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I found myself speaking with an old friend very early this morning whom I haven’t seen on a regular basis since I was 21. At the time, in my mind, I was a struggling college dropout. I didn’t know what I was doing with my life, I was working a frantic entry level job at the mall and trying to sell my art on the side, and I constantly wondered where my next meal was coming from. Basically, it was a less adult version of what I’m doing now. I was wildly taken aback when this friend told me that he still talks about me and who I was then, but in his version I’m a girl with a passion doing what I love and making it happen. His words to me?
Experience is what it is, and its powerful. Don’t let anyone put it down. You’ve done the hard work before. Now this stuff is just how you present most of it
I begin to wonder now if that’s the key. With the matured focus and extra information and resources I have now, is that the missing piece, and I’ve had it all along? It seems so simple, yet I’ve overlooked it because somewhere since then I lost sight of the dream to focus on the “methods” and “plans”. Sure there’s merit to all that, but none of it means anything if the passion for that work doesn’t show when I give myself to the world.
Somewhere towards the end of that line of conversation he gave me this:
Don’t throw yourself into what needs to be. Throw yourself into what can be
Suddenly it all made sense. I finished my NaNoWriMo project because it was something I was capable of doing every single day. If I approach these other goals with that same concept and add in the passion I once had for life and creativity I could be unstoppable.
I remember why I kept myself around this friend so much at a time in my life when I was depressed, suicidal, mostly friendless, and ready to give up my dreams for a bucket of bad decisions. Not only was he always there to make me smile and feel like I had some fight left in me, but he reminded me why I fought to begin with. That power makes me who I am. The good, the bad, the frustrating, it’s all a part of who I am, and it makes me one hell of a fighter.
I remember very little about her aside from the fact that she was not the sister I had asked Santa for. I was an only child, but not in the “only child syndrome way. I was quiet, self-entertaining, and very protective of my privacy. Still, I had always wanted a sister to share my life with. Then my mom started dating Russ, who just happened to have a daughter my age. I was ecstatic. Finally, I would have a sister! Unfortunately, what I got was Chassey.
In addition to the fact that she came as part of a package with her father, who was loud, rude, verbally abusive, and constantly trying to intimidate me behind my mother’s back, Chassey had all the grace of a llama with a bag over its head. She was bratty and had absolutely no respect for me or my things. At seven this bothered me extremely, because I was a very reserved child who took very good care of things I knew we couldn’t easily replace.
Every time Chassey spent the night she had to sleep in my bed. I’d lay there all night unable to sleep through her snoring and farting in my bed, that’s right, farting in my bed! When she was awake it was worse. Because she wouldn’t do her homework on her own I was forced out of my quiet room and my brand new desk to sit with her at the kitchen table while she whined and kicked me under the table. I quickly learned to hide anything important to me because she dumped a whole cup of water all over my coveted Disney Princess watercolor book. That was the final straw. No one messed with my Disney Princesses!
I can’t say I was sad when my mom broke up with Russ. I also can’t say that I ever wished for a sister again. Instead I learned to love the fact that I could choose my family and surround myself with sisters, brothers, and all kinds of others. It is this change of perspective that has directed me to treat my close friends like family, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
In the past few weeks there have been more suicides in the young LGBT community than I can count on one hand. As a teacher, a mother, a member of the queer community, and a citizen of the country that is doing nothing to protect these young people from harassment, abuse, and humiliation, I find this trend unacceptable on a violently angry level. We’re talking the type of anger that makes my pupils twitch and my hands shake. These kids, like many in our community, were treated in ways that would make anyone feel helpless and hopeless, especially at a point in their lives where they are vividly aware of their differences and want nothing more than to be accepted.
All across the country gay adolescents are told they’re just confused, that they’re broken or sick, and that they should be ashamed of how they feel, think, and love. At best they are ignored by their parents, but often they are punished, chastised, or beaten. They are cast away, kicked out of their homes, and shunned by their families. Their spiritual leaders tell t hem they’re damned, their peers ostracize or bully them, and there is generally little to no support or protection from schools or the community.
But what about those of us who could help them? What about those of us who have been in their shoes and could guide them through one of the most trying and confusing points in their lives? We’re kept away from them in hopes they’ll grow out of it and in fear that we’ll encourage them to be themselves. Instead of being seen as a support system or valuable resource, queer adults are considered a detriment in a youth’s life. Why is this ok? At what point do we stop telling our children they can be anything they want to be when they grow up and giving them the mentors and environment to nurture whatever that might entail? When do we instead start limiting and judging them? More importantly, why is any of this treatment allowed to happen? Why were these young people pushed to a point at such a young age that they felt it would never get better?
In his September 22 article Dan Savage speaks of how the first of the recently publicized suicides touched him. Like many of us he was heartbroken. Like many of us he has been where these kids were and are today. Like many of us he knows that something needs to be done. It’s time the people who can give these young people a little hope stopped being stuck in a closet and spoke out to them.
“Why are we waiting for permission to talk to these kids?”, he says. “We have the ability to talk directly to them right now. We don’t have to wait for permission to let them know that it gets better. We can reach these kids.”
So, Dan and his partner made a video. Then they made a channel on YouTube and encouraged members of the community to make and post their own videos to encourage these kids and share our stories to show that it does get better. To find the instructions and post your own video, you can go to youtube.com/itgetsbetterproject . As soon as I figure out how to use the camcorder function on my new smartphone I’ll be posting my own. If I can get over my technophobia and do this, you should all be making videos!
My life as a bisexual teen (and at the time there was only gay or bisexual in my world…no pansexuals, homoflexibles, heteroflexibles or otherwise) was fairly quiet. I kept it that way purposefully. It had its rough moments, but for the most part I’ve forgotten the trappings. Yes, I was in the San Francisco Bay Area, but that’s not always as free-thinking and forward as it sounds. I went to an all girls catholic school, and had several strikes against me already. I had friends who knew I was pagan, but it wasn’t until I was extremely close that I admitted to my sexuality.
I knew at a very early age I loved everyone equally, but never expressed any of it. I was told it was a phase, that I just didn’t know how to express my feelings towards friends, and that I’d get over it someday. My mother passed before I could try to talk to her about it, and the rest of my family was all about not making waves. My confusion and fear caused me to withdraw completely. I didn’t go on dates. I didn’t socialize much. I didn’t have my first kiss until I was almost eighteen, and that one defining moment started a revolution inside me. I could no longer be quiet.
I can’t imagine my life being any different. It took moving to Philadelphia, a place most consider a lot more conservative that Berkeley, CA, to find “my people”. I am never ashamed to talk about my husband and my girlfriend. I am never ashamed to be poly, pagan, or pansexual. I wish nothing more for these young people than to know how good life can be when you find where you belong. We owe them that optimism as people who have laid the path.
Today begins LGBT History Month, and what better way to start than with each of our own personal histories. Those who came before us gave us a wonderful foundation, and we have built the beginnings of a wonderful world, but these kids are the ones who will be in charge of finishing the job. We need to invest in them the pride and freedom we know is possible. Our goal isn’t just for them to survive, but to live. Like a good bra, we must not just support but uplift.
This is my promise to the queer youth of America…You can always come to me. You can share with me. You can talk to me. You can be safe with me. You have all my love, support, and optimism. You have my arms for hugging and my shoulder for crying. I will help in whatever ways I can, and I will never abandon you. I will never stop trying to show you that it does get better if you can promise me that you’ll never give up being you.
Fourteen years ago I lost my best friend, my mother. I immediately felt guilty for all the things I had not done. I was sure I missed an “I love you” somewhere, sure she was mad at me for not visiting her in the hospital, sure I could have somehow been a better child. I went through all the stages of grief at once. I was angry with her for leaving me, but I was sure at times she wasn’t dead and that she’d come back to get me at any minute. I kept a packed bag just in case we had to run. I avoided all memories of her as sick or weak, and instead envisioned her as a secret agent forced to fake her own death. When I wasn’t blaming myself I blamed my stepfather, who was on a different drug every week and stealing from her on a regular basis. I tried to bargain with every deity I could think of. I promised to be a better daughter. I wanted to make sure I had done everything I could to make her come back. I was sure that if she were alive my room had been bugged by whatever government entity had taken her from me.
I went through all the stages established by the Kubler-Ross model, and I acknowledged in my logical brain that they were all happening in my psyche. I knew she was dead. I knew she wasn’t coming back. I knew it was silly, but I was a child. I was a child who had made most of the decisions for her own mother’s funeral because no one else seemed capable. I was a child who had not cried at that funeral, and refused to let anyone see me cry at all, because I didn’t want to seem fragile. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me.
Some people simply believed I was not allowing myself to grieve, but children process things differently than adults do. I had a lot of adjusting to do. Not only had I lost my mother right before my thirteenth birthday, but I had lost my home, my spiritual guidance, and anything familiar in my life. I moved in with my father and his parents, who did everything they could to make the transition smooth, but it was still a drastic change. To top it all off I hit puberty that summer. I had hit the time in my life when a girl needs her mother the most, and for the first time in my life I didn’t have one.
Children not only process things differently, but they develop their own way of coping with and understanding tragedy or loss. I did what I had always done. I made myself busy. I dug myself into school and extracurricular activities. I got a job. I made it impossible to have any alone time in my head. Unfortunately, my thoughts are a force to be reckoned with. Eventually all the feelings and thoughts I was trying to avoid caught up with me. It was the day I found out one of my best friends had killed himself. A week later a friend of mine’s mother lost her battle with cancer. A week after that I lost my mind in the midst of a computer malfunction that resulted in writing the same paper five times and having it rejected because I could not get it to print properly.
It is during these times when we develop the skills that will carry us through life in one piece. After a full day of wandering around in a cloud, I cleared my head and began to put the pieces back together. I started writing, something that has gotten me through every time I think I just can’t go any further. I also pulled my friends around me, and even though the years have parted us they were my strongest asset at the time. I taught myself to actually deal with loss instead of running from it with fantasies or aversion. I learned to face my emotions head on, to embrace them, and to let them happen.
Sometimes I still have moments of survivor guilt. My mother sacrificed her health and her very being for me. She gave me everything she could, and I can only hope I was worth it. I’m learning to accept that this life was her gift to me. Who I am was her gift to me. Her faith in me and her encouragement to believe in myself are things that will never die. This year I’m having a rougher time than I have in the last several years. There’s a lot of stress in my life, and there have been a lot of close calls and personal losses in the past year. I have been planning a wedding, a time generally spent with excitement between a bride and her mother. There have been times when I have simply wanted my mommy. I know it won’t defeat me. It might not make me the most pleasant person to be around for a few days, but I know the people who matter most to me won’t judge or mock me for it. They know the storm will pass, and the old sunny Autumn will be back soon.
And I will be back….soon.
I was G-chatting with a friend from elementary school today, and he mentioned that he had no idea who any of us was at that age since no one has reached who they are now that young. He’s right and he’s wrong. In some ways, we are never “who we are”. We are constantly evolving, learning, and growing into ourselves. It is true that we start to develop personality traits that we carry throughout our lives, but when? Are we born with some of these thing? Are they learned and encouraged by our environment and the people in our lives? Do they come from experiences and life lessons? The simple answer is yes. All these elements add to who we are in some way, but if some of them didn’t exist would we really be any different at our cores? At what age do these things really start to shape who we are?
I like to think of the personality traits we posses as children as words. When toddlers first learn words, that’s all they are. They have a meaning, but they stand alone. As we grow older we start to string these words together to make phrases, and eventually sentences. This is much like how we start to build ourselves into the people we will become. We collect bits and pieces of ourselves as we grown, and eventually we can fit them together like a puzzle to make a complete picture. I was the same person I am today when I was in elementary school. I just didn’t know how to express it without being told I was wrong or different.
This is where the second half of our conversation comes into play.
In the 80′s there were two kinds of children. Normal, healthy children, and broken children. In my schools the only kids anybody bothered to worry about were children of divorced parents. They were considered the highest risk children in our community. It wasn’t that abused, neglected, molested, or troubled children didn’t exist, because we did. We were simply not acknowledged because no one wanted to admit we existed in our community. Instead we were convinced there was something wrong with us. We were taught we were wrong and bad. We were hushed, and we stayed hushed because we believed it was our fault. We were bad children. We were separated from the other kids and sent to institutions for cases when we really just needed a mentor or a support system.
It is in how we managed to deal with our issues ourselves that we began to become who we are today. Some of us simply stopped growing and have either become co-dependent or misanthropic as adults, not knowing how to cope with real life. Some pulled together and created their own support systems and families, encouraging each other to strive and grow. Me? I got dark, but I never completely let the shadows consume me. I buried myself in school and let a few close friends enter my life.
I was lucky early on in the aspect that for the formative years I had my mother to guide and encourage me. She knew I was different. She knew I knew things kids weren’t supposed to know at my age. She also knew that none of this had to be a bad thing. I still had trouble, but she kept me from shutting down completely. Then she died. I was 12 years old. Being a teenage girl trying to figure herself out is hard enough without having just lost the only resource she ever had.
I had no idea who I was when I went into the eighth grade. I was one of a handful of pagans I knew, I was a diabetic, I was bisexual, and I was “that weird girl”. I was dark, sarcastic, morbid, and a little too honest with people. I had all of three friends, but I never felt alone.
In high school I saw a few of those children I had grown up with lose their fights with themselves. I still had no idea how to adequately express who I felt I was inside, but I was learning. I was still being told over and over again by adults around me that I needed to “be myself”, but none of them really knew what that meant any more than I did. Then I graduated and had the summer that really solidified the woman I was becoming. I had new experiences I would have never dreamed I could have. For once in my life I was calling the shots in my life, and it felt good. It felt right.
When I moved to Philadelphia I met a group of people who would, over the years, become my family. They are my brothers and my sisters, and sometimes my conscience and my foundation. They have gotten me through more hard times than I care to admit, and without them I’m not sure I would have made it through the past nine years. They have never judged me or told me I was broken. Instead, they have seen the potential I have to be who I want to be instead of what the negative experiences in my life had the opportunity to make me. They have seen the person I am when you strip all those things away and look at my core.
When I left Drexel I knew it would change me. I was no longer “the student”. I was now a real adult. I needed a job. I need a place to live. I needed to be able to take care of myself. I was also pregnant, which meant I no longer had time to worry about who I was or what I wanted. I needed to be “the responsible adult” and “the single mother” all while dealing with what ultimately constituted date rape, a mental collapse, and the fact that I had just walked away from the only future I had ever known. I was this woman for three months. Then I miscarried, and I was no longer even that. I felt like no one. I felt empty. I felt more than alone. I had no idea who I was.
It was then that I started to become the person I am when I cease to be myself. I went through a few renditions. I went through a slut phase, a tortured artist phase, a lonely wanderer phase. I was a girlfriend, a fiance, a mistress. At many of these turns I was told I was wrong. I was still being told, after all those years, that I was broken and inadequate. Still, in the end of all these things, I was me, and it dawned on me I didn’t have to worry anymore about it being wrong. I was who I was, and no thing, no one, and no moment was going to change that. It was then that I started living my life to my standards. I had jobs I loved. I met people I could not live without. I loved indiscriminately.
Not long after that I met Hubby, who not only encouraged me to express every aspect of myself but loved me for it. For years I was convinced I was broken, but the last three with him have shown me that there was never anything wrong with me. My mom had it right all along. She’s been gone for fourteen years, but her lessons are still coming thorough loud and clear. I will never again let society tell me who to be, who to love, or who my family can be. I will not let the world tell me I’m stupid, ugly, or unlovable. I will not let them tell me the way I think, act, or express myself is obscene or unacceptable. I will never again feel like an abomination.
Do I still have broken moments? Of course I do. Will I let them run my life? Never again.
So, my question for you, my friends, is this: Who are you when you cease to be you? Think about it.
My sister-in-law just got a new job in New York City and has been going through all the emotions that come with relocating. When you’re in college it seems that even if you leave home it isn’t a permanent arrangement. Your home, your room, all the things that make you feel comfortable and secure stay pretty much the same. When you leave school for a weekend or a vacation you’re going Home. When you move for a job or a spouse it’s a big step. For the first time you are leaving Home to make a new place for yourself. It’s scary. It’s unpredictable. It’s a change you can’t take back.
I left home just a week after the attacks on September 11, 2001 on one of the first days of normal operation at SFO. I had no idea at the time what to expect. I had been to Philadelphia twice. I was scared, excited, and nervous, but I was ready for the new start I thought I was getting. I was moving 3,000 miles away from home.
At that time they took everything you had packed out of your suitcase, plugged in all the electronics, and opened all your toiletries. Since I had packed most of my worldly belongings in two slightly overweight suitcases, this took more time that anyone leaves themselves at the airport these days. I had also puzzle packed very carefully, and anything returned to the wrong spot in the suitcase would inevitably upset the entire system. I was also not allowed to touch anything, which meant I couldn’t help the poor agent staring at my bag like a disassembled jet engine trying to figure out how it went back together. She eventually got it all repacked as best she could and sent me on my way.
I grew more and more anxious as we approached security. This was it. They couldn’t go to the gate with me. I was on my own. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to jump up and down until the feelings inside me abated, but I did none of these things. I hugged my family and prepared to leave them behind, but just before I did my father squeezed me tight and said, “remember, you can always come back”. I have seen tears in my father’s eyes twice in my life, and that moment was one of them.
My gate was full of eerie silence where I was used to families getting their last moments in with departing loved ones. For the first time since deciding to move so far for college I second guessed myself. What was I doing? In all honesty I knew exactly what I was doing. I was doing what I’ve done my entire life. I was taking a big jump just to see how it felt. Inside I was terrified and exhilarated and hoping to all that’s sacred I didn’t fall. For a few moments though, as my jump reached that point where everything pauses for a second and becomes clear, I thought about everything I was leaving behind and everything I was headed towards in Philadelphia. I knew I was making the right decision for me, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying.
Landing in Philadelphia brought me new hurdles. The friend I had arranged to pick me up never showed, and I didn’t have any idea where to tell the taxi to take me. He followed the line of cars and parents helping their sons and daughters get settled into their dorms, and eventually we found where I was supposed to go to register. I was on my own from there, quite literally, with two fifty-something pound bags, a guitar, and a full framed backpack. I must have looked ridiculous. After much dragging, kicking, and pulling I found my room, which was of course on the top floor of a building with no elevators, and set out to explore.
At some point I found the one friend I had made at orientation, and immediately everything seemed better. I was once again confident that I had made the right choice. While my college experience may not have reached its full potential or been everything I had hoped it would be I have never regretted having it. The friends I met and the bonds I forged that still hold strong today are worth far more than any of the negative memories I have of the six months I was in college. Would I rather have finished or had the opportunity to make better decisions? Of course, but this is my path. There’s no turning back now.
This very topic came up discussing our wedding guest list with Hubby’s parents. His stepfather doesn’t understand why we would invite so many more friends than extended family. How do you explain to someone who has never left home that these people are family. These are the people who have supported me and cared for me. They’ve laughed and celebrated with me. They’ve comforted me and given me advice. This is what makes this Home no matter where I go in life. I will always have a family and a home in California. My family will always love me, and I know I always have a place with them. That’s where my roots start, but they bloom in Pennsylvania. I will always be a California girl, but this is my home, too.
Thomas Wolfe was right. You can’t go home again. The secret is that you never really leave it in the first place.
Many great stories start with, “So, there’s this guy” or, “You see there’s this girl”. A few start with “there’s this guy and this girl” but that’s a whole different blog article. If I have one piece of advice for my daughters someday it will be the same advice my 90-something year old grandmother gave me when I left for college. “Be safe, but have fun.”It seems a lot of emphasis is put on life-long commitment. One has to accept that not every relationship will flourish and last forever. Does that mean we should avoid them altogether and miss what could be a wonderful experience while it lasts? Absolutely not. Some of my most life altering experiences have lasted a week, a night, or a few days, and I have no regrets other than occasionally worrying too much about seeming inexperienced to fully enjoy the moment.
One such story happened the summer I graduated from high school. I tell this story in three parts, and I tell it to honor the coming season. I also tell it because I believe everyone should have a story about “that summer”. Mine starts with, “So, there’s this guy…”
I was on a trip to Nashville with a friend for a country music festival. We’d planned for months, and a few days after graduation we boarded a plane from SFO towards what we were sure would be the trip of a lifetime. The first day there we eventually split up for some solo exploration, and I turned my mission towards the acquisition of a cowboy hat. You wouldn’t think that would take you longer than a quick breath in the Country Music Capital of the world, but you don’t know my head. It happens to be freakishly small. I exhausted the salespeople at three different stores before they referred me to a children’s rodeo store nearby.
Deflated and defeated I wandered through downtown Nashville until I found a hot dog vendor selling cold soda from a cooler in a parking lot. After a quick lecture about soda and wearing black in the heat and humidity he smiled at me and struck up a conversation. I was dumbfounded. Until that moment no guy had ever voluntarily talked to me. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but at seventeen years old I had never even given a guy my phone number. No dates, no kisses. My own prom date was a friend and never even danced with me. Who was this stranger and why would he be interested in my in a city full of summering cowgirls? We talked until I had to meet my friend and our chaperone for dinner and met that night after he had packed away his cart.
He called himself Fiend, but I heard him once refer to himself as John on a call home. He was 25, had wondered from Virginia to Alaska and back, and had wound up in Nashville just prior to my arrival. There he had met Russ, the guy who ran the valet lot where the cart was parked, and Jason, who gave temporary tattoos to drunk people all night. He was sleeping in the key shed in the parking lot and used what little money he had to enjoy the world around him. He also had a tattoo and the most captivating eyes and smile I had ever seen. What more could teenage me ask for? I knew right away that these guys were the reason I was in Nashville.
That night he showed me the building in which the hot dog cart lived. It was full of random country music paraphernalia, cardboard stand-ups, and neon signs well past their time. Then took me to a bar where I saw the first insulin pump I had ever seen. I don’t remember his name, but he was another street kid spending his summer in downtown Nashville. I was driven to my hotel that night in the back of a pick-up truck with a bunch of extremely comfortable people singing “Hotel California”. I was hooked. In the next several days I would meet a wonderful group of guys who would not only change my opinion of myself but my view of the world, none of which would I see or hear from after that week but none of whom will I ever forget.
Hardly did I pay for my own meals or drinks, and I saw more of Nashville than I would have crammed in a convention hall with a horde of autograph crazed country music fans. One day Fiend and I went to a hole-in-the-wall jazz club and danced for hours. Another day Jason and I danced in the street newly deserted by the falling rain. Once the rain had cleared we walked, dripping wet, into an Italian restaurant for lunch where they tried to dry us with table napkins. As a group we played pool and enjoyed the summer sun together. One-on-one Fiend and I had a chance to walk the trip between downtown, the stadium where the nightly concerts were held, and my hotel just talking and exploring one another.
My last day in Nashville he accompanied me to my room where we cuddled and watched TV. Then he kissed me, and there it was. My first kiss. We stayed there for a while, and I never went further. He wanted to, but I was scared he’d know I had never even been kissed before that day, so I backed off. Had I been less afraid of my chaperone’s return to pack up ship for the next day’s departure maybe I would have told him everything and let him make the call. This would be a running theme permeating my entire summer. My inexperience, my resistance to admit I was so out of the loop, and my eagerness to learn. That night I had a second chance, but I let an of-handed remark set off the explosion already brewing inside me. I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t stay. I was out of money, out of time, and he needed to take care of himself. He had an actual place to stay, and I couldn’t ask him to turn that down. He had decided to settle in Nashville for a while and was starting the next day as a line cook at Hooters. I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. It was time to say goodbye.
The next morning I made one last pilgrimage downtown for a final hug. I knew I’d never see him again, but I gave him my email address anyway. We hugged and went our separate ways. I got one email from he and Russ that summer, just after my birthday, but never heard from any of them again. In a way, maybe that’s the better option. This way he can be immortalized as who he was to me that summer. He will always be my first kiss untainted by heartbreak or a falling out. He will always have a place very close to my heart, not just because he was the first to touch and accept it for what it was but how he changed the way I lived my life from then on. I was no longer afraid of new adventures. I was no longer afraid to live my life instead of constantly questioning how I was living it. That handful of summer is channeled still today. If you’re still out there, Fiend, thank you.
When I was young I was a dancer. One of the several forms I studied was Tahitian. I donned a grass skirt, coconut bra, and just in case there was someone who couldn’t see me, a tall straw headpiece adorned with feathers and shells. Just the ensemble for young girls with constantly fluctuating body weight, size, and self-confidence. Yes, I still dress like this on a regular basis today.
During one particular performance it was just me and one other girl. I should have seen the train coming when someone nonchalantly told the headlining talent, a Chinese vocalist showcasing her heavenly voice at a small community theatre in Pinole, CA who unfortunately had no pre-knowledge of American idioms, to break a leg. She thought this person was insulting her and spent quite some time crying hysterically in her dressing room.
When my fellow dancer and I took the stage we had only slight recognition of what we were suppose to be doing. As the drums started we watched each other in our peripheral vision for clues to the next move. All was well, albeit slightly awkward, until the only other person with me on the stage lost her skirt. As she grabbed it and ran from the stage in horrified tears I was left alone with no clue what to do next. All knowledge of how to move, let alone dance, fled from my mind as quickly as she had fled from my side, and I found myself stiff as a statue in the middle of the stage, the cassette recorded drums still pounding away eerily to a stage holding nothing but a frozen ten-year old and a politely quiet audience. A second later I, too, ran from the stage, certain my life was over. I would surely be hung and quartered for my offense. In the end my father, who had never seen me Tahitian dance before and felt terrible for the crying pile of a daughter he finally found in a dressing room that felt a mile’s run from the doomed stage, took me to get ice cream and assured me no one would ever remember that day. Well, I did.
Fast forward to 2010. Around Imbolc I had expressed an interest in casting the circle for Ostara. Having never done this for an even for my coven, and knowing it to be a pre-requisite for putting in my letter of intent to start my first degree work, I thought it would be perfect for the second anniversary of my first ever Assembly event. Unfortunately, no one ever confirmed my role and, frankly, I forgot I had even offered. In my defense, when I asked later what roles needed to be filled so Hubby and I could volunteer for something no one reminded me of my previous interest. Thanks for the heads up guys!
The night before the ritual I had a dream in which I was thrust into the role of cast and call and had to improvise the entire thing. I should have known then that this would be my role in the actual ritual, but I was sleepy and not quite as observant as I should have been. As I gathered our tools and ritual robes I considered packing my wand, which is unusual for me as I have nowhere to hold it during ritual and would not consider taking it unless I was circle casting. Again I was not quite as aware of the signals as I should have been.
Five minute before we left for Philly I checked my email to see that someone had remembered my past expression of interest and seen to it that it be my role for Ostara. Now, any one who knows me for more than a day knows how much I like time to prepare myself and my words or actions before I do anything important, especially with an audience. I am not the best improviser either, so this was really dragging me out of my comfort zone and putting me on the spot.
The entire drive I obsessed over not being prepared and tried to gather my thoughts and remember my correspondences to the best of my ability. Hubby, bless his heart, tried to quell my nervousness with conversation about his latest project, but it only caused more panic. I could feel my focus unraveling like an improperly tied corset. At any minute I was going to lose the ability to contain any composure I had left.
When we arrived in Philly I did my best to feign confidence even though I was sure I would be kicked out of the club if I failed. Hadn’t my high priest said they wouldn’t let us cast in a ritual until we had first done it informally for one of them? Obviously I was going against some rule of conduct by just jumping into an unguided casting! I forced myself to quiet the urges to take the easy way out by telling someone how I’d foolishly forgotten my previous offer and that I was shamefully unprepared. I knew I would not get out of such a thing by just asking to be set free.
Like the stubborn one that I am, I refused to quit. I was sure I was shaking severely enough to knock down the joined circle of people like a set of dominoes, but I cast an acceptable circle without incorrectly naming any directions or finding myself speechless or bawling. I didn’t run or commit any serious faux pas, and I managed to repeat the performance to open the circle at the end of the ritual.
It is times like my cast and call that force us beyond our comfort zones. Too often we confuse stagnation for mastery, never pushing ourselves to grow or learn. Mistakes are the best teachers in the world, and there is no greater power or confidence than that which comes from achieving something one knows will be difficult. There is no value in doing something one has been doing on the same level for years. This only leads to false confidence and pretension, and I have been guilty of this in the past. Taking this step opened my eyes to a world of places in which I have allowed myself to be complacent. I realize now how unhappy I am with this lack of progress, and I am renewed in my desire to grow and learn as a witch and in other areas of my life. I now feel I am truly ready to step forward and claim the potential I possess. Comfort zones are no longer acceptable, for they no longer serve a purpose in my life.
Go now, do something that terrifies you.
My first memory of snow is not exactly a happy one. I was young, maybe three years old, and terrified of the cold mush falling from the sky. I was also certain my grandfather was making it snow more as he threw snowballs into the air in an effort to convince me snow could be fun. I was not swayed in my hatred, but would have a love-hate relationship with snow for the next two decades. I should mention here that my next two memories are of losing a shoe in a gopher hole the moment I jumped out of the car and of breaking my foot by stopping an out of control sled with a tree and hopping around on one leg all day. In high school I picked up a love of snowboarding, and snow an I made amends and agreed to a mutual respect. This is why I will forever remain a California girl. I love being able to drive “to the snow”, spend a weekend, and drive back never worrying about shoveling or grocery shopping in the mess.
My first winter in Philadelphia was extremely mild. It flurried and stuck to bushes, but nothing enough to inconvenience my life. It was pretty, albeit slightly cold. The next year I would stand in the middle of Market Street in wonder, as I had never witnessed main streets being shut down or department stores being closed due to weather. I earned my snow legs that winter as I carried my groceries from the corner grocery, the bottoms of my bags scraping the surface of mid calf deep snow. I was, once again, not convinced of the good intentions of snow.
Since that first year I have come to accept snow as a part of my wintery life, but this year has tested the limits of the contract I made with snow as a child. As we face our third, and possibly heartiest, record-breaking snowfall of the season, I have to wonder what was I thinking? I admit, Hubby and I have had our fun. We’ve rolled in it, posed in bikinis on a dare, trekked through half-shoveled sidewalks due to a lack of transportation, and built a giant snowman in the dark with the tot. We’ve laughed at the dog trying unsuccessfully to find a spot on the frozen lawn in snow taller than he, and managed to foster out a cat in addition to the new one we brought in to our home.
Still, there is something warm and cozy about watching the snow fall from the porch, Hubby in one arm a cup of hot tea in the other. No matter what this last year, the last few weeks specifically, have thrown at us we have hung on and made it through. From the nice Jewish couple who drove me home from Acme to the friends who have offered their love and support, we have acquired the company of warmth in all forms. We are growing stronger and continuing to make happy memories in the midst of a literal and metaphorical blizzard. I guess I can get used to the snow.
I knew at some point my family would read Pearls and Pentagrams, and probably have questions, but it seems the posts I thought would make the biggest waves were either avoided or just not as important as I had imagined. Apparently, the fact that Hubby and I open our relationship to other partners is not as shocking as what may or may not have happened to my 5-year old self. Why is it, I wonder, that I was barraged with emails about how “shocked” or “hurt” they were at events that happened to ME? Why is it that I was told I needed to relive these events for the sake of their processing? I write to inspire and support, not to prolong the pain from my past or to give anyone the means to victimize themselves with my experiences. Each and every negative moment of my life has been a learning experience, and I will not dredge up old wounds for the sake of my family’s lack of observation when such things were happening. I never blamed my mother for what happened out of her sight. I never blamed my father for calling Child protective Services when I mentioned the “tickle game”, and I never told them a thing. Why? I never said anything because I never let it happen again, and I would be damned if I was going to let them take me away from my mother. I had my ways of getting rid of people who were no good for either of us. At 5 and 6-years old I had developed a defense mechanism that kept us together and kept danger out of our household.
That being said, my father is a wonderfully supportive man who has never asked too many questions. I wonder sometimes if it stems from a desire not to know too any details or because he really just does not care as long as I am happy. We met in Las Vegas on Monday, and through the course of the week we had a few good conversations. I mentioned a few times a girl I was seeing for a while. As usual he did not bat an eyelash. Not once did he question the fact that, for the first time, his daughter had openly admitted not just to having the ambiguous “girlfriend” but to actually “seeing” a female, all while engaged to Hubby. I give him a lot of credit. Not all of my family would take such things in stride. My dad and I have always had a close relationship, but it has not always been a communicative one. we share laughs and the occasional “what’s going on it your life” conversation, but it was a lot more superficial when I was a teenager. Now that I am in my mid-twenties we talk more openly. Maybe it is because I never feel the need to hide who I am from him. Maybe I know deep down he would never judge me or not love me because of the life I live. He may try to counsel me otherwise, but he would never disown me because of the way I live MY life. He has never put me down for my sexuality, my spirituality, or my personal relationships. I can never thank him enough for that. Did he question me about my Woman Warrior post? Any dad would. Did he press me for more information? No, and I am eternally grateful for that. Neither of us needs to relive those moments in my life. I may have needed to live through them the first time to become the woman I am today.
On a lighter note, we didn’t win a dime in Las Vegas, and it poured the entire time. I, however, was just happy to spend some quality time with my father and see him enjoy himself. I could not have asked for a better way to spend my vacation.