2nd, 3rd, 4th Classes Opposed to the Masses

This is a big week in politics for me.  A BIG week.  Big.  H.U.G.E.
(I promise, if you suffer through this, I'll put a bunch of awesome pretty pictures at the end for those who hate reading...)

However, I find myself really feeling more and more depressed about the entire process now.  When I first became extremely active in political causes and social issues, I was an idealist.  I don't even mean back when I had a mohawk and "Meat is Murder" was plastered all over my old car's bumper as I went to rallies and concerts around Rutgers campuses in my combat boots and Laura Ashley dresses with headscarves.  No, I was a complete moron back then.  Don't get me wrong - I had AWESOME intentions.  I just didn't know very much, and allowed myself to be herded into causes like so much cattle and sheep. I mean in the recent span of the past 10 years.  Lisa and I have been really working hard, behind the scenes on grass roots levels all over the place to make our voices heard in battles ranging from Immigration, to the Repeal of DOMA, to the fight against DADT (and enjoyed marching right along side of Lt. Dan Choi for that one!) and so much more.

Today, I heard on NPR (one of the only news sources I really listen to anymore) that access to the hearings on Marriage (that the entire nation is incorrectly deeming "Gay Marriage") is a ticketed event, and people have been camping out all weekend for it.  My heart leapt with joy, thinking that it was an awesome aspect of our legal system to allow a first come basis for seats to a hearing that REALLY affected people's lives.  Then the story became about how those spots were primarily occupied by persons who have zero interest in the case, and will never go to the event.  They are PAID to stand in line and secure tickets for interest groups who can't stand there for themselves.  NOM, AFA, and other Anti-SSM proponents and hate groups rack up tickets and then fill those seats with heavily weighed opinions on the floor of the court.  My heart sank.  Really?  Even in this venue?  Yep.  I assume the same might be true for the SSM advocates, but that wasn't on before I had to leave the car.

So it made me think... YEARS of my life, fighting with due diligence for what's fair, just, and right.  I've been so busy fighting that I'd forgotten that my fight - a fight bigger than me - was something that shouldn't even be BROUGHT to a court or to a vote.  This isn't about whether or not you approve of any other lifestyle than yours, or if one particular religion's tomes might reference it as a negative.  The entire issue is about equal rights for ALL citizens of this country.  MY country.  The United States.  I pledge to it wholeheartedly.  I pay my taxes.  I vote for representation.  I am a human being, living in this country.  The issues before the court are not issues to be voted upon.  They are already in our constitutional rights to be treated equally.  Marriage is a right for everyone.  Not just some.

This work that Lisa and I have been doing is all such agonizing work to fight the ILLUSION that there should be a vote or a choice.  Strip the issue down, remove religious perception (because in law, it's a separation of Church and State, no matter your state and no matter your church preference), remove the dogma of the weighted "Political supporters" who will be in the seats, staring down the Justices, and remove the stigma our nation has created for anyone perceived as "different from the major 99%".  It's all smoke and mirrors, just like the argument over a woman's right to choose for herself and her own body, making informed choices with her healthcare professionals and if she wishes - between that woman and her god of choice.  The idea that anyone - especially groups of predominantly white male legislators - and pass a law and strip that decision right out of the hands of these women is disgusting.  Both of these examples clearly show a tiered system, almost an animal hierarchy that insinuates and actually creates lesser citizens and greater citizens.  There are 2nd, 3rd, 4th classes opposed to the masses.  Also, the ridiculous argument that [gays] want "special" rights when fighting for marriage or other rights.  They aren't special.  They are the same ones you have, but we want them also.

Although we have our lives riding on these Supreme Court decisions, and we have no choice but to abide by them and continue to fight for equality, I'm just hoping that sanity will intervene and we will all be represented to each other as fellow human beings.  As equals.  As Brothers, and As Sisters.  We are all the same on the inside.  I'd like to think people could see past the cover of my book, because inside, they'd find a gorgeous story they might relate to.

EQUALITY.  LOVE.  PEACE.  COMPASSION.   Let's live the dream.

Namaste
--B

As promised...

 

Boyfriend Material

***As ALWAYS, a quick reminder... this is OUR blog.  Don't like it?  Don't read it.  NO flaming or hate or trolling allowed.  I will burn yo ass if you try it.  Be polite and considerate of the people who come here to just read and enjoy.  Obviously you can see where I stand and what my views are, so don't be the jerk at the bar who had too much and tried to kiss the bouncer. Ok?  Cool!***

So, this upcoming election is like being in a continuously evolving relationship.  Marriage material.  Going steady.  Something more substantive than a booty call.
I was thinking about how there is a huge life altering choice ahead.  And somehow, I have to make it.  Also, I had to get these two (four) men out of the political media dance and into perspective I can understand. This is the analogy that came to me as I massaged my scalp in the shower.

I've been seeing my current beau - Barack - for almost 4 years now.  The relationship started with ferocity.  It was whirlwind romance at it's best, with courtship and promises galore.  We had similar, but not totally identical ideals, and I could deal with that.  (Ok, he is seeing another woman and has kids - but no one is perfect)  Honestly, I really can't give him too hard of a time, because I came with SUCH baggage from my last relationship.  It was a wonder I even tried to commit again.  But I did, and now I need to reevaluate my feelings.

Along comes Mitt, and I have to say, his approach was quite clumsy and while I do fall for goofy people, this was not the same thing.  This was a clumsy arrogance I couldn't really get comfortable with. I didn't like that a servant he ironed his jeans. Oddly, this is AFTER I sorted through a truckload of other potential suitors.    Newt was such a hypocrite.  I think he secretly wanted to create a harem.  Rick was, well... not the brightest bulb.  I'm still a little hooked on the sexual tension I got from Ron Paul.  *shiver*  But he never called back.  McMillan wouldn't stop shouting, and in a crowded movie theatre, it was embarrassing.  Herman refused to consider a gluten-free pizza and then I found out he had a bunch of crusts on the side.  Santorum left a bad taste in my mouth.  Michele kept wandering around my house  barking and telling me to call Miss Cleo.

So I had to take both guys on the things I knew - things I knew for myself or by virtue of actual verifiable facts.  I didn't want a hack private dick to follow them around, so I stalked them myself.

Mitt was new.  He was almost exciting.  Then he spoke.  I was bummed.  He seemed to be against most things I was for - but I don't count people out for that.  I consider that just because someone isn't FOR something doesn't mean they would go out of their way to create barriers, obstacles, or actual legislation against that same thing for others.  Oh.... wait... Crap.

I get along really well with Barack's pal Joe.  He's unpredictable, and sometimes he puts his foot in it, but you know where you stand with Joe, and he's fun at a BBQ.  He's also really cool with my eclectic bunch of friends.  At first I thought he'd be standoffish, but it turns out he even encouraged my man to take a deeper look and accept them like one of his own.  I thought he had tourrettes, but it turns out he just spits out what he's thinking and likes interesting words.  At least it's what he actually thinks!

I tried to have dinner with Mitt's best friend Paul.  It was a disaster!  We all went out to dinner, but it wasn't "fancy" enough for him.  Then we were invited to a small art gathering and he was grumpy and moody, saying that my friends were evil and he's against all the stuff they do.  He couldn't wait to get into office to ban a bunch of rights to protect his marriage and please his God.  I asked him about LGBT stuff and he thought it was a lunch sandwich.  I got a little pissed off, and when I stood up, I knocked a glass of soda onto the lap of the gentleman next to me.  Paul promptly had him arrested for murder because he thought the guy ejaculated in him pants, and then he wept for the "peoplehoods" who had perished in that guy's khakis.  Top it off, someone was playing RATM at the party and he started humming along.   Turns out he thought the band name was a play on words about a human ATM machine.  He never knew any lyrics, and no one likes the poser at the party who doesn't know the lyrics.

I love guns.  I know, shocker to some of my friends, but going north to the ranges and learning about different kinds and shooting them in safety and even owning some in a legal and safe fashion for fun sporting or for personal protection - I'm gooooooood with it.  So's Barack.   He's never indicated or even tried to implement otherwise, although others keep telling me he's going to take them.

So, after thinking long and hard about these issues, I came to the conclusion that I needed to give my relationship more time.  I mean, I wasn't kidding when I said I was a mess when we met - so how could I expect him to cut through all that crap and make my life perfect in four years?  It wasn't possible.  I'm NOT going to lie...  I do feel let down.  In many many ways, I feel like he let down the hopeful little girl I was by not following through on all the things he promised.  However, those are still things I want to get done, and if everyone broke it off with their significant honey just because they weren't getting all the "honey-do" list items done when we want them done - no one would be in a relationship anymore.  Also, it seems like my alternative would be someone I don't know.  At least - even in the beginning - I knew what Barack stood for.  With Mitt, I didn't like his ideals very much, but even those have been shaky from the start.  There is too much questionable information about and even from him. He reminds me of the guy who uses the good linen to make a pointy-hooded "ghost costume".  Don't get me started on Paul - just keep him away from my uterus.  So, while I might have been able to get through having differences of opinion, it's hard to do that when you can't figure out just what those people's opinions are.  And the few that they stand firm on go against my very core values and beliefs - right down to the probability of pushing members of my country, society, and family out of basic human rights and forcing us into a bizarre theologically based political platform of policy that doesn't have a plan to fund it or a basis of proven record.

So, congrats to my guy.  I'm behind him for this run.  I'm sure the next 70-something days will be filled with pandering, mudslinging, and gross misleasing claims on both sides - as this is the political toilet we've evolved into - but I'm trying to stay informed and open and positive. Granted, I'd love to be able to stand up and shout for him the way I did 4 years ago, but he'll have to regain my trust and earn that.  For now, I'll keep dreaming of Hillary the woman who almost came between us and being grateful for at the very least knowing the basic ideas he stands for.

We All Have A Story

      In light of the recent suicides that are rocking our nation and draining the light from so many people, I have decided to share a tiny bit of myself and my story in the hopes that I might inspire at least one person to decide that it can, in fact, get better. I will leave the vast majority of details out of this telling – for the sake of family and friends who do not need or want to know them. What is important will remain.



We All Have a Story


     Late Saturday night on an exceptionally humid June night, I stepped out of my apartment to walk the short distance to the tiny market for things to drink. Nothing was left in the apartment I shared with a girl who worked with me, and it was filled with all sorts of random people she invited over, so going out into that air was a relief from the smoky air rife with random degrees of body odor and patchouli that permeated the apartment. It is a big city sky overhead and the streetlights were sparkly in the hazy air.


     I greeted the Korean man who owned the small corner convenience store as always, and waved at his wife who was knitting in the back corner by the coolers. After grabbing a few bottles of Snapple and soda, I walked back over to the register, paid and started to head home. Once outside, I lit a Camel Red and looked around, leaning back on the brick building. It had been (or more correctly, it still was) Pride weekend in the city, and although the parade ended hours ago while it was still daylight, you could still hear some music in the streets, and see people bounding from one location to another in big, happy, giggling groups. Some groups were dispersing for the night, and others looked like they were just meeting up to begin theirs. The promise of fun was tempting, but I had a pillow with my name on it, and an early shift at work waiting for me.


     I blew out the smoke I was holding in my lungs, contemplated the nub of the cigarette that was left, and crushed it out on the sole of my Doc Martins. I was only running to the store, so I threw on what I could, and I now assessed my ensemble. Cut off jean shorts, a thin ribbed tank, and a light faded flannel tied around my waist. Good thing I wasn’t going to run into friends like this.

     I set off for the apartment with my bevy of beverages, the perspiration gathering on my top lip. I was wishing I had worn socks of some sort, because even my feet were sweating and slipping around in the Docs. I rounded the corner from the market and almost plowed head first into a small group of three. I jerked back and grunted the perfunctory apology and continued down the block. I hadn’t gotten more than about 8 feet when I heard a female voice from behind me hiss “Watch yourself, Dyke.”

     I’d been in the city long enough to know that you learn what battles to pick, and this wasn’t one of them. I didn’t even turn around, but kept my head down and kept walking. Names, hostility, and some criminal mischief seemed to come with the territory, but so far, I’d never really been scared so I shrugged these kids off too. That wasn’t going to be the end of it this, however.

     I heard a shuffling of footsteps approaching from behind, and I wheeled around, ready to defend myself with more apologies. They were right up on me – two guys about 17 and maybe 20, and a blonde girl about my age in heavy make up, jeans, and an old college sweatshirt.


     “I really didn’t mean to bump into you. Sorry if I disturbed you.” I made to turn around and walk away. Walk away, the smart thing to do – so I had always been told and still believe to a point.


     “Oh, you disturbed me, alright, Dyke.” That last word came out like spit between her teeth. “I saw you looking at me, and it’s not alright. Just because you have some parade or something doesn’t mean you get all the pussy you want. Most of the women here are normal. Stop spreading your sickness or Aids will stop you anyway.” She was glaring at me, and her friends were nodding.


     “Ok, gotcha. You aren’t my type anyway, so please have a good night, and I won’t be bothering you anymore.” I turned on my heel and quick stepped it out of there. I was around the next corner and a little way down the block before I took another breath.


     “Shitheaded homophobes” I breathed out to myself. I tried to shake it off, and tried to bounce in my step again. I started thinking about how tired I was, and how much I looked forward to sleep tonight. I also needed to talk to Dust, my roomie, about expenses, but that would wait for another night. I dug into my front jeans pocket for my Camels to calm me. I never heard them coming.



     The first thing I heard was a heavy step right behind me, and I felt a heavy blow to my left cheek as I turned, followed by a fist to my stomach. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t stand. I dropped to my knees, the bag of drinks spilling to the sidewalk behind me. I could taste the rust of blood in my mouth. I opened my right eye and saw the three of them arced around me, the female in the middle.


     “You saw her. She was looking at me all lesbian. That’s disgusting. Hold her down” she spat.


     “No, I… I didn’t mean, I wasn’t…” I barely managed to squeak out.


     “Save it, Dyke. We don’t like gays here. Fags are gross, so we get rid of them since the police won’t. No parades or twinks around to save you now, are there?” she taunted. “I said hold her”


     They grabbed my arms and held them out while she delivered several kicks to my chest and stomach. Pain tore through me, and I couldn’t move, breathe or beg. She picked up a small bottle sitting on the steps of an apartment building next to her and smashed it into my face. I saw the bright hot light of pain, heard talking, but then mercifully passed out while they continued to rein punches and kicks to my head and body. As I went out, I begged any God to spare my family finding me. We hadn’t had a lot of contact since I left home, and I realized it might have been to save them from finding out about this ending.

     I woke up several days later in an area hospital. The only other person in the room was a guy in the next bed who heard me sputter a little as I came around.


     “Hey, you’re awake? They beat you a good one. Surprised you wanted to wake up.” He rolled away from me and watched his tv.


     Tears rolled down my face as I realized a number of things. There was no one there for me. There was no one for the hospital to contact for me, to claim me, to help me. I called my roommate from the phone in the room, trying to work my jaw and swollen lips around my teeth. How I still had my teeth, I don’t understand. The phone rang and rang until a guy picked it up. I asked for Dust, but he said she’d split two days ago after I didn’t come home, and he had taken over the apartment. He said my stuff was in the basement if I wanted it, or what was left of it.


    I hung up as sobs escaped me. I had no home to go to. I had no friends to call. The only thing I could think of was how to escape this life. I had a habit I could return to. It could dull my senses, or if I could find the money to afford it, it could be my ticket out of this hideous place. I knew why I had been beaten to the core. I could suffer it alone. Only I didn’t want to.

     The nurses let me use the bathroom once the catheter had been taken out. So far, I believed the true color of my urine to be red, but it finally became clear. I noticed under my backless gown that I had bandages and tape across my stomach and chest and they were tender to touch. I got up slowly, and shuffled to the sink to clean up a bit. I looked into the mirror.



     My face looked like a discolored image from a funhouse distortion mirror. It was odd shaped in places, my lips were split open and cracked, the corners of my mouth caked with dried saliva and blood from breathing with my mouth open. My left eye was completely swollen shut and had butterfly bandages and black string under and over it. Part of my left eyebrow was missing over the bridge of my misshapen nose, as if ripped off. My right eye looked surprisingly pretty, with only a shadow of bruising on it, and it was partially open. I tried to see my teeth, but opening my mouth hurt too much. My ears were red and sore looking, and I had a band aid over the top of my left ear. I felt lopsided, like my injuries were all on my left. In my head, I was glad, because being a righty, it would have taken forever to heal and learn to be a lefty. I was far from ambidextrous. Right now, I was just far from dexterous. Right now, I looked far from human.



     I slid to the floor and reached for the toilet. I clutched the cold porcelain like it was a person and let out the sobbing that I had held back long enough to assess the damage in the mirror. I sobbed so hard I shook, and I could feel my ribcage protesting to the strain. Finally, I retched for several minutes, managing to bring up some very acidic bile and not much else. I rose to my feet, wiped my mouth with my bandaged hand and flushed the toilet. I patted some cold water to my face and emerged from the bathroom. My room was empty now. I guessed the roommate was making a walking round or getting tests. Maybe he was discharged. I didn’t know. I sat back on the bed and a nurse came in with discharge forms. Most of the lines were blank – who to contact, whose care I was released to, and residence. She told me to come back in two days, or go to the clinic to have my bandages changed for the next week. She was polite, but curt. She never looked me in the eye. I asked if the police had come, and she said no. I asked how I got there, and her answer was that someone called the cops to say I was in the street passed out drunk. They came to get me to “move along” and found a bloody mess. I stopped hearing her then. I tried to figure out what I was feeling. It was shame.  She got up and walked out of the room, and the shame grew.



     I had shame that I had no home now. I was ashamed I allowed myself to be beaten, because I thought I was pretty street smart. I was ashamed of why I was beaten. I really never thought I was ashamed of who I was. I was a lesbian. No problem for me. I had come to terms with it on the inside a long time ago, but it was a big problem for a lot of other people, and that DID make it a problem for me. I felt shame for wanting to hide what happened to me, but I did. I put on makeup at a Macy’s counter before I walked to where I worked to see if I still had a job. Luckily, I did. Unluckily, I hated it, and I hated myself for doing it – so I worked 3 more nights and slept in my car until I finally headed out to a town I was familiar with outside the city. I stayed with friends of friends, and in some shelters. I eventually healed on the outside, and found work in restaurants – surprisingly taking to the early morning routine of a cook very well. I then summoned the courage to move forward with my education, my relationships and my life.


     A lot has happened since that time in my life, and the details are not important. What is important enough for me to sit here today and write out for others to read, are the small revelations and details that allowed me to BE here today.


     After I sobbed into the toilet of the hospital, I vowed it was all over. I had nothing, and I had no one. I was an object at work, and a shell of a person the other hours of the day. I looked over my shoulder at every noise and lived a life of fear, both real and imaginary. I hid who I really was from everyone, and dulled my pain in drugs and drinking, hoping that every night I might go far enough to not wake up. I had allowed the actions of ignorant, hate filled people to fill me with despair and disgust at myself. They won. Long after the original beating, I was allowing them to beat me every moment of every day.


     There was no moment of glory, where the clouds parted and a wise person bestowed logical life lessons upon me that created a change. It was gradual, and personal, and spiritual from inside me. I overcame it on my own. I decided to surround myself with good people. I decided to be exactly who I was, and live that way. I decided that my family was important to me, and as long as they could accept me for who I was, I wanted to be fully involved in the family. I decided that I never wanted to feel that my life was not worth living ever again. I also decided that I was going to use my life to emulate hope in others that anyone and everyone was equal.


     I may have fallen short on some of that along the way, but the recent tragic events and subsequent deaths of LGBT youth caused me to remember that time in my life where I had nothing and no one in the face of bigotry and violence. I wanted to reach out and tell people who are suffering in silence that IT GETS BETTER. Not that day and not the day after. Whether you have a cheerleading squad of supportive friends and family or if you are alone – you are still a valuable human being on this earth with a soul and a purpose. I did it alone. You might not have to, but you could if you had to. Call one of the many support line numbers and talk to us. Reach out. Have discussions. Find yourself. Be yourself. Don’t allow anyone to take it from you.


     I think I was ugly and disfigured until I was bashed. I think I became beautiful when I saw it in myself – scars and all.




Think you can't make it?  You can.  Want help?  It's here.
Physical, Emotional, Psychological and other types of attacks are not acceptable.  Compassion and understanding are the only ways we will stop the cycle.

http://www.thetrevorproject.org/suicide-resources/local-resources

1-866-488-7386