Editor Virgie Tovar is currently seeking submissions for a ground-breaking new fat positive anthology to be released in 2012. Please see the details below and HURRY! Deadline is Nov 15th, 2011.
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS : FAT-POSITIVE ANTHOLOGY1500-3000 words
Editor: Virgie Tovar – author, fat activist/lifetime fat girl, and MA, Human SexualityDeadline: November 15, 2011
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in-sub-or-din-ate
adjective
disobedient, unruly, wayward, errant, badly behaved,
disorderly,undisciplined, delinquent,
troublesome,rebellious, defiant,recalcitrant, uncooperative,
willful, intractable,unmanageable,uncontrollable; awkward,
difficult, perverse, contrary;
disrespectful,
cheeky.
Next example, 5th grade:
My teacher had just relocated to NorCal from Mississippi, she was super feminine, super Christian and very conservative. One day after school, she told me she wished I would let her call me by my given name. (I went by my initials, A.J.) I asked her what was wrong with going by my initials?
Turns out, it bothered her that I had a “masculine” nickname. My given name was so pretty and feminine and she liked it so much better. And besides (here’s where my stomach rolled): “Girl nicknames usually end in ‘y’s or ‘ie’s: Becky, Debbie, Suzy, Bobbie.”
The taste of brown spotty bananas flooded my mouth. I realized that she was afraid that I wanted to be a boy. She wore fashionable linen dresses everyday to class, she wore lots of mascara, she wore pantyhose and pearls. As she pouted and batted her over mascara’d eyelashes at me to “C’mon why don’t you give Airial a try for a little while?” (because that’s the way women get their way) it hit me that she dressed the way she did to impress upon us the standards of ‘womanly’ behavior. She was a role model, an authority on gender. I squinted up into her face and said, “Sorry, but having a vagina doesn’t mean my name has to end in a question mark.” Read the rest of this entry »
ok, so “fun” is a very large descriptor….
Dancing is fun:
ps Happy Birthday Hard French!
Sex is A LOT of fun:
Driving on HWY 1 is fun:
Ordering off the secret menu at In-n-Out is fun:
Making up dirty stories about the people who walk into a coffee shop is fun, much <3 to Wicked Grounds…cuz all the stories we could possibly make up are prolly not as half as dirty as what those folks are actually up to.
Laying in bed drawing on your lover is fun:
But whatever, if we’re together, it’s gonna be fun.
I skipped writing about the Winter Solstice. That’s kinda significant. The event itself was kinda significant. Not only was it the longest night of the year, it was the Gemini Full Moon (aka my full moon) and a complete eclipse of said moon. That is a lot of significance. So maybe I was too busy being in that moment to write about it, maybe it was a lot to absorb, and a lot of stimuli and a lot to process and thus I’m not ready to write it out yet.
But it was a good night, I was out in it, driving across the Bay Bridge, willing the storm clouds to abide just long enough for me to see the moon and for a lover’s plane to take off safely. I am grateful the winds complied.
I love the dark. I love not knowing. I love not being in control. Mostly because I am made of so much light, and I do know so much, and I am so very, very in control. Always the balance that strikes me. Anyway, it’s all so fleeting. Only movement is constant. Today it is sunny in Oakland. A crisp chill, but bright blue sky. This kind of sun is such a tease. The rays are flirting with us all. Never know when the clouds will swallow it whole and she will disappear.
I guess I like that too.
I went home for Christmas, spent time with both sides of my family and with friends that I’ve had so long, they’re family now too. My gift this year from my father, (besides much needed cash- thanks dad I love you!) was a photo album he and his sister put together from the huge cache my grandmother had collected. I also received a big tub of photos and keepsakes too. Fantastic present. Coincidentally the boys and I gave him a photo album too. Mementos all around for the Clark family.
This blog post should prolly be broken down into several smaller ones, but I’ve been waiting for this moment, so it’s all going to gush out, the sap is running, the words are flowing, the stream of consciousness between thought and word is intact and I have no plan for what I’m writing. I’m just talking to you, calmly, slowly, without anxiety of judgement or interruption.
The boys’ aren’t in school yet. They have an extra week of break so that their teachers can plan and prepare for the semester. I’m not in school yet either. I have three more weeks before my second semester of grad school starts. How my first semester ended was supposed to be a blog post too, but I haven’t had the urge to write it out yet.
I’m not sure what the purpose of winter break is, or was, in regards to higher education. Six weeks feels like such a long time for a break. However, I’m using the time to connect with my kids because when I am in school, I am for sure less available. Before classes started in the Fall I was able to spend a lot of time with them, give them my focussed attention. These three weeks of break I am doing the same. I can feel the difference in them when I’m able to just be here. My mind not running, thoughts racing, compiling, shifting, morphing. It’s a gift I can give them. They are more calm, they are more relaxed, they literally dance and sing around the house in cute quirky ways. It’s amazing. And it’s fleeting. Everything is always changing.
This month and year E will be 11. A lovely anniversary for sure. But it’s also a marker of something else. This is the ten year anniversary of when I decided I wanted more. When E turned a year old, I was already pregnant with C, a little over halfway through. I looked at their father, one of my best friends ever, a man who loved me completely, and apologized profusely. There was no way he was ever going to be able to keep up with me if I let myself be everything I felt like I could be. It was just not going to happen. That realization was shocking and scary and something I tried to unrealize. It took another year, (plus ya’ know giving birth to another wonderful amazing healthy baby) for us to really face the fact that we were going to have to split. But that is the anniversary of C’s first birthday.
Ten years since I made the decision to go it alone. And I do not regret one day of it. So here’s to 2011. I wonder what anniversary this year will be?
I love the music at my Trader Joe’s. I don’t know if all Trader Joe’s play the same music, or if there is store autonomy, or if there is some regionally specific target population demographic ish going on. If it is the latter, then I, apparently, am their intended audience and they know me very well. So well, I might just get some action due to the fantastic audio ambiance of my TJ’s. No really, this could so totally happen.
A little backstory:
I’ve been going to this grocery store consistently for 2 years now, like once a week on average. I liked the music right off the bat. I remember debating about it with Tex when I first moved to Oakland, he claimed the Grocery Outlet on Broadway hands down had the lock on good tunes to shop to. And maybe he is right, but I’ve never had the urge to do the electric slide down the frozen food isle to an especially funky mix of the Jackson 5’s greatest hits while shopping at Gross Out. And yes I did have that urge at Trader Joe’s, and yes I did get the boys to do it with me, even Ethan, for a few steps.
So there’s this one guy who works there. He reminds me of a pirate. I know, I know, soooo cliché, but like, he’s got this whole smoldering disdain for authority thing going. Which, ok, still totally hot to me. He shaves his head, has a full thick bushy beard, bulky earrings, tat sleeves on his forearms, his skin is really dark so I’m not exactly sure what the art is, I just know it’s there. Plus, he’s really tall, broad chested, big shoulders… ya I noticed him right away. In the two years of shopping at TJ’s this guy has never paid any attention to me. In fact, watching his demeanor over time, he seems to pay as little attention to the customers as possible. Again- such a super attractive quality.
He never asks shoppers if they need help finding things, which I think is some regulation or requirement of TJ workers. If a customer comes within 2 feet of you, you’re supposed to offer assistance without being asked? Maybe? I dunno, I do know that I get asked that a lot and usually I’m kind of startled by it. Still. After 2 years, I still think, did I look bewildered or something? Anyway, this guy never does that. Never. Yes! So fucking hot in that damn-the-man-find-the-clearly-labeled-ample-stocked-food-on-the-shelf-for-yourself-I-know-you-can-read-anti-hegemonic kind of way.
Alright so my Trader Joe’s has great music and one smoking hot Sinbad of a man on crew.
Yesterday, it all coalesced into one perfect moment. I’m shopping with the boys. They are dashing here and there to grab items to put in the cart. At this point, they’re like Thing 1 & Thing 2 from the Cat In The Hat: each sprinting in different directions, come back drop something in the basket, then dash off again. So I just stay at cruising speed. And then ‘Tainted Love” comes on. I start to hum along as I stroll, kind of nod my head to the uber familiar beat. I can hear someone softly whistling with the tune. I’m meandering toward the snack aisle, need to load up on trail mix, I’m mouthing the words, the whistling is either getting louder or closer, not sure. By the time I’m mid aisle, I’m audibly singing along, and also in perfect time with the whistling, which I’m sure is both louder and closer. We’re in the same aisle, but I can’t see who they are because we are both navigating our way around a large stack of crates. The song is finally to the crescendo and the unseen whistler and I are totally having a very pronounced duet in the snack food aisle…
I’m further down now, so if I look behind me I can see my duet partner: it’s Sinbad guy! No way, I think. Really? Tainted Love huh? Wow. And he’s looking at me, like, looking-looking, and he smiles, big. And I smile back. Like, hello, yes I’ve been shopping here for 2 years, but it’s cool you just now noticed me. We both start to talk at the same time, he starts with, “It’s catchy…” Me: “Ya, kinda hard not to…” More smiles, more twinkly eyes. He moves up the aisle toward me, “Uh..” he’s still grinning. If he asked me if he could help me find anything, I would have lost so much respect for him. So, instead I give him my favorite Chesire cat grin, turn around and continue shopping. Always keep moving. I was so distracted I actually bought two bags of the same trail mix. What? The man can whistle.
So that was cute, I’m thinking to myself as we go through the line, and we get my favorite checker, Adam. Ethan’s favorite checker is a woman who is so cute and fun, he just melts in front of her. He doesn’t like Adam. Probably because Adam always takes the time to express deep sympathy for my parenting predicament. “Don’t know how you do it,” he always says in farewell. I’m trying to convince him to put a hidden recording device in his nametag so we can YouTube all the crazy shit he puts up with on his shifts. But am I attracted to Adam? Noooo of course not. But this slightly hostile, pirate looking motherfucker who can whistle? Totally.
Who, by the way, made sure to make a departing appearance: he flagged me down as I was driving out. Big waves and all smiley, I’m all smiley back, as I pull off. Always keep moving. I look in the rearview and the expressions on the boys’ faces? Priceless. Clinton has the single WTF eyebrow, Ethan has the double you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me/here-we-go-again eyebrow lift.
I am writing this post with a well deserved homemade banana split as my writing companion. If last weekend was kick ass, this weekend pretty much kicked my ass. I am exhausted. I don’t even know what I want to say right now, except there is a rumbling in my brain, like far away thunder, and my thoughts feel thick, heavy with barometric pressure, the same feeling of unease I get when rain refuses to fall and storm clouds are still without release.
The boys’ father is having a hard time and I guess it is weighing on me. More than I would like to admit. It’s still hard for me to see him sad. Harder still when it affects our kids and I have to pretend that I have hope he will get better. Because I’m pretty sure he won’t. And I hate having to say the opposite.
As a parent I’ve learned to not make promises.
I’ve learned to show up; every day, every morning, every school meeting on my own, alone, I am there.
Because that is what matters
Promises are for people who aren’t there, and their father, all of his life, has wanted to be seen as a man of promise.
Promises are cheating to me, a way of getting the love or appreciation or respect before actually putting the work in. I don’t promise my children anything, I don’t want to waste my energy; I power their lives. The only promises I make are in my own head, and then they are more like oaths. Maybe more like challenges to myself. I see they need something, can I provide it for them?
Maybe it’s not just being a parent, maybe it’s the word smith in me. Words in complex forms and pretty shapes come easily to me. It drove their father crazy how easily I conjured just the right words out of thin air. We measure worth by the amount of labor put into a product, yes? For enough people, putting life into words takes effort. They have to really want to say something in order to put the time and energy into crafting a clear or eloquent sentence, paragraph or even a conversation.
I don’t.
So when the words roll off my tongue or onto paper or into a frame on a screen, it’s not the effort of craft I struggle with, it is the effort of integrity. Which is easy to confuse. Earnestness and a smooth tongue are difficult to reconcile. I can talk you in circles, up is down and everything is nothing and all you have to navigate your way through the maze I dropped you in is the same voice that just ensnared you… makes one a bit nervous now doesn’t it? My words can get me into and out of a lot of trouble.
And so my bullshit meter is Richter scale quality. When a person paints a pretty picture of promises to me, I will acknowledge it for what it is, a well crafted expression, but you won’t see me do backflips in appreciation. “Isn’t that sweet,” I think, “look at you putting words to an idea… let me know when you actually do it.”
Having children changed the weight of my words. I finally figured out why the boys get so upset when I curse: my blessings means everything. How often do we think about that?
Being a word person is kind of like being an architect, except your materials aren’t material; they are projections, emotions, the inherent beliefs we filter information through. Yet, an engineer is an engineer regardless; tensile strength, compound junctures, even foundations; words matter.
Do I want my children to believe everything I say? Yes. It’s a matter of survival. This is good, this is bad, this will help you, this will hurt you. It also limits what I can say to them about their father. I’ve learned the less I say about him the better. We only have so many years where words suffice and experience must take over. My words are a crucial guidebook; what they experience is their truth. His actions, or rather inactions, speak volumes. Which is such a cliche, but it’s true! I could have painted my children a noble portrait of the man I wished their father would be, the person I saw in him when we were young. I could have spun that tale so thoroughly no doubt of it’s veracity would have ever entered their minds. But I hate the way adults shift the real world experiences of children with the power of their words. I really really do. We constantly manipulate our youth to make the adults look better and then wonder why they have problems facing reality? Really? Um, no thanks. The boys have in me a co-consoler when it comes to their father, yes it is too bad, yes it is disappointing that he is so sad, yes you have every right to be frustrated, no it’s not normal, no it’s not ok he hasn’t called.
I am completely independent from their father. I’ve never asked for child support or demanded any resources from him. This allows me to be free. What he does, he does because he wants to, and the same holds true in reverse, what he doesn’t do… well he has a hard time explaining that to his very intelligent children. I’d rather struggle supporting us myself before I depend on him for one degree of comfort. And man does that piss him off, and has, continuously, for 8 years now.
I promise as little as possible and do A LOT. I act constantly. And it has carried over into my close friendships as well, if I care about you, you will hear very little promised by me; but I will show up. Always. Sometimes even without permission. Aside from my children, I don’t think about the future of my relationships much, there is too much going on in them today.
But, I’m a little tired. And I’ve typed for so long without stopping, all the ice cream has melted and slices of banana are floating in the dish. So maybe it’s time for Sundae soup.
I should be reading for class right now, which, in and of itself is pretty fucking cool. I can’t believe how thrilled I am to have syllabi to stay caught up on. And yes, the first week of school blog post will be up shortly, but… right this moment I’m kinda pissed. It’s the good kind of pissed. The kind that will wedge itself in my brain somewhere like a little corn kernel of TNT, and at a more appropriate moment, explode into action.
I’m really open about being the child of a severely depressed parent. So when the Urban Institute published Infants of Depressed Mothers Living in Poverty, I had to read it.
This brief offers a first-time national look at the characteristics, access to services, and parenting approaches for infants living in poverty whose mothers are depressed. Results reveal that eleven percent of infants living in poverty have a mother suffering from severe depression. At the same time, many of these families are connected to services, such as WIC, health care services, food stamps, and TANF, presenting opportunities for policymakers and service providers to help these families. The Doris Duke Charitable Foundation funded this research as part of an Urban Institute project identifying service strategies to help connect depressed mothers with treatment.
You know what pisses me off? The first sentence: A first-time national look. Wow. Really? I have wondered so many times how different our lives would have been if my mom could have been treated. Especially about my brother. In reading the study, all I could see was my little brother. I know my mom thinks about it too. Within the last 5 years she has finally received the treatment she has needed most of her adult life. And it’s because we moved to the Bay Area where Mental Health services are available to poor people. Oh the horrors of socialized healthcare!! She says to me sometimes, “If I felt the way I do now back when you guys were kids, everything would have been different.” Ya, no shit.
So that is what I have to say to the people who need to read a study like this in order to support social healthcare policy. No shit. The Washington Post reported on the study. Again, nothing new to the infant who grew up in the cycle they are detailing. Jezebel blogged about the Washington Post article and the part worth reading is the comments section where mine (as the child), and my mother’s (as in the depressed mom) story is told over and over. I even got the title for this post from one of the commenters. This study is a “no shit study” where people already know this happening, they just needed data to support it.
Untreated depression kills people, destroys families and has long lasting consequences. The fact that mental illness disproportionally affects those in poverty should not be surprising to anybody. The fact that people opposed to socialized healthcare don’t really give a shit should be more disturbing, and it pisses me off.
Ok, back to reading about sex. I really do love my field of study.
“Coffee is cold, but it’ll get you through, compromise, that’s nothing new to you.” Hello Monday, my dear sweet harbinger of get ya some. My internet connection is spotty at best and there’s an anvil sitting on my chest, a resting body wants to stay at rest, but I’m devoted to my quest, the never ending pursuit of what’s next? I’m off to outsmart homeostasis.
This summer, in honor of the Grand Cross Alignment, I decided to set aside the rules of who I’m supposed to be attracted to/who is supposed to be attracted to me. I sat back and shuffled through my past. Of all the people who have come and gone, friends, lovers, acquaintances, who left an impression? Who do I want? The only two criteria to take root: words and health. Please love words and please prioritize all three aspects of your health: mental, spiritual and physical. That was it, that was all I could honestly say I wanted. Everything else felt superfluous, vain, for show, ego indulging. I don’t want a complete opposite, I don’t want a carbon copy. I don’t want crazed chaotic co-dependency. I don’t want aloof, one foot out the door, come and chase me. I want a Venn diagram relationship. Each our own circle, but where we overlap has value; a shade richer than when we stand apart.
So then I meet a guy… ok, ok I meet a lot of guys, but this one…
One night at the end of July, I went to a poetry slam before going out to the city. I went alone to the slam because words matter. Because I can never feel alone in the company of those who love their words enough to slam them. Two men took the stage to hype their long term devotion to their spouses. Two different men took the stage to bare their scars of heartbreak. Guess who intrigued me?
His voice was low when he admitted his fears, and though his physique exclaimed a God-like prowess of sexuality, it was his humanity echoing through the words, that I was sure were mostly his, that shook me. As I left the slam I caught his eye and smiled. A smile that I hoped conveyed my appreciation. Peddle though. That’s what we’re all trying to do. When he smiled back, he looked into my face, he didn’t do the up and down sweep, maybe a little surprised at my attention. I kept walking, the way I always do, and for the first time in a long time I had the thought, “Wow, it would be cool if he followed me out to talk with me.”
For a full 48 hours I could not get his words, nor his smile, out of my mind. A lot went on in those hours, everything I love about my life. But still… by Sunday I found him on Facebook… and well, now, Lee tells me that my stories are better than his. That he’s going to get me caught up on the True Blood TV series. Says he’s going to seduce me into slamming. That I’m bringing something into his life that is both very much wanted and a little nerve wracking. It’s kinda amazing.
He compared me to a Martian because I was so cool on our first date. On our second, I could tell he was (maybe still?) waiting for me to turn out to be batshit crazy; which is totally cool, since I was (maybe still?) expecting the same. Our third was my favorite. It’s going to take him a minute to get accustomed to Oakland 
To me, he brings a sensuous comfort, he feels strong, he feels real. He feels honest in the way that those who transcribe the beat of their heart and the pulse of their brain into alliterated verse for the whole world to hear have to be.
So we’re both wordsmiths. He’s been in love with an Anthropologist once already and my life is littered with men who love being on stage. I’ve read his chapbook and I love that he shares more whenever he gets the chance. He’s already calling dibs on my off the cuff remarks for new pieces. He likes the sound of my voice, calls it a slow tornado. He reads my blogs, and loves my twitter stream, especially when he is in it. I’ve awarded him a certificate in Airialism and he has inducted me into the Lee Phi Lee fraternity (or would that be a sorority?) I’m starting grad school, and he’s a surprised homeowner. I have sons, he has daughters, we are both well lit by their love and laughter. It’s a curious combination of different and similar. Something close to, or maybe resembling, a Venn diagram?
Some of the best conversations I have with the boys are in the car.
“Mom, I think I’m gonna grow up to be somebody,” Ethan says to me while he rides shotgun. He says this to me like he came up with the resolution all on his own. Like puzzle pieces that just happened to fit: “him” and “being somebody”.
“Really?” I say, “Hmm, I think I agree.”
“Yeah, I’m going to do stuff, important stuff, because, like, I can,” he accentuates ‘can’ with a tinge of awe. Still with the tone that he is just letting me know. As if I have nothing to do with the cell by cell development of his being, as if I had not been the one to chart his course of self esteem, as if I am not the one who endeavors daily to let him know how much he is capable of. This why mom’s have Cheshire Cat grins. Which I bestow upon him. Moments like these are not the time to take credit. Nope. All he needs to know right then is that mom approves, mom agrees, mom is happy.
Clinton said to me, “Mom, when I become an artist, I won’t make very much money, but you can always live with me.” I look at him in the rearview mirror, his head shifting in the back seat so he can see me.
“Thanks, honey,” I say, sort of wondering where this is going, “umm why don’t you expect to make much money being an artist?”
“I don’t like money,” he stares out the Jeep window, nose wrinkling, ”it’s gross, it causes war and hobo’s. My art won’t be for money, even after I go to Art School, I’ll do little jobs for Ethan, he will have lots of money. But, still, I want you to live with me when you’re old, I’ll take care of you.”
“You got it. I’ll wash your paint brushes and sharpen your pencils.” I smile as he laughs, imaging me as a white haired old lady shuffling about his artists’ loft. Maybe he is feeling some separation anxiety, maybe he is feeling left out of moment that Ethan and I were sharing, something brought it up, and hopefully he’ll keep showing me until I figure it out, or he stops feeling uncomfy.
It’s funny to see the future through the eyes of my children. What they anticipate, what they are concerned about, what they are blind to. The assumptions they have about who they will be and who I will be to them.
Today I am their driver, and just like Ethan not knowing how much of a role that a parent plays in the formation of their child’s self esteem, they have no clue what being the driver means. They don’t know all of the details of driving, how my attention span is layered and fractured. They don’t see everything I do to get them from Point A to Point B safely.
And I’m thinking, hoping, guessing, that at this stage of their lives, that is a very good thing. When they are 16 and start learning to drive, then they’ll know. When they are young adults and face some basic life decisions on their own, then they’ll know. But for now, I get to drive and have my Cheshire Cat grin.
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