Sometimes I write really bad poetry. Sometimes, for some reason, it’s necessary. It’s one way that I work stuff out. This was, of all things, inspired by the Comments section on some article I’ve forgotten now. Thanks for bearing with me.
He told me he’d spent a lifetime lifting women onto his back.
He told me he remembered a time when there were two columns in the classifieds,
Jobs sorted by sex.
He told me he’d done all he could to fix the world.
In which I rant about “pro-lifers.” (I stand with Planned Parenthood. You’ve been warned.)
I am so tired.
I am so tired of the smart, lovely people in my life who refuse to acknowledge that other people’s experience may be different from their own — that while they are privileged enough to be able to care for multiple children in their home, not everyone has the financial or emotional resources to do so.
Tonight, on Facebook, a family member suggested that women who undergo abortions be forcibly sterilized.
Hey all of you beautiful people! I hope it won’t be too unprofessional to tell you that I am hungover AF right now still recovering from an amazing, beautiful Pride weekend full of rainbows and happiness and the completion of another important step in our quest for legal equality.
They lit up the White House. The White House. Think back a few years. I don’t think anyone could have predicted the breakneck speed with which Pride has gone mainstream.
Yes, there is still so much to be done, both in our country and across the globe. But this was a good week. When love wins, we celebrate. And oh, what a celebration it’s been. ♥
I sat down to write about body image and disordered eating and I ended up writing about my experience growing up female, queer, with breasts, in a patriarchal society. Typical.
You are not made up of parts. You are one whole person.
I don’t always hate my body. There are times, mainly when my clothes are off, mainly in the afterglow of really good queer sex, when I lie in bed, exposed but not feeling so, with someone else’s head resting on my chest, and I don’t feel anything but happy and contented in my body. Grateful. It is a marvelous thing, this cohesive organism that continues to do a thousand things on my behalf each minute, this body that is working for me even as I go about my life. There are times when my body is just my body.
Queer visibility is not the work of a moment. It’s the work of a lifetime — and every single day counts. Do I have the energy for this?
Everyone’s been asked The Question at one point or another. “If you could either be invisible or be able to fly,” they say, “what would you choose?”
But in reality, it’s not really a choice. Because even though I’ve always flown in my dreams, in real life, I’ve always been invisible. Specifically, an invisible queer person.
Mostly, honestly, this is fine. Not reading as queer makes me feel safe at rest stops and when traveling to new places. And during all of those years when I was in the closet, looking like a straight girl meant one less thing I had to worry about — at least nobody was accusing me of anything as I hid, trying to untangle the threads of my sexuality, desperately clawing towards a place where being queer would feel acceptable, feel a little more normal. At least nobody was calling me out. At least nobody saw me.
But that was a double-edged sword if ever there was one. Because: nobody saw me.
I was writing a response to this post last week, which a family member had liked on Facebook, when I realized suddenly how much time and energy I have expended over my life, refuting claims that have no basis in reality, claims which are patently ridiculous.
This blogger, a conservative white male with no expertise in sexuality, gender, genetics or anything else he was writing about, had once again conflated LGBTQ+ people with pedophiles, rapists, and adulterers. He explained that “the progressives” would have us be a slave to our urges, no matter how harmful those urges were. I was in the middle of meticulously crafting a point-for-point rebuttal when something I had been hearing other people say lately, in one form or another, pop into my head:
The Daily Beast has me fuming with their latest article about Bruce Jenner. But not for the reasons you’d expect.
If you live in the world, you’ve no doubt seen Bruce Jenner’s rumored gender transition in the news. Articles have run the gamut from somewhat respectful (if that’s possible, considering Jenner hasn’t yet made a statement) to downright horrifying.
I don’t want to write about Bruce Jenner. No announcement has been made, so there’s really nothing to talk about. I don’t even want to talk about the media circus that has accompanied the rumors — Jenner has always courted fame as a means to an end, and we already knew how badly the mainstream media can step in it when trying to report on trans issues.
Can I reclaim a bisexual identity by painting over the world’s assumptions with the brush of my own truth?
Let’s talk — some more — about the B word.
If you’ll recall from last week, the comments section of an AfterEllen roundtable discussion about bisexuality got me thinking. I haven’t identified as bisexual in years and years — but is that truly because the label doesn’t fit? Or was the rejection of ‘bisexual’ just an attempt to avoid the stereotypes and misinformation I knew I would be saddled with?
AE commentators can tend to be a bit more civil than the rest of the world wide web, so at times, the resulting discussions are actually illuminating. As I started to engage with the other readers’ takes on bisexuality, I started to think more intensely about the labels I attach to myself.
At this point in my life, I’m a 5 on the Kinsey Scale. Before I had other language for it, I used to describe myself, on any given day, as 65-80% gay. And yet I don’t identify as bisexual. Why not?