Twelve reasons, off the top of my head, why New York City is the greatest city in the world, and San Francisco isn't.
1. The subway. It's old. The stations are ugly, and there are stalagtites growing from the ceilings, I know. But that fucking system is 100 years old, and runs 24 hours a day, and is faster, more efficient, and more reliable than MUNI by a wide, wide margin. And it has fucking express/service tracks, so that one broken down train doesn't disable the entire city. I fucking love the NYC subway.
2. Bagels and bialys. If you're not from NYC, you may not know what a bialy even is. Look it up. And NYC doesn't just have them. They have them, freshly made, at stores that are open until 2am, except on the weekends. That's when they're open until 4am, and only because the floors have to cleaned *sometime*.
3. Deli. I ain't gonna elaborate.
4. Cab drivers. Those motherfuckers are ninjas. I love them. And how fucking easy is it to get a cab n NYC? Really fucking easy.
5. Fireflies. That's right. In summer, NYC has fireflies.
6. Mister Softee. You hate that sound? Um...fuck you. To real New Yorkers, that's the sound of summer.
7. Sun showers.
8. Manhattan Special.
9. Tree-lined streets, and lots of them.
10. Cobblestones streets in SOHO. Sure, driving down Wooster feels like the Ho Chi Minh Trail. It's called HISTORY, asshole. NYC is teeming with it.
11. The Bridge. If you're asking "which bridge?" you're dead to me.
12. It's the biggest city that always feels like a tiny town. Running into people I know is a common thing. I like that. Brooklyn is bursting at the seams with my relatives, and we all look alike. I love it when people stop me and ask "are you related to (insert relative's name here.)?" It happens more often than you would imagine.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Capturing A Missed Opportunity
Heidi Moore once told me I was "the biggest missed opportunity at a best friend, ever." I had to agree, and I did not take those words lightly. As young Goddard undergrads, we were never friends. We were never enemies, but we rarely moved in the same circles, no matter how tiny those circles may have been. It took 20 years, and the advent of the Internet and social networking to discover one another. When we did, it was over our shared love of reading and writing.
At some point, about six years ago, before she knew she was sick, Heidi put out a request for new titles to assign her students. I believe she was teaching at a junior college back then. Still relatively well, still working full time, working on an ambitious writing project that she was hoping would someday be a book. I saw her request and made a suggestion - Rachel Ingalls' bit of Magical Realism, a wonderful, quirky novel called Mrs. Caliban. Heidi got a copy, read it, loved it, and reached out to me with a sort of, 'Hey, I think we might possibly be suited as friends' attitude. After that, it was on, and we never turned back.
Her instincts were right on target. We certainly were suited as friends, and became very close over the next few years, exchanging book suggestions, chatting online about writers, emailing one another and, most significantly, engaging in marathon phone conversations. During the last four years, especially, I'd come to really love the one or two times a month when one of us would call the other and we'd talk for three or four hours - usually until Heidi was just too tired to go on any longer. In retrospect, the fact that someone who was that sick and that exhausted, and who had so little energy gave so much of her time to me is humbling. But, Heidi was like that: she didn't want to miss out on anything, even when she felt like crap.
People who know me know that I love to tell stories, and Heidi just loved to hear a good story. While we talked about everything - books, politics, religion, our trials and tribulations with women, family, food, health, television, cartoons, music... - what she loved the most was to hear a good story. I think the fact that her deteriorating health made it more and more difficult to have adventures of her own made her hungry for the adventures of others. If a story had humor - most of mine do - all the better. She loved to laugh, and I liked making her laugh. She made me laugh, too, with her wicked sense of humor and her snarky delivery of a one-liner.
It's sort of preposterous to me that it took so long for the two of us to become friends. We had so very much in common. Heidi spent years teaching special education. She loved to read and write. She didn't suffer fools. She rolled her eyes at "woman's music." Family connections were important to her and she adored her mother. She loved children and regretted never having had any of her own. She was opinionated. These were all things we shared.
If it seems somehow tacky or self-indulgent to blog about a friend who has passed away, let me say this: Heidi loved the written word and, when it become clear she would never write the book she wanted to write, she turned her energy towards blogging. And her blog was and is a thing of simple beauty.
It seems like such a cliche to say that a dying person is brave, but Heidi was fucking fierce. No matter how sick she was, she was going to create. If a book was out of the question, a blog documenting her journey made perfect sense. Read it. Don't be afraid. It's not depressing or tragic. Nothing about Heidi's way of dealing with her situation was depressing or tragic. During the hundreds of hours we spent talking on the phone, we talked plenty about her condition, the many doctors she was seeing on a regular basis, her restrictive diet, the many treatments she was trying...and none of it was depressing or tragic. She refused to make it so. While being that sick definitely annoyed her, it also fascinated her. She made it a point to learn everything she could about what was happening to her body, how and why each of her many symptoms presented itself, and what the latest medical research had to say about it. That said, she was never complacent. At one point when she was hospitalized last year, a doctor told her she had maybe one week to live. She didn't have access to a telephone at the time, but she managed to get an email out to me. In it, she mentioned this prognosis. It made my heart ache. Heidi on the other hand took the news with a grain of salt. She did not feel in any way that her life would end in a week. Just words uttered by a mere mortal, not a god. Of course she was right. Just as she'd been right about beating the odds and living past her 48th birthday. Heidi turned 48 in November - a birthday she'd been told she probably would never see. I like to think that every day she lived after November 13, 2012 was a polite-but-satisfying FUCK YOU to every doctor who was glib about her prognosis.
I want to say this, because it's important, and because it's the best and most honest tribute I can think to make to my friend: knowing her made me a better writer. Having a close relationship with someone who was living on borrowed time, and whose ability to create had been compromised by illness changed my life and my outlook as a writer. One day I told Heidi about a novella I'd written, and how I'd been made an offer by someone who wanted to develop it into a script. I told her about how I'd been flattered but turned down the offer. Her response was, "Why? If you don't want to get it out there, why did you write it?" The truth is that I was afraid to. Afraid of failure. Afraid of exposing parts of myself about which I'd always been guarded. Afraid, even, of success. Heidi forced me to face that fear, ask myself why I'd bothered writing, at all, and let go of my cowardice as a writer. When I accepted the offer, it was Heidi and her refusal to let fear guide her that spurred me on. It also made me go back and rewrite the novella, almost from scratch, because Heidi's words made me see, for the first time, that I'd written as if walking on egg shells - every word tinged with fear and cowardice. Heidi didn't seem to have time for those things in her own life, and this made me examine how I was spending my time and using my talents and creative energy. What I was forced to admit to myself was that I was playing it safe and living under the delusion that there would always be time in the future to get things right and be brave. Heidi was a living, breathing reminder that there isn't really time. Not for any of us. And, again, she didn't show me this in any tragic, heartbreaking way. She did it by just being her stroppy, determined self. If she challenged me and and my motives, and encouraged me to always seize the day, she challenged herself even more. Heidi's time was way too short, but she made good use of it. She didn't squander it.
I am so sad that Heidi isn't in this world, anymore, but I'm glad that she's free. And I'm glad, too, that the opportunity we had to become great friends wasn't really missed, at all: just delayed. Having her in my sphere during the last six or seven years has been profound. I will never forget her.
At some point, about six years ago, before she knew she was sick, Heidi put out a request for new titles to assign her students. I believe she was teaching at a junior college back then. Still relatively well, still working full time, working on an ambitious writing project that she was hoping would someday be a book. I saw her request and made a suggestion - Rachel Ingalls' bit of Magical Realism, a wonderful, quirky novel called Mrs. Caliban. Heidi got a copy, read it, loved it, and reached out to me with a sort of, 'Hey, I think we might possibly be suited as friends' attitude. After that, it was on, and we never turned back.
Her instincts were right on target. We certainly were suited as friends, and became very close over the next few years, exchanging book suggestions, chatting online about writers, emailing one another and, most significantly, engaging in marathon phone conversations. During the last four years, especially, I'd come to really love the one or two times a month when one of us would call the other and we'd talk for three or four hours - usually until Heidi was just too tired to go on any longer. In retrospect, the fact that someone who was that sick and that exhausted, and who had so little energy gave so much of her time to me is humbling. But, Heidi was like that: she didn't want to miss out on anything, even when she felt like crap.
People who know me know that I love to tell stories, and Heidi just loved to hear a good story. While we talked about everything - books, politics, religion, our trials and tribulations with women, family, food, health, television, cartoons, music... - what she loved the most was to hear a good story. I think the fact that her deteriorating health made it more and more difficult to have adventures of her own made her hungry for the adventures of others. If a story had humor - most of mine do - all the better. She loved to laugh, and I liked making her laugh. She made me laugh, too, with her wicked sense of humor and her snarky delivery of a one-liner.
It's sort of preposterous to me that it took so long for the two of us to become friends. We had so very much in common. Heidi spent years teaching special education. She loved to read and write. She didn't suffer fools. She rolled her eyes at "woman's music." Family connections were important to her and she adored her mother. She loved children and regretted never having had any of her own. She was opinionated. These were all things we shared.
If it seems somehow tacky or self-indulgent to blog about a friend who has passed away, let me say this: Heidi loved the written word and, when it become clear she would never write the book she wanted to write, she turned her energy towards blogging. And her blog was and is a thing of simple beauty.
It seems like such a cliche to say that a dying person is brave, but Heidi was fucking fierce. No matter how sick she was, she was going to create. If a book was out of the question, a blog documenting her journey made perfect sense. Read it. Don't be afraid. It's not depressing or tragic. Nothing about Heidi's way of dealing with her situation was depressing or tragic. During the hundreds of hours we spent talking on the phone, we talked plenty about her condition, the many doctors she was seeing on a regular basis, her restrictive diet, the many treatments she was trying...and none of it was depressing or tragic. She refused to make it so. While being that sick definitely annoyed her, it also fascinated her. She made it a point to learn everything she could about what was happening to her body, how and why each of her many symptoms presented itself, and what the latest medical research had to say about it. That said, she was never complacent. At one point when she was hospitalized last year, a doctor told her she had maybe one week to live. She didn't have access to a telephone at the time, but she managed to get an email out to me. In it, she mentioned this prognosis. It made my heart ache. Heidi on the other hand took the news with a grain of salt. She did not feel in any way that her life would end in a week. Just words uttered by a mere mortal, not a god. Of course she was right. Just as she'd been right about beating the odds and living past her 48th birthday. Heidi turned 48 in November - a birthday she'd been told she probably would never see. I like to think that every day she lived after November 13, 2012 was a polite-but-satisfying FUCK YOU to every doctor who was glib about her prognosis.
I want to say this, because it's important, and because it's the best and most honest tribute I can think to make to my friend: knowing her made me a better writer. Having a close relationship with someone who was living on borrowed time, and whose ability to create had been compromised by illness changed my life and my outlook as a writer. One day I told Heidi about a novella I'd written, and how I'd been made an offer by someone who wanted to develop it into a script. I told her about how I'd been flattered but turned down the offer. Her response was, "Why? If you don't want to get it out there, why did you write it?" The truth is that I was afraid to. Afraid of failure. Afraid of exposing parts of myself about which I'd always been guarded. Afraid, even, of success. Heidi forced me to face that fear, ask myself why I'd bothered writing, at all, and let go of my cowardice as a writer. When I accepted the offer, it was Heidi and her refusal to let fear guide her that spurred me on. It also made me go back and rewrite the novella, almost from scratch, because Heidi's words made me see, for the first time, that I'd written as if walking on egg shells - every word tinged with fear and cowardice. Heidi didn't seem to have time for those things in her own life, and this made me examine how I was spending my time and using my talents and creative energy. What I was forced to admit to myself was that I was playing it safe and living under the delusion that there would always be time in the future to get things right and be brave. Heidi was a living, breathing reminder that there isn't really time. Not for any of us. And, again, she didn't show me this in any tragic, heartbreaking way. She did it by just being her stroppy, determined self. If she challenged me and and my motives, and encouraged me to always seize the day, she challenged herself even more. Heidi's time was way too short, but she made good use of it. She didn't squander it.
I am so sad that Heidi isn't in this world, anymore, but I'm glad that she's free. And I'm glad, too, that the opportunity we had to become great friends wasn't really missed, at all: just delayed. Having her in my sphere during the last six or seven years has been profound. I will never forget her.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Be Scared
Unless you've been living under a rock, and a rock with no wifi or 3G signal, you know it's one hell of a time to be alive in the world. Sure, DOMA has been overturned, but all's not exactly honky dory in the world:
Last week, all of this upset me. A lot. I'm usually a pretty tough customer, and I rarely take things to heart, but enough is enough because:
On account of who I am and how I live my life, this crap, all at once, hit a little too close to home. For a couple of days, I chose to just unplug and avoid the Internet, except for the occasional private message. I was that upset. And, when I say "upset," I mean both angry AND hurt. I have to admit it: I was feeling really, fucking injured.
And then, this morning, I saw this, and it changed everything. It made me angry. And I felt injured for a moment. And then I laughed. I laughed at the the world because:
In short, I pose more of threat to close-minded, shaking-in-their boots redneck assholes than anyone else I can think of. Not just in Texas or Florida, but globally. Even Russia is afraid of me. And guess what, motherfuckers? I'm all of those things AND I'm a U.S. citizen by birth (as all Puerto Ricans are, you idiots) and I never, ever miss an opportunity to vote. I am your worst fucking nightmare come true: a mixed race, hispanic lesbian who is well-educated, articulate, and politically active. To add insult to injury, I'm from Brooklyn. Not the Brooklyn of whiney, privileged Lena Dunham. The Brooklyn of Azimov and Auden, Basquiat and Chisolm, Dershowitz and Fierstein. The Brooklyn of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. And, in case you haven't noticed? I never shut the fuck up.
Scared yet? You should be. We're legion.
- Texas has handed women a great, big "fuck you."
- A Florida jury has decided shooting an unarmed black kid sounds like self-defense, and
- Russia has made my very existence illegal.
Last week, all of this upset me. A lot. I'm usually a pretty tough customer, and I rarely take things to heart, but enough is enough because:
- I'm a woman.
- I'm of mixed race.
- I'm a lesbian.
On account of who I am and how I live my life, this crap, all at once, hit a little too close to home. For a couple of days, I chose to just unplug and avoid the Internet, except for the occasional private message. I was that upset. And, when I say "upset," I mean both angry AND hurt. I have to admit it: I was feeling really, fucking injured.
And then, this morning, I saw this, and it changed everything. It made me angry. And I felt injured for a moment. And then I laughed. I laughed at the the world because:
- I'm a woman.
- I'm of mixed race.
- I'm a lesbian.
- I'm Puerto Rican.
In short, I pose more of threat to close-minded, shaking-in-their boots redneck assholes than anyone else I can think of. Not just in Texas or Florida, but globally. Even Russia is afraid of me. And guess what, motherfuckers? I'm all of those things AND I'm a U.S. citizen by birth (as all Puerto Ricans are, you idiots) and I never, ever miss an opportunity to vote. I am your worst fucking nightmare come true: a mixed race, hispanic lesbian who is well-educated, articulate, and politically active. To add insult to injury, I'm from Brooklyn. Not the Brooklyn of whiney, privileged Lena Dunham. The Brooklyn of Azimov and Auden, Basquiat and Chisolm, Dershowitz and Fierstein. The Brooklyn of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. And, in case you haven't noticed? I never shut the fuck up.
Scared yet? You should be. We're legion.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Dyke Central or Support Your Local Starving Artist
I know I don't blog here nearly often enough, but those of you who know me outside of The Superhero Lunchbox know that I'm always juggling five different projects, obsessively posting and cross-posting on Facebook, updating one of my other blogs, or working at the job that pays my bills. Also? I'm actually an incredibly lazy person, at heart. My capacity for just chilling out, drinking coffee, and playing Ruzzle is HUGE.
Whatever. I'm here, now, because I stumbled upon something really cool that definitely needs to be passed around, supported and nurtured. Again, if you know me, you know I'm forever interested in new media and independent film projects, specifically projects spearheaded by women. There's no shortage of web-based programming. In fact, I feel as if every time I turn around, there's a new web series being pimped on Facebook and Twitter. Let's cut to the chase: just like television and the big screen, the internet is flooded with crap. Low production values. Bad writing. Lousy acting. A lack of diversity. Enter Dyke Central.
I'm not going to write a tome about this (I told you: I'm lazy.) You can click on the link and find out what it's about, how it came to be, who the women behind it are, and why it's not like anything you've seen, before. You can even watch the first episode, which isn't a 5-minute snippet, but a full-length, 20-minute episode. What I am going to say is this: most lesbian-themed programming I've watched is bloody awful. Hardly any of it looks or feels remotely familiar to me. Most of it tends to be very Anglo and completely ignores women of color. The fact is, America's biggest concentrations of queer women are ethnically diverse communities: NYC, Boston, San Francisco/Oakland. Why most lesbian-themed films and programming are predominantly white is a mystery to me. More than a mystery: an annoyance. I'm a mixed race Hispanic woman, myself. We exist. (And please do not send me emails pointing out that The L Word had a whole subset of Latinas. Seriously. The L Word was such crap. Do. Not. Get. Me. Started.) I watched the first episode of Dyke Central and was blown away by something that shouldn't blow me away: women of different ethnicities on the screen. On a show about queer women. On a show produced by women. On a show without cringe-worthy gags, and which isn't set in some weird, netherworld that looks nothing like earth as we know it. It's Oakland. And it's pretty damned good. Watch it. I think you'll agree it has real promise.
The other thing you can do is support it. Again, if you know me, you know I'm all about supporting worthy projects like this when I can. I'm all about projects such as The Throwaways and I Hate Tommy Finch, from Tello Films - quality projects that only came to fruition because of crowd sourcing. This is what crowd sourcing is supposed to be about: supporting the creative efforts of people who have good and interesting ideas, but not the financial means to make them happen. Let me be clear: tv and movie stars who make a million dollars an episode, hugely successful authors of graphic novels and screenplays for major motion picture studios, and internationally-known musicians with recording contracts and touring schedules DO NOT need your ten or twenty buck donation to make their projects happen. THEY DON'T. And they should be ashamed to ask for it. Instead of throwing your hard-earned money at a successful, wealthy person or studio, so that they don't have to risk any of THEIR OWN cash (boo fucking hoo), support projects by artists and creative people who aren't connected up the wazoo, and don't have any other way to get things done. It's pretty clear the major motion picture studios have no intention of producing content for, by, and about queer women of color. Hell, the studios can barely stand to HIRE women of color in any capacity. If this sort of content is ever going to be produced and widely available, it's up to the viewing public to make it happen. If you want to see something well-produced, which looks a lot more like real life than you're used to seeing, and which is produced by smart women with new ideas, kick in what you can to support Dyke Central. And, even if you can't throw any money at this project, pass it along. Blog about it. Tweet the link. Copy and paste it on your Facebook wall. Crowd sourcing demands a crowd.
Whatever. I'm here, now, because I stumbled upon something really cool that definitely needs to be passed around, supported and nurtured. Again, if you know me, you know I'm forever interested in new media and independent film projects, specifically projects spearheaded by women. There's no shortage of web-based programming. In fact, I feel as if every time I turn around, there's a new web series being pimped on Facebook and Twitter. Let's cut to the chase: just like television and the big screen, the internet is flooded with crap. Low production values. Bad writing. Lousy acting. A lack of diversity. Enter Dyke Central.
I'm not going to write a tome about this (I told you: I'm lazy.) You can click on the link and find out what it's about, how it came to be, who the women behind it are, and why it's not like anything you've seen, before. You can even watch the first episode, which isn't a 5-minute snippet, but a full-length, 20-minute episode. What I am going to say is this: most lesbian-themed programming I've watched is bloody awful. Hardly any of it looks or feels remotely familiar to me. Most of it tends to be very Anglo and completely ignores women of color. The fact is, America's biggest concentrations of queer women are ethnically diverse communities: NYC, Boston, San Francisco/Oakland. Why most lesbian-themed films and programming are predominantly white is a mystery to me. More than a mystery: an annoyance. I'm a mixed race Hispanic woman, myself. We exist. (And please do not send me emails pointing out that The L Word had a whole subset of Latinas. Seriously. The L Word was such crap. Do. Not. Get. Me. Started.) I watched the first episode of Dyke Central and was blown away by something that shouldn't blow me away: women of different ethnicities on the screen. On a show about queer women. On a show produced by women. On a show without cringe-worthy gags, and which isn't set in some weird, netherworld that looks nothing like earth as we know it. It's Oakland. And it's pretty damned good. Watch it. I think you'll agree it has real promise.
The other thing you can do is support it. Again, if you know me, you know I'm all about supporting worthy projects like this when I can. I'm all about projects such as The Throwaways and I Hate Tommy Finch, from Tello Films - quality projects that only came to fruition because of crowd sourcing. This is what crowd sourcing is supposed to be about: supporting the creative efforts of people who have good and interesting ideas, but not the financial means to make them happen. Let me be clear: tv and movie stars who make a million dollars an episode, hugely successful authors of graphic novels and screenplays for major motion picture studios, and internationally-known musicians with recording contracts and touring schedules DO NOT need your ten or twenty buck donation to make their projects happen. THEY DON'T. And they should be ashamed to ask for it. Instead of throwing your hard-earned money at a successful, wealthy person or studio, so that they don't have to risk any of THEIR OWN cash (boo fucking hoo), support projects by artists and creative people who aren't connected up the wazoo, and don't have any other way to get things done. It's pretty clear the major motion picture studios have no intention of producing content for, by, and about queer women of color. Hell, the studios can barely stand to HIRE women of color in any capacity. If this sort of content is ever going to be produced and widely available, it's up to the viewing public to make it happen. If you want to see something well-produced, which looks a lot more like real life than you're used to seeing, and which is produced by smart women with new ideas, kick in what you can to support Dyke Central. And, even if you can't throw any money at this project, pass it along. Blog about it. Tweet the link. Copy and paste it on your Facebook wall. Crowd sourcing demands a crowd.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Dropping The Gauntlet
It's a personal rule
of mine to be respectful of other people's religious beliefs or systems
of faith. I may not agree with what a lot of people think is the whole point of this thing called life, but that shouldn't stop me from being respectful of the things people believe in or the way in which they choose to worship.
At this moment, though, all bets are off.
The specific details aren't important or of a reportable nature but the bare bones facts you do need to know are thus: a member of the Church of Latter Day Saints with whom I have professional contact has expressed a reluctance to have business dealings with a male homosexual colleague because he doesn't want to be recruited by a homosexual to do things which are in opposition with his religion.
Like I said, all bets are off.
I have NEVER heard of gay people knocking on random doors in an effort to recruit people into fagdom. NEVER. I HAVE, on the other hand, had Mormon idiots knock on MY door, looking like Latter Day Stepford Children in their white shirts, and backpacks and pocket protectors, and try to recruit ME into THEIR freakish, fucked up, simple-minded, homophobic, misogynistic, lemming-laced, pedophilic cult. Gays don't have an army of recruiters, like so many Port Authority pimps, who are sent out to find more suckers. You, gullible-vestment-wearing-fool-who-believes-Jesus-spent-his-wild-20s-bumming-around-Utah...sure as hell do. They're called MISSIONARIES.
At this moment, though, all bets are off.
The specific details aren't important or of a reportable nature but the bare bones facts you do need to know are thus: a member of the Church of Latter Day Saints with whom I have professional contact has expressed a reluctance to have business dealings with a male homosexual colleague because he doesn't want to be recruited by a homosexual to do things which are in opposition with his religion.
Like I said, all bets are off.
I have NEVER heard of gay people knocking on random doors in an effort to recruit people into fagdom. NEVER. I HAVE, on the other hand, had Mormon idiots knock on MY door, looking like Latter Day Stepford Children in their white shirts, and backpacks and pocket protectors, and try to recruit ME into THEIR freakish, fucked up, simple-minded, homophobic, misogynistic, lemming-laced, pedophilic cult. Gays don't have an army of recruiters, like so many Port Authority pimps, who are sent out to find more suckers. You, gullible-vestment-wearing-fool-who-believes-Jesus-spent-his-wild-20s-bumming-around-Utah...sure as hell do. They're called MISSIONARIES.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
The Perfect Kiwi Moment
Today, the small, South Pacific island nation of New Zealand's Parliament voted to redefine marriage to be inclusive of same-sex couples. After the final vote count was done, the gallery broke out in song. If you don't know the song, and don't know its origins, you probably found the moment sweet, but otherwise unremarkable.
I moved to New Zealand in 1999. It was my love for a Kiwi woman that was the impetus behind this move to the other side of the globe. The other side of the equator. Far, far away from friends and family. Into a culture I knew almost nothing about. I learned the story behind the traditional Maori song, Pokarekare Ana, almost immediately. Anyone who spends any significant time in NZ needs to know it, because it's a song every New Zealander sings. Stay late enough at any Kiwi party, and have enough to drink, and someone will invariably pick up a guitar and start playing it. And everyone will sing along. Some of them will weep. Because the song that every New Zealander knows, the song that New Zealand Parliament broke out into, isn't just any old song. It's a song of forbidden love. It's a song about struggle and hardship endured by two people who just want to be together. It's a song about lovers who risk life and limb to be together despite society's objections.
In 2004, when NZ Parliament was getting ready to vote on the Civil Unions Bill - the first step towards legalized same-sex marriage - the general public was invited to make formal submissions for or against the bill. I put together a submission. Actually, I wrote a story. I wrote the story of my grandparents who, like Hinemoa and Tutanekai, were forbidden by society's dictates to be together. I wrote about how my grandparents, who'd known each other since childhood, had secretly, privately loved one another from afar for years, before they finally found a way to be together. I wrote about how they adored one another, and built a life together and had nine children together. I wrote about how they did all of this without the benefit of being legally married. I wrote about how I dared anyone to tell me their relationship was any less real or true or legitimate than any legal marriage. And I wrote about how their relationship was so much like the relationship I was in, which wasn't recognized, legally, either. One of the MPs read my submission and invited me to appear before New Zealand's Parliament to testify in favor of the Civil Union Bill. I considered this invitation an honor and a privilege - as a naturalized New Zealander, as a writer, and as a lesbian. In many ways, the 15 minutes I spent in front of New Zealand's Parliament, reading my submission, and answering questions put before me by various MPs, add up to my proudest moments.
This morning, when I watched the footage of that final vote count, and heard those loud, strong, sweet voices break out into song, I had to stop myself from crying tears of joy. Because I did, indeed, know the significance of that particular song...a song about lovers who remind me of my grandparents, and of every other pair of unlikely lovers, ever. It was The Perfect Kiwi Moment.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Get Fucked
I've never been a fan of Michelle Shocked's music. It's just not my thing. I never really had an opinion of her, either, before now. Music I don't care for is easy enough to avoid, and I can acknowledge when someone has legitimate talent, even though their art doesn't appeal to me. I'm sure she's talented, but her talents don't produce anything I've ever cared to listen to.
So, yeah. She's a musician who's experienced a certain level of success - most of it around two decades ago. She's also, it turns out, a self-loathing homophobe. I say "self-loathing" because Michelle Shocked is at least bisexual, at most homosexual. I'm not saying this just because her music sounds like dyke music or she's always worn what could pass for a lesbian uniform. I say it because it's a long-established fact that Michelle Shocked has had intimate relationships with women. I'm not just referring to the suddenly-legendary "coming out" interview, where direct reference is made to her identifying as a lesbian and having female lovers (or so everyone who reads it seems to think, except for Shocked, herself.) I'm basing this statement on the fact that several people I know, and have every reason to believe, witnessed Shocked being intimate with women in very public settings. Jennifer Kathleen Gibbons, who isn't just some anonymous blogger with an axe to grind, but a personal friend of mine who has nothing to gain by making up such a story, even mentions seeing Shocked making out with a woman in San Francisco's Castro Theater. And let me make one thing clear: despite what they taught you in 8th grade health ed class, or what you read in Dear Abby 30 years ago, heterosexual women do not make out with or have sex with other women. Whoever invented THAT myth to make scared, nervous, self-loathing gay or bisexual people feel as if they were "normal" really should be shot. If you're a dude and you're jerking off other men or sucking another dude's cock? You're at least bisexual. If you're a woman, and you've engaging in make-out sessions with other women, bedding down with them, dating them, calling them your girlfriends or lovers? You're at least bisexual. And, honestly? You're probably gay. Yeah, that'll annoy some people...mostly people who have some faggish skeletons in their closets that they'd like to forget. Ask me if I care. I spend most of my day annoyed. Join the fucking club.
But that's not my point. I wanted to write, today, because I've seen several people online mentioning that, while Michelle Shocked said some awful things about homosexuality, she's clearly having problems of a psychological nature. "She needs to have her meds adjusted." I'm hearing that one a lot. Also, "Shes lost the plot." Most disturbing, though, I'm also hearing, "She's full of self-loathing, and obviously has some emotional problems, so I feel sort of sorry for her."
Um. WHY? Why would anyone feel sorry for a bigot? Because she's gay or bisexual, herself, despite her own best efforts to bury the past and deny her identity? That doesn't give her a free pass. In my book, it makes her worse than a xenophobe. And I'm not saying she owes the world even an inkling of information about her sexuality. I don't believe any of us has a right to out a closeted homosexual, unless that closeted homosexual makes an effort to not only hide their identity, but to make the rest of us suffer for ours. In that case, all bets are off. And this is exactly what Michelle Shocked has done. That anyone has pity for her is beyond me. She's not some poor victim who is without blame. She's a person who had an audience and used it as an opportunity to spew hate speech about me and people like me. She's not just someone closeted and full of self-loathing. She's like a light-skinned black person who not only passes for white, but fights for the Confederate Army to defend the right to own slaves. She's like a Jew who doesn't just hide her religion from the SS, but sells other Jews down the river. She's like a woman who isn't satisfied to simply not identity as a feminist, but makes it her job to deny other women the right to equity in the workplace, reproductive freedom, and the right to vote. She's a fucking Log Cabin Republican turned up to 11. When the hell did LGBT people start making excuses for and rationalizing hate speech?
Does Michelle Shocked have some sort of psych disability? I'm not a doctor. I don't know. Maybe. Maybe she's just an asshole. Maybe she really truly does have psych problems. I suspect Anita Bryant, George Wallace, Ted Nugent, Mussolini, Fidel Castro, and Richard Nixon all had or have some psych problems, too. And you know what? They can still all get fucked. And so can Michelle Shocked. I don't care how many vaginas she's been up close and personal with - she's a bigot, and an enemy of the equal rights movement. I don't feel sorry for her. I hate her stupid guts.
So, yeah. She's a musician who's experienced a certain level of success - most of it around two decades ago. She's also, it turns out, a self-loathing homophobe. I say "self-loathing" because Michelle Shocked is at least bisexual, at most homosexual. I'm not saying this just because her music sounds like dyke music or she's always worn what could pass for a lesbian uniform. I say it because it's a long-established fact that Michelle Shocked has had intimate relationships with women. I'm not just referring to the suddenly-legendary "coming out" interview, where direct reference is made to her identifying as a lesbian and having female lovers (or so everyone who reads it seems to think, except for Shocked, herself.) I'm basing this statement on the fact that several people I know, and have every reason to believe, witnessed Shocked being intimate with women in very public settings. Jennifer Kathleen Gibbons, who isn't just some anonymous blogger with an axe to grind, but a personal friend of mine who has nothing to gain by making up such a story, even mentions seeing Shocked making out with a woman in San Francisco's Castro Theater. And let me make one thing clear: despite what they taught you in 8th grade health ed class, or what you read in Dear Abby 30 years ago, heterosexual women do not make out with or have sex with other women. Whoever invented THAT myth to make scared, nervous, self-loathing gay or bisexual people feel as if they were "normal" really should be shot. If you're a dude and you're jerking off other men or sucking another dude's cock? You're at least bisexual. If you're a woman, and you've engaging in make-out sessions with other women, bedding down with them, dating them, calling them your girlfriends or lovers? You're at least bisexual. And, honestly? You're probably gay. Yeah, that'll annoy some people...mostly people who have some faggish skeletons in their closets that they'd like to forget. Ask me if I care. I spend most of my day annoyed. Join the fucking club.
But that's not my point. I wanted to write, today, because I've seen several people online mentioning that, while Michelle Shocked said some awful things about homosexuality, she's clearly having problems of a psychological nature. "She needs to have her meds adjusted." I'm hearing that one a lot. Also, "Shes lost the plot." Most disturbing, though, I'm also hearing, "She's full of self-loathing, and obviously has some emotional problems, so I feel sort of sorry for her."
Um. WHY? Why would anyone feel sorry for a bigot? Because she's gay or bisexual, herself, despite her own best efforts to bury the past and deny her identity? That doesn't give her a free pass. In my book, it makes her worse than a xenophobe. And I'm not saying she owes the world even an inkling of information about her sexuality. I don't believe any of us has a right to out a closeted homosexual, unless that closeted homosexual makes an effort to not only hide their identity, but to make the rest of us suffer for ours. In that case, all bets are off. And this is exactly what Michelle Shocked has done. That anyone has pity for her is beyond me. She's not some poor victim who is without blame. She's a person who had an audience and used it as an opportunity to spew hate speech about me and people like me. She's not just someone closeted and full of self-loathing. She's like a light-skinned black person who not only passes for white, but fights for the Confederate Army to defend the right to own slaves. She's like a Jew who doesn't just hide her religion from the SS, but sells other Jews down the river. She's like a woman who isn't satisfied to simply not identity as a feminist, but makes it her job to deny other women the right to equity in the workplace, reproductive freedom, and the right to vote. She's a fucking Log Cabin Republican turned up to 11. When the hell did LGBT people start making excuses for and rationalizing hate speech?
Does Michelle Shocked have some sort of psych disability? I'm not a doctor. I don't know. Maybe. Maybe she's just an asshole. Maybe she really truly does have psych problems. I suspect Anita Bryant, George Wallace, Ted Nugent, Mussolini, Fidel Castro, and Richard Nixon all had or have some psych problems, too. And you know what? They can still all get fucked. And so can Michelle Shocked. I don't care how many vaginas she's been up close and personal with - she's a bigot, and an enemy of the equal rights movement. I don't feel sorry for her. I hate her stupid guts.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Short and Sweet
I'm not an atheist, but I reckon organized religion has bugger all to do with God or Gaia or any Prime Mover or higher power. The fact is, organized religion is to God, what fan fiction is to Star Trek. It's not canon and, when you get down to it, it's just something people make up for themselves to fill in the emptiness when the Real Thing is on hiatus.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Ron Jeremy Rides the F Train
It was some time in the late 80s. I was in my early 20s. My mother and I were riding the F train into Manhattan. I looked across the train, and who should I see sitting on the other side, but Ron Jeremy. THAT Ron Jeremy. Ron Jeremy of porn fame and legendary proportions. I thought, "Fuck, why am I with my MOTHER, and not my friend Amy? Of all people to be with when I spot Ron Jeremy...my MOTHER. This takes all the fun out of seeing Ron Jeremy. Life is so fucking unfair. I see celebrities in NYC all the fucking time, but this is Ron Fucking Jeremy...I need someone to witness this with me, someone who ISN'T my mother."
Of course I wasn't about to tell my mother to look at the chubby guy on the other end of the car, and tell her that I, her little girl, had seen him in porn movies. Who the hell tells their mother they've seen porn films, let alone know the actors names? What would my mother think of me, her baby, talking about some porn star? No. Life was unfair, and I'd just have to face the fact that my Ron Jeremy spotting had been a huge letdown because I hadn't been able to share it with anyone.
The train got to East Broadway, and Ron Jeremy stood up and got off the train.
My mother leaned over and asked, very quietly, "That big guy who just got off the train - did you happen to notice him? He's walking on the platform, now - look at him."
As the doors closed and the train slowly pulled out of the station, I spotted Ron Jeremy walking towards the steps.
"Yeah, I see him." I answered.
"His name is Ron Jeremy," my mother said, "He's a porn actor. He has the biggest penis you have ever seen in your life."
One more example of my mother's awesomeness.
Get well, Mr. F. Train.
Of course I wasn't about to tell my mother to look at the chubby guy on the other end of the car, and tell her that I, her little girl, had seen him in porn movies. Who the hell tells their mother they've seen porn films, let alone know the actors names? What would my mother think of me, her baby, talking about some porn star? No. Life was unfair, and I'd just have to face the fact that my Ron Jeremy spotting had been a huge letdown because I hadn't been able to share it with anyone.
The train got to East Broadway, and Ron Jeremy stood up and got off the train.
My mother leaned over and asked, very quietly, "That big guy who just got off the train - did you happen to notice him? He's walking on the platform, now - look at him."
As the doors closed and the train slowly pulled out of the station, I spotted Ron Jeremy walking towards the steps.
"Yeah, I see him." I answered.
"His name is Ron Jeremy," my mother said, "He's a porn actor. He has the biggest penis you have ever seen in your life."
One more example of my mother's awesomeness.
Get well, Mr. F. Train.
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