Dear Gee (and Playground readers),
Thank you for this post. I feel like it's important that your story and mine are back-to-back on the Playground because the relations and contrasts between them raised a lot for me--both emotions and questions.
First, let me say that I sat with this for a full day and a half, thinking about the best way to further the discussion. I have a feeling that the comments I make here may partly come off as hurtful. Please know that this is not my intent. I know that it may hurt anyway, and I own that. But I want you and the readers to know that my aim truly is to draw out deeper discussion among us all. The relationship you described between you and your ex is truly beautiful, and I feel a deep and personal connection to your story.
That said, something I'm sitting with after reading your post is the question of what constitutes "virgin." It's certainly subjective and the answer is not cut and dry, but reading your story brought up strong feelings of invalidation for me around my relationships. Let me be clear that this is not a reaction to YOU or YOUR story/experience in particular, but to the hetero-focus of how we discuss sex in general.
I'm wondering what the difference is between your non-penetrative sexual experiences and mine. Do the types of interactions that I named as the "best [sex] I've ever had" still leave you a virgin? (I may be wrongly assuming that you went further than kissing on the lips, and if so, I apologize, but I think the question could be asked of any other straight person as well).
Through the Blog-a-thon, I've come to wonder whether I will always be considered a virgin--a guy who does not need to penetrate; a person born female who does not want to be penetrated. It seems like virginity and sex are so often defined by vaginal penetration; sex is defined as one penis and one vagina (hm. I wonder if future homophobes will take marriage discrimination laws in this country one step further...).
As a person who identifies somewhere under the rainbow-colored umbrellas of queer and trans, my sexual interactions have no such reproductive ends. But the sex I have is hella productive; it has produced intimacy, growth, self-discovery, and (multiple) orgasms. But does it not count as sex if there's no risk of pregnancy?
I wonder what readers' thoughts are on this. Specifically, I'd love to hear from straight-identified folks who consider themselves allies--How do you define "sex" and "virgin" for yourself? What are the implications of these definitions for how you view and support your queer friends and relatives?
People of all genders and orientations are welcome to share their thoughts.
With love and respect,
-Sky
Showing posts with label Youth Media Blog-a-thon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Youth Media Blog-a-thon. Show all posts
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Let's talk about Sex
From Wednesday to Wednesday, May 28-June 4, 2008, The Playground will be participating in the Fourth Youth Media Blog-a-thon hosted by YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap. Youth bloggers– along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of sex.
I'm a punk. The topic for this month's youth media blog-a-thon was sex and I slyly sidestepped the issue by writing about dating. There are plenty of reasons for my topic evasion, but I think it's futile for me to make excuses at this point in the game. I've got to own this—I'm shy about putting my shit out there. So now, in my true drop-and-run fashion, I'm writing my real sex blog at the session's closing. I guess you can consider the last blog foreplay…
Ain't nothin sexier than mutual respect. The best sex I've had was with my recent ex. When I say "best," I mean GOOOOOOD. Like lung straining, earth shaking, leg slamming, vibrating, can't tell which way is up— GOOOOOOD. We were together for 2.5 years, plenty of time to discover each other and ourselves and the rhythms we made as a single unit. Together, we discovered our own sensualities and sexualities; we became one through fingertips, through skin on skin, curve in curve, brown melting in the heat of brown, chocolate and cinnamon and so delicious love.
So why am I talking about respect? Well, what was a home run for us, most would consider 3rd base. Our sex never involved a phallus—no dick or dildo or even digits played that role. Yes, survivors of different gender-based traumas, we made penetration-free, passionate love night after night to soulful heart-beats and the melodies of our breath.
And it was the BEST I've ever had. Respecting her made me feel sexy as hell: suave and caring and so completely in tune with her body that I knew she was climaxing before she did. And she respected me, too. She learned to caress my female figure, mold it into "gentleman" through kiss and touch. She helped me feel the parts of me that had for so long existed only in my mind's eye; she made them flesh. And Flush.
I was bashful about writing this out of fear of who might read it. I was worried that my friends and I wouldn’t be able to look each other eye to eye again, or that she might read this post and be triggered by its contents; to be honest, I still am. But I wrote anyway... because I'm still overwhelmed by the passion between us. And because I need to give voice to the beauty of mutual respect in sexual relationships.
I'm a punk. The topic for this month's youth media blog-a-thon was sex and I slyly sidestepped the issue by writing about dating. There are plenty of reasons for my topic evasion, but I think it's futile for me to make excuses at this point in the game. I've got to own this—I'm shy about putting my shit out there. So now, in my true drop-and-run fashion, I'm writing my real sex blog at the session's closing. I guess you can consider the last blog foreplay…
Ain't nothin sexier than mutual respect. The best sex I've had was with my recent ex. When I say "best," I mean GOOOOOOD. Like lung straining, earth shaking, leg slamming, vibrating, can't tell which way is up— GOOOOOOD. We were together for 2.5 years, plenty of time to discover each other and ourselves and the rhythms we made as a single unit. Together, we discovered our own sensualities and sexualities; we became one through fingertips, through skin on skin, curve in curve, brown melting in the heat of brown, chocolate and cinnamon and so delicious love.
So why am I talking about respect? Well, what was a home run for us, most would consider 3rd base. Our sex never involved a phallus—no dick or dildo or even digits played that role. Yes, survivors of different gender-based traumas, we made penetration-free, passionate love night after night to soulful heart-beats and the melodies of our breath.
And it was the BEST I've ever had. Respecting her made me feel sexy as hell: suave and caring and so completely in tune with her body that I knew she was climaxing before she did. And she respected me, too. She learned to caress my female figure, mold it into "gentleman" through kiss and touch. She helped me feel the parts of me that had for so long existed only in my mind's eye; she made them flesh. And Flush.
I was bashful about writing this out of fear of who might read it. I was worried that my friends and I wouldn’t be able to look each other eye to eye again, or that she might read this post and be triggered by its contents; to be honest, I still am. But I wrote anyway... because I'm still overwhelmed by the passion between us. And because I need to give voice to the beauty of mutual respect in sexual relationships.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sidelined
From Wednesday to Wednesday, May 28-June 4, 2008, The Playground will be participating in the Fourth Youth Media Blog-a-thon hosted by YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap. Youth bloggers– along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of sex.
In the interest of full disclosure, let me just put this out there from the start: I've got no game. Despite plenty of charming Gemini in my astrological chart, I've grown accustomed to striking out with the femmes I find so alluring. Now, certainly, I carry some baggage about straight girls/gay boys wanting "real" men and lesbians wanting "real" women, but on good days, I consider myself a pretty decent catch--intelligent, sensitive, thoughtful, possessing a sense of humor, good-looking in a quirky sort of way...and humble. Did I mention humble?
Anyway, the point is, I'm definitely more dateable than a burlap sack. So how is it that I end up spending night after night watching crappy television shows on my laptop computer with only a quart of ice cream to keep my company? I don't blame it on the sunshine, the moonlight, the good times, OR the boogie. I blame my politics.
Let me just give you an example before I delve into an explanation. Last week, I saw this GORGEOUS woman working at the campus post office. She helped me mail my letter between coy smiles and batted lashes, and if I were anyone else, I probably would have summoned the courage to make a move. But I did nothing. And do you know why? Not because of a lack of self-confidence, but because of an intense understanding of what it’s like to be on the receiving end of uninvited advances. She may have been flirting, or just being herself, and I was NOT about to inadvertently become the cause of another horror story of harassment or violation through questions or comments that seem innocent enough, but whose impact could not be predicted when put in the context of a larger society. I wanted to tell her “you’re really beautiful,” but I stopped myself because she was at her workplace, trying to earn a buck, and not really asking to have her looks assessed by her customers.
See, the thing is, I have a tough time "playing" the game when I know how badly it hurts to get played. I know how painful it is to get fucked up by patriarchy time and time again. So when I see a woman I think I might want to ask out, I don't. I get stuck on the sting of sleazy advances and objectification and struggle to find the path that allows me to be her respite from that world.
I know that even with the best intentions, I can’t escape the system; I’m a part of it. Presenting and being read as male can make me dangerous, and my politics would rather I stay dateless than risk perpetuating that insidious pain and fear that seems inevitable in our culture. So I do nothing.
OR, alternately, I enter into the friend zone, get to know her better before saying anything, and end up past the point of casual dateability. I get to that spot where we already care too much about each other to risk the friendship for a bit of mutual fun, and end up with an inner circle of ridiculously good-looking friends.
So my politics sideline me from the dating game. I sit on the bench in my warm-ups. A little frustrated with my lack of playtime, but trusting that it’s for the good of the team. And holding on to a glimmer of hope that if I'm patient enough, maybe one day she’ll find ME and pull me on the court.
In the interest of full disclosure, let me just put this out there from the start: I've got no game. Despite plenty of charming Gemini in my astrological chart, I've grown accustomed to striking out with the femmes I find so alluring. Now, certainly, I carry some baggage about straight girls/gay boys wanting "real" men and lesbians wanting "real" women, but on good days, I consider myself a pretty decent catch--intelligent, sensitive, thoughtful, possessing a sense of humor, good-looking in a quirky sort of way...and humble. Did I mention humble?
Anyway, the point is, I'm definitely more dateable than a burlap sack. So how is it that I end up spending night after night watching crappy television shows on my laptop computer with only a quart of ice cream to keep my company? I don't blame it on the sunshine, the moonlight, the good times, OR the boogie. I blame my politics.
Let me just give you an example before I delve into an explanation. Last week, I saw this GORGEOUS woman working at the campus post office. She helped me mail my letter between coy smiles and batted lashes, and if I were anyone else, I probably would have summoned the courage to make a move. But I did nothing. And do you know why? Not because of a lack of self-confidence, but because of an intense understanding of what it’s like to be on the receiving end of uninvited advances. She may have been flirting, or just being herself, and I was NOT about to inadvertently become the cause of another horror story of harassment or violation through questions or comments that seem innocent enough, but whose impact could not be predicted when put in the context of a larger society. I wanted to tell her “you’re really beautiful,” but I stopped myself because she was at her workplace, trying to earn a buck, and not really asking to have her looks assessed by her customers.
See, the thing is, I have a tough time "playing" the game when I know how badly it hurts to get played. I know how painful it is to get fucked up by patriarchy time and time again. So when I see a woman I think I might want to ask out, I don't. I get stuck on the sting of sleazy advances and objectification and struggle to find the path that allows me to be her respite from that world.
I know that even with the best intentions, I can’t escape the system; I’m a part of it. Presenting and being read as male can make me dangerous, and my politics would rather I stay dateless than risk perpetuating that insidious pain and fear that seems inevitable in our culture. So I do nothing.
OR, alternately, I enter into the friend zone, get to know her better before saying anything, and end up past the point of casual dateability. I get to that spot where we already care too much about each other to risk the friendship for a bit of mutual fun, and end up with an inner circle of ridiculously good-looking friends.
So my politics sideline me from the dating game. I sit on the bench in my warm-ups. A little frustrated with my lack of playtime, but trusting that it’s for the good of the team. And holding on to a glimmer of hope that if I'm patient enough, maybe one day she’ll find ME and pull me on the court.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Protect Yourself
From Wednesday to Wednesday, May 28-June 4, 2008, The Playground will be participating in the Fourth Youth Media Blog-a-thon hosted by YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap. Youth bloggers– along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of sex.
After that first time sex became something I had to have. It was exciting and new and since we couldn’t just go in our rooms and close the door together we had to be creative about where we did it. Now I have a great list of places I’ve had sex that I can pull out during games of ten fingers.
I learned a lot about sex that first year. What I liked and didn’t like, what to do and how to do it, but I still wasn’t careful. I trusted my boyfriend completely and he later proved to be less than trustworthy which left me with more than just emotional pain. I vowed then to always use a condom even if I trusted the person. That vow was broken the very next time I had sex and the time after that. The fourth person I was safe with but only because he made it a point to use a condom. I convinced myself that since I knew the people I was sleeping with I didn’t have to worry about using a condom.
Each time I didn’t use a condom I would think in the back of my mind, “Why am I doing this? Why am I putting myself at risk?” but I didn’t stop. I would later get scared and get tested and find out that I was fine and again vow to always use a condom. At times I did it and I would feel great for asserting myself as a strong woman but other times I would just let myself fall captive to male protest. Then I would question why I was sleeping with someone that didn’t want to use a condom.
It took me a long time to figure out why I wasn’t more assertive and serious about using condoms. Most of the time I would just try and push it out of my mind and pretend like it wasn’t a big deal. Then I realized that the reason I didn’t use condoms was directly related to my fear of talking about sex with my partners. I could always talk about sex with friends with confidence but with my partners I got nervous and worried about what they would think. So if they didn’t use a condom or suggest using a condom then I didn’t either. Once I came to that conclusion and acknowledged my fear I was able to take control of it.
I recently ended an almost three year relationship. We started off using condoms but as things became more serious we stopped and that was ok with me. I truly trusted him and knew that we were committed to each other. Enough time had gone by since I was burned by my first boyfriend for me to recognize when someone was actually trustworthy.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
let's talk about sex
YO! Youth Outlook and Wiretap Magazine are gearing up for a fourth blog-a-thon and this month's topic is sex. i know we've all got something to say, one way or another, so holler @ me if you want to contribute.
the week-long blog-a-thon is set for wednesday, may 28th to wednesday, june 4th.
spread the word. you don't need to already have a personal blog to contribute. if you're interested, i can send you more info.
here's a little information on a previous blog-a-thon:
http://blogs.newamericamedia.org/yo/1067/join-the-second-youth-media-blog-a-thon-violence
past participants include:
Oh Dang Magazine
iLL-Literacy
Kameelah Writes
Khmer Girls in Action
Vanessa Huang
The Cheddar Box
...and more!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
On Violence
From Wednesday to Wednesday, March 19-26, 2008, Grits and Eggs will be participating in the Second Youth Media Blog-a-thon hosted by YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap. Youth bloggers– along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of violence and its effects on youth and our communities.
~~~
I hate caveats, but I'm including one anyway: in this narrative, I talk about a kind of violence that we often internalize--certainly, that I internalized as a brown person and as a trans person.
~~~
“What’s going on?” he asks, glancing from road to me, then back to road. I’m leaned over in the passenger seat, gripping the cane he’d carried from this morning’s rehearsal, doing my best to stare out the window. But still, I can feel his eyes.
I want him to know, but I’m afraid to speak. I’ve found that I can’t trust my masculinity with my emotions. I’d rather paint my feelings. I trust color more than words, sight more than sound. I’d rather pour this stuff from chest to fingers to brush, sculpt paint on canvas, and let the image speak for me.
I’d rather have him draw the shade to my soul and peer in, without needing me to excavate the bricks and boundaries I’ve worked so hard to lay. This façade is strangely handsome, I know, but there’s so much inside that no one ever sees. And today, I can feel it boiling over again. Quaking.
It vibrates in my chest, then throat. I shift my weight forward in the seat and dig the cane into the scuffed heal of my boot. Fingers shake as I kneed my palm with the cane’s horse-head-handle, hoping that the pressure will keep me from exploding. It rumbles up my windpipe and I try to cough it out.
The feeling passes.
“I don’t know.” I lie and let my mind’s eye wander as I wait for him to call my bluff. Squint at the gray-hazed palm trees crawling past us in LA rush hour. If I do it right, they morph the same way that did the Bradford Pears, which lined the road outside my parent’s house in St. Louis. Riding back from school with mom, I’d try to make them blur and stretch as far as I could—a task as elusive as meditation for my 8th grade mind. In the moment, the impossible was possible, but as soon as I tried to witness my own mini-marvel, I’d snap to—fixated on trunk after trunk.
It was the task I took up to distract myself from mom’s questions, to avoid accidentally finding myself vulnerable in front of her. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “What did you do?” “Stuff.” The call and response never changed.
Except once.
“How was your day?” “Fine.” What did you do?” “I tried to slit my wrist last night.” My eyes kept their soft-focus on the treetops as fear burned the tips of my ears and threatened the muscles in my jaw. I hadn't wanted to tell her, but Mr. Jacobi had given me no choice. My “friends” had told him by lunch, and by sixth period, I was in his office, watching his Adam’s apple bounce in his throat as he chewed the words with yellowed crowns and llama tongue. “You’ll need to tell your parents. I’m going to call home at 7.”
My face was hot with embarrassment. Home, I thought it rang distant, but familiar like the Lord’s Prayer I’d picked up from West County Basketball League. This word that was supposed to give with comfort struck rigid like a taunt. Maybe he could see through me--through my fitted jacket and scratchy plaid skirt--maybe he could read my mind through my eyes like some Buffy villain; maybe he knew that I’d never been home. That I dressed this flesh in pink and pearls the way my family strung Christmas lights each winter--self-conscious performances. Empty rituals to keep the neighbors happily believing that our insides matched the exterior. I watched him only from angles, just in case.
Mom didn’t speak. For the remaining three blocks, as the trees swirled into sky, into brick, into muck I held the ache firmly in my throat. Door popped open; slammed shut; keys scratched each other and lock; strip of light seeped from beneath kitchen door, and I watched it in silence.
“Talk to me, Thambi.” He tries again. I can feel it cracking in my chest now. Collapsing in. Pulling down from center and stealing back control. My mouth opens despite contrary instruction, and air pushes through.
“I’ve just been feeling sad.” I confess. As the words come, I try to divorce myself from their truth. I attempt the mental calculations--maybe I can let it out, just a little. Just enough to relieve this pressure from my lungs. “I don’t know what it is,” I say deliberately, forcing a steadiness back into my voice. I’ve lost my jaw to the quaking now and try to will it back with deeper breath and pressed lips.
I refuse to turn towards him, instead dropping my eyes to my thumb which moves along the cold brass contours of the horse-head cane. Its teeth catch the orange light of the setting sun, summoning its features into familiarity. I’ve seen this face before in a memory. In a hallucination.
Two years prior, locked in a room without shoelaces, or belt, I had seen this face. Outside, there were nurses, pills, and a humming TV set. Beyond that were lanyards of fake evergreen and fat, colored lights lacing the corridor; they began at a slab of windowless steel that could be opened only from the outside, and ended at double glass doors that swung out to the sharp winter air.
I’d seen it there, inside the glass doors, inside the slab of steel, inside the belt-less, shoelace-less room as I lay awake again and praying for sleep or death to find me. Over on the tray by the shatterproof window, I had seen it rise from a rag, dripping with blood from its severed neck, eyes bulging as it turned to ravage the strange woman in the bed next to mine. I knew it wasn’t real, but I had wanted to believe my eyes. And I had hoped that when it was through with her, it would come for me.
The night before that, I had lay awake in my parents house, witnessing evening turn to night, turn to morning again, haunted by a different set of images. A body hanging limp from the ceiling fan; one floating face-down in the tub; corpses sprawled and pale—pills scattered— blood pooling on the beige carpet. The bodies were mine—all of them. “Home” for only two nights, and I felt more a stranger than ever before, wanting my family to know me, and fearing that they would rather not see the truth.
I had tried to remove my breasts earlier that week. Snipped them like the skilled surgeon my parents wished they’d raised. I had hoped to make this body more hospitable for the young man that I was becoming.
Today, in the car, my breasts ache. Not from cuts or scars, but from the weight of existence.
“Can I tell you my theory?” he asks. When I don’t respond, he continues, “I think this is about your move. New job, new apartment—you just need to get settled in. You know, creating a home space is a big deal. People don’t always realize”—
“I feel so alone.” I tell him, looking out the window again, pressing my tongue against the ridge of my tooth to keep the tears from falling. “I feel like I can’t do it anymore.”
He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, and they fall anyway. “I’m trying to be the best man I can be,” I pause to stop the tears, but they keep coming.
“It’s alright, Thambi, I gotchu.”
“I just”—
“It’s alright.”
“I just can’t do it in this body.”
“I feel trapped.” I start again. “I want to be strong. I want to be brave and giving, and I want to do right by my family. I can’t afford for my mom to need me and to refuse to see me.” As I speak, I remember this past winter when she was in the hospital. My father couldn’t even feed her. He had approached her like a child does a lamb at the petting zoo, moving food gingerly, body turned and guarding chest. I ended up taking over and feeding her tenderly, the way she had done for me as a child.
As the car slows, I still can’t face him. I want to tell him that I’m not ready to say goodbye. That I’m not ready to lose my family but that I can’t keep living in this skin. That I want to slice it open sometimes because I feel so trapped inside. That I fight myself to keep living and breathing and moving every day. That I’m tired of fighting and that I feel like giving up.
But instead, I swallow it. Instead, I worry about preserving my manhood, worry that he sees me as weak. I feel myself crumbling, melting, discombobulating, and I need to be held or I will fall apart; but I don’t tell him. Instead, I dry my eyes.
~~~
I hate caveats, but I'm including one anyway: in this narrative, I talk about a kind of violence that we often internalize--certainly, that I internalized as a brown person and as a trans person.
~~~
“What’s going on?” he asks, glancing from road to me, then back to road. I’m leaned over in the passenger seat, gripping the cane he’d carried from this morning’s rehearsal, doing my best to stare out the window. But still, I can feel his eyes.
I want him to know, but I’m afraid to speak. I’ve found that I can’t trust my masculinity with my emotions. I’d rather paint my feelings. I trust color more than words, sight more than sound. I’d rather pour this stuff from chest to fingers to brush, sculpt paint on canvas, and let the image speak for me.
I’d rather have him draw the shade to my soul and peer in, without needing me to excavate the bricks and boundaries I’ve worked so hard to lay. This façade is strangely handsome, I know, but there’s so much inside that no one ever sees. And today, I can feel it boiling over again. Quaking.
It vibrates in my chest, then throat. I shift my weight forward in the seat and dig the cane into the scuffed heal of my boot. Fingers shake as I kneed my palm with the cane’s horse-head-handle, hoping that the pressure will keep me from exploding. It rumbles up my windpipe and I try to cough it out.
The feeling passes.
“I don’t know.” I lie and let my mind’s eye wander as I wait for him to call my bluff. Squint at the gray-hazed palm trees crawling past us in LA rush hour. If I do it right, they morph the same way that did the Bradford Pears, which lined the road outside my parent’s house in St. Louis. Riding back from school with mom, I’d try to make them blur and stretch as far as I could—a task as elusive as meditation for my 8th grade mind. In the moment, the impossible was possible, but as soon as I tried to witness my own mini-marvel, I’d snap to—fixated on trunk after trunk.
It was the task I took up to distract myself from mom’s questions, to avoid accidentally finding myself vulnerable in front of her. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “What did you do?” “Stuff.” The call and response never changed.
Except once.
“How was your day?” “Fine.” What did you do?” “I tried to slit my wrist last night.” My eyes kept their soft-focus on the treetops as fear burned the tips of my ears and threatened the muscles in my jaw. I hadn't wanted to tell her, but Mr. Jacobi had given me no choice. My “friends” had told him by lunch, and by sixth period, I was in his office, watching his Adam’s apple bounce in his throat as he chewed the words with yellowed crowns and llama tongue. “You’ll need to tell your parents. I’m going to call home at 7.”
My face was hot with embarrassment. Home, I thought it rang distant, but familiar like the Lord’s Prayer I’d picked up from West County Basketball League. This word that was supposed to give with comfort struck rigid like a taunt. Maybe he could see through me--through my fitted jacket and scratchy plaid skirt--maybe he could read my mind through my eyes like some Buffy villain; maybe he knew that I’d never been home. That I dressed this flesh in pink and pearls the way my family strung Christmas lights each winter--self-conscious performances. Empty rituals to keep the neighbors happily believing that our insides matched the exterior. I watched him only from angles, just in case.
Mom didn’t speak. For the remaining three blocks, as the trees swirled into sky, into brick, into muck I held the ache firmly in my throat. Door popped open; slammed shut; keys scratched each other and lock; strip of light seeped from beneath kitchen door, and I watched it in silence.
“Talk to me, Thambi.” He tries again. I can feel it cracking in my chest now. Collapsing in. Pulling down from center and stealing back control. My mouth opens despite contrary instruction, and air pushes through.
“I’ve just been feeling sad.” I confess. As the words come, I try to divorce myself from their truth. I attempt the mental calculations--maybe I can let it out, just a little. Just enough to relieve this pressure from my lungs. “I don’t know what it is,” I say deliberately, forcing a steadiness back into my voice. I’ve lost my jaw to the quaking now and try to will it back with deeper breath and pressed lips.
I refuse to turn towards him, instead dropping my eyes to my thumb which moves along the cold brass contours of the horse-head cane. Its teeth catch the orange light of the setting sun, summoning its features into familiarity. I’ve seen this face before in a memory. In a hallucination.
Two years prior, locked in a room without shoelaces, or belt, I had seen this face. Outside, there were nurses, pills, and a humming TV set. Beyond that were lanyards of fake evergreen and fat, colored lights lacing the corridor; they began at a slab of windowless steel that could be opened only from the outside, and ended at double glass doors that swung out to the sharp winter air.
I’d seen it there, inside the glass doors, inside the slab of steel, inside the belt-less, shoelace-less room as I lay awake again and praying for sleep or death to find me. Over on the tray by the shatterproof window, I had seen it rise from a rag, dripping with blood from its severed neck, eyes bulging as it turned to ravage the strange woman in the bed next to mine. I knew it wasn’t real, but I had wanted to believe my eyes. And I had hoped that when it was through with her, it would come for me.
The night before that, I had lay awake in my parents house, witnessing evening turn to night, turn to morning again, haunted by a different set of images. A body hanging limp from the ceiling fan; one floating face-down in the tub; corpses sprawled and pale—pills scattered— blood pooling on the beige carpet. The bodies were mine—all of them. “Home” for only two nights, and I felt more a stranger than ever before, wanting my family to know me, and fearing that they would rather not see the truth.
I had tried to remove my breasts earlier that week. Snipped them like the skilled surgeon my parents wished they’d raised. I had hoped to make this body more hospitable for the young man that I was becoming.
Today, in the car, my breasts ache. Not from cuts or scars, but from the weight of existence.
“Can I tell you my theory?” he asks. When I don’t respond, he continues, “I think this is about your move. New job, new apartment—you just need to get settled in. You know, creating a home space is a big deal. People don’t always realize”—
“I feel so alone.” I tell him, looking out the window again, pressing my tongue against the ridge of my tooth to keep the tears from falling. “I feel like I can’t do it anymore.”
He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, and they fall anyway. “I’m trying to be the best man I can be,” I pause to stop the tears, but they keep coming.
“It’s alright, Thambi, I gotchu.”
“I just”—
“It’s alright.”
“I just can’t do it in this body.”
“I feel trapped.” I start again. “I want to be strong. I want to be brave and giving, and I want to do right by my family. I can’t afford for my mom to need me and to refuse to see me.” As I speak, I remember this past winter when she was in the hospital. My father couldn’t even feed her. He had approached her like a child does a lamb at the petting zoo, moving food gingerly, body turned and guarding chest. I ended up taking over and feeding her tenderly, the way she had done for me as a child.
As the car slows, I still can’t face him. I want to tell him that I’m not ready to say goodbye. That I’m not ready to lose my family but that I can’t keep living in this skin. That I want to slice it open sometimes because I feel so trapped inside. That I fight myself to keep living and breathing and moving every day. That I’m tired of fighting and that I feel like giving up.
But instead, I swallow it. Instead, I worry about preserving my manhood, worry that he sees me as weak. I feel myself crumbling, melting, discombobulating, and I need to be held or I will fall apart; but I don’t tell him. Instead, I dry my eyes.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Blog-a-thon MADNESS!
The second Youth Media Blog-a-thon kicked off today, and so far the discussions is as deep and varied as the people involved:
Oh Dang! posted an interview with rapper and former gang member Bambu on how he addresses violence:
http://www.ohdangmag.com/archive/features/bambu.html
"Violence is violence. I support the people's right to armed struggle, self defense. I understand the root of violence in our culture and I in no way condone the taking of lives for nothing more than petty beef. This is where my personal beliefs start to fuck with me, because if someone tried to hurt anyone close to me, instinctively, I don't want them breathing anymore. By nature, it may be wrong, but that's my honest feeling." -- Bambu
Youth Outlook brought up an important point: Why it easier to find information on war abroad than it is at home?
http://www.youthoutlook.org/news/view_article.html?article_id=18bd8016b47e314300b9687141216dc7
"I think it is pretty distressing when I can search and find almost instantly – the total number of soldiers who in the Middle East during the last five years but can’t get a clear number of the individuals murdered in the Bay Area – or even the United States as a whole."
Boston Progress Radio talks about how hard it is to escape violence in Boston:
http://www.bprlive.org/
"We are all products of our times. If you’re 11 when bombs started falling again in Afghanistan and Iraq, now that you’re 16, how do you view the world? More than 80,000 Iraqi civilians have been killed by the US, you know, the liberators. The heroes. The good guys. So how are we supposed to believe that violence isn’t the answer? It sure seems like it’s the answer…doesn’t it?"
Vanessa Huang gives her reaction to the fifth anniversary of the invasion of Iraq:
http://graniterainbow.wordpress.com/
"My political positioning and strategic choices in challenging sites of violence have evolved over the last five to seven years from involvement from a congressional district office to a more local focus, partnering with folks outside of the state to challenge imprisonment... "
And then here I go airing my dirty laundry all over the internets again:
http://www.wiretapmag.org/blogs/warandpeace/43466
"it seemed like the people most impacted by violence are so wrapped up in fear, hopelessness and isolation that silence becomes their only safeguard against a litany of meaningless words and empty rhetoric."
Read, comment and join the discussion! More is coming throughout the day...including some from The Playground homies.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Youth Media Blog-a-thon
What up fam,
Starting tomorrow, our blog will be participating in the second Youth Media Blog-a-thon, sponsored by WireTap Magazine and Youth Outlook. This month, we'll be taking a look at how violence impacts our communities. Check out the press release:
Violence Selected as New Topic For Weeklong
Youth Media Blog-a-Thon
More than a Dozen Seasoned Young Bloggers Will Write About Violence and Its Effects on Youth and Our Communities
San Francisco, CA - YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap will host the second round of the Youth Media Blog-a-Thon from Wednesday to Wednesday, March 19-26, 2008. Youth bloggers (between the ages of 15-25) – along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of violence and its effects on youth and our communities.
The monthly blog-a-thons will connect the youth media community around issues that affect their lives, asking for their thoughts on hard-hitting topics. The goal of these monthly events is to foster more dialogue between youth media, which will lead to their connectivity as media makers and as activists.
Our first Youth Media Blog-a-Thon, held February 20-23, 2008, was a huge success! Over 15 bloggers discussed the upcoming presidential elections, the youth vote, who they were voting for and why, the idiosyncrasies of the super delegate system and whether making voting mandatory would help fix the system.
Check out most of the posts:
http://blogs.newamericamedia.org/yo/?pg=6
Check out a wrap-up of the first blog-a-thon: http://www.wiretapmag.org/blogs/elections2008/43435/
While we think it's important to get our voices out there, we also would love to dialouge with readers. Take some time out, read, comment and help spur discussion. Also, if you're interested in participating, hit me up at jamilah@wiretapmag.org
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
A Decently Convenient Truth
Starting February 20, Grits & Eggs is participating in the first Youth Media Blog-a-thon hosted by WireTap and Youth Outlook. Young bloggers from around the nation will come together to discuss the hot topic of the day: Election 2008.
I'll admit it: I didn't vote. I know, I'm a terrible person. I guess this is kind of like my post-secret confession. Minus the complete anonymity and crafty postcard.
I didn't vote, in part, because of the kind of confusion that could have been alleviated by that #1 change suggested by our friend at The Cheddar Box. My problem? I've got an ID from a swing state, I'm living in Cali, and I've moved 3 times since the last time I voted (in 2007). I just couldn't figure my shit out in time (like whether to vote absentee or change my residency, and what address to use to get voter information).
I mean, I was already at a polling place--for 3 hours (7am-1oam) on that bleak1 Los Angeles morning before a 12-hour day at the office on "Super Tuesday". I was there trying to get passers-by to pledge their support for the Freedom to Marry (you know, for gays and lesbians).
So I'm saying, if I could have done that same-day registration, I probably would have voted.
But that's the easy reason. The one sure to gain a bit of (undeserved) sympathy and a collective groan at the absurdity of our voting process. But it's not the whole truth.
The whole truth would probably get my Progressive Politic card revoked (if my support of gay marriage didn't already get me kicked out for ostensible hegemony-reifying behavior). The whole truth? I didn't know for whom to vote.
You can go ahead an hurl your left shoe at my forehead; I know I deserve it. But even now, two weeks later, I still don't know who to call "my candidate." It's not about identity politics--though I promise you, anyone who voted on the basis of identity got it wrong and those who say they don't "see" sex, gender, and race are lying. Rather, it's about the fact that I don't see in either Democratic candidate a reflection of my own political views.
Honestly? I think that both Clinton and Obama could bring about positive change. And both could just as easily falter. But remembering the media's legacy in constructing election outcomes ( not just in 2000), I can't help but question the seemingly infallible division between Clinton's past experience and Obama's vision for future change. I just don't know how mutually exclusive these qualities truly are.
What I do appreciate about Senator Obama is his ability to build solidarity around a cause. Even as I hesitate to give him my full endorsement because I know we don't see eye to eye on some of the issues, I appreciate his ability to reach citizens across party lines and across national boarders with an appeal to make things better. But his views aren't all that different than Clinton's. And as wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as it may sound, neither can match my own socio-political views the way that could Kucinich.
So the whole truth is I didn't vote because I couldn't pick my player. And if I had the opportunity to do so tomorrow, I still wouldn't know whom to choose.
1 I promise, it was cold that day.
I'll admit it: I didn't vote. I know, I'm a terrible person. I guess this is kind of like my post-secret confession. Minus the complete anonymity and crafty postcard.
I didn't vote, in part, because of the kind of confusion that could have been alleviated by that #1 change suggested by our friend at The Cheddar Box. My problem? I've got an ID from a swing state, I'm living in Cali, and I've moved 3 times since the last time I voted (in 2007). I just couldn't figure my shit out in time (like whether to vote absentee or change my residency, and what address to use to get voter information).
I mean, I was already at a polling place--for 3 hours (7am-1oam) on that bleak1 Los Angeles morning before a 12-hour day at the office on "Super Tuesday". I was there trying to get passers-by to pledge their support for the Freedom to Marry (you know, for gays and lesbians).
So I'm saying, if I could have done that same-day registration, I probably would have voted.
But that's the easy reason. The one sure to gain a bit of (undeserved) sympathy and a collective groan at the absurdity of our voting process. But it's not the whole truth.
The whole truth would probably get my Progressive Politic card revoked (if my support of gay marriage didn't already get me kicked out for ostensible hegemony-reifying behavior). The whole truth? I didn't know for whom to vote.
You can go ahead an hurl your left shoe at my forehead; I know I deserve it. But even now, two weeks later, I still don't know who to call "my candidate." It's not about identity politics--though I promise you, anyone who voted on the basis of identity got it wrong and those who say they don't "see" sex, gender, and race are lying. Rather, it's about the fact that I don't see in either Democratic candidate a reflection of my own political views.
Honestly? I think that both Clinton and Obama could bring about positive change. And both could just as easily falter. But remembering the media's legacy in constructing election outcomes ( not just in 2000), I can't help but question the seemingly infallible division between Clinton's past experience and Obama's vision for future change. I just don't know how mutually exclusive these qualities truly are.
What I do appreciate about Senator Obama is his ability to build solidarity around a cause. Even as I hesitate to give him my full endorsement because I know we don't see eye to eye on some of the issues, I appreciate his ability to reach citizens across party lines and across national boarders with an appeal to make things better. But his views aren't all that different than Clinton's. And as wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as it may sound, neither can match my own socio-political views the way that could Kucinich.
So the whole truth is I didn't vote because I couldn't pick my player. And if I had the opportunity to do so tomorrow, I still wouldn't know whom to choose.
1 I promise, it was cold that day.
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