Wednesday, 17 February 2021

Rush to Judgment

When I was a kid, I was exposed to Rush Limbaugh in a filthy car and a desperately dirty apartment I tried to muck out more than once to save my father. 

I heard Limbaugh's hate-filled tirades demean women, celebrate the deaths of LGBTQ activists, and rile the anger and entitlement of heavily armed men. 

If you don't know what it's like to be trapped in that smoke-filled cesspool, wondering what's happening to someone you love, seeing them be radicalized long before that word had entered your vocabulary as a child, then sit down. 

I won't show Limbaugh compassion any more than you'd mourn the death of the dealer who got your loved one hooked on heroin. 

As a grown woman--one of Limbaugh's preferred demographics to target--I look around and find that the vast majority of my friends are not straight white Americans. My nearest and dearest are immigrants, international, first generation, melanated and queer, and they all have come under attack from Limbaugh and the rot he helped fester. 

If you're capable of compassion in the face of evil that targets people you love, good on you, I guess. But don't try to shame or silence people that are feeling relief in the face of the only victory we're going to get as far as this pernicious poison is concerned. 

We live in a society that refuses to hold men like Limbaugh, his buddy Trump, and all their ilk accountable. Refuses to reject them. Instead, these creeps are given medals and presidencies, pardons and praise. They breed Brock Turners, Dylan Roofs and Eliot Rodgers, who in turn are mollycoddled after massacres as the press works to illuminate their pain despite the bodies lying all around. 

This doesn't stop because we turn the other cheek; that may be a power move for men in a world that doesn't expect them to display self-control when faced with attacks, but it's the bullshit status quo for those of us that are already expected to be quiet and kind as we are curb-stomped into submission. 

Know justice, know peace. No unity without accountability. While I somehow still hope that true diversity reaching the highest and most powerful levels of our society will relieve this grim pressure to be pliant in the face of abuse, in the meantime we might have to simply exhale more fully in the absence of a monster.

Wednesday, 20 January 2021

Forward to Finer

We made it. Now, I want to take a moment to talk about the wonder of President Joe Biden, and what it means to have him in office now. 

First, I will state plainly that he was not my first choice. I actively boycott boys at the ballot box. I'm all the way here for the abolition of the white heteronormative patriarchy. At first glance, Biden's election does not achieve that. 

However, we have just endured a miscarriage of constitutional duty under that orange oaf, who exited the capitol ignominiously this morning after breaking our long tradition of peaceful transfer of power. Over 400,000 of us are dead because of catastrophic mismanagement of a pandemic, the spread of a plague with no functioning federal government to mitigate the harm. White supremacists were offered pride of place in the last administration, even as cries for racial justice rose from we the people. 

And, so, I find myself grateful for any change. But, as I contemplate the matter, I find myself grateful in particular for Biden as a person. 

We now have a president who has experienced deep loss and grief, and regularly embodies empathy when presented with someone else's pain and struggle. He has stumbled, and he has learned. Biden has moved voices to the fore that we all desperately need to have there; Black women have long spoken truth to power, and we have long needed a federal government that looks like America itself. Biden has prioritized that, and is willing to move out of the way for representation that matters so much. 

Can you appreciate his bravery? In the wake of racist insurrection, he has ensured that Kamala Harris stands ready to lead if any ill should befall him. It's an amazing chess move, flagrantly defying those last-gaspers of white male privilege, and it's beyond symbolic because Harris is there to give this administration teeth, too. Though his whiteness and maleness may placate the less imaginative among us, he has assembled a team that erodes the blandness of such power. 

Biden is an institutionalist, ascending to office to assess and improve our vandalized democratic pillars. He has a long memory of how our democracy can function, as well as a detailed view of the imperfections in it. 

And, let's be clear: He is not perfect. His administration will not be. There is no perfection to be found anywhere in human endeavor, only the endless labor toward a more perfect union, toward greater justice, and toward expanded opportunity for us all. That work is never done, and will not be done in four years' time, nor eight, nor any number to follow. 

But Biden believes in that work. He has dedicated his life to it. He has been bruised and battered by life itself, and he has resolved to elevate others. That is so profoundly antithetical to the perniciousness of the last four years that it is indeed difficult to set aside cynicism and retain a kind of clear-eyed hope about healing, but that is what we are called to do. 

I am so grateful that my son will have an entirely different version of masculinity before his eyes as he ages into being able to see what's really going on, following four years of raising him amid the fight against fascism. I am so deeply relieved that my child will see that power should be inclusive and riveted with empathy. When Obama bestowed upon Biden his final Presidential Medal of Freedom, I cried, too, for the man who fought rapists and sought to free our families of cancer in the wake of his own grief. That ceremony stood in stark contrast against the looming specter of toxic masculinity that Trump embodied, and I prefer that my son remember Biden's version of old man in charge before we move on to a more colorful, female future. 

Today, I watched women in positions of prominence usher in a new era. I felt a stability return that has been noticeably lacking; how much energy have we all expended in that long uncertainty? I do not long for some pre-2016 status quo, but I am happy to feel a glimmer of hope again. I am overjoyed to have a president who is comfortable in the presence of--indeed, confident because of--the presence of brilliant women with backbones of steel. 

Today, we return to the Paris Accord. We rejoin the world in so many ways that matter, and we come humbled to the table to engage in the most important work of humanity, to stem the rising tides of climate change and address the woes of environmental injustice. We can start dealing with the life-or-death matters of our shared future with our allies once more. 

Today, we have a president that can speak whole and complete sentences that tell the plain truth of the pain of our nation's founding. Those words alone are not a solution, but we must have them to begin. We have a mandate to manifest an entirely different destiny that is honest about our history of genocide and theft, and seeks to rectify the wrongs of our ancestors inasmuch as we can from our positions of privilege within the troubled now. 

Today, we begin again, carrying the baggage of the past but less than we endured yesterday. And we have someone who has put his hand up time and again to be of service in that endeavor. 

Biden offers himself as a bridge over tumultuous waters, and I am grateful that today feels significantly less adrift than so many days that have come before. We have to build back better, not back to normal but forward to finer.

Monday, 28 December 2020

A Snuggle in the Chair

I’ve just had one of those beautiful, fortuitous moments of parenthood; lovely and serene, bonded and treasured. I got a do-over.

Last night, Dash was messing around at bedtime quite late. He has been figuring out the technologies of his bedroom, and the lights were all the way on at 9:30pm. (Lights off is officially at 9pm, and flashlights have been confiscated.) I snapped off the lights as Dash was building a flower garden. 

I shut the door, and then I went back. I opened the door again, and said: “Dash, I know you were having fun designing flowers. And I’m proud of you for playing quietly. But it’s late, and if you don’t get some sleep now you will be very tired and sad tomorrow. So it’s time to go to bed.”

He was clearly tired, and he said, “I want a snuggle.” I said, “Okay, I’ll pick you up and cuddle you, and then I’m going to put you in your bed.” I duly did so, and he seemed giddily awake, pretending to shiver. (Admittedly, I had just washed my hands, so they were probably chilly, though Dash was delighting in the theatrical rendering.)

I tucked him into bed, and he said, “Can we have a snuggle in the chair?” I, feeling that I should hold to the law, declined gently, told him I love him, and exited the room without drama.

I relayed the tale to James, admitting that I wished I had stayed, as Dash won’t always ask, and won’t always be little. James confessed that he would have caved, for those very reasons. And, so, it stuck with me. I reminded myself that I made my choice to try to help Dash get rest, and I was trying to choose the best thing for his next nights’ rest as well. 

Tonight, I’ve been in the spare room organizing the heap of treasures and detritus on my work table. I’ve felt a creative spark in many directions, nudging at some preexisting projects and ideating about others. There is a breeze of initiative in the air tonight, and it’s blowing some of the dust off my soul as well as the laden surfaces of productivity. 

This is, of course, thirsty work, and I needed to deposit some cans and make a cup of tea to continue. As I was pottering around the kitchen, I heard a stirring in the hallway. The door was open just a crack, and into the light beamed a small, cute human in stripy blue R2D2 pajamas. 

“What is going on here?” I inquired, and Dash seemed very pleased with himself. James had informed me earlier in the evening that Dash can now open the door to his room, previously sufficiently difficult as to contain him in the evening. He had intended to take himself on a little adventure when I intercepted him, clearly, and so I scooped him up and took him back to his room. 

“Can I have a snuggle in the chair, please?” he asked groggily. “Yes, I’d be happy to,” I said. He relaxed into my arms, and we got all snuggled into the chair, pillow under his head and ever-longer legs draped over the edge of the nest my legs made sitting criss-crossed and pulled onto the seat cushion. He’s so big these days, almost big enough that this trick will require a small sofa soon, but for now we can still sit in a modified version of how we ended nursing sessions: my baby asleep at my left breast, in just the right position for me to scoop up for a rocking walk over to his bed. 

“Do you want me to sing you some songs?” I asked. Eyes closed, he said yes, and gently, sleepily snuggled into me. “You are my sunshine…” I sang him the same songs I’ve been singing him since he was a newborn, a rhythm that has changed a little but really not much in the last three years. It feels like everything else has changed around those songs, but this moment of the two of us doing the dance of sleep in the incredible shrinking chair has been a steady, if distancing, refrain in life. 

Sometimes, I cry. Tears sit at the edges of my eyes even now. These moments in the middle of the night most connect me to my own parents, remembering in my bones having limbs the size of my little one’s, being held close by the invincible, omniscient adults of my early days. And what a cosmic thing it is, to live through such a transformation, from baby to mother, and back to baby yet again through the borrowed eyes of new life and the empathy required to connect to nonverbal communication and raw intuition. 

After I sang my songs, I sat with him for a little while. At the second-to-last song, I felt a nervous rush of being one foot out the door already, and I realized it was because the usual rhythm’s end was coming soon. Of course, a millisecond later i observed that no one was dictating that I stop singing, or what I could sing, and certainly not how long I could enjoy sitting with my son. 

I stroked his hair. I held him close. I thanked him for coming down from the stars to be my baby. I marveled at his beauty, and for a moment felt connected to the divine.

“I’m going to put you in your bed now,” I whispered as I belayed him into a cloud of cottony quilting. I tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and felt that silky hair I’ve loved since the day he was born. 

“I love you so much,” I reminded him. I quietly made my exit, heart full to bursting.

My tea was still hot when I got back to the kitchen.

Friday, 4 December 2020

Holding Up the Towers

We have had so many 9/11s-worth of deaths due to coronavirus here in the US. If you have ever posted in remembrance of those lost in the Twin Towers, but persist in spreading fatal idiocy about this damned plague: leave my life. 

My family has been hit, and trying to protect our elders has remained an ever-present thrum, with some successes and some painful losses. 

I have friends getting sick. Some were knocked down for months. It's not just deaths, which are awful enough, but disability and suffering, too. Trying to keep children healthy, trying to parent when we can barely breathe, watching fevers spike and knowing that hospitals are overwhelmed. 

As with all things American, the fractures of our society are illuminated further by this crisis. Damn the incessant conspiracy-mongering nonsense, the can't-be-told attitudes, the anti-science tantrums! People are dying, especially the people who are always most vulnerable in our society. 

If your family hasn't lost somebody yet, there's still time. It's hard to keep holding back, and we all mess up. But, right now, our cock-ups kill. 

There is so much to mourn. I'm grateful for the encounters with friends and family that have lifted my spirits, phone calls and video visits that make it all more bearable. 

I don't want to lose anyone else. We're all in these towers, folks, and it's actually up to us to hold them up. 

Masks on, chins up, eyes intermittently dry, hands freshly washed. Let's hunker down and get to the other side of this nightmare so we can rebuild something much better.

Thursday, 12 November 2020

Oro en Paz

I'm so in love with this city. I've been sticking close to home a lot since we've been back, but today I got a dose of that San Francisco magic again, and it just never gets old for me. 

This morning, I went to Cliff's Variety on a mission to pick up some odds and ends (and walked out with a heaping helping of totally unrelated goodies). I popped over the hill, and the big rainbow flag was flying high and proud in a perfect blue sky. 

At Cliff's, Delia delighted people coming through, and I talked with the folks working there and other customers about creative projects and making gifts for people we love. I felt ambitious again, eager to create and do beautiful things. I felt that bandwidth coming back after I'd had to set it aside for so long. 

I walked for a couple of blocks with a friar in his robes and a mask promoting his favorite dog rescue. Delia of course befriended the monk instantly as he walked out of a door on Castro, and his lilting Irish accent sounded musical in the morning traffic. 

We chatted about the magic of dogs, how his had passed at the beginning of the lockdown, and how he was working with the Labrador rescue to find another furry friend. We strolled through the rainbow crosswalk together and lifted each other's spirits. 

This is a city that decisively voted down fascism. We come from everywhere to build dreams here, and while not all of them come true, the endeavor itself shapes us. Families come in all forms, and love wins. 

This city is changed by COVID, but not crushed by it. There are parklets, makeshift alfresco spaces lining the sidewalks to provide a solution to the risks of indoor dining. The shops are open, with hand sanitizer at the door and friendly faces enforcing mask policies. Biden Harris 2020 signs proudly hang on Harvey's, evidence of decades of work toward progress and equality. 

Nothing and nowhere and no one is perfect, but the sun is shining here and there's nowhere I'd rather be. Oro en paz, fierro en guerra--I love you, San Francisco.

Tuesday, 10 November 2020


To concede or to not concede, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the eye of the voter to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous democracy, or to take arms against a sea of neckbeards, and by opposing end them.

To concede—to sleep, once more; and by sleep to say we end the heart-ache of the thousand scandalous shocks that fascism is father to:

'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd.

Tuesday, 3 November 2020

Election Day 2020

Finally, it is Election Day. I awoke to many loving posts from LGBTQ+ families asking that we remember what's at stake for them at the ballot box, posts from Black families recounting generations of struggle against voter suppression, posts from new citizens citing their pride to help build the America of their dreams. 

And I also encountered a couple of posts from men I know emphasizing that they would never tell you who to vote for. Their studied neutrality offered safe space for those that would vote whichever way, some theatre of moral high ground fertile for false equivalence, open arms even for those that would vote to oppress others. 

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse, and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.” Desmond Tutu's words are at the forefront of my mind right now; they call us to use our best judgment to relieve the impossible weight of suffering for people in our communities, vulnerable by virtue of sex or skin color, age or orientation, paperwork or presentation. 

Today, US citizens have an opportunity to exercise our most potent weapon to fight injustice. Over 230,000 of us have died of COVID in a phenomenal failure of national leadership. White nationalist violence is surging, encouraged by the occupant of our highest office. Our economy is in disastrous shape, and an impeached president is on the ballot alongside his enablers in Senate, who could have done something about this mismanagement and repeatedly refused. 

The choices presented to us today are not neutral. They are not equivalent. 

Very personally, my rights to bodily autonomy are on the line. Healthcare is on the line. The rights of LGBTQ+ people to live openly and have families as they choose are on the line. Access to the polls for Black Americans is on the line. Our international standing, so much diminished over the last four years, hangs by a fraying thread. 

I will not stand in neutrality as oppression comes for me and surges all around me. I urge you to fight alongside me. If you don't have so much hanging in the balance, acknowledge your privilege and vote to improve the circumstances of those more vulnerable than you. 

This choice is binary: Vote to cast off a fatally damaging would-be dictator, who is shortening our lives and eroding our hard-won progress, or hold the door for the collapse of American democracy. The stakes are incredibly high. 

Vote for Biden. Fire Trump. Cast your vote for the opportunity to build something better together, because we all deserve the chance to live lives that are less brutish, nasty and short. 

Today, we have a sacred duty to protect democracy in this country and learn from the cracks that have been revealed in our foundation. Please don't feign neutrality in the face of someone else's peril.