I've been thinking about so much lately, and perhaps that is why I haven't written. It's not a lack of words I have but a plethora that is the problem, this time around. And still, the words twist around themselves inside of me, trying to make their way out into the world, but they become ensnarled in one another.

Life is beautiful and hopeful and shiny and new and old and comfy, too. This is a good mix, I think.

We didn't travel to Indy for the holidays, but stayed home. This was partly because David couldn't get off work (food service+holidays+new guy at work=no way), but also because we couldn't afford it really. And, David needed to save all of his paid leave for our vacation in early January. Some family members understood this, and other did not. It was evident from their phone calls on Thanksgiving and Christmas that they felt sorry for us, like whatever we were doing was obviously second best to being in Indiana. Sure, we would have loved to have seen Madelyn on her first Christmas... but, we will see them in a week or so. And, we were with our Chicago family, Jay and Dwayne. We laughed and ate and sang and had a great time. I was home for the holidays.

The longer I am here, the harder it is to imagine leaving.

The way the leaves stain the sidewalks after a good rain...all browns and green and yellows. The way the dog walkers all know one another, the only crazy people out in every weather imaginable, watching our dogs circle for that perfect place to make a deposit. The roar of the 'el out our window. The mix (and clash) of cultures on every block. The die-hard Cubs and Sox fans. Tiny neighborhood businesses. This is Chicago. And everyday it becomes more like home to me. It becomes harder to convince myself that this isn't where my life is, this is only life for the time being. I begin to see my future here. And I don't know what that means.

Christmas yesterday. How strange. All of this build-up, planning, gift buying... and I'm not even Christian. I feel so strange on Christmas day. Yesterday went from stange to sad though. Our closest friends up here, my "two gay dads" Jay and Dwayne, had to put their 16 year old dog down on fucking Christmas night. I know. Awful. Every few hours during Christmas, the vet would call with an update. They became grimmer as the day went on. Late last night they took a cab over to the vet hospital and made their decision.

It made us so... aware. Aware of how much we love our dogs, how lost we'd feel without the sound of their tags jingling, their snowy salty paw prints on our hardwood floors. It reminded us that while Jake is only 3 and Lucy only 1, we will someday have to make the same decisions. It was a hard night. They had no idea why they had lucked out, but they slept with us last night, because we just wanted to be near them. Imagine, two grown people and two grown pit bull in a full-size bed.

The sidewalks are ice rinks that are slowly melting to puddles. In 11 days I'll be drinking pina coladas on a cruise ship.

Strange.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a feminist. I am consistently at a loss for articulate words and phrases when someone asks, "What is a feminist?" Allow me to defend my apparent stupidity by saying that gender studies, women's studies, and feminist studies scholars devote semester-long classes to this concept, books, articles, and an inordinate amount of hours, to this concept. We, as feminists, are constantly trying to figure out the definition. So it's challenging to articulate.
The closest thing I can compare it to, because it's an easy point of reference for a lot of people, is claiming identity as a Christian, or under any other religious doctrine for that matter.

As a Christian, you believe in a few core things. So do feminists. For Christians, when asked what a Christian is... can you imagine that range of answers, depending on the denomination, age, location, and world view of each person? It's sort of the same thing for feminism. But, I assume all Christians believe that Jesus died for them, on a cross, to save people from their sins. I assume that all feminists would say that women are oppressed, and that feminism works to end that, or save us from that, to neatly tie the two subjects together.

What I've been struggling with though is not just the definition, but what it means when I call myself a feminist. What does that actual act of claiming a feminist identity mean?

Have you ever seen those people outside military funerals, or any time a new state legalizes marriage equality? At Pride Parades? They have colorful signs that say, "God Hates Fags" or "Thank God for AIDS"? There are other really charming sentiments as well, but you get the idea. Now, the man who runs this campaign, Fred Phelps, is a Christian pastor. He and his church (Westboro Baptist Church, whose website address is actually GodHatesFags.com) claim a Christian identity. They are Christians. They stand outside military funerals, and protests the inclusion of gays and lesbians in the military (though I'd like to explain the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy to him, because I believe it's closer to his ignorant beliefs that he thinks!). Even if the service person killed is not gay, he takes it upon himself to demonstrate. He demonstrated outside of Matthew Shepard's funeral, the victim of a brutal anti-gay hate crime in Laramie, WY in 1998. He now protests productions of the play, The Laramie Project, too.

From talking to my Christian friends and family, I know that this is not the prevailing attitude of Christians. Yet, Fred Phelps and his church claim that identity. And, shouldn't they? They believe in the life and death of Christ, and agree with other Christians that it means salvation from sin.

So what is a feminist? The word has become so loaded, a caricature of it's real meaning, over the years. To pervert it makes it really easy to dismiss it. "Embrace feminism in policy and lawmaking? But they're a bunch of man-hating lesbians! We can't do that!" See? Easy. But what if people knew what feminism really was, a quest for equality between the sexes? That's harder to discount, because, ladies and gentleman, that would be called discrimination.

But, just like Fred Phelps the Christian, there are questionable people claiming a feminist identity. The media refers to Sarah Palin as a feminist, yet she supports the idea of women in Alaska paying for their own rape kits. Most feminists would agree that making sexual assault harder to report, investigate, and recover from is very anti-feminist. But then, she must have some faith in the notion of gender equality, if she has propelled herself to high-ranking positions like mayor and governor. Someone who believes women have no place in politics or the professional sphere wouldn't be there. So is she a feminist?

We had a discussion in my transnational feminisms class the other day about defining feminism, shared a moral crisis (Oh shit! Do we have to claim Palin as a feminist?! Shit shit shit!), and wondered who the hell we were to define feminism. Then, we discussed a piece of feminist thought that changes me every time I read it.

bell hooks. She is awesome. We discussed her piece exploring the concept of "I am a feminist" vs. "I advocate feminism." My mind, it was like it just cleared. Some stopper had been removed, and the revelations flowed. By calling oneself something, one is essentially defining it by their own being. Fred Phelps defines Christianity for some people. Those people learn to define Christianity as hate-mongering ignorance. When the media propels this notion of Palin as feminist, feminism could be portrayed as all the very traditionally un-feminist things she stands for. Especially with feminism, which is so misunderstood, we don't need these random labels and definitions applied to us.

Claiming an identity is empowering. Calling yourself a feminist, making yourself part of that movement, that realm of thought and possibility... enchanting. But what if we all started to say, "I advocate feminism"?? Essentially, "I advocate for the rights of women"? That has a different meaning.

It also makes us more proactive, I think. I call myself a feminist, but what do I do about it, besides call myself that? Do I volunteer with any women-centered organization? Do I seek the best pro-woman candidate, talk to others about voting for that person, donate to their campaign? Do I keep myself aware of issues affecting women and talk to others about them? Am I BEING a good feminist? So often, the VERB gets lost when claiming an identity. When we say, as bell hooks, that we ADVOCATE something... that requires more work and commitment.

To be a "good" Christian, however that is defined, takes a lot of work I assume. So does feminism. And my challenge to myself, and to all my feminist allies, is to remember the verbs behind our identity. What are we DOING, aside from claiming a word as our identity? What definition of feminism are we creating? How can we better at both?

Flamingo Fetus

When I sleep, it tends to be in one of two positions: curled up in the middle of the bed in a fetal position, or on my stomach with one leg stretched out and the other bent up so that my left foot is touching the right knee. Like a flamingo stands.


I was thinking about this last night as I tried to fall asleep. What makes some people find these positions? Why do I sleep like an idling flamingo or a floating pre-human? In my almost-sleep, I contemplated the nature of both stances, both beings, both concepts. Both flamingos and fetuses live in, I would guess, relatively warm, moist, places. I mean, I've been to both. Florida and the womb, I mean. I remember Florida slightly more vividly than the womb, but I tend to think of Florida as only DIsney World, thus what my brain lets me recall from my experiences there is generally inconsequential. I try to block things like Disney World out. And yet, I'll probably go again one day when my niece is old enough to appreciate it, yet young enough to miss the creep factor. Or, if Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers ever do another hometown tour in Gainesville when I have money.

The womb, where, actually, my niece is now, seems like a great place. I really wish I could remember the womb. Floating around, not even having to breathe for myself. That's the life. Or maybe it's stressful. I don't know. I was, you know, working. I was making myself into a human. All I know is that it must have been pretty jarring to leave that little cocoon and be thrust into a blinding hospital operating room, doctors trying to free me from the cord wrapped around my neck. Whoa, sailor!, I must have thought. Quit smackin' my ass, you have to buy me dinner first! I don't just cry for anybody!

Thank Dog he or she was persistent though. Otherwise I would not have begun breathing, which means I still wouldn't be breathing, which means I'd be dead. I wouldn't be writing this, and I surely wouldn't have ever developed my avian nocturnal stance. Or anything else for that matter. And when I'm really pressed to make a decision, I think I might have to say that the flamingo way of sleep has got to be my favorite. It takes up less room I think, which probably makes David happy. It probably promotes better posture. And, who knows, maybe I look sexy with my one leg all flexed like a graceful dancer. A flamenco dancer, perhaps.

My mom still talks about our trip to Spain and reminds me of the night I got drunk watching the "Flamingo" dancers.

I think flamingos, or flamenco dancers, are way sexier than fetuses. More graceful. More mature. More worldly. Pinker.

As I was climbing the stairs to our condo yesterday, breathing hard under the weight of three bags of dog food, I started to think about winter. The snow, the ice, the way the wind off the lake just cuts through people. I thought about taking Jake outside in the front court yard or late at night in the playground across the street, made into a ghost town by the bitter season. I remember how Jake made the winter blues that always envelope me so much more bearable. His salty paw prints on my new gleaming hardwood floors were a small price to pay.
I also thought how strange it was that this will be our second winter in the same place. I haven't lived in a an apartment for any more than 9 months or so since I moved to Chicago. It feels good to lay down some roots.

I've been thinking a lot about morality lately, and what that means for me. What that word means, really. I've always thought of things as right or wrong... and I've always seen the room for grey area, too. But I really began to consider what it all meant for me as an atheist. I guess I realized that all along I had never done things in fear of hell, or in pursuit of heaven... but I did them because I knew they were right... or wrong... or in between. And though some of the things I feel strongly about may seem silly or inconsequential, they are nevertheless on my list, important to me, if only me, and thinking about living my life by these principles makes me excited.
**Shop local as often as you can. Support local business. Local businesses create a nieghborhood, really. And as much as I love Target, it does nothing for the landscape or community on Peterson Ave. Often local is more expensive, but it's usually always beeter.
**Thinking about the environment is not a new agey hippy thing. It's sort of our responsibility. And buying a canvas grocery bag is not enough.
**I've learned the difference between hearing other people out, and tolerating ignorance. I used to be able to say, "You know, agree to disagree." But where would we be if we all just decided to gracefully avoid racial inequity, gender inequity? We still do. But at least some people were brave enough to say, "No! Your ignorance is not an opinion I have to accept and make room for!" I'm tired of making room for people like this.
**Your feelings on sexual morality are perhaps right for you. They are probably not exactly right for every other person. Stop thinking you hold the answers.
**Not everyone wants to get married, have babies, or do other conventional things. Asking people incessantly when they will do these things, and then prying when they say they don't ever want to, shows your lack of creativity. There are so many fulfilling ways to live a life.
**Traveling is important.
**Reading is important.
**The show you have to watch on TV, that you skip studying for, skip reading a really good book for, skip having sex with your partner for, probably isn't that good and you'll not remember much about the show in a couple of days.
**Take advantage of the fact that we are not the past generation. There is a lot more we can do. Do it.

...there are more, I guess. These are just some of the ones I have been thinking most about lately.

strange day

It isn't often that things throw me, or shock me... but today, things did. Or I should say, one certain thing did.

I am on my way out the door to catch a bus to Indy. I, along with two other women, am throwing a baby shower for my sister-in-law. I'll also get to see Molly on Sunday. Other than that, I'm in and out. You know, I used to feel bad about not seeing everyone... but there are two kinds of people in Indy anymore: the ones I try to see, but understand when I can't, and the ones that just don't matter. Does that sound strange?
I've learned a lot in the past year about what friendships I'll be keeping. There haven't been many surprises. Although, there have been wonderful surprises concerning friendships I never thought I'd be able to repair. Two of my best friends I've ever had... two people I made mistakes with, laughed until I literally wet myself with, people who witnessed the best decisions of my life... two people that I have reconnected with, who were in my wedding, who are back in my life.
There are sweet surprises in life. Many of them.

Sad storm

I'm sitting in my second floor office, in an old house with no air conditioning, with a type writer in the main office, and a toilet downstairs that can barely digest it's own bowl water, let alone...well, anything else.
The window is open. It's raining slightly. Weather like this makes me think of good rains in my life. Rains where I could stay inside, stare at it. Rains that I sat outside in. Rains I kissed in. Rains in other countries, rains with good friends... and now, rains at work, that I enjoy through the creeky window, that I can smell through the old and damp floor boards.
I've been interning at Chicago Women's AIDS Project this summer. It's non-profit, low budget at it's finest. After spending over a year at Howard Brown, and a little less than a year at Planned Parenthood, it's been an experience to watch the operations of a small facility that gets no research money, no big government grants. The Ryan White Act funds us, sure... but it funds our lease from a church, while PP and HB build million dollar modern structures. Our old radiators become book shelves in the summer time, and I wonder where all of these extra books and journals go to in the winter.
It's funny how sex, something that we all have built into us, hard-wired in us, is something we don't talk about. I wonder if we talked about it, if it would cause less problems. What I've seen over the last several years tells me that is the case. But I find myself omitting my stint working retail in a sex toy store from my resume, and being very careful when I tell new people what I do, where I work, what I want to do ultimatetly with me life. Because there's a rhetoric, a politic, a set of beliefs and standards behind it all, and some people don't think the things that I work on should be talked about. Or dealt with.
I say, tell that to any of the clients I've had over the years.
Now, with the toilet burbling downnstairs, and the light rainy breeze coming at me through the window by my desk, I remember the big budget operations I've worked for. Amazingly, the problems are the same. We still have an unmarked door, so our clients feel safe coming inside. We still answer the phone in code. We have plain, unassuming envelopes, address labels, and email addresses. We still fight for the same things. People are still, despite our efforts, coming up positive. Many positive people are still not able to access health care. You can still, ultimately, buy your longevity. Sure, you can live a long and rewarding life with HIV--- if you have the money. Good insurance. And I guess I just wonder, for all of the cliche politics I hear from both sides, how this happens. The Republicans say they respect life, that life is important...they call themselves PRO-LIFE, even. But when it comes to the lives of some people, people who are people and not fetuses... the free market reigns. The Democrats, especially with the advent of a black man and a women running for office, has talked a lot about equality. Yet, people of all races, gender identities, and creeds are not priviledged to the same health care as everyone else. Of course, the Dems are doing a better job than the Reps... but it's not good enough. Nowhere near it. Nowhere.
It's been over 25 years since the HIV case began coming out. And where are we? Where the hell are we?