Happy 4th of July! C and I celebrated by sleeping in, doing some art, having brunch together, and walking around Green Lake. We encountered a poetess who crafted a stunning personalized poem for us (below). Now, we are about to make cookies and have a nap before going to see fireworks in Edmonds with friends. This poem is epic, it's too good not to share. I gotta find this lady.
"Synchronized"
By Melanie Reed
Smart Texas girl I like your boxes - I will fill you in, in al...l those special places - field of different kinds of soil or grasses, let's go all the way to our homebase - I'll raise you on my eyebrows, take note of each glance, each observation, be supported as I walk these new roads with new knees. Seattle boy, I like your boots and bridges- you can carry me and ferry me into new islands of elated conversation - can't get over how we skip from stone to stone - wit sparkling in your sparkling eyes, this tinder dogs our steps with yapping wonderment - let's talk our day and life away, my twin fraternal bay.  |
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
32. Synchronicity
Friday, January 6, 2017
30. Tattouage Bleu
I'm turning my leg into a butterfly farm. THIS POST IS IN PROGRESS
Okay not really, but a leg sleeve at least. People keep asking me, "why butterflies?" so I thought I'd explore that question in this blog post. And, the first butterfly is blue. A blue morpho, actually.
I will have to take a better picture.
Okay not really, but a leg sleeve at least. People keep asking me, "why butterflies?" so I thought I'd explore that question in this blog post. And, the first butterfly is blue. A blue morpho, actually.
Actually, the first tattoo was a lizard, a tattoo I got with my BFF Lisa in like 1991. Obviously it looks like crap now, so we wanted new matching tattoos. I drew this
And so we wound up with these...
Overwhelmingly, cultural myth and lore honor the butterfly as a symbol of transformation because of its impressive process of metamorphosis.
From egg, to larvae (caterpillar), to pupa (the chrysalis or cocoon) and from the cocoon the butterfly emerges in her unfurling glory.
What a massive amount of transition this tiny creature undergoes. Consider for a moment the kind of energy this expends.... I daresay if a human were to go through this kind of change we’d freak out!
Imagine the whole of your life changing to such an extreme you are unrecognizable at the end of the transformation. Mind you, this change takes place in a short span of about a month too (that’s how long the butterfly life cycle is).
Herein lies the deepest symbolic lesson of the butterfly. She asks us to accept the changes in our lives as casually as she does. The butterfly unquestioningly embraces the chances of her environment and her body.
This unwavering acceptance of her metamorphosis is also symbolic of faith. Here the butterfly beckons us to keep our faith as we undergo transitions in our lives. She understands that our toiling, fretting and anger are useless against the turning tides of nature – she asks us to recognize the same.
A quick-list of Butterfly symbolism: Resurrection Transition Celebration Lightness Time Soul
Interestingly, in many cultures the butterfly is associated with the soul – further linking our animal symbolism of faith with the butterfly.
In Greek myth, Psyche (which literally translates to mean “soul”) is represented in the form of a butterfly. Befittingly, Psyche is forever linked with love as she and Eros (the Greek god of love, also known in Roman myth as Cupid) shared an endlessly passionate bond together – both hopelessly in love with the other.
Even Christianity considers the butterfly a soulful symbol. To wit, the butterfly is depicted on ancient Christian tombs, as Christ has been illustrated holding a butterfly in Christian art.
It’s connection with the soul is rather fitting. We are all on a long journey of the soul. On this journey we encounter endless turns, shifts, and conditions that cause us to morph into ever-finer beings. At our soul-journey’s end we are inevitably changed – not at all the same as when we started on the path.
To take this analogy a step further, we can look again to the grace and eloquence of the butterfly and realize that our journey is our only guarantee. Our responsibility to make our way in faith, accept the change that comes, and emerge from our transitions as brilliantly as the butterfly.
From egg, to larvae (caterpillar), to pupa (the chrysalis or cocoon) and from the cocoon the butterfly emerges in her unfurling glory.
What a massive amount of transition this tiny creature undergoes. Consider for a moment the kind of energy this expends.... I daresay if a human were to go through this kind of change we’d freak out!
Imagine the whole of your life changing to such an extreme you are unrecognizable at the end of the transformation. Mind you, this change takes place in a short span of about a month too (that’s how long the butterfly life cycle is).
Herein lies the deepest symbolic lesson of the butterfly. She asks us to accept the changes in our lives as casually as she does. The butterfly unquestioningly embraces the chances of her environment and her body.
This unwavering acceptance of her metamorphosis is also symbolic of faith. Here the butterfly beckons us to keep our faith as we undergo transitions in our lives. She understands that our toiling, fretting and anger are useless against the turning tides of nature – she asks us to recognize the same.
A quick-list of Butterfly symbolism: Resurrection Transition Celebration Lightness Time Soul
Interestingly, in many cultures the butterfly is associated with the soul – further linking our animal symbolism of faith with the butterfly.
In Greek myth, Psyche (which literally translates to mean “soul”) is represented in the form of a butterfly. Befittingly, Psyche is forever linked with love as she and Eros (the Greek god of love, also known in Roman myth as Cupid) shared an endlessly passionate bond together – both hopelessly in love with the other.
Even Christianity considers the butterfly a soulful symbol. To wit, the butterfly is depicted on ancient Christian tombs, as Christ has been illustrated holding a butterfly in Christian art.
It’s connection with the soul is rather fitting. We are all on a long journey of the soul. On this journey we encounter endless turns, shifts, and conditions that cause us to morph into ever-finer beings. At our soul-journey’s end we are inevitably changed – not at all the same as when we started on the path.
To take this analogy a step further, we can look again to the grace and eloquence of the butterfly and realize that our journey is our only guarantee. Our responsibility to make our way in faith, accept the change that comes, and emerge from our transitions as brilliantly as the butterfly.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
29. Point Blank
A friend, Joe, raised this question: “In following the gun control debate, I’m seeing a lot of absolutist views from both sides. I see anti-gun advocates making emotional appeals to protect the children, while ignoring substantial research on gun control. I see pro-gun advocates distrusting the government and any action it could take. Neither side feels safe enough to meet in the middle to discuss their differences. As a case study in educated discourse, how can we get both sides to feel safe enough to have a rational discussion?”
This is a topic that has tickled my mind for a long time, too. I grew up in the great gun-loving state of Texas, where my classmates were given .22s and taken on hunting trips with their fathers for the 12th birthdays, where guys in my senior class went deer hunting on weekends, where girls wear pink-trimmed camouflage and learn to handle daddy’s pistol, and where a kid shot himself to death in his Algebra class in the classroom above me in 1988, 11 years before Columbine. As someone who grew up in a culture that taught respect and safety for weapons, I still feel a deep sense of solidarity with those who defend our “right to bear arms,” even though my logical mind knows that what we have today isn’t exactly what the founding fathers meant by a “well-armed militia.”
I saw a meme which said, “We don’t blame cars for drunk drivers, so why would we blame guns for violent people?” The problem is access. If someone drives drunk, we take away their license. If someone has violent tendencies, they often retain unfettered access to weaponry; taking away their gun license does not restrict their access to firearms — many tragedies have been perpetrated by weapons belonging to other people or obtained illegally. So how do we control access in a logical way? See the graphic (below) for a comparison of what it would look like if we regulated guns in a similar fashion to automobiles. It seems pretty reasonable. After all, we have stricter regulation on the purchase of Sudafed than we do on the purchase of ammunition.
Changing gun ownership regulations to require optional classes, and mandatory testing and licenses that require renewal, as well as insurance, might ensure greater safety with handguns the same way we ensure safety with automobiles.
Granted, all of that requires a lot more money in order to maintain ownership of a handgun, and some say it’s a way to restrict gun ownership to the wealthy, but I think that if you can afford $600 for a handgun, then you can afford $75 for the test and license plus the annual insurance premiums. And, it’s a lot less expensive then accidentally killing someone, or killing them on purpose in a fit of rage or depression.
This model wouldn’t limit what kinds of guns people can have, it just forces them to prove they can be responsible with the weapons they choose. And it holds them responsible for the things they do with their weapons the same way we hold people responsible for the things they do with cars, even when it’s an “accident.” Granted, this doesn’t address the problem of who’s responsible when someone else uses your licensed and insured weapon. In my mind, it’s still your fault. It’s a deadly weapon, you should have it secured. If your kid or friend or brother gets it away from your control, then it wasn’t properly secured.
But that doesn’t address illegal weapons, and I’m not so sure this type of regulation fully addresses the problem anyhow. There’s this little thing about supply and demand? We have to address the demand part if we want to have an effect on the supply.
As for how we get extremists to sit down and have a rational conversation about this? I have no idea. The people that want to maintain gun ownership as it is, I’m pretty sure they are actually not out to kill anyone. People get their hackles up when they feel like their rights are being messed with. I think I understand them though, it’s the same way I feel when people start trying to legislate a woman’s reproductive system. I may not be planning on using it but I’m sure not going to stand still while you’re trying to tell me what I should do with it. And the Texas girl in me still thinks, “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”
Those who support a ban on guns have either lost someone or sympathize with the tragedy of the senseless violence that has been perpetrated by crazy people with guns. I can certainly identify with that, because I’ve seen my fair share of it. Besides the angry and confused young man from my high school, I’ve personally had a crazy person point a gun at me, and it was terrifying; they were out of control and they shouldn’t have been able to have access to a gun, but they did, because ‘Murica.
So how do you have a rational debate when even rational people aren’t sure how they feel about it?
Certainly, what with a million possible apocalypses and the very real tragedies that currently proliferate (the Paris attacks come to mind), I sure as heck don’t want to be the only one in the melee that brought a steak knife from my kitchen to a gun fight because that was all I had. It terrifies me to think that the government would make guns illegal. They’re just not going to get all the guns — there are already millions of illegal weapons, so if all the law-abiding citizens give up their guns, then only the criminals will have guns.
Despite the fact that our country’s international stock is plummeting, no other nation would dare invade us because they know we are batshit crazy and armed to the teeth. So no matter how much of an “idiocracy” the US becomes, at least we’re not going to have to fight off any foreign invaders, despite fear-mongering about Al Qaeda and ISIS. I’m pretty sure that’s one of the reasons why the founding fathers wanted us to be able to have a well-armed militia. The other reason is because they wanted to prevent the government from changing into a monarchy. We got one anyhow, it’s just that they did it with economics and politics instead of weapons. We should keep the guns so that we can overthrow the hijacking of our political system... but that is another rant for a different day.
My friend Stephen said, “There are hundreds of thousands of gun owners who have successfully not killed anyone for the decades that they owned the gun. A large number of people do misuse them, but it’s a very small percent, wouldn’t that statistically indicate that [gun ownership] is not the cause? Maybe if we asked why they did what they did instead of just instantly blame or sentence, we could figure out what’s causing this. But blame is more important than logic.”
Once again we’re back to demand — the “why.” Please read Malcolm Gladwell’s recent article in the New Yorker entitled, “Thresholds of Violence: How school shootings catch on,” at www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/10/19/thresholds-of-violence.
Gladwell theorizes that the phenomenon of school shootings can be explained by the theory of mob violence. The social process of a riot is driven by our individual thresholds: the number of people who need to be doing some activity before we agree to join them. Stanford sociologist Mark Granovetter described riots as being “started by people with a threshold of zero—instigators willing to throw a rock through a window at the slightest provocation. Then comes the person who will throw a rock if someone else goes first. He has a threshold of one. Next in is the person with the threshold of two. His qualms are overcome when he sees the instigator and the instigator’s accomplice. Next to him is someone with a threshold of three, who would never break windows and loot stores unless there were three people right in front of him who were already doing that—and so on up to the hundredth person, a righteous upstanding citizen who nonetheless could set his beliefs aside and grab a camera from the broken window of the electronics store if everyone around him was grabbing cameras from the electronics store.”
This theory could easily be applied to the larger problem of gun violence, as almost a domino effect where each successive event increases the likelihood of the next event by increasing the disinhibition of the potential perpetrator. Gladwell observed, “The problem is not that there is an endless supply of deeply disturbed young men who are willing to contemplate horrific acts. It’s worse. It’s that young men no longer need to be deeply disturbed to contemplate horrific acts.”
Echoing those sentiments, Joe Sack’s friend John Garnett said, “You just have to look at the number of incidents of road rage and bar fights to see how difficult it is for the untrained person to stay calm in a confrontation even when guns are not involved. Add guns to a high-pressure, high-emotion situation and the outcome typically will not be good even if the gun owners know how to use guns properly.”
How do we stop our citizens from being engulfed in the riot? Outlawing guns is not the answer. Regulating guns is a good step in the right direction, but more is needed, a social balm to quench the fire of discontent. We have lost our social glue, the thing that used to unite us a society, we are more connected by technology than ever before, yet even more hopelessly disconnected from each other on a fundamental level that winds up making it somehow acceptable to shoot others for very little provocation.
Our current solution to dealing with this violence is to scream and cry on Facebook about how awful it is, and change our profile picture to some supportive image. We know it’s not enough. I feel almost guilty changing my picture, because it seems so trivial in light of tragedy and horror. But I understand why we do it, because we genuinely do want to make a difference, to help in some way. We want to tell people who we don’t even know that we do care. Even though it isn’t much, it means something: that we are committed to doing what we can. We just need to figure out what that is, soon.
See more food for thought at https://theprogressivecynic.com/debunking-right-wing-talking-points/refuting-gun-enthusiasts-anti-gun-control-arguments/
This is a topic that has tickled my mind for a long time, too. I grew up in the great gun-loving state of Texas, where my classmates were given .22s and taken on hunting trips with their fathers for the 12th birthdays, where guys in my senior class went deer hunting on weekends, where girls wear pink-trimmed camouflage and learn to handle daddy’s pistol, and where a kid shot himself to death in his Algebra class in the classroom above me in 1988, 11 years before Columbine. As someone who grew up in a culture that taught respect and safety for weapons, I still feel a deep sense of solidarity with those who defend our “right to bear arms,” even though my logical mind knows that what we have today isn’t exactly what the founding fathers meant by a “well-armed militia.”
I saw a meme which said, “We don’t blame cars for drunk drivers, so why would we blame guns for violent people?” The problem is access. If someone drives drunk, we take away their license. If someone has violent tendencies, they often retain unfettered access to weaponry; taking away their gun license does not restrict their access to firearms — many tragedies have been perpetrated by weapons belonging to other people or obtained illegally. So how do we control access in a logical way? See the graphic (below) for a comparison of what it would look like if we regulated guns in a similar fashion to automobiles. It seems pretty reasonable. After all, we have stricter regulation on the purchase of Sudafed than we do on the purchase of ammunition.
Changing gun ownership regulations to require optional classes, and mandatory testing and licenses that require renewal, as well as insurance, might ensure greater safety with handguns the same way we ensure safety with automobiles.
Granted, all of that requires a lot more money in order to maintain ownership of a handgun, and some say it’s a way to restrict gun ownership to the wealthy, but I think that if you can afford $600 for a handgun, then you can afford $75 for the test and license plus the annual insurance premiums. And, it’s a lot less expensive then accidentally killing someone, or killing them on purpose in a fit of rage or depression.
This model wouldn’t limit what kinds of guns people can have, it just forces them to prove they can be responsible with the weapons they choose. And it holds them responsible for the things they do with their weapons the same way we hold people responsible for the things they do with cars, even when it’s an “accident.” Granted, this doesn’t address the problem of who’s responsible when someone else uses your licensed and insured weapon. In my mind, it’s still your fault. It’s a deadly weapon, you should have it secured. If your kid or friend or brother gets it away from your control, then it wasn’t properly secured.
But that doesn’t address illegal weapons, and I’m not so sure this type of regulation fully addresses the problem anyhow. There’s this little thing about supply and demand? We have to address the demand part if we want to have an effect on the supply.
As for how we get extremists to sit down and have a rational conversation about this? I have no idea. The people that want to maintain gun ownership as it is, I’m pretty sure they are actually not out to kill anyone. People get their hackles up when they feel like their rights are being messed with. I think I understand them though, it’s the same way I feel when people start trying to legislate a woman’s reproductive system. I may not be planning on using it but I’m sure not going to stand still while you’re trying to tell me what I should do with it. And the Texas girl in me still thinks, “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”
Those who support a ban on guns have either lost someone or sympathize with the tragedy of the senseless violence that has been perpetrated by crazy people with guns. I can certainly identify with that, because I’ve seen my fair share of it. Besides the angry and confused young man from my high school, I’ve personally had a crazy person point a gun at me, and it was terrifying; they were out of control and they shouldn’t have been able to have access to a gun, but they did, because ‘Murica.
So how do you have a rational debate when even rational people aren’t sure how they feel about it?
Certainly, what with a million possible apocalypses and the very real tragedies that currently proliferate (the Paris attacks come to mind), I sure as heck don’t want to be the only one in the melee that brought a steak knife from my kitchen to a gun fight because that was all I had. It terrifies me to think that the government would make guns illegal. They’re just not going to get all the guns — there are already millions of illegal weapons, so if all the law-abiding citizens give up their guns, then only the criminals will have guns.
Despite the fact that our country’s international stock is plummeting, no other nation would dare invade us because they know we are batshit crazy and armed to the teeth. So no matter how much of an “idiocracy” the US becomes, at least we’re not going to have to fight off any foreign invaders, despite fear-mongering about Al Qaeda and ISIS. I’m pretty sure that’s one of the reasons why the founding fathers wanted us to be able to have a well-armed militia. The other reason is because they wanted to prevent the government from changing into a monarchy. We got one anyhow, it’s just that they did it with economics and politics instead of weapons. We should keep the guns so that we can overthrow the hijacking of our political system... but that is another rant for a different day.
My friend Stephen said, “There are hundreds of thousands of gun owners who have successfully not killed anyone for the decades that they owned the gun. A large number of people do misuse them, but it’s a very small percent, wouldn’t that statistically indicate that [gun ownership] is not the cause? Maybe if we asked why they did what they did instead of just instantly blame or sentence, we could figure out what’s causing this. But blame is more important than logic.”
Once again we’re back to demand — the “why.” Please read Malcolm Gladwell’s recent article in the New Yorker entitled, “Thresholds of Violence: How school shootings catch on,” at www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/10/19/thresholds-of-violence.
Gladwell theorizes that the phenomenon of school shootings can be explained by the theory of mob violence. The social process of a riot is driven by our individual thresholds: the number of people who need to be doing some activity before we agree to join them. Stanford sociologist Mark Granovetter described riots as being “started by people with a threshold of zero—instigators willing to throw a rock through a window at the slightest provocation. Then comes the person who will throw a rock if someone else goes first. He has a threshold of one. Next in is the person with the threshold of two. His qualms are overcome when he sees the instigator and the instigator’s accomplice. Next to him is someone with a threshold of three, who would never break windows and loot stores unless there were three people right in front of him who were already doing that—and so on up to the hundredth person, a righteous upstanding citizen who nonetheless could set his beliefs aside and grab a camera from the broken window of the electronics store if everyone around him was grabbing cameras from the electronics store.”
This theory could easily be applied to the larger problem of gun violence, as almost a domino effect where each successive event increases the likelihood of the next event by increasing the disinhibition of the potential perpetrator. Gladwell observed, “The problem is not that there is an endless supply of deeply disturbed young men who are willing to contemplate horrific acts. It’s worse. It’s that young men no longer need to be deeply disturbed to contemplate horrific acts.”
Echoing those sentiments, Joe Sack’s friend John Garnett said, “You just have to look at the number of incidents of road rage and bar fights to see how difficult it is for the untrained person to stay calm in a confrontation even when guns are not involved. Add guns to a high-pressure, high-emotion situation and the outcome typically will not be good even if the gun owners know how to use guns properly.”
How do we stop our citizens from being engulfed in the riot? Outlawing guns is not the answer. Regulating guns is a good step in the right direction, but more is needed, a social balm to quench the fire of discontent. We have lost our social glue, the thing that used to unite us a society, we are more connected by technology than ever before, yet even more hopelessly disconnected from each other on a fundamental level that winds up making it somehow acceptable to shoot others for very little provocation.
Our current solution to dealing with this violence is to scream and cry on Facebook about how awful it is, and change our profile picture to some supportive image. We know it’s not enough. I feel almost guilty changing my picture, because it seems so trivial in light of tragedy and horror. But I understand why we do it, because we genuinely do want to make a difference, to help in some way. We want to tell people who we don’t even know that we do care. Even though it isn’t much, it means something: that we are committed to doing what we can. We just need to figure out what that is, soon.
See more food for thought at https://theprogressivecynic.com/debunking-right-wing-talking-points/refuting-gun-enthusiasts-anti-gun-control-arguments/
Saturday, May 30, 2015
28. Trans Formation
I grew up in
Houston, Texas in the 70s & 80s. This was a time when Houston was the
epicenter of hypermasculine roles typified by John Travolta’s iconic “Bud” in
the film Urban Cowboy ...
...and football’s
legendary Houston Oilers running back, Earl Campbell, who was like the Marshawn Lynch of the 80s...
.
..and we ate the Wheaties with Bruce Jenner's photo on it.
Men across the city (and
the country) aspired to ride a live bull in the Houston International Livestock
Show & Rodeo at the Astrodome...
...or at least the mechanical bull at Mickey Gilley’s infamous
honkey-tonk, and women aspired to date those men.
Homosexuality had only been
recently declassified as a mental disorder (1973), and the general population
still considered it a perversion, a sin, or at least deeply unnatural and
something to be mocked or avoided. So how did this city spawn one of the
largest LGBTQ communities in the US, one that eventually elected the first
openly-lesbian Mayor, Annise Parker, in 2010? That story is closely entwined
with how I became an ally of LGBTQ and other gender-fluid individuals, even though
I myself am just your average heterosexual, and how I came to develop some core
values of acceptance, authenticity, tolerance, and courage.
My family moved from
Los Angeles to Houston when I was a kid, in 1975. The transition was difficult
for me; I had a hard time making friends in its conservative suburbs whose
residents had values based on religion that our atheist family didn’t share. I
was a creative free-thinker who wound up frequently bullied, and I never felt
like I fit in. My parents put a lot of pressure on me to excel academically and
I spent a lot of time reading, which made me even less popular, especially as
the ideas I was exposed to in books diverged from what was accepted as “normal”
in my peer group. My life became intolerable after experiencing acquaintance
rape by a classmate who then told everyone I was a “slut;” I was too mortified
to ever report it. By the time I was old enough to ride a bus alone, I was
spending as much time as possible in the city, where I had discovered Montrose.
Montrose was the
bohemian LGBTQ neighborhood in Houston. In a city where being “different” could
literally get you killed - gay bashing was a popular “past-time” that
culminated in the murder of Paul Broussard in 1991 - people who were different
had found safety in numbers. I had found a community where people didn’t judge
me for being different, because they were all “different” too. I made several
LGBTQ friends, and realized they were all just regular people, trying to make
their way in the world. Actually, they weren’t like regular people at all,
because they seemed so incredibly brave to me.
These were
people who had been persecuted and abandoned just because of who they wanted to
love, or who they felt like inside. As if fighting the stigma of homosexuality
as a mental illness wasn’t bad enough, AIDS came along to make matters worse. These
people couldn’t change who they were, even if they wanted to; they were
literally risking their lives to live authentically, whether it was due to
disease or social stigma. I admired them; I saw grace in their acceptance, not
just of other’s misunderstandings, but of themselves. But acceptance didn’t
equal complacency; I was surrounded by people who were active in changing
people’s attitudes towards the LGBTQ community, with education and
inclusiveness. Implicit was an attitude of tolerance, which is what partly made
it so attractive to me.
As more and more
people who were looking for an oasis of tolerance in intolerant Texas moved to
Montrose, it evolved into a force to be reckoned with, a force that put forth
its own political candidates and eventually worked to enact legislation that
changed the way LGBTQ people were viewed or treated. Twenty-five years later, Montrose and its adjacent neighborhoods is quite the desirable address, and I
still have at least as many LGBTQ friends than “straight” ones.
I think my
values apply especially to people with gender dysphoria. Forty years after
declassifying homosexuality as a disorder, feeling discontent with the gender one was born with is still considered a
medical disorder, and people still mock trans individuals trying to fit in.
The rationale for classifying it as a disorder is to provide a pathway forthese people to receive counseling – not to help them accept the gender theywere born with, but rather to obtain help in navigating gender identity issues,
such as the depression or anxiety that they may feel in the process of transitioning.
However, many trans people and allies support declassification of "gender
dysphoria" because pathologizing it implies that it’s a problem. It minimizes gender variance, reinforcing binary
genders. I can see both sides of the issue. Keeping it as a disorder can allow
for clients to receive assistance in our current paradigm, but it also
reinforces the idea that there is something wrong with them, which is an idea I
strongly oppose. I think we need to change the paradigm, instead of conform to
it.
That is
beginning to happen now, and it makes me feel hopeful. Parents are able to
identify gender dysphoria in their children at younger ages. These parents are
members of my generation, people who have seen firsthand the struggles that LBGTQ
people have had, and would rather support their children’s journey of
self-exploration than risk their assault or self-harm.
Even Girl Scouts reaffirmed
their acceptance and defense of trans girls. Beacuse they recognise that trans girls are girls too. Andrea Bastiani Archibald, the Girl Scouts USA's chief girl expert, said, "if the child is recognized by the family and school/community as a girl and lives culturally as a girl, then Girl Scouts is an organization that can serve her in a setting that is both emotionally and physically safe."
Being
discriminated against for not fitting in is something I can identify with, even
if I’m not LGBTQ. I never felt like there was anything wrong with me, but I
couldn’t change who I was inside, and I didn’t want to; neither do they. Nobody
in the LGBTQ community thought of me as weird, and I flourished there, probably
for the first time in my life. Instead of feeling miserable and trying to find
“a way out,” I began to dream my life could be full of joy and purpose. None of
us were “crazy,” we just wanted to be ourselves, whatever that was. I’m not
saying I understand all LGBTQ people; what I do understand are the values
behind the actions. People who’ve had to come to grips with being LGBTQ have
had to struggle to accept themselves and develop the courage to live an
authentic life. They have to overcome fear at being discriminated against,
people who may be their family. Look at Bruce Jenner, what he’s going through now,
what he’s struggled with for the past 30+ years. He made many choices because
he was trying to please people he loved, often at his own expense. When people around
you are intolerant of something that defines you, you learn how important
tolerance is. I may not be LGBTQ, but I believe in an individual’s right to
pursue self-actualization.
I can’t imagine
anything that would make me change my values. They reflect what’s most
important to me and were established as a result of my accumulated experiences.
They influence my decisions, behaviors, feelings, and how I perceive my
environment. I fought so hard for self-acceptance and the courage to live authentically,
I can’t imagine giving any of that up. It’s made a huge difference in my life
in terms of satisfaction and happiness, and I feel strongly about promoting
tolerance for everyone. In finally feeling free to explore my own identity,
without judgement, I was able to pursue my own self-actualization, and surround
myself with people who accept me for whatever qualities I offer as a human
being, not for what God I worship or whose name is on the label of my jeans - or my genes. In this way, I can identify with a person whose outsides do
not match their insides, and the struggle they endure to achieve some sort of
equanimity.
Mahatma Ghandi
said, "Your beliefs become your thoughts. Your thoughts become your words.
Your words become your actions. Your actions become your habits. Your habits
become your values. Your values become your destiny." It is my destiny to
live my values by example and advocate for others. If I care for a trans
person, I will consider it an honor to provide care with the same compassion
and empathy I would for any other person. I hope my experiences will make me
more sensitive to a trans person’s particular needs, and able to treat them
with the dignity and respect that all people deserve.
The one thing I
have noticed about nursing is that little is black and white, everything is
shades of grey. If anyone should be able to understand the myriad shades of
grey that can make up the various ways that human sexuality can be expressed,
it should be a nurse. I hope I can help
educate my colleagues about the LGBTQ community, so that we can all move
towards normalization of a gender-fluid concept and tolerance for all people.
In fact, not just for trans people, but anyone whose cultural beliefs or
personal affectations may be different from our own. We may not all be the same, but we all deserve
the respect of human decency, even for people we may not understand or agree
with.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
27. Attitude of Gratitude
Dear Janet:
As I reflect on the past six years since I moved to Seattle, I am aware of how much I have enjoyed knowing you and having you in my life. From the first time we met at Seattle Vision Care, I knew we were going to be friends, but I am not sure if you know how profoundly you have affected my life and how grateful I am to have you for a friend.
You were my first girlfriend in Seattle, and due to the previous five years I had spent travelling, you were the first girlfriend with whom I have been able to establish and maintain a relationship in a very long time. I didn’t realize how much I had missed that, or how important it was, until I was building a relationship with you. Of course we bonded over our shared Texas roots, but it takes more than that to have a real friendship. I always thought that in order to have a friend, you have to be a friend first. You epitomized that to me with your bright, outgoing personality and willingness to be authentic. I felt like you took the initiative and went out of your way to be nice to me at a time when my life was in upheaval and I really needed a friend, which I something I have always appreciated.
You have always supported me both personally and professionally. I remember when I was working as a frame rep, you graciously shared knowledge of fitting eyewear with me. You never condescended to me or made me feel like I wasn’t good enough or shouldn’t be trying to do it. You helped empower me to be successful. You were so cool, you made eyewear cool! Even though I decided it wasn’t for me, I know that a lot of whatever success I attained was because of your assistance. Later, when I finally got the right job, my focus on building my career meant that I wasn’t able to spend as much time with you as I would have liked. You still supported me by visiting my spa(s) and sharing your experiences with others in a positive way to help promote my business.
During a person’s lifetime, they can expect to experience some loss, but most people do not experience it all at once. In a two year period, I lost my grandmother, my mother, my father, two jobs, my husband, and my baby. Words cannot describe what that was like, and how my life was changed. Through it all, I had you, and I can truly say that I have no idea how I would have coped if you had not been there for me, serving as an anchor when I felt completely adrift. The most awkward part was the aftermath, while I was trying to put my life back together and figure out “what next?” While other people abandoned me because they didn’t understand or know how to respond to my grief, you just accepted me and let me grieve, however it needed to be, and never judged, even though I did some (ridiculous? strange? awkward?) things. It’s easy to be a friend in “fair weather,” but you have always been someone I can rely on to be there for me no matter what. Whatever life is serving me, I know I can count on you to help me pick up the pieces or “make lemonade.”
I appreciate our differences and I sometimes marvel that we are so close because we are so different in some ways, but one thing that we share is our love of crafty things that involve tools. Sewing, painting, home improvement, gardening, all projects big and small, I know we will share them with the same level of enthusiasm. We do have overlapping and differing levels of experience and expertise, so whatever project comes up, at least one of us will have some idea of how to proceed. To paraphrase the old proverb, a job shared is halved and its products doubled. I have always not only appreciated, but thoroughly enjoyed, working with you on our myriad home improvement projects. And I deeply thank you for always being there to help me when I could not have done it alone. Here is a short list of things you helped me with: building two closets and a laundry room, installing three ceiling fans, installing baseboards, rearranging furniture, so much painting, packing and unpacking, and moving, moving, moving! I hope I always get to be your Tool Time Girl (because let’s face it, we both know you’re the Tim Taylor/Al Borland who knows more about tools and how they’re used).
Another thing I love sharing with you is the “great outdoors”. We have been riding our bikes around Seattle for six years and there is no one with whom I would rather go. I love our long rides and talks, spending that time together has been so important for me. You have been in this area for much longer than I have and I grateful for having you as my tour guide to so much of the beauty that the area has to offer from a bike seat. Although we have only been camping once, I know this year we are going to do a lot more and I can hardly wait. I feel like we have barely scratched the surface, and I am so lucky that I get to have a friend to do these things with.
I try to show that I care about you by being there for you, too. I bet you don’t know that I love making “Janet-friendly” food. I know it’s not fun to have food allergies, mine are no cake walk (pun definitely intended), but yours make mine look like nothing. I can’t imagine the daily challenges you go through to feed yourself in a healthy way, and I know you don’t always get sympathy. I think it’s probably a little weird, but I love it that you have these quirks because I love trying to make you feel special by catering to them. You seem so self-sufficient that I jump on opportunities to do something for you. I seriously do not mind making a separate portion of food because it gives me a chance to do something nice for you. And I love it when we eat out together because I have someone that I can feel normal around. In restaurants, I have to special-order my food or appear picky about something, which used to embarrass me around other people, but with you, we both get to be comfortable.
Anthropologist Margaret Mead said, “Nobody has ever before asked the nuclear family to live all by itself in a box the way we do. With no relatives, no support, we've put it in an impossible situation.” As a child from a “broken home,” I did not have that support, I did not often feel special, and I very often felt like my life in this world was insignificant or meaningless. I was lost because I had no people. You make me feel special because you are my person. I know you know what it feels like to have a difficult (or even indifferent) relationship with your blood sister, so I am really happy that we get to be surrogate sisters for each other. I know that I will never replace your real family or your childhood friends (I have those people too), but I am so deeply grateful that we get to be like sisters to each other. We are able to discuss intimate details of our private lives that I don’t share with other people, just the way I imagine I would be able to talk to a mother or a sister. Until I had you, this type of intimacy was completely missing from my life. Because of you, I have “people.” Because of you, I can “ICE” my phone; before you, there was really no one to call. I love my birthday because I feel like it’s one day that I can feel special, it’s my day. I think it’s so cool that our birthdays are so close together because sharing birthday activities with you makes it that much better…and I look forward to celebrating many more of them together.
As I reflect on the past six years since I moved to Seattle, I am aware of how much I have enjoyed knowing you and having you in my life. From the first time we met at Seattle Vision Care, I knew we were going to be friends, but I am not sure if you know how profoundly you have affected my life and how grateful I am to have you for a friend.
You were my first girlfriend in Seattle, and due to the previous five years I had spent travelling, you were the first girlfriend with whom I have been able to establish and maintain a relationship in a very long time. I didn’t realize how much I had missed that, or how important it was, until I was building a relationship with you. Of course we bonded over our shared Texas roots, but it takes more than that to have a real friendship. I always thought that in order to have a friend, you have to be a friend first. You epitomized that to me with your bright, outgoing personality and willingness to be authentic. I felt like you took the initiative and went out of your way to be nice to me at a time when my life was in upheaval and I really needed a friend, which I something I have always appreciated.
You have always supported me both personally and professionally. I remember when I was working as a frame rep, you graciously shared knowledge of fitting eyewear with me. You never condescended to me or made me feel like I wasn’t good enough or shouldn’t be trying to do it. You helped empower me to be successful. You were so cool, you made eyewear cool! Even though I decided it wasn’t for me, I know that a lot of whatever success I attained was because of your assistance. Later, when I finally got the right job, my focus on building my career meant that I wasn’t able to spend as much time with you as I would have liked. You still supported me by visiting my spa(s) and sharing your experiences with others in a positive way to help promote my business.
During a person’s lifetime, they can expect to experience some loss, but most people do not experience it all at once. In a two year period, I lost my grandmother, my mother, my father, two jobs, my husband, and my baby. Words cannot describe what that was like, and how my life was changed. Through it all, I had you, and I can truly say that I have no idea how I would have coped if you had not been there for me, serving as an anchor when I felt completely adrift. The most awkward part was the aftermath, while I was trying to put my life back together and figure out “what next?” While other people abandoned me because they didn’t understand or know how to respond to my grief, you just accepted me and let me grieve, however it needed to be, and never judged, even though I did some (ridiculous? strange? awkward?) things. It’s easy to be a friend in “fair weather,” but you have always been someone I can rely on to be there for me no matter what. Whatever life is serving me, I know I can count on you to help me pick up the pieces or “make lemonade.”
I appreciate our differences and I sometimes marvel that we are so close because we are so different in some ways, but one thing that we share is our love of crafty things that involve tools. Sewing, painting, home improvement, gardening, all projects big and small, I know we will share them with the same level of enthusiasm. We do have overlapping and differing levels of experience and expertise, so whatever project comes up, at least one of us will have some idea of how to proceed. To paraphrase the old proverb, a job shared is halved and its products doubled. I have always not only appreciated, but thoroughly enjoyed, working with you on our myriad home improvement projects. And I deeply thank you for always being there to help me when I could not have done it alone. Here is a short list of things you helped me with: building two closets and a laundry room, installing three ceiling fans, installing baseboards, rearranging furniture, so much painting, packing and unpacking, and moving, moving, moving! I hope I always get to be your Tool Time Girl (because let’s face it, we both know you’re the Tim Taylor/Al Borland who knows more about tools and how they’re used).
Another thing I love sharing with you is the “great outdoors”. We have been riding our bikes around Seattle for six years and there is no one with whom I would rather go. I love our long rides and talks, spending that time together has been so important for me. You have been in this area for much longer than I have and I grateful for having you as my tour guide to so much of the beauty that the area has to offer from a bike seat. Although we have only been camping once, I know this year we are going to do a lot more and I can hardly wait. I feel like we have barely scratched the surface, and I am so lucky that I get to have a friend to do these things with.
I try to show that I care about you by being there for you, too. I bet you don’t know that I love making “Janet-friendly” food. I know it’s not fun to have food allergies, mine are no cake walk (pun definitely intended), but yours make mine look like nothing. I can’t imagine the daily challenges you go through to feed yourself in a healthy way, and I know you don’t always get sympathy. I think it’s probably a little weird, but I love it that you have these quirks because I love trying to make you feel special by catering to them. You seem so self-sufficient that I jump on opportunities to do something for you. I seriously do not mind making a separate portion of food because it gives me a chance to do something nice for you. And I love it when we eat out together because I have someone that I can feel normal around. In restaurants, I have to special-order my food or appear picky about something, which used to embarrass me around other people, but with you, we both get to be comfortable.
Anthropologist Margaret Mead said, “Nobody has ever before asked the nuclear family to live all by itself in a box the way we do. With no relatives, no support, we've put it in an impossible situation.” As a child from a “broken home,” I did not have that support, I did not often feel special, and I very often felt like my life in this world was insignificant or meaningless. I was lost because I had no people. You make me feel special because you are my person. I know you know what it feels like to have a difficult (or even indifferent) relationship with your blood sister, so I am really happy that we get to be surrogate sisters for each other. I know that I will never replace your real family or your childhood friends (I have those people too), but I am so deeply grateful that we get to be like sisters to each other. We are able to discuss intimate details of our private lives that I don’t share with other people, just the way I imagine I would be able to talk to a mother or a sister. Until I had you, this type of intimacy was completely missing from my life. Because of you, I have “people.” Because of you, I can “ICE” my phone; before you, there was really no one to call. I love my birthday because I feel like it’s one day that I can feel special, it’s my day. I think it’s so cool that our birthdays are so close together because sharing birthday activities with you makes it that much better…and I look forward to celebrating many more of them together.
Monday, February 10, 2014
26. Have a Nice Trip...See You Next Fall??
So I was reflecting on how I perceive what people communicate and
how I communicate back to them. I have realized that everyone hears things through "invisible filters" over their ears that are made up of the sum total of all their own experiences (including me). I know my ability to communicate competently was impaired by the way I was raised, and I have been working for a very long time to overcome it, and an article I read last week made me realize I still have improvements I can make and skills to learn. I became
very sad, and then instantly angry, bitter, and resentful when I thought about
how hard I have had to work to be a “normal”
person, and how pissed off (!!!!) I am that I am
STILL trying to untie the knots that my mother tied me in.
One thing the article said was, in reference to teaching and raising children, that while not always perfect, parents do the best they can. I wanted to jump out
of my chair; I was angry because that’s exactly what she
said. It infuriated and hurt me when she said that, because it totally discounts the fact that her
“best” was abusive. It’s like she is giving herself a free pass, when it is actually
a cop-out because she doesn’t want to admit that what she did was hurtful to
her child. If a student failed every test, do you think the teacher would let them pass the class if
they said, “But that was the best I could do.” No, I don't think so!
She has the
temerity to blame me for what she did because she says I was a “bad child;” why
the hell does she think I was a bad child? There was not a damn thing wrong
with me except I had grown wearisome of her mistreatment and old enough to stand up to her. In
fact, I was not a bad child at all, I was a normal child in a bad environment. I
resent so much that I had no one else to learn how to be a human from and that
I am still performing psychic surgery on myself to cut out the behaviors that
do not serve me, which I learned from growing up in a crazy house. I resent
that I did not learn how to interact and communicate with people in a
constructive way, making it impossible to relate to other children (or teens),
which had profoundly negative consequences for me as I grew up.
It is so hard
to let go of the hurt and the anger. I know these feelings are valid, yet do
not serve my purpose; I know that I cannot give in to them because that way
lies madness (I know, because I have taken that road before and it’s a
dead-end). I am not trying to deny my feelings, quite the opposite…venting
makes them less powerful. But I also cannot deny the effect that poor
communication skills had on my life, and I cannot deny that I am still dealing
with the repercussions.
In 1823, Michaelangelo
wrote the phrase “ancora imparo” on a diagram; it means “I am always learning.”
I have tried to adopt this phrase as an empowering aphorism, but I can’t help
wondering what my life would have come to if I had been able to apply the
Herculean effort I’ve put forth in just learning how to be normal into some
other constructive effort (instead of a reconstructive effort). I could have
been a physician, or an astronaut, or who knows what, instead of a person just
barely figuring out how to talk to people. She crushed me as surely as if she
had put my head in a vise, and for her to say that it was the best she was
capable of is far less than I deserve.
And I hate
that I continually have to move through this grief. Luckily I am way past
denial, I just feel the anger, engulfing me with an almost audible WHOOSH. The bargaining comes when I think, “well if I could
just (master this new skill), then I would be okay.” Immediately then I feel depression,
because I can’t believe I am STILL going through this and it is so damn
frustrating. I have to goad myself into acceptance, because I know there is no
other way.
I was
thirteen the first time I saw the Serenity prayer, and already a long-avowed
atheist, because I could not believe that there could be a God, if he was so
cruel as to trap me in such torment without respite or escape. I remember
exactly where I was, at a highway rest area off I-10 headed west though the
Florida panhandle, back to Texas after a road trip my mother had dragged us on.
There was a peddler selling decorative aluminum plaques, three for ten dollars.
My mother and my sister wanted souvenirs, so they bade me choose one because my
mother had to have a deal, even though I didn’t like any of them. I chose the
only one with just words, decorated with flowers and butterflies that made it
appear hopeful to me, even though I didn’t agree with the “God” part. It was a
long time before I finally understood the meaning of those words, and I was
later shocked at my first AA meeting to find out that other people knew them.
Since then, I can’t possibly count the number of times I have prayed to myself
for serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the
things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. I gotta tell you, it
works, but I had to practice a LOT.
I must seem melodramatic to speak
so of my mother. Please forgive me for not elaborating on the morbid details of
my mother’s treatment of us, and let’s not even mention dear old dad. I feel
like a friggin’ cliché as it is. A veritable Lifetime movie of the week. I
don’t want to be defined by my past. I guess that’s why I worked so hard to
overcome it, and why I hate it when its effects keep coming up. I know I am
doing well to be self-aware, and to apply the tools that come my way. I don’t
mean to come across as negative. It’s a journal, I get to talk about feelings,
that’s good, even if the feelings I’m having are messy. I don’t want to have
emotional diarrhea on the people who have the misfortune to cross my path,
that’s what my goal of “maintaining relationships” is all about...not tripping
over my baggage. Because let’s face it, everybody has baggage. It’s not whether
or not you have baggage, it’s about whether or not you leave your suitcase of
emotional garbage out in your metaphysical living room, where you or people
visiting can trip over it, instead of safely stored away in an appropriate
place, where you can recognize it for what it is instead of trying to pretend
it isn’t there. See? Here? This is my suitcase. Oops! Don’t trip, step around,
nobody panic.
Just breathe.
Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
25. This Halloween, I am Thankful for...
'Tis the season for things that terrify, so I feel the time is ripe to share this tale of terror, even though 'tis a story of Thanksgiving, and not Halloween. However, it was an event that chills me to the bone to recount, and the shame of this moment has kept me silent for nigh on twenty years. It is an evil that dare not speak its name, nay, its name is tooted! For it is the story of The Toiletbreaker, the poo that shall live in infamy.
It was the fall of 1992. I had recently began dating a guy, let's call him Tom to protect his true identity. Tom had invited me over for Thanksgiving with his family. I had never met them before and was trying to be on my best behavior in their very nice home. After some light socializing, Tom's mother announced dinner was being served. I realised I felt the call of nature, so I quickly excused myself to the powder room before we ate. To my discomfort, I was conducted to a 1/2 bathroom off a short hallway connecting the kitchen to the dining room, where Thanksgiving dinner was being laid out for twelve people.
How could my body betray me at such an occasion? Apparently, my colon had brewed up an inopportune, enormous fecal specimen I like to think of as "the Toiletbreaker." This horrible monster was at least 12" long and filled the bowl in a giant U-shape, the ends of which protruded from the water like two terrible islands of malodorous bacteria. I was aghast when I saw what had come out of me! Immediately, without thinking of the consequences, I flushed the toilet in an effort to make it, and its residual odor, disappear, as if somehow, this nice happy family sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner a mere 3 feet away would be polluted by its very existence (who the fuck puts a toilet in between the kitchen and the dining room anyhow?).
Of course, the U-shaped turd collapsed in on itself and completely clogged the toilet after only passing halfway through the tunnel. My mortification rose with the water that quickly filled the bowl, and spilled over into panic as the water just barely spilled over the rim onto the floor. You can imagine my horror. I couldn't ask for help from Tom, everyone had just sat down to eat. There was no way I was going to admit what I had done, and there was definitely no way I was going to risk another flush, as the water would have literally leaked under the door and under the table where they were eating. I was trapped!
I had no choice but to try and solve this quandary myself. As quietly as a kid sneaking through a haunted house, I opened the door to the bathroom and snuck into the kitchen, looking desperately for any kind of non-porous implement I could use to push the offender through the hole and allow the toilet to flush. All that was available were the kitchen utensils Tom's poor nice mother had just used to cook Thanksgiving dinner. Panic was rising and sweat was beading on my brow, I could be caught at any moment! Finally, I spied a spatula, which I grabbed and hastily tiptoed back to the toilet.
Just as I got safely back inside, Tom's father passed by and asked me if I was ..."okay in there." I could not have been more mortified. I said I would be right out and sent a silent prayer to Commodus, Lord of Toilets for a speedy delivery, and I pushed that thing down to the hell to which it belongs! With a silent whoosh, the clog cleared and the toilet flushed! I heaved a sigh of relief. Then, I used toilet paper to sop up the minor spillage and wipe the "chocolate" residue from the bowl, being careful not to make another clog. Then I quickly went back to the kitchen, praying that no one would ask what I was doing with that spatula, and where did I get chocolate frosting??
I washed everything in the sink with bleach and stuck the damn spatula in the dishwasher just in time for Tom to come in and ask me what was taking so long. I said, "Oh the bathroom was out of soap, so I was just washing my hands in here, and washed a few dishes while I was at it."
Ha, Ha! I thought to myself, little do they know what a terrible person I am!
Tom said, "You're so thoughtful to help my mom clean up! But, you should come eat."
Somehow, I managed to sit down at the table and face those people, knowing I had totally defiled their house. I didn't think I would be able to come back for Christmas, because I was never going to eat anything cooked in that kitchen again.
Now in my defense (as if any were needed), I need to mention a salient point. At this time in my life, I was beginning to struggle with the more severe spectrum of side effects of undiagnosed celiac disease. It would take another 15 years before I would find a doctor who knew why I suffered from terrible gastrointestinal distress that would make attending functions such as this nice family dinner completely impossible for me in the not-too-distant future. I have far too many stories about me and unpleasant toilet situations which I have chosen to laugh at rather that be ashamed. After all, I'd rather laugh than cry. I can't help that I was sick, and let's face it, shit happens. And shit is funny.
The moral of this horror story is one I learned well... check your bathroom strategies first. Or, never, ever poop in your boyfriend's parent's house.
Here's hoping your Halloween is a little less scary!
It was the fall of 1992. I had recently began dating a guy, let's call him Tom to protect his true identity. Tom had invited me over for Thanksgiving with his family. I had never met them before and was trying to be on my best behavior in their very nice home. After some light socializing, Tom's mother announced dinner was being served. I realised I felt the call of nature, so I quickly excused myself to the powder room before we ate. To my discomfort, I was conducted to a 1/2 bathroom off a short hallway connecting the kitchen to the dining room, where Thanksgiving dinner was being laid out for twelve people.
How could my body betray me at such an occasion? Apparently, my colon had brewed up an inopportune, enormous fecal specimen I like to think of as "the Toiletbreaker." This horrible monster was at least 12" long and filled the bowl in a giant U-shape, the ends of which protruded from the water like two terrible islands of malodorous bacteria. I was aghast when I saw what had come out of me! Immediately, without thinking of the consequences, I flushed the toilet in an effort to make it, and its residual odor, disappear, as if somehow, this nice happy family sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner a mere 3 feet away would be polluted by its very existence (who the fuck puts a toilet in between the kitchen and the dining room anyhow?).
Of course, the U-shaped turd collapsed in on itself and completely clogged the toilet after only passing halfway through the tunnel. My mortification rose with the water that quickly filled the bowl, and spilled over into panic as the water just barely spilled over the rim onto the floor. You can imagine my horror. I couldn't ask for help from Tom, everyone had just sat down to eat. There was no way I was going to admit what I had done, and there was definitely no way I was going to risk another flush, as the water would have literally leaked under the door and under the table where they were eating. I was trapped!
I had no choice but to try and solve this quandary myself. As quietly as a kid sneaking through a haunted house, I opened the door to the bathroom and snuck into the kitchen, looking desperately for any kind of non-porous implement I could use to push the offender through the hole and allow the toilet to flush. All that was available were the kitchen utensils Tom's poor nice mother had just used to cook Thanksgiving dinner. Panic was rising and sweat was beading on my brow, I could be caught at any moment! Finally, I spied a spatula, which I grabbed and hastily tiptoed back to the toilet.
Just as I got safely back inside, Tom's father passed by and asked me if I was ..."okay in there." I could not have been more mortified. I said I would be right out and sent a silent prayer to Commodus, Lord of Toilets for a speedy delivery, and I pushed that thing down to the hell to which it belongs! With a silent whoosh, the clog cleared and the toilet flushed! I heaved a sigh of relief. Then, I used toilet paper to sop up the minor spillage and wipe the "chocolate" residue from the bowl, being careful not to make another clog. Then I quickly went back to the kitchen, praying that no one would ask what I was doing with that spatula, and where did I get chocolate frosting??
I washed everything in the sink with bleach and stuck the damn spatula in the dishwasher just in time for Tom to come in and ask me what was taking so long. I said, "Oh the bathroom was out of soap, so I was just washing my hands in here, and washed a few dishes while I was at it."
Ha, Ha! I thought to myself, little do they know what a terrible person I am!
Tom said, "You're so thoughtful to help my mom clean up! But, you should come eat."
Somehow, I managed to sit down at the table and face those people, knowing I had totally defiled their house. I didn't think I would be able to come back for Christmas, because I was never going to eat anything cooked in that kitchen again.
Now in my defense (as if any were needed), I need to mention a salient point. At this time in my life, I was beginning to struggle with the more severe spectrum of side effects of undiagnosed celiac disease. It would take another 15 years before I would find a doctor who knew why I suffered from terrible gastrointestinal distress that would make attending functions such as this nice family dinner completely impossible for me in the not-too-distant future. I have far too many stories about me and unpleasant toilet situations which I have chosen to laugh at rather that be ashamed. After all, I'd rather laugh than cry. I can't help that I was sick, and let's face it, shit happens. And shit is funny.
The moral of this horror story is one I learned well... check your bathroom strategies first. Or, never, ever poop in your boyfriend's parent's house.
Here's hoping your Halloween is a little less scary!
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