Yay tiny grannies!

It's good to know that there are some in athletics who are as disturbed by the upcoming Focus on the Family Superbowl ad as I am. Thank you for speaking up, my good sirs.


And fuck you CBS.

You'll Be Given Love, But You'll Have to Trust It.

Joss Whedon just got a whole lot more awesome in my eyes. I found this via Sociological Images and Feministing (best logo ever), which give women and men reason after depressing reason to join Joss and others in the fight for equality.

This hits on something I've felt over the past three years, and especially in the last couple months: It's only by shithouse luck (if you'll excuse the expression) that, from the beginning of my college experience, I've fallen in among friends and family whose attitudes are progressive, inclusive, and inherently loving and empowering. It goes beyond just having heroes that represent the unrepresented. It's the implantation of an entire culture that thinks I'm important, not just another pair of tits stuck to a vagina. I shudder to think what might have become of me if I had not stumbled upon these treasures: people who were willing to be patient with me as I groped and faltered my way through the darkness; people who trusted me with their true selves, whether gay, bisexual, transgender, cisgender, or straight; people who will stand with me against the flood of hate.

Whether they know it or not, these people have given me a power that I have never had before.

An enormous part of that power is the comfort of knowing. For instance, I know I will never have to spend my life silently hating the men around me for the unequal way they treat me. I know I will never have to worry how my husband will react if our child turns out to be gay or transgendered. I know I know that the people around me act only to bring more good into the world. These are good things to know.

Another part of that power is getting to have a richer range of experiences as a human being. Unlike generations of women before me (and even, unfortunately, many of the women of my own generation), I will have the pleasure of washing dishes, doing laundry, visiting Planned Parenthood, vacuuming, making decisions, and living alongside my husband, not for him. I hope to be there when Sara and Aly welcome their baby into the world with all the love, pride, and happiness that anyone would on such a momentous occasion. Someday I hope to watch as my transman friend walks down the aisle with his beautiful bride and my dear gays join each other at the altar. Some of it is sad: I will never see the media the same way, and I will spend hours questioning the equality or inequality of each part of Ian's and my wedding ceremony. But let me tell you: I'd rather spend my time loving and being loved than hating, fearing, and discouraging love.

To the ones who didn't make it.

The 20th of November (gone by but an hour) was the Transgender Day of Remembrance, a special day to me because I'm glad to have a day to recognize the courage of my transgendered friend Kobe. Kobe and his new fiancée Gayle have been the most excellent friends to me from day one. Kobe has always been Kobe to me, beginning as she, then as he, but older students at Carroll knew him once as Megan. In his transition to his true self, he has faced tribulation beyond my imagination. Although I have not heard of any threats or violence carried out against him, I know that some - even the most accepting of peers - have not been understanding of what he has had to do. Gayle hasn't even been able to tell her family of their engagement yet (familiar? :-S ). I smile when I watch the new generation of Pep Band kids, who have no idea of Kobe's struggle, treat him as he should be treated. Hope? I think so. God bless Kobe and Gayle.

I missed one.

This part 6 of the meme includes both Wednesday and Thursday because I forgot. No big deal, right. Wrong. I was almost all the way done with this set of ten when I pulled a bonehead move and managed to irreversibly delete it all. So here they are, as far as I can remember. And no, you don't get any explanations because I don't feel like it.

1) People who face possible discrimination and violence with courage, heart and determination.
2) Other people's Photoshop skillz.
3) Coffee.
4) High school friends who turned out to actually be friends.
5) Musicals.
6) The chance to get to see my tiny sister in her senior musical.
7) Snow tires.
8) Tabbed browsing.
9) French cop shows.
10) The infinite possibilities for puns within the English language.

In defense of love.

I had never heard of Keith Olbermann before tonight when I was shown this video. It sums up all I believe on the subject. Thank you Mr. Olbermann for standing up; you give me hope.

Now we see the violence inherent in the system.

And I wish I could mean that jokingly. This is what happens when I read BBC News. BBC will mess your shit up. They got me all excited about awesome German restaurants, then told me that women in India and Bangladesh get acid thrown on them for being independent. That pretty much takes care of the little bit of hope for the world I had with the Miss Landmine pageant. I can hear it fly out the window. There it goes.

Goddamn people.


In happier news, I get to wear a hate word on my shirt tomorrow. It won't be bad (just "Mick"), but it's representative of my heritage, and I have no doubt that many an ancestor of mine faced N.I.N.A. ("No Irish Need Apply," also on my shirt) signs. My dear Jewish friend is wearing the k-word, and mi Roma amiga is to wear one that says "Pikey".

What's more startling/interesting than the language is what language people find offensive/non-offensive. One friend (okay, it was the Jew) did not think the c-word to be offensive: "It's just like 'bitch,'" she says. Another said that it was "anatomical." I disagree - this is the MOST offensive word for a woman, and it's never used in the anatomical sense. Some other people thought the word "Jew" to be offensive - a sentiment to which, well, The Jew took offense. What else does she call herself? Like "gay" and "queer," "Jew" has undergone a reclamation in the past generation. The only case we could think of "Jew" being offensive is in its use as a verb - clearly quite inflammatory and unacceptable.

Hmmm.



As long as I'm being a blogger, I might as well tell about other "cool and exciting" things: Design by Hümans is sending my shirt, surely set to arrive posthaste. MAIL! MAIL CONTAINING CLOTH! I LIKE CLOTH!


As if that wasn't arbitrary enough, here's a picture I took of Jonathan Richman, the saddest upbeat little old Jewish man ever:

Human, kind.

There are some days in which you smile. I could not help it when I stumbled upon BBC's article announcing an upcoming beauty pageant. The candidates, who represent different parts of the war-torn country of Angola, will compete on April 2.

Did I mention that they're all missing limbs?

These beautiful ladies will be competing for much more than the chance to wear a crown or a sash. No, the Miss Landmine contest is an event more difficult to win, for even in Angola, where BBC reports that the limbless are seen in every village, stigmas and struggles still reign for those who have been injured by the millions of mines that plague the country. Go, ladies, go.

Holy Water.

In these thirsty times, it comes to my mind again
like the dying echoes of day in these halls holy:
that squalid afternoon the silent Indian,
a young girl, entered this hushed cathedral
to sip from the Spanish priest’s blesséd water,
sated, maybe, at the tiny oasis in this unforgiving desert

of mercy. Condemning the girl to her native desert
fate, the parish priest pointed, furious, and again
made his sign over the ornate font of water
to make it respectable and holy
for genteel believers. Outside the cathedral,
in the godforsaken square, obsidian Indian

eyes radiated from under blowing wisps of ebony Indian
hair. The girl whispered in strange desert
tongues, and her words fell on the cathedral
as if the rain had come again
from the heavens so contemptuous and holy,
but there came no clouds bearing precious water,

so the priest continued to obsess. Over the tub of water
he cursed that uncouth girl, that beastly Indian,
who, like all of her kind, blighted the holy
places the missionaries had bestowed upon the desert
and unceremoniously profaned their benefactions. Again
the priest dreamt of pure blood filling the cathedral

with proper Latin veneration, as deserves a cathedral
graced by grandsons of conquistadors from over the water.
With each passing year, I have found myself wondering again
about the girl who spoke with nothing but a fierce Indian
grace. I have tried to imagine the dusty desert
paths she has since dignified with her presence so holy.

She is my sun-red rose in a bleached-bone field wholly
populated by upstart weeds that built up their cathedral
of thorns against the ancient, sacred desert
and dared to deem themselves the true priests of water–
yes, on these days I reflect on the miracle of the Indian
and whether she will ever sanctify our streets again.

It is then that I realize that the desert long ago swallowed the girl and our water
as if they had been a mirage, and the twin Babel towers of our holy cathedral
stand only to testify my prophesy: my angelic Indian will not come to cleanse us again.



I wrote this for my creative writing class and edited with much help from Ian and Christine. The form is called a sestina, which dictates the sestet/envoy form as well as the pattern of the end words of the lines. It was inspired by my short time in Chihuahua, MX, where very young Indian girls begged in the rich shopping district. The rich Latinos (those with more Spanish blood) ignored them.

soul snatches.

She holds the memory out for me like a trophy to admire. "Stella, she wanted to see me, you know. Before she passed. She calls me in and says 'You know, it was really special when you were there for me when my brother died.' I was there, you know." I look down at the idle vacuum cleaner leaning against my hand. Its cord dangles, unused.

Stella died at the age of one hundred one. She had outlived three husbands and most of her children. Tonight that was not important.

"They was gonna call 'er in'er room and tell'er, but I says 'No, gimme a few minutes an' I'll be up there so she don' hafta be alone when she gets the news.' That ain't right. Nobody should hafta be alone when they get a call like that."

I nod in agreement. That is enough for her, and she continues on cheerily polishing her shiny souvenir.

What a difference it'd make.

The answer is "one." Human life is so delicate, but so is the human conscience.

Shudder much?

I have always greatly admired A Softer World for its ingenuity and ability to teach a hard lesson in its abruptness, but this week's strip hit me hard. Quietly, it turns a birthday celebration and a friendly interchange of macabre jokes into something much more real: a contemplation on the effects of denying someone a day of birth. Suddenly, dead baby jokes aren't so hilarious; they're life or death.