2016: The Year in Review

This won't be another of those "omg-the-world-is-ending-because-2016-was-the-worst-year-ever" posts, because those are a dime a dozen. So, let's get the suckitude out of the way:

A bunch of people died, and a rich, straight, white man won the presidential election. There will almost certainly be thousands of year-in-review posts and articles focusing on these two issues, but this won't be one of them.

She gave it her all. I was with her, 100%. I regret nothing.

Ding, Dong, The Witch is Dead: good riddance to rotting garbage.

RIP: TV is dead. On the other hand, there was lots of great streaming programming. For instance, this. I almost need to light up a cigarette after watching this. The more fucked up you are, Cersei, the more I love you.



It must be said, though - no one kicks ass more than Thandie Newton's Maeve, on Westworld.



Haters Back Off. Netflix gave the lovable YouTube sensation, Miranda Sings, her own show, and it's not at all what one would expect. If you haven't checked it out - especially if you haven't checked it out because Miranda is not your cuppa - do yourself a favor and give this show a chance. It's funny as hell, completely original, has a great ensemble cast of new faces, and it's just teeming with heart. In the midst of this nutty, outlandish premise, these folks make you actually care about the characters. Seriously - give this show a shot. Surprisingly moving, in the most unlikely ways.



Well, the poster was cool: High Rise had a great trailer. The art direction was amazing. The cast was great. Portishead recorded a brilliant cover of one of ABBA's best tunes for it. This movie had everything going for it, except for the fact that it was bloody awful. Truly, truly awful. If you're an animal lover, and you're considering giving it a go, you deserve fair warning: the film basically opens with the main character spit-roasting his dog and eating the poor creature. It's supposed to be darkly funny. Instead, it's one of the most disturbing scenes I've ever watched in a film. And I don't mean, "OMG...they really broke ground and made that scene so thought-provoking!" I mean, "Fucking hell - that was obscene, completely gratuitous and, ultimately, made a bad movie worse." The cover of SOS IS pretty fucking great, though.



2016 was a great year for documentaries. Here are a few of my faves.

Mapplethorpe: Look at the Pictures. Uncompromising, even as it celebrates his beautiful work. A lot about the way he carried out his life and work - especially when it comes to race - can be pretty problematic, but the work, itself is beautiful. This film never loses sight of either of those facts.

Author: The JT Leroy Story. You probably know some of this story. Don't read anything more about it before seeing this. If you know nothing, even better. Speaks volumes about art and the creation of it, about the cult of fame, the inner workings of the famous and celebrated, and about the truth, itself.

No Home Movie. This is not for everyone. If I'm honest, it's probably for very few people. I found it incredibly moving, and it stayed with me for days, after. I'm not sure I've ever seen a better representation of the emptiness left behind when the most important person we know dies. 

I don't care about the Olympic Games, but I love it that Puerto Ricans were a force to be reckoned with, this time around. 

This.

Planes, Trains, Automobiles, and Loved Ones FTW.

One Week On: A Love Letter

This is not that kind of love letter.

One week ago, most of us woke up to what we considered upsetting news about the results of the presidential election. The results of the election surprised me but, as I've written elsewhere, there was and is nothing surprising to me about the amount of ugliness in this country. The day after the election I was most shocked to find out how many straight, white, Christian folks were taken aback about the thread of racism, homophobia and xenophobia that runs deep and strong throughout this nation. I was shocked because it never really occurred to me that so many people could be so clueless about what it's like, for many people, to live in America. I was shocked that they had not been clued in, long before, by the very need for LAMBDA, The Black Panthers, NOW, the ACLU, The Southern Poverty Law Center, the UFW, Black Lives Matter, the ADL, or a hundred other organizations and/or movements. How could anyone live in the USA, and not know?  But, yeah. Evidently a hell of a lot of heterosexual, white, Christian people had no idea how fucking terrible it is to be an "other" in America. Now they know. The election and, more so, the aftermath of the election, has made it impossible to ignore. And that's a good thing. But here is what is not a good thing, and where this being a love letter comes into play:

Straight, white, Christian people who are still crying and licking their wounds over this revelation a week after the election are not doing anyone a favor. If anything, they are being self-indulgent. I say this with love. Tough love, maybe, but love. If you are a straight, white, Christian person who is pained to discover that you enjoy immense privilege, while others bear the brunt of racism, homophobia and xenophobia, and you are still nursing the wounds of this revelation a week after the election? Snap the fuck out of it, friend. Seriously. Because your self-indulgent wound-licking over the discovery that others suffer is perhaps the biggest act of privilege imaginable. So, yeah - snap the fuck out of it, and look around. Black people, Hispanics, immigrants, homosexuals, Jews, Muslims,  - everyone around you who doesn't fit into that privileged mold? We all know. We have always known. We've been trying to tell you, but you wouldn't listen. And, while a lot of us love the idea that so many of you identify as allies and sincerely want to be a part of the solution, I don't think any of us has any interest in drying even one of your tears, let alone hearing how traumatic it is for you to learn that America is and has always been shitty to us. This does not get to be about you. Not if you really, truly want to be an agent of change.

One week on; snap the fuck out of it.

This is a love letter, but not that kind of love letter. It's a letter telling you that a lot of us would love to have you in our corner, but only if you bring something besides your grief. We have more than enough grief of our own. It's been ours for so long, we don't let it get in our way.  We no longer know how to live without it. It is so old and so strong and so much a part of who we are, that it empowers us. Grief that slows us down and makes us weak is something for which we have no room, no patience, and no desire. If that is what you bring to the party, then don't bother coming.

Strong

I used to be strong. I was the strong girl, and then the strong woman. That was one of my things. I could lift heavy objects. Move furniture. Open a tightly sealed jar. Beat most people at arm wrestling. One woman I knew marveled at how strong my hands were, when she asked me to help her wring out soaking wet towels that had fallen into a river. That strength, it was no small thing. It was a part of who I was and how I identified. It was a part of how people saw me. I liked that strength. It gave me confidence, not only in my ability to carry a heavy suitcase, but in my ability to carry myself through life in a way that suited me. Capable. Determined. Fearless. Without hesitation. Physical strength goes a long way towards building other types of strength.

A few nights ago, I found myself lying back, looking up at the stars, in the middle of the desert, next to the person I hold dearest of anyone I know. We were young together, once, this woman and I. We were not much more than girls, then, really. That night, though, in the desert, even though we felt young, it was just an illusion. It's easy to feel young when you're flat on your back, under a vast sky, with a beautiful woman for company.

************************************************************

"Damn it," I mumble, under my breath, trying not to yelp in pain.

"Your back?" she asks.

"It's ok," I answer.

"Can I do anything?" she asks.

"I'll be fine," I reply, "I just need not to move for a little while."

And so we don't move. We lay under the stars for a good, long time. We see a planet. Saturn? Maybe Jupiter? And shooting stars - lots of shooting stars. We see the waxing crescent moon, and the clouds slowly rolling in to block the moonlight. We hear coyotes and an owl. When we can no longer fight exhaustion, we stand up - me slowly, methodically - and head back into the warm house, where we don't bother turning on the light. Instead, we make our way to bed in the dark and, without words, we kick off our sandals and jeans, and climb in under the covers. Sleepwalkers - that's what we are like. Already asleep, for all intents and purposes, and just looking for a warm place to do our sleeping horizontally.

It is not much later when I feel her stirring, and then sitting bolt upright.

"Damn it," she says, under her breath, trying not to wake me, forgetting we're in this thing together.

"Your back?" I ask.

"It's ok," she answers.

"Can I do anything?" I ask.

"I'll be fine," she replies, "I just need to sit up for a little while."

In the morning, the sunlight streaming through the window wakes us both. Each of us wants to ask how the other is feeling, but neither of us does. Instead, we just lay still, letting the warm sun shine in on us.

I make a move towards rolling over to face her, but change my mind as I feel a twinge in my lower back.

"I used to be so strong," I say, dangerously close to sounding pathetic.

She sighs.

"I remember," she replies, "I used to be strong, too. I used to move so easily when I danced."

"I used to be able to move furniture. Now, I can barely hold myself up."

"We're not young, anymore, is all," she says.

"I'm not sure I know what to do, now that I'm not The Strong Girl, anymore, but The Woman With The Crumbling Back."

"We'll both do the same thing," she answers, without hesitation, "We'll hold each other up."

Bubbles Break

I've never been one for clubs, and I've never hung out at a lesbian bar in my life. Not on purpose, anyhow. Still, when someone sent out this tweet, the morning after the massacre in Orlando, Florida, it struck a chord.

The late 80s. I am in my very early 20s. Looking back at it, I am still just a girl. I am traveling with a beautiful woman. After driving all day, we stop at a small town motel and ask for a room. The clerk gives us a strange look when we ask for the room with just one queen-sized bed, instead of two full beds. It is not a look we can ignore. It is not a look we can forget. We don't mention it to one another but, for the rest of the trip, wherever we stop for the night, we make sure always to choose the two-bed option, even though we always sleep together on just the one.

Jump ahead. 2001. I am with my partner, a woman I live with, and believe I will live with forever. We are riding a ferry between the North and South Islands of New Zealand. It's always a lively trip - the Cook Strait is never calm, and people riding this ferry are generally on their way to a holiday, so folks are talking and laughing. We are looking at a copy of Vanity Fair together, laughing at some item about some celebrity. When I reach over to take her hand, she pulls away and, suddenly, it feels strained. "What's wrong?" I ask, "I was just going to hold your hand. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were on the DL." "I'm not comfortable calling attention to ourselves among so many strangers." she says angrily, under her breath, "I don't know any of the people on this boat."

We don't end up living happily, ever after, that woman and I, but we have many years together. Most of them happy, but sometimes the happiness is made slightly sour by circumstances. Like the long trip we plan to Independent Samoa - the holiday of a lifetime. We spend months planning, looking forward to remote tropics, clear, blue water, long nights spent not in a hotel room, but in a rustic fale on the beach. We pick up some papers at the travel agent before we leave. This is the young man who has sold us the tickets, booked everything. We know him. We like him. "Listen, girls," he says, "You seem like an old married couple to me, but I have to give you some advice before you leave: don't let anyone in Samoa know that you're anything but friends. Better yet - tell them you're cousins, that way no one will think it too funny, you two sharing a fale. Kin always stay with one another over there, but the whole gay thing? Friendliest place on earth, but they don't do the gay thing. Cousins, ok? You'll be safer." We spend a month in tropical paradise. As cousins. When strangers ask my partner about the ring on her finger - the ring I gave her - she laughs and makes something up. Sometimes there is a husband back home. Other times she is divorced, but can't bring herself to take off the ring. Always, though, we are cousins. An American and a New Zealander. We even have a back story. Nosiness is considered friendly in Samoan culture, so we concoct a whole back story. Our grandmothers were sisters, one of them raised in NYC, the other, raised in New Zealand, by an aunt. We two have found each other - second cousins! - through the magic of internet genealogy searching, and become fast friends, and now we are traveling through Samoa together. It is a beautiful trip. The trip of a lifetime, but parts of it leave a sour taste in my mouth. A whole month of being careful. A whole month of leisurely beach days, and not being able to hold hands or even embrace, for fear of being seen.

Even today, safe places can be few and far between. I'm not sure this can be imagined, if it isn't your experience. I live in a bubble, these days. I live in San Francisco. When my ex and I were still together, and living stateside, we ended up taking vacations to places like NYC and Healdsburg and Palm Springs. I work in a field practically run by gays and lesbians. I have doctors who, because they work in San Francisco, have probably received training on how to be culturally appropriate with and sensitive to the needs of LGBT patients. A bubble of queer-friendliness and never having to pretend some woman is my cousin. This bubble is small, though. The rest of the world is big, and often ugly.

Orlando's Pulse Club was supposed to be a tiny, little bubble.

Bubbles break.

50 0f Us

I can't bring myself to turn on the television, or look at news streams. I just can't. They got 50 of us. Fifty queer people. Or people who enjoy dancing and having fun with queer people. Or people who happened to work at a queer venue. People. It's all "us," you know. But it can't be denied: someone targeted a gay nightclub, in the midst of LGBT Pride month. Hate fueled this. They got 50 of us, and it was easy to do.

Before things go crazy, though, before they start blaming Islam, or other nations, or extremist ideas, or even homophobia, I hope the rest of us can keep this one thing in mind: We can never legislate ideas or ideology. We can never legislate love or acceptance. We can never legally force people to like us, or respect us, but we can make it a hell of a lot more difficult for people with hate and violence in their hearts to kill us.

Hate Control would be unenforceable, Gun Control would not be.

Get involved. Write your Congressperson, and demand tougher laws around firearms.

As for Hate Control? Don't hide. Don't be invisible. Show up in droves.  Love. Persevere. Take no shit.

Champ

If your children ask you, one day, what courage looks like, show them a photo of Ali.

RIP Champ. We will not see the likes of you, again. 

The Bare Essentials

A friend on Facebook posted a link to a ridiculous Kickstarter for a machine that makes tortillas. A big, bulky, electric machine to do what it takes just moments to do by hand or, if one invests maybe $15-25, do using a hand-press. It made me think about my kitchen. I love to cook, and I do like shopping for kitchenware, but we get bogged down in the ridiculousness of gadgetry. I decided to challenge myself: If I were forced to pare down to the absolute minimum - if I lost every cooking utensil and kitchen gadget in a fire, let's say - which items would I need to get back to having a fully operational kitchen from which I would be able to prepare three really good meals a day? The assumption is that my stove and fridge and sink have survived this apocalypse.

Here is my bare bones kitchen.

Ok, if you can have just one pan, it should be a cast iron skillet. You can fry in this. Sautee'. Broil. Bake. You can use this for your bacon, and your eggs, and for making a mean cornbread, and even for baking ziti or mac and cheese.  Quiche. Cake. A frittata. Ridiculously easy to care for. Indispensable. 

Good knives are important. If you can only have one, make it a cleaver. It's good for chopping vegetables, as well as for cutting meat, and hacking through chicken cartilage. That nice, wide surface can double for crushing peppercorns, garlic, ginger, etc. 

The only other pot/pan I consider essential is a decent saucepan with a lid. Boil eggs, make pasta or rice, morning farina. You can make chili in this, stew, or soup. You can even boil your water for camp coffee or tea. Makes a great mixing bowl in a pinch. The lid not only makes it useful for stewing, but serves as a makeshift strainer. 

More versatile than a spoon - a spatula can be used to flip pancakes, slide under eggs, and stir sauces, and even fold merengue, if one has a gentle touch. I like wood better than metal or synthetics. It holds up well to heat, washes well, and feels good in the hand. I'd need this. 

So, in my real life, I have a tiny kitchen which is jam-packed with stuff, but I only really NEED these four items to make a kick-ass meal. What areas of your life are jam-packed with gadgetry and novelties, and just STUFF, which are far from essential? Care to join this challenge? Imagine your entire office or wardrobe or living room or WHATEVER were destroyed in a fire, and you had to choose ten items or less to get it going, again, in such a way that you'd feel whole and functional - what would those ten items or less be? Tell me. I'm interested. 

Anna from Queens

When I was a kid - like, a REALLY YOUNG KID...maybe 8 or 9 - my grandfather found a copy of Valley of the Dolls, and gave it to me. It had the word "dolls" in the title, and he figured it was a book for girls. And he knew I liked to read. So I read it. My parents, who knew it was NOT a book for little girls, didn't stop me from reading it. They let me read anything in which I showed an interest. I loved it. This led to me watching the movie, which got regular air play on NYC's 4:30 movie.

I was delighted that the role of Neely was played by Patty Duke, who I knew from The Patty Duke Show (which I watched in reruns, and loved, because it took place in Brooklyn Heights, which was just a spit away from Park Slope) and The Miracle Worker, which also got regular play on the 4:30 movie.

I was too young to know the word "camp," but certainly not too young to understand the concept that, sometimes, things are so bad, that they're excellent. After that, it was ON. I never missed Valley of the Dolls when it aired.


I was quite a bit older when I realized that Patty's performance as Neely was adored by queer people the world over, and older, still, when I found out that she embraced this fandom with all her heart. She was OUR GIRL, from way back. Anna - this outer-borough girl who loved her gays as much as we loved HER...who was ordained as a minister for the sole purpose of being able to officiate at same-sex weddings....who would speak at screenings of Valley of the Dolls at The Castro because she loved us and we loved her...who opened up about the hell her childhood had been and the mental illness she had lived with for so long...who fought for research into mental illness, and public understanding of it, and an end to the taboos we have around it.

People who only knew her as one of the identical cousins might find it difficult to believe she was radical, but she was radical as fuck. And she was ours.

Rest in peace, Anna.

Not Like The Others

When I was little, my best friend was this little girl whose parents were really racist. They'd say to her (right in front of me), "Don't play with any of the niggers or the spics on the block, except Lana and her sister. They're not like other spics." And then she would come to my house and play, and call my grandma "abuela" and we would pretend we were sisters. My parents would tell me to ignore her folks because, they said, "They're just ignorant."

These days, I find myself thinking about my friends who are white, "He/she isn't REALLY white. I mean, he/she is white, but not anything like actual WHITE PEOPLE are white."

White Histrionics- A Site of One's Own

White Histrionics has its own home on the web, now. Check out the dedicated blog for a new White Histrionic reminiscence, every day for the month of March and, possibly, beyond.  And remember, THE WHITE STRUGGLE IS REAL.

Co-Opting Racism

On this date in 1996, Margaret Hemsworth requested that her monthly shift requirement at the Park Slope Food Co-Op be permanently waived, enabling her to devote more time to Bikram yoga. This request was denied, resulting in a flare-up of Ms. Hemsworth's self-diagnosed fibromyalgia. The struggle is real. 

#WhiteHistrionicsMonth

Rosa Parks, Move Over

On this date in 1978, Chad Mathews of Darien, Connecticut was required to produce photo identification when attempting to cash a third-party, out-of-state check at a Bank of America branch. He wrote a strong letter to BoA's main office, describing the injustice he had suffered. The teller, an African American woman who had been employed by the bank for 16 years, was subsequently fired. Mathews is recognized as a pioneering freedom fighter for the civil rights of white men with money. 

#WhiteHistrionicsMonth

White Histrionics Month: The Kick-Off

White Histrionics Month kicks off, today. Let's start it right with a look back at white suffering through history.

On this date in 2011, Dr. And Mrs. Walter Darrow of Berkeley, CA, missed All Things Considered, due to a 73 minute power outage in the SF Bay area. The day came to be known as The Berkeley Atonement.

Support White Histrionics Month by using the hashtag throughout March: #WhiteHistrionicsMonth

Antidote

Who Am I to Judge?

When same sex marriage became legal in the USA, less than a year ago, it woke up feelings I'd had about being gay which I'd long ago tucked away, because there really wasn't anything I could do about them, except get on with life as well as I could, on my own terms.

The death of Antonin Scalia has done something similar. For all those who think the public jubilation over his death is inappropriate, I have one message: this was a man who worked really hard, for a very long time, to create a world where people like me would be considered less than human. This was a man who not only considered homosexuality a crime, but compared it to murder. A man who believed that banning homosexuality was no different than banning child pornography. A man who argued that all faggots and dykes should do was stop having sex with people of the same gender, if they wanted to be treated as human beings with rights.

No one was born in 1967 hoping to be homosexual, or trying to be homosexual. Why would any of us? But a hell of a lot of us in 2016 embrace who we are, have no shame about who or how we love, and make no apologies for the way nature made us.

I think it's safe to say that every homosexual is well acquainted with fear - a kind of fear that heterosexuals will never know, can never know. The kind of fear which leads us to pretend our partner is actually our cousin, while traveling in less-than-safe places to be gay. The kind of fear that keeps us from even mentioning we have a partner, because it could cost us a job or an apartment. The kind of fear that leads us to allow others to set us up on blind dates with people of the opposite sex, just to be on the safe side, and not raise suspicions. The kind of fear that makes us lie to and hide the truth from family members, friends, neighbors, doctors, employers, clergy, bank loan officers, the police, store clerks, and maybe even the mailman. The kind of fear that makes people choose their clothing carefully, and not get that haircut,  or buy that shirt, because they might be dead give-aways - give-aways of a truth that is not safe to live out in the open with.

This isn't hyperbole. It's all real. These are all examples of reactions to the fear that has come with being a homosexual in America that I have either experienced, myself, or had close friends experience. One woman I know locked herself out of her car and, instead of calling the local sheriff to slim-jim his way in, so she could get her keys in a matter of minutes, opted to wait a full week, until the friend who had a spare set arrived in town. Her reason? There was a copy of a lesbian novel on her passenger seat, and she couldn't risk having local law enforcement notice it and figure out she was gay. It would have made her life in that town unsafe. She lived in fear.  To a certain extent, I know this fear. For the most part, I've managed to ignore it, but it's always been there - dormant, but not dead. Scalia's death has woken up not the fear, itself, but the sensory memory of what that fear feels like - what it feels like to travel in America with another woman and ask for a room with two beds, just for show. Just to be on the safe side. Just to make sure nobody would figure out the truth and make us pay for it. That's a horrible feeling.  It's not just fear, but humiliation.

Antonin Scalia liked that homosexuals lived in fear and humiliation, and fought to make sure things stayed this way, or maybe even got worse. I don't care that he was a human being who was alive and is now dead, or that he left a widow and children and grandchildren: he was a bad person. He was the enemy.

In fact, I'm really glad he's dead. I hope he realized he was about to die, and that it scared the hell out of him. I hope he knew, for even just a moment or two, what true fear really felt like. I won't even pretend to wish that he rests in peace. I hope that overwhelming fear was the very thing which surrounded him during his last moments. That would be true justice.

A Love Affair With The Lens

Let me preface this by saying I have never been a fan of Bowie's music. Just not my thing. He had a few very radio-friendly songs that I liked but, by and large, I found his music to be grating. And that's not a personal affront to him or to his fans. People like different things, for reasons which cannot be explained in black and white terms. This is why art is art, and not science. That said, the guy was incredibly likable and had great presence. If musical performance Bowie didn't do it for me, I liked nonfiction Bowie: the guy who turned up on talk shows or variety shows and chatted with the host was charming and clever as all get-out. And, during the last half of his life, he sure could wear the hell out of a good suit.

I'm the daughter of a photographer, though. For me, Bowie will always be that long, lean, immensely photographic figure whose portraits by some of the best in the business often landed in the magazines and journals and annual anthologies my dad would bring home and allow me to scour. The camera loved him. In a lot of ways, I grew up not even knowing he was a rock star, so much as a fashion and photographic icon. Not unlike Grace Jones, in my mind.

He looked like no one else. The camera will never love anyone else as much as it loved him. He seems to have had a life well lived, and provided for his own everlasting peace, in his own, humble way. Most excellent, Mr. Bowie. The camera will miss you.