Breathe in, Breathe out

She died   a famous woman   denying

her wounds

denying

her wounds   came    from the same source as her power

—–Adrienne Rich

Zephyr often comes into my bedroom early in the morning to sift through my clothes, deciding what she might want to borrow.  Sometimes she asks, and sometimes she usurps. Sometimes I ask her to take them off, sometimes I say sure, go ahead, and sometimes I look the other way, pretending not to notice she has on my new t-shirt or leggings or boots.

Sometimes she just wants to use my sink, because the hot water comes out quicker. She often asks me to braid her hair in the roughly ten minutes we have left before rushing to school. I still need to choose an outfit, or I want to finish an assignment, but I look at her when she speaks. I watch her as she toys with her golden hair, a coy supplication that melts me. I love this girl.  No matter how she looks at me, no matter what words she uses to ask, no matter what time it is or what I have left to accomplish, I braid her hair.

I know this won’t last. I know the backwards-side-french-braid she requests is only a phase, and she will grow out of it.  I know she will not always live with me, that she will not always steal my clothes, that one day she will have nicer things of her own. So I ask her what style she wants today; I pause my own routine, and I braid her hair.  I haven’t once said no.

I have been told that love shouldn’t always be like this.  Sometimes we are supposed to say no. But my love for her isn’t complicated.  It isn’t fraught with compromise and worry for how she might take advantage of me or our bond.  As her mother, I have provided structure and discipline throughout her childhood, and I have set high expectations, but my love for her isn’t fraught with worry for the future. She knows who she is and how to ask for what she wants, and she freely accepts attention and praise when they are offered to her. I know eventually she will stop asking me to braid her hair, stop asking for my hot water and clothes and for sips of my morning coffee, but that won’t be the end of us.

I wish all love was as straightforward.

My friends say I don’t have high enough expectations.  They say I shouldn’t be nice to people who aren’t nice to me, or that it’s not healthy to love people who aren’t in a position to love me back.

They are undoubtedly right.

And yet.

I don’t give love in order to receive love. I love because it’s the air I want to breathe, the world I want to live in. Sometimes I love those who love me back. Sometimes I love those who hurt me. One love isn’t greater than the other. The practice of loving is the practice of loving.  Love is its own reward, regardless of the outcome.

Breathe in, breathe out.

My mother liked to quote Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof. She would say, “If I try and bend that far, I’ll break.” She recited a list of things that would break her: piercing our ears, dying our hair, listening to pop music, kissing a boy before marriage. She taught me that love requires high standards, and that to give it away is a weakness. So she never gave it to me, in actions or in words. She taught me not to need it, not to crave it, not to expect it. Not even when I behaved.

The first time I broke one of her rules, I apologized. I begged for her forgiveness. She turned her head from me, as if from Sodom. And she never looked back. I got degrees and gave her grandchildren. I earned money and bought her things I knew she needed. But she couldn’t look at me, couldn’t bend.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I refuse to use love as a negotiation tool. I don’t withhold love until I get what I want, or require people to earn it or to behave in ways I want them to. If I can’t love someone exactly as they are, where they are, I’m not offering the air I want to breathe. Unlike Zephyr, I struggle to accept love, but I will continue to offer it unabashedly and completely, and I no longer see this as a source of shame. What I used to hate myself for, I no longer work to change. Yes, I love those who hurt me.  And yes, sometimes that gives them license to hurt me again. Does this sometimes cause me to suffer? Yes.

And yet.

As the Buddha says, life is suffering. (Or as Westley says to Buttercup, “Life is pain, Highness. And anyone who says anything else is selling something.”)  To deny suffering is to deny reality and to suffer more.  Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is painful.

But not, I think, as painful as not loving.

As you please

Before I fell out of love with God and my grandfather, I helped my grandmother cook and serve at formal functions called Leaders’ Dinners. She would labor over meats, sauces, potatoes, vegetable medleys and custards for days, and serve them up, once a month, to 50 men on Monday nights. Grandfather was proud of her delivery, and so was I. Sometimes, she asked me to help serve, reminding me with pursed lips that I was to be seen and not heard, that this meeting was for men of God, and I was to fill glasses and transport plates, moving my body in service to our Lord, my head used only to ascertain what was needed and nod, my mouth opening only to smile.

Grandma served everything on Enoch Wedgwood Turnstall Limited China, an English Harvest pattern featuring fall-hued fruit and foliage. When she died over a decade ago, the Leaders Dinners were things of the past, and no one wanted or cared about the relics. I saw the dishes in the stack to be donated, and I paused for a moment. Then for no known reason, I scooped up the boxes, put them into my back seat of my car, took them home, and carried them down the stairs to be stored in my basement. My house was full of children, and I never served formal dinner parties, to men or anyone else. The boxes collected dust, and I let them.

As my children began growing past their childish things, we began storing their boxes in the basement. As the spaces filled up, I saw no use for Grandma’s dishes, and thought it was about time I gave up my semi-sentimental hoarding. But then I opened the first box and I was hit with a palpable thought. I don’t need these dishes, because I eat on plastic. These are the kinds of dishes men are served on.

One by one, I transported the dishes into the dishwasher, and ran load after load, until they were all clean. I stacked them in my hutch, behind glass, where I could see them. I hated what they represented, hated that they triggered anger in me from abuses of power I have struggled to forget; yet there they were, stacks and stacks of white china plates and bowls and saucers and serving trays, rimmed in gold, with delicate fall foliage. They became an art installation I viewed with indecision, contemplating daily why they were there.

And then one day, my friend came over and I spontaneously served her tea from Grandma’s Wedgwood teapot, pouring the hot liquid into a dainty cup like a proper hostess, setting a cookie on the rim of the matching saucer. I clumsily apologized for the formality, and told a story while I poured. She paused and said, “this is really quite beautiful.”

The next week, I served dinner for two on the plates. The next week, for the whole family, adding the accompanying salad plates. The next holiday, I served twenty-two people with her Wedgwood platters and saucers and butter containers, scooping sauces and pouring refills of wine into the matching coffee cups, telling stories, clinking toasts, moving through the room laughing at the endless pieces and the endless mess, a woman welcomed around and at the table.

Now I eat on her china daily. And not a single piece of her collection has exploded from the blasphemy.

Grandma spoke with the labor of her hands. I have both her dishes and her work ethic, but I also have a voice. Grandma’s china reminds me to use it.

Resistance

“This, to me, is the ultimately heroic trait of ordinary people; they say no to the tyrant and they calmly take the consequences of this resistance.” —  Philip K. Dick

I was raised in a religious cult, founded and led by my grandfather, a man who shared many of Donald Trump’s attitudes, mannerisms, and values, as well as his mercurial temperament. Our community worshipped him. He lied about where he came from, where he went to school, who is was loyal to, the translations of God’s word, fiscal management, and the dangers of the outside world. But none of that mattered to his followers, who didn’t fact-check, who weren’t trained in logic, who wanted a man who could lead. In a predominantly male organization, he bullied women, used his charisma to advocate for a hierarchy of dominance, and taught us to trust in God’s plan.

Where I came from, the closer a man was to my grandfather, the more power he had, and the more access he had to children. Men who loved my grandfather–powerful, godly men–had the freedom to grab me by the pussy. I was seven years old the first time I remember this happening.

The majority of the sex I knew about was unwanted. By men who didn’t offer pleasure or emotional safety. For most of my life, I didn’t know I could feel good, or even that I deserved to. I was a receptacle for a man’s pleasure and need, and for the most part, I was comfortable with that. My grandfather taught me that sex was something a man did to a woman, and if you were married to him, or he had authority, you let him. Sex was something a good woman let a man do to her, because God created us out of man’s rib, to be his helpmate, and it is an honor to serve.

My grandfather still shared a bed with my grandmother until the day he died. I lived with them for a few years in my early teens, and I often watched my grandmother kneel by her bed, sobbing to the Lord, her God. I never asked her why. Where I come from, there is a lot we don’t talk about.

I dedicate my resistance to my grandmother, who never knew she could say no. Who was grabbed by her pussy her whole life, and never knew she deserved better.

 

Sally

Sally, my only full sister, and I don’t have a lot in common. We both share fairly intense blue eyes, but otherwise we barely look related. She’s fair-skinned, blonde, and short. She looks just like our mother, Kathy. I’m darker, olive-skinned and brunette. I look Sicilian, just like my father. I’ve always been a little bit of a brute, big and aggressive. Sally and I have spent a lot of time together. For our whole childhood, we shared a room and sometimes a bed—and, for a short time when we didn’t have a bed, just space on the floor under a single pink blanket. Despite all of this time together, and despite the fact that I’m only a year and a half older than her, our relationship has always been strained. She’s more sensitive, analytical, and optimistic. I’m more quick to anger, more reactionary. She’s prone to posting inspirational quote memes on Facebook and I’m prone to rolling my eyes. Once, when we were teenagers, she made me angry and I shoved her hard, sending her flying into our closet. She was nothing in my hands. Seconds later, I felt horrible. I had wanted to hurt her, badly, and it had been so easy.

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dust devils

Scientific American calls dust devils “mini-weather systems.” They arise on hot, calm, clear days. In Calimesa, where we lived, we didn’t watch the weather report for months and months. We knew exactly what were going to have. Hot. Calm. Clear. Every. Day. The air was still. Lizards shifted between baking rocks. Sometimes I’d catch the babies, let them tickle the palms of my hands before letting them go. The field in the center of my father’s property was all brown, dusty earth and tumbleweeds. The tenant kids and my sister and brother and I congregated in the field and waited. The sun washed over us, hot, and we squinted into it. We never wore the sunscreen I now slather on my kids before they go outside in the summer. We could count on part of the ground heating up, creating the necessary invisible column of hot air. We could count on the calm being broken by a gust of wind, forcing cooler air to collide with the column, forcing the dirt below to swirl up and form a dirt tornado, as we called it. We didn’t know any of the science. It was pretty and exciting and a little bit magic. It was summer and there was nothing to do on Roberts Road, a street we shared with a farm, a junk yard, and a horse ranch. Nothing much happened here. We ran towards our miracle of weather, a rough pack of kids with dirt under our nails, joyful, yelling. You have to close your eyes in the center of those storms, or dust and twigs and bits of trash get into your eyes. But it’s hard to contain your smile, so when the devil dies down as quickly as it started, when your hair is all whipped up around you and sweat is running down your face, and you can feel your heart beat and your skin is warm, you slide your tongue across your teeth to discover the layer of grit you expect. The taste is not unpleasant.

forthcoming

Hello,

I am on a ten-month sabbatical working on a book project. I always had a million jobs and a million babies, which have conveniently distracted me from doing that thing I always said I wanted to do–writing. I love teaching. But I teach writing, and I’ve never actually committed to doing it. In just these first three weeks, I have written and read more than I have in years. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but as a professor friend recently told me, “You can’t arrange the furniture when you don’t have any furniture.” My bluff has been called, and it’s a little scary. I don’t enjoy not having control over things, but I’m trying to let that go a little, and let this project emerge. Right now, it looks like a series of essays, about my mother and me, about what it means to be a mother, wife, parent, lover. I’m digging deep, y’all, and getting vulnerable, and hopefully writing something that isn’t just an exercise in narcissism. So each week, I’ve decided to publish just a paragraph of what I’m currently working on, to keep myself honest.

So here’s the first paragraph I’m posting. Thanks for reading. Thanks for sticking with me on this inconsistent blog.

From “Leaving”:

When I was four, my mother, Kathy, left my brother and sister and me out on on her front porch. Our clothes and toys were stuffed in garbage bags and slumped next to us. With the slam of a screen door, and the efficient click of a lock, we were suddenly not inside. No grown ups. A different kind of quiet. The sound of air, only, maybe bugs. This was not right. I began to cry. I jiggled the door knob. There was chipped paint, dust on the porch. A chain link fence surrounding a dried out front yard. Clusters of dead grass amid larger patches of dirt. I’ve never been the kind to quietly accept. I began to scream. Tears streamed hot down my face. I tried to look in the window, to fix this. Sally and David were there, of course, but only incidental, blurry within the fog of my rage. It’s the feeling I remember most, like an explosion inside of my skin, a feeling that has since become a close friend. Sally was a toddler, and David only a baby. I was too young to be responsible for them. I was probably scaring them. Even then, my emotions spilled everywhere, infecting everyone. Eventually, my father pulled up, tossed our garbage bags into the bed of his pick-up. This was the end of their divorce. Kathy wasn’t the kind to give up easily either, but the courts had commanded it. She was a bomb, detonated, everything in its radius collateral damage. I never saw that house again.

 

 

 

 

 

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the center of the storm

Today I ran around like a maniac grading papers and taking the kids school shopping and buying groceries, like usual. I’m always going a thousand miles per hour, and any day or moment everything could collapse. In fact, it’s guaranteed it will. Life is brutal and we walk around in denial because it would be impossible to look at it directly all of the time. That’s not bad; it’s an important social skill, and in fact it’s kind of comforting. It connects us. Here’s one message from Patton Oswalt, currently in the center of that storm we all agree to mostly ignore in order to avoid fits of rage and despair when, say, waiting in line at the bank, or standing inside of an elevator. It just makes me want to hold the people I love more closely before they are taken away:

Thanks, grief.

Thanks for making depression look like the buzzing little bully it always was. Depression is the tallest kid in the 4th grade, dinging rubber bands off the back of your head and feeling safe on the playground, knowing that no teacher is coming to help you.

But grief? Grief is Jason Statham holding that 4th grade bully’s head in a toilet and then fucking the teacher you’ve got a crush on in front of the class. Grief makes depression cower behind you and apologize for being such a dick.

If you spend 102 days completely focused on ONE thing you can achieve miracles. Make a film, write a novel, get MMA ripped, kick heroin, learn a language, travel around the world. Fall in love with someone. Get ’em to love you back. 

But 102 days at the mercy of grief and loss feels like 102 years and you have shit to show for it. You will not be physically healthier. You will not feel “wiser.” You will not have “closure.” You will not have “perspective” or “resilience” or “a new sense of self.” You WILL have solid knowledge of fear, exhaustion and a new appreciation for the randomness and horror of the universe. And you’ll also realize that 102 days is nothing but a warm-up for things to come.

And…

You will have been shown new levels of humanity and grace and intelligence by your family and friends. They will show up for you, physically and emotionally, in ways which make you take careful note, and say to yourself, “Make sure to try to do that for someone else someday.” Complete strangers will send you genuinely touching messages on Facebook and Twitter, or will somehow figure out your address to send you letters which you’ll keep and re-read ’cause you can’t believe how helpful they are. And, if you’re a parent? You’ll wish you were your kid’s age, because the way they embrace despair and joy are at a purer level that you’re going to have to reconnect with, to reach backwards through years of calcified cynicism and ironic detachment. 

Lose your cool, and you’re saved. 

Michelle McNamara got yanked off the planet and out of life 102 days ago. She left behind an amazing unfinished book, about a horrific series of murders that everyone — including the retired homicide detectives she worked with — was sure she’d solve. The Golden State Killer. She gave him that name, in an article for Los Angeles Magazine. She was going to figure out the real name behind it. 

She left Alice, her 7 year-old daughter. But not before putting the best parts of her into Alice, like beautiful music burned onto a CD and sent out into the void on a spaceship.

And she left me. 102 days into this. 

I was face-down and frozen for weeks. It’s 102 days later and I can confidently say I have reached a point where I’m crawling. Which, objectively, is an improvement. Maybe 102 days later I’ll be walking.

Any spare energy I’ve managed to summon since April 21st I’ve put toward finishing Michelle’s book. With a lot of help from some very amazing people. It will come out. I will let you know. It’s all her. We’re just taking what’s there and letting it tell us how to shape it. It’s amazing.

And I’m going to start telling jokes again soon. And writing. And acting in stuff and making things I like and working with friends on projects and do all the stuff I was always so privileged to get to do before the air caught fire around me and the sun died. It’s all I knew how to do before I met Michelle. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do now without her.

And not because, “It’s what Michelle would have wanted me to do.” For me to even presume to know what Michelle would have wanted me to do is the height of arrogance on my part. That was one of the many reasons I so looked forward to growing old with her. Because she was always surprising me. Because I never knew what she’d think or what direction she’d go. 

Okay, I’ll start being funny again soon. What other choice do I have? Reality is in a death spiral and we seem to be living in a cackling, looming nightmare-swamp. We’re all being dragged into a shadow-realm of doom by hateful lunatics who are determined to send our planet careening into oblivion.

Hey, there’s that smile I was missing!

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Brock Turner is not a monster.

There were so many almosts.

My stepdad, Terry, used to give me a massage before bedtime every night, on the rare occasion I was visiting my mother. My face flushed warm when he peeled my pajama bottoms down a tiny bit, pretended his fingers were the legs of jungle animals, the crack of my ass the river. I never told him no. I was only five. It never went farther than that, fortunately. I believe that is simply because I didn’t seem him often enough. Terry was not a monster.

My stepmom is from Mexico. I was eight years old the first time I visited, but I was already the same height as the men and women there. I don’t know if men thought I was a woman already, or if that would have made a difference. I was an exotic creature there, the only American I saw the entire trip. Grown men touched my hair as I walked in the street. Their whistling at me was constant. I felt their eyes all over my body everywhere I went. I was eight years old. They were not monsters.

My stepmom’s brother Rogelio used to watch my sister and me sleep. He was only visiting, but visits from Mexican relatives aren’t for, like, a weekend. They extend for weeks and months. Was it a whole summer he was there? I would wake to find his face inches from mine. I’d flinch. There is a feeling we women know well, even before we are women. It makes our stomach twist, our skin strange, our jaws tense. Our bodies sound alarms before we even know what they are sounding against. I don’t know if Rogelio ever touched my sister or me. We were sleeping. Rogelio was not a monster.

In high school, I was big, strong, poorly dressed, acne-ridden. I wore huge men’s athletic sneakers, and never knew what to do with my hair. I only felt comfortable in my body playing sports, martial arts, pole vaulting, basketball. In P.E., the girls avoided sweat and gossiped in pockets of shade, and I was the only girl the boys would pick for their team. Those girls were a separate species. I, on the other hand, was red-faced, sweating profusely through my gym clothes, hair all over the place.

No boy wanted to kiss me. Until one boy did. But the first time this boy got me alone, he kissed me violently, cutting my lip, shoved his head between my legs, groped my breasts. I didn’t want him to, and I was strong enough and big enough to push him away, but I didn’t. I didn’t say or do anything, in fact. I couldn’t. I froze. I was saved by the rumble of the rising garage door at my parents’ house. He was not a monster.

When I told my stepmom about Rogelio, she grew very, very angry. Angry with me. When I went to them for help, my parents both told me boys only want one thing. What did I expect?

I have had two serious stalkers. Men have revealed their penises to me in the parking lot of Target, while driving through Los Angeles, through the window of a liquor store. Men have masturbated next to me on the Muni in San Francisco, rubbed their dicks against my body on the subway in New York. A couple of years ago, a former student came to visit me in my office, and then went in for a hug. He held me too long, sweating into my clothes. He slid his hand down my back and grabbed my ass. He then ran off and did the same to several other female professors. I have a phone filled with the unsolicited photographs of men’s penises from my brief stint of online dating. None of these men were monsters.

I’m not alone. You already know that. You also know I’ve had it so much better than most of my female family members and friends have. Almost every female friend and family member I know has been raped, assaulted, and/or physically or sexually abused in some way by a man. I’m lucky nothing worse has happened to me. I’m fortunate to be big and strong, to seem unapproachable to many men. But is “lucky” really the right word here?

What do we expect from men, to address my stepmother and my father’s question?

The answer, of course, is not very much.

Brock Turner is not a monster.

Yesterday, my friend Sarah posted on Facebook, “Let’s not pretend that the Stanford swimmer is a monster or that the attitudes in his father’s apologist letter are remarkable.”

And that is it, exactly. We make Brock Turner out to be a monster, and that is very convenient. But what he did is so normal and widely accepted that he and his father are bewildered by the concept that he did anything wrong. Why are we surprised? Why are we outraged? Here are statistics on sexual violence in the U.S. We all know Brock Turner. We made Brock Turner.

Let us channel this outrage. Let us expect more from our men. Let us listen to our women. Let us change.

 

 

 

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Sonnet 42 as it intersects Light of Love: How Sad ladies write the prose of my heart

I once took a literature class where different genres of writing were surveyed. We had the novel, the short story and the poem. We had to write a paper for each style. When I wrote my paper for the poetry section, I wrote about two ladies: Edna St. Vincent Millay and Dorothy Parker. I compared and analyzed their respective poems, Sonnet 42: What Lips my Lips Have Kissed, and Light of Love. I had just recently lost my virginity and it was awful. I lost seven pounds, wait, that was actually pretty cool. I felt disgusted with myself. I felt broken. I felt exposed. Most of all, I felt worthless. I was 22, and those poems spoke to my broken heart and body.

Since then, I have only been involved with 21-23 year olds. I grow older (I am 28,) but they stay young. I blame it on my Dorian Gray syndrome. Damn I look good, but I am nothing but rotten, broken, and ugly inside. And I am cursed, a side effect of growing up in an unorthodox Mexican-Catholic household. I look at myself and I wonder if perhaps I am just plain too ugly to be loved. I think about what makes me me and I think, maybe I’m too conceited about my work to be interesting. Maybe I’m not quirky and submissive enough to be cute. I’m just a fat ugly angry feminist that boys (BOYS) find repulsive the next morning. I’m a mistake. I’m a pity fuck. I’m a drunk fuck.

None of that is true, of course, but in the deepest depressions that boys conjure up within me, it all feels so painfully true. I semi-fucked a 22 year old, and I fucked my ex-lover (28) in the same week. Ironically, it was the ex-lover who made me feel better about myself. We have the oddest (and unhealthy) connection, so I told him about my woes with the 22-year-old incident. Incident. It’s the old “he’s ignoring me after sexing me” story. Over and over, I get told to not mess around with early-twenty year olds. I get the funniest anecdotes, “Like my aunt says, ‘don’t mess with young guys, you can still smell the similac on their breath.’” They’re not mature enough to communicate effectively, or to have the proper decency of not ignoring someone so cold. But, young or old, male or female, people do not know how to handle MY communication, MY honesty and MY vulnerability.

Someone once told me I was too intense. It was not a bad thing, but that the intensity of my honesty scares people. I’ve been told at work that my co-workers cannot handle my transparent communication. In my un-feminist crevice I just think, “pussies.” I suppose it is something I need to tone down, and it is a principle that sometimes works against me. I’ve learned to just tackle things head on, rather than let feelings and thoughts marinate into something nasty and sad. But, toning it down might be a practical solution.

My ex-lover told me not to take it personal, but I suspect he said that because he was once a 22 year old that was fucking me and had no attachment to my heart. So he thought, but that is neither here nor there now. His sympathies were biased. It was personal. The friendship that I built up with the 22 year old was a bit strange, but it felt nice to have someone listen to the idiotic nonsensical fantasies that I have about Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. It was nice to have someone make an effort to have coffee with me. It was nice to talk on the phone. It was nice to receive compliments. It was nice.

And it was a mistake.

Sonnet 42: What Lips my Lips Have Kissed

 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning, but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

Sunday hurt as it rained all summer day. Rain as rare as affection in July, laid bare next to me. In the awkward hours of the night when it intersects with the dawn, he held me and stroked my arm, and at times I let our fingers interlock. In my gut, I knew I should have pushed him out the door as soon as we were done.

Joy stayed with me a night —
Young and free and fair —
And in the morning light
He left me there.

Then Sorrow came to stay,
And lay upon my breast
He walked with me in the day.
And knew me best.

I’ll never be a bride,
Nor yet celibate,
So I’m living now with Pride —
A cold bedmate.

He must not hear nor see,
Nor could he forgive
That Sorrow still visits me
Each day I live.

 

Dorothy Parker

 

I have felt this loneliness since I first attempted to make love, but it was just a fuck gone wrong. It extended to years of stubborn love. In between, I kissed ugly boys who were just as ugly as me. This reoccurring theme of being a mistake breaks me in these melodramatic ways. I write self-indulgent prose where I dilute myself into thinking it’s important, it’s different, and it’s edgy. It’s melodramatic and insane. I carry the weight of those mistakes on my salty face and my sunken eyes. I am a descendant of the howling woman who scares men away in those awkward hours between dusk and dawn.

Don’t fuck with writers. We are the exhibitionists who keep their clothes on while you lay naked.

the chance to try

I think I have maybe two friends on Facebook who think their religion should be legislated and were upset today, quiet and/or cryptic on social media. The rest was all rainbows, rainbows everywhere, and love and celebration, with one important exception.

My FB friend R said, “I find myself watching the live feed of the Reverend Clementa Pinckney’s funeral right now and let me say there is no more poignant reminder of the resiliency and fortitude–so quintessentially American–than the hall full of people celebrating a rich and important life so cruelly taken by evil. The celebration of marriage equality and the celebration of this great man are two sides of the same coin, bitter and sweet, I think–a call to action for all of us. I will strive to be more present in my own life and act to make my country one I am prouder and prouder to live in.”

Obama’s eulogy moved me:

http://www.cnn.com/2015/06/26/politics/obama-charleston-eulogy-pastor/

R’s post moved me.

Things are fucked up. They are so fucked up. I think and hope we can celebrate and mourn at the same time. It’s never just one or the other. It was a surprise for me this morning when things were not fucked up for a second, and I think that’s the outpour of delirious joy I saw and felt today about the Supreme Court decision. It was just, yes, finally, people aren’t being assholes to each other.

But, of course, people are still being assholes to each other. That’s why I swore off the comments section of basically anything. That’s why R is right and we have to keep working and try to make this place better. Because it seems like things don’t change and then they do, like they did today, and it makes you want to keep going.

Justice Kennedy said this, which you’ve probably already read:

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And I almost cried, but I’m missing something probably so I didn’t. And I almost thought marriage was a good thing again, for a second.

My friend J said, “Yes, yes Justice Kennedy, it’s such a beautif– wait no it’s still pretty fucking hard and complicated.”

That made me laugh.

I’m obviously not successful at marriage, or relationships, having just come fresh out of two failures. But I guess what I still like about the idea of marriage is that it’s a beautiful and optimistic thing to say I love you so hard I want to live with you FOREVER and even if for some people it doesn’t work out and even if some people are secretly sad and desperate, shouldn’t everyone have the chance to try?

That’s a rhetorical question. Yes, they should have the chance to try. And now they do.

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