Jesus and My Groceries

I still can’t decide if she deserved it or not, my yelling at her.  Ok, maybe no one deserves to be yelled at by a stranger but I do maintain that I have a point:

 It was a gorgeous Chicago morning.  The kind we all dream of to help us survive the bitch ass winters here.  I wanted to sit on my bitch ass and lounge around the house, perhaps I should have listened to that internal cueing – I did not.  We were having folks over for dinner that night and groceries were needed.    The store was 4 blocks away and I was accustomed to walking my neighborhood errands, 4 year old son and 7 months pregnant belly in tow, while I pulled along our little cart.  You are not fully urban until you have walked to the grocery store and pulled the stuff back in your little pull along.  I am fully urban to the 28^th degree (no 27^th degree would just not be urban enough to define me). 

It all started when my son Night wanted to buy watermelon (hell yeah I will blame my meltdown on my 4 year old’s desire for healthy food!).  How could I deny him this grocery store request?  Got the fucking watermelon.  It took up so much space in my little cart (and the fact that I had somehow decided this was the time to buy extras of things we needed and stock the pantry) that I ended up with 3 extra bags to carry.  Damn it, now I had a kid and half, a pull cart FULL of groceries, and 3 bags to carry home.  Off we started.

The cart was too full and the bananas on top kept falling off like every 5 steps.  I finally handed them to Night and said, “Son, I need your help.  The cart is too full.  Please carry the bananas.”  The next block and half went something like this:

Night: The bananas are too heavy!

Me: Carry the bananas Night.

Night: But they are SOOOOOOO heavy (insert 4 year old whiny voice)!

Me: Carry the bananas Night (insert snippy maternal voice)!

Night: I’m too tired, the bananas are too heavy, I CAN NOT CARRY THE BANANAS (insert 4 year old whiny voice now at a shrill pitch and half yelling)!

Me: NIGHT! STOP WHINING AND CARRY THE BANANAS! (insert voice of complete maternal exasperation and the “if only I thought it were ethical to drop kick my child” sentiment). 

The above dialogue rolled on as sweat began to roll down our backs and we carried and pulled our way toward our home.  We had just made it through a major intersection when she walked up to me.  Sweet, sugar faced, and dressed in Jesus approved clothing she moved toward me.  In her hands were a stack of religious tracks, she smiled and pulled one off the pile and asked, “May I give this to you Mam?” 

Tic, tic, tic, tic, BOOM: “DO I LOOK LIKE I CAN CARRY ANYTHING ELSE???” I shouted at her. 

And then because I had not yelled at her enough I moved on to gesture towards my very pregnant belly, son beside me, and groceries and say, “7 months here!  4 years there and all this ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” 

She stood dumb founded, eyes wide, and slowly drew her extended hand back in toward her body.  She said nothing, perhaps she was quietly praying for me, asking the Lord to help her through such persecution and save my lost and angry soul. 

Night and I continued our procession home.  The bananas fell again and as we paused to pick them up I looked back at her.  She was glaring at me in disgust and puckered her lips when her eyes met mine.  I gave her glaring eyes and a slight pissed off head shake back and carried on my way.  I resumed arguing with my child about the weight of bananas until we were home and plopped down on the couch, our urban adventure behind us.  

I don’t know if hindsight is 20/20 but it sure is fucking funny and so as I sat there I began to laugh at the incident and our ill fated dramatic walk home.  It is a given that I did not handle myself with the Zen like goddess filled serenity that I aspire to.  Nothing to assess there so I moved on to judging the religious track pimpet, and that’s more fun anyway. 

I still felt badly for yelling at her, but as I thought about it I felt less and less bad for my actions.  Forgive me for pinning irritation with much of the religious community on this one poor gal but: it is just so fucking annoying how she was hell bent on giving me what she thought I needed while completely turning a blind eye to what I really needed.  I mean if she had said something like, “Wow, looks like you are juggling a lot there, can I help you carry those bags for the next block and give you this pamphlet?”  I actually would have accepted.  Not because I want to read about her religious views but I really could have used a hand.  I would have thought her kind and totally spared her my wrathful rant. But she offered nothing except her agenda. 

So go ahead and pray for my bitch ass pamphlet girl.  Likewise I will hope for you that you find something more meaningful to do with your faith than simply talk about it. I sure as hell think Jesus would have fucking offered to carry my groceries.

Finding my Pride

For a Queer woman who has lived the last 14 years in a straight marriage Pride weekend never fails but to send me into an identity crisis.  I always think this year I have it all figured out and then find myself leaving a voicemail on my husbands phone where I a spew about “am I living a gay enough life and who the hell am I anyway.”

There were years where we worked hard to make a mixed orientation marriage work.  Now days, that’s the easy part.  We have fallen into a graceful acceptance of who we are and how to live that out when it comes to our marriage.  (If you want to know more on that I will shamelessly plug Dear John I Love Jane right now!)  No, it’s the perception to the rest of the world that still has me in knots a bit.  Enter my annual Pride dramatics. 

I can blame no one for judging me as straight when I walk down the street with my husband and son and currently pregnant self.  I mean, come on, I get it: that kind of screeches breeder alert and even those with the most keen and highly skilled gaydar could mistake my orientation on such occasions.  Normally, I can sort of deal with that.  It bothers me, but I gotta be willing to take my lumps along with the life I have chosen. 

But Pride weekend is different.  It is about everyone knowing and showing and glowing who they are in our rainbow amazingness.  It is wonderful to go celebrate with my girlfriends and in such moments I get to taste what inclusion feels like and being perceived to be a part of a community.  Sadly though, I am someone who wants it all and such experiences are not complete for me; I miss my family, my husband especially and in kid appropriate situations my son as well.  Cause for me, pride stems from not just being part of myself and pretending the other does not exist.  Pride is about being my whole self.   Being Queer is not just something I can go off and do for a couple of hours; it is part of my whole self.  The same whole self who is also a part of a loving hetero marriage and family.  My Pride comes from the whole package even if we don’t really fit into any one box. 

I know this very point is what Pride is about to all of us: being our whole self.  I also know it is about not really caring about how others perceive you and just being good with the skin you are in.  It is really quite simple and I try to focus myself on those unifying points as I make preparations to head over to Halsted with my husband and son.  Yet somehow I remain unsatisfied, I do still care what others think of me and some days I still have to stretch to be comfortable in my own skin. 

My husband called me back after catching the voicemail to listen to me rant live and offer suggestions as kind as he is.  His wife having a freak out about if she is living it Queer enough is endearing to him and at this point, normal.  It made me proud to be living the unique choices that are our lives.   Not the level of Pride I would like to be popping with this weekend, but I guess I am getting there.  Someday I won’t care what the gay and straight communities perceive me as.  Someday my own skin will feel so safe and normal to me I will not even realize I am wearing it.  Until then, I’ll see ya on the road to Pride.

Poem for today: Too Much My Mother

I am not living enough

To write good poetry

Lines come from experiences

Threading through the backend of tragedy and triumph

Or even the mundane when lived mindfully

Yet half here I remain

A sort of glazed over look in the eye

Of a being who has lost the desire to see things

I am too much my mother, ablaze in everything but soul

My hands, long fingered, lightly brown sun spotted, veins emerging,

Look like hers’ when I put food in my son’s mouth

He opens wide like a little chirping spring bird

Wrapping round what I have placed for his taking

She sits in a floral print chair somewhere

Beside the man who used to be my father

Lifting long fingered brown spotted veins popping hand

Feeding his soul as he opens wide

Taking all she has ever wanted for keeping

What fills the eyes of a woman with bright?

As dusk born shadows fold round her

Paths becoming increasingly in-accessible to even the savage

The moon’s steady hand reaching toward her

As work weary pursed lips caressed by starlight

Separate and then open

The moon, sustainable food,

For women and other creatures who prefer darkness

Bisexuality and My Favorite Pair of Jeans

Hey Friends, below follows part of my speech at the Chicago Historical Society's "Sexicon: Language and Identity."  I know, I know, the debate rages on as to WHAT I am but for that night.....

Thank-you so much for having me tonight.  I am thrilled to be here and a part of the dialogue this evening. As stated, I am sharing my experience with the word bisexual.  I must admit that when I was asked to reflect on this word the first thing that came to mind by way of association was the way I felt when I first put on my favorite jeans after having my son: They fit, but not quite right.  I was happy to wear them, but also found myself sometimes ready to take them off in search of something a bit more comfortable.  Such is the reflection of my relationship to the word bisexual. 

Bisexual was the first label in the GLBTQ community I entertained taking for myself and to that extent it is a sort of home I come back to.  As I was coming OUT bisexual allowed for acknowledgment of the straight life I had authentically lived for many years.  While also opening the door to my unfolding in the non-straight world.  But alas, we have entered the foggy waters of bi-sexuality as what some judge it to be, simply a stage on the way to gay town or straightsville.  Perhaps this is true for some, a sort of sexual identity rest stop they pause at to get themselves together on the journey to where they are really going.

 But for me, the truth of the matter is that my whole life is a heap of countless tales of sexual fluidity and expression ranging from gay to straight and back and again, enjoying both genders and the parts of myself that find a home in their companionship.  I’ve spent my life playing hopscotch on the Kinsey scale, hitting every number there is at some point.  Such is not the reflection bisexual confusion or a deep seeded self loathing not allowing me to engage in the life I really want.  No such movement happens to be the true reflection of my authentic self.   Sexuality akin to water that fluidly flows throughout the stages of my life, taking me in the genuine directions of my true self.  To the extent that the term bisexual does not accurately always portray where on the spectrum I may be it fits awkwardly for me.  Yet to the extent that it is a term that allows for movement and change it hangs on my frame quite well.

The term bisexual is sort of easily misplaced in terms of public perception and that can make it frustrating to dance with.  Rarely does anyone assume someone to be bisexual; I am usually either pegged as gay or straight.  When I am with a woman it is assumed I am someone who is ONLY with women, yet at least I am still viewed as belonging to the GLBT community.  When I am with a man, since then it is always assumed I am straight, I often feel wrongly pigeonholed and start wondering is anyone is selling an “I am not straight” neon flashing sign on eBay that I can hang over my head. 

As a writer, I love words.  Yet working so closely with them I am also aware of their failings.  Just like I do with my loved ones, I keep the words I claim close to me in spite of these failings, maybe even in part because of such failings.  It is too much to ask of any one word alone to express the complexities we all hold with in us.  Bisexual does not fully convey the intricacies of who I am and my journey.  But that’s ok because it offers me something that is far more important to me: inclusion, a place at the table in the community to which I belong.  A starting point for us to begin to know each other with.  glBtq, I am happy to a part of it.  Some things don’t have to fit perfectly to be worth wearing. 

Blown Away!

To the Readers of “Dear John, I Love Jane,” you fine people have blown me away.  I mean really, beyond my wildest dreams, blown me away!!!

Thanks to each and every one of you who have taken the time to read this book and connect with the stories we share.   I must say I have been amazed by how many of you have contacted me to share your stories, your courage, and the honesty with which you are living your lives.  I welcome hearing your journey, as a writer I believe that when we share our stories honestly we all become a little bit less alone. 

You all are the BEST!  I am so thankful that this book is connecting with you.  Thank-you and thank-you for your kind words and support for this project.  Here's to you!