psychic force was seeking to separate me from my friends. This is totally irrational, of course, but at the time it was very real indeed. I believed that I had secret insights and could rely on them for my own benefit. Fortunately, I knew I was experiencing delusional thoughts and quickly eliminated the stimulant from my daily regimen of medication. I have to credit time and experience for keeping me safe.

Years ago, I thought manic episodes were fun. One of my girlfriends, who was significantly older than me, appreciated my prowess in bed. She was a gossip and eager to brag. Shortly after we became a couple, she began to tell to her friends about me and our sex life. Following that, being in their company was embarrassing, because her friends were giggly and silly. Like many men, I'd always wanted to be a good lover, but I never knew how to manage the attention I now received.

Mania can make one feel superhuman. One cannot observe oneself objectively, meaning personal perception is not enough. I need an outside view. I know now that Mania is better off where it is. I do not relish those periods anymore. They are destructive to the brain, far more destructive than depression. I worry sometimes if a very intense manic episode, one that transpired six years ago, has created lasting brain damage. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I have pushed for a brain scan to rule out my deepest fears.

The most prominent reason I'm taking time out for the next couple of days is that two weeks ago something severely triggered me. I've never been granted an accurate picture of what happened to me in childhood, but I get bits and pieces every now and again. Until recently, I wanted to remember all of it.

Now I've changed my tune. Whatever happened must have been traumatic and painful. I was sure that knowing every detail would give me the ability to completely heal, but the triggering was otherworldly and uncomfortable. Now I am trying to avoid feeling that way ever again, which is an about-face from my previous position.

I've wrestled with thoughts that I cannot prove or deny. At times, I wonder if God is mania. For a moment, I escaped my mortal self and convened with a higher power. I could be totally wrong, and I acknowledge it. I'm sure a few prophets here and there have ascribed mania to a burning bush or some otherworldly sign. Needless to say, I do not doubt God now. I appreciate the gift, since I grew up in isolation, feeling separated from my peers. God is a friend who will never desert me, even as he confounds me.

All I Have to Do is Dream

Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

When I feel blue in the night
And I need you to hold me tight
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam

I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine
Anytime night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz
I'm dreamin' my life away

I need you so that I could die
I love you so and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam

I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine
Anytime night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz
I'm dreamin' my life away

I need you so that I could die
I love you so and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

What Makes a Gay Icon

The original gay icon, at least the one recorded for posterity, was Judy Garland. Girlish and sweet, but vulnerable, she captured the affections of many gay men. Accordingly, the Stonewall Riots broke out shortly after Garland's death. Though more recent historical research questions how much of a factor her untimely demise really was, it has nevertheless become part of the mythology. Garland's life was tragic, and the lives of many queer men were similarly star-crossed.

In my generation, the eccentric redheaded pianist and alternative rocker Tori Amos was the preferred gay icon. But she was a very different strain, a strong woman with equally strong opinions. Where Garland succumbed to her own tragic back-story, Amos put behind her a brutal rape that occurred early in her career. In part, I have always seen this distinction as an accurate marker by which one can investigate progress. Once suppressed and harassed into submission, LGBTs today experience a fraction of the shame and guilt.  

With this new found freedom, it is now time for a change in mindset. Reforms are always needed. As it stands, gay men sometimes idealize their effeminacy. Some project their attraction to all things feminine upon women, making the assumption that the women in their midst must surely conform to this same standard. A female friend of mine expresses consternation at times with one of her own friends, a gay man. He loves all things silky and embroidered, and those patterns only remind her of a femininity that was never a good fit.

I've always seen drag as an overcompensation, though I think it can be a very effective outlet. Though I've never had any desire to put on makeup and play pretend, I can appreciate the talents of others. When I first came out, I found that I didn't fit neatly into the roles others automatically assigned to me. I was too straight to be gay and too gay to be straight. This is how I personally understand what it is like to have one's perspective negated and ignored, even though most of the time being overlooked is entirely unintentional.

Defining what a gay icon is can be difficult. I'm not sure I understand it myself. It seems to be a moving target, keeping pace with the progress of our society. Women are encouraged to be themselves, rather than emulating breathy, girlish voices and learned helplessness. I've always been attracted to the off-kilter beauties who never fit well into anyone's boxes. I'm a strong-willed individual who finds equally strong-willed people appealing.

I'm also speaking of male privilege. Oversights similar to what I have mentioned are not always intentional. Even queer men have been socialized as male. Any group specifically designated for LGBTs is routinely dominated by gay men. While on a cruise ship two years ago, the group Friends of Dorothy was advertised in each day's events. Friends of Dorothy is slang for a gay man, alluding to Judy Garland's performance as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. It's becoming an antiquated term, but once again no invitation is extended to lesbians.

The writer William Goldman may have defined best the link between gay men and Judy Garland.

Homosexuals tend to identify with suffering. They are a persecuted group and they understand suffering. And so does Garland. She's been through the fire and lived – all the drinking and divorcing, all the pills and all the men, all the poundage come and gone – brothers and sisters, she knows.

A new generation of LGBTs can more easily avoid living a life of tragedy as a persecuted group. I appreciate the hard work of those who came before me, but I admit I have little patience for angst and doom-laden persecution fantasies. I'm ready to step into the sunlight, in spite of past experiences. If it had been my decision to make, I would not have selected the attitudes of my parents and family. Otherwise, this is simply how I am and I make no apologies for it.

I can count many women in my life who have become my own icons, those I respect and love deeply. I am thankful that they are present. I recognize that my icons are not perfect, but I don't expect them to be. I hasten to use the term, because to me that connotes complete adoration and worship. Few people wish to be placed on a pedestal and held to an impossible standard. I only asked for equal footing with everyone, where I might never have to live somewhere over the rainbow, in the world of unfulfilled dreams.

Quote of the Week

"The rainiest nights, like the rainiest lives, are by no means the saddest."-Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

Saturday Video

So he's lying on top again
Just like Gepetto and his doll.
And he's running around again,
And I can't get him out of this house.

And if you bore him,
You lose your soul to me.

So that kid from the bad home
Came over to my house again,
Decapitated all my dolls.

And if you bore me,
You lose your soul to me.

Hey Gepetto,
Where'd you put it?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.
Hey Gepetto, where'd you put it?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.

And if you bore him,
You're gonna lose your soul.

Hey Gepetto, where'd you get to?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.
Hey Gepetto, where'd you get to?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.

Hey Gepetto, what'd you get me?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.
So he's lying on top again,
Just like Gepetto.

Greed, Avarice, and the Inevitable Doctor's Bill

I spent yesterday in futile pursuit of a psychiatrist. After filling out an hour's worth of paperwork, I met with a rushed, rude doctor who acted like the only reason he was even talking to me is that his arm had been twisted into it. He was willing, reluctantly, to be a referral service, but not to treat me himself. If this was his normal behavior, I wouldn't have wanted to be under his care. There were no open slots available and so I left, frustrated and confused.

One might think that in a large city where I live, substantial coverage gaps like these would not exist. Finding any provider other than in the field of mental health is usually not difficult. Most psychiatrists in private practice, which is to say most of them, don't accept anyone's insurance plan. Because of this, they can charge upwards of $700 for an initial examination and then $200 for every follow-up visit.

The Affordable Care Act was designed to increase the number of Primary Care doctors. The issue it sought to correct was a shortage of PCPs, especially in rural areas. The problem, as often is the case, is mostly economic. Specialists make more money. My Primary Care doctor, by contrast, charges $75 for each visit. A Specialist, like my Urologist, charges twice as much. This doesn't include inevitable testing and other fees, which are always tacked on later.

In a spirit of fairness, I seek to better understand the system and to take into account the positions of doctors and patients alike. It's difficult, especially at first, not to see the matter as simple greed and selfishness. That being said, in a city where owning a home in an affluent area requires a minimum income of a quarter of a million dollars, I can understand why some want to conform to a particular cultural standard.

DC is an expensive city and the cost of living must first be taken into account before anything else. Keeping up with the Jones is no easy feat. Renting space for an office and paying secretaries and other workers is an additional expense, which is why my psychologist, for example, uses her house as an office. Buying insurance to address malpractice suits is another factor.

But in the end, I think the issue really comes down to a question of ethics and morals. One of my doctors has chosen to work at a clinic for low-income residents and in the process makes much less in yearly income. He has no plan to move on up someday, and feels that his calling is in service to the poor and needy. His is a minority view, but it does exist.

Obamacare has largely been a success, in my eyes, but I don't think there's any way that government intervention can fully short-circuit the twin forces of capitalism and acquisition. As a person of faith, I happen to believe strongly in the lessons that religions teach us about looking out for the less fortunate and leading a life of humility. A focus exclusively on the self at the expense of others isn't illegal, but I do think that it is wrong. Legislating morality, as we learned from Prohibition, is not enough. It requires we change a toxic mindset, which is no easy feat.

As the saying goes, the rich get richer and the poor get children. Even faith-based programs ought to be predicated upon the free choice of the believer. Evangelicals believe that their duty is to win souls, and though some consider proselytizing unwelcome attention, the goal is to make sure people make it to heaven. Good intentions motivate many decisions, which is why we get so indignant when our views are rejected by some higher authority.

We should respect the rights of the individual, but we shouldn't flatly deny access to coverage by any means and for whatever reason. Here's the crucial distinction. Hobby Lobby turned away business that would have made it more profitable. The specialists I've mentioned never turn anyone away who can pay for their time. The two are absolute standards and neither will be easily or swiftly corrected. We are only left with right and wrong, with either winners or losers.

Argument aside, like many, I am left searching for a solution. A report will be drafted and sent to me, specifying other doctors and clinics to try next. I may need to go through this exasperating process two or three more times before any satisfying resolution is reached. My condition is genetic, purely a matter of inherited genes. I did nothing to create it and I do everything now to treat it. When the argument subsides and the words we speak conclude, solutions are what should come next.

The Religion of Love

When I first started writing, I took a very narrow focus because I was finding my own voice. For a while, I wrote almost exclusively about politics. As part of a collective, the same fifty of us shared our thoughts as if we were the only other ones online. We were nurtured and our profiles boosted by a fellow writer who had used her Ivy League credentials to gain a plum position in the blogosphere. These were heady days for a bunch of honors roll students turned citizen journalists.

That seems like a thousand years ago now, though it is really only eight. Back then, no one could have predicted the rise of Twitter, or a brand new website my girlfriend at the time implored me to join. Only other college students could take part, I was told. When everyone was given access, a little later on, we were sure the end was nigh. I'm speaking of Facebook, of course. There was a time before social media. I wonder what another decade's worth of technological advances will reveal.

This only proves that yet again, conventional wisdom can be entirely wrong. Entirely and completely wrong. Thoughts and fears are, often times, fanciful or manipulative constructs created by people to suit their own private agenda. Another battle rages in the Holy Land, and we adopt the same worried posture and furrowed brow that came before it. I predict there will be many more. Regardless of who we are or where we live, we must always be wise to cloak and dagger mind games.

Few constructs of the collective imagination scare me as much as groupthink. We imagine ourselves to be individuals with the right to our own opinion, but it is remarkably easy to cast those aside when everyone else is, too. According to some religious fundamentalists, Armageddon beckons ever closer like nuclear war, and they use their own preferred text as justification. Once again, we fear for the worst, much as we have prior to the outbreak of another round of hostilities.

If we can only change ourselves for the better before we take a stab at anything else, we might want to begin here. Many religions, including my own, implore the believer to become the total and complete personification of love. I don't mean sticky Valentines and romantic comedies, I mean that I believe in the healing power of love. I'm sure I've said this a time or two before now. Putting ourselves and our own designs last is the only way we will ever live in peace.

Forget everything you've ever been taught and look again with fresh eyes. Regardless of who you are, believer or non-believer, think about the radical implications. Christianity, an influence on Jews and Muslims alike teaches that God loved every single one of us, as he loves us today, enough to take our form and to be the lowliest of the low in a forgotten, cursed corner of the world. If any lesson holds primacy over another, it is that our selfish designs must be cast aside for everyone's benefit.

This sounds simple, but nothing could be harder or more complicated. When we get it right, peace will no longer become an empty slogan or an evolutionary step yet to be achieved. Say what you will about the amoral, sadistic impulse of humanity. Violence is not our natural state, I assert, even if our leaders believe otherwise. The only thing we can do is keep diplomatic channels open, with the understanding that we should expect to win as much as we lose. Doing nothing is not an option.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

Apologies for the video quality.



Baby, do you understand me now?
Sometimes I feel a little mad
Well don't you know that no one alive
Can always be an angel
When things go wrong I seem to be bad

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Baby, sometimes I'm so carefree
With a joy that's hard to hide
And sometimes it seems that
All I have to do is worry
And then you're bound to see my other side

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

If I seem edgy, I want you to know
That I never mean to take it out on you
Life has it's problems and I get my share
And that's one thing I never mean to do

'Cause I love you
Oh, oh, oh, baby, don't you know I'm human
Have thoughts like any other one
Sometimes I find myself long regretting
Some foolish thing, some little sinful thing I've done

I'm just a soul who's intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Yes, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Yes, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Yes, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Two Faces of Poverty

The civic duty of every citizen, I have decided, is to kill three hours a year re-certifying or signing off on some new regulation or another. This is how I spent my Monday morning. The service center is located in a part of town that went from wealth to dire poverty and back. Now it is home to loft apartments and trendy coffee shops. Streets are regularly paved these days, the way only capital can.

Residents being pushed elsewhere at once wish they'd held onto properties and houses that could once be had for nearly nothing. At the back of the room, they talk about old times, the way Washington used to be. Conversations focus on soul singers and long-shuttered venues. Sooner than I might care to think, I'll be having my own conversation about the good old days when everything made sense.

The real face of poverty are a young mother and her ten-year-old daughter. Because I was the only other white face in line, she struck up a spontaneous conversation. I couldn't help but notice the way she'd treated her body over the years. Drug addiction had left her skin leathery, her facial features slightly off-center like a shattered window pane. I wanted to look away because the spectacle pained me, but wanted to be polite enough to grant friendly eye contact. My best friend growing up had an alcoholic father, and I watched the years of drinking finally catch up with him.

Mother and daughter were inseparable. They were more like sisters, a curious dynamic that could be both beneficial and harmful to the younger of the pair. They had each other and I got the feeling there were few other people in the lives of either. It was them against the world. Now they had embarked on a great adventure, driving halfway across the country to settle in Washington, DC. When asked for the reasons why, she noted with a straight face that she intended to help President Obama out with the job.

I didn't realize at first that she was actually quite serious. This was the stuff of delusions, but I hoped that it was harmless enough. I hoped she'd recognize the folly of her ways and make different plans. She was enough of a trusting soul that I could see how someone might take advantage of it. This is what concerned me most. Likely, many already had. Washington, DC, can be a very unfriendly place without a guide, and it certainly isn't Colorado Springs.

The daughter addressed me very innocently, believing that if I'd just spent the last twenty minutes talking to her mother, she could be comfortable in my company. I'm usually very uncomfortable around kids, never knowing what to say or what not to say. In a survivors' group, I remember a seventy-year-old woman talking about her own uneasy relationship with children. It was different with her own, she noted, but she was never going to volunteer to supervise or spend much time with anyone else's genetic contribution to the free world. Nods were seen in many of those sitting across the room.

When it was my time in line, the female workers behind the counter smiled at me. To them, I was fatherhood material. The news quickly spread across the center. For the rest of my three hour stay, I was treated with incredible politeness by every female worker. Children usually like me, and yet I push away from them as quickly as I can. I wondered what I truly represented to mother and child, or the women who saw me as paternal in a good way.

Lives like I have described above are not uncommon. I enjoy observing people from the other side of town, a reminder to not intellectualize who the poor and needy really are. They are a young mother and her daughter uprooting and replanting with few resources, no friends, a roof over their heads, but not much more than that. In a way, it's the immigrant experience made over again for our times. We provide a few basic services here and there, but fathers and caregivers cannot be measured in dollars and cents.

Quote of the Week

"I never care that [my characters] are "strong". I never care that they're even affirmative. I look for that thing that's human and recognizable and emotional. You know, we're not perfect, we're not heroic, we're not in control. We're our own worst enemies sometimes, we cause our own tragedies ... that's the stuff that I think is really compelling."-Julianne Moore

Saturday Video

You say I only hear what I want to
You say I talk so all the time so.

And I thought what I felt was simple,
And I thought that I don't belong,
And now that I am leaving,
Now I know that I did something wrong

'cause I missed you.
Yeah, I missed you.

And you say I only hear what I want to:
I don't listen hard,
I don't pay attention to the distance that you're running

Or to anyone, anywhere,
I don't understand if you really care,
I'm only hearing negative: no, no, no (bad)

And so I, I turned the radio on, I turned the radio up
And this woman was singin' my song:
The lover's in love and the other's run away,
The lover is cryin' 'cause the other won't stay.

Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was
Dying since the day they were born.
Well, this is not that:
I think that I'm throwing, but I'm thrown.

And I thought I'd live forever,
but now I'm not so sure.

You try to tell me that I'm clever,
But that won't take my anyhow,
or anywhere with you.

You said that I was naive,
And I thought that I was strong.
I thought, "hey, I can leave, I can leave."
Oh but now I know that I was wrong, 'cause I missed you.

You said, "I caught you 'cause I want you
and one day I'll let you go."

You try to give away a keeper,
or keep me 'cause you know
you're just so scared to lose.
And you say, "Stay."

You say I only hear what I want to.

Who are the Next Generation of Prophets?

What follows is my own story. I include it to heighten awareness of what often goes unsaid and unspoken. The problem is as old as the human race itself, but like war, it continues. Everyone with an opinion must write with an audience in mind, and must form one's arguments accordingly. Every story like the one to follow takes the same relative trajectory, yet is unique and different.

The twin problems of rape culture and sexual assault may seem minimal, but with time I've realized how truly prevalent they are in our society. Forgive my boldness. This a harsh topic for many who do not daily confront it, but I bring it up one more time to serve my cause. Since many rapes and sexual assaults go unreported due to shame and intimidation, it's impossible to have definitive numerical understanding at our fingertips. But even if we had that hard data, would numbers and statistics alone serve anyone's greater purpose?

I've never shared this account before now. Until a particularly instructive therapy session in the recent past, I never knew it for what it was. As it commonplace with survivors, I had rationalized away what this act really was, minimizing and blunting its impact. It's a very common coping mechanism. Now I must keep myself focused on reality and linear time, which is to say that my brain lies to me, daily and constantly. It transforms what really happened to something less painful, softer, and maddeningly evasive.

I was a impressionable sophomore in college, newly out, and nowhere near full acceptance. Queer students had few resources at my college, with the exception of Gay/Straight Student Alliance. An LGBT center was being planned for construction, but was completed after I graduated and I could not benefit from it. I took the options available to me. The group was more social than instructional, a fundamental lacking that always bothered me. It could have been much more, but it often became a hook up point for gay men, another issue that stuck in my craw.

Now I know him for what he was. He was an opportunist, having heard about our group somehow, intending to benefit from his presence there. The organizers and sponsors had been too nice to turn him away, as he was not a student and had no reason to be there. He sat right next to me, stealthily but obviously to whomever might be watching closely. His legs touched mine frequently, deliberately. That was my first sign as to what he was up to, but I ignored it. Maybe he'd get the hint that I wasn't interested and leave me alone.

I remember his face well. He had a lazy eye and wore a baseball cap. That baseball cap would rather dramatically be burned two days later, as he had left it in the backseat of my car. The collective attitude of both of my parents was not sympathetic. To them, what I had done had served me right. So when I set the hat afire with lighter fluid in the driveway, my father asked me why I'd done such a stupid thing. I told him precisely why and he backed off, uncomfortable, and never raised the subject again.

The man in question broached my boundaries a little at a time. His hands moved further and further down my back, eventually moving other places. He built upon his gains, keeping the ultimate destination in mind at all times. The whole time he was chatting me up and feeling me up as we sat alongside a park. At his request, he suggested we move a couple blocks away, so that what we were doing was less conspicuous. I cranked the car and we pulled onto the curb of a remote stretch of roadway at the top of a mountain.

I did not want to do this. The thrill of doing something this risky and dangerous was perversely appealing, on one hand, but this was not what I wanted. Had sex been removed entirely from the equation, I would have been pleased, but this sequence of events was all about sex. This was not just about having a conversation. To this day, I do not know exactly why I didn't resist. I do not understand why feeling terrified was such a sexual high but just as repelling. I may never.

I saw him later at next year's Pride parade. He even bothered to introduce himself to me. Shocked that he would even dare contact me again, I nervously uttered a few incomprehensible words and then got as far away from him as possible. Male rape survivors are treated differently. Women are thought to have inferior physical strength to their male attackers and unable to prevent sexual assault. When I shared what had happened to me with male friends, they felt that I should have physically overpowered him. Few were understanding.

Over the years, I've learned that stories like my own are not uncommon. Because I am a man, I have a different set of variables at play than would be the case for a woman. Adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse tend to respond to their sexuality in one of two ways. The first way is to be afraid of sex. The second, which is my own, is to become promiscuous and hyper-sexual. I recognize promiscuous is a loaded term, one used to blame and guilt, but in this context, I think the word choice is apt.

To see this as a moral failing on everyone's part doesn't ring true. That is not enough. We must develop true community and a communal spirit. We cannot criticize injustice when we do not know our neighbors and do not take an active part in their lives. This is a problem as ancient as Moses' who came down from the Mount with his Ten Commandments in hand. In the meantime, I see another generation's bumper crop of prophets descending from the bluffs, coming directly behind my own.

Something Different

I had a busy day of medical appointments today, so I had no time to post.

Before I say another word, I want to preface my reason for posting the video below. Once, I, too, was a teenager and a college student. But I am now a man in his mid-thirties. I'm just not there anymore. Quite by random, I ran across a video of a high school or college aged young woman talking on her cell phone, and I must admit it makes me cringe.

Do not misunderstand. People like her will someday form the next wave of activists and planners to follow me. I am conscious of feeling marginalized and having my words to not be taken seriously because of my youth. But for the sake of good old fashioned curiosity, I found a video taken of a young woman talking on her cellphone while seated on a park bench. She will not talk like this when she is my age. (I hope)

I Don't Want to Spoil the Party

I don't want to spoil the party so I'll go
I would hate my disappointment to show
There's nothing for me here so I will disappear
If she turns up while I'm gone please let me know

I've had a drink or two and I don't care,
There's no fun in what I do if she's not there
I wonder what went wrong I've waited far too long
I think I'll take a walk and look for her

Though tonight she's made me sad
I still love her
If I find her I'll be glad
I still love her

I don't want to spoil the party so I'll go
I would hate my disappointment to show
There's nothing for me here so I will disappear
If she turns up while I'm gone please let me know

Though tonight she's made me sad
I still love her
If I find her I'll be glad
I still love her

I've had a drink or two and I don't care
There's no fun in what I do if she's not there
I wonder what went wrong I've waited far too long
I think I'll take a walk and look for her

Trigger Warnings: You'll Know Them When You See Them

I experienced substantial trauma early in life. Piecing together the few memories I have of those times has produced a skeletal narrative, one that has frequently frustrated me. From time to time, mild side effects of what is probably PTSD crop up. Sometimes I experience spontaneous panic attacks that mercifully subside quickly but since that time, I’ve always been unusually highly-strung and jumpy. Fortunately, each of these symptoms has its life-cycle, from start to finish. Until the past few days, I could always count on them to be temporary.

Saturday afternoon I watched a movie, alone in my apartment. The theme was innocuous enough, one of those black and white film noirs full of witty dialogue, dames, and a rapidly unfolding mystery. Before I knew it, and all at once, I was experiencing substantial psychological pain. Dealing as I do with depression, which is to say regularly, I knew this wasn’t it. I felt dirty and anxious. My hands shook for hours. For most of a day, I was not a sexual being. The very thought of sex in any form with any person disgusted me.

Taking all of this in, I thought to myself, this sounds like something a rape survivor would say. And then I realized, I AM a rape survivor. And I may never know what produced this response. It could have been a subtle thing like certain sounds or even the way a room was lit on the set of the movie. The cause could be one of ten-thousand things, which is one of the most exasperating things of all. During this experience, one is not in control of one's body or one's brain. Subtle and unsubtle reminders of this lacking on your behalf show up as uninvited guests.

I had read the symptoms of what I was now experiencing a time or two before, but without direct experience, I could have never prepared for it. I used to say that I wanted to remember it all. Now I’m not so sure. There may be a reason why my brain has clamped down on past memories like sutures. I thought that knowing every detail would finally create full healing, that I could have blessed resolution forever. In this circumstance, I realize now that it might be best to give my brain the benefit of the doubt henceforth.

One of the debates raging among feminists is the concept of trigger warnings. Skeptics feel that these experiences are more hysteria, more psychosomatic, more Salem Witch Trial than anything else. Others point to survivors of one form of trauma or another, intending to protect them from pain and discomfort whenever possible. I’ve always been wary of how quickly useful terminology can become a parody of itself, cheapening the altruism and intention that went into it in the first place. Yet I do try to be sympathetic when I read another stomach-churning first-person account of a rape and sexual assault.

This doesn’t mean that I ever thought that triggering and trigger warnings were patently false. On the subject of obscenity, Supreme Court justice Potter Stewart famously noted that, for him, he knew it when he saw it. Regarding the after-effects of trauma, I can now say that I, too, know it when I see (or experience) it. I can no longer deny what I am feeling, nor can I take for granted the length of time this episode may last.    

True empathy is difficult for each of us without direct experience. Until Saturday, I was certainly sympathetic towards those who were victims of rape and incest, but there were limits to my compassion. I wasn’t intending to overlook anyone’s private struggle, but I simply did not understand and did not know how to understand. There are genocidal wars currently raging in our world and many humanitarian crises, but beyond my computer and television screen, these are only abstractions. I am not there. I do not know them. And I won’t pretend that even the struggles of my life make me an expert activist. What I can do is to listen. We do too much talking in the First World and not enough introspection.

While a large crowd was gathering and people were coming to Jesus from town after town, he told this parable: “A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path; it was trampled on, and the birds ate it up. Some fell on rocky ground, and when it came up, the plants withered because they had no moisture. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up with it and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up and yielded a crop, a hundred times more than was sown.”

When he said this, he called out, “Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear.”

 His disciples asked him what this parable meant. He said, “The knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given to you, but to others I speak in parables, so that,
“‘though seeing, they may not see;
    though hearing, they may not understand.’

“This is the meaning of the parable: The seed is the word of God. Those along the path are the ones who hear, and then evil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved. Those on the rocky ground are the ones who receive the word with joy when they hear it, but they have no root. They believe for a while, but in the time of testing they fall away. The seed that fell among thorns stands for those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by life’s worries, riches and pleasures, and they do not mature. But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop.

I include this parable for the benefits of activists of every treasured cause. Some of us will hear us. In the best case scenario, we will produce a hefty crop enough to feed a thousand people. Others may have good intentions at first, but their roots and commitment are not deep enough to sustain their initial devotion, so they wither and die. When times become painful or rough, they will not remain. Still another group will sprout and grow, but they’ll find worldly pleasures like money and immorality more compelling and rewarding.

Until Saturday, though seeing, I did not see. Though hearing, I did not understand. I nodded my head up and down in cadence, intending the best, but somewhat blind. I will not pretend to be smart enough to undo the ways of people, though I pray that my words be amplified by the Holy Spirit. I am a healer by nature. I am a fixer. For those who count themselves as the same, read these words if they give you comfort. Some will hear your message and some will not, but for their own reasons, not yours. It had to be their idea first, even if it really was yours. Being an activist requires humility as much as it requires initiative.

Liason: Work in Progress

What follows is a portion of a short story I've been working on for the last six months. I'm not going to post the whole thing because I intend to have it formally published. In addition, I doubt all of you have time to read a ten-page story. I hope you enjoy it.
____________

Liason

She set before me a glass of water and an apple, as though I was a little child. I was her lover, but she associated me in some ways with her teenage daughter. A younger woman might have acted in ways that were sensuous, but maternal became the default for an older one. Some men enjoy being mothered, but I was always too proud to cry out for a nursemaid.

I wasn't the first. One intrepid soul five or so years before me showed up at her front porch with a shotgun. Her long-suffering husband managed to talk his way out of getting a couple good blasts with buckshot. I liked to think of myself as somewhat classier, not behaving like a typical redneck in Clayton County. I had no intention of stealing her away or wrecking her home. Adultery was fun for its own sake. Far from remorseful or feelings of guilt, I enjoyed the secrecy and the sneaking around behind her husband’s back. But mostly I enjoyed the pursuit and the way that dares and impulsive behavior built steadily upon each other.

After the earlier incident, it had been a while since she’d sought a partner, especially one as young as me. Other women her age had found themselves unable to reconcile the years that separated our date of birth. Some had grown sons my age or a little younger, and that fact alone was enough to make them choose total abstinence. I severely doubt a man would draw the same sharp distinctions. Having daughters the same age wouldn't be a similar impediment.

I was raised by women, in a household without a father. The youngest of five, I learned how to behave and analyze the world around me from my mother and my four older sisters. Dad got a rare form of brain cancer shortly after I was born. It took him two and a half years to die, but when he finally passed I was sadly too young to remember him.

Often our present reflects our past. The husband of my latest girlfriend had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, which was slowly robbing him of life. She had barely grieved. She didn’t hate him, but she held him responsible for keeping her hostage. She’d had to live for decades on end in an unfamiliar city, when she’d never wanted to leave her native New York City. In the process, she’d learned to have a healthy respect for Southern culture and Southerners, but knew she would forever be a Yankee.

Where the two had settled was his city, never hers. Mostly she’d resented him in a half-hearted, going-through-the-motions sort of way. Once, she had been very bitter, but time has a way of smoothing out rough edges even if they never go away. They’d stayed married for twenty-five years and over the years she'd devised a thousand rationalizations to justify staying with him. Beyond the one incident of which I was aware, I knew she’d taken other lovers besides me, but I never inquired in detail about them. Everyone finds a way to compensate for a difficult circumstance, some more successful than others.

To her husband and daughter I had materialized out of thin air. But then again, she’d always had her own secret, private life that she never shared with either of them. In reality, I’d been around for a while on the periphery, on the sly. We’d been sneaking around for months. Well before I arrived on the scene, she’d demanded her own space, even partitioning off the house to separate what was hers from what was his. By the time I arrived, he was too impaired to notice or to care. The plan she’d hatched was for me to move in with the family to assist with her husband’s care. Then, when he passed away, I would take his place, kind of like the changing of the guard.

It wasn’t a bad arrangement, all told. He was so ill that we could get away with being a little incautious every now and again. The diagnosis had been terminal from the beginning, so we waited patiently for him to expire. I helped with washing sheets, cleaning bathrooms, and keeping things neat and orderly. He never suspected a thing. He was a quiet sort by nature, like his daughter, and appeared to like me.

Once, I asked her if perhaps we should tell her husband what we were doing. He’d never believe me, she said. I accepted this as truth and assumed that ignorance was bliss. The euphoria of getting away with something was enough that I wanted to preserve the mystery.

She had only one rule. While he was still living, we could never use the bedroom she and her husband shared. Instead, she’d completely remodeled the upstairs attic, installing a reasonably comfortable bed in one corner. The only drawback is that it was unheated in winter and boiling hot in summer. The mattress was a little too small for me so my shins sometimes scraped against the rough, itchy pine boards.

When her husband left this life, I made my way at last into the inner sanctum, a place I’d never been allowed to enter until that very moment. Because of simple curiosity, I was very interested to know what it looked like. We returned from the funeral, energetically casting off our black mourning clothes, having played appropriately pious and grieving until that moment. The transfer was conducted like a coronation, with grave seriousness. She’d gone to the trouble to put clean, smooth sheets on the bed. Now I formally took my place next to her, seated on my throne.

Finally she was ready. The ceremony commenced. The only thing I didn’t like about our lovemaking is that she was a very poor kisser. She had thin, pursing lips, and mine were much more generous in size. Kissing her always felt a little like kissing a Muppet. I’ve always found the act of lip-locking very sensuous, and it disappointed me that we couldn’t seem to strike a balance. By now I knew my efforts in that department were mostly useless, so I decided to explore elsewhere.

I went straight to the source. The labia and all outwards parts of the vagina had completely lost all elasticity with time. They drooped downward so precipitously that it was difficult to know where the opening began. It was as though they had surrendered completely to gravity. Her breasts, lamentably, had taken the same path. They had no remaining definition and elasticity. They sagged. I’d been a touch rough on them the first time we’d had sex, and she quickly corrected me.

You’re going to have to be gentle. She smiled.

I was gentle from then on, but, honestly, she was not gentle with me. She told a story of a sadistic male gynecologist who’d taken pleasure in performing an unnecessary surgery. The procedure had greatly cut down on her sexual sensitivity. Because of this, and at her strict direction, I hunched and twisted my shoulders in a thousand different ways to produce her climax. It was uncomfortable, and her arms always wrapped tightly around my back, pushing hard from below me, side to side against both shoulder blades. It reminded me somewhat of cross-country skiing.

But when it was finished, the result was always the same. I accomplished my intended purpose once again. I was pleased for that. I stared down at her as her eyes rolled back in her head, letting out a heavy sigh. A few second later she regained full consciousness and her glassy eyes re-focused. It was as though she had slowly returned to earth from somewhere else, very far away.

Her paranoia and obsessive behavior knew no limits. I never understood what she was afraid of, really. I thought that if I was the most important person to her, then surely I would be entrusted with a few personal details here and there. But this was not to be. She adopted her moniker as a second skin, as though all vestiges and traces of her given name had been heretofore purged.

None of that mattered at first. For my part, I was strongly attracted to her and always had been. In the beginning, I could barely believe my good luck.

One day, as we were lying together once again, side by side, she spoke her mind. It was the first time she ever talked about us as a unit, as though we were something resembling a couple. She hoped I’d support her in her old age. I said nothing, but the idea did not sit well with me. I was living a fantasy on my own terms, and she had very practical dreams. When in middle age, I would still be reasonably young. She, however, would be a senior citizen. I’d just taken a lengthy part in a caretaker role, albeit not by myself. When it came her time, I might be able to count on her daughter for assistance, but most of the burden of care would fall upon me.

She’d made her sacrifices to keep us together and so had I. For the duration, I'd had to cut ties entirely with my family, who disapproved strongly of my living arrangements. They made their displeasure known loudly, enough that I might well be an orphan. Even with the pain of estrangement, I stayed with her for four long years, because at least there I had some degree of general stability and validation. I had a place to stay, food to eat, and a woman who I assumed loved me. Everything else I was sure I could handle given half a chance.

But after a while, I couldn’t handle the daily third degree when I received came home from work. Where were you? What did you do? Who did you see? She was secretive about every last one of her personal dealings, but mine had to be publicly aired. I couldn’t even pick up items in a grocery store for her. She had to do them herself. Routine errands were out of bounds for me if they involved her in some way. The pursuit and the fantasy were no more. After a year, the novelty was gone and I began to question whether this was really worth it.

All I felt now was hassle. She nixed many plan that I viewed as sensible. I could never learn her real name, real date of birth, and other information she considered private and sensitive. I simply couldn’t understand her fears and she rarely explained them to me in much detail. I chalked everything up to a kind of untreated neurosis and gritted my teeth. She called herself an odd duck, but I am sure I could understand an odd duck. She was something else, something I could never grasp.

After a while, I’d had enough. It wasn’t the looks I got from the faces of her friends and my friends. Those I had long since blocked out entirely. I hadn’t gotten bored with her. It was her daily scrutiny and the lack of transparency on her part that prevented us from having a functional relationship. I’d never gone into this expecting that we would marry, nor had she. 

We were more friends with benefits than anything else. Neither of us wanted to be tied down. I’d thought I could handle it, but after a time it began to drive me crazy. She pleaded with me to stay, but I couldn’t do it any longer. I missed my family and I wanted my life back. Negating all her insecurities had worn me out.