Category Archives: politics
2020: a year that will live in infamy.
It’s been hell.
Let’s flash back: After hearing rumblings of a new pneumonia-like illness spreading across Wuhan, China, we all dutifully followed the social media coverage of the chaos and confusion unfolding overseas. First in east Asia, then onboard various cruise ships, and then–seemingly all of the sudden–it was everywhere…initially arriving in America as a faint whimper, then erupting into an earth-rattling roar. Do you remember where you were when the world shut down and the streets grew silent? I do. All those photos of deserted downtowns, of animals reclaiming their territory, of nature literally healing. But, it wasn’t until the news broke that the NBA was CANCELING the remainder of the season that I fully understood how big this thing really was, how much our lives were about to change. Of course we know where it went from there, but that was a pivotal moment…one where we all had to make an important decision regarding our approach to life in a pandemic. Some of us went with sacrifice, solidarity and public safety….while others clung to selfishness & self-interests.
Now, I had planned on composing an essay tonight that would serve as a send-off to the year that changed everything. I wanted to close-out this nightmarish chapter in my own way–to regurgitate lessons I’d learned, wisdom I’d gleaned, knowledge I’d gained, etc. over the past twelve months. I thought it’d prove therapeutic to pour it all out on the page; to put a boldfaced period on this painful epoch, but now that it’s here, I suddenly have no interest…so I’m scrapping that well-intentioned, though ill-conceived plan. I mean, what else is there to say? And who honestly wants to read it? Nothing good came of this year. Not really, anyways. You know, they say that hindsight is 20/20. But, based on the general mood of, um, the ENTIRE FUCKING PLANET…I have my doubts that any of us intend on mining these memories any time soon–at least not in an intentional postmortem way. Onward and upward. Eternal sunshine that shit and let’s focus on the future.
I mean, a girl can dream, right? Listen, I’m cognizant of the reality that tomorrow won’t be significantly different from today, that the light we’ve been chasing will continue to elude–taunting us at the edge of the horizon, visible, yet still frustratingly out of reach. I recognize that tacking up a fresh new calendar on the wall won’t be the magical salve we all wish it were. But, it’s symbolically significant and I’m choosing to embrace that. I mean, it can’t get much worse, right? RIGHT!?
2020 will always be remembered as the year that COVID hit, a year in which a novel coronavirus simultaneously united & divided the entire world. Each and every one of us has been challenged by the same insidious foe, yet our responses to this threat could not have been more vast & varied. The solution seemed obvious: unite as one to defeat a common enemy, yet we opted to turn against one another instead. An event of this magnitude should have brought us all closer together, yet we let it drive us further apart. Now, don’t get me wrong, we DO have a strategy: socially distance, limit exposure, wear a mask and help slow the spread. It’s simple & proven effective. It works. Yet, somehow even that was too challenging for a significant swath of the population. A cloth facial covering, six-feet of space, and minimizing contact with others was the key to saving lives and we KNEW that (and we know it now!), yet millions and millions looked to their left, looked to their right, stared into the eyes of friends, family, and neighbors and said “fuck your health, fuck your safety, fuck your feelings, Viva Freedom!” These people chose to believe that protecting others from a deadly disease impeded on their rights as Americans, somehow failing to make the seemingly obvious connection between public safety and patriotism. We are at war. And there’s no way around it– if you’ve repeatedly refused to be a part of the solution, then you are a part of the problem. And yes, it starts at the top, which, unfortunately for us means that a clueless fascist has been calling the shots. I do blame him. I do, but it’s not JUST him. EVERYONE who has politicized this pandemic, who has mocked CDC guidelines as being weak, who has thrown parties or attended gatherings, who opposes wearing masks…is a backstabbing traitor to our country, and to all the citizens within it. It’s been appalling to watch so many I used to revere and admire behave so recklessly, so repulsively. There’s no doubt that this virus has the upper-hand here: It knows our vulnerabilities, leaving us susceptible & exposed, but, we’re not totally defenseless! We can wield control in this one specific way, but it takes everyone’s participation to be truly effective. And in a year where so much has been an out-of-focus blur, what’s become crystal clear is how many chose willful ignorance & deliberate selfishness over facts, science and common decency. That’s what I’ll remember, but god how I’d like to forget.
So, here’s the real point of this post: I want to express my deepest gratitude to all of you who have consistently done the right thing, who have made countless sacrifices for the greater good, who stayed home for the holidays, who have behaved responsibly & respectfully, who deferred to those more knowledgeable than themselves and who recognized that masks are a blessing, not a curse. THANK YOU. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your empathy, compassion, humility and integrity. You have been the best version of yourself all year, even when it was difficult, even when it felt impossible, even when you thought you were going fucking crazy….you powered through the loneliness, isolation, anxiety and fears all to keep your community safe. Many cannot say the same. You chose to do what was best for all, rather than what was best for yourself in that moment. That is commendable. Your courage & commitment to combating COVID has brought me great hope and comfort over the past ten months and I’m eternally appreciative for that….for you. You gave so much when some gave none…and your selflessness has literally saved lives. You are a hero. Don’t ever forget that.
You can write this off as a sanctimonious rant, but that says more about you than it does me. It’s undebatable that there is a right and wrong side of history here and I hope you’re comfortable with the choices you’ve made. Hopefully karma will sort everything out in due time. Until then, stay safe, stay vigilant and here’s to next year!
Tick tock.
11 days. My anxiety is building to a deafening crescendo that I can no longer ignore. It refuses to be ignored. It is vibrating throughout my body, bouncing off the corridors and caverns of my insides, and rattling within the folds & canyons of my mind. A discordant din where I vacillate between cautious (oh, so very cautious) optimism and abject fear. Those of us who believe that progressiveness is our nation’s only path forward have been here before & despite how torturously slow the past four years have felt– that irrecoverable evisceration, that immobilizing gut-punch of November 8, 2016 still burns as bright as if it were just yesterday. I wish it didn’t. That day is one of the worst I’ve endured in my 34 years & for a great many reasons, whether it be the whiplash of emotions, the naïveté and misplaced confidence in polling, the slow realization of what was happening as each polling location closed, and as each new projection rolled in like a wave–crushing my spirit, submerging me beneath it’s weight until I could no longer come up for air, dragging me to the floor, ensuring that I’d never take another breath. I was left stunned with a mixture of horror and disbelief. It’s a feeling I’d only experienced twice before—once when I was involuntarily committed to a psych ward and when, only 4 months prior to the election, the realization that my six year long relationship was truly over finally sunk in.
Those are memories that live on as clear as day, as vivid as when they were unfurling in real time–as miserable to relive as they were to experience. I’d give anything to forget, as I do not believe that they’ve made me stronger or more resilient, rather they’ve served to cripple me–planting a seed of deep mistrust & gnawing sense of terror. But the more you try to forget, the more they play on a loop–sometimes fainter & more quiet than others, but always there. The fear stands out most of all–that unshakable uncertainty, that unknown element looming ahead of me, that inability to escape or control my future. Trapped. Election night was like that. Hope died that day. My belief in America and Americans disappeared, almost like it never existed at all. I felt so alone in this deep, crimson county full of folks I grew up alongside yet no longer trusted or understood. I felt betrayed & disrespected, as a woman, as a lesbian, as a citizen. Everyone was celebrating, but I was grieving…I was mourning a significant loss, fully & utterly alone. My security felt as though it were stolen from me. It was a tragedy & I was alone. Of course, that’s only true physically & psychologically—as I understand that anyone who identifies as part of a minority group was afraid that day, too, and that’s because it means more to us. It wasn’t simply a matter of our team losing the big game, rather it was the fact that our rights were immediately at stake…any progress we had made over the past 8 years was stalled, any roads that we’d paved were in jeopardy of being washed away, every inch we’d moved forward could be pushed back upon. We now had to live in a suspended state of uncertainty, where stripping our rights was literally part of the party platform. And that’s where we still are.
Every morning when I wake up, I check the news–nervously anticipating what fresh hell this administration will bestow upon the world today. Every day. Thus far, I’ve rarely–if ever–been proven wrong. As if I’m stuck in a Groundhog’s Day scenario, where I must repeatedly be confronted by the reality that our President has no respect for others, where his behavior is abhorrent & detestable, where his demeanor is mean-spirited and petty, where he severs ties with allies & sours relationships with foreign leaders, where he demeans the office, where he endorses white nationalists through retweets, where he stokes the flame of unrest & division, where he only seeks to serve those who kiss his ring & kneel before him, where he blatantly lies & encourages conspiracy theories. Every day the bar is lowered. And every day the people of this nation are losing their sense of decency & empathy as a result. Every day their inner prejudices externalize a little bit more, their racist rallying cries grow louder, their narrow-minded myopia intensifies as their President emboldens them. Their hatred & hostility simmers closer to the surface. It starts at the top. He is changing how people behave and it’s heartbreaking to behold. And I am powerless. I have no choice but to trust those in swing states to make the right call this Election Day. Joe will win the popular vote. I believe that. But, that’s not enough & I can only control my one single vote, which I’m proud as hell to cast, but equally dread. I know exactly what the rest of the day entails. I’m scared. I can’t handle another defeat to a man like Trump, someone who represents and embodies everything I detest about human beings. He is a bad person, on top of being a bad leader. That makes it that much tougher to swallow the possibility of a second term. A re-election is an endorsement of how he’s presented himself for the past four years & I don’t know how to process that. I think it says so much about the personality of the electorate that they not only selected Trump as their candidate, but then chose him as our President. I’ll never forget that. I’ll never fully forgive that. But, I’m willing to accept that people make mistakes & can change. My faith, my future, is riding on those voters to come through & save America from itself, to ensure that we course correct, to help heal our nation. I’m not a religious person, but prayers & pleading are all I have. So, I shall turn to that. It’s all I can do. It’s simultaneously the most & least I can do.
Oil & Water: Police Officers handling of Mental Health Patients
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That money will be redirected to a wide variety of community programs and city departments, including Austin-Travis County EMS for COVID-19 response, MENTAL HEALTH RESPONSE, violence prevention, a family violence shelter and victim services.
Funds have also been shifted to parks and trails, abortion access, food access, substance abuse care and others”
Yup, my sole interactions with police officers centered around my mental health needs. And both times proved traumatic in ways that I can’t fully expound on. I can say that I was left scarred, feeling ashamed, embarrassed and as though I was an apprehended perpetrator…punished for some crime I never committed. The second time, I was cuffed–though never combative–and both instances had me riding in the back of a cop car. What was my offense, you may be wondering? Needing help. I wasn’t a guilty party at all, just someone who had suicidal thoughts. I was never violent. I was never problematic. I was never anything but polite, cordial, cooperative and absolutely PETRIFIED. These police officers didn’t even attempt to offer any words of encouragement, nor advice or guidance…absolutely nothing to comfort or calm, quell my fears or ease my anxiety. I’ve never found a police officer to be a welcome sight, only an intimidating presence to be wary of. And the last thing you want to see when you are at your lowest, your weakest, your most vulnerable is a stone-faced uniformed officer. Once they’re involved, you feel like a delinquent, like you did something deserving of punishment & you did nothing of the sort. And let me tell you something, those memories don’t fade. Those mental images stay fresh & vivid, continuing to haunt & taunt years after the inciting incident. Most of my recollection centers around how the cops made me feel, how they literally treat you as though you are guilty of something. It was evident almost immediately that they are simply not equipped to handle those situations, not able to be a pillar of emotional support for those struggling in such a specific way. We are in pain. We are afraid. We need TLC & kindness. We need to hear the right things from people who won’t hurt us or cause more damage. They simply cannot offer us that. The majority don’t know how. They’ve been trained to approach us as threats, armed & ready for any violence that might ensure, but many people in the midst of a mental health crisis don’t need to feel threatened by a weapon on a holster. We don’t need to be handcuffed. We don’t need to be feel scolded or handled like degenerates or troublemakers. We did nothing to deserve that. Cops don’t necessarily even have the right personality or demeanor to be placed in these sensitive situations. I can’t even blame them for that, I blame the system that deemed them an integral piece to this puzzle, who put them in charge of cases requiring gentility, patience, empathy & calm. At that time, all we need is understanding, someone to listen to us…REALLY hear us–and for someone to recognize that we have lost hope, but want to find it again. We want to have some reason to stay alive. We want to be noticed, to feel important, & seen. We need saving from ourselves & we need someone to care. And, from my own limited experience, I do not believe that most of them can master that. It’s not their domain. Ever hear of suicide by cop? Do some research into how ghastly the typical procedure is for handling a suicidal person in emotional distress. If a suicide threat is called in, and that person has a weapon, the cops respond by aiming THEIR weapon at the individual, asking them to drop it and expecting compliance. Nothing will escalate a situation QUICKER than that. These are people in crisis, already in a heightened state, and a threat will only elevate their adrenaline & anxiety. From what I can tell, there is an absolute misunderstanding regarding mental illness & nothing spotlights it more than those cases. They don’t know how to talk to people in the midst of a breakdown. Their default is to shout commands, not converse. They go into a situation with violence on the brain, but most of these people in pain aren’t an immediate danger to anyone but themselves. The best method, in this particular scenario, is to back up to a safe distance (and keep backing up) while utilizing a loudspeaker. Lives can be saved. THAT SAID, I was not an armed citizen. I never will be. I was not in the midst of harming myself. In one instance, I was just sitting in my apartment on my computer. And in the other, I was in an ER. Neither time should a police officer have been the sole individual assigned to speaking or interacting with me. I understand protocol. I understand regulations. I understand that perhaps they MUST be the ones transporting me to a psychiatric facility. But, you need a buffer. If I was given a choice between riding in the back of a squad car–alone–to a mental hospital OR riding with my family or social worker…. I’d have picked the latter! Instead I had to take this lonely, frightening, nerve-wracking sojourn with a cold, mute, armed stranger. I may have had alcohol in my system, but I won’t forget that trek–the orange glow of city street-lights, the contrast between the ashen concrete roads and walls against the blackened night sky….the stickiness of the plastic bucket-seats, the damning division of the metal cage, the crackling dispatch sounds, the uncertainty of what awaited me. This officer had confronted me with my private, personal poems & essays, reading them back to me in a “This you?,” type of manner–accusatory & judgmental. He had no context or knowledge of who I was or how I processed my emotions and he didn’t even pretend to care. Yes, the evidence was stacked against me when coupled with the sutured up neck wound, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that my family was right to have me committed (that time), but he had no business being a part of that process….and to have him play judge in this hospital-room trial, to have him sentence me to a mandated stay in a mental health facility was absolutely inappropriate & soul-crushing. It might be one of the worst memories I have. I deserved to be treated with more dignity than that. I deserved sympathy & genuine concern & compassion. I wanted that. I needed that. He treated me like a nameless, faceless entity who was just a routine part of the job rather than an actual person. I’ll never forget it. No matter what his intent, that was my interpretation & that is how it permanently imprinted on my mind. My second rendezvous with law enforcement was not as shocking, but still proved an unpleasant experience. This was the instance where I was cuffed. I was being transported to the local mental healthcare facility for what I’d said in a facebook conversation with a friend, who believed I was a threat to myself. I was furious, but never took it out on the officers. Fortuitously (believe it or not), upon arrival I blew a truly impressive .3 and was too inebriated to safely be committed. So, I was sent to the ER where I was monitored all night–fully awake & aware because, at this point in my alcoholism, I had built up quite the tolerance (though I’d go on to be very sick starting the next morning). It was during the early AM hours, that I was able to deal directly with a social worker…one who had a pleasant bedside manner & a warm, affable energy. He spoke to me like a friend, not a leper, not a criminal, and not just another case number. I felt comfortable & safe & was more than willing to be open & honest with him. And through our hour or so together, we came to a mutual understanding of where my head was at & he allowed me to go home. He didn’t think I mandated commitment & he was right–a cop would have never given me that freedom.
So, yeah, y’all might look at these budget cuts as the end of the world, where as I see it as a new beginning. If only things had been different back then, I’d have a less heartbreaking story to tell.
Do I deserve rights?
On June 15, 2020, the Supreme Court ruled that federal law protects LGBTQ workers from discrimination. As a gay Texan, I recognize how significant this decision is. I’m a born & bred native, thus painfully aware that this state doesn’t have my back or best interests at heart. Of course, this outcome won’t assuage all of our fears, nor cure all our woes, but it is a huge step in the right direction–offering up a layer of security we’ve not been privy to before. That’s huge. When the news first broke, my response was pure, unfiltered elation, but in the weeks since, I’ve found myself deep in reflection, looking back upon my own experiences growing up gay. Needless to say, it’s stirred up a lot of previously dormant memories within, dredging up certain elements from my past that I’d rather just forget. But, that’s not how the human mind works. So, instead of fruitlessly trying to outrun the inevitable, I’m opting to document my own history as a lesbian. I find it helpful to write & work through issues in real time and while I recognize that it might appear a bit tone-deaf to compose such a personal piece while people are dying, while bodies pile up in freezer trucks, while protesters pack the streets, while the nation is in crisis….the reality is that, being gay is, in & of itself, a radical act, and there is no wrong time to share our stories.
In the past month, I’ve noticed that armchair critics have crawled out of the woodwork en masse, infiltrating the festering bowels of the internet–aka the comment’s sections–to discuss, dissect and scrutinize the SCOTUS outcome. For the resident intellectuals, this public discourse is approached as a thought-experiment, where ideas are batted around & debated. They pick it apart, analyzing what type of constitutional interpretation justices utilized, hypothesizing about what the political ramifications might be, musing about lasting impact & what it will mean for lawmaking in the future. A part of me understands the desire to approach it this way, but as I sit & try to observe as an objective party, it proves impossible—this is not just a surface-level theoretical for me, it’s my life. I simply cannot remain unbiased on an issue that so directly impacts me & all of those falling under the LGBTQ umbrella–for us, this is not an abstract concept to be toyed with. It’s baffling how many have the luxury to just sit there with their cis-gendered, straight blinders on and question whether or not an entire group of American citizens deserve rights. The bulk of them have never once known what it was like to be deemed inherently lesser in the eyes of the majority. They don’t know how scary it is to walk the world as an “other,” how demoralizing & difficult it is to stay hidden, how exhausting it is to be in danger all the time. They don’t know what it’s like to live in a constant state of alert, where each stranger you pass on the street may take offense to your very existence, where each stranger is a potential threat. They just don’t get it. They can’t. This is a society where people like me have to wait for heterosexuals to bless us with their seal of approval & acceptance, wait for them to decide whether or not we deserve freedoms & rights. It’s pathetic & unfair, but it’s how it is. Those engaging in brainstorming exercises, where they write out pros & cons lists about the SCOTUS ruling, have no clue how obscene it is, how degrading, to have to beg like dogs for the equality that they were just born with. They’ll wake up tomorrow with their lives completely unchanged by the Court’s outcome, yet still find it fun to argue against that which grants us the assurance of stability, security and an income. I often wonder if they simply just don’t view us as people.
The hard truth is that the ruling majority will always find a way to suppress & subjugate the outliers. That’ll never change. Look at the past few years, while the LGB part of the acronym has become increasingly accepted by the American population, the T(trans) community has become more targeted & less tolerated. This is a textbook example of why it’s so important for us to stay banded together as a unit, so that we can protect & propel the entire movement forward. We are stronger as one. This is our fight & and we have to be able to rely on each other. Of course we love & appreciate our straight, cis-gendered allies, but it’s been my observation that many of them don’t seem to register how complicated their relationship to us actually is. They might say that they’re supportive, but asterisk it with a snide, “rubbing it in my face” quip. They might show up to Pride, but still believe being LGBT is a choice. They might wave a rainbow flag, but still think we’re going to Hell. They might say that gays are okay, but then support bakeries that refuse our patronage. There is A LOT of deep-seated, molecularly entrenched moral superiority that manifests itself in myriad ways—so built-in & ingrained that they might not even know it’s there. But, we do. We see it. It’s not uncommon for them to actually communicate these borderline offensive thoughts to our faces, expecting us to be inexplicably sympathetic to their internal strife…as they debate if we are their equals? As if we should thank them for this most basic extension of human decency. That’s impossible for me to comprehend. My human rights are not something we can just have a simple difference of opinion on. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.
America has a long way to go. Even today, from birth on, we are bombarded by hetero-normative, gender binary based imagery. We’re swaddled in pink or blue blankets. We’re christened with a conventionally feminine or masculine name. The men in the waiting room pass out celebratory cigars as the women flock to coo over the new baby. Boys get building blocks, girls get baby dolls. Boys get Tonka trucks, girls get tea sets. We’re read fairy tales where damsels-in-distress are rescued by heroic Prince Charmings….always sealed with a kiss & a Happily Ever After. Our parents tuck us in at night, lulling us to sleep with this tired narrative of what traditionalists believe love should look like–boy & girl, he & she, her & him. While the intention isn’t inherently malicious, the ripple effect stemming from these stories can be–as they not only serve to reinforce gender role stereotypes, but also subconsciously impart the notion that only straight couples should be celebrated, that only straight couples deserve happy endings, hell, that only straight couples even EXIST. And, yes, we, quite literally, have our faces rubbed in it. This wouldn’t be so problematic if we introduced more diverse fare into the mix, but that’s rarely the case–and when I was growing up it was completely unheard of. Our sole foundational introduction to relationships was through our parents & the lens of a sanitized, Disney-fied, white, heterosexual coupling. Those were the only portraits of love available and THAT is an issue. It wouldn’t be so subliminally sinister if all kids were destined to fit into that tidy little box, that standard storybook formula, but they’re not. We’re not. In essence, what was meant to comfort and calm will eventually grow to haunt and harm, as we slowly realize that our wants & desires don’t align with what those tales depicted. As far as our developing minds are concerned, there is only one type of love that society encourages & embraces, & no matter how much we try, no matter how much we repress, no matter how much we lie to ourselves & others, we simply cannot shape ourselves to fit that mold–not healthily & not honestly–and the toll that that takes on a child is unimaginable. We start to recognize fairly early on that we are different in a world that promotes sameness–an observation that is processed as proof that we’re broken, aberrant, deviant…an other, when all we want to do is be like everyone else, and that self-assessment doesn’t go away for a really long time, if ever. It’s difficult to fully accept yourself when your government–and even your friends & family– seek to strip you of your inalienable rights. It should come as no surprise how many of us grow up anxious, insecure & with bone-deep self-loathing, something that we carry with us for the rest of our lives. Sure, we might shed some, as we gradually learn to love what we’ve been taught to hate, but bits of that throbbing hurt will always linger, the pain of our past unshakable.
But, many of us do get to a healthy place in our journey of self-acceptance–and that’s something to be celebrated! Gay Pride is a badge of honor–something to be earned & cherished–a milestone marker on our personal path to affirmation, evolution and growth. We’re proud because we fought like hell to block out the noise, to tune out the homophobic din that rattles the walls of our insides, to dial down the odious, virulent rhetoric screamed in our ears, to erase the bigoted brainwashing of our youths. This transformation isn’t easy or inevitable–it drains you, it challenges you, it forces you to tap into that anguish buried deep within your entrails, as you work through that insidious, internalized disgust & shame. Nobody said it would be fun, but that moment where you finally emerge on the other side is so indescribably freeing. There’s this immense relief as you extricate yourself from the heavy weight of societal shackles–an exhilarating ecstasy that you are eager to share with everyone you meet. You want to shout it from the rooftops, emblazon it on your chest, tell every stranger on the street about the UNBRIDLED JOY you feel. It’s new, it’s real and it’s spectacular. You no longer hide, you no longer cower, you no longer view yourself as a leper to be feared, but a human to be loved. You finally grasp that YOU are not the problem…they are. And as the living, breathing embodiment of a Radical Political Act, it feels like our civic duty to stand-up, walk tall, speak loud & be seen. It’s the least we can do to honor those who came before us, who risked everything to challenge the system, to change public opinion, to push for progress. Any pride we feel, we owe to them & their commitment to selflessness & sacrifice. They were martyrs, they were heroes, they were…no…ARE everything to us. LGBTQ history is one rife with injustice & torment: endless, unabating persecution, rampant discrimination, systemic oppression and targeted abuse, and while it’s indisputably lessening, the battle wages on, the uphill climb continues, and we are STILL left scrounging for scraps. Politicians dangle this promise of dignity & fair treatment in front of us, yet each time a Republican gets elected to office, we are left in this uncertain, liminal space where we can never truly relax & exhale. They giveth and they taketh away, as if our lives are something to be played with, as if this is all a fucked up game to them–constantly reminding us how much control they have over our safety, security & sanity. It’s humiliating & unconscionable. But, that’s our reality. And that’s why we won’t shut up, why we won’t back down, and why we won’t let them silence us. We won’t let them forget that we’re here, we’re queer, GET OVER IT. We will not be their punching bag. Not now, not ever.
But, long before I was an out & proud member of the LGBTQ community, I was just a kid growing up in southeast Texas. Born in 1985, the bulk of my memories from youth are centered in the 90’s and early aughts. That’s the time-frame where my ideals were shaped, my perceptions were formed, my sense of self established. For as long as I can remember, I knew I wasn’t like other girls. I hated dresses, frills and pastels. I was more interested in practicality and comfort–shorts, sneakers and a tee shirt…things I could run & jump in without worry. Adults referred to me as a “tomboy,”–an outdated, archaic phrase attributed to those girls who shirked the standard staples of femininity. In my case, gender fluidity was not necessarily encouraged, but it was mostly overlooked. Kids want what they want & they are who they are & my parents mostly respected that. I wasn’t interested in Barbie, in fact, the only one I ever had was a WNBA player, so, instead, I collected Hot Wheels & Star Wars toys. Most of my free time was spent outside in the woods: climbing trees, splashing around in creeks, jumping off roofs & building forts. I rode bikes, I roller-bladed, I wrestled with the boys & enjoyed every minute of it. The only instances where I was excited to play “house” or “school” was when neighborhood gals I had a crush on invited me. I dressed up as Batman & John Wayne. I picked out a boy’s hair cut in 1st grade. I was naturally athletic & went on to compete in basketball & softball from the ages of 7 to 18. Snakes, snails and puppy dog tails? Sign me up.
All of these seemingly small, yet inarguably revolutionary acts, came with unintended consequences. There was no physical pain inflicted, no marred skin nor twisted bone–nothing visible–but, psychologically, I was absolutely altered by the negative attention my mild gender-bending elicited. Adults and classmates alike, people I considered friends, teased me about my boyish aesthetic, my androgynous style, my participation in male-dominated activities. These jabs & jokes were most likely meant in jest, as they were always accompanied by a wink & a smile, but no matter how light the tone, the sting was real & enduring. There’s no other way to read it, those words were meant as a pointed indictment of my otherness. I subverted expectations & stood out, which apparently meant that I was deserving of ridicule….when all I was guilty of was being true to myself, listening to my gut, and being led by my inner compass. At that age, one’s natural inclination is to act, think and feel without constraints or boundaries, without worrying about societal judgment or push-back. We’re just supposed to be free & un-tethered, but that is a short-lived gift when you don’t conform or fit within these predetermined parameters. Some experimentation is permitted when very young–viewed as a stage to outgrow, which many do. BUT, for the rest of us, once we age out of adolescence, we are suddenly treated like a disease that must be cured, a problem that must be solved, a person to be avoided. We’re looked down upon. All because, what?…I want to wear a suit & tie instead of a ball gown? Because I don’t want to wear makeup or grow my hair out long? Eternally puzzling to me how such a personal, harmless matter can be perceived as violently offensive to so many. A binary gender system is not something that we are born with any knowledge of, rather it’s a social construct sold to us as an objective truth. We are shamed if we fail to conform to some bullshit, made-up, black & white system–it doesn’t matter how emotionally distressing that might be for us, how suffocating, stifling & confusing. Nope. Our existence as outsiders disturbs them, shakes them to their core…our differences are not tolerated. WE are not tolerated. The bullying, myopic masses will not rest until those of us in that gray area begrudgingly oblige to bend and contort ourselves to squeeze into their narrow definition of what a man or woman should look & act like. Even if we rebuke that pressure, reject the notion that we must change ourselves to appease others, those remarks, criticisms & glares still take their toll on a developing, malleable mind–no matter how insouciant or innocuous a comment may be, it is going to wound us, on some level. And for those sensitive souls, like myself, those sore spots, lessen but never leave. Initially our contrarianism was unintentional, but the quiet rebellion in adulthood is symbolic & purposeful. We refuse to kowtow to these ridiculous & passé cultural demands. No thanks. But, there is a price. There’s always a price. Our plight in this country will be bumpier. We will face discrimination. We will be scrutinized. We will be surveyed & side-eyed. We will face challenges that those falling in line will not. Our right to exist will be questioned. We walk into a room and people’s eyes will linger as they look us up & down, trying to figure out what we are & who we fuck. We’ll be misgendered. We’ll endure infinite microaggressions. My appearance may not skew masculine right now, but it has before and it will again. And you know what? I fully admit that my insecurities have kept me from fully expressing myself over the past couple of years. I gave in & adopted a softer, more feminine look. My fashion selections have, more or less, remained the same, but I am definitely guilty of altering my appearance to read more immediately female. And it was conscious, forced & completely unnatural. I’ve reached a point where I now feel embarrassed to be seen without makeup. I’ve started experimenting with jewelry & accessories, splashing my neck and inner wrists with floral scented perfume, letting my locks grow out, highlighting my darker hair blonde. I came out of a deep, dire state of depression & lacked any trace of confidence, so I controlled what I could: I stopped advertising my queerness in such a blatant, immediately detectable manner. I wanted a break from standing out, sought an escape from the constant judging. At that point, it was just imperative to my survival that I just blend in for awhile, but now, that decision is starting to gnaw at me. I’m being disloyal to the queer community & myself. I’m conflicted because, on the one hand, I like the me that rocks the short hair & the loose-fitting jeans. I like the me that sidesteps the status quo; that broadcasts a piece of my personality so effortlessly. I like when people can learn a bit about me upon first glance. I do like those things. But, I have the propensity to let other’s opinions sway me & I’m notoriously lousy at striking a balance between pleasing myself & pleasing them. My desire to be universally appealing & accepted sometimes overpowers that lust for complete authenticity. I’m disingenuous and selling a lie, but at least my family thinks I’m pretty & presentable. I know how bad this all sounds. I know. And I’m sorry. At least when I was an alcoholic, I explored the side of myself that a sober mind continues to hold hostage. I’m working on finding an escape from the diffident cowardice that weighs me down. This isn’t me…and I vow is to no longer mold myself into a more palatable package for the prejudiced.
But, all of that focuses solely on the exterior; the more superficial aspects of being a bona fide gender traitor. For me, there was another separate storm brewing within: that of my budding sexuality & what it was like to navigate those waters in a hostile red-state environment; one that deemed my mere existence sinful, repulsive, and damnable. Homosexuality was a four-letter word; one to be rancorously spit out with venomous disdain. Intolerance, polite or prideful, unified the world around me. The general consensus was that being gay was either a conscious choice or a mental illness: curable through therapy, volition & prayer. We weren’t welcomed. We were considered a scourge, a sickness, the human embodiment of evil & immorality; wholly deserving of whatever fate befell us. AIDS? A gay plague; the only just punishment for such salacious wickedness. Many still harbor these sentiments, but it was especially potent in the pre-Obama years. I mean, gay sex was an actual CRIME until 2003. 2003!!! And men are still being arrested for consensual liaisons even today. Things change, but not everywhere & not always. Needless to say, being gay in an illiberal, politically insular environment wasn’t the best way for a self-conscious kid to grow up. The moment I realized that my attraction to girls was the same as my friends was with boys, I became hyper-sensitive to the chatter around me, acutely aware of every report & article, keenly attuned to every utterance, every insult, every word whispered about my LGBTQ brethren. I wasn’t Out, and I wouldn’t be until for some time, but I was listening, always listening. I remember after Ellen revealed she was gay, I snuck a copy of Time Magazine and read her interview–slowly, deliberately, intently–soaking up every word. I paid attention to the cultural climate, trying to absorb as much as I could because I understood how the two of us were inextricably linked, fatefully connected–what the world felt about her, they’d eventually feel about me, for better or for worse. My ears were similarly perked following Matthew Shepard’s murder. I was 11 & 12, respectively. Those were the only clear windows into my future, the only barometer I had about how my family would receive me…how anyone would receive me. I catalogued every off-hand comment, I noted every off-color joke, I sat & observed as everyone revealed their true feelings without knowing the secret I was safe-guarding. Your Brokeback Mountain takes? I paid attention & think about them frequently. If you found that beautiful romance nauseatingly abominable, then what about me? The hushed roar of snickering at the sight of effete, effeminate men & stone-butch lesbians. Hell, in the late ’90s & early 2000’s, “that’s gay” was synonymous with “stupid” or “lame.” Sissy, queer, fruitcake, gay-wad, pansy, homo, flamer, fairy, etc. all commonly hurled about the high school hallways, usually in a wisecracking, jocular manner. However, the pejorative, ‘faggot’ was most oft used in a more aggressively threatening way by boys trying to intimidate & slander those they viewed as less-masculine. And this was just…accepted. Gays weren’t, but the hate speech was. It was simply a part of everyday slang lexicon during my formative years. My guess is that many closeted gay teens participated in it, but always with a great deal of unease & reluctance. I didn’t want to be found out. I didn’t want the rouse to be up. I wanted to stay safe. I tried to retain my sang-froid by playing it cool, but it still left a bad-taste in my mouth. I knew it was wrong, but I never stopped it. My biggest fear was being Outed before I was even capable of uttering “I’m gay” out loud. “He doth protest too much,” blasting on repeat in my brain. I simply couldn’t risk it, so I joined in…never using it discriminatorily, but colloquially. That didn’t make it right, but it gave off the illusion of being less offensive. Regardless, the casualness with which kids slung derogatory language around had an effect on me, digging it’s way into my marrow, penetrating my fragile psyche, making me wary of the very people I cared about most. And on top of everything that a typical teenager must endure, I was also trying to come to terms with something that would invariably change my life forever, something that could cost me my friends & family.
….and I had absolutely NO ONE to talk to about any of it, no one to confide in, no one to seek guidance from. I went to a large school, but only a handful of classmates were Out. There were rumors about more, but few were brave enough to confirm them. It was easier to just stay quiet & let the gossip die down. Most all of us closet-cases had to fly solo & forge our own way. Honestly, it’s so bleak to look back & realize how much I was having to withhold from everyone. I’d been lugging that burdensome baggage around with me for what felt like an eternity, feeling the weight, but never bothering to unpack any of it. I just hoped it would sort itself out without my putting any actual work in, but no. So, I just let it sit there & collect dust. Those were difficult days–long, lonely days, where I was so isolated, disquieted & completely removed from everything I’d once held close. Dizzy & directionless, I was lost without a map–and I know that there is no rule book for coming Out, no one-size-fits-all approach, and no quick & painless way to sort through that complex web of emotions. But, damn, I wish I’d had some help. Back then, I couldn’t just go to the Internet and have all my questions answered. We had no Google. We had no social media. We had no Youtube, no Reddit, no Twitter. It wasn’t a desolate wasteland, but it wasn’t as accessible & useful a tool as it is now. It would have been nice to have that resource, because all I wanted was some advice as to what the FUCK I was supposed to do, and I had nothing. Nothing & no one. So, I waited.
And I waited.
The last boy I officially dated was when I was 15. I viewed it as a last ditch effort to try & make myself straight. It was an admirable attempt, as I managed to dutifully check-off all the boxes of what a good high-school girlfriend should do…all except the one. I wouldn’t, no, COULDN’T be physically intimate with him. I had no compunction or moral objection to it. I’ve never been prudish & Puritanical in that way, having absolutely no religious aversion to premarital sex. Trust me when I tell you that I WANTED to WANT to. Each time we’d hang out, I’d try to talk myself into it, thinking that I could just dissociate, rotely go through the motions and get it over with. I so desperately hoped that that experience would “fix” me & that my feelings towards the girls in my school would just go away. But, I couldn’t do it. And, thankfully, he never forced me to, though he did cheat & subsequently left me for someone else–but, I don’t even remember feeling sad about it, just relieved. Regardless, that put an end to my failed experiment at heterosexuality. I stopped hiding from the truth after that. I realized I was gay years before, but I never accepted it. I pushed it down into the dark crevices of my insides & refused to acknowledge it’s existence. But, that stopped after my freshman year, when I vowed to remain single until college. I often wonder how different my life would have turned out had I been able to date female classmates, if I’d been able to tap into & address those amorous feelings, if I’d been allowed to experiment, explore & experience true young love…. Would I have gone to prom? Would I have been happier? Would I have learned any important lessons? Would I have enjoyed my time there more? Would I have not hated every second of every day? There’s no way to know, but I can say that a definite void exists where those memories should have been…it’s a loss to be mourned, but it’s not deserving of too much attention. I can’t change the past, but I do wonder.
It wasn’t until a few years after graduation that my high-school friends admitted that they had collectively come to the conclusion that I wasn’t straight. I thought I’d been so sneakily shielding my deepest secret, but my observant, perspicacious buddies saw right through me. The whole school likely noticed my apparent aversion to dating, but only one tactless person ever had the gall to inquire. Someone who I could only describe as a frenemy, made it a running gag to loudly call me a lesbian every.fucking.day. To her it was hilarious, but to me…it was humiliating. 17 years later & it’s still upsetting to talk about. There was nothing solid to support her theory–I’d never so much as kissed a girl–but, that didn’t stop her. I’m not sure if she even believed the words coming out of her mouth, but it felt genuinely accusatory, like she knew something. I don’t know why she felt the need to say it, but I wasn’t ready to have that conversation & she certainly didn’t have the right to publicly Out me. Nobody does. So, I denied it–red-eared, flushed & flustered–I routinely denied it…even trying to pretend I was in on the joke. What else could I do? I mean, it’s not difficult to see why she had her suspicions: I didn’t date. I dressed in gender-neutral attire. I played basketball. I did wear makeup, but always pulled my hair back. I didn’t scream HETEROSEXUAL, but all of that evidence was circumstantial. It simultaneously felt like the first time I’d been truly SEEN & the most vulnerable & exposed that I’d EVER been. It’s always the moments you try hardest to forget that you so vividly remember.
Up until that point, I’d done all I could to hide how I felt about girls, to hide that part of myself completely…from everyone. I’d distance myself from those I developed feelings for. I’d try to avoid changing in the same room as them, out of both a fear that they’d sense I was gay (as if I were emitting some sort of big-time lesbo vibes) and as a way to respect their privacy. I distinctly recall a sixth-grade slumber party, where everyone was switching into their swimsuits & I noticed that my interest in other girl’s bodies was not solely out of curiosity or as as a source of comparison, but because of an attraction. After that, I wanted to stay as far away from unclothed females as possible–so, in locker-rooms I’d either utilize the bathroom stalls or, if I had no other option, I’d disrobe as discreetly & efficiently as possible, while actively avoiding eye-contact. I wasn’t lecherous or voyeuristic, just scared. I didn’t want them to know about me & I felt like I was intruding, like I shouldn’t be there. It’s really incredible how much unnecessary guilt comes with growing up gay; just an immense amount of guilt & ignominy. I really did try to actively obfuscate the truth. When I was 12, a friend & I went and saw Titanic, and afterwards I outwardly pretended to lust over Leonardo DiCaprio, though I was much more interested in Kate Winslet. She was actually my first real celebrity crush. And while I wasn’t so much into Leo, I did sometimes wet my hair and try to style it like his. I thought that if I looked like him, then I could pretend that someone like Kate would be interested in me. There were other little things I did to keep up the charade, like cutting out pictures of popular male celebrities (at least the ones with the most feminine features) and putting them on my binder. I went through a big-time Blink 182 phase, where I plastered my walls with their faces, but not because I wanted to be WITH them, but because I wanted to BE them. I loved their look, loved their style, loved their music, loved the attention they got from female fans. I never desired to be a dude, but I sought to capture and emulate the energy they exuded. Back then, I also had a lot of really close guy friends, and even though they always wanted more than I could give, I hoped that their proximity to me would help deflect any suspicions or speculation regarding my sexuality. I really cherished those friendships & yet I led each of them on for my own benefit. In retrospect, I should have been more honest, but hindsight is, as they say, 20/20. I did the best I could.
All things considered, I’d say I escaped that epoch of my life relatively unscathed. I mean, it could have been so much worse. Yes, there’d been the light childhood bullying, the humbling mortification of middle school, the desperate loneliness & longing of my teenage years, but I made it out alive–bruised, a little broken, but alive. I still remember every inkling of a crush I ever had on a girl or woman throughout my youth–every classmate, every coach, every counselor, every teacher, every celebrity, everyone. I remember how it made me feel–the conflicting emotions of loving those butterflies, but hating that I had them. I remember it feeling so right, but knowing others thought it was so wrong. I remember accepting myself, but understanding that few would accept me. It was difficult to maneuver that conflict alone. It was difficult to comprehend how this singular aspect of my existence could ruin my relationships with friends & family. It was difficult to grasp how something so personally intimate & benign could incite so much hatred in others. It was just…difficult. But, I did it.
It wasn’t until three years out of high-school that I officially came Out. I started the process at 21, first telling my online friends, then my sister, then my offline friends, and once I finally got a girlfriend, I told my parents. It wasn’t always smooth & it wasn’t ever easy– I trembled each & every time…adrenaline rushing through my veins as my brain jittered, voice wavered, and eyes brimmed with tears. I always expected the worst, paralyzed by the fear of the unknown, the uncertainty of what was to come, of what their reaction would be–but mostly, the reception was gentle and warm. Mom took it the hardest, which was expected, but still brutally heartbreaking. Even though I was hurt by what she said & how she said it, I never once worried that she’d abandon or excommunicate me. I knew that, in time, her opinion would soften, her beliefs would shift, her understanding would grow and that she’d eventually stand beside me, support me, be proud of me. And I think we’ve reached that point. I’m one of the lucky ones. I am loved, I am wanted, and I have never, and will never, take that gift for granted. But, even outside of my family, I’ve had it fairly easy, especially compared to so many others. Of course I’ve had interactions & encounters that have made me uncomfortable, that have shattered my confidence, that have made me feel lesser, that have psychologically injured me, that have set me back–all LGBT people have–but, I’ve never been egregiously mistreated for being gay. I’ve never been kicked out of the house. I’ve never been beaten up, harassed, or verbally accosted. I’ve never felt actively discriminated against. I’ve never lost my job for being Out. I’ve never felt overtly threatened. Trust me, I know how fortunate I am. I get it. But, that doesn’t mean I live without fear, that doesn’t mean I feel safe, that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about the future. I am a gay woman in America; concern is my constant. We still don’t have equal rights, and the ones we DO have? Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
My sexuality is still stigmatic. My state is still homophobic. My President is still a Republican. My story is still being written.
LGBT progress in my lifetime:
Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. 1993.
The Hate Crimes Sentencing Enhancement Act. 1995.
Lawrence v. Taylor decriminalizes homosexual conduct. 2003.
First legal same-sex marriage in Massachusetts. 2004.
Matthew Shepherd & James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act. 2009.
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is repealed. 2011.
Tammy Baldwin became the first openly gay politician. 2012.
Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) struck down by Supreme Court. 2013.
SCOTUS rules to allow LGBTQ individuals the freedom to marry. 2015.
Designation of first national monument to LGBTQ rights (Stonewall Inn) 2016.
Jared Polis became the first openly gay elected Governor (Colorado). 2018.
SCOTUS rules that federal law protects LGBTQ workers from discrimination. 2020.
covid musings
The Silence Breaker, the Whistle Blower, the Unionizer.
I’ll start with the bad news: the 3 films I watched in my “women taking on The Man” series are still so incredibly relevant today, that you can’t help but feel emotionally conflicted during the viewing experience. Yes, these women made sacrifices (some more costly than others), took stands, faced unspeakable contempt & humiliation, and subsequently improved the working conditions in their respective professions…but, we still haven’t progressed far enough in the decades since. Hell, we’ve even gone SO FAR to the other side of the spectrum that men are refusing to work alongside women because of fear of committing sexual-harassment. (also the theme of this piece: are men dumb? are men okay?) ANYWAYS, yes, relative to the time, these were undeniable victories. All reform has to start somewhere, and each step, no matter how small & seemingly insignificant, is still forward motion… still a push to reform, still an act that keeps the conversation alive & relative.
The important part to remember is that these women were the epitome of brave. Speaking out, speaking loud, speaking to deaf ears, speaking alone to a contemptuous crowd… this takes a degree of intestinal fortitude that few possess. Most of us opt to look the other way, begrudgingly accept our fate, or sincerely believe there is no out or escape. But, thankfully, there are people who feel an obligation, a moral imperative, to fight against abuse & neglect, against irresponsible practices & injustice, against imbalances in power, dishonest claims & ill-informed assurances. ..Those who refuse to quit, who see that change is possible, who believe that no battle is unwinnable or futile. They risk all to uncover the truth, to take on the suits at the top, to wage war against those insistent on utilizing manipulation & fear as a tactic of suppression…those who prey upon desperation to secure loyalty.
The actions on display here are inspiring to bear witness to & if you don’t find yourself cheering these women on as they put on their metaphorical suits of armor, geared up to combat the seemingly unconquerable forces that be…then you are likely part of the problem.
To put it slangily: these ladies are fucking badasses.
That said, not all of the films about these factory-workers on-a-mission are created equal.
Cutting to the chase, I’ll rank these flicks based on my own personal enjoyment:
- Silkwood: 4.5/5
- Norma Rae 4/5
- North Country 2.5/5
The first two are rather interchangeable in terms of quality, as both effectively highlight the unfairness of the system, while still managing to remain compelling, motivating, and emotionally engaging throughout. They feature incredibly impactful performances from everyone involved–lead & supporting–and you really become invested in their journey, their mission, their highs & lows and the overall outcome. Sure, you *know* how it’s going to end… it’s not as though stories of this ilk are rarities or infrequent forays. The hero wins. BUT, you don’t know how, you don’t know the intricacies or specific obstacles she’ll face, you don’t know the stakes, you don’t know how all this affects these particular women beyond their inevitable success. And despite our anticipatory awareness of the conclusion, the film is still able to inject a heavy dose of anxiety into the audience. We worry about them, we stress, we hope and hand-wring. The tension is real & palpable and that is a credit to those beyond the camera, pulling the strings, and making the correct calls… without that talent, the onscreen players couldn’t pull this off. And in Norma Rae and Silkwood…they do…with grace & seeming ease. There is a fine-line between sappy, overly-sentimental, sanitized version of stories like this and a genuinely moving, appropriately grim & pessimistic (when called for), and authentic portrayal. These two, thankfully, fall into the latter category.
Sadly, I can’t say the same for North Country. I felt that this film treaded heavily into the made-for-tv territory. It’s loaded to the brim with misogyny, as it should be, but it’s done to an almost comical extent. And, I’m not saying that it’s not 100% true to reality…but, boy, did it feel exaggerated & a touch Lifetime-y. Perhaps the actual experience WAS this over-the-top, but I felt it might have been more potent if it dialed back the excessive drama and heavy-handedness. We get the point, but we get it in a hammer to the face sort of way. I found that unnecessary? I gotta say, I honestly didn’t like much about this film outside of Charlize’s performance. I didn’t like the character development, I didn’t like the cliches, I didn’t like the flashbacks, I didn’t like the story structure, I didn’t like the side-plots, I didn’t like the blatant predictability, I didn’t like the acting from a majority of the supporting players, I didn’t like most of it…period. I wasn’t even particularly affected by it, which is an intrinsic element to a production like this. It just didn’t work for me. It’s lack of subtlety & intelligence really hurt it, particularly after watching Norma Rae & Silkwood first. I saved the worst for last. Drat. Even Theron’s performance paled in comparison to the iconic duo of Sally Field & Meryl Streep …. I will give it high-marks on capturing the bitter winters of the Midwest; the entire aesthetic, attitudes, and even accents felt spot-on. But, I mean, honestly, does anyone really remember North Country? Did it have any cultural impact, whatsoever? Unlike the other two films, there was no stand-out scene here, no memorable moment that endured time. It’s forgettable. I don’t even remember the real-life inspiration’s name. True, it’s not *right there* in the title, but everything about her should have been imprinted into my brain, impossible to shake, yet it didn’t leave a mark. Shame, because it certainly should have, as SHE most definitely has. This was the FIRST class-action lawsuit (Jenson v. Eveleth Taconite Co ) filed against sexual harassment in the workplace…the significance of this cannot be overstated. The movie itself, framed around the court-room hearing, may have been handled in a less than deft way, but it certainly communicated the sheer awfulness of the men she encountered on a daily basis. They behaved as poorly towards their female coworkers as is humanly possible–short of legit murder & torture. The female employees faced physical, emotional, and psychological harassment at the hands of the men working alongside them….and when confronted with these claims they utilized a number of tactics to combat or defuse them… intimidation, cover-ups, counter-attacks, manipulation of facts, discrediting (SO MUCH OF THIS), and denigration. There’s nothing these pernicious assholes wouldn’t try to avoid extending any empathy, understanding, respect or protection towards the women lodging the complaints. And, really it was ALL of them who were subjected to the overt sexism at play. I read an article where Jensen, the plaintiff & protagonist (named Josey in the film–just looked it up), said that ‘It was like they’d never seen a woman before.’ And that’s accurately depicted onscreen, but it’s not just an aversion to sharing a space, rather it’s the dominance, the aggression, the childish pranks, the relentless teasing, the overwhelming & pervasive FEAR of what’s next? I also saw an article where she mentioned that she never wanted financial compensation, she never wanted to start a movement, she never wanted to start a wave of feminism, she didn’t even want to participate in this lawsuit, really. She just wanted to be able to have a job that allowed her financial security & a decent life without having to worry about what fresh hell awaited her during her next shift…that is it’s own form of torment. It creates a culture of a terror & it’s unhealthy af. But, somehow it was too much to ask to treat a significant portion of the workplace as equals, solely because they viewed women as inherently lesser & deserving of ire, scorn and subjugation. It is truly abhorrent & stomach-churning; stinking of toxicity with opprobrious behavior representative of the most barbaric traits within man. And it is painfully excruciating & unrelenting, throughout. I know, I know… not ALL men. But, there’s only one out of the many who listens to her & helps her, on his own volition. Her father, her teacher, her childhood friend, her husband, her coworkers, even her own son turns against her in this film–for no reason other than shame. All of those men mistreat (assault, rape, abuse) her, except for Woody Harrelson’s character, who ends up as her lawyer in the central case. The rest are silent. They are complicit. They allow this behavior to continue because they’re afraid of repercussions. Fuck them. Fuck them all.
On the contrary, in Norma Rae & Silkwood, the men aren’t the problem. They’re not always the most supportive or helpful, but they aren’t the element of contention here. I mean, sure there ARE men who are problematic & an obstacle to maneuver around, but many are friends, lovers, partners, and genuinely decent men. They look out for her. They have her best interests in mind. Both films feature the titular characters embarking on relationships w/the union reps/organizers that start off as business, but end up developing into something beyond that. These men don’t come to rescue a damsel in distress, rather they help introduce them to new ideas, encourage them to organize & compile evidence, assist them during a time when many turned their backs. They were cheerleaders & a shoulder to lean on, which is an invaluable asset. They were facilitators. They gave these women the courage, the confidence & the tools needed to DO something about their situation, but weren’t the ones doing the heavy lifting. Norma Rae & Karen Silkwood are the heroes here. Full-stop. And heroes, they fucking were. The former laid the groundwork for unionizing the textile mill, where she worked the line–facing backlash, disapproval, rejection, character assassination, etc. She was able to outsmart & circumvent management’s efforts to quell her foray into the political side of industrial labor–pay special attention to her thwarting the higher-up’s attempt to pit blacks & whites against each other. She recognized they were stronger-together & without a racially united front–they were doomed to fail. Mind you, this was in a very racist, very white, very segregated southern town in the early ’70s. But, banding together on the floor made them a powerful force–and was crucial…pivotal. Meanwhile, the latter served as a whistle-blower, who exposed the ineffective/negligent safety practices & protocol existing within the facility. With the help of a union official, who believed in her, echoed & mirrored her concerns, and validated her suspicions….she became emboldened enough to actively engage in union politicking, while seeking to reform the working conditions within the industry. A CERTIFIED QUEEN. You have to understand, that at this point… they didn’t know radiation at these amounts could lead to cancer….nay, WOULD lead to cancer. Plant employees were facing exposure to plutonium on a regular basis, being scrubbed down & swiped for airborne contamination…a traumatic experience that we now informally refer to as the “Silkdwood showers.” They were told that Radiation is Safe, in bold-face right there in the handbook, which is true enough if the only area exposed was the skin–but any inhalation via nose or mouth was too much…a speck of dust’s worth is enough to cause cancer. Nobody was informed of this. The film itself delves into a lot of conspiracy and conjecture, straying from hard facts and into one painting a picture of a woman who made the ultimate sacrifice for the cause; elevating her into martyrdom. The veracity of those claims is questionable, at best, and wholly debunked, according to official sources. Nevertheless, she is respected by most & fêted by many… & justifiably so. She did everything that she could to raise the nuclear energy plant’s standards and improve the conditions for the laborers, most of whom were previously subjected to horrific working environments & occupational hazards that threatened their very existence. They depend on people like her to represent & fight for them. For that, she should be lauded. If you research other elements presented in the film, you’ll find that most are dubious claims & more…theories that have gained traction as time wore on. Since her untimely death, the mythology has flourished & she’s become more lionized–this film obviously had a significant impact on that. I mention this not to downplay her contributions or the role she played in the ’70s, where her story coincided with so many other union/labor movements, social reform, and women’s equality groups. People posthumously rallied behind her & lifted her up, as she served as the face of FEMALE empowerment and a champion of CHANGE, a seeker of TRUTH, a MOUTHPIECE for the unseen and unheard. She was a woman who sacrificed her life seeking JUSTICE. I’m not mad about how her legacy has evolved, but, just do your own rudiment sleuthing before accepting a film’s truth as gospel. Liberties are taken. And the unexplained actually does often have an explanation.
THAT SAID, I am really glad I chose to rewatch these three movies this past week. They’re each rewarding in their own way with pay-offs that, while predictable, are so hard-fought and deserved. They all feature incredible performances from their respective leading lady–Sally Field, Meryl Streep and Charlize Theron. WHAT A TRIO, amirite? Each places the focus directly on the daily lives of those enduring grueling careers that require long, exhausting hours performing inherently dangerous duties, where the work is endless, tedious, dispiriting and monotonous. Management often treats employees more as machine than human with little to no empathy nor concern for their overall well-being. They’re replaceable cogs in a wheel. As Karl Marx said, “Workers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains” and these movies highlighted the essentiality of unions in regards to protecting oneself against those in charge. Those with the power would work the underlings to death if there were no financial punitive penalties. Unions protect them. To those at the top of the food chain, profits are all that matter. They’re blind to everything beyond seeing Red or Black. The bottom line is of more import than those working on the line. People don’t matter. People are expendable, solely serving as mechanical tools. I’ll spare you the economical sociology lesson, suffice it to say…this shit is important and what these women did in their little pocket of America was invaluable. It meant something. It changed things. Their stories deserved to be told & these movies deserve to be seen. Give them that & let’s keep fucking fighting. There’s always more to be done.
Why?
You know what? I am completely unsure if this fucking prejudicial shit comes from some untended to desire for someone of the same sex or not, but I don’t know how to deal with it. I feel nothing but love for everyone. I was raised so well to appreciate and admire those niceties around me– and to think that I have to deal with people every day who hate me or want to hunt me down and kill me (quote) because I love someone who is of the same sex as myself– is so unsettling and ruining who I was prior to “coming out.” No one seems to understand who I am– because I love a girl. I don’t understand wanting a man. What is the difference though, really? Attack me with an “Adam and Eve” reference and you will be attacked by the repercussions of ignorance. It is truly so myopic to believe that a woman must be attracted to a man to be considered a member of society that is r replaceable or able to be related to. Are you kidding me? By the way, I understand how people come into being this way: Naivete. People need to comprehend that love doesn’t exist just to procreate. . You must know that blatant racism exists in a more subdued form now– and that we replaced it with a prejudice towards being gay? Right? Well, fuck you people. I have broken doors down to save people trying to die because of the stigmaa placed upon them for these reasons. Do those in my realm of friends and family want to have that blood on their hands? Or do they believe it is God’s will? If that were the case– latter wise– then why would we be born with such great harmless souls? Does that make sense? I am an innocent, never ticketed by an officer, wonderful person who has no stain on her record and is a great daughter……have any reason to be succumbed to Hell because she didn’t read Milton’s “paradise lost” or fucked and is betrothed to a woman…. am I the evil target? Really? When I read the article here: http://theblot.com/a-lesbian-version-of-romeo-and-juliet-gets-death-threats-777826 I realized, naively that people still want to hurt and kill those who have sexual preferences contradictory to their own. I hope that those of you who actually have a brain and know how to use it– see that I am not harming anyone by this love. I am helping myself. And I hope (and know) they enjoy watching me suffer and carry a knife and mace out in public– because I am terrified of being accosted for no reason other than loving someone. Religion is great for those who believe. I don’t have qualms with that. I just don’t support violence against us that do not, or that have a different viewpoint. Tolerance and acceptance is in the Bible. You don’t have to approve or love me (although you should), but you a would be admirable and wise to not want to hurt someone who is doing NOTHING wrong except loving another person and being good. It’s extremely detrimental to whomever taught you anything about religion. If I go to Hell that I do not believe in, so be it. Let me make my own choices. Don’t kill me because you think it’s right and that I am wrong. And to be clear– most gay bashings/killings are due to reasons that you won’t admit– but I know of. In conclusion, if you want to mess with the good guys who just happen to hold hands with a member of the same sex– then in reality– you are demeaning the essence of the moral code set by the Bible and interfering with composing a better symphony in regards to society. I am not bad. Stop using slurs against me. I am the last person you want to leave this earth.
health care.
Health care. Let me not be someone to mention some outrageously socialist proposition that completely outrages everyone in the state I was born and raised (and still reside in). I’m not on a Chavez level of socialism (too soon?.) But, what I do take issue with is the way mental health care is treated and viewed in this country. Selfishly, yes. I am saying this in a selfish way. People have it way worse than me; there are those who should and could be complaining and stating a way more effective case for change than I ever could.
But, let’s think about this for a second…. how many criminals have some sort of mental illness? How many… if granted an opportunity…could afford treatment? The answer is zero. I can’t even afford help. I am a raging alcoholic. I finally found a doctor who seemed like he could help. He had been trained in teaching a certain book/exercise manual packet. He didn’t believe in groups. He was an ex-pastor who didn’t follow the 12 step program. It looked perfect on paper. I was directed to him by my primary care physician.
And then I get there…. and he takes no insurance. 160 dollars a session. He wants to see me twice a week at 160 dollars a session. Not to mention the “several thousand dollars” the course that he teaches will take. I looked it up online. I can buy both items for less than 15 dollars.
I feel that this is exploiting the mentally ill. When really…. most of the crime is committed by the mentally ill! Obviously, I am not going to commit a crime. I felt too guilty to take two dollars from RedBox. But, there are crazy people out there–who would be much better off in a program to wean them off of drugs (which I have heard is a nightmare), help them find jobs, figure out a root problem, and set them on their own two feet. These are not program’s that are useless. I am one of the people that needs help in such a manner. I have an issue that cannot be addressed on my own. The last nurse practitioner that I was seeing…. was one of the meanest personnel I have ever been witness to. She told me that I was too much for her to handle. I have little faith in therapy or medicine at this point, but I like to believe that someone out there is affordable and capable of dealing with a tough client. Even this previous man could see that intelligence lies beneath the decay and graffiti that adorns my skin and soul. I’m twenty-seven. I am not a lost cause yet. But, it’s beginning to seem a precarious situation in regards to finding a reputable and yet…. affordable solution to a problem that could potentially end up being priceless. It’s not right. It’s not fair. And I don’t really care what right-wingers have to say about it…. mental health care should cost less than it does. Taxes or not. Suck it up. Grow a pair. And let people who deserve a chance to live…live.
OH. And for those unfamiliar…. AA you believe is a great choice…. BUT, not only am I an agnostic/atheistic person…. I have also read of many stories where if you are a girl and go to these meetings alone–there is a high chance that a predator will take you and rape you. So, yay for that idea.
a maze and perplex 