Under Pressure

As I always say, you wake up one day (or one evening) in New Orleans and find that the cold has arrived, blowing through your cotton layers and straight into your bones. The heat arrives much the same way; there is no subtlety, no precursor.

Standing in the kitchen, I can feel the wind blowing through the cracks in the kitchen door, from under the cabinets, beating the leaves against the windows. A siren echos nearby, a reminder that we live only blocks from the hospital and even as my life slows down, someone, somewhere, is trying their best to survive a crisis. The kitchen smells like hot pie, Bourbon and apples, and I feel grateful. For a moment today, I wondered if life was returning to normal. And then I remembered... there is no normal. There's today. There is more stability, yes, but my normal now bears little resemblance to my normal of six months ago, a year ago, six years ago. There is no constant except change. Someday my silly heart will stop thinking otherwise and begin to embrace this.

******************

How do you tell someone you know that you can't love them? What a bizarre statement. I don't claim to know what I'll think, what I'll feel, months from now. And yet. I know this. 

I know that for all your sweetness, for all the ways my arms long to wrap around yours, that my heart isn't in this. I know by the way you slip from my mind. I know by the way I become short-tempered, even frustrated, when we talk. I know by the way you shut me down in conversation, by the way you can't stop for a minute and consider my view as possible. Not right. Just possible. 

I know by the way you touch me, by the way I touch you. I know by the way we miss each other coming and going, like freight trains in the night. I know by the look I give you before I walk into the next room.

How to say all these things without crushing you? I find it cruel, almost, how beginnings are graceful and endings are always akin to a car crash. 

I've got to stop putting this off. 

A Step Forward

I remember this fear like it was yesterday. I remember the feeling like I might burst open, any moment, and expose this secret -- and I trembled at the thought of the reaction. It dominated my every thought, pushed me deeper and deeper into this hole in my head. So I let it out.

And even though the reaction wasn't anything like this man's father, nine years later, I'm so glad I did. 

I cried watching this. I cried for my own experience, how much it hurt, for the wrecked relationship I have with my own family, for how very much I wanted (and still want) to hear this exact reaction. I cried for this man, thousands of miles from his family, for his excitement at the end of DADT and the fear in his voice as he asks, "Can I tell you something? Will you still love me no matter what?" I cried for that Alabama accent, and for the people who make the South a place I love to live. I cried for those of us who didn't get that reaction, and those of us who feared the worst but instead found support and love. I cried for those who spoke to me this week, telling me the mean, painful, and antagonistic comments their parents and friends made in reacting against their gender identity and sexual orientation. I cried because somehow, coming out gets easier with each successive person. But you never forget that first time. You never forget that first family member.

I send my love to Germany tonight, and to Troy Davis in Georgia. 

The Dog Days Are Over

Summer is coming to a close quickly; I start school again on Tuesday evening. 


I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.


I'm such a sucker for the long nights, Sunday evenings on the porch with friends and a suitcase of beer, deep sunsets out my kitchen window as I'm whipping up dinner for 10 people. There's something about summer that is so warm and carefree. A friend recently got a new tattoo, "Endless Summer" scrawled upon her arm, and I've been reverting to that image often this week. It's a quote from a novel that I can't remember, but I comprehend the sentiment down to my soul. 


I fight change so hard, even though the whiffs of fall have stirred me into a frenzy lately. The other morning I woke up and the central air had clicked off for just a few minutes, and I swear the clear sky out my window carried a breeze. I threw on a long-sleeve wrap, just in case, and was rudely awoken by the 95 degree heat on my doorstep. 


Most of my friends adore fall. I admit, I can't wait for football season. I can't wait for the heat to abide so I can play in Audubon Park on weekends and go for walks in the Quarter without sweat dripping down my back. Festival season will start up again. Friends will come to visit, and I'll have an excuse to travel home for a weekend. There's a lot for me to look forward to, even if it feels bittersweet right now. Decadence is in two weeks. I've got half my costume picked out, and I can't wait -- the glitter, the crowds, the queers, the madness. I adore it. The weekend after I'm flying to San Antonio for the wedding of two amazing gay men, and, to sweeten the pot, I'm staying with my best friend I haven't seen in months. These mitigate the end of summer, a bit. 


In my head I have a list of things I wanted to accomplish before the end of summer. A trip to the beach. A night at the clothing optional pool, hopping from the sauna to the pool and back to the cabana bar. The contract work I owe my old job. A membership at a gym and a commitment to go. Quitting smoking. Taking photos of the city. I have, so far, accomplished none of this. But I have spent many fantastic evenings serving dinner and playing UNO and dancing at the drag shows and... so many things I can't cross off a list because I never dreamed to put them there in the first place. I suppose there is an ever-unending list of unaccomplished tasks. Dreams will always remain dreams until they become goals, or better yet, priorities. 


I am ready for school to be done. I'm so fatigued with this degree. It's a wonder I haven't quit by now; I'm not really sure what my motivation is anymore, except to finish what I started. I haven't been enjoying my classes. I don't really know if I see any purpose, and it's looking like I won't finish until December 2012 the way I've put things off. I hope that part flies by. It always does, except when I'm rolling my eyes through three hours on a Tuesday night, ready to go home and eat and shower. I suppose I'm only finishing because education is a privilege that I have access to. Because not finishing doesn't feel like an option. Because I hope someday this degree is useful -- and in some ways, it has been already. Because the thought of quitting and beginning again terrifies me. I don't think I have the drive to do this again. 


(Repeat these words to me, please, two years after I've graduated when I have some wild hair that I want to do this again.) 


Oh, sweet summer, how I'll miss you.


Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.


Grant me a reprieve from the anxiety that comes with change. 


Grant me faith to keep going, and peace to live in the moment. 


And, you know, while I'm asking for shit, a pony would be great. But I'll settle for someone who will let me tie them up. :)

August

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea.

T. S. Eliot still charms me, years after our introduction, and I find that as I grow older my love for this poem morphs without diminishing. I remember distinctly that my favorite teacher in high school, my junior year English teacher, was a sucker for any poem about mutability. This one comes to mind first for me at the thought of that word. If it wasn't so very long, I'd tattoo the whole thing onto my body. Every time I read it I find myself falling for a different passage.

My birthday is in exactly 11 days, and I've been talking about it almost non-stop. It's not that this birthday is special -- it's not. I adore August; I wait for it, patiently but with one eye to the calendar, all year long. Even the 112 heat index can't sway me, and I find that it is one of the few buoys for me lately amid family drama and the chaos of navigating the healthcare system. August coincides with the beginning of school (which I've never been a huge fan of) and the end of summer, which is always bittersweet. But everyone around me is ready for the end of the dog days, ready for the temperature to drop to (at least!) 80 degrees, ready for the holidays and long pants and the end of summer electricity bills.

Secretly, I love the summer -- kids voices echoing as they play in the streets, long sunlit evenings melting into twilight, beers on the porch, swimming in backyards, nights that call me out till 3am. August is my last hurrah. It's also the month that everything big usually happens. It's when my best friend died -- seven years ago this year. It's a big travel month for me, which is a part of the soul searching my birthday always brings out. It's the two year anniversary of my move to NOLA.

It's also a really beautiful word. August. I'd name a child this in a heartbeat. I love how androgynous it is, and yet, there are these curves to the word, to the letters, than enthrall me.

My birthday is more charming and reflective than New Years for me; it's a time for reflection, a time to gather up all the chaos of the last year and sort through the changes, a time to start looking at the future. I crave the company of friends and queer family most at this time. I find myself going out almost every night this week and probably next. I don't care much for sweets or acknowledgement or big to-do's, but at the point when I'm checking in, feeling vulnerable about what is to come, I love to be surrounded by the people who make me happy. I don't find myself expecting or wanting gifts -- but the opposite -- I find that I want to give more, to mother, to provide for those around me.

I've enjoyed the hell out of being 23. It's been a very good year for me, overall. It's definitely had it's moments -- kicking out  my ex was pretty miserable and the hospital visit in March was something I'd prefer not to live through again. The very recent death of my dog, though I've expected it, feels very much like I lost a close friend and ended an era in my life. It's been hard to let go. But this year I've met and become close to a group of really amazing people. I have a job I adore. My cats are happy and healthy, school is going, my family is still nuts, though I'm learning to create relationships with my generation.

My young cousin was in town this weekend, and talking to her was a really bizarre reality check in my life. I'll have to write more about it another time, when I'm not running late to dinner. But a part of that was a reminder of how blessed I am. I wouldn't relive being 18 for the world. If I could go back to a point in my life, I wouldn't. I'd stay right where I am. If I could call up my 18-year-old self and tell her what I know now, tell her what I have and where I live and let her meet the people who surround me on a daily basis, I would. I'd tell her that it turns out very, very differently than you dreamed and better than you thought. I'd tell her a lot of things, but primarily, that it's all going to be ok -- so don't take anything too seriously and embrace your mistakes.

If anything, that's the same thing I'd tell myself now -- it's all going to be ok, so just fucking enjoy it. And if you're not, then make the changes you need to in order to get there.

I'm looking forward to 24. It's a number that means nothing to me and nothing to society, but I could care less. I'm finally settling into the reality that I'm one of the youngest in almost every setting in my life -- work, friends, school, etc. -- though I suppose that will change as younger people come along behind me. But for much of my life I've been in a hurry to grow up, to be taken seriously as an adult, to have the number to match the feeling. Somewhere in the last year or two I left that feeling behind, and I traded it for the realization that I have time. There's nowhere I need to rush to, nothing I need to prove. I like not knowing what the future will bring. I like that where I am now will be nothing compared to where I'll be next year, in ten years.

I'm not afraid of 30, of 40, or even of 50 and beyond. I fear what declining health will mean, yes. But I've met so many people who take age with a grace that I desire and respect. I can't change that most of life is a march toward death, through mutability, and I wouldn't if I could. I'd much rather embrace it.

I've Had Just Enough Time

I can tell getting off birth control is fucking with me emotionally. I never realized how large of a role my hormones play in my emotional and mental health until I got on birth control at 18; it was a massive difference. It's not as bad as it was then, thankfully, but still a mess. In the last three weeks, I can cry at the drop of a hat. There's this song that comes on the radio every once in awhile (as if I need more reasons to hate the radio) about dying young, and every time I hear it, I think of Will and turn into a messy puddle. I second guess myself, constantly, and find that I'm struggling to talk about my feelings even more than usual, which means I don't. At all. I'm spending way, way too much time in my head lately, and not in a good way.

I find I spiral out often, letting conversations that made me upset or hurt or angry come back up, having the same debates in my head, even though I know I need to let it go. I find myself asking philosophical questions that put me nowhere but in a hole with a shovel, looking for answers I can't find. I held a focus group last week, that along with a culmination of other factors, left me in such an upset and angry state that I couldn't talk about it for two days. I find I still have some of that anger balled up. I realize some of it is very justified -- the anger isn't just me, it's a response to a lot of bullshit from my old job, frustration with the situation we're working with and my own concerns about the people involved -- but any time my anger becomes this powerful, I have to walk away. I have to step away and shut down and realize that my response is not productive, and at the end of the day, it's not hurting anyone but me. I find myself doing this a lot lately. Mentally checking out of conversations, putting up a wall around myself, censoring a lot of what I want to say. It must be a form of hell to be around. I hate how short-sighted and insular I can become. It's not a fun experience for anyone.

I'm taking a lot of this as a sign that I need to walk away from some of the LGBT work I've been doing in the past two years in NOLA. I do this. I wander away, let go and disappear underground for awhile, then when I feel called back, I return. Lately it's become overwhelming to realize I'm dating and playing and working in the same circles. Everyone's got an opinion on what queer activism and society and social responses should look like, because we're all personally invested. I get it. I find myself getting wedged often between my beliefs and convictions, the convictions of my closest friends, powerful institutions and organizations, and the often biting opinions of people I work with -- all at the expense of either a) myself and my mental health or b) the very people we're all working to help, who are often the most disenfranchised in the community. Eh. It's exhausting. I get tired of having to constantly justify who I work for, what I believe, what I'm doing to make things better, how I'm walking a thin line between opposing viewpoints... and realizing that, when I come home and go out with friends and just want to turn off, I can't. Because those issues are still very present for them, and it comes up often. I find I can't leave my frustrations and anger at work, because my work is my life. I find that I'm having to constantly justify my personal queer identity to strangers as a way of making my work legitimate to people who take one look at me and assume I'm not queer. It's a lot of fighting, at the end of the day, and it comes home with me. I need a break from it.

I'll come back. Queer advocacy and sexual health is my heart and soul, always will be, and I'm like a moth to the flame.

I don't know if it's right to blame my frustration and my sadness all on the birth control. Some of it is probably burn out from my last job. My new job is going fantastic, by the way, and I really believe it was the leap of faith I needed. It's unreal to step off a sinking ship, and turn around, only to find out it was sinking a lot faster than I realized. I didn't understand how much stress I felt from that job until I changed jobs and found that -- wow -- it's such a drastic difference. I actually enjoy going to work, the people I work with, and what I'm doing. I've been busier than ever, working 40 hour weeks and finishing this research contract and going to school and trying to fit a social life in there, too. It's not bad, but I'm guessing the stress of thirteen hour days -- I had four in a row last week, not counting going out on Tuesday and thursday night until 1am -- isn't really aiding anything. Eh. Self-care never was my specialty. It's no wonder I have high blood pressure.

I can blame it on the weather or on my birth control. I can blame it on stress or missing friends. I can blame it on a lack of sleep or living alone or the back pain that makes everything a little more difficult lately. I can say it's the pendulum effect of being so up and on from the last few months or maybe I have inherited bipolarity, though that one I'm doubtful of. But the truth is, I don't really know what it is. I just know I feel haunted, in a way I can't seem to wake up from, and I'm ready for it to end. I'd compare it to going through life under a veil, but that's just a little too close to the bell jar metaphor for me to really feel comfortable about saying that. It's probably the truth. But I'm scared to admit it. I keep telling myself that this will pass, that maybe after a month things will flatten out. I kind of hope so, because this kind of emotional intensity is absolutely exhausting. I imagine sensory integration sensitivity feels like this. My emotions are a little too raw, a little too exposed and easily overstimulated, always on. All the time.

I'll get back to writing about sex soon, I hope. I want to. I've got stories in my head that I need to let out, but unfortunately, they keep getting pushed to the back of the burner lately. I don't want this blog to feel like work, when so much of everything else in my life does. So I'll come back to it. I always do.

Oh, When the Saints

In August 2009, after months  years of planning to move, I left north Louisiana. I quit a job I loved (even if my boss was fucking insane, I really loved my job), I packed up our huge apartment, I kissed my last salary check goodbye, and I got in a car and moved everything I owned to New Orleans.

I wasn't really sure I wanted to live here; I wanted to move to San Francisco, and New Orleans was a second-best, much more affordable, option. I had deep-seated regrets about leaving my job; I knew I'd miss my clients. The possibility of evacuating scared me shitless. I feared what leaving a great job only seven months in would do; would I find another job I actually liked again, much less one that paid me well? I had never lived anywhere else as an adult. Hell, I'd been in the same town in north Louisiana for eight years. I wasn't sure if I knew how to adjust to a new culture, make new friends, and create new life. I thought I'd lost all my marbles, but damn it, I was dead set on moving.

It took me two months to find a job. I went back into the restaurant industry, which I always knew was a possibility, but without knowing anyone here, I couldn't find work in a higher-end restaurant. (It truly is all about making connections in this town.) I took a massive pay cut -- around 50% -- and my rent and utilities almost doubled over night. I made enough to pay rent and utilities and to buy food and gas, but only barely. I ate through a lot of what I had saved at my last job, just trying to survive. Tensions ran very high in my house, and the severe lack of income was a huge part of it.

I went back to asking my mother for help, which did much more than dent my pride -- it put me in a personal debt to her which made me feel disparagingly guilty. My family, myself included, has plenty of issues about control and money. It's enough to send me over the edge on any good day. I jumped around jobs, grabbing at anything on the side that would make me some extra money to travel, to go out, to have a life beyond my house. I applied for everything under the sun, hoping someday I would pull the right straw. I took contract work that paid well, but left me back at the same questions every few months -- what now? where will my next pay check come from?

And the whole time, the same nagging possibility sat at the back of my brain -- here I am creating a life in NOLA, a life I'm really enjoying, new friends and new connections and a history and a future here, but what if  I'm forced to choose between finding a job I actually enjoy and that can sustain me and staying in New Orleans? Do I love this city enough to put aside the work I've done in school, my interests, and work in the restaurant industry for the rest of my life? Do I love this city enough to give up other jobs, better possibilities in other cities, to stay here?

I kept coming back to a resounding, "no." Why? Well, life is about compromises, yes. But I'm super, insanely, driven. So much so. And I've put aside a lot of dreams, a lot of possibilities, for relationships, for women, for family, for fear. I've been reserved. I haven't chased what I really wanted -- the only huge risk I've taken was to move here. So I didn't want to follow that path again. I knew I would come back. Hell, I knew I never wanted to leave in the first place. But if it came down to it, I would do it.

Anyway. That was all crazy back story.

You know that job I left in north Louisiana, the one I loved? Yeah, that one. Well, out of the blue, the same position opened up in New Orleans about two weeks ago. And at the urging of a close friend, I applied. I really, really feared what it would feel like not to get it -- to face that rejection again. But I applied anyway.

And wow. I got it.

While money isn't everything, it's necessary for my peace of mind -- it's necessary for my sustainability, to stay here, to thrive here.

While loving a job isn't necessary, and neither is school, it's why I went to school -- to be able to qualify for a job I actually enjoyed.

And while having benefits isn't a requirement of life, I must say, not having to face the prospect and fear of ending up in the hospital on a fluke ever again without health insurance... yeah, that sounds fantastic.

All of these are blessings. I wish everyone had them, and God knows, if I had the ability, I'd provide that for everyone. (I believe in a society that does support and assist in providing those opportunities for everyone.) I am insanely blessed to live in a city I love, to have stumbled (fallen?) into this job, to not have to worry if my salary will sustain me.

Point is, I can stay in NOLA.

I can create a career here, and I truly hope that I end up in this job for at least the next 5-6 years, if not more.

I don't have to fear leaving anymore.

I don't have to half-ass my existence here out of that fear.

I feel like a huge weight has lifted off my shoulders.

So, New Orleans, if you'll have me, I'd really like to stay. Please. I'd like to create some roots, because this feels like home.

I Feel Like There Might Be Something That I Missed

My mother is a good woman. She taught me a lot of things, like how to sew and how to drive a car, how to apologize, and how to sautee mushrooms really well. But she also taught me a lot of lessons that I'm still unlearning, like how pretty girls get the best in life, how self-recognition isn't important, how to want to be skinny, and how to self-sacrifice.

My mother is a strong woman. She's been through a lot. She's given up a lot for her children and for others around her, and I respect her for that. She tried her best to provide what she felt we should have. She set an example of self-sacrifice that I have ingrained into my life too deeply to root out. She taught me that my actions are always in the sight of others and always for others, two realities I am painfully aware of and often incapable of balancing.

But she didn't teach me self-love or self-respect, because she didn't have it in herself. It's hard to model what you don't believe. She didn't teach me how to ask for a salary I deserve, because she didn't know how -- she knew how to sacrifice, but not how to demand and negotiate. She didn't teach me to take care of my health and my body in positive ways, because she didn't know how to do it for herself. She didn't teach me how to live within a budget, to financially sustain myself, because she didn't know how.

These aren't the lessons that all mothers teach, but these aren't unique experiences, either. So many women teach these same lessons and learn these same lessons. I know that many of my actions are motivated by my wish to support, sustain, and take care of those around me -- that's how I spend my money, my time, my career, my relationships and friendships, and often whatever else I have. It's hard for me to justify doing something for myself, whether it's buying clothes or going to the doctor or having a hobby. I know I give much of my time in unpaid labor, and a part of that is because a) I haven't learned to value what my time is worth and b) volunteering satisfies my need to give in a very specific way. I know I hesitate to ask for things I need -- whether it's from a supervisor or from a friend -- because I don't truly believe my needs are important enough. It has and will hold me back in a workplace, where I have forgone recognition or a salary request or place at the table because I felt like someone else, something else, was more important. It holds me back in relationships, because I hesitate to ask for what I need, and I doubt that my feelings and my needs are important. It shows up as passive-aggressiveness, and I hate that. It holds me back in my ability to take care of myself -- the way I eat and sleep and how I abuse my body and take on stress because I don't view those things as important enough to change my behavior.

I want to unlearn these things, at least, enough not to pass them on.

I do think strength and sacrifice are important -- in moderation, not in excess. I don't want my friends, my children, to believe that they only way they should take care of themselves is for someone else. My mother never bought new underwear because she spent her money on the best toys and clothes and gifts for us. She ate once a day, because she believed it kept her skinny. She never went to the doctor, and when she did, she did so out of fear that if something happened to her, we'd have no one to rely on. It is about self-worth. It is about self-love. We learn the things our parents model. And don't get me wrong, my mother was not the only source of education I received. I learned these lessons from TV, from friends, from family members. I learned them from teachers and school, from the pervasive ideas our society has about gender and bodies and sexuality, from the people I looked up to most.

I want a healthy attitude on this. I want to know that I can sacrifice when I need to, but that my needs are important enough for me to express them and ask for them to be met. I want to take my medication every day not because everyone around me needs me to function for them, but because my health and my life matter to me. I want to exercise and eat well not because I'm afraid of what other people think about how I look, but because having energy, feeling healthy, and taking actions to improve my health improves my life. I want to teach that love isn't always sacrifice. It's also about empowerment. It's a gift of offering someone the model to do for themselves, to take responsibility, to act out of self-love. That is a form of strength -- not the quiet, suffering kind, but the pro-active kind.

I don't want to pass on these feelings of guilt and a lack of worthiness and a fear of not giving enough, not being enough. Those feelings suck. They're not motivating; they're restrictive and negative and harmful.

Enough already.

As someone very wise once told me, "Self-care is sexy."

It's so fucking true.

More Queer Questions

What does marriage mean to you?

It's a state-sponsored institution with a misogynist history and a lot of gendered ritual. It's a partnership between two people who care about each other. It can be a symbol of love, a sign of miserable commitment, or a partnership of convenience. It's a socially-sanctioned relationship between a monogamous heterosexual, cisgendered couple which is expected to produce children. It's a reason for lower car insurance rates. It's internationally recognized, but not universally defined. It's an institution queer people have historically been denied. It happens in Boston between lesbians. It's a gateway to health insurance in America.

I have extremely mixed emotions on marriage, but I definitely think it can mean different things at different times. It can take many forms. There is considerable beauty and power in partnerships and relationships, in the emotional and sexual bonds we have with others. Do I personally think all commitments should be for life? Probably not. Would I deny anyone else the right to commit to someone for life? Hell no. I don't really care what the fuck we call it, as long as everyone has equal access to it. I don't think the government should define who gets to take part in social rituals and social contracts. But if that's the only way everyone can have equal access, then government control may be the only way. I don't think my tax rates should be linked to my relationship status, though.

Your favorite LGBT book?

I got into LGBTQ non-fiction heavily a few years ago. I'd have to stay "Stonewall" by Martin M. Duberman (which is about the fascinating history of queer bars in New York, the mob, the three pieces of clothing law, the Stonewall riots, and much more) or "And the Band Played On" by Randy Shilts. There are others, and I own a lot of fiction, too. But those two books changed my life.

Your favorite LGBT quote?


The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals.  That doesn't mean that God doesn't love heterosexuals.  It's just that they need more supervision.  ~Lynn Lavner


If homosexuality is a disease, let's all call in queer to work:  "Hello.  Can't work today, still queer."  ~Robin Tyler


Why can't they have gay people in the army?  Personally, I think they are just afraid of a thousand guys with M16s going, "Who'd you call a faggot?"  ~John Stewart


The world is not divided into sheeps and goats.  Not all things are black nor all things white.  It is a fundamental of taxonomy that nature rarely deals with discrete categories.  Only the human mind invents categories and tries to force facts into separated pigeon-holes.  The living world is a continuum in each and every one of its aspects.  The sooner we learn this concerning sexual behavior the sooner we shall reach a sound understanding of the realities of sex.  ~Alfred Kinsey, Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, 1948

Your first experience with an LGBT organization or event?

My first year of college someone at school told me about the local PFLAG group that met once a month on Saturday mornings at 10am. I started going, taking my then-girlfriend with me whenever she was in town. The woman who ran the group, Sherry, became like a surrogate mother to many of us. It was a varied group and an ever-changing cast, some queer, some families of queer kids or adults. We had children as young as four up to transwomen in their seventies. I don't remember my first meeting. But I do remember that PFLAG opened a lot of doors for me. It was the first time I belonged to a group where I felt welcome, safe, and supported. It was very, very powerful for me. It was the gateway to a lot of what I became involved with. They became the supportive family I needed to help me come at school and in town, when my biological family wasn't supportive.

Butch or femme?

Neither. This is a complex question for me, one I'm still learning to navigate. I respect those who find power in these terms, who identify with them. That's great, and I don't want my rejection of these terms to be taken as why everyone shouldn't use them -- I don't feel like that, at all. But I just don't identify with them. It's like sticking a round peg in a square hole for me. I struggle with how we all love to identify and label each other, and how often "femme" gets attached to me in ways I'm not comfortable with. It's just simply not how I describe my body, my identity, or my experience. As for my attractions -- I find I'm most attracted to certain personality traits, to individual quirks, and not to someone's gender expression or looks. Those are just bonus :)

Political LGBT issue that is closest to you or affects you the most?

I have a hard time narrowing out "issues" because social problems are deeply interconnected. I find connections easily. If I had to pick one political issue that's most important to me, it would probably be employment discrimination. It's incredibly pervasive. I think everyone needs food and shelter and safety from violence first, so those basic needs will always be my priority. When those needs are met, then I'm happy to put money and energy toward other issues. But without a job, those very basic needs cannot be met.

At the root of most queer "issues" is the widespread belief that homosexuality and transgenderism is wrong and queer people are less deserving, less important, than heterosexual cis-people. Why would we need to protect against bullying and against discrimination if everyone believed that queer people were truly equal to heterosexual, cis-people? We wouldn't. So anything and everything I do is not just about creating laws or political equality, but full social equality. The civil rights movement didn't end racism. The gay rights movement isn't going to end homophobia and transphobia. It's a step in the right direction, but we need to change widely held beliefs and ideas, not just the laws.

Even within queer culture, within subgroups and power structures, I often see the same play out -- men who don't see women as capable and equal, gays and lesbians who don't see trans people as equal, etc. I want a nation, a culture, and a society that values difference and uniqueness instead of discriminating against those that don't assimilate, those who aren't the majority. I don't think that's too much to ask for.

An LGBT image that makes you smile and an LGBT image that makes you cry or makes you angry?

These are images of imprisoned gay men at Buchenwald, one of the Nazi concentration camps, who are marked by the pink triangle to symbolize their group status. This image breaks my heart. 

The first two images are from the Stonewall Riots in 1969. The second two are from the first gay liberation march, on the first anniversary of the Stonewall riots. There is nothing like the power of individuals taking to the streets, to public spaces where they can be condemned, beaten, murdered, and instead, they are proclaiming the power of their love. These photos are also testimony that the Gay Lib movement was made up of a diverse group. It wasn't men or women. It wasn't black or white. It wasn't old or young. It wasn't gay or trans. It was everyone. 

I'm grateful that there are photos of history to remind us what a difference three and a half decades makes. 

Queer Questions

The school semester has ended, and in honor of this, I want to do something mind-numbingly easy. So I cut some questions from some silly survey, and here are my answers:

1) Your sexual orientation or gender identity.

(Why one or the other? Everyone has both.) Honestly, I identify both as queer. For me, being queer is about my politics and inclusion, which is the "radical" notion that all people should be treated with respect and equality. Queer is how I explain my sexual attraction, which is not limited by someone else's gender. Queer is about disrupting norms and refusing classifications, which I firmly believe in and practice. Queer is about sex and gender as shifting, fluid, and often ambiguous. I am a cisgender female, though I don't have a tight grip on that identity. It's something I'm still figuring out. I'm not genderqueer, by most people's definition of that word. But I also don't subscribe to a lot of tenets about gender, so I do queer it in some ways. Call it what you will -- I usually don't call it anything. 

2) How old were you when you knew? 

Knew what? I was 3 when I knew I hated mustard. I was 21 when I knew I wanted to live in New Orleans. I was 15 when I knew I was sexually attracted to someone of the same sex.

3) The first person you came out to and that story.

I did a couple shots of whiskey and realized I wanted to kiss my best friend. And I didn't want to stop there. A few days later, I called my most recent ex-boyfriend. We'd only been broken up for about two weeks. The break up was completely mutual; we stayed close friends until his next girlfriend got jealous of our friendship. (I miss him. Haven't seen him in years. Can't seem to find him, though) I told him about that night, and that I thought I was attracted to my best friend -- me, not the alcohol. He was completely supportive. No jealousy, no creepy "I want to watch" crap, just support. I remember him telling me to talk to her, to go for it. Even now, I'm still floored thinking back on that moment. 

4) Thoughts regarding inner turmoil about your sexuality; did you have any? Did it escalate to self-injury or suicidal thoughts?

I really didn't. Back then I followed my heart before my head. (Not till years later did that get me into trouble) I remember trying the word "lesbian" on for size, and not really finding comfort or understanding in it. Looking back at my journals from high school, I never used it. I didn't need a label. I had love. 

I was suicidal and prone to self-injury in high school, but that was not connected to my sexuality. I was severely depressed, angry, and in the middle of some fucked up family stuff. Anything I could claim as my own, including my sexuality, became a source of power -- not a detriment. I didn't give a shit. I jumped head-on into dating a girl. I had few fears. It wasn't until it started raining hell -- my parents, hers, people we knew, bullies, etc. -- that I realized I was in well over my head. But I had the honeymoon period of a relationship with a girl I adored to gloss all the rest into the background. I was very, very lucky. I can't imagine going through that hell alone. 

5) Did you face any problems regarding religion?

Personally, no. I had walked away from the church by that point. I was already on a politically and socially radical path. Like I said, I followed my heart then. '

My mother wasn't a big fan. But she had trouble with the God argument. She and God were never that close.

6) How did your parents take it?

Not well. My mother asked if we were together before we were, and I told her the truth -- that we weren't. So months later, when I decided to change that story, I knew it would be rough. I chickened out and wrote her an email; it had some other stuff in it, too. We didn't get along well. Ok, that's an understatement. We fought probably 2-3 times a week. That night, she came home, and she was dead calm, which was very unusual. She wouldn't come near me. She cried and said she would "fix this." She drove me to a psychiatrist the next day. I talked with him for a bit, and he told her he "didn't see what the problem was." I wish he had straight up told her she was the problem. 

I've had a tumultuous history with my mother. She's in a ten year divorce; they haven't handled property settlement yet. She has let it eat away at her and my family, and I wish she end it. We don't agree on much. She has never admitted I was queer out loud, not in front of me anyway. She has trouble acknowledging anyone I'm dating. We don't talk about a lot of things. It's still very contentious. I've been out to her for six years. I realized long ago that my biological family will never provide unconditional love or support. I don't even speak to half of them. I have an incredible queer family, though, who has taught me the power of giving and receiving strength and support. I love them all.  

7) Your favorite LGBTQ movie.

Oh, so many. Angels in America. D.E.B.S. 20 Centimetros. Soldier's Girl. Loving Annabelle. But I'm a Cheerleader. Bent. Queer as Folk. Hedwig and the Angry Inch. That's all I can think of off the top of my head, but there are definitely more.

8) Your favorite gay joke.

What do you call a lesbian dinosaur? A lick-a-lot-o-puss.

I know, it's ridiculous. :)