tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15222322932316046532024-02-18T22:40:03.641-08:00SuperHero LunchboxSnapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-46732377065433294682021-05-24T06:56:00.005-07:002021-05-24T08:47:30.657-07:00Kitchen Alchemy<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />During my recent stay to White Plains, I taught my nephew, who is a serious foodie and a great cook, how to make the rice pudding that my grandmother's family has been making for generations. My grandmother only made this pudding at Christmas time, when she made a massive batch because she not only had to make sure there was enough for all the relatives who'd drop by on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Years Eve, but neighborhood people often placed orders for the stuff, giving her a few bucks to prepare it. I remember the shelves in her fridge would be filled with platters, plates and bowls of the stuff - so much so that she'd often have to store some in my mother's fridge.<br /><br /><br />This stuff is not like any rice pudding I've ever encountered anywhere, including in the kitchens of other Puerto Ricans. It's not a white pudding, but deep, dark brown, from lots of cinnamon and ginger, and other stuff. It's not runny, but has a consistency closer to polenta - it can be sliced. I've never seen anything even close to it in any cookbook, Caribbean or otherwise. When my grandmother died, she took the recipe with her. There were lots of us who'd helped her with bits and pieces of it, but no one who knew all the ingredients or all the steps. My mother collected as much information as she could from anyone who'd ever been there when Abuela made the pudding, and she tapped into her own memory. One person would remember this ingredient, a second person would remember another. After several attempts, like some sort of rice pudding alchemist, my mother cracked the code and made a batch of rice pudding that was exactly like her mother's in every way. She wrote down the method, and sent it to me. I say "method," because there are no exact amounts listed, no measurements of anything, no exact cooking times...it's most definitely a method driven, in large part, by instincts. This part is done when the kitchen starts to smell good, that part is done when it becomes difficult to stir, you've added enough of this when the color is just right, the amount of butter needed is a couple of pats, or whatever feels right. That's how this rice pudding is made. <br /><br /><br />I've made this pudding many, many times and fed it to many, many friends. They all say it sure doesn't *look* like rice pudding. They all go crazy over it, once they've tasted it. When I've served it at dinner parties, there are always people asking if they can take some home with them. There are never any leftovers. Ever. <br /><br /><br />I've shared the method with people in writing, but that doesn't seem to work. At least for the first go-round, someone who knows what it should look like and smell like at every stage needs to be there to say, "Ok, you need more cinnamon," or "Lower the flame!," or, "No - keep stirring, even though that seems crazy." <br /><br /><br />This is why I wanted to teach Steven how to make this when I was right in the kitchen with him. When we were done, we drove all the way out to Brooklyn to deliver some pudding to my uncle, Frank. He grew up eating this pudding. Frank does not mince words. If he hadn't liked it, he would have said so. He would have asked, "What the hell is this supposed to be?" Instead, he sent a text message reading, "You guys NAILED it." This made me feel so proud.<br /><br /><br />The funny thing is, I'm the only person I know of who has tried this pudding and doesn't like it. I'm not a big rice person. I'm not crazy about cinnamon. Sweetness, in general, isn't my jam, and this is a sweet dessert. I don't really care for it - something my family has always thought was nuts - but I love making it. I love making it because it reminds me of my grandmother, who put so much energy into it every year, and took such pride in it. It reminds me of my mother, who set about to rediscover this lost secret and make sure she could pass it down to me. When I make it again, it will remind me, too, of Steven. He is, at the very least, the 5th generation of our family to make it. I'm sure it's been in the family much longer than that, but I can only trace it back definitively to my great grandmother, Jacobina, who was born in 1872.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One day, maybe Alex and Lily will learn how to make this from their dad, by watching him, and taking note of how brown "brown" is, how the kitchen should smell before they stop cooking down the ginger, when to stop stirring. </span></div>Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-90594274460053518592020-08-23T08:15:00.002-07:002020-08-23T08:15:27.903-07:00Quarantine<p> The Superhero Lunchbox is under quarantine. </p>Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-29704324053103573542020-01-19T00:00:00.000-08:002020-01-19T00:02:56.683-08:00The Care and Feeding Of Friendship : A How-To Guide For A Boy Of Nineteen<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Spend an evening at a redneck bar in rural Vermont with your good friend. Play darts. Shoot pool. Put quarters in the juke box and sing along to both Hank Williams and Bob Marley. Drink Puerto Rican screwdrivers - one part Bacardi, two parts grapefruit juice. Do this until the gravelly-voiced bartender runs out of bad jokes to tell, and says it’s been a trip, but he needs to close up for the night, and you both need to get the hell out.<br /><br />Drive home - very slowly - through the snow, in your Olds 98. It's only half a mile, and there's no one else on this rural road, but know that you shouldn't be driving, at all. This is not a great time to provide your friend with her first driving lesson, but you give it a shot. You're both going to live forever, anyhow.<br /><br />Back at home, wash down two Tylenols and a B12 capsule with a Mason jar full of cold water. Make sure your friend does the same, promising her she'll thank you in the morning. Fill that jar, again, and set it on the table next to your bed, along with an additional dosage of B12, more Tylenol, and a Drum cigarette your friend has rolled for you. She doesn't smoke, but she’s fidgety, and you've taught her how to roll the perfect cigarette, to keep her hands busy.<br /><br />In the morning, wake up and immediately reach for the jar of water, the Tylenol, the vitamin. Light up the Drum and go to the kitchen, where your friend, who is an early riser, has a pot of coffee waiting.<br /><br />Sit on the couch together. <br /><br />Talk. <br /><br />Laugh.<br /><br />Drink lots of strong, black coffee. <br /><br />Smoke. <br /><br />Marvel at how good you both feel. <br /><br />Sit with the unspoken truth that life will never be much sweeter than it is at this moment.</span><br />
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-79809061487097608932019-10-11T18:15:00.000-07:002019-10-11T18:42:16.713-07:00National Coming Out Day - The Big Lie<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />Today is National Coming Out Day. This probably won't win me many friends, but this day bothers me. A lot. It's right up there with the whole <a href="http://superherolunchbox.blogspot.com/search?q=it+gets+worse" target="_blank">It Gets Better </a>movement. They're both fairy tales, as far as I can tell. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />People who aren’t gay have this idea that coming out is something a person does and gets over with, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There is no getting it over with. Coming out is something most of us have to do over and over again, during our lives. We come out to parents. To friends. To neighbors. To nosy people who get it into their heads to fix us up with nice guys they know. To nice guys (and not so nice guys) who have other ideas. The worst part is that it never gets easier. Coming out over and over again is like pulling off a scab before a cut has fully healed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The whole National Coming Out Day thing boils down the act of identifying as queer to an episode. You come out, and then the world knows you're gay, and everything is ok, and you move on, and tell the world your coming out story. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Unless you're a celebrity who comes out in front of the whole world, any queer person in the world will spend a lifetime coming out. Worse, still: being queer also means having to decide when to lay low, and <b>not</b> call attention to one's self. I'd put money down that every ordinary queer person who has come out to friends and relatives has been faced with at least one situation where he or she has had to decide if doing the opposite wouldn't serve them better. Maybe they've had a beard accompany them to a work function, or just gone along with heterocentric conversation while in the company of a large group of straight people who are clearly less than queer-friendly. Maybe they've introduced their same-sex partner as a cousin, out of safety, or to get an apartment, or keep a job. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few days ago, I had to fly to Orange County. A few minutes before leaving for the airport, I realized I was wearing my "Make America Gay, Again" tshirt. This shirt always gets me smiles in SF, and perfect strangers yelling from across the street, "Cool shirt!" Before leaving for my trip, I realized it might not be a safe piece of clothing to have on when landing at John Wayne Airport (even the NAME of that airport gives me the willies.) I realized that, where I was going, outside of the queer-friendly enclave where I spend most of my time, my shirt might be problematic. I realized that I might not get great service, if I checked in wearing that shirt. I realized that, at a family-friendly resort, that tshirt might be considered offensive or obscene. I changed my shirt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I changed my shirt, it was the same as deciding that coming out in Orange County was not something I wanted or needed to do. Because coming out in Orange County might actually mean trouble.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have to come out ALL THE TIME, over and over again. All queer people do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The whole thing is tedious and demoralizing. So, no - I'm not big on National Coming Out Day. It makes as much sense to me as Black History Month, which is basically an excuse for schools to just IGNORE the rich history of black people for 11 months of the school year. </span>Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-21479318560242346862019-07-20T10:11:00.000-07:002019-07-20T10:11:16.151-07:00We Never Left <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When people have nothing left to lose, they are more likely to fight for what they believe in. This is a thread which runs through every successful rebellion, revolution, or civil rights battle. It's one of life's great ironies: the more we strip a person of his or her freedoms, the less they have to weigh them down and stop them from revolting. I don't in any way mean to make light of the abomination of slavery but, if you enslave a people long enough, it's almost inevitable that a brand of emotional spiritual, and political freedom will emerge. In so many ways, the so-called "first world" is soft. We have so much STUFF, and no one wants to risk losing that stuff. By "stuff," I don't just mean material possessions and wealth, but also status, political power, comfort, convenience, safety, etc. <br /><br />All the same "stuff" that The Haves love to deprive The Have-Nots of. <br /><br />Puerto Rico has been colonized since the late 15th century. That's a long time for a people to have everything taken away from them. That's a long, long time for a people to build up their anger. It's a long time for a people to build their strength. It's a long time for a people to claim the brand of freedom that can only come with being oppressed. The people of Puerto Rico have been deprived of so much, for so long, that there is not a damned thing to be lost by rising up. <br /><br />In telling a Puerto Rican from NYC to go back to where she came from, Trump makes it clear he understands nothing about what it means to be Puerto Rican. I don't just mean that he doesn't understand that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a US citizen (as are ALL Puerto Ricans) and that she was born and raised in NYC. <br /><br />He has no idea what it means to actually be connected to one's origins. <br />He has no idea what it means to have love in one's heart for the birthplace of one's parents.<br />He has no idea what it means to have been raised to love and honor one's culture. <br />He has no idea what it means to be held high on the shoulders of one's ancestors and be both humbled and empowered by their examples of strength and perseverance. <br />He has no idea what it means to have pride in anything that is unrelated to making a quick buck. <br /><br />There's no point telling a Puerto Rican who was born and raised in NYC to "go back." Not a one of us ever really left. Not really. This is true for me. It's true for AOC.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The beautiful thing about the concept of the USA is that we don't have to turn our backs on where we came from. It's why there is no official language in this country.<br /><br />The actions on the part of the people of Puerto Rico in the last week serve as a humbling reminder of where I truly come from, and what my people are made of. I'm soft - I'm the first to admit it. I've lived a life of relative ease and convenience. I've certainly been afforded benefits and comforts having been born in NYC and living Stateside that my relatives in Guayanilla have not enjoyed. I'm connected to them, though. By blood. By history. By culture. I'm connected to every, single Puerto Rican living on the island. And that's an honor - an honor FOR ME. <br /><br />Donald Trump - who is completely devoid of honor - can never understand this.</span></div>
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-8390067907480035242019-06-29T09:29:00.000-07:002019-06-30T14:23:47.232-07:00Living Well<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The big slogan for Stonewall's 50th anniversary merch is "The first Pride was a riot." McMann and Tate couldn't have done better - it's a nice piece of marketing. Of course, since that first year of the Stonewall riots, Pride has become more and more of a party. Even during the worst of times, when AIDS was killing off a generation of beautiful young men who hadn't even had a chance to really live, yet, Pride events always left lots of room for a party. I was thinking about this, last night, as I was wrestling with really severe pain, and convincing myself to just take all the damned painkillers in the morning, push past it, and get my ass to Pride. Because showing the fuck up for life can be a show of power. <br /><br />We've all heard the saying, "living well is the best revenge." That saying has been lingering in the back of my mind, lately. It strikes me as the perfect slogan for Pride. I looked up the origin of that saying, expecting to find that someone like Dorothy Parker or Oscar Wilde had first said it. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the phrase is much older than that, and can be <a href="https://quoteinvestigator.com/2018/09/02/living-well/">traced back as far as 1640</a>, when it first appeared in print. <br /><br />The concept of enjoying life in the face of adversity has been with us for a long, long time. <br /><br />We see it in the African American community where an entire people who have had so much stolen from them not only survive, but thrive. The laundry list of what the institution of slavery took from Africa is too long to even start documenting in a little blog post but, while African Americans still struggle for all kinds of justice and equity, the truth cannot be denied: those enslaved in North America and the Caribbean found ways to achieve the truly audacious. They created - and their descendants continue to create - music, dance, literature, art, and food that looks adversity in the eye and says, "Fuck you, I'm here." <br /><br />We see it in so many stories of immigrants and the colonized who land on the US mainland, work hard, contribute to society, face discrimination of all kinds, stand little chance of ever making it out of poverty, yet never let go of their ethnic pride or devotion to children and family, and hold on to their mother-tongues with all their might. "Fuck you: they're here."<br /><br />While the first Pride was a riot, more recent Pride events are celebrations. And that's as it should be. Because the best way to respond to anyone who tells you that you have no right to exist, to express yourself, to feel good about who and what you are and how you live your life is to show the fuck up for life and dare to find joy. "Fuck you: I'm here."<br /><br />Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, who we have to thank for the Stonewall riots, weren't just queers. Marsha was African American. Sylvia was Puerto Rican/Venezuelan. They were descended from slaves, colonized people, and immigrants. The business of living well as the best form of revenge was in their DNA. I never met these pioneers, but I know this about them: they knew how to have a good time. They knew that living well was the best revenge. They showed the fuck up for life.</span><br />
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-57746648904213680762019-06-03T18:58:00.000-07:002019-06-03T18:58:15.382-07:00WE WERE HERE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake lived together for over 40 years in a relationship that was, for all intents and purposes, a marriage. Their community recognized it. Their relatives recognized it. They did not live in the shadows, have relationships with men to throw off the scent, or cower from public duty. They were considered to be good neighbors, trusted friends to members of the community, and a couple in whom local families placed a great deal of trust, when it came to educating young women in the seamstress/tailor trade. While they died years apart, they are buried in the same plot, and share a tombstone.</span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />None of this sounds all that shocking: this could be a story about two women living in Park Slope, in 2019. It isn't. Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake lived in rural Vermont, in the first half of the 19th century.<br /><br />Until very recently, erasure of gay lives has been the norm (and still is, in many places). The well-documented lives Charity and Sylvia led as a loving, devoted couple, however, makes me think of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We don't - we CAN'T - know the names of all of those who have been erased over the centuries, but we do know the names Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake. More than 200 years after they first got together, their names scream out:</span></div>
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-37006789089162076812019-05-15T07:17:00.000-07:002019-05-15T09:49:47.848-07:00Rich White Men, No Accessible Parking, Either<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Make no mistake: the <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2019/05/14/politics/alabama-senate-abortion/index.html" target="_blank">stuff going on in Alabama</a> and <a href="https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2019/05/hb481-georgia-abortion-ban-criminal-brian-kemp-horrific.html" target="_blank">Georgia </a>is not just about misogyny, but about classism, racism, and ableism. <br /><br /><br /><b>Wealth = Choice </b><br /><br />It's a timeless concept: the richer you are, the more choices you have. If you live in Alabama or Georgia, you're just a little more than comfortable, financially, and you decide you want an abortion, you might discretely hop over a state or two. If you're doing well, financially, you might fly to NYC and make a vacation out of it. If money is no object, you can fly off to the Caribbean or Bermuda for your procedure. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The poorer a woman is, the fewer choices she has. If a woman cannot afford to circumvent the law in Alabama or Georgia, she's screwed. This is by design.<br /><br />The greatest impact these laws will have will specifically be on <i><b>poor</b></i> women. <br /><br /><b>Who Are These Poor Women?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b>21.2% of all African Americans in the USA live at or below the poverty level. <br />18.3% of Hispanics in this country live at or below the poverty level. <br />Only 8.7% of the white population in this country are at or below the poverty level. <br /><i>(Kayla R. Fontenot, Jessica L. Semega, and Melissa A. Kollar for the U.S. Census Bureau, “Income and Poverty in the United States: 2017," United States Department of Commerce, 2018)</i><br /><br />One cannot attack the poor in this country, without attacking ethnic minorities.<br /><br /><b>Ableist? Isn't That A Stretch? </b><br /><br />20.9% of American adults who identify as having one or more disability live at or below the poverty level, as opposed to 13.1% of the population who do not have disabilities.<br /><i>( Disability Statistics Annual Report 2017, Institute on Disability, University of New Hampshire, 2018.)</i><br /><br />As is the case with minorities, one cannot attack the poor in this country without attacking the disability community. <br /><br />Its plain to see that Alabama and Georgia deliberately set out to keep in bondage women, the poor, people of color, and "able-bodied" people. Who do you think that leaves to be in charge? </span></div>
Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-53449909129278564542019-04-30T12:26:00.000-07:002019-06-29T09:43:14.000-07:00To Be Fair....You're Part of the ProblemI've now encountered several people online who point out that HBO's series, Gentleman Jack, reminds them of Sarah Waters' novels, specifically Tipping the Velvet. I take serious issue with this comparison, as it is nothing more than an example of the fact that we live in a heteronormative society which demands - sometimes loudly, but sometimes very quietly - that queer people remain content with the status quo.<br />
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One person who noted the similarities between Gentleman Jack and Waters' novels even prefaced her impression with the phrase, "To be fair" As in, "To be fair, Sarah Waters books are what came to mind...."<br />
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To be fair? Fair about what? About heteronormative society's ongoing insistence that one narrative or aesthetic which doesn't conform to the status quo is exactly like any other?<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Gentleman Jack</span></b> is based on the diaries of a very real woman, named Anne Lister. Lister lived in the late 18th and first half of the 19th century. She was a wealthy landowner and businesswoman. She traveled the world. She often wore what were considered to be manly clothes because they suited her. She did this openly, without subterfuge. I do not believe there is a single account of Lister impersonating a man. If there is, the HBO show has not at all touched on it, and I see no indication that it will ever be the case. Gentleman Jack is a story about a homosexual, arguably cross-dressing woman who was wealthy enough to live life on her own terms, as early as 1820 or so. It is set in rural Halifax, England, where Lister's significant holdings - including coal mines - were.<br />
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Sarah Waters has written several novels - most of them very, very good. Read them. They're worth the time. But they have nothing to do with Anne Lister, and they bear no resemblance to Gentleman Jack, except for the fact that most of them revolve around protagonists who are lesbians, or women who fall in love with other women (there IS a difference.) There are few enough of them that going over them is pretty simple.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Tipping the Velvet is a picaresque novel</span></b> set in the 1890s, and revolves around a young, working class woman from, I believe, Cornwall. She becomes enamored of a celebrated singer/dancer whose schtick is performing in male garb, and impersonating a man. The protagonist, Nan, eventually ends up having a steamy love affair with this actress, and herself taking to the stage as a male impersonator. While the the two women perform in male garb, their act is NOT a lesbian act, per se. It is mainstream, family-friendly entertainment where the very idea of two pretty women dressed up as men is all a bit of a joke. The real joke, of course, is on the mainstream audience, who have no idea that the two women are lovers off stage. This is only a small portion of the novel. The bulk of the novel takes place in seedy London, where Nan has a series of adventures - and misadventures - which include: leading a secret life as rough trade: impersonating a young man and providing sexual favors to older men, in exchange for money...living in the lap of luxury, but also complete servitude, as the sex slave of a very wealthy lesbian...ending up homeless and starving...finding true love with a woman from her past...and finding a real home and family in the burgeoning socialist movement.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Fingersmith is a heist/double-cross novel</b> </span>set in 1800s England - no specific year is given, but I'd hazard to guess mid-century. Its plot revolves around a hardscrabble group of pickpockets and conmen and women, and a plan to carry out a major heist, in the way of cheating an heiress out of her fortune. There are two protagonists: Sue and Maud. Sue is an orphan and life-long criminal - a master thief. Maud is a seemingly innocent, naive young woman who has been cloistered in the home of her wealthy, tyrannical uncle. The two women, who each have plans to cheat and swindle the other, end up becoming sexually attracted to one another and, eventually, falling in love. The novel delves into the dark world of 19th century pornographic trade, and the entire story is built upon a series of secrets and lies: secrets and lies about people's identities, their sexual natures, their true intentions, their true feelings about one another.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Affinity is a gothic novel</b> </span>set in Victorian England, and revolves around the spiritualism fad which overtook the nation during this era. It involves an upper-class woman who volunteers her time as a visitor to convicted women who are serving their sentences at a local prison. Margaret is taken in by not only the sexual charms of one of the female inmates, but also by an elaborate plot which relies on her gullibility regarding the spiritualist movement, and messages from beyond. Like Fingersmith, it's a multi-layered story about a con job.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Night Watch is a sweeping historical novel</b> </span>which chronicles the interconnected lives of a group of characters in London - including two lesbians - before, during and after WWII.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Little Stranger is an old-fashioned, spooky yarn</span></b>, set in the late 1940s. The backdrop is a once-grand country estate which is falling to ruin, and seems to be suffering from a sort of curse or haunting. This novel is best described as a ghost story where the real ghost is the past, itself. The main characters are Dr. Faraday, a country doctor, and Caroline Ayres, the spinster who runs the crumbling estate and tries to keep order for her rapidly deteriorating family. Themes in this novel include: post-war reconstruction, socialism, class distinction, and shell shock/PTSD. There is not a gay person in sight.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Paying Guests is a sort of literary noir</span></b> set in post WWI England which revolves around a boarding house, two women engaged in a lesbian affair, and a murder. Themes include class, post-war reconstruction and economic change, abortion, and the nature of love.<br />
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The <b>ONLY</b> thing Anne Lister's life and Gentleman Jack have in common with Sarah Waters' novels is that almost all of Waters' pieces revolve around women who exhibit romantic love for other women.<br />
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Not one of the novels is set in the same place and time as Lister.<br />
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Not a one of them has a plot even remotely like the life story of Anne Lister - either in history, or as portrayed thus far on HBO's series.<br />
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"To be fair," it's not reasonable or rational for anyone to equate one of these with the other, and such a thing can only happen when a person has it in their mind that one lesbian's story is just like any other lesbian's story. It's like saying that A Raisin in the Sun reminds one of The Wiz, because both involve black characters. It's THAT ridiculous.<br />
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If you're still not getting why this bothers me, and bothers me <b>A LOT</b>, and still think it's a perfectly reasonable comparison because, after all, Waters usually writes about lesbians and Anne Lister was a lesbian? Think about someone saying that Sophie's Choice reminds them of The Sting, because Robert Redford and Peter Macnicol both wore caps in their roles. That sounds incredibly stupid, doesn't it? Of course it does. Because it IS incredibly stupid. And, if I were to say, "To be fair, one reminds me of the other because of the caps," you'd think I was a pretty damned shallow person who based my ideas about film on fucking HATS, instead of actual content. And you'd be right.<br />
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To be fair: lesbians are pretty much just like other people in most respects, and lesbian stories are as varied as stories about heterosexual people are. If you really think it's ok to ask me to be "fair" and accept your assessment that one lesbian-themed story is just like any other, what you're asking me to do is get in line and accept the heteronormative code of nonsense. If you know me, you know that's just not going to happen.<br />
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<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-85572973565123657022018-12-09T19:41:00.001-08:002018-12-09T19:41:13.339-08:002018: Ten Movies From The Year That Felt Like Ten Years<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Has it REALLY only been one year since I last did this? Why do I feel ten years older? It has been a year of escapism. I saw a lot of movies in 2018. Here are my picks for best, worst, most this, most that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Most Unlikely Heartbreak: </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Killmonger's Death, Black Panther</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Black Panther was amazing. Most amazing to me was how gutted I was by Killmonger's death. Michael B. Jordan brought the anti-hero I'd been waiting for, made only more great by the grace with which he faced death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Most Stunning Career Turn-Around: </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Keira Knightley as Colette</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; text-align: left;">To say I haven't been a fan of Keira Knightly would be putting it mildly. Prior to this film, she never ceased to bore me to pieces. This film was a pleasant surprise. A Keira Knightley performance I enjoyed, from the very opening scene. It's rare for an actor who has established herself in a safe, bankable niche to stretch her wings and try something completely different. Knightly did just that. Brava. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Movie That Came Closest To Being Ruined By A Creepy Sex Scene: Disobedience</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="text-align: left;">I loved this movie, but I did NOT love that weird thing in the sex scene. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. That weird thing that made every straight person in the theater ask, "Ewww...do lesbians DO that?" No. No, we don't. That was just weird and creepy, and it's a good thing the movie was so damned good, otherwise, because that scene would have killed it for me. If you haven't seen the movie, and want to know what I'm referring to - Google it. The clip is available online. I can't even bring myself to post it, here. This is quite a sweet movie about love, friendship, acceptance, and the complexities of cultural ties and familial duty. The scene I've linked captures all of that. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">You Really Can Go Home, Again: Halloween </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Forget every sequel. Go back to the first movie. Watch it, and then watch this. Those other ones don't count. Not only as good as the original, but better. Better because the thing to be afraid of isn't so much a murderous monster, but something way more dangerous. This is a horror movie where the monster isn't a man, but the past, itself. If you sat in a theater and watched the original as a kid, as I did, this is a must. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Most Likely To Be Cheated Out of An Oscar Nomination: Toni Collette, Hereditary</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No one has done scary as well as this since Rosemary's Baby, case closed. Toni Collette probably won't get nominated for an Oscar, because horror films rarely get taken seriously. It's a shame. She deserves mad props for her performance. Disturbing in ways one could never anticipate. This movie delivers, big time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Take The Money And Run: </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Helen Mirren, Winchester</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm worried about Helen Mirren. She must be in serious debt, if she's accepting roles like this one. Ties with Gotti as the worst movie I saw all year, and might even be worse. I mean, I don't expect anything from John Travolta, except crap. But Helen Mirren? This was more than boring. Watching one of the most charismatic actors alive not even able to fake enthusiasm for a film script this terrible was depressing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Most Thought-Provoking Documentary: </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Seeing Allred</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought I knew about this woman. I was wrong. So wrong. See this documentary, which too few people saw. It may well make you see this woman in a much different light than that which the media has shed on her, over the years. I went in thinking, "Money-grubbing opportunist." I finished thinking, "Feminist freedom fighter and friend of the LGBT community."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A slow burn, this movie had me from the word GO. Ruth Wilson is a wonder, and should be a major film star. A good, chilling, old-fashioned ghost story where the ghost isn't who or what you probably think. Loved this movie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Scarier Than Any Horror Movie of 2018: </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Kindergarten Teacher</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gives Hereditary a run for its money, in terms of being among the most disturbing films I've ever seen, mostly because it's not at all implausible. This movie upset me, but I could not tear myself away from it. While Hereditary is about the supernatural, and Halloween is essentially about PTSD, The Kindergarten Teacher is about failure, hopelessness, the overwhelming desire to be more than mediocre, and how that desire can become a dark force. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">All-Around Best Film: The Favourite</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Funny, wicked, bitchy, suspenseful and, oddly enough, tender, as well as a little sad. This is about as perfect as filmmaking gets. A razor-sharp script, which never takes itself too seriously, sumptuous sets and costumes, and brilliant performances by all three actors. If you have not seen this, yet, see it soon, on a big screen. It's a visual feast, and deserves to be seen in all its glory. Rachel Weisz is quickly becoming one of my top 5 favorite actors. This film only reinforced that. This now ranks a close second to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=679wr31SXWk" target="_blank">Carol</a>, in terms of my favorite lesbian-themed film. </span></div>
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-87013406888675309002018-12-01T09:45:00.000-08:002019-07-16T07:43:03.358-07:00On World AIDS Day: REMEMBER, REMIND, INFORM<br />
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Dec 1 is World AIDS Day. I've posted this every year, for a few years, now. <br />
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The way so many in this country seem to have already forgotten so much: about the Holocaust, about the civil rights movement of the 60s, about the fact this land was stolen from Natives and turned into a country of immigrants.....it seems more important than ever to keep reposting this. <br />
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Remember. <br />
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Remind those who have forgotten. <br />
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Inform those who were not yet around for the very worst days of this plague:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you're roughly my age, or older, you lost someone to HIV/AIDS during the earliest and worst days of the plague. You may not even know it, because you think you lost them to pneumonia or cancer or the flu, or even suicide. Maybe they knew they had the virus, and were afraid to let anyone know. Maybe it was a gay man you lost - a gay man who you had no idea was gay, because that, too, was something it was not safe to share even with one's loved ones. Maybe it was a woman or a child or a heterosexual man. Maybe it was someone in your life who you had no idea had dabbled in the world of IV drugs, or who had received a blood transfusion. Maybe it was a very old person. But be sure of this: if you were alive and aware around 1984 or so, there is someone you knew, someone who was in your life, someone you maybe even loved, who is not here, anymore, because of this disease. Be sure, too, that you don't forget how shamefully the world responded to this disease during those earliest days, and for years after. Don't forget that people who were known to have this disease were treated like garbage. Don't forget we had a president who chose to ignore this plague, because gay men and drug addicts had lives which were considered to have no value. Don't forget that, when mainstream America did nothing, gay men and lesbians pooled their resources and did EVERYTHING. DON'T forget that mainstream America was largely part of the problem, while the LGBT community basically invented the idea that there could be solutions. It's World AIDS Day. Remember all of this and, if you have young people in your life, tell them all about it, in every ugly detail, because the ugly parts are the most important.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-15438228194710039572018-10-01T17:15:00.000-07:002019-07-03T09:17:32.528-07:00It's My Pleasure To Inform You That Little Women Is, In Fact, Feminist As All Get-Out. Or: 10 Reasons Louisa May Alcott's Classic Novel Is Loved By Rebellious Women The World Over. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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1. <b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>It's a girl's world.</i></span> </b>Little Women is female-centric. I don't just mean it's <i>about</i> girls and women. I mean the entire novel is a picture of life where every male character is peripheral - <i>yes, even Laurie</i> - and <i>every </i>aspect of life is viewed through the lens of females. Alcott created a world of girls/women. Their hopes, dreams, failures, successes - even their vanities - are all their own, and not shaped by boys or men. There is never a moment in the narrative when we are inside the head of a boy or a man.<br />
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2. <span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Sisterhood celebrated</b>.</i></span> Unlike so many other novels, Little Women is about females supporting one another, and holding each other up through the toughest of times. While sibling rivalry exists between two of the sisters, it's not about them being females, but about them being siblings with contrasting temperaments. At the end of the day, Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy always have each other's backs, because sisterhood is a powerful force. In any other novel, sisters would fight over Laurie. Not the March sisters.<br />
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3. <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Marmee.</span></i></b> Can we talk about marmee? Marmee is so badass that she tells her daughters she'd rather they remain spinsters than marry for money. Think this isn't some badass, feminist talk? Do some reading about what life was like in 1868, and what spinsterhood usually amounted to, for women who weren't heiresses. Marmee doesn't raise the March girls to plan on marrying for money and be supported by men. She raises her daughters to think for themselves, hold out for true love, and find ways to support themselves. You want radical feminism? A mother who is relieved when her daughter turns down the proposal of a rich, honorable young man, because she knows their love isn't truly of a romantic nature, and that they're not suited as life partners. A mother encouraging her daughter to leave the nest, move to a strange city on her own, and pursue writing, even when the window of opportunity for finding a financially secure husband is slowly closing. A mother who finds peace when confronted with the significantly older, penniless pauper her daughter DOES love, because she wants her daughter to live life on her own terms. Keep in mind we're talking about a book written in 1868, not 1978.<br />
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4. <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Jo March selling her hair.</span></i></b> This is no small thing. For a young woman from a decent family to even walk into a shop where hair is bought and sold would be scandalous, but our Jo doesn't give a damn about convention, or what "proper" ladies are expected to do. She sees family crisis and the need for fast cash, recognizes that she lives in a world where her "one beauty" has a dollar value, and she makes the sacrifice. Does she lament her decision, later? Yes, briefly. Who wouldn't? But she doesn't dwell on it. It's HER hair, and she'll chop it off and sell it, if she wants to.<br />
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5. <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Jo and Laurie's friendship.</span></i></b> Unlike so many other examples in literature and film, Jo and Laurie's friendship really <i>is</i> friendship in its truest form. While Laurie imagines it to be more, because he isn't as forward thinking as Jo, Jo always knows that what she has in Laurie is a best friend. Think the idea of girls and boys/men and women being best friends for life, with no romantic entanglements is old hat, and that the idea of true Platonic love between the opposite sexes is not at all a feminist idea? Find half a dozen examples of it in American literature prior to Little Women. I'll wait.<br />
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6. <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Self-determination.</span></i></b> This is a theme which comes up in Little Women, again and again. We read, early on, about the March girls' and their castles in the air. Meg's castle is very traditional - and that's ok. It's OK to want a husband and children and to make a nice home life for one's family. There's nothing about that that isn't feminist, if it's what a girl or woman truly wants, and we know Meg well enough to know it's what she truly desires most. And why not? She has a wonderful, strong, resilient mother, and aspires to live up to her greatness. Beth's castle can be whittled down to peace: it's really all she wants out of life. No husband. No children. Just peace. And maybe a decent piano. It may not be exciting, but it's her life's wish, and she's allowed to have it, without anyone urging her to grow up and start looking for a husband. Jo and Amy have more nontraditional castles, both of which revolve around creativity and art. During an era when girls their age were expected to seek out respectable husbands who would offer them financial security, Jo and Amy both have dreams of achieving artistic greatness. When they each give up these dreams (or put them on hold) it's not because anyone forces them to, or the men in their lives have forbidden them to pursue them. Amy comes to the mature realization that she isn't much more than mediocre as an artist, and that hoping for genius is not enough. Jo puts her writing aside not because she <i>has</i> to, but because she makes a choice, eventually, to marry and have children. Die-hard Alcott fans know that, in the final book in this series, Jo's literary aspirations are not only revived, but with a vengeance. When we meet the much older Jo in Jo's Boys we're told that, when the Bhaers are facing dire poverty, Jo picks up her pen and not only saves the day by selling her writing, but she achieves a level of fame and fortune she'd never dreamt possible. Anyone who thinks Jo is forced to stop writing, or that she gives it up, entirely, isn't really reading the words on the page. They're certainly not reading through the entire March Family saga.<br />
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7. <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">"A funny match."</span></i></b> That's how Louisa May Alcott described her choice of husband for Jo. Alcott intended for Jo to remain unmarried, but the second part of Little Women never would have been published if she'd refused to give in and marry off all the surviving March sisters. An early feminist, herself, Alcott was the only significant breadwinner in her family, and she couldn't afford to lose a chance at a second novel being published. Put simply: she had mouths to feed. She did refuse, though, to marry Jo off to the handsome, charming, rich Laurie, even though it's what the public wanted so badly. That would have been too formulaic, and an insult to the girl Jo was, the woman she was to become. There are still people who lament this choice, but I maintain that, underneath the handsome face and substantial income, grown-up Laurie is really a bit of a bore. Put in more modern terms, Laurie is the wealthy guy who settles for a life in the family business - a business about which he doesn't really give a damn. How depressing. The idea that Jo holds out for true love, and finds it not in her young, handsome, wealthy neighbor, who fairly begs for her hand in marriage, but in the form of a poor, middle-aged immigrant with a love of philosophy and literature has always been something I've found refreshing. Jo doesn't settle. She never settles. The "funny match" Louisa May Alcott writes, as she thumbs her nose at convention, represents Jo March's ongoing insistence on dancing to the beat of her own drummer, thank you very much. If a 19th century woman saying, "I don't want to be married to a man who's just convenient and available, I want to find love with someone who I decide is worthy" isn't a defiant act of feminism, I don't know what is.<br />
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8. <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Aunt March.</span></i></b> Hear me out on this. No one who reads Little Women adores Aunt March, but it must be acknowledged that Alcott has not only written a book where the family patriarch is absent, but created a world where the only family money to speak of is controlled by a woman. A childless woman who lives alone and wields a certain amount of power and sway. Is she always nice? Not by a long shot. But she's always her own woman, and she takes orders from no one. Feminism isn't about being docile or likable. And when she dies? Her house and land don't go to her nephew, Robin (the March girls' father), but to Jo. Aunt March not only skips over an entire generation when deciding who her estate should go to, and she doesn't <i>just</i> leave it to a female, she leaves it to the most spirited female in the family...the female most likely to do with Plumfield things Aunt March would find distasteful or even scandalous. Aunt March knows Jo well enough to know this, and she leaves her Plainfield, anyhow. I have a quiet affection for Aunt March, who I suspect would have been a suffragette, had she been born later.<br />
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9. <i><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Separate, but equal.</b> </span></i>Some 20th and 21st century feminists could learn a lot from Alcott. While I've seen divisions among so-called feminists in my lifetime, who rage against women choosing to make home, children and spouse the center of their universe, Alcott did no such thing. If the March sisters all chose their own lives, it's true that their choices are very different. Where Jo chooses a somewhat unconventional life - first turning down a lucrative proposal of marriage, and then opting for a life full of raucous male energy, running a school for topsy-turvy boys, several of whom really have no other place to go - Meg chooses a life of very quiet, conventional domesticity. Her life revolves around her husband, her children, and making a home that is comfortable for them. If it seems like a letdown, it shouldn't. It's Meg's castle in the air come to fruition, and Alcott honors that. Film versions of Little Women skip over it (really the only section of the book consistently absent from the films), but Alcott devotes whole chapters to Meg's domestic foibles. Some of these foibles and their resolutions may seem cringeworthy to readers in 2018, but the fact remains that Alcott does something that had seldom if ever been done before: she elevates what many of us see as mundane, domestic life. The life she describes in these chapters is probably closer to the lives lived by most women in 1868 than anything else we're likely to read in fiction from that era, because the domestic lives of women were not deemed worthy of literature. Alcott holds no such opinion. To her, Meg's dilemmas about her household budget, botched attempts at cooking, or entertaining her demanding children are just as worthy of being written about as Jo and Amy's far more exotic adventures in New York and abroad. Beth's journey, which is almost wholly internal, is also deemed worthy of exploration. When Alcott devotes time to and honors every kind of female life, she's truly the feminist we need in 2018 - the feminist who knows that feminism isn't about anyone telling women what they should or should not do, but about supporting women in the choices they make for themselves.<br />
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10. <b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The sequels.</i></span> </b>Little Women does not exist in a vacuum. In point of fact, Alcott wrote four books about the March family: Little Women, Good Wives (in the USA, now published as the second half of Little women), Little Men, and Jo's Boys. Most people agree that Little Women is her true masterpiece. I think so. I also think the sequels are well worth exploring, for anyone who has an interest in the seeds planted in the first book. Little Men revolves around Plumfield, Jo and Fritz's school for boys. One of the oddities, of course, is that Jo sees fit to admit girls to the school, as well - Nan and Daisy, who are almost replacements for young Jo and and Meg. This, in itself, is pretty audacious. I highly doubt there were many co-ed boarding schools even in the most progressive corners of America at the time Little Men was written. What's more, when we get to the final book about the March family, we're treated to the vision Alcott had not only for Jo (who has become a successful and famous writer), but for her young counterpart, Nan, who becomes a physician and, we're told, never marries - not because she doesn't have the opportunity, but because she chooses a path in life that leaves no room for marriage. Nan is happy with and fulfilled by the path she has chosen. Daisy, for her part, chooses a path that is parallel to that of Meg (who is her mother) and, again, Alcott honors this choice as much as any other made by the girls and women in the March universe. Jo's Boys is not a great book. It's not even a very good book, but it's a must, if one is truly going to look at what Louisa May Alcott had to say about womanhood, the spaces women inhabit in the world, and the dreams girls and women have every right to dream.<br />
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Context is everything. One cannot fairly measure feminist content in a work written 150 years ago, without placing it in its proper social, political, or even spiritual context. Viewed through the lens tinted with 21st century values and norms, Little Women may seem mundane, boilerplate, or even at odds with modern feminist values. Viewed through the lens of 1868 - the year that Louisa May Alcott spent a mere 30 days writing the first half of this two-part book - it's clear that it gives voice to girls and women in a way no American novel really had, before, that it's daring and sometimes audacious. It's teeming with strong, positive female characters and relationships. Most of all, it gives us Jo March - a girl and a woman who dares dream her own, unique dream, and live life on her own terms, until the very end.<br />
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<b><i>"I believe in the same pay for the same good work. Don't you? In future, let woman do whatever she can do: let men place no more impediments in the way; above all things let's have fair play, - let simple justice be done, say I. Let us hear no more of 'woman's sphere' either from our wise (?) legislators beneath the gilded dome, or from clergymen in their pulpits. I am tired, year after year, of hearing such twaddle about sturdy oaks and clinging vines and man's chivalric protection of woman. Let woman find out her own limitations, and if, as is so confidently asserted, nature has defined her sphere, she will be guided accordingly - but in heaven's name give her a chance! Let professions be open to her; let fifty years of college education be hers, and then we shall see what we shall see. Then, and not until then, shall we be able to say what woman can and what she cannot do, and coming generations will know and be able to define more clearly what is a 'woman's sphere' than these benighted men who try now to do it." - Louisa May Alcott</i></b><br />
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<b><i><br /></i></b>Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-47990682961243528402017-12-31T16:43:00.001-08:002017-12-31T16:43:29.602-08:00When Shoney's Became The Oval Office<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nothing captured the spirit of the USA in 2017 quite like the Rick and Morty Mulan Szechuan Sauce phenomenon. Something that started out as a mildly amusing joke, and which was never meant to be anything more, spiraled out of control, took on a life of its own, attracted the unhealthy attention of the worst kinds of people, and became an embarrassing debacle. </span><br />
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<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-12593109352603240022017-12-29T14:56:00.000-08:002017-12-29T15:39:24.255-08:00Best Movies of 2017<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">2017 was such a stellar year for film, I'm devoting an entire post to the ones I enjoyed the most, in no specific order.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For a while, now, Pedro Almodovar has been dishing out stories which focus on the relationship between mother and child. In my mind, All About My Mother and Volver were partner movies. With <b>Julieta</b>, we have a complete trilogy and, while the first two were great, Julieta is a masterpiece. Almodovar has never been as good, and his storytelling has never been so heartbreakingly real. Emma Suarez and Adriana Ugarte play the title role, each during different phases of her life, as Julieta's story unfolds. It's a story in which she is both a daughter, and a mother, and every other part of her life is somehow affected by one of these roles, or both. If Almodovar decides to hang it up and call it a day with this movie, no one could blame him. It's perfect. Watching Julieta feels less like seeing a movie than it does like reading a diary. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Roger Mitchell's <b>My Cousin Rachel</b> presents Daphne du Maurier's vision as we've never seen it, before. Rachel Weisz's Rachel is uncompromising, unapologetic, and downright subversive. One doesn't usually think of du Maurier's women as empowered, or in any way feminist, but this film flips the traditional notion of her characterization of women on its ear. I find it cringeworthy that this film was promoted as a romance. It's not a romance. It's almost a protest film. If there's a love story here, it's the love story between a woman and the ownership she claims of her own body and sexuality. Don't tune in looking for neat, happy endings - you won't find any here. You also won't find a female lead who accepts without question what the men around her decide what her life should be like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you've heard that <b>Logan</b> is a great superhero movie, that's not quite true. Logan is a great movie, full stop. It's the movie that shows us just how good a movie based on characters from the world of comic books can be. It shows us that a movie with these origins can stand up next to the best movie of any kind, and more than hold its own. Forget about mutants and super powers and the X Men. This is a movie about fathers and their children. It's about taking care of our parents when they can't take care of themselves. It's about taking responsibility for those to whom we are leaving this mess of a world. It's about facing one's own mortality, wondering if one's life has even mattered, and finding ways to make one's last days count. Damn it - it's about carrying one's self with dignity and grace in a world where such concepts are no longer respected. Jackman and Stewart are miraculous. I've seen it several times. I've cried, every time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Angela Robinson's <b>Professor Marston and the Wonder Women</b> is one of those movies that was hardly promoted, at all. Which means if you didn't see in a theater the weekend it opened, you didn't get to see it, at all. What little promotion it did receive focused on the fact that the characters involved worked together to create the comic book superheroine, Wonder Woman. Thing is, this movie <i>is</i> about those three people, but this movie is <i>not</i> about Wonder Woman. Not really. It's about living life on one's own terms, bucking convention, not giving in to fear and hatred, and about welcoming love, even when it comes in an unconventional package. Deeply moving, this film stayed with me for days after I saw it. Rebecca Hall, who is always good, is downright mesmerizing. She should win all the awards. She won't, but she should. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Jordan Peele's <b>Get Out</b> caught us all by surprise. Who the hell expected one of the most brilliant films to come along in <i>years</i> to 1) be a horror film and 2) be written and directed by a guy who is well known for sketch comedy? But that's not even a fair question, because this isn't a traditional horror movie, and it's not without its laughs. It's like nothing else we've seen, before. It's not just horror. It's biting social commentary. It's a tragedy. It's a thriller. It's gut-wrenching. Peele is quoted as having referred to it as a documentary. If you've seen it, chances are you know what he means. If you haven't seen it, no one should tell you; you should pay to see it, yourself. Jordan Peele is <i>the</i> filmmaker to watch out for. If this is how he starts out a career in writing and directing, I cannot imagine what he does for an encore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Another from the "if you blinked, you missed it" category: Aisling Walsh's <b>Maudie</b>, a film based on the life of Canadian folk artist Maud Lewis. Sally Hawkins, who has been one of filmdom's quiet treasures for a good ten years, now, is just great as the title character - a woman who, despite living in constant pain, and suffering all manner of hardship, viewed the world with wonder, and captured that sense of wonder in her art. Sherry White's screenplay is uncompromising. She doesn't sugarcoat the truly ugly, disturbing details of Maud Lewis's life and marriage. Instead, she does what Maud Lewis, herself was so good at; she shows us there are beauty and wonder to be experienced in the most unlikely places, under the most unlikely circumstances. Ethan Hawke, who is not my favorite actor, is great in this. Honorable mention to Kari Matchett, who makes the most of a small, but pivotal, role. She's an actor to watch out for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Since I'm singing the praises of Sally Hawkins, it makes for a great segue to Guillermo Del Toro's <b>The Shape of Water</b>. The film borrows heavily from one of my favorite novels, Rachel Ingalls' Mrs. Caliban, (if you haven't read it, do so - you will not regret it) which worried me, at first. And then I saw it. I need not have worried. This is magical realism at its most accessible. So much more than a love story, this is a film about outsiders and those who would squash them out of fear of - and contempt for - that which is different. It's a celebration of anti-fascism. The good guys here aren't superheroes with other-worldly powers, though. In this world, The Man is, well...The Man. But the heroes? A woman who is mute. A lonely, aging homosexual. A working class black woman. A scientist who actually cares about doing the right thing. And, yes, a sea creature who, like so many people in the real world, just wants to be left alone to live his life, instead of being exploited and tortured. In a year full of great films, this one might be the most beautiful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We waited. And waited. And waited. When this film finally arrived, there was a collective sigh of relief from so many of us. Behind that sigh: it was worth the wait. Patty Jenkins brought us the <b>Wonder Woman</b> of our dreams: beautiful, strong, thoughtful, decent, brave, full of heart. Gal Gadot was perfectly cast. There's not much about this film that hasn't been said, but I'm not sure many men actually <i>get</i> how or why this movie is so important to so many women. Men have had dozens of superhero movies. Superman, Batman, Thor, Ironman, Wolverine, Spiderman.... Women? We really haven't had this on the big screen, before. Not like this. Diana Prince kicked ass, and it was gorgeous. A triumph for girls and women everywhere. More of this, please. </span></div>
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-45453353675281705252017-12-25T12:22:00.002-08:002017-12-25T15:48:24.661-08:002017: The Year in Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not my usual breakdown. For me, 2017 will forever be the year that two hurricanes tore through the island my family has called home for 500+ years....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">.....the year that, when the U.S. gov't, FEMA, and Donald Trump failed Puerto Rico during her hour of greatest need, San Juan Mayor Carmen Yulin Cruz stepped up and showed us what compassion, strength, leadership, heart, and courage look like. They look like a Puerto Rican woman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's been the year when adversity brought us heroines from unlikely places. For using her money and connections to deliver aid in person, and raise awareness about how the world has failed Puerto Rico, there will be a seat for <b>Bethenny Frankel</b> at every Puerto Rican table, until the day she dies. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In 2017, Jose Andres stepped up, rolled up his sleeves, fed the people of Puerto Rico, and gave new meaning to the term "rock star chef."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was the year that <b>Lin-Manuel Miranda</b> got together with the Hispanic world's favorite sons and daughters and did this. If you're Puerto Rican and hearing the name of your family's hometown sung by Ednita Nazario or JLo or Juan Luis Guerra doesn't make your heart skip a beat, check your pulse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was the year that I was truly ashamed - for the first time in my life - to be American, but prouder than ever to be Puerto Rican. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Puerto Rico se levanta! </span></span></div>
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-13437918261608197992017-05-31T20:53:00.001-07:002017-05-31T21:19:32.715-07:00What's So Wonderful About Wonder Woman?<br />
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My friend, Tom, posed a question on Facebook: what is that people find so interesting about Wonder Woman? Now, before anyone gets into an uproar, know this: Tom is a comic book aficionado who doesn't find Wonder Woman to be a very interesting character. This does not make him a misogynist, and this question was asked in earnest; Tom has a long list of female superheroes who who finds to be more interesting and/or dynamic than Diana Prince/Wonder Woman. So, yes: chill out.<br />
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It was a fair enough question. It made me think. I am not a huge comic book fan, but I grew up sporadically reading the major titles and following the major characters. When it came to Wonder Woman, I'm also just the right age to have watched the television show, which was one of my favorites. I loved Wonder Woman. I still do. But why? Until my friend posed this question, I'd never given it much thought beyond the whole "she's a cool woman who kicks ass" angle and, let's face it, as Tom points out, there are other women in the world of comics who kick ass. I also love Jean Grey, but not the way I love Diana Prince/Wonder Woman which is weird because, in the entire comic book universe, X-Men is my favorite thing. Yet, my love for Diana Prince/Wonder Woman is steadfast and true. Why?<br />
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It came to me, suddenly.<br />
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Wonder Woman is essentially an immigrant narrative. Diana Prince is an immigrant who adopts the USA as her own, and does so with a vengeance. This appeals to me, I think, because I'm the first generation in my family born on mainland US soil, and raised with English as my first language. I'm the child of people from another place, who spoke another language, knew an entirely different culture, landed here without a word of English, and eventually grew up to wholeheartedly embrace every good thing about this country, even though they got called "spic." Even though they sometimes got the side-eye for being different. Even though the way they did things did not always fit in with their new surroundings.<br />
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My mother, who landed in NYC without one word of English, and who brought with her 'strange' ideas from the Caribbean ended up becoming the most kick-ass New Yorker, ever. No one had more street savvy. No one knew the subway system better than she did. No one had that New Yorker bullshit detector as finely tuned as she did. That's my mother's story. It's also Diana Prince's story.<br />
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If I love Wonder Woman, I don't have much time for Superman. I find him to be a bore. Superman lands on earth, in the USA, as a baby. He knows no other reality than that of being a milk-fed boy raised in the heartland. He is, for all intents and purposes, the all-American boy who grows up to be the all-American hero. He is dropped here and his destiny is somewhat preordained. Diana Prince, by stark contrast, makes deliberate choices which land her here as a grown woman. A foreigner in a strange land. She's the mother of all American immigrants and, like so many immigrants, she chooses a life of service to her new homeland, in the name of defending democracy.<br />
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There is something about this that is, and always has been, really attractive to me, although I'd never articulated it before Tom posed the question about Wonder Woman, and why she has such a huge and devoted following. The appeal, for me, anyhow, can be boiled down to this: Wonder Woman is an immigrant who embodies every good American value, and not really one of the crappy ones. She's my mother.Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-43160607124802278942016-12-29T19:10:00.000-08:002016-12-29T19:41:12.956-08:002016: The Year in ReviewThis 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:<br />
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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.<br />
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<b><i>She gave it her all.</i></b> I was with her, 100%. I regret nothing.</div>
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<b><i>Ding, Dong, The Witch is Dead</i></b>: good riddance to rotting garbage.</div>
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<b><i>RIP: TV is dead.</i></b> 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, <b><i>Cersei</i></b>, the more I love you.<br />
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It must be said, though - no one kicks ass more than Thandie Newton's Maeve, on <b><i>Westworld</i></b>.<br />
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<b><i>Haters Back Off</i></b>. 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.<br />
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<b>Well, the poster was cool</b>: <b><i>High Rise</i></b> 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.<br />
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<b>2016 was a great year for documentaries. </b>Here are a few of my faves.<br />
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<b><i>Mapplethorpe: Look at the Pictures</i></b>. 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.<br />
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<i><b>Author: The JT Leroy Story</b></i>. 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.<br />
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<b><i>No Home Movie</i></b>. 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. </div>
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I don't care about the Olympic Games, but I love it that <b><i>Puerto Ricans were a force to be reckoned with</i></b>, this time around. </div>
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<b><i>This.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>Planes, Trains, Automobiles, and Loved Ones FTW.</i></b></div>
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<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-80791186516641502372016-11-16T12:35:00.000-08:002016-11-16T15:17:39.245-08:00One Week On: A Love LetterThis is not <i>that</i> kind of love letter.<br />
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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 <i>not</i> 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:<br />
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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 <i>all</i> know. We have <i>always</i> 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 <i>you</i> to learn that America is and has always been shitty to <i>us</i>. This does <i>not</i> get to be about you. Not if you really, truly want to be an agent of change.<br />
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One week on; snap the fuck out of it.<br />
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This is a love letter, but not <i>that</i> 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.<br />
<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-795732758481369542016-08-01T23:29:00.001-07:002016-08-06T09:47:11.642-07:00StrongI 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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"Damn it," I mumble, under my breath, trying not to yelp in pain.<br />
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"Your back?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"It's ok," I answer.<br />
<br />
"Can I do anything?" she asks.<br />
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"I'll be fine," I reply, "I just need not to move for a little while."<br />
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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.<br />
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It is not much later when I feel her stirring, and then sitting bolt upright.<br />
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"Damn it," she says, under her breath, trying not to wake me, forgetting we're in this thing together.<br />
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"Your back?" I ask.<br />
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"It's ok," she answers.<br />
<br />
"Can I do anything?" I ask.<br />
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"I'll be fine," she replies, "I just need to sit up for a little while."<br />
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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.<br />
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I make a move towards rolling over to face her, but change my mind as I feel a twinge in my lower back.<br />
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"I used to be so strong," I say, dangerously close to sounding pathetic.<br />
<br />
She sighs.<br />
<br />
"I remember," she replies, "I used to be strong, too. I used to move so easily when I danced."<br />
<br />
"I used to be able to move furniture. Now, I can barely hold myself up."<br />
<br />
"We're not young, anymore, is all," she says.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
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"We'll both do the same thing," she answers, without hesitation, "We'll hold each other up."<br />
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<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-33562530442116060492016-06-13T22:37:00.000-07:002018-06-12T10:40:13.943-07:00Bubbles Break<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Orlando's Pulse Club was supposed to be a tiny, little bubble.<br />
<br />
Bubbles break.<br />
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-80696086565434382522016-06-12T09:12:00.001-07:002016-06-15T16:17:17.992-07:0050 0f UsI 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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Hate Control would be unenforceable, Gun Control would not be.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://ceasefireusa.org/?gclid=CjwKEAjwkPS6BRD2ioKR7K245jASJAD1ZqHO6ddF1R291LewxTdGs5HcC2Sg56C6DXabZCEELFwF_RoCrJjw_wcB" target="_blank">Get involved</a>. <a href="http://www.contactingthecongress.org/" target="_blank">Write your Congressperson</a>, and demand tougher laws around firearms.<br />
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As for Hate Control? Don't hide. Don't be invisible. <a href="http://www.gaycities.com/events/" target="_blank">Show up in droves. </a> Love. Persevere. Take no shit.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8kF7Nic_1LVH32urnEyqBMbmJr6Aov-nu7g38DykD5i0OOEQFzkJn3qbol249W_Krf95JFZA9pG6_JAKfVoL3kbFxh4SlDgU4WOuaZPpzaBFiqyGU-PbON0LF9auMrrB1cczuwgEslHE/s1600/Gay_flag.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8kF7Nic_1LVH32urnEyqBMbmJr6Aov-nu7g38DykD5i0OOEQFzkJn3qbol249W_Krf95JFZA9pG6_JAKfVoL3kbFxh4SlDgU4WOuaZPpzaBFiqyGU-PbON0LF9auMrrB1cczuwgEslHE/s320/Gay_flag.svg.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-52739739152418900732016-06-03T21:48:00.001-07:002016-06-04T00:23:54.142-07:00Champ<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
If your children ask you, one day, what courage looks like, show them a photo of Ali.</div>
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RIP Champ. We will not see the likes of you, again. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBvcTmtTjmSyfyvNvtn-Tj5viqCTYagATuS0KnWNYIXdRw9qVtUUsGIlnJjd2veXssJiBNisEz29OlXn9ZLjkxbPjXVq69XTXy4swalz9j_h1EV9SqvmgzbndRwOidIzHTs2itAvnpjA/s1600/champ2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBvcTmtTjmSyfyvNvtn-Tj5viqCTYagATuS0KnWNYIXdRw9qVtUUsGIlnJjd2veXssJiBNisEz29OlXn9ZLjkxbPjXVq69XTXy4swalz9j_h1EV9SqvmgzbndRwOidIzHTs2itAvnpjA/s640/champ2.jpg" width="422" /></a></div>
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<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-39883217514255041852016-06-01T19:28:00.001-07:002016-06-01T19:28:55.700-07:00The Bare EssentialsA 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.<br />
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Here is my bare bones kitchen.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGA3gqCNu_BbD-fPCFeWaPF59bTZrcRUsY-8ZMc7JuFMrgvOUMcG-LKNAQfvP2aF_EQqjt0sCaexuO0rtMYPJt7fzgLR-HLxxIPF60gRadxZb_hzHuRgy7gGAsXfIkx6kJEsIK_0TBmk/s1600/skillet.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGA3gqCNu_BbD-fPCFeWaPF59bTZrcRUsY-8ZMc7JuFMrgvOUMcG-LKNAQfvP2aF_EQqjt0sCaexuO0rtMYPJt7fzgLR-HLxxIPF60gRadxZb_hzHuRgy7gGAsXfIkx6kJEsIK_0TBmk/s320/skillet.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIE06k07bPVD8-Dcq96Vi6mrYt0kKB6Y38DCd7A_JCG1PeN9XGlwvtPpUumzirQZmeyRwc-pqZBpHrl1Ay1yG_ZypWPIlgYLZWFR0Bw_bzons1QUcJoPtKmxGaX5dNCtHE29NLa-XknQI/s1600/knife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIE06k07bPVD8-Dcq96Vi6mrYt0kKB6Y38DCd7A_JCG1PeN9XGlwvtPpUumzirQZmeyRwc-pqZBpHrl1Ay1yG_ZypWPIlgYLZWFR0Bw_bzons1QUcJoPtKmxGaX5dNCtHE29NLa-XknQI/s320/knife.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTayTbpkC_MRfU23IBPk0AQRWPU50PuWd7uIqG4291UP4t4gfO2x3ZQZtupd1mkYtZqeqWxqhmHYoOXeWfF3O3YlYiDDrcXqwErw1lWl0fzoXWwtj3wow8SL4NW6IPpQ8IhlMc6hRwP8/s1600/saucepan+with+lid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTayTbpkC_MRfU23IBPk0AQRWPU50PuWd7uIqG4291UP4t4gfO2x3ZQZtupd1mkYtZqeqWxqhmHYoOXeWfF3O3YlYiDDrcXqwErw1lWl0fzoXWwtj3wow8SL4NW6IPpQ8IhlMc6hRwP8/s320/saucepan+with+lid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiGGsNEv-onEen1kwlkMCloIr8_uFY2FAruJ7j-0ILeUpAayTfldhNzUHUdLem1BY9L9AJ0jJjLQRWtH0S1ZT82QJXK7WxF826aNis6aUncCnAK34CZXyDN2jUG0BgFEwyIWmceoKF4E/s1600/wooden+spatula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiGGsNEv-onEen1kwlkMCloIr8_uFY2FAruJ7j-0ILeUpAayTfldhNzUHUdLem1BY9L9AJ0jJjLQRWtH0S1ZT82QJXK7WxF826aNis6aUncCnAK34CZXyDN2jUG0BgFEwyIWmceoKF4E/s320/wooden+spatula.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
<br />Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-2127486109190678052016-03-29T13:32:00.001-07:002016-04-07T20:46:10.265-07:00Anna from Queens<br />
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When I was a kid - like, a <i>REALLY YOUNG KID</i>...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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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Rest in peace, Anna.<br />
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Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1522232293231604653.post-7981296421832226102016-03-15T19:34:00.002-07:002016-03-15T19:37:52.715-07:00Not Like The Others<br />
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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." <br />
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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." <br />
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<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-257/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/nonfic257.png" /></a></div>
Snapperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141538240915482048noreply@blogger.com4