Do I Follow?

The first week of my last semester of grad school has passed. Surreal? For sure. My elder son’s 12th birthday this week… beyond surreal… what is the word for that? Disorienting… yes. It is slightly disorienting to be the mother of a 12 year old. All those thoughts I had when he was little of “this is gonna come out again when you’re older” are coming to pass. He’s a brilliant, articulate, self aware, kind, conscientious kid. I’m really proud to be his mom. I know we’re all supposed to feel that way, but it’s an actual true feeling, of damn, that’s MY child. Wow.

There’s this song I’m kind of obsessed with right now: I Follow Rivers by Lykke Li.

Not sure exactly why, but this song’s got me by the guts. Am I looking for someone to follow? Am I accepting how others follow me? The song is probably more about a romantic relationship, but for me, it speaks to a parent/child dynamic.

I run deep, I run wild, and the boys follow me without question. It’s a strange feeling to be the head of a family. I’m here for my kids in a way that my parents weren’t. My babies were a huge motivation to make something out of my life. I have no idea where I’d be if it weren’t for them. Really. Nothing cut through the bullshit like having two little dependent beings. I remember thinking “I’m going to make you proud” when E was born. And I keep making that commitment to them.

Your kids will follow you to the end of the earth until they learn better. I want to lead my sons to the biggest ocean I can, where they can be free to go as far as they want. I’ll be the river, running deep and wild, leading them to the open sea. I don’t need to run to them, they’re following me.

I’ve never followed anyone. Ever. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. My parents did their best to teach me what not to do. “Just don’t be like me and you’ll be better off” is still the refrain of our dynamic. So, maybe the song is speaking to the part of me that yearns for a river to follow. Maybe I’m looking for deeper water to wade in. Maybe. I don’t know what it would feel like to trust someone enough to follow them. Hell, I don’t even know what that looks like.

I don’t know. I can see graduating as emptying into a new body of water. What will the world feel like in 6 months? I don’t know. Maybe a higher education is the river I’m following. Makes sense in a way, doesn’t it?

Anyway, I love this song

 

 

 

The Narcissist

I had breakfast with a friend this morning who gave me the best analogy for a narcissist I have ever heard:

“A person who shits in their hand, offers it to you, then has hurt feelings when you recoil in disgust.” 

Yep. It’s gross, but to the point. I’m really angry at all the various narcissists in my life right now. It’s a manageable anger, but it stays simmering below the surface. The number one offender is my children’s father. A close second is myself. And then all the lesser narcissistic characters from over the years.

Nothing gets me as angry as when my kids are hurting. Nothing. I can’t even describe how violent the shade of red is that veils my gaze when my sons are in pain.

What is hurting them the most right now is the narcissism of their parents. I would love to be able to blame just their father. But it takes two to tango, and as I age I am so ashamed of the arrogance and ignorance I displayed by having children at 21; especially given the person that I had them with.

I was raised to be as selfless as possible. To be the care taker in any situation. To handle anything and everything. So I’ve idolized selfish people. People who were ‘free’ to think only of themselves. Such an attractive quality to me. I was also attracted to the people who made those kind of people. How do you go about raising a person to be wholly self centered? How do you instill the instinct to only consider one’s self in any situation? Ick. Yeah, that was a fucked up way to spend my 20′s. It’s been a helluva learning curve.

Still, and this is the hard part, I have to be compassionate to the young woman I was. I have to love her flawed understanding of intimacy and worthiness despite how much pain that mistake caused, is still causing. I have to forgive her for confusing self-awareness with self-consciousness. And it is not easy. But if I don’t love her in the way she expected that raging narcissist to love her, then the pain of regret remains. Shame is only useful when there is wisdom to be found there.

How many of us are ashamed to have fallen in love with a person incapable of giving us what we need? It’s a common enough theme; I see it everywhere. But when I add my children to the equation it becomes an almost unforgivable crime. And it is taking a lot of self love, a lot of compassion from this me to my younger self, to make amends.

But that’s what I’m working on. I’m nowhere near forgiving him for offering a handful of shit to my kids and having the nerve to make them feel guilty for rejecting it. That will have to come later, I need a deeper reservoir of love to wash that anger away. The best I can hope to do right now is forgive my younger self, deal with the shame of a failed partnership and stay in the present with my sons.

I’m also really really thrilled to have my new analogy though. I’m conjugating it in so many ways. “Poo-offerer” is my favorite so far. Close second is “Keep that pile o’ poo to yourself.” Heh. Gotta love the little things.

 

My dreams last night…

I had the best dreams last night

And he wasn’t in them

I invented a brand new world

Where he never existed

It was beautiful and nourishing.

I had the best dreams last night

And there was no fear in them.

It was such a needed reprieve

Since his kind of hate

Is in my thoughts

More often than not.

I had the best dreams last night

Finally my mind gave me some room to breathe.

And it wasn’t just that there was no him,

There was none of his kind either;

Nobody like him had ever existed

And we were all free.

Last night, I dreamt of freedom.

2012

2012 looks like it should be way more futuristic than it actually is, right? So here’s the obligatory New Year’s post.

2011 was the most introspective year I’ve ever experienced. And I’m not sure how I feel about that yet. I’m an extrovert and being this introverted is not my happy place. But doing what makes me uncomfortable is good for me. So yay growth. 2012 is looking like a return to more conversations and experiences. The semester ahead is a busy one, the final one in my MA program. And then it’s all about job hunting.

Grad school has this feeling of incubation. (FYI- don’t look up the definition of the word incubate. It’s literal meaning is kinda gross, the connotation of incubation that I’m alluding to here is much more palatable.) I’ve been withdrawn in a lot of ways and I’m super curious to see what comes out of all this self investment. There is a product at the end of this navel gazing tunnel.

First off, what has to come out is a thesis. Second, a career. In between I’m feeling like more emotional availability. That’s the personal goal for 2012; to be more emotionally available to other people. I’ve sent 2011 being emotionally available to mostly only myself. Not that I’ve neglected anybody, I just haven’t been connecting the same. Too in my head, or poking around in my own heart. What will opening up more to my loved ones look like?

2012 will also have more salt water. 2011 was a dry year for me in that regard too. Not enough time in the ocean. Not too many tears, definitely not enough sweat. Thankfully no blood. Boxing and hot yoga are on the schedule, so is more dancing and hopefully the continued practice of hot n spicy sex. So is travel. New York for Spring Equinox with my cousin, Sedona for Summer Solstice with my Goddesses, Hawaii for the Fall Equinox with Bree.  2011 was a very unbalanced year; 2012 is looking to be a hyper balanced year. Which makes sense, going from prime to multi-factored. There’s so much going on in 2012 that not one facet can claim too much space.

I’m proud of 2011, I’m excited for 2012.

 

 

Cookin in the kitchen with Shilo

You know you know the song, just hum along.

Spent the day in Shilo’s kitchen, I baked and she made port wine jelly. We strategized and mission statemented and bounced ideas back and forth all while sipping coffee spiked with Bailey’s. If you’ve never had the experience of discussing the erotic documentation of under-represented sexuality with a woman in an apron testing the temperature of jam jars… I, uh, suggest it.

All the important conversations happen either in the bedroom or the kitchen. At least in my life, that’s been the case.

I’m changing the focus of my thesis.

Yes we’ve got big plans for the SPPP of the Bay Area, a few domain names have been purchased and networking has commenced, so stay tuned for a whole new batch of sexy. Shilo and I make a great team. It’s because we’re so honest with each other. I respect the Hell out of her. And ya know we’re both really nice. I love when I can just be kind and joyful with a collaborator. It’s the best type of productivity there is. So when we got to a place in the strategy session where it felt right to change topics, I brought up my thesis.

I have to make this project personal or else I’m not going to be able to make something worth the effort. Does that make sense? I’ve got this data and yes while there is a lot of sex and sexuality contained within it, what I want to write about is how people make family. 3 of the 5 people are parents, and the 2 that don’t have children are married. So I’m looking at the intersection of an alternative sexuality, race, class and family.

Which is what I need right now. It’s kind of a common (and snide) remark to say all graduate students in the social sciences and liberal arts are just studying themselves. That we’re working through our own issues via research projects. When I mentioned this to Shilo, she said that in art school, that is a given. It’s a default that whatever medium you’ve chosen to master is a means toward self expression. It’s all personal, because you know, you’re a person.

Huh.

I’m not that comfortable thinking of myself as an artist. I’m just barely comfortable identifying myself as a writer. But here I am.

So the medium I have is stories. What I need to express is my hope that we all have the ability to embody an authentic sexuality while creating and sustaining healthy family formations resulting in an enduring resiliency to discrimination and social stigma. Sounds like a good thesis, no?

Yep, hang out in the kitchen with Shi for a few hours, have a few cups of spiked coffee and watch your whole world shift.

Cluck You and uh Cluck her too.

If you haven’t seen the Muppet Movie, you’ll miss the reference. But if you loved the Cee-Lo Green song as much as I did, you’ll get it without having had to see the movie.

I like being distracted just as much as I like being a distraction… and yeah, right now, there’s not much of that happening.

Have I mentioned how hard it is for me to focus on one project at a time? It is. Multi-tasking is my natural state. In fact, I think the word we used before the word multi-tasking was Gemini. But whatevs. I’m a mom, so really there’s never a time where I can only do one thing.

I’m going through some kind of change right now. Like a deep seat of your soul type shift. Feels like it’s gonna take through the winter to complete. The process of thesis writing, the having to focus on one thing, is a part of it. Is grad school supposed to facilitate this type of personal growth?

It’s funny, because whenever these emotional growth spurts occur, I always try to hold on to what I need to let go of, all the while welcoming the change. It’s confusing and silly and actually a lot of effort to do both things at once.

It feels different to be so focussed. I usually spread myself out. Like a light through a prism. Now, I’m feeling the reverse of that, more like a laser. My mind is set on laser mode. Ha! I’ve always been proud of being a Jill of all trades. But right now I’m in the process of actually mastering one thing. It’s weird. And I have to give myself permission to focus every fucking day. Seriously. Every. Fucking. Day.

I want to be everywhere and do everything and talk to everyone. I’ve done it. I’ve been that person for a while now. Not just a desire or fantasy. But I can’t. I’m not. And that for me is totally new. And it’s not exactly comfy. Still, growing isn’t supposed to be, right?

There is more to life than survival.

My kitchen windowsill has 4 little plants growing: a sprouting avocado seed, a succulent in a ceramic bowl, a Jade cutting that we picked up off the sidewalk during a walk home, and a fern I bought from the grocery store.

When I was about 25 I figured this thing out about myself: money and children I can grow, plants and pets, not so much. It’s true. I’ve never been able to keep a green thing alive. I can live off a tiny amount of money, make dollars reproduce and I’ve been raising children since I was a child. Pets? Plants? In my apartment? Uh, no thanks, I can see their benefit, but really it’s just a lot of upkeep.

I had a lot of pride in my little self actualized motto. What I was saying is that I knew how to survive.  I had mastered survival. I don’t write very often about what it’s like growing up with a suicidal parent, even though I think about it a lot. It’s too hard. I knew from a young age that existence is not guaranteed. I’m not really able to lay all of it out yet. But what I can say is that my mother did not believe in tomorrow. Every day that she woke up was a shock. She was pretty good with plants and pets. Better with the plants, less so with the pets, but she did better with both of those by far compared to money or people. There is more to this, I know, but really it’s too painful to write out. My point is that I’m in this rut of limited possibility. As a friend said, I’m in a moment of contraction.

So I’m attempting to grow plants in my home. I’m starting small. Seeds and cuttings. Sturdy plants that I’ve been told are relatively hard to kill. I need green to expand both within and around me.

http://www.chakra-anatomy.com/heart-chakra-colors.html

It is at the heart center where the energies of lower chakras (once the needs are fulfilled and satisfied) can be transformed and integrated into a more spiritual aspect of yourself.

This is where you reach beyond yourself and connect with something greater, wider, and deeper.

Green is the color of growth, life, and balance. Through balance you find this center from which you can love, form healthy and nourishing relationships, and give and receive love.

Surviving I can do. Making sure other people’s basic needs are met, I can do. Now I need to grow just a little bit more.

Reformation vs. Revolution

A good way for me to measure how much I care about something is by how much time I spend talking to my kids about it. You can tell I could give not one fuck about sports because I’ve probably spent a total of 8 hours out of their entire lifetimes talking about it to my kids. Politics, social justice, economics, ethics, the weather, (yes the weather) and sexuality… I’d estimate I’ve spent a good 4 years out of E’s life speaking to him non stop on those subjects.

So guess what we’ve been talking about a lot? The Occupy Movement. And I’m pretty sure he gets it better than a lot of adults do. When the idea to start Occupy Oakland started to float around a month ago, I had a muddled, half squishy expression when I told him about it.

“What’s wrong with Oakland having it’s own Occupy, Mom?”

Me, hating for the umpteenth time that I have no poker face whatsoever. “Wellllllll, it’s just that Oakland is no joke when it comes to confronting oppressive systems, and then getting punished for it by those systems in return. There is always an uneasy power balance in Oakland.”

E knows about the Oscar Grant murder, the protests, the response in the streets and by the police. He also knows about the Black Panther Party thanks to my having taken a course from Ericka Huggins, (who has an awesome interview with The Root up right now, you should so totes check that out.) So he not only knows of the Black Panthers, he knows a Black Panther.

It’s one thing for folks on the East Coast to call for reformation, it’s another thing for folks in Oakland to have a new outlet for revolution.

People at Occupy Wall Street are calling attention to the fact that rich people don’t pay taxes and that corporations need to stop being prioritized over people. They still believe in the system and the structure of the US. They believe in capitalism and they believe in wealth redistribution. They believe that the process used to dismantle economic security can be used to restore it. I wish I could go to NYC and be a part of their occupation. I wish I could listen to their conversations. I wish I could be in the presence of all the exchange of information, witness the process of enlightening the masses as it occurrs in real time.

People in Oakland are demanding decolonization. I don’t think the folks at Ad Busters quite had that in mind. There is no revelations going on in Oakland. Predatory lending? Check. Gentrification? Check. Industrial pollution? Check. Defunct public school system? Check. Blatant racial profiling? Check. Extreme income disparity? Check. Underfunded social services? Police brutality? Commercially sexually exploited youth on the streets? Check, check, check. For years and years and years.  I’m not saying that OWS isn’t complex, not saying that Oakland is the special snowflake in a country suffering deeply in terms of both economic and ethical despair. I am saying that Oakland, like Atlanta and Detroit and Richmond and Tacoma, has been in this position a lot longer than what is now happening on a national level. 

Filling out my FAFSA was like filing for divorce.

I got my confirmation of graduation in the mail today.

Instant flashback:

Ten years ago my boyfriend came home from work and found me teaching our two sons how to read, and was seriously upset with me. At the time, C was 9 moths old and E was just over 2. They are 15 months apart in age; I had our first baby at 21. When we had number two there was no way I could back to working, so I became the stay at home parent while my boyfriend went to work. We were broke as a joke, he was in construction, neither of us had a college education, we shared a rental with my mother and teenage brother.

I would spend all day, for days and days, teaching my babies how to read, how to count, how to say big words, how to hold pencils and paint brushes, how to mix colors, how to sing, how to clap to the beat. It was the only way for me to stay sane.

I had ironed on the letters of the alphabet to a big blanket, then I would spread the blanket out on the floor and, while I held the squirmy baby in my lap, call out the letters for my toddler to jump to. His favorite letter was E. It only took a few months for me to call out words like “Cat” and E would jump from the C to the A to the T. The baby started to figure it out too; he would roll from one letter to the other making cute gurgling baby sounds. I would roar with approval, it literally made my day.

So when their dad came home from work and the house wasn’t tidy and there wasn’t a delicious meal waiting for him on the table; he got irritated with my acting like I was their preschool teacher.

“I go into people’s houses all the time and it’s not like this. Today I was at a house where there was a stay at home mom with two young kids like ours and she had laundry going and was making dinner and the kids toys were put away. Why can’t you do that?”

I looked at him for a moment, and because I still loved him, I genuinely sought to answer his question. I replied, “Maybe she’s happy.”

And there it was. I had finally said out loud what had been gnawing at me for months.

He walked away from me before I could say more of what I was thinking:

Maybe she had had time in her life to want to be at home with children. Maybe she wasn’t 23 and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe she had been places and done things that allowed the desire to be a stay at home mom well up inside of her. Maybe the snippet he saw was the result of conscious, mature, rational decision-making. Maybe doing the laundry and making dinner every night and keeping her home tidy felt like a choice or an accomplishment. Maybe she had experienced enough of life without the day to day responsibility of child rearing and home making to appreciate what she was doing now.

I hadn’t. Sometimes I would wake up in the morning and rack my brain as to how this had happened. How was I in this situation again? Why wasn’t I in school? Where were the people who were supposed to guide me away from this path?

After that fateful conversation, I stopped asking those questions and started moving forward. What needs to change for me to be happy?

Why you so serious, sexy?

I’ve inherited one helluva of a scowl. I get it from my father, who got it from his father, who got it from his mother. And I’ve passed it down to my younger son. My older son takes after my mom’s side. When he’s serious his barely there blonde eyebrows lift higher, like they’re going to jump off his forehead and grab you by the cheeks to get your undivided attention. Me, us, we get scowly. Just hella scowl. Our eyebrows look like they could crack walnuts. When I was about 13 my dad put his thumb between my eyes and said, “You don’t have to be so serious… but you’re probably going to be really good at it.”

Studying sexuality is serious. I know this from how much I scowl at my reading material, or field notes, or the transcribed audio accounts of my participants. My jaw aches and I press the pads of my fingers against my face, trying to smooth out the furrows. I am so proud of the folks who I interviewed. Is that academic of me?

I’ve recorded the stories of people who refuse to be marginalized. My surging pride is to the point where I’m scowling over it. How in the hell do I keep their triumphs intact throughout this sociological process? I’m grateful I have their words to work with because I’m pretty sure my own would be deficient. I get too angry.

The ways that alternative sexualities have been constructed are inherently harmful. The founding premises of sexual deviance are flawed. The language available to me is insufficient. Scowl scowl scowl. I have to write my participants out of those boxes.

I was sitting at a coffee shop Friday afternoon, a man asked me to plug his laptop for him. I didn’t hear him right away because I was doing that thing where I’m read from more than one text at a time. I’ve got the book, Don’t Bring A White Boy Home on one side of my computer, Betty Dodson’s “We Are All Quite Queer” on my screen and The Ethical Slut open on the other side of me.

He waved his hand above my screen, I looked up at him without changing the expression on my face, which startled him: “Whoa… sorry to interrupt, just need my cord plugged in beside you.”

I relax my face and take his plug from him, “No worries, there you go.” I smile.

He pauses, “You’ve got a great smile, and beautiful eyes, almost didn’t get to see them,” he has his own little sideways smile peeking at me.

Now, all dude has to do is look a little closer at my reading material and he’s gonna start talking about his own sexual curiosities. Soooo scowl or smile? Sorry bro, but I have a lot of work to get done and I have to pick up my kids from school in 45 minutes.

Scowl.