tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84980933636833356012024-02-22T16:08:48.963-05:00Shinobi-Wan KenobiMetachlorinated Musingsgrasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-67092487909990881852011-07-25T17:35:00.002-04:002011-07-25T19:42:44.897-04:00Mother DearestSo.<div><br /></div><div>It has been a fabulous summer. A perfect balance of hot and sunny, cool and rainy, humid and sleepy. With Astasia's leg back in working order, we've been keeping very busy doing all things that are impossible in a wheel chair. It has been a wonderful break. In just under two weeks we will have our engagement party, and my aunt and uncle will visit, as will my very good friend Chimwemwe, who I haven't seen in years. I'm really looking forward to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thus, with her always impeccable timing, my mother sends me a letter about how in her expert opinion, Astasia (who she's met once, and spent precious little time with) is controlling and manipulative, has hijacked my ability to think independently, and is bringing out the worst in me - causing me to be rude and disrespect my family.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, there's really nothing new in this letter. I know my mom hates that I'm out here, living, as she says "as a lesbian," and that she resents Gwen because of it. I know she thinks it's all horribly sinful, based on her religion. But I had been nurturing a seed of hope. I had been telling myself that given enough time, if I just said it the right way, somehow, maybe, one day.....</div><div><br /></div><div>But I think I was fooling myself. I think my mother is too stubborn. I think her faith is too well armored against reason or logic. I think I just gave up on ever having her support or affirmation. It feels a little like losing her altogether. </div><div><br /></div><div>My mom and I have never been close, and we have always butted heads. She has never liked the way I thought or dressed or did my hair. I didn't think it would bother me so much to lose my mother. I think I'm starting realize that the reason it does bother me is because this scenario is one we've been playing out since I was a child. I've never really had her support or affirmation or pride. She's always been very invested in who she wanted me to be. No wonder we weren't close. We didn't know one another at all. The daughter she loves so much doesn't actually exist.</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel like an orphan. The weird thing is, I've always felt like an orphan. I felt like an orphan when I was six. It's almost enough to make me reestablish contact with my dad.</div><div><br /></div><div>But not quite.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-67220754597864218232011-05-24T10:07:00.003-04:002011-05-24T11:09:42.092-04:00LimboI always fool myself when it comes to the end of a semester, thinking it will be so good to have a nice long break. How good it will be to sleep in, not have to work all day, not have to commute, not have to think.<div><br /></div><div>It is not fucking nice.</div><div><br /></div><div>The weekends are nice. Astasia and I can actually spend time together. But on Monday she's off to work, and I'm left to decide how I'll spend my day, and somehow make myself actually spend it that way. But going from the constant pressure to complete an uncompletable amount of work and make endless decisions about proportions, materials, colors, door placement.... (the list goes on) to this..... I have been wallowing in a sort of depression that makes it hard to even eat, never mind structure my day and accomplish anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sunday night I slept from 10 pm till 2 am. Unable to sleep and not wanting to prevent Astasia from sleeping, I finished reading <i>Brothel</i> by Alexa Albert, a book I had started on Sunday evening. I had been interested in the book because I recognized the particular brothel it was about, Mustang Ranch, from a radio show on Playboy Radio that Astasia and I had listened to last summer.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Brothel: Mustang Ranch and its Women</i> tells the story of a Harvard Medical student who gained access to Mustang Ranch in order to conduct a public health study on condom effectiveness, and ended up making repeated visits and becoming an installment in the brothel's culture. The book talks about Nevada's history with legalized brothel prostitution, how the brothels are run, the various reasons that women work in the brothels, and the social issues that surround legal brothel prostitution. </div><div><br /></div><div>Put simply, the book is fascinating.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are any number of aspects of this book that I could discuss, but unless you all read it and come back and discuss it with me in the comments thread, I'd feel like I was just talking to myself. Which I probably am anyway..... I'll just pretend that somewhere out there is interested in my book recommendations. I recommend this book highly. You will learn a lot, and think a lot too.</div><div><br /></div><div>One thing that I would like to write about here, however, is the ever-present-in-my-mind issue of gender essentialism in our culture and how much I dislike it. Mustang Ranch, for example, has only female workers who only service males. Women are not even allowed in the front gate. (Which is to say, that if I ever wanted some gay for pay action, I can cross Mustang Ranch off my list of tourist destinations). There is one part of the book that talks about the men who frequent the ranch, painting them in a rather tragic light, and this is a part of the book I had a hard time getting behind. The virgins who can't get laid, the married men who can't ask their wives for certain things, the socially awkward, the commitment-phobes, they need sex, and if they're willing to pay for it, and women willing to sell it to them, why shouldn't these poor souls have their needs met? This is the tone of one of the sex workers, and okay, I see her point. Men have needs right? Sex is very important to most men.</div><div><br /></div><div>But sex is important to women too. There are female virgins who can't get laid, married women whose husbands can't satisfy, socially awkward women, commitment-phobe women, they all want to have sex too. It's a societal assumption that the sexual needs of men surpass those of women, that their hunger runs deeper. So we are not surprised to hear of men buying sex for whatever reason. In every city, whether legal or not, there are places that men go to buy sex.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I just don't think the situation is so dire for those men. I think it's the way if a woman gets sick she's expected to tough it out and get better while getting the laundry done and dinner on the table but if a man gets sick he's on the couch with a thermometer and a blanky and woman doting on him with chicken noodle soup and a gentle hand on his forehead. </div><div><br /></div><div>Cheating aside, if you just really wish someone would tie you down and whip you with a crop while plunging dildo into your ass, you should bloody well be able to fork over an exorbitant sum of money to have it done. But a man doesn't need this more than the woman who wants the same. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know. Does the societal attitude that men's need is so much greater contribute to the prominence of men seeking out sex for pay? Were societal attitudes reversed, would the Mustang be filled with men? Is this another part of male privilege?</div><div><br /></div><div>Go read the book and then come talk to me. I'm soooooooo bored.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-39664356917031582242011-04-07T19:22:00.002-04:002011-04-07T20:43:27.996-04:00Okay, yes. I have been absent. And yes, I have had a heavy workload at school, which is only likely to increase until the semester's end.<div><br /></div><div>But if I was going to be very honest, the truth is I have been on Tumblr. And it's not that I love Tumblr more than you, it's that I haven't had the mental stamina to do anything more complicated than click "<3" on photographs of naked women.</div><div><br /></div><div>Scouring the internet for photos has brought me to Jiz Lee.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jiz is a gender queer porn star. I know that Astasia has written about Jiz. We are both crushing pretty hard, but I think for very different reasons.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to be Jiz. Which is not to say I want to be a porn star, because I don't. Well maybe a little, but not really. I think what's remarkable about Jiz is that they manage to be so very androgynous, so very contrary to what our society tells us we need to be in order to be attractive, and yet so very fucking hot. So unbelievably magnetic.</div><div><br /></div><div>I never really felt like a woman. And I didn't want to look or act like one. And I didn't want to become a man either. I lived in this ambiguous middle place, where I could be attractive, but only at the expense of my own truthfulness. It had never occurred to me that the way I felt about my gender expression was an actual thing, with a name, and a niche, and porn stars, and I could be that way and feel sexy on my own terms.</div><div><br /></div><div>It feels significant to me, to feeling okay about who I am. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got a very short haircut, and I look like myself again. It feels so good, and right. <a href="http://femmebelletrist.blogspot.com">Astasia</a> thinks I look hot this way. Just the way I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes putting a name on something is a way of limiting it, but in this case, I think it has given me a type of freedom. Room to breath. Language for my feelings. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways, for photos of androgynous individuals, my tumblr is <a href="http://androgynish.tumblr.com">Androgynish</a>. Sometimes NSFW. </div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-45880771396632349392011-03-07T07:13:00.002-05:002011-03-07T07:45:01.475-05:00P-townThe 'P' stands for 'Promised' and 'town' stands for 'Land.'<div><br /></div><div>This is a town where every store is a unique, independent collection of quirky items. The coffee beans are all organic. Art Galleries are sprinkled throughout. Little courtyards of shared outdoor space are hidden away between houses and down alleys. Houses are clad in rustic cedar shakes, instead of that hideous vinyl siding. Every car has a dog. Every cafe has a water bowl.</div><div><br /></div><div>More importantly, the P-town zip code has the highest concentration of same-sex households in America. The reading I've been doing attributes this to P-town's early reputation as an ideal summer retreat for artists and the establishment of several art schools and a theatre group. As the town became known for a place where eccentric people were accepted, it became a destination for gay people looking for a place where they could also feel accepted.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now it is a place with a rainbow flag on every corner. If gay people are not a majority, they are at the very least normal here. Normal. Not worth remarking upon. Perfectly commonplace. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even in the liberal environment of New England, I sometimes feel like an abnormality, like I need to make delicate use of pronouns, like there will always be this moment of awkward hesitation after telling someone new that my fiance is a woman, not a man. Like I'm satisfying the butch dyke stereotype by identifying certain male qualities. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here I'm just another tourist, and it's not unusual that I'm holding hands with a woman, and I exist somewhere on a spectrum of gender expression. And there's a corgi in the cafe - INSIDE THE CAFE - that doesn't seem to know how unusual her particular experience is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think people realize, even I don't often realize, what it's like to be constantly aware of different-ness. To have in the back of my mind that most of the people I meet are are alike to one another in a way that they are different than me, and their sheer numbers mean that my life, my freedom, are essentially in their hands. I am able to live openly as an out lesbian because the straight people permit it. Even should the laws protect me, they do not force social acceptance. In the world of the straights, I exist thanks to the generosity of those around me.</div><div><br /></div><div>What if there was a place where that wasn't the case? Is P-town a glimpse of what that would be like?</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-72504718339630125732011-03-01T07:35:00.003-05:002011-03-01T07:52:52.667-05:00Self-Indulgent ComplaintsI'm supposed to be writing an essay. I have 4.5 hours to write 4.5 pages. It's a boring-ass paper about Emerson's conception of the human soul, as compared to Conrad's conception of the human soul. Who cares? I'm a fucking architect student. I'd like to write a paper on my conception of a house that would reflect Conrad's conception of the human soul (it's black, in case you were wondering). Forget Emerson altogether, he apparently has never read the news and has no idea what horrible things those that "follow their genius" are capable of. For him I'll build a padded room.<div><br /></div><div>All of which is to say, I now have 4.25 hours to write 4.5 pages of an essay I haven't yet found quotes for, which makes it a perfect time to write a blog. I would rather write a blog, with no preconceived idea about what I'm blogging about, than do this ridiculous arbitrary exercise where I compare and contrast the self-important ideas of outdated thinkers who are dead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is a list of things I'd rather do than write this pointless essay:</div><div><br /></div><div>Watch gay porn</div><div>Do housework</div><div>Put on Make-up</div><div>Beat my head repeatedly against a wall</div><div>Drink unsweetened soy milk</div><div>Catch the Swine Flu</div><div>Do strength training with the Swine Flu</div><div>Slip on the icy driveway and break my brittle old lady hip</div><div>Any of my other homework</div><div><br /></div><div>That's just a taste.</div><div><br /></div><div>/whiny bitchy school rant</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll be back with a real post later.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-7945655308399306502011-02-27T08:51:00.004-05:002011-02-28T07:47:26.183-05:00Coming Out Never Ends<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiz788XBKttS0xizsBQaxWBGitVYvn0TchQNRcT4CFxyViJMkYeG1Ohf4tHvU6p1ZQluLnPJIfVJ-L28u9BilIatQGI5CnAR30mDlkfz22qR1bF7D8b2yCG9Ix43Nf07A_o2ITh5l_Pu8/s1600/comingout.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiz788XBKttS0xizsBQaxWBGitVYvn0TchQNRcT4CFxyViJMkYeG1Ohf4tHvU6p1ZQluLnPJIfVJ-L28u9BilIatQGI5CnAR30mDlkfz22qR1bF7D8b2yCG9Ix43Nf07A_o2ITh5l_Pu8/s320/comingout.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578373274914636674" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, fantasy;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal;font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><a href="http://nezumiko.wordpress.com/">Nezu's post</a> about coming out has reminded me of an issue I need to resolve at some point very soon. Instead of trying to write about it all over again, I'll just quote myself like a self indulgent bastard.<div><br /></div><div>"You've reminded me that I have an aunt I am/was very close to. After coming out to my family (who were categorically against acceptance) I was too scared to tell my aunt. I couldn't handle any more rejection from someone I love. So I put her out of my mind, stopped contacting her, and now it's been nearly two years. All she knows is that I'm off at school and staying with a friend. Now my "friend" and I are getting ready to send out engagement notices, and my aunt doesn't even know (at least I haven't told her) that I'm gay. I guess I should do something about that."<br /><div><br /></div><div>Some additional context: When I was starting to question the legitimacy of biblical literacy, this aunt was the one who told me it was okay to ask questions. She told me I was right when I felt I couldn't trust the mainstream christian writers to answer the questions I had. She told me I should explore all I needed to, and that she wasn't worried about me. She thought I'd figure out what I needed to figure out. </div><div><br /></div><div>This aunt is my father's sister. She is the one I called when my dad's family was imploding (exploding? self destructing?) and she is the one who talked me down from fits of uncontrollable sobbing. She is the only one from my dad's immediate family who isn't completely fucked up, and she's always been my support when my dad was being a douche.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvb7rrUM_oqvXcwmnheYCqus9k2mo_mVi5JZqvYoO4WZ2MQs3twl14vfytwvNEUcF_-Mij4uaI-jYCHXvu7oIfyMQB_xj46yNQlkoyDVwQpPgUTlhTgyjk2tdIRdnysaOLLukaQZrBKoE/s1600/babyonphone.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvb7rrUM_oqvXcwmnheYCqus9k2mo_mVi5JZqvYoO4WZ2MQs3twl14vfytwvNEUcF_-Mij4uaI-jYCHXvu7oIfyMQB_xj46yNQlkoyDVwQpPgUTlhTgyjk2tdIRdnysaOLLukaQZrBKoE/s320/babyonphone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578376045883557250" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This aunt has been unbelievably cool. But she is still one of them. A Mennonite. I'm so afraid that, for all her encouragement, she will think I've finally gone too far, that this is the point at which she can no longer support me. I will be so disappointed in her reaction, because I will have hoped beyond hope that she wants me to be exactly who I am, and happy as well. I don't believe that she can accept a gay niece.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_ktF7eXxB3wTTEs4Avze2GW5DwEuPA2ICBvX7VbIQ5naGCxCwyPNDtcueGKROLTbcLmSegeR7dtqbO9zUWskYydx1lGbrF1NZw7rbEMtAzOxmufRa-q9AQLehpAplsB2jW68XqFEyXY/s1600/auntmay.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_ktF7eXxB3wTTEs4Avze2GW5DwEuPA2ICBvX7VbIQ5naGCxCwyPNDtcueGKROLTbcLmSegeR7dtqbO9zUWskYydx1lGbrF1NZw7rbEMtAzOxmufRa-q9AQLehpAplsB2jW68XqFEyXY/s320/auntmay.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578376293889754514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 221px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>But, when I'm really honest, I know that I need her. My dad has fallen off the grid. He doesn't talk to me or my sister. He just lives alone out in the woods, brainwashing my little brother and planning to run off to the philippines to get married. She's the only one who knows him, but he doesn't talk to her either, since she refused to bail him out of jail that time. She might not even know what's going on, that my stepmom has left the province, that their marriage is finally over, that my dad almost died in some kind of accident. She should know, right? Could she shed some light on the situation? </div><div><br /></div><div>So, Aunt W...... you know that friend, well I'm gay, and she's my fiance, and want to come to the party?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3-giB1vAFuiTPygXz15tc4GEDlMaH9ca7V8iG58PD1enBpE1YGib-BcZ2h_X51LvqEktlp3dymJxaDng55i9oQtUaMfF4aXuVLeV6RBKK75rDKeaTsLg2zjDLrqWO8jUqRlhMLI2vQck/s1600/comingoutletter"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3-giB1vAFuiTPygXz15tc4GEDlMaH9ca7V8iG58PD1enBpE1YGib-BcZ2h_X51LvqEktlp3dymJxaDng55i9oQtUaMfF4aXuVLeV6RBKK75rDKeaTsLg2zjDLrqWO8jUqRlhMLI2vQck/s320/comingoutletter" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578376899530562674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 225px; " /></a></div><div>Even at times when I know what the right thing is to do, I'm afraid that if it doesn't well, it will put me in a tailspin that will make it impossible for me to focus on my schoolwork and get through this semester. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yet, time is of the essence. I don't know. I don't want to deal with it. But I have to, because she matters.</div></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-13479308075825264552011-02-17T06:44:00.005-05:002011-02-17T08:11:43.144-05:00Community Standards<div style="text-align: center;">I grew up feeling at odds with the world even before the possibility of being gay entered my consciousness. I constantly felt that the world around me was trying to force me into some kind of mold that didn't fit. I was constantly objecting to the categories people would want to place on me. Kids, especially in high school, do that all the time. You belong to a group, and there's a list of identifiers to indicate which group that is. You can be a goth, or a punk, or a nerd, or an outcast, or a jock, or one of those terrifying popular girls.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOte1IYFAtdCKHQImOqELYJ45exo-Zu-tWQABe2EhjjDFmI-r-nftogp6nPy2L5UYq_CPSeQSkzdUmhrHbu-zxcoCv3MtLsRH09N8adEpF_pmM5uR-vBeF8faHF9nXfUX22bqpGh865wM/s320/fox-and-hounds.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574642706236398818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px; " /></span><div><br /></div><div>Here's what you cannot be - a popular girl with a punk haircut. A goth with a letterman jacket. You can't roll with the nerds if you fail your bio test. And you can't be a jock if you've made friends with an outcast.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember hearing a lot about the way I should be dressing, how I should be acting, how I should go out and make more friends, how I should stay in and study for better grades. Why don't you grow your hair, you WOULD look so pretty if you'd only dress nice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being gay, you get used to the rest of the world making arbitrary decisions about you, how you should look, act, what kind of relationships you have, which contracts between consenting adults you are allowed to participate in. When you are a lesbian you must wear flannel, have a short hair cut, behave abnormally masculine - and when I think about it now - at least a little mentally ill. When you are a gay man, you must speak with a lisp, wear skinny jeans and mesh shirts with no sleeves. We want to know what you are when we look at you. We want the way you act to be consistent with who we think you are.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHPN3-1rMyZhF9mBb9O5-rFdk7AdIj-tmCpuT7U3slR4_eNmYXBAhUuU3wRhYTngRbUHP7JBq4ayI-dELB2ZZ_nbXNc05_skXGowVwz2jKSI_VqVGTc2JXBywdqsUbIpEVenPazpsk5s/s320/gay+types.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574643144339750066" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 122px; " /></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>This is not news to anyone, and I've addressed this topic before. However, I've noticed an interesting phenomenon, the more I read about, watch shows about, and study the world of non-gender normative individuals.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would expect people who are not gender normative to be extra sensitive to the sort of categorizing and stereotyping I've been talking about, but it seems they are all doing it to each other!</div><div><br /></div><div>You have your gold star lesbians, late in life lesbians, bisexuals (the horror) trans-people, drag queens who identify as women, drag queens who are men dressing like women (posers!) drag queens who are camp, drag queens who are glam, fairies, bears, twinks, butch dykes, lipstick lesbians, bois, the list goes on and on.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoCMZLeyArTtkkRIs5547rNsJ9dqdYf8eIvZgsyL8OcJbYQA_r1d6OIkws8Gc2yjwd4tRen4VhDiZ00P-FvuzckMRCoiuRy1-05MCnGGchCkkXoCWYUgunU805hGCJz28_8evdJfnPFc/s320/femmecontinuum.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574644622561506978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes the glam queens tell the camp queens that they're not real drag queens. The gold star lesbians won't date the bisexuals. The bears shun the twinks. Lipstick lesbians aren't real lesbians. Butch dykes aren't butch enough (I can still tell you're a girl!) Transexual rights, it would seem, are a completely different set of civil rights that apparently are less important, and don't even get me started on those queers!</div><div><br /></div><div>Why, I ask you, is a community of people that has dealt with so much of this bullshit from society at large inflicting it on one another? We should be extra sensitive. We should be extra accepting. We know what it's like to have someone tell us that we don't count, that we're not doing it right, we should be a different way. We know that it hurts. Why then do we turn around and do it to each other?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMCKStz2DyTAaYG0M2NuIijFhTuwPs5aAnWQ7_5P2Ld5bYldlW9qm65BmB_M03TK4irU3OfBfsUrU2ixph3HKSn25288Dx3PaJ73megrbHHUsyaQ1Z3Nli2jGh7eOoaGSQGwEV6yKKZo/s320/antwone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574645303304196994" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>This reminds me of a movie called Antwone Fisher that every one needs to watch, and not just because Derek Luke is the most beautiful man to ever grace a movie screen. It talks about abuse within the African American community, and how it was appropriated from their oppressors in the days of slavery. I honestly know very little about this, and would like to do some reading on it. Is there a general effect whereby oppressed people turn the abuse inward, to their own community? Or is this categorizing and judging behavior in the LGBTQ community simply a reflection of the larger culture we live in?</div><div><br /></div><div>I, for one, am apparently a gold star lesbian (who thinks Derek Luke is beautiful) who is engaged to one of the dreaded bisexuals (who is a femme, and therefore not real). </div><div><br /></div><div>A strange world we live in.</div></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-68953306586927843852011-02-15T08:17:00.004-05:002011-02-15T18:09:05.733-05:00Does "Great"=Good?In my Literature class, I am reading this book:<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqIcUzk2Cinme8baNJllChaSLH4IaFpnDZurNTm99efbGpNv5NwrzD8zh-HE3jmmTsRHCnyFej9jmYcu7d-po95TDGeFY1UVnBWNyS6-dC-5JWOQDO3HPf9F1LsPD0B2LGsNIsk-DCYg/s1600/heartofdarkness.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqIcUzk2Cinme8baNJllChaSLH4IaFpnDZurNTm99efbGpNv5NwrzD8zh-HE3jmmTsRHCnyFej9jmYcu7d-po95TDGeFY1UVnBWNyS6-dC-5JWOQDO3HPf9F1LsPD0B2LGsNIsk-DCYg/s400/heartofdarkness.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573906100310837218" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>It is a book that takes place in Africa, a place that has changed my life for the better and I love deeply. The book begins with an apparent disapproval of imperialism and colonizing by European powers in Africa in the 1800's. This makes the incredibly racist notes in the beginning seem like attitudes which will be shown to be faulty by the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>To be fair, I was expecting a very different story. The blatant offensive descriptions of the Africans in the book were supposed to lead to a moment of epiphany, a realization for the narrator that his dehumanizing of the African people was wrong. As it turns out, "Heart of Darkness" is a story about something very different, and merely uses Africa and her people as a backdrop and mechanism by which civilized Europeans are sucked into moral and mental depravity.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am glad, therefore, that my professor assigned, as a companion to this book, an article by Chinua Achebe, a Nigerian professor and novelist. In his essay, "<a href="http://kirbyk.net/hod/image.of.africa.html">An Image of Africa</a>," Achebe asserts that "Heart of Darkness" cannot be argued to be an ironic condemnation of racism since it provides no alternative to the attitudes of the characters. All throughout the book, Africans are described in animalistic terms, and in one of the few passages that suggests they are "not inhuman" the possibility is expressed as negative.</div><div><br /></div><div>Achebe also points out that very few critics are willing to even approach the issue of racism in this book, and says that the implication is that attitudes that write off Africa as little more than a savage counterpoint to western civilization are so ingrained in western culture that it doesn't occur to critics of the book that a demeaning picture of Africa is being presented. I noticed as I looked to commentary on the book that the issue of racism is seldom addressed, and if so, dismissively.</div><div><br /></div><div>While I agree with Achebe, the fact remains that "Heart of Darkness" is highly regarded in the world of literature, and taught in all sorts of schools, and is very well written and compelling. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, should an extremely racist piece of literature be regarded as great? Should it be taught to students? Or should literature that presents a demeaning picture of certain people be relegated to the pile of outdated and hateful ideologies, along with Mein Kampf?*</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Not really, I just couldn't think of a more relevant example, at the moment.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-78013847009236235542011-02-12T08:50:00.008-05:002011-02-17T08:20:46.631-05:00Oh, Xenu!<a href="http://www.boingboing.net/2011/02/12/billion-year-labor-c.html"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqkx52ND-rbwV6-gzxS6z7aWzuJOae2GfpCeuYuPdAmzuGG9NDlbniSxyU85RtN_ySnmR1jxYZDpzWMEJxMx0l7W8Y4Aa4jgOfFUJO9FO6sDP8MnRXfu9CJGdOI1DeEcvleb1NEvAfUM/s400/BillionYearContract.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572800470901916258" /></a><br /><div>"Therefore I commit myself to the Sea Organization for the next billion years."</div><div><br /></div><div>It's ironic that the contract states the signer is "of sound mind." Clearly, if they've signed this, they are not.</div><div><br /></div><div>Via <a href="http://www.boingboing.net/2011/02/12/billion-year-labor-c.html">Boing Boing.</a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-43717425199534404402011-02-10T18:10:00.005-05:002011-02-10T18:31:29.803-05:00Missing the Point<a href="http://www.americablog.com/2011/02/nh-poll-shows-powerful-resistance-to.html">New Hampshire poll shows powerful resistance to same-sex marriage repeal.</a><div><br /></div><div>Now don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that the majority of the people in beautiful New Hampshire are not interested in passing this Prop8 wannabe. Pleased as punch that, if not supporting same-sex marriage itself, they don't want to take rights away from people who have fought hard to gain them.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it shouldn't matter what the majority thinks. The tyranny of the majority is a fickle thing. I have the support of the majority in this case, but that doesn't make my marriage any more or less moral or permissible or beautiful. Democracy doesn't mean that proportionately small groups of people get to live like humans when everyone else finally decides it's okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>I appreciate all the straight allies to the cause of marriage equality out there, I really do. And gay rights would not have the foothold they do today without all the people who respect our humanity even while not understanding or approving of our orientation. But the votes in favor of my relationship do not render it worthy. When legislators and politicians get this through their thick skulls, I will feel a lot better.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-56749205537341130452011-02-01T08:36:00.000-05:002011-02-01T08:37:51.137-05:00ChangesI made some. For the sake of readability. Enjoy.grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-82604411296167196502011-01-25T08:22:00.001-05:002011-01-25T08:22:57.326-05:00Breaking BoxesI knew yesterday what I wanted to write this post on, but now I can't remember. As school revs up (astonishingly quickly) the time I have to ponder on things I'd like to write about is shrinking. Maybe I'll just have to write about school. This would normally be a total drag, but this semester I have two classes which are so far proving to be intellectually stimulating. <div><br /></div><div>The History of Gender and Sexuality is so far focused on defining and understanding the different words, phrases, and states of being in the vast world of sexuality. It is a place where students are expected to participate in the frank discussion of sexual matters. This is something I love, and don't get to do enough. Astasia and I are able to have these discussions, but most of the people I run into, especially my 19-year-old classmates, are embarrassed or mortified by such talk. This particular class, however, is an upper level class that was full of juniors and seniors before sophomores had started registering, and I managed to squeak into it by waiting for someone to drop out and snatching up the seat, rearranging the rest of my schedule in order to do it. This also means that I get to have a class with slightly older children, who are still much younger than myself. I'll take what I can get.</div><div><br /></div><div>We talk a lot, so far, about intersex and transgendered people, so far, I presume because they really force you to challenge ideas about gender socialization, the way people are born, and the way society has changed in the ways it enforces gender norms. Supposedly we will move into American history and study the subject within those different time frames. It's the first time a class has excited me in quite the same way. I look forward to classes, even though I have to leave the house at 5:30 am to get there, and I love the readings. I feel engaged at every moment. It's exciting to have a professor with a sharp wit and humor discussing this stuff with us. </div><div><br /></div><div>Gender has always been a touchy subject for me. I am, apparently, female. My mother, I am told, fully expected me to be male. She had dreams that I was male. She was shocked when I was not. These little factoids did not enter my consciousness until I was much older, yet I developed into what people liked to label "tomboy" right from the starting gate. I played with boys mostly, and sometimes with girls. I played in the woods, built forts, got dirty. I begged for toys like walkie talkies and legos, though for the most part I received more "gender appropriate" toys.</div><div><br /></div><div>I frequently, as a child, wished I was a boy. Boys get do to fun stuff. They are expected to do fun stuff. When boys are sweaty, they can pull their t-shirt up and wipe their forehead with it, even if it exposes their chests. They can even take their shirt off altogether and bask in the sun, feel the breeze on their skin, play unimpeded. How very convenient for them. They can get dirty, they get all the cool toys. They make all the cool clothes for boys. Have you ever seen a thundercats t-shirt made for a girl? Have you? You haven't. Because they don't.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet, as I escaped the controlling influence of my parents, I found that I liked being a girl. I liked it because I could decide how to be female. I could have a custom made thundercats t-shirt made to fit my body. I could wear torn jeans and a wifebeater and fix the lawnmower. I could get as dirty as I wanted. I could wear my hair in a mohawk. I could get a job as a plumber and use power tools. I could do all these things and do them as a woman. I could express my femininity in a way that was attractive and comfortable to me. I could express it as a capable, strong, independent force, complete with T&A. As an adult, being female rocks. I really like it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's interesting to me, because I know that my expression of femininity is at odds with society's ideas about what constitutes femininity, and that is what compels people to label me a tomboy, or attribute my gayness to a gender identity disconnect of some sort. Society doesn't know what to do or how to react to those who don't fit into gender norms, so it looks for categories, disorders, stereotypes, anything to organize people into boxes that all fit together nicely. Society needs to know what I am. To myself, I am Grasshopper, I am all the things I love and think and feel, I am a complex human being with a complex set of memories and experiences. To the people who need to know what I am without actually knowing me, I am Grasshopper: dyke, or Grasshopper: Canadian, with all the stereotypes attendant with each limited label.</div><div><br /></div><div>Those who feel the need to label an individual may make some assumptions that are right, but they are likely to be making even more assumptions that are false. It's interesting to me that so many of these assumptions are made based on the clothes we wear, completely external identifiers, and these assumptions do a pretty good job of ensuring that we never really know one another, not really, not in a way that fosters community and closeness.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose in that way, we use labels and stereotypes to hold everyone at arms length. Sometimes, this is exactly our intention, other times I think we do it without meaning to. In both cases, we rob ourselves of knowing all kinds of fascinating people and benefiting from relationship with them, and all the wonderful ways they might enrich our lives with their defiance of our little boxes.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-16981726931117712212011-01-16T15:55:00.002-05:002011-01-16T16:42:20.620-05:00Ambivalence and the Tie that BindsThe last couple of days have been defined by project "fish tank in tv" and now that it's completed, I have had the opportunity to spend some much needed time with myself. The new tank is set up, filter humming. The tv with the moving pictures is off. I have been asking myself why I've been in such a weird funk lately. I have a tendency to understate the pressure I may be under, and I suffer from the refusal to ask for help of any kind. When the pressure is manageable and I don't need any help, I get by just fine.<div><br /></div><div>However, as stated in my last post, I am no longer an island. Other people have to put up with me when I am wallowing in occasional puddles of quicksand, and there are people who would help me, if they only knew how. And I have been forgetting that the first blog I ever started was not a place for me to talk about things to other people, but a place where I sorted through the magnificent clusterfuck inside my brain in an attempt to save money on therapy. Here I am with a blog and the definite need to convert thoughts to words in the only way I've ever really known how. How did I ever forget the role that writing has played in my sanity for most of my life?</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose I let myself believe that "my readers" don't want to read "my drivel" and I should just write when I have something brilliant to say.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't have anything brilliant to say. I've been living without any kind of structure for about a month now, and that stresses me right the hell out. I never get up or go to sleep at the same time. I don't eat regularly because I have no routine, and no matter what I've done during the day, I have no way of knowing whether it was the right amount of things, or too few. Basically, I need to go back to school.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I'm stressed about going back to school. All new classes means I have learn an all new schedule, I have to make all new friends. It takes me roughly one semester to make friends, and then it's over and I'll have to make new ones. Being back in school means that I switch immediately to the opposite end of the spectrum. I will leave the house at 5:30 am and come home around 7:30 pm..... if I'm lucky, and I'll have too much work to do all the time, it'll never be enough, and I'll never have any time for leisure activities. I will struggle to make time to spend with Astasia, or, god forbid, have sex.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there's my dad. My father has driven my stepmother out of the province, and now is busy training my thirteen year old brother to be as abusive as he is. They live alone together in a house in a backwater shithole of a town. My father has discovered facebook, which means he has managed to find some poor girl younger than I am to agree to marry him, but she lives in the Philippines with her tiny daughter. He wants to take my brother to the Philippines with him, so they can start a new nightmare there, the four of them, in which event I'd probably never see my brother again. Since my stepmother won't sign for my brother's visa, I'm hoping my father's selfishness will win over and he'll run away to the Philippines, never to return. My brother can witness what a douche he is and we can all be free of his bullshit.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then, that probably makes me a bad person, because my wish for myself inevitably puts a young woman and her child in harm's way. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. If I do nothing to prevent this, do I bear responsibility for all the terrible things he'll do to her? Is there even anything I can do? Does anyone know a hired gun who will work for I.O.U's?</div><div><br /></div><div>Since christmas back in Canada, the issue of my father, how much I hate him, how much I love him, and how much I wish me and my siblings could all just be free of him has been a constant theme at the back of my mind. It reawakens questions for me about my own upbringing, and whether I can break the patterns of my origin as I build a family with Astasia. I would happily die before damaging my own family the way he has damaged us. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then, spending time with my mom and stepdad and the fundamentalism that defines their life and therefore my relationship with them provides me with an unwelcome perspective. It was likely my father's unconventional ideas and quirky influence that enabled me to step away from religion. If that's the case, I have a lot to thank him for, don't I? </div><div><br /></div><div>Back to the fish tank. It is complete, and it was a lot more work than I expected it to be. I began the project with gleeful abandon, having wished my whole life that I could have an opportunity to do exactly this. In the back of my mind, I remembered my father, and the gleeful abandon with which he began all of his projects.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then the project became hard, and tedious. The tank wouldn't fit and I didn't have the right tools. Work slowed down. I wanted to call it quits, and leave the project for a time in the future when I did have the right tools, and I had more time to work at it occasionally. But in the back of my mind I remembered my father, and the many times he abandoned a project midway through. The half built vehicles in the yard. The marriage he trashed shortly after I was born.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will never be my father. It is the mantra I have repeated to myself since the day my mother told me she was getting divorced. I will never do what he does. If he does something, I will do the opposite. I will never ever, come hell or high water, torture, apocalypse, zombies, or plastic television molding melted to my cutting wheel, never no matter what will I ever be my father.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I kept working. I finished it. Astasia and I set it up today, filled it with water. Soon Armani will upgrade to his new snazzy digs, and he too will have something to thank my father for.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is not the end of the story, though, because I have to ask myself if my father is still controlling me. What if, from way over in that ramshackle house in Western Canada, though I haven't spoken to him in months, he still wields power over my actions?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-73206507309092833822011-01-13T22:23:00.002-05:002011-01-13T22:52:08.679-05:00Living ArrangementsI have been busy these last couple days. My "turn the spare bedroom into a living room" project morphed into a "turn the old tv into a fish tank" project, and the two things are keeping me pretty busy.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://femmebelletrist.blogspot.com/">Astasia</a> and I occupy the second floor of her parents' house, and we are starting to look for ways to make it more like our own apartment. Somehow, having our own living room makes a difference. The bedroom can now be a place of sleeping and sexing, and the living room a place of tv watching and tv destroying. Even the dogs seem to far prefer this new arrangement</div><div><br /></div><div>Before moving here, I was an independent bachelorette. For five years I occupied a small two bedroom house in a poor neighborhood in western Canada, the last two of those years were sans roommate. Living completely and utterly alone affords one certain freedoms and privileges that other people don't have. The freedom to do the dishes once a month, for example, or live as though on a nudist colony. You can declare any room with a book case a "library" and then masturbate there, loudly, if you so desire. You can use Bruce Lee wall hangings as curtains.</div><div><br /></div><div>Blissful as that sounds, however, I shudder to admit that I am like most people in that those specific freedoms are not worth the loneliness that accompanies them. I have always craved companionship, even when I refused to admit to it. I loved having sole control of the remote but I would have happily forfeited that control for some quality snuggling. In the library. Loudly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I have the companionship I crave, and more of a home than I could possibly afford. In these days between holiday torture and scholastic torture, I'm attempting to exert some control over our small space. I have not yet declared any room a library. It's better that way.</div><div><br /></div><div>It would be easy to feel a disproportionate amount of nostalgia for the house I once inhabited and the liberty I exercised while there, but I think it would be wrong to forget the reality of the situation, my extreme loneliness, DVD's played on repeat, the mouse infestation, the ever climbing rent. Sometimes when I live in someone else's house it's easy to say, " I remember when I could cook dinner naked and then eat it while watching Star Trek and doing ninja training during commercials" but the truth of the matter is I wouldn't go back to that life. Not in a million years.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being part of a family means you trade in certain freedoms for privileges of far higher value. Freedom is meaningless without anyone to share it with.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-20793303568443720752011-01-10T06:35:00.002-05:002011-01-10T08:09:36.446-05:00Word of the Day...My browsing as of late has been a sort of stream of consciousness affair. There was, of course, a shooting in Tucson. Much is being made of the possible effect of violent right wing rhetoric on loony nutjobs with overly easy access to guns. Since I don't frequent right wing websites or watch right wing news programs, I have not been witness to the apparent scrubbing of tweets and crosshair graphics, and I guess I'm not terribly interested. There will always be irresponsible jackasses writing irresponsible shit, and other people ready to blame the behavior of violent crazies on irresponsible jackasses. <div><br /></div><div>But I said stream of consciousness, didn't I? From the shooting in Tucson I follow a link that says the Westboro Baptist church is planning to picket the funeral of the 9 year old girl who died in the shooting. So now I've moved from right wing nutjobs to religious nutjobs, and Astasia will attest to my obsession with religious nutjobs, in particular the Phelps family and their bullshit church. I clocked many hours reading about the abuse of Fred Phelps towards his family, and I follow the blog of <a href="http://n8rphelps.blogspot.com/">Nate Phelps</a>, one of three Phelps children who managed to escape their father.</div><div><br /></div><div>But here's an interesting tidbit. What do Fred Phelps and the Tucson shooter have in common? They are both <b>left wing</b> nutjobs! I know right? I'm as surprised as you are.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's hard sometimes to tell the nutjobs apart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of nutjobs, my father is a nutjob. I'm currently watching The Devil's Advocate, a movie I saw for the first time at my father's house, when I was far too young to watch such a film. Al Pacino as the devil bears a striking resemblance to my father. The raised eyebrows, the gravelly voice, the declarations of selective truth as absolute reality, the uncanny charisma. The unjustified charm. The devastating manipulation. I remember being greatly affected by that movie, though in my religiously compromised teenage mind I was able to read something significant into just about any source. Watching it again, it's just a movie about hollywood-satan, his brood, and how they're all naturally lawyers. Or, alternatively, it's a movie about my father, how evil he is, and his skill at making everyone around him think they're crazy until they have no recourse but to shoot themselves in the head.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, to recap. There are right wing nutjobs, left wing nutjobs, religious nutjobs, and prolonged-exposure-to-my-father nutjobs. The latter is not unlike prolonged-exposure-to-Fox-News nutjobs, but results in more severe emotional trauma.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, the world is not ending in 2012, as we all thought, but rather in 2011. I can't cite my sources as I've been jumping around from site to site with the randomness of a manic squirrel. My sources don't matter, of course, because they are all nutjobs and it's best if you don't spend too much time around them. </div><div><br /></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-14374142174184615252011-01-05T11:35:00.003-05:002011-01-05T11:54:48.150-05:00A Tourist in ShitvilleI'm trapped in my parents house. I have no car, it's too cold to walk anywhere, I'm in a hardcore religious community where I can be pretty sure every person I meet is opposed to my basic civil rights, and ensuring equitable treatment is dependent on my ability to pretend I am not engaged to a woman.<div><br /></div><div>Oh, sweet menno-ville, how I despise you.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I had wheels, I could at least take a drive out to the woods where the log cabin I grew up in is inhabited by a pair of lesbians from the city. I could scratch their dogs and finally relax. I can never relax here. Someone's always waiting around the corner to be pissed at me for existing, of that I am sure. I can feel the laser sights on the back of my head. But at the Log Cabin o' Lesbians, I would be safe.</div><div><br /></div><div>Alas, it is seven miles of frozen wasteland to my childhood home, and my mother and stepdad are both at work with their respective vehicles, and I am left to arrange visitations with the grandparents that can't be told what is really going on in my life, lest they have heart attacks and die, which could only prolong my sojourn in this horrid gulag.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's like being in the closet all over again. Right now, I have no idea who knows I'm gay and who doesn't, outside of my immediate family. I had assumed that since a certain aunt does know I'm gay, the rest of the extended family would inevitably find out (come on, you know who the gossipers are in your family), but everyone seems to be oblivious. Clearly my mom is keeping her shameful little secret very well, so dropping the news that I'm engaged on any of these people would akin to the golden child of a fundogelical church announcing with absolutely no prelude that they had converted to satanism. So when people ask me how my life is going, I say it's good, I'm doing well in school. Not "It's fantastic, I'm happier than I've ever been and engaged to a wonderful woman who I can't wait to start a family with."</div><div><br /></div><div>All that is to say, I'm keeping secrets again. It feels rotten. Most days it's just a familiar part of being in steinbach, but not that I've reached day 8, my attitude is getting rotten and my endurance is failing. I came here from a place where everyone who knows me actually knows me, where they want the best and happiest for me and support the relationship I'm in. I voluntarily vacated those premises to come here, and now I can't remember why. Oh yeah, I wanted to see my little brother, who has had such a traumatic year, but I won't get to see him anyway. I wanted to meet my new nephew, who's a baby and not any fun anyway. I wanted to hang out with my sister, who is the only other person who knows how shitty it is to be our father's daughter. I'm glad I did that.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now I'm ready to go home. I'm tired of feeling like the odd one out. I'm tired of feeling like my happy life is the source of so much misery to everyone else. I'm tired of everything. I'm cranky.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two more days. Two more days. Two more days. Two more days. Two more days......</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-59985376330201847432010-12-21T07:10:00.003-05:002010-12-21T07:57:52.063-05:00CompartmentsI have been absent again. It's possible that I've just got too much other stuff going on to be successful at blogging the way I used to be. Lately, I've got a good excuse, which is that a flare-up in my shoulder has made it generally difficult to sit and id irritated especially by computer use, so I've been limiting my computer use to activities that are easily performed when flat on my back with my computer on my belly. Reading, and playing <a href="http://www.puzzle-loop.com/">Puzzle Loop</a>, mainly.<div><br /></div><div>One place I've been reading is <a href="http://makingspacethejourneyout.wordpress.com/">Making Space</a>, and I wanted to draw attention to a recent post of hers by quoting the part that feels particularly relevant to me right now.</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote></blockquote><quote></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: rgb(84, 84, 84); line-height: 14px; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.4; ">I thought that life was about struggle and hardship. I thought that the more I focused on the struggle, the more honest I was as a person. I thought that the more I endured and discussed and processed the hardships the more authentic I’d be. But, you see, there was always that part inside me that I couldn’t find, that I had hidden even from myself.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.4; ">So when I found it, and the weight of not knowing myself was gone, I started to realize, ever so slowly, that virtue is not a function of self-induced suffering; and goodness is not a feature of following external dictates that bring psychic pain.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.4; ">But still, I thought, well, when I come out farther and farther, the struggle will just be greater and greater and I just need to know that. Well, there have been some seriously scary explosions along the way. I’ve had to learn where to wall up and where to be open. And it turns out I had it exactly backwards before – the people with whom I feel most open are the ones I would not have sought out before; and the people to whom I felt I owed openness, it turns out I owe them exactly nothing.</p></span></div><div></quote></div><div><br /></div><div>I called my mother to tell her that <a href="http://femmebelletrist.blogspot.com/">Astasia</a> and I are now engaged, and it did not go well. It was basically a trainwreck. Coming out has been, in my life, mainly a series of battles with my family. No one else is surprised, and no one else cares all that much. But my family, they are the ones who are supposedly deserving of my honesty and love. Over and over again they show me that they deserve only a pretend version of me. Well behaved but closed off, smiling but cold. They liked me better when I was miserable and they only want happiness for me if it can be on their terms, if it means I will change and be more like them. They've always wanted this, even when my gayness wasn't the issue. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe my gayness was always the issue. I just didn't know it.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mom says her love for me hasn't changed, and maybe that's true. She always treated me like this, whether the issue was wardrobe, hair, grammar, she was always so convinced that I could never be happy unless I conformed, and she certainly wouldn't support any happiness I experienced unless I experienced it through that conformity.</div><div><br /></div><div>I keep telling myself that if they really loved me, they'd at least want to consider that they're wrong. They'd just try to see things from my perspective. Maybe I'm giving them too much credit. Maybe I'm expecting them to be someone they're not, the same way they're expecting that of me. Maybe I'm wishing they'd change into rational, thinking, self aware people. They've never been those things, why start now? </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I just need to think of them as people with a certain handicap, to relate to them as such. The openness I keep begging them for is something they are not capable of. </div><div><br /></div><div>In just a few days I have to visit them for christmas, and I am dreading it. Sometime before then I have to send my sisters a message telling them that I am engaged. I resent them all for introducing this stress into a very happy time in my life. I keep telling Astasia how much I hate them all, and she smiles and pats my head and says she knows.</div><div><br /></div><div>My family forces me to compartmentalize my feelings about them in order to enjoy the sheer wonderfulness of my life. But I refuse to take responsibility for, as my mother fears, ruining christmas. If her christmas is ruined, that is all her. </div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-6003705544754538612010-11-21T20:53:00.002-05:002010-11-21T22:21:30.918-05:00Why the Bible matters to meA few years ago, as I was slowly recovering from my life as an evangelical, it came to me that the bible cannot possibly be the infallible word of god. This quickened my recovery and opened up a whole new world of freedom from dogma, shame, and fear. Possibly the most significant effect of this transition was that I finally felt free to ask myself the really hard questions about my sexual orientation and give myself the freedom to chase what I really wanted. <div><br /></div><div>I am now deeply happy, living a whole new life with <a href="http://femmebelletrist.blogspot.com">Astasia</a>, pursuing a future I had never thought possible. Yet I keep returning to the bible and what it says, investigating its meanings, and reading what others have to say on the matter. Astasia would probably describe my preoccupation with the intersection of christianity and homosexuality to be borderline obsessive. I am thoroughly convinced that there is nothing in the bible condemning homosexual orientation, and I am deeply interested in how others might discover this perspective.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why, you may ask (others have asked), if you don't believe in god or the authority of scripture, do you care whether it addresses the issue of homosexual orientation? It's a valid question. What the bible has to say about me will not affect my behavior or inform the way I think about myself, at least not anymore. Do the words in the bible really affect my life at all?</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, they do. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which is to say, the words in the bible affect people who affect my life. My family, for example. But parental disapproval aside, you can't tell me that the resistance we've had to gay marriage in this country is not related to religion. Even those who don't consider themselves religious will cite the bible as evidence that homosexuality is wrong. Hate crimes committed against gay victims are done in the name christianity's moral authority.</div><div><br /></div><div>Conversations I've had with christians on the subject usually end with the christian saying that we should assume the most obvious interpretation. The problem I have with this is not surprising - it's completely selective. I remember discussions in my family's church regarding the role of women in the church. The plain language of Paul in the New Testament is that women should not be permitted to speak in church, however, there was much made of original language and cultural context, so that those teaching the matter to me concluded that while Paul's plain language implied that he didn't think women ought to be permitted to speak in church, the true meaning of the text was not an attempt to subjugate women.</div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine my surprise, then, when I suggest that original language and cultural context ought to play a part in biblical interpretation of supposedly anti-gay texts, and am told to just accept the plain language of scripture and stop trying to rationalize and justify my immoral lifestyle.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was thrilled when I finally came across an exhaustive scholarly treatment of the history of homosexuality as it relates to christianity that is highly regarded in academic circles. The book is "Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century" by John Boswell. While it is primarily a historical study, Boswell does delve into the realm of Greek language and biblical text as it relates to the culture of the time. It was, overall, a dense and difficult but immensely rewarding read.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thus, I've decided to read it again, and respond to it here on this blog. As I have loads of homework for the next two weeks, I can't promise much immediately, but that doesn't really matter, as I can't possibly post less frequently than I have been, and I'm mostly just talking to myself here anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd like to be better at posting regularly, so I'll probably post about other things too. But that's my intention for now.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-56933193643964326162010-10-20T10:57:00.006-04:002010-10-20T11:26:45.160-04:00Purple<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><br />Time flies when you're working your ass off on an unreasonable deadline, thus my absence. Last week I posted on Coming Out day, and now I am posting on "Wear Purple" day.... is this an actual day? I hadn't heard of it before, but then I didn't pay much attention to issues of gay rights when I was still focused on being straight. Is this a newly instituted day to call attention to the teen suicides? Or is it a coincidence that the two things are close, chronologically?<div><br /></div><div>Either way, it's a day when I'm supposed to wear purple, but I'm trapped in Boston without a change of clothes and even if I wasn't, I don't own anything purple. Maybe that makes me a bad gay. I don't know. I'm wearing my pride bracelet.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is Wednesday which means my project ought to be done and is officially off limits to me, though I don't present till Friday, which means I have nothing to do. Hence the post. Hence hence, I am sitting in Starbucks clicking around on Uno's wireless wifi (because starbucks hates the internets) investigating symbols of gay pride/power/identification. I am doing this because a) I can, and b)I thought I should change my facebook avatar at least, since I can't change my clothes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have settled on the purple hand. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOW_1Mf1emXw9cmba61i9a37TmbKCXrI7J4CIFo92dlfF1Dp1ud_ZoWQZ8D-Sns-oG6QFMOPckvJVC7Gwxvcj1WDcZqLuveYzMK5zlr2b_Bhsw0dQ8ezDbg4NIRoFsTQ7TqmCTrPpl1o/s1600/purple+hand.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOW_1Mf1emXw9cmba61i9a37TmbKCXrI7J4CIFo92dlfF1Dp1ud_ZoWQZ8D-Sns-oG6QFMOPckvJVC7Gwxvcj1WDcZqLuveYzMK5zlr2b_Bhsw0dQ8ezDbg4NIRoFsTQ7TqmCTrPpl1o/s200/purple+hand.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530149639962879010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div> I like the story behind it, and it appeals to my fascination with turning tables. If you don't know about the purple hand, here is the story. In 1969 a bunch of gay rights activists held a protest in front of the San Francisco Examiner in response to a series of anti-gay articles being published. Employees of the Examiner dumped purple ink on the protesters from the third story, and the protesters proceeded to use the ink to stamp purple handprints on the building and other places in the city. The protesters were subsequently set upon by police.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gay rights have really come a long way since 1969. At times like this, when gay teens (or perceived to be gay teens) are killing themselves, it's hard to really know where we stand. For some people, death seems like a better alternative to life as a gay person. I can't even imagine what life must be like for those people, and I know that there are all kinds of factors that play into that. For others, life as a gay person is happy, something we almost take for granted. Living in the northeast, there are almost no circumstances where I experience difficulty due to being gay. I know that it's far different in the midwest, or the south. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's easy to forget, living here, how hard it is for others, living elsewhere. It's easy to forget how hard it used to be to hear my family uttering ignorant statements about gays, hearing my condemnation from the pulpit, keeping my secret and feeling separated from everyone I loved because of it. There are people right now contemplating suicide and I don't know who they are. If I did, I'd do my damnedest to tell them that they can live a happy healthy life surrounded by people they love. I'd do everything I could to convince them that god doesn't hate them. Since I don't know who they are, I hope they can get a glimpse of the "It gets better" campaign, and that it'll seep into their consciousness and keep them alive long enough for them to find whatever they need to be happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's also easy to forget the people who fought so hard so that I can walk down the street hand in hand with my girlfriend. The people who got ink dumped on them, their teeth knocked out by police officers, people who've been arrested and beaten because they weren't content to keep their secret and toe the line. I owe my freedom to those who have suffered and sometimes died in an attempt to change the world into one where it is safe for everyone to love who they love.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I guess today is bittersweet for me. My project is done, but not done. And gay rights are good, but not good. And I am happy for my freedom and sad for the pain of those who haven't found it yet.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-43741704763453291422010-10-12T06:29:00.003-04:002010-10-12T07:18:40.143-04:00Coming OutI suppose the appropriate thing to do on Coming Out Day is write a blog post about how you came out.... yes? Either that, or actually come out to someone who doesn't already know, but I don't want to do that.<div><br /></div><div>My story is not spectacular, but that one moment continues to affect me and my relationships with my family in ways that are sometimes painful. I haven't lived near my family for a very long time. At the time I came out, I was living in a different province and only saw my family maybe twice a year, generally Christmas and some time in summer, possibly an additional visit if circumstances allowed. So I had a hard time figuring out what would be the right thing to do. I couldn't "ruin christmas," but really I visited so seldom that I didn't want to "ruin" any visit. I say ruin because my family are evangelical christians. That's not entirely true. My parents are divorced and both remarried. So my father and his wife are not evangelical christians, but my mom, her husband, my three sisters and all their husbands are. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I didn't want was to find myself in a room with eight adults jumping down my throat and making demands that I somehow explain, repent, and change my ways. I didn't want to be put on the defensive, I didn't want to fight, and I didn't want to be exorcised. Some people say it's the sort of thing you need to say in person, out of consideration for the people you're telling. I decided to try to be considerate of them, but to protect myself first, and so I wrote them a letter. I wrote the gentlest letter I could write, and I tried to explain that I had always known or suspected that I might be gay. I tried not to apologize for being gay. I wrote a little about what it had been like to be so afraid of what they would think, and how lonely it had been growing up.</div><div><br /></div><div>They respected my wishes and waited a week or so after receiving the letter to call me. Initially, things seemed to have turned out okay. My mom cried, of course, they wanted to know about the boys I'd dated. They wanted me to know that they still loved me. It seemed like a best case scenario.</div><div><br /></div><div>Until they started suggesting reparative therapy. They wanted me to talk to someone who was ex-gay. They wanted to know.... do I WANT to be gay? They sent me CD's about how I'm gay because of my home life, and if my psyche was only healed, I could move towards a healthy hetero life again.</div><div><br /></div><div>This began to drive a wedge between us. Their doctrine tells them that our relationship has to have a disclaimer. "We love you..... even though you're gay." Love the sinner, hate the sin. It's an incredibly condescending and divisive tagline, and they don't seem to realize it.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally told my stepmother the Christmas after I'd moved in with Astasia, she stated that she knew, her and my dad had discussed their suspicions about me, and it wasn't a big deal. She said she wanted me to be happy and she was glad I found someone, and that she'd tell my dad. He and I haven't discussed it since then, but then we haven't been speaking at all. That's a different story.</div><div><br /></div><div>These days I enjoy being a part of Astasia's family. They include and accept me without disclaimers. Being with my own family feels strained and exhausting, but luckily I'm far away enough now that I only see them once a year.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's my story. I hope that one day my family can let go of their prejudice, accept that Astasia's an integral part of my life. I hope that when we get married they can be happy for me. I hope it gets better, with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since then I've been trying to tell people as though it was no big deal. I've mentioned it to a few cousins, in the hopes that the gossip would spread. I've decided not to tell my grandparents at all. Partially because they're not my actually grandparents, but my stepsister's grandparents, but also because they're on the brink of death and I was thinking of waiting them out.</div><div><br /></div><div>It shouldn't be a big deal. I shouldn't have to worry about how anyone's going to react. I should have to plan how I'm going to tell them. I shouldn't worry that they'll cry when I tell them I'm engaged. It's completely unfair, but I try not to dwell on it. Their religious prejudice may make them miserable, but it doesn't have to make me miserable. After all, gay means happy.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-42346098463111522602010-10-04T09:13:00.004-04:002010-10-04T09:49:12.827-04:00Weekend De-briefSometimes, it helps to write things out. Sometimes if I write something on a blog, I can finally stop thinking about it and move on to other, more cheerful things.<div><br /></div><div>So I'm gonna try to write about this. I'm not sure yet if it'll work, as I'm not really in a writing frame of mind, but I'm gonna try anyway, because architorture school doesn't give you time to stay in a funk.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Saturday morning I took the dogs for a walk in the woods. My two dogs, Abu and Puja, and Astasia's family's dog, Forest. It was a beautiful morning and a pleasant walk. We walked along the river bank and everyone was behaving themselves, and I was feeling upbeat and happy. I gave Forest a stick, and he excitedly ran through the woods with it. As I was watching him run, he yelped suddenly and limped back to the trail.</div><div><br /></div><div>I assumed he'd landed funny on his paw, or tripped, and that he'd just need a couple minutes to favor it and then he'd be fine. He is old, and sometimes he hurts himself a little but recovers. When I arrived to check his paw however, I saw that it was bleeding. Profusely.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I have done in the past when Puja sprung a leak, I grabbed some large leaves and tried to apply pressure until the bleeding stopped. For a minor wound, this would have worked. Instead, blood continued to flow. Blood was all over my hands. It was dripping off of them. I tried to wipe them off on the grass, but there was little grass and it was no longer wet with dew. I took off my sweater and then my tank top, then replaced my sweater. I wrapped my tank top around his paw as tightly as I could, to no avail. It was soaked with blood and continued to drip within minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Holding the fabric to his paw, I somehow managed to get my phone and one-handedly dialed Astasia's sister, asking her to come with first aid supplies. I pulled the string out of my hood and used it to tie the tank top around his paw, then demanded he lay down so we could wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the first aid supplies arrived, I tried to dress him. I would no sooner get him wrapped up than the dressing was soaked through. I wrapped him again, and again it was soaked through. I decided that the only thing to do was get him out of the woods as quickly as possible, and hoped he could limp his way out, but this only exacerbated the bleeding.</div><div><br /></div><div>With no options left, I lifted him on my shoulders to carry him out. It wasn't long before his 70-ish pounds had me ready to collapse. Astasia's sister helped me by propping up his front end. Together we marched as quickly as we could, with Forest dripping blood all the way to the road. It was probably between a quarter and half mile.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, we got him to a vet, and he is now bandaged and miserable with a plastic cone around his head, but he will be fine.</div><div><br /></div><div>I, on the other hand, am getting frequent flashes of bright red dripping blood. I can see it pooling in my tank top, black drops of it on the grass, smeared and dark all over my hands, and finally, pale and diluted as it runs into the drain at the vet's bathroom. I am not a queasy person, I don't get ill at the sight of blood, but the memory of having so much of it on me, being scared for Forest, not knowing how I was gonna get him safe. Being alone and helpless, being angry with Abu and Puja for being playful and impatient.....</div><div><br /></div><div>People go through worse trauma. I feel guilty for being as affected as I am by this. As though dog blood is somehow less scary than people blood. I feel sometimes that bad luck follows me, that freak accidents always happen when I'm around. My rational mind knows that I don't cause these things to happen. Still. My feelings are all over the place. I'm cranky and my muscles hurt and every time I think I've put it behind me I see blood.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that was my weekend. How was yours?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-46218625618599903162010-09-28T06:16:00.003-04:002010-09-28T06:24:36.394-04:00DoppelgangerI just realized that there is another Shinobi-Wan Kenobi who writes fanfiction based on Final Fantasy. That's super nerdy. I'm annoyed that they have the same name as me, but probably at some point I'll sneak over to fanfiction.net and see if it's anything worth reading. Some good Tifa Lockhart erotica would really make my day.<div><br /></div><div>........ Nope, nothing worth reading. As you were.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-61715675522581809882010-09-24T06:53:00.005-04:002010-09-24T08:02:36.533-04:00ChoosingUgh. I miss my girl. School has kept me so busy I had to crash at a friend's place on campus. To borrow my hostess's word, Architecture has swallowed me. After going to sleep at 2, I'll be heading back to studio by 8. These are the details of my life by which I prompt myself to begin writing, so that I may promptly launch into my actual post, which may or may not take all day to complete.<div><br /></div><div>Intro to Sociology is taught by an adorable, witty, and slightly befuddled old lady with the appropriate and delightful appellation of Professor Tuck. Professor Tuck does everything she can to make the material interesting and keep us entertained, and one of those ways is to prompt discussion on a range of topics. The other day homosexuality popped up, and she asked if we thought people were born that way, or if they choose to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>A couple of guys near the back piped up that they thought it was a choice, and it's worth mentioning that one of them was Connecticut Redneck. For the record, I hated that kid before this class. </div><div><br /></div><div>Professor Tuck asks him why he thinks the way he does and he replies that he thinks homosexuality is something people choose because lots of gay people have been with people of the opposite gender, which leads to him thinking that since they're perfectly capable of acting straight, they must be actively choosing to be gay.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, while I hate this kid, I can see where he's coming from. He doesn't understand how a person can apparently swing both ways, and then claim they have no choice when they "pick" one gender over the other. He's probably one of the millions of people who've been tricked into thinking that homosexuality is only defined by how and with whom you have sex. And since I've been wanting to talk about this issue of choice, I am using him as a springboard to do so.</div><div><br /></div><div>Homosexuality, as a word, like heterosexuality, is defined by which gender you prefer to have sex with, but it is an incomplete and, in my opinion, slightly irresponsible definition. Being gay may, at some point, involve having sex with someone of the same gender. But a heterosexual person does not become heterosexual upon becoming sexually active. Prior to the popping of that cherry, they will have crushes on, obsess about, pursue relationships with certain members of the opposite gender, not necessarily (though, sometimes) with the intention of having sex with that individual. They are attracted to, desire the company of, develop emotional bonds with opposite gendered people. Everyone understands this about heterosexual people. I am stating the obvious and you are wondering why.</div><div><br /></div><div>The reason why is that it is the same way with gay kids. We do not wake up one morning and say to ourselves "By what method can I ostracize myself from society, disappoint my parents, and deprive myself of constitutional rights taken for granted by most people today? Shall I fail at my school work? Get arrested for vandalism, perhaps? I know, I'll have dirty gay sex! That'll work!" and then proceed to engage in purely sexual encounters just for the dirty fun of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The argument that gay people choose to be gay has a bunch of problems but there are two that are glaringly obvious. The first is that the people who say we choose do not believe that they could choose themselves. They cannot choose to be gay, which is to say that they could not make themselves suddenly want to be in a relationship with someone of the same gender. But they think you can. There is something about them that makes them not choose to be gay, but there is something about you that makes you choose to be gay. Something intrinsic, perhaps? Like actually being gay prior to and irrespective of the choice you make? Hmmm?</div><div><br /></div><div>There's also the issue of why on god's green earth someone would choose to identify as a stigmatized and sometimes violently hated demographic if they had the choice. Yes, some people are masochists. And yes, the situation in North America is a lot better than it used to be. However, not long ago you put your life on the line in order to engage in hot gay sex, and in some countries you still do. So why does someone need that so badly that they will risk all manner of horrible death or mutilation in order to acquire it? They put that need in their own heart? Because it seemed like a good idea?</div><div><br /></div><div>All that aside, there remains the fact that I did not choose. You can tell me I did, but I didn't. On the contrary, there was a time when I "chose" to be straight, and I did my very best to follow through, but the choice was not whether to be straight or gay, the choice was whether to <b>behave</b> straight or gay. It seems like a small distinction, but it is a huge one. An enormous motherfucker of a distinction.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which leads me to the role of choice in sexual orientation. </div><div><br /></div><div>Gay people are really not different from straight people. We want what we want, but we choose whether we will pursue it. Straight people want happy fulfilling relationships with people of the opposite gender, and they make decisions about how best to make that happen. Some of them get drunk in bars and have sex with people until they find one they like more than all the others. Some of them spot someone they like and pursue a relationship that may or may not include sex. They choose if they will be promiscuous or not, and they decide how to treat the people they're interested in. They make all kinds of decisions about their behavior in the pursuit of romantic or sexual interests. </div><div><br /></div><div>But they don't choose who they're attracted to. It just happens. A girl doesn't look at a guy and decide "I'm going to find that guy attractive." He's hot or he isn't, and she reacts to her attraction to his hotness or lack thereof.</div><div><br /></div><div>The girl who has seldom, if ever, looked at a guy and thought he was hot finds her eyes drifting to another girl. She wants to know her name, she wants to get to know her. She hasn't even noticed the hot guy. She did not decide to not notice him, she just didn't. She is not deciding to be curious about the girl, she just can't stop wondering.</div><div><br /></div><div>You can tell a person they chose to be gay till you're blue in the face. They know better than you do whether they've make a decision or not, and odds are pretty good that the only decisions they've made are in regards to their behavior, not who to be attracted to.</div><div><br /></div><div>We can always choose our behavior. It's really the only thing we have control of. We can choose to suppress our most basic needs and submit them to some other goal. We can even subject ourselves to sex with people we don't want to have sex with in order to hide a part of ourselves we are afraid to confront or expose. But we can't choose to have that need any more than we can choose to breathe.</div><div><br /></div><div>So. There is, apparently, scientific data regarding the inherent nature of homosexual attraction, but I'm not a science nerd. If you are a science nerd, please direct me to some good, readable material on the subject, because I like to have plenty of weapons in my arsenal, in case I need to make the argument while choosing to conceal my identity as a dirty dirty lesbian ho.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm done now. Goodbye.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-50482460756569984842010-09-16T19:56:00.003-04:002010-09-16T20:12:20.187-04:00NeedsEveryone has needs, and they're all different. <div><br /></div><div>I am an introvert. I need a certain number of hours in my day when I am alone, or very nearly so. Under normal circumstances, I spend my evenings with Astasia, which is like being alone because she feels like a part of me, and she doesn't suck out my life force like some kind of vampire. If anything, she contributes to my energy levels.</div><div><br /></div><div>Left to my own devices I am a solitary, stoic, sarcastic individual who has a hard time expressing things like affection, and being nice to people on a regular basis is the sort of thing I can do provided I have enough time in my day to take care of myself. I am not a social butterfly, I am not gregarious. </div><div><br /></div><div>Astasia, on the other hand, is soft, and warm, and expresses her feelings, and when I'm around her, I become more like that. I experience joy and excitement, or maybe peace, perhaps an overwhelming sense of any emotion at all. Her influence on me is to put me in touch with how I feel, and make me comfortable to allow those feelings to be apparent. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lately, I leave the house before Astasia wakes up and arrive home after she's gone to bed. This is necessary due to a combination of my course load and hellish commute. The immediate consequence is that I am cranky, have a headache, have lost productivity, and I don't feel like being nice to people. I feel like being an asshole.</div><div><br /></div><div>Did I used to be an asshole, before I met Astasia? Maybe I did. I never thought of myself that way, but I guess assholes generally don't. </div><div><br /></div><div>The longer I'm away from my girl, the more I feel like smirking at all the kids I have to be in school with, blowing off my homework, and ignoring my professors. I feel like sitting in the back of class and carving my name in the desk. I feel like telling the connecticut redneck just what an irritating fuck he really is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight I go home a little bit early. My soul needs some patching up, and there's only one person who can do it.</div><div><br /></div><div>My studio will have to wait.</div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8498093363683335601.post-34736251490489576492010-09-07T20:27:00.002-04:002010-09-07T20:40:40.508-04:00SophomoreToday was my first day back at school. I had so much anxiety about it that I hardly slept last night, and woke up at 4 instead of the required 5. I do this every time. I don't know why the first day of classes stresses me out like this, but it does.<div><br /></div><div>That said, today went off without a hitch. I found all my classes, on time, got all my books, took notes, chuckled politely at icebreaker jokes made by professors, the usual. The hardest thing today was sitting still. When I got home I found Astasia waiting for me with a rose and a piece of cheesecake. I really am a very lucky girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone's so much nicer this year. Last year, I thought it might be my imagination, but now I know it's true. Everyone really does hate freshmen. It's just so irritating to be a 29 year old freshman, because people don't know they can treat you like an adult (if, like me, you pass for a little punk). Now I'm a 29 year old sophomore, and it's so much better.</div><div><br /></div><div>For now, the homework is practically nil. I'm enjoying it while it lasts.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>grasshopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13313753868030422097noreply@blogger.com1