Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Bachelor's Degree in College Student Life
After graduation I want to live in a house remodeled to look like a cheap hotel (or dorms) and share it with 20 people. There will be complaints about too much homework and constant procrastination, and we'll have movie and TV marathons and study breaks with crackers, fruit, cheese cubes, ice cream, brownies, chips, and cheap lemonade. We'll call rent "housing" and bills "fees." Mandatory roadtrips will be held in the middle of fall and spring, and we'll do our own thing for a month of winter and most of summer. We'll hold bullshit jobs and be really fuckin' happy. This is my wish. I've reached my maturity limit. Fuck "adulthood." But I'd be equally happy having one or two roommates in a small apartment who also refuse to take life seriously. Shove your careers elsewhere: I devote my life to me.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Why 21 July 2006 Sucked
I think I just had my first legitimate thought that I miss my parents' cooking. Since my mom's constantly on a different diet, I don't eat much from her. However, my recent cravings for arroz con leche led to a search for the recipe, which I'm ashamed I don't know, and it eventually led to a link for making homemade flour tortillas. I'm thinking of all the times I'd wake up in a sour mood and not really care that my dad had made arroz con leche. At least once I didn't touch it at all and poked around the fridge and freezer fretfully. I remember becoming too self-conscious to eat my dad's flour tortillas, most likely from comments my mom made about resulting weight gain, so I stopped asking for them. From my mom's cooking I miss her mole. I haven't had any that can remotely compare to hers. I don't even require the addition of chicken or rice. Dipping flour tortillas into a bowl with mole inside is heaven enough. Then there's this vegetarian recipe she learned at some kind of conference. It's a meat patty substitute made out of flour: soaked in water, drained, and fried is the best I can explain it.
Back in my present reality, the lemon iced tea doesn't taste nearly as delicious and refreshing as it does back home. Even when the tea back home is too watered down, it is better than the best mine here has to offer. Same canister and everything.
I'm crying. I miss my dad. I miss my home, my real home. Not what awaits me now were I to take the Greyhound to Houston. I want to be back in the day I was channel-surfing on the couch and he was on our balcony attending to his plants—before someone outside ever called for his attention, before he ever walked across our living room that last time to open the front door, before the sound of the handcuffs. Maybe for the first time it's really hit me. I want Daddy back.
Our home had been slightly broken, mainly thanks to the snotty mess I'd become, but I'm old enough to appreciate it now. Please someone give it back. Fuck, even at my current emotional state, all I can think as I read through this is that my writing sounds too basic and scattered. Education ruins comfort in personal entries.
A reminder to me that I'm not always indifferent when it comes to family.
Back in my present reality, the lemon iced tea doesn't taste nearly as delicious and refreshing as it does back home. Even when the tea back home is too watered down, it is better than the best mine here has to offer. Same canister and everything.
I'm crying. I miss my dad. I miss my home, my real home. Not what awaits me now were I to take the Greyhound to Houston. I want to be back in the day I was channel-surfing on the couch and he was on our balcony attending to his plants—before someone outside ever called for his attention, before he ever walked across our living room that last time to open the front door, before the sound of the handcuffs. Maybe for the first time it's really hit me. I want Daddy back.
Our home had been slightly broken, mainly thanks to the snotty mess I'd become, but I'm old enough to appreciate it now. Please someone give it back. Fuck, even at my current emotional state, all I can think as I read through this is that my writing sounds too basic and scattered. Education ruins comfort in personal entries.
A reminder to me that I'm not always indifferent when it comes to family.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
All the Things They Sang
I'm trying to remember my initial reaction to t.A.T.u.'s "All the Things She Said." It's probably something I do every time I listen to the song nowadays. Was I intimidated? Fascinated? Did I watch the video on MTV or VH1 with ears peeled just in case my parents enter the living room during the romantic scenes?
Judging by my level of discomfort* with the queer people I knew about (not knew, period) in high school, I'm going to guess I felt neutral at best. I liked the song, if for no other reason because I found it catchy, but it meant nothing to me until first-year in Grinnell, when I rediscovered it.
And that brings me to the silly closet case who suddenly became queer in the eleventh grade. After more than a decade of not once being attracted to anyone but the heteronormative male, why did I look at [her] face that day in the spring and see more? It's my unexplainable queerification, among two other reasons, that had a college freshman confiding only in a small handful of friends and often regretting speaking up. Actually, most of the talking happened with a psychologist and a doctor prescribing depression medication. Pretty depressing, indeed.
In the fight for equality, many argue people are born "that way" and never choose their sexuality. Yet, there I stood, "born straight" and tossed into the big gay ship without explanation. Worse than that, my new sexuality was born alongside my depression. How was it that once one aspect of me changed, an unrelated one followed? Lest anyone interpret my gay as something that was born from my depression, I never pointed out the possible link. Still, even I thought it possible. Not in linking a mental disorder (eh, I don't like calling depression a disorder, but what decent word is there?) with an alternate sexuality, but in thinking major rewiring of my brain—the gain of a new attitude that drastically affected my worldview and relationships—somehow brought a new attraction with it. I feared presenting my case would add a notch to the Homos "R" Bad movement's arguments and kept silent à la Martyr Lite.
Well, I'm done with the fear and have come to a conclusion I hope many more embrace: there is no one way to be gay. Born into, thrown into at late, trying something, choosing something—who cares? We're team rainbow, bitches. Really, I was only wondering about my reaction to t.A.T.u. Fake lesbians or not, it was an important song. I have a knack for tangents in my writing, and I embrace said knack.
*What's weird (but common) is that this continued all through high school. A queer who was uncomfortable with queers? That's the power of isolation for ya.
Judging by my level of discomfort* with the queer people I knew about (not knew, period) in high school, I'm going to guess I felt neutral at best. I liked the song, if for no other reason because I found it catchy, but it meant nothing to me until first-year in Grinnell, when I rediscovered it.
And that brings me to the silly closet case who suddenly became queer in the eleventh grade. After more than a decade of not once being attracted to anyone but the heteronormative male, why did I look at [her] face that day in the spring and see more? It's my unexplainable queerification, among two other reasons, that had a college freshman confiding only in a small handful of friends and often regretting speaking up. Actually, most of the talking happened with a psychologist and a doctor prescribing depression medication. Pretty depressing, indeed.
In the fight for equality, many argue people are born "that way" and never choose their sexuality. Yet, there I stood, "born straight" and tossed into the big gay ship without explanation. Worse than that, my new sexuality was born alongside my depression. How was it that once one aspect of me changed, an unrelated one followed? Lest anyone interpret my gay as something that was born from my depression, I never pointed out the possible link. Still, even I thought it possible. Not in linking a mental disorder (eh, I don't like calling depression a disorder, but what decent word is there?) with an alternate sexuality, but in thinking major rewiring of my brain—the gain of a new attitude that drastically affected my worldview and relationships—somehow brought a new attraction with it. I feared presenting my case would add a notch to the Homos "R" Bad movement's arguments and kept silent à la Martyr Lite.
Well, I'm done with the fear and have come to a conclusion I hope many more embrace: there is no one way to be gay. Born into, thrown into at late, trying something, choosing something—who cares? We're team rainbow, bitches. Really, I was only wondering about my reaction to t.A.T.u. Fake lesbians or not, it was an important song. I have a knack for tangents in my writing, and I embrace said knack.
*What's weird (but common) is that this continued all through high school. A queer who was uncomfortable with queers? That's the power of isolation for ya.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Okay, so You Want to Rule the World...
Walmart is taking over everything, as just about all of us know. But the Time article I read earlier is pretty infuriating, from the title to the content and all the way down to the tone.
To crush the competition. Have we all accepted that this giant of a superstore is gaining steam right off the tracks and onto a helpless village of metaphorical puppies? Is no one with strong enough power or a loud enough voice going to speak out against it? Because I have yet to hear anything solid, just the whispers of my immediate college community and of the blogoshpere. I'm hoping it's just that I haven't been listening hard enough.
One of the major points sharply stabbing at my asscheeks is Walmart's (hushed) goal of taking Toys "R" Us down. (I presume Babies "R" Us, too.) You see, I remember being a wee thing of single-digit age and getting excited at the mere glimpse of a Toys "R" Us store. Driving past one in our minivan was enough entertainment for me. As you can imagine, actually stopping to visit one was even more exciting, even when I knew nothing would be purchased for me. And, of course, one of the best Christmas gifts I received was a Toys "R" Us gift card at around age 10 or 11. Looking at shelf after shelf of toys and knowing I could have almost any of them was happiness on its own. Did I ever feel this way about the toy shelves at Walmart? Hell no. Those shelves were cold, emotionless, sterile. Most likely next to pet food or insect repellent.
And where did my consumerism lead me when I was older? Circuit City. I could spend hours there. It almost became a hobby. Once I lost my primary source of transportation in Houston, visiting one of the stores became a most valuable luxury.
Now I'm left with nothing but the big W. No other store fills me with guilt as I walk through its aisles. But, where else is there to go in a town of 9,000? Sure, I can get most groceries at Fareway or even McNally's if I have enough money, but what about blankets, heaters, shoes, storage bins, inflatable mattresses all at a price I can afford? I looked, and I failed to find the salsa verde I wanted at my grocery store of choice, on numerous occasions. However, I'm beginning to decide that I should leave luxury out of it. If other stores don't have the specific shampoo that I want, too bad. If I want a small space heater, I'll ask around. As many have pointed out, shopping elsewhere for the things that I need is bound to cancel out the slightly higher prices of alternate stores, for I am less likely to buy useless fluff that abounds on Walmart displays. I do try to support small businesses (or at least smaller, friendlier chains) whenever I can, and it's time I stop supporting a man who supports my people's oppression.
Walmart, you have no class. Toys "R" Us and Circuit City (et al.) were so much better than you'll ever be. One day our protests will truly be heard, of this I am sure.
P.S. In searching for the name of Walmart's CEO, I ended up on Wikipedia (don't we all). Apparently, there exists "management efforts to pressure employees to vote for specific parties during national election," or at least it is claimed. Does the list ever end?
To crush the competition. Have we all accepted that this giant of a superstore is gaining steam right off the tracks and onto a helpless village of metaphorical puppies? Is no one with strong enough power or a loud enough voice going to speak out against it? Because I have yet to hear anything solid, just the whispers of my immediate college community and of the blogoshpere. I'm hoping it's just that I haven't been listening hard enough.
One of the major points sharply stabbing at my asscheeks is Walmart's (hushed) goal of taking Toys "R" Us down. (I presume Babies "R" Us, too.) You see, I remember being a wee thing of single-digit age and getting excited at the mere glimpse of a Toys "R" Us store. Driving past one in our minivan was enough entertainment for me. As you can imagine, actually stopping to visit one was even more exciting, even when I knew nothing would be purchased for me. And, of course, one of the best Christmas gifts I received was a Toys "R" Us gift card at around age 10 or 11. Looking at shelf after shelf of toys and knowing I could have almost any of them was happiness on its own. Did I ever feel this way about the toy shelves at Walmart? Hell no. Those shelves were cold, emotionless, sterile. Most likely next to pet food or insect repellent.
And where did my consumerism lead me when I was older? Circuit City. I could spend hours there. It almost became a hobby. Once I lost my primary source of transportation in Houston, visiting one of the stores became a most valuable luxury.
Now I'm left with nothing but the big W. No other store fills me with guilt as I walk through its aisles. But, where else is there to go in a town of 9,000? Sure, I can get most groceries at Fareway or even McNally's if I have enough money, but what about blankets, heaters, shoes, storage bins, inflatable mattresses all at a price I can afford? I looked, and I failed to find the salsa verde I wanted at my grocery store of choice, on numerous occasions. However, I'm beginning to decide that I should leave luxury out of it. If other stores don't have the specific shampoo that I want, too bad. If I want a small space heater, I'll ask around. As many have pointed out, shopping elsewhere for the things that I need is bound to cancel out the slightly higher prices of alternate stores, for I am less likely to buy useless fluff that abounds on Walmart displays. I do try to support small businesses (or at least smaller, friendlier chains) whenever I can, and it's time I stop supporting a man who supports my people's oppression.
Walmart, you have no class. Toys "R" Us and Circuit City (et al.) were so much better than you'll ever be. One day our protests will truly be heard, of this I am sure.
P.S. In searching for the name of Walmart's CEO, I ended up on Wikipedia (don't we all). Apparently, there exists "management efforts to pressure employees to vote for specific parties during national election," or at least it is claimed. Does the list ever end?
Friday, July 24, 2009
And If I Check "Male"?
I'm not sure what to say about my post starting out like a blog entry and halfway transitioning into a young-adult-novel kind of note, but it works for now.
The worst part about today wasn't the actual tonsillectomy. There's nothing like a standard procedure for "everyone," as one of the doctors kept reassuring me, to make me embittered about being born female.
To continue with my tradition of performance anxiety while at the doctor's office, I was once again unable to pee in their stupid little cups. The main anesthesiologist sided with me, the whole "We tell you not to eat or drink anything for twelve hours and then expect you to pee on the spot" thing. When I was inside the restroom and had decided there was no way, I went on to doing more important things (you know, other than considering squatting on the floor and aiming for the cup rather than attempting the seemingly impossible feat of a toilet/cup combination), mainly looking at myself smiling in the mirror since I figured it may be the last time for the next two weeks. Once I almost-happily reported that I got nothing, the nurse made a call and left, and in the surgery area attached to the little room I was waiting in, I overheard the anesthesiologist guy I liked saying (a little irritated because my surgery kept getting delayed) something about me being unable to pee and a pregnancy test. Up until then, I'd figured the sample was to make sure I was healthy. Silly me.
After being questioned that I was sure I couldn't urinate on my own, I heard that they'd have to break out a catheter. I didn't even know what one was, but I knew its purpose and I knew what it would involve. That's the first time today I started feeling panicked. Soon two women were making me lean back on the recliner, commanding me to bend my knees and spread my legs, and I was tearing up. Then the main woman started spreading me apart, and I was crying. Then the cleaning began, and I was sobbing out loud. And the tube was inserted, and I was crying louder than I remember ever doing since reaching a double-digit age. In a way it felt worse to me than rape—two women giving me no choice but to expose myself, them looking and prodding, causing me pain despite the assurance it wouldn't hurt, forcing me to piss right in front of their faces. For every jab to my urethra I was desperately pushing myself away from them with my legs, and soon my knees were hardly bent from moving so far, and I was practically screaming. It wasn't that the pain was so great; what made everything horrible was the repeated sharp stings that felt as if the procedure was going to leave permanent damage, the total loss of control, the humiliation, all the while I'm sure the surgical team and patients and nurses in the surrounding rooms can hear me, and not legitimately being able to seek comfort for it as a traumatizing experience because it was all in the name of Safety.
By the end I was sobbing wildly and shaking, a wet towel that I'd been using to wipe the blood off of my left hand from the IV tightly clutched in my right palm. Another woman entered, and they began talking about the sample as if I'd calmly handed it to them, ignoring the mess of a person in the corner. Sure, the other of the three was telling me I did well and asked how I'd be more comfortable, but it was hardly soothing. As time went on and I was the only one left in the room, I kept on crying and trembling and trying to recall happy memories from first-year, but they'd fade in an instant, and I'd be crying again. The woman who handled the catheter passed by the room twice, and she earnestly apologized and offered to bring me a warm blanket or anything else and to turn off the light, but I just shook my head. She was the first of three to kind of pat my feet, so I guess it's a hospital thing.
Minutes later the anesthesiologist came into my room and asked if I was ready (the test had come back negative. Shocking, I know), and still shaken up from the worst piss of my life, I walked right on in there, panicked as ever, and remained crying until the instant I fell asleep.
That this kind of thing has to happen is ridiculous. Not all women are capable of bearing children to begin with, and though I assume I am, I've never had sex with a man. Do doctors not realize that that kind of procedure parallels rape? (As surely I'm not the only one to have reacted this way.) I doubt it's something that's going to traumatize me and dent any future sex life, as it technically didn't involve sex though my clit took also took a small, painful beating, but maybe that's only "what I think." But erase me from the picture for a second and wonder how many rape/molestation victims have had to deal with this, or how many have been left victims after it. Could people stop focusing so goddamn much on new camera/video/voice recorder/computer/blender/foot massager/lubricant dispenser/pizza maker cell phones for one second and invent a way to make this kind of shit less potentially traumatic?
And the hell with ever getting a fuckin' pap smear. Hell, the hell with ever giving birth. I am so close to deciding that the vision I once had for my life was so off the money, something that everyone had convinced me, Woman, that I should want—"husband, kids, career"—and I get so tired of bleeding out my damn cunt and getting emotional for no reason and dealing with cramps and nearly shitting myself often because of my period that I just want it to be over with. Now, not in decades, not when I'll have white-streaked sideburns. I'm not enough of a woman to enjoy the wonders of reproduction, and no baby is going to stretch the shit out of my vagina when I'm not "feeling" the Miracle of Life much.
But that's another entry.
The worst part about today wasn't the actual tonsillectomy. There's nothing like a standard procedure for "everyone," as one of the doctors kept reassuring me, to make me embittered about being born female.
To continue with my tradition of performance anxiety while at the doctor's office, I was once again unable to pee in their stupid little cups. The main anesthesiologist sided with me, the whole "We tell you not to eat or drink anything for twelve hours and then expect you to pee on the spot" thing. When I was inside the restroom and had decided there was no way, I went on to doing more important things (you know, other than considering squatting on the floor and aiming for the cup rather than attempting the seemingly impossible feat of a toilet/cup combination), mainly looking at myself smiling in the mirror since I figured it may be the last time for the next two weeks. Once I almost-happily reported that I got nothing, the nurse made a call and left, and in the surgery area attached to the little room I was waiting in, I overheard the anesthesiologist guy I liked saying (a little irritated because my surgery kept getting delayed) something about me being unable to pee and a pregnancy test. Up until then, I'd figured the sample was to make sure I was healthy. Silly me.
After being questioned that I was sure I couldn't urinate on my own, I heard that they'd have to break out a catheter. I didn't even know what one was, but I knew its purpose and I knew what it would involve. That's the first time today I started feeling panicked. Soon two women were making me lean back on the recliner, commanding me to bend my knees and spread my legs, and I was tearing up. Then the main woman started spreading me apart, and I was crying. Then the cleaning began, and I was sobbing out loud. And the tube was inserted, and I was crying louder than I remember ever doing since reaching a double-digit age. In a way it felt worse to me than rape—two women giving me no choice but to expose myself, them looking and prodding, causing me pain despite the assurance it wouldn't hurt, forcing me to piss right in front of their faces. For every jab to my urethra I was desperately pushing myself away from them with my legs, and soon my knees were hardly bent from moving so far, and I was practically screaming. It wasn't that the pain was so great; what made everything horrible was the repeated sharp stings that felt as if the procedure was going to leave permanent damage, the total loss of control, the humiliation, all the while I'm sure the surgical team and patients and nurses in the surrounding rooms can hear me, and not legitimately being able to seek comfort for it as a traumatizing experience because it was all in the name of Safety.
By the end I was sobbing wildly and shaking, a wet towel that I'd been using to wipe the blood off of my left hand from the IV tightly clutched in my right palm. Another woman entered, and they began talking about the sample as if I'd calmly handed it to them, ignoring the mess of a person in the corner. Sure, the other of the three was telling me I did well and asked how I'd be more comfortable, but it was hardly soothing. As time went on and I was the only one left in the room, I kept on crying and trembling and trying to recall happy memories from first-year, but they'd fade in an instant, and I'd be crying again. The woman who handled the catheter passed by the room twice, and she earnestly apologized and offered to bring me a warm blanket or anything else and to turn off the light, but I just shook my head. She was the first of three to kind of pat my feet, so I guess it's a hospital thing.
Minutes later the anesthesiologist came into my room and asked if I was ready (the test had come back negative. Shocking, I know), and still shaken up from the worst piss of my life, I walked right on in there, panicked as ever, and remained crying until the instant I fell asleep.
That this kind of thing has to happen is ridiculous. Not all women are capable of bearing children to begin with, and though I assume I am, I've never had sex with a man. Do doctors not realize that that kind of procedure parallels rape? (As surely I'm not the only one to have reacted this way.) I doubt it's something that's going to traumatize me and dent any future sex life, as it technically didn't involve sex though my clit took also took a small, painful beating, but maybe that's only "what I think." But erase me from the picture for a second and wonder how many rape/molestation victims have had to deal with this, or how many have been left victims after it. Could people stop focusing so goddamn much on new camera/video/voice recorder/computer/blender/foot massager/lubricant dispenser/pizza maker cell phones for one second and invent a way to make this kind of shit less potentially traumatic?
And the hell with ever getting a fuckin' pap smear. Hell, the hell with ever giving birth. I am so close to deciding that the vision I once had for my life was so off the money, something that everyone had convinced me, Woman, that I should want—"husband, kids, career"—and I get so tired of bleeding out my damn cunt and getting emotional for no reason and dealing with cramps and nearly shitting myself often because of my period that I just want it to be over with. Now, not in decades, not when I'll have white-streaked sideburns. I'm not enough of a woman to enjoy the wonders of reproduction, and no baby is going to stretch the shit out of my vagina when I'm not "feeling" the Miracle of Life much.
But that's another entry.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Possessed with a Confusion Demon
Too critical of my writing to finish anything, apparently. Been writing/editing this post for almost a week... Screw it. Here goes!
Ah, and here's where a queer Baptist runs into trouble. Finally got around to watching the gay exorcism video, and I must say the experience wasn't completely harmless to my views.
Under the Colbert Report context it was pretty funny...
...but the full video with no commentary made me question my standing on "homosexuality" and Christianity. Really, I wish I could talk to the boy in the video. The way I looked at it then, one of two things was happening: the boy actually had a demon inside (?!), or he was flailing his body around to fool The Exorcists. Later I opened my mind to different possibilities, such as the video being completely staged so that the church's values can spread to the masses (or simply so that the church may gain fame). Now I'm just confused. I watched the clip again through a news source, and they pointed out that the boy even vomits while the exorcism is being performed. How I missed that before, I don't know. But what the hell? Did they put him into some kind of dangerous trance? How can you explain the body movements and functions if this really isn't staged? I know this kind of thing does happen in real life, and I know about ex-gay "ministries." But was this instance real? WHAT did they do to him that made his body react the way it did? I'd long decided that my religion doesn't condemn my sexuality. Now the video... What if I am wrong?
This case was tricky. Assuming the video is "real," it isn't a message against gay equality—it's a message of Heaven and Hell. For argument's sake (for I still don't believe in Homo Hell), I'm no longer allowed to pull out my handy "He who is without sin may cast the first stone" point because they are not explicitly judging or punishing him: (they think) they're helping him. Those people condemn his sexuality but blame a demon for it, not him. Really, the only thing wrong with this picture (aside from the entire religious aspect if you're not Christian) is their interpretation of Leviticus, among whatever else, that's telling them homosexuality comes from Hell, so this good churchboy must be possessed. It's a hell of a thing to get wrong, but that's it. A hell load of child abuse results from it, but how do you stop them? No facts can back us up on there being nothing Satanic about non-heteronormativity, much like no facts can back up the opposite, because we're not arguing gay marriage and how it's been going pretty well in Massachusetts. Helping this boy among whoever else is currently a victim of exorcisms and ex-gay crap is important, but how can we end the chaos to ensure future generations can love in peace?
Government intervention would help officially shut down such practices, but the laws of the land sure aren't keeping teens from drinking at Quinceañeras, now are they? (Shout-out to the 14-year-old me.) Say a gay equality bill magically were introduced soon and passed by the time Obama leaves office. (Ha.) We can all marry, and The Law protects us from being fired and so on and so forth. Yay, only... WHO WOULD PROTECT US FROM OUR FAMILIES? OUR COMMUNITIES? OUR TEMPLES OF WORSHIP? We'd be as naked as ever and only gain freedom as the past generations die out. But even then, there would still be at least a handful of children in the wrong hands, and small heterosexist communities would survive. (And thrive?)
I want to say the church in question is possessed with hypocrisy demons. In reality, its flock suffers from years of hearing one viewpoint repeatedly and not being open to others. Not that I blame them much. They were probably raised on this. If I'd grown up with my parents shoving the "homosexuality is wrong" message down my throat, getting rid of that view would have been no easy task, especially as I would've never chosen to attend any college that appears on a Top 20 Queer-friendly list. As far as I know, only one of the Phelps siblings has escaped from the Westboro Baptist cult, and the rest keep on believing and hating. I'd like to talk to him, too. I guess his case raises the question of taking responsibility. On one hand, I respect if you've been raised this way and know no better, but on the other, who reaches adulthood a carbon copy of one's parents or caregivers? I'll allow Cheeks to finish my argument here. So, I'll rephrase. Victims of ignorance, sure. Guilty of not educating themselves to other possibilities, viewpoints, worldviews... of course. Here's where another conflict arises. They need educating, but is it not the individual's responsibility to educate xemself? Maybe when lives are at stake, we'll scratch the but out. Addendum to the gay agenda: EDUCATE THEM.
Well, seems to me like the children are our future, after all. Government intervention in the right places would hit a right spot. If, despite angry protests from parents, all elementary schools implemented lessons on family structure inclusive of queer couples, and all throughout the children's secondary education The Homos were pictured in health textbooks, and if openly queer teachers were right there with them, sure, parents wouldn't stand much of a chance. Except there's still homeschooling, and religiously affiliated private schools. So, then what? Sorry mostly rich gay kids? Hope you make it to 18 and see you in college? I demand more rainbows in our churches and crosses! Blurring the divide between the oppressors and the oppressed by gaining numerous allies in the Christian community would take away their power.
Hm. I think I said that before. Well, then, I said it again. Good morning!
Ah, and here's where a queer Baptist runs into trouble. Finally got around to watching the gay exorcism video, and I must say the experience wasn't completely harmless to my views.
Under the Colbert Report context it was pretty funny...
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| Gay Demon on the Loose | ||||
| ||||
...but the full video with no commentary made me question my standing on "homosexuality" and Christianity. Really, I wish I could talk to the boy in the video. The way I looked at it then, one of two things was happening: the boy actually had a demon inside (?!), or he was flailing his body around to fool The Exorcists. Later I opened my mind to different possibilities, such as the video being completely staged so that the church's values can spread to the masses (or simply so that the church may gain fame). Now I'm just confused. I watched the clip again through a news source, and they pointed out that the boy even vomits while the exorcism is being performed. How I missed that before, I don't know. But what the hell? Did they put him into some kind of dangerous trance? How can you explain the body movements and functions if this really isn't staged? I know this kind of thing does happen in real life, and I know about ex-gay "ministries." But was this instance real? WHAT did they do to him that made his body react the way it did? I'd long decided that my religion doesn't condemn my sexuality. Now the video... What if I am wrong?
This case was tricky. Assuming the video is "real," it isn't a message against gay equality—it's a message of Heaven and Hell. For argument's sake (for I still don't believe in Homo Hell), I'm no longer allowed to pull out my handy "He who is without sin may cast the first stone" point because they are not explicitly judging or punishing him: (they think) they're helping him. Those people condemn his sexuality but blame a demon for it, not him. Really, the only thing wrong with this picture (aside from the entire religious aspect if you're not Christian) is their interpretation of Leviticus, among whatever else, that's telling them homosexuality comes from Hell, so this good churchboy must be possessed. It's a hell of a thing to get wrong, but that's it. A hell load of child abuse results from it, but how do you stop them? No facts can back us up on there being nothing Satanic about non-heteronormativity, much like no facts can back up the opposite, because we're not arguing gay marriage and how it's been going pretty well in Massachusetts. Helping this boy among whoever else is currently a victim of exorcisms and ex-gay crap is important, but how can we end the chaos to ensure future generations can love in peace?
Government intervention would help officially shut down such practices, but the laws of the land sure aren't keeping teens from drinking at Quinceañeras, now are they? (Shout-out to the 14-year-old me.) Say a gay equality bill magically were introduced soon and passed by the time Obama leaves office. (Ha.) We can all marry, and The Law protects us from being fired and so on and so forth. Yay, only... WHO WOULD PROTECT US FROM OUR FAMILIES? OUR COMMUNITIES? OUR TEMPLES OF WORSHIP? We'd be as naked as ever and only gain freedom as the past generations die out. But even then, there would still be at least a handful of children in the wrong hands, and small heterosexist communities would survive. (And thrive?)
I want to say the church in question is possessed with hypocrisy demons. In reality, its flock suffers from years of hearing one viewpoint repeatedly and not being open to others. Not that I blame them much. They were probably raised on this. If I'd grown up with my parents shoving the "homosexuality is wrong" message down my throat, getting rid of that view would have been no easy task, especially as I would've never chosen to attend any college that appears on a Top 20 Queer-friendly list. As far as I know, only one of the Phelps siblings has escaped from the Westboro Baptist cult, and the rest keep on believing and hating. I'd like to talk to him, too. I guess his case raises the question of taking responsibility. On one hand, I respect if you've been raised this way and know no better, but on the other, who reaches adulthood a carbon copy of one's parents or caregivers? I'll allow Cheeks to finish my argument here. So, I'll rephrase. Victims of ignorance, sure. Guilty of not educating themselves to other possibilities, viewpoints, worldviews... of course. Here's where another conflict arises. They need educating, but is it not the individual's responsibility to educate xemself? Maybe when lives are at stake, we'll scratch the but out. Addendum to the gay agenda: EDUCATE THEM.
Well, seems to me like the children are our future, after all. Government intervention in the right places would hit a right spot. If, despite angry protests from parents, all elementary schools implemented lessons on family structure inclusive of queer couples, and all throughout the children's secondary education The Homos were pictured in health textbooks, and if openly queer teachers were right there with them, sure, parents wouldn't stand much of a chance. Except there's still homeschooling, and religiously affiliated private schools. So, then what? Sorry mostly rich gay kids? Hope you make it to 18 and see you in college? I demand more rainbows in our churches and crosses! Blurring the divide between the oppressors and the oppressed by gaining numerous allies in the Christian community would take away their power.
Hm. I think I said that before. Well, then, I said it again. Good morning!
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Ambitions Awakened
Sorry, really behind on my blogging. It's officially summer vacation now that I don't have shifts to worry about in the dining hall, so my posts here will become more regular.
I would like to point out that my amazing friend Sara has an amazing blog, gone starfishing. As someone who is torn between becoming a middle school teacher and working somewhere involving equality/social justice in one of several communities of interest (vague but I just can't choose and don't have to yet), I must must must keep in touch with her.
I'm going to transition into including personal entries less and less in my blog unless they're tied to something greater than me, so I'll just say the following as quickly as I can since I don't quite think it qualifies. Ending the semester thinking I'd flunked out of college was probably the best way for my sophomore year to end. Still relishing the sight of my dorm room and the window that I'd become so fond of, I searched the Internet for a support group or queer community in Houston to act as a transition from my safe-space bubble of Grinnell, but instead I found groups who serve the queer community. Suddenly I had another plan. I flunked out of school and can't become a teacher or do much else that requires a degree, so I'll volunteer someplace with passion and work my way up to employee status. I was going to be more than okay.
I didn't flunk out of school, after all, so now I get to be slightly more prepared for whatever's coming my way. The best part is I can no longer make the will-be-living-in-a-box-after-graduating-a-sociology-major joke and believe that may be true. If ever that does become true, whether optional or not, it will be research or something equally exciting. Endless possibilities await.
I would like to point out that my amazing friend Sara has an amazing blog, gone starfishing. As someone who is torn between becoming a middle school teacher and working somewhere involving equality/social justice in one of several communities of interest (vague but I just can't choose and don't have to yet), I must must must keep in touch with her.
I'm going to transition into including personal entries less and less in my blog unless they're tied to something greater than me, so I'll just say the following as quickly as I can since I don't quite think it qualifies. Ending the semester thinking I'd flunked out of college was probably the best way for my sophomore year to end. Still relishing the sight of my dorm room and the window that I'd become so fond of, I searched the Internet for a support group or queer community in Houston to act as a transition from my safe-space bubble of Grinnell, but instead I found groups who serve the queer community. Suddenly I had another plan. I flunked out of school and can't become a teacher or do much else that requires a degree, so I'll volunteer someplace with passion and work my way up to employee status. I was going to be more than okay.
I didn't flunk out of school, after all, so now I get to be slightly more prepared for whatever's coming my way. The best part is I can no longer make the will-be-living-in-a-box-after-graduating-a-sociology-major joke and believe that may be true. If ever that does become true, whether optional or not, it will be research or something equally exciting. Endless possibilities await.
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