My hindrances

Every so often I spend aimless hours looking at my hindrances. You might call these part of my "identity" but I tend to call them hindrances and disadvantages because sadly that's all they are for me. Most of the time. You'll hear me list just a few out every now and then.

I'm black, lesbian, female, atheist, chubby *cough*, short, flat footed (don't laugh, buying shoes sucks for me), kinky haired, and probably a switch (I likes to hit and be hit), probably bipolar (runs in the family, I've not been officially diagnosed though so the jury's out).

A couple of those not too bad, a couple of them probably don't even matter in the scheme of things (don't laugh at my flat feet dude). Why are they hindrances? Because most of them eventually cancel each other out and make it quite hard to get along in life.

Let's take the first three. I'm a girl, putting me at a slight disadvantage in society compared to my male counterparts. I'm a black woman putting me even FURTHER down the ladder and effectively dismissing any issues I may have as either. I'm a black lesbian which gives me a small support group, then I'm an atheist which just sort of strips that support group.

Chubby, well, I'm constantly being told to put the fork down. Short & chubby = morbidly obese despite the fact that I'm pretty healthy according to my doctors, it also means I have to use chairs to get shit out my pantry and that makes me feel inadequate. Having flat feet makes buying shoes a pain. Natural hair makes me ugly to both whites and blacks alike. My sexuality makes me a freak, my potential bipolarness makes me either a faker or a crazy bitch. Or a slut, I forget now.

Stereotypes, they follow me around. I can't do much to shed any of these hindrances no matter how much I wish it some days. I've yet been able to live with most of them and don't know if I will, because whenever I think me and my hindrances are going to settle down together something just stirs up old wounds. I take things to heart and I must call them out to make peace with myself, do you understand?

Except I can't make peace with myself, so what's the point? Do I float in the subspace between my so called identity and what I'm supposed to be? Do I suffer endlessly, painlessly, internally? Or do I do nothing at all? That's the next step after finding out who you are, no matter how many "whos" there are, sadly a lot of the time there are no answers and even more often no one to fully guide you.

I've yet to find my doppleganger (although I've been told I would die if I did), someone like me I can relate to and call upon when I'm stranded with the she-wolves and the lionesses. But maybe someday if I keep trying, if I ever manage to pull myselves together.

What does it take to make you disbelieve?

So in a random convo we were having about atheism, Danz mentions he's basically three steps from atheism (which is weird because we've called him everything from pentecostal to jewish). He also warned me that he'd never join the dark side so I can put the cookies away *sad*

I'm not sure what he is but it seems at the very least he's in the humanist realm, probably agnostic like fecking everyone. I'm sure he'll figure it out eventually if he chooses. When I asked why I couldn't convince him to join the Sith--I mean atheist legions, he said something along the lines of he didn't want to disbelieve.

Me, lacking that "belief gene", am all too willing to disbelieve but I cannot nor have I ever been able to believe. In fact, I think everyone should join the Sith and destroy the republic, and perhaps it'll happen some day, maybe it won't. I hate people who want to play Pascal's Wager, like a lot dude.

But, that's always been the curious thing, to me, about agnostics and people who are generally non-believers but aren't quite atheist (yeah it can happen).

What would it take to make you disbelieve in a deity?

Not to try to sway folks to my own side, but I've always been curious. Again, I don't think there's every been a point in my life where I've truly believed in a god of any sort so it's always puzzled me. Religions puzzle me--why is this one right and this one not? How is it possible that such and such created the universe but never makes himself known? How have these beliefs been held for centuries?

I mean, I have my theories, since as an atheist it's my unofficial job to spend my every waking, and some sleeping, hours pondering about theology *canned laughter* but I've never really gotten a solid answer on what it would take to make a believer disbelieve.

I've seen it happen. I've seen evangelical Christians suddenly turn over to atheism and preach the gospel of godlessness for various reasons or another, usually something involving utter disgust with religion. But you can believe in a god without actually belonging to a religion so, what keeps that belief going I wonder?

On the other hand, I also wonder what makes staunch atheists suddenly start praising almighty _______. I've seen that happen a lot too and it's always kinda...weird.

I think my best bet is, in both cases, you were probably never really atheist or religious to begin with and whatever property in you was just...latent, then at some point you finally felt brave enough to embrace it. But is that really it? Huh.

What makes a Xands?

I was having one of those shower thoughts a while back and reflecting on the pen name I've been going under for a while now--that'd be me, Xands. I've gone under a number of things which is why I'm so elusive on the net, but for some reason any variation of Xands/Xanthe (which is greek for yellow, I just like it, no deep meaning there) seems to stick.

So you probably haven't troubled yourself to read, I believe, my very post on this blog (and I wouldn't) in which I explain my name because I get asked about it a good deal. What, exactly, is a Xands, besides a me?

Well, let me tell you and this will probably make it easier to spot me hatin' on youtube or your blog or something. I realized why this particular name has stuck so well is because every word of it has a real, sort of personal meaning to me.

Get ready, it's going to get dizzying.

TR Xands - the TR is really just to separate me from those other Xandses, I know you've met like 10

T- Tiziano-> Titian, as in the painter whom I've admired-> Titus, a latin praenomen, a title of honor

R- Renatus, meaning rebirth

Xands (it's actually khsands, I know you've been saying it wrong) - Alexandros -> Alexander, defending men

Got all that?

So, what's the significance of any of that? Well, to take it from the top, I really admired Titian's bold, dramatic, colorful works when I was going through my Renaissance Art Is The Shit 4eva phase really badly, so when I started crafting this Latin-ish name for myself, I started with that. Titian isn't Latin, it's the English translation of his real name, Tiziano, which so happens to be the Italian form of Titus. Excellent!

Following the Roman naming convention, I chose a second name. Renatus seemed to work out well, again, Renaissance influence and it's meaning.

Alexandros (I hardly ever go by AlexandER) was a little tricky and I'm not totally sure why I chose it. In this case, "defending men" is just that, but I take it as more "defending MAN" as in mankind. It's a little unfortunate now but it still works.

"Xands, you hate people...?" Well thanks for reminding me spoilsport, but I think, what I want to do most in life, and what I can do, in any way, is to help. I do not necessarily want my name all over the history books but let's say I don't want to die with a bitter cry or a whimper. If I should get hit by a car tomorrow trying to cross the street, as I'm often nearly wont to do, I would like to leave some tiny impact that isn't wholly negative. I want to help other people, maybe indirectly maybe directly, because I feel like it helps me. I want to be that defense.

...I mean, I do want gold and glory and shit, but the above will do okay too, especially considering the whole hit by a car scenario. See, am I the only one that ponders that like regularly?

In any case, there you go, now I've taken away the mystique yet again! I go by Xands or TR, mostly now, because it's usually more gender neutral and it's really short. No shit, for the longest time I went by Renatus Alexandros entirely because it was awesome, but you don't have to worry about that babehs.

Ally failitudes and *sadness*

First, failitudes:

Being an ally is tough work. Not "omg woe is meeee" tough but "augh I fucked up, let me try that again" tough. The difference is the former, I think, is more self-serving, and the latter is an admittance of need-to-do-better-ness, not only because you feel you have to, but because you WANT to.

Over Twitter last night I talked about a song Danz had sent me from a trans performer named Adhamh Roland. Danz said he was a trans woman, and I gleefully went about saying "she" until I stumbled upon his Myspace and realized I should be using male pronouns. Oops! I changed, but kept stumbling because...well he looks and sounds female, and in my binary mind = girl = she regardless of every source referring to him as a "he". Oops again!

While talking about the artist at some point my brain clicked in with "auuuug this is harrrrd~ *flailflail*" in a sort of self defeating manner. I didn't totally give up though.

You see, also, in my journey on becoming a better ally and maybe a better human being in the proecess, I've been trying to figure out how to tackle trans issues. I write up blog posts in my sleep (no shit) and dismiss them like little mental drafts because they're never quite right. Because I've been so focused on the negative aspects of life--which is driving me nuts--all I wanted to talk about was transphobia.

The thing about transphobia is, I think of all the isms and phobias, it actually confuses me most of all. Gays & lesbians can be transphobic and I've seen it and just thought "Eh?" Then those normal cisgendered hetero folks can be transphobic as well--even gleefully so. And it's so strange to me when anyone is derided and abused just for living their lives, even with the groups you'd think they would belong with, like the gay & lesbian community. But that's also the same community that blamed blacks for prop 8 and has apparently decided that bisexuals of any type don't exist so I should take that back...no I'm not bitter at all.

Pretty sure last year I talked about the Remembering Our Dead project and I'm still astounded at how many trans women and trans men are murdered each year. That's part of the reason I'm so anxious about the Angie Zapata trial (note: I'm too stupid right now to figure out the light a candle button so don't think I just forgot about it or something, working on it). I want to see a court charge this as a hate crime and put a foot down and say this is MURDER and it's a HATEFUL murder. You killed this woman because she was different and you deserve to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

But who knows how that will turn out...it seems our country is still having a hard trouble accepting "differences"--I'm looking at you, entire country, even Hawaii and Alaska--and I'm feeling rather moot instead of optimistic. Being an ally is tough work...when there's not even any hope in you.

If I may transition to SADNESS, occasionally I'll bump into people I don't really want to be ally'd with. No, not the groups I'm ally'ing for, but other allies. Let's talk about my fucking Am Lit II professor yet again.

See, prof has declared himself a "bleeding heart liberal" in front of the class...with no irony, and even has the nice pink triangle on his office door, which I GUESS makes him a friend to gays. This man is no friend of mine though and I'd rather he not be.

I know, we can't all be enlightened. But I really doubt your "liberal" credentials when you can refer to a story involving Zora Neale Hurston in which she allegedly molested a "retarded" child and then call Zelda Fitzgerald "insane" and "crazy".

SADNESS.

Even more SADNESS is the failure of the class--including myself--to call him out on this...stupid-speak. I felt like less of an ally and more of an apathetic student, which I am, but I picked the wrong time to just lose all empathy (and feeling in my pimp-hand).

Being an ally is tough work and never-ending, sometimes tiring, sometimes gratifying, sometimes amazing, sometimes AMAZING, sometimes NYARLATHOTEP BE PRAISED. And I hope I can continue...

Stop Fucking with The Kids

Is the only way I can describe it.

Look, I don't like kids that much. I like babies even less. I can tolerate them now but thanks to some teething incidents I had when I was a kid, I just do not like kids. I have not since I was one myself. I like plants. When my maternal instinct kicks in, I buy a new one.

BUT

That doesn't mean I want to see them suffer. Kids that is.

I seem to be the only one who remembers I was a fucking child once, and the memory of my child hood is still very fresh in my mind.

When I tutor, I treat my kids as equals more or less. I do not speak down to them. I treat them like damn human beings and try to set an example for my peers to do the same. It's been proven that children are no where near as stupid as we, adults, would like to think they are.

They make mistakes. They're young. They need guidance, but they don't need to be screwed over. Let's take it from the top with the educational system.

This story pissed me off so badly I honestly could not see straight for a few minutes. This child was bullied daily, being taunted with anti-gay slurs even though he was 11 and even though he did not identify as gay. This child hanged himself over daily abuse despite his mother's pleas for the school to do something. If the school did, it proved woefully uneffective.

The thing is, this isn't the first child suicide over bullying we've heard about, is it. There have been FOUR this year according to the GLSEN article, middle school aged children. Fucking middle school when things are at such a critical stage. What are you, about 11-14 now for middle school I think. This child will never see his 12th birthday for being taunted by his peers over a perceived orientation. He was different and that's all the kids needed.

Bullying is a part of the school experience you may say, it builds character, teaches kids about the real world and what not and toughens them up. Alright, tell that to the young lives that have been snuffed out because their voices were ignored. Tough enough for you, now?

Children are cruel, but it's foolish to think that they come out of the womb screaming "fag!" and "dyke!" and "omg fatso!"

No, it's fucking us, man. Directly or indirectly, children learn from us. They learn from the outside. They. LEARN. Intolerance. You can have a personality but kids, I do not believe, are seldom born to be a bully. That's not it. That's passing off blame to shit we don't understand therefore absolving US of any guilt but fuck that, it's US.

I was bullied quite often as a child for being overweight and not the prettiest, and this seems to be commonplace in childhood. And I can only speak from my experience but my teachers seldom did anything about it. You could almost say they had just given up--because bullying occurs so often they figure kids will get over it. Well as we're finding out not all of them do.

And these are the same people who wonder why these kids are killing themselves because life is already too damn hard for them. You want to know why?

Check this out. A while ago, a month or so ago, there was a bill in TN that wanted to remove all teachings of any human sexuality outside of heterosexuality at ANY grade level. This would have effectively erased homosexuality from these kids' lives. I can't say if it actually got anywhere but I wouldn't doubt it since being afraid of TEH GAYNESS is what's in now.

Parents don't want their kids to learn about what is different. They teach the children, even if it's indirect, to mock what is different. So when someone doesn't act like you, look like you, you're bad. We don't want you. See where I'm going here?

I would go into how much I hate the images on TV with hyper-sexualized women, racism and other such bigotry but must I?

There's no guarantee that you'll just mysteriously get over a lifetime or torment, nor is there a guarantee that you'll just leave high school like "oh wow, all that shit I did? So lame. I'll be a good person from now on!" No. It doesn't always work like that. Hell I'd say rarely because I'm a misanthrope.

So, we teach the kids hate, they see hate, they hate, and...well, what DO we do about it, other than just assuming the kids will toughen up.

About that. Do none of these adults, these protectors & educators of our young, remember being kids? Or were their childhoods so idyllic that they can't possibly fathom the sort of abuse that goes on in schools? I digress...

What do we do? Stop fucking with the kids is what we should do. Stop not taking them seriously. Stop not believing them. Stop passing over cries for help. It's not that you're not doing all you can do with limited resources, money, and time, but think about what's at stake here. It's not your spare time & sanity, it's a child's fucking LIFE, man.

Let me get to the bottom real quick with the government and wrap this up--

Oh, about Wednesday night, I caught a special on HBO called Hard Times at Douglass, looking at the effects on the No Child Left Behind act on Frederick Douglass High in Baltimore. Yes, even the government is fucking with the kids for whatever reason (and the teachers let's not forget), because we know how well that improved education *coughitdidn'tcough* *coughitjustfuckedupthecurriculumand* *coughmadeithardercough* But the gubmint has been fucking with the kids for years, in all sorts of countries, what with child labor and insurance and what not. Yeeah, government doesn't seem to care bout the future much, go figure I guess.

No really though, stop fucking with the kids. I'm sure all your intentions are in the right place, and that's great! But you're fucking up and I'd like not to open my browser or look in my newspaper and hear about yet another child in danger or dead over things we should be getting our act together on, alright? Alright.

Just after sunset

Short blurb to get the bloggin' mojo back, but

As a little Xands, I was quite afraid of the dark. That's not so abnormal, neither is my paranoia about checking under my bed nightly and not having limbs hanging off the edge.

...what?

Well anyway, when I was a wee one I rarely had a reason to actually be afraid, except for boogeymen and shit. Now, of course, I can't much stand the light but I actually learned there are very good reasons to be afraid of the dark.

I try to live a life without fear--well, MUCH fear. I wondered a few minutes ago why I tend to get irate when Danzy talks about his ability to just flounce about well after dark whether it's going to work or walking...on Bourbon St in New Orleans (see his blog for details). Not really upset but just annoyed. Maybe jealous that he has a job. Maybe mad that he keeps wasting my limited texts so flippantly and I have to pay my own verizon bill now.

I wonder why I can't stand being out past, oh, 7 or 8. It dawned on my a few moments ago that, maybe, maybe I'm afraid.

Afraid of violence. Afraid of being killed or lost or raped.

My campus so happens to have a low crime rate, but that's only reported crimes. If all crimes got reported, well...

I may be afraid. It's not that those bad things can't happen to men, they do. But being a girl, you know, puts me at a severe disadvantage in life, which is sad. As masculine as I like to be it freaks me right out, it doesn't help that I lived in a freaking drug neighborhood that nearly fecking killed me. You learn those instincts and they don't go away. I don't trust the men, the, ah, lighter complected men that feel it's their right to tell me ____, as in the racism talks we often find ourselves having. The reasons I've excused myself from the company of many of my former associates. Who's to say they won't physically try to put me in my place.

You might say it's a healthy paranoia, I beg to differ. I wish I could just...stroll along Bourbon St without having to clutch my cell phone and look around every corner extra hard because you just never know. I wish a lot of things too though.

Mama, However, Did Not Paint My Nails

So I talked about dad. Probably for the first time in a while in some detail. I think we get now that despite his best, yeah he was abusive.

So, perhaps you've wondered...why I hardly talk about my mother at all? Is it because she's a saint? Because we get along so well? Er, no. You see, ladies and gents, my mother abused me as well, physically and emotionally. Almost indirectly. I'll explain.

I will say first that I think it's actually taken me longer to fully forgive & come to terms with what SHE did...forgive is probably the wrong term actually...perhaps merely get past.

You see, I suppose the great thing is I can fully rationalize both my parents' behaviors. Dad was a drug addict and an alcoholic. Mom, I'm pretty sure I mentioned, has her own history of abuse with her first husband. Also I think it's good to keep in mind that both my parents came from, I guess you'd say...more rural, maybe traditional black homes. Big families out in the country side. Both of them have a history of what you and I may call child abuse--I say "may" because I know not everyone thinks of spankings as abuse, but I'm willing to bet you'd agree with me on out 'n out beat downs--and they were just raised that way. Rationalize, explain, but justify? Maybe.

See, dad had no qualms about spanking me much, and I was a hyperactive little kid until I got severely subdued in first grade for various reasons--thanks society. Mom scoffed at the idea. But, uh, she beat me twice when I was older. I'll get to that.

But before I get any further, I do want to warn the viewing audience at home that I'm going to say some harsh shit and bitter words. If you thought my piece on dad was ugly and revealing, that's just the shit I semi-regularly even talk about. Me and Mom's relationship has been addressed ONE TIME like...6 years ago. But don't worry, I won't air too much dirty laundry on you.

So! All that good stuff out of the way, I'll start by explaining what I mean by "indirectly". Mama has been a working person all her life--from Mickey D's to USA Today (not a journalist or writer mind you)--and that's something for me to happy about because it gives me hope. Mama also had my brother when she was 18. I'm not totally sure about the nature of their relationship other than it seems like they're not very close and it's rather sad. Then again he's not that close to his father either--actually he kinda hates him.

With me though, mom and I are pretty close I'd say. I'm her only daughter, second kid, last.

Mama is also very submissive it seems, very...feminine. She used to be a tomboy she says until she fell out of a tree. I also need to tell you why I think this is--and why issues surrounding rape and violence against women are so close to me--she was sexually assaulted as a child.

You can imagine that would traumatize anyone greatly, add to the fact that when she was in her twenties she married an abusive man who was handicapped--and this handicap lead to people basically blaming her for the abuse, even friends, hell even me at some point. How do you let someone with one functioning arm hit you? we'd say. It seemed my dad was the only one more sympathetic to her--sick innit? Well she "let" her husband abuse her until one day she finally found the strength to up and leave.

So...we all get lonely but it seems like mama is on a quest to constantly fill some void within her that she thinks will be filled by a man. I don't think since she's gotten married she's had a stable relationship. They all usually end in tragedy or stupidness. She also dates interracially--she preferred white men for a long time figuring they would treat her better than white men. Um, me, my bro, and dad usually tried to point out the flaw in that thinking considering the men she dated usually only considered her a living breathing sex toy. I kid you not.

So that's indirectly. How? She would bring these men over at night while I was sleeping and fuck them, therefore I had to learn about sex at quite the early age. Which distorted my views considering that all in all sex was something considered bad and taboo. So I was conflicted quite often. And seeing so many white men use my mother like, as I said, a sex toy, IN FRONT OF ME, not so good.

She would abandon me for these men. She'd leave me alone with my dad for these men. She'd push me away for these men, wouldn't let me near her for these men. She doesn't anymore, but she did. Even worse, when she didn't feel up to fucking these men she'd suddenly use me as an excuse not to see them. They would ask if I could be sent away.

I felt neglected a lot by my mom considering the 12 hour shifts she worked and the only time we could be together--the weekends--she usually devoted to going to clubs and hooking up with these men. When I expressed this fact to my father, he just said that my mom deserved to have a life too. I'd have to concede that he was right...mom being happy just meant that I wouldn't get to see her.

I often felt like neither of my folks wanted me there. Like I was an obstacle despite fervent reassurances...I just didn't see it.

The physical abuse. Well, one Halloween I had a big, big bag of candy. I would never eat it all and my older cousins came over while she had went out somewhere, so I said sure they could have it. When mom came home and found out, she threw me on the bed and beat me. Open hand slaps on the bed yelling at me. Over candy. We drove over and got the bag back. I still have no idea to this day why she beat me over that and neither does she.

The second time, I'm actually not sure about. I just remember her hitting me...a lot. For no reason again I'm guessing.

I hardly ever discuss this with mom. She feels guilty, like dad--but unlike dad, mother feels quite guilty it seems and usually our conversations end up getting nowhere--as in, the focus is no longer on me feeling horrible but how I'm "punishing her" because I feel getting beat up by her is sort of fucked. She's depressed, she cries, she yells at me, but it's usually not about me. I don't feel pity so much as I just get annoyed at that shit so we avoid it. The only time that happened is when she made me attend counseling where I didn't have a choice--and of course all the above happened. The counseling was because no one could figure out why I was cutting myself at 12. I had to scoff at that. I continued until some point last year, for some reason I was rarely angry/upset enough. See, I quit on my own. I know what the fuck's wrong with me, it's you two (and the rest of my family you know).

And that's pretty much it. Why does it take so long to forgive? I wonder if it's more taboo to talk about mothers abusing children (unless it's something drastic like, say, murder) because they are seen as the "caregivers". I guess in a sick way it's easier to explain fathers abusing children because men are more aggressive no? I think that's why it's so hard to excuse anything's she done. I seem to be a great deal annoyed with mom's actions that I am with dad, not because I love either one of them any less or more than the other, but because...mothers don't fucking do that, do they? I may not ever...

They don't want your apologies, Burners

You may have heard this story by now, I found it via Stuff White People Do myself but the comments from debunkingwhite make me feel so much better.

You absolutely have to read this story if you've ever cared about anything in the world:

Burners Torched Over Native Party

Some choice quotes:

Caapi said his team's hearts were in the right place and they did not intend to steal Indian culture. "I think everyone here and inside of our community at large know how poorly promoted this event was in its iconography, in its text, in the affiliations and implications. I think perhaps after tonight the intent will be recognized for the good heartedness it was and the absence of anything resembling cultural appropriation."

But for every apology, the group often inserted a foot into its mouth. Some Burners said they'd been trained by shamans to build altars, others sang racist childhood songs, or noted the lack of Native Americans at Burning Man (which occurs on an Indian reservation). Others asked for Indian help with their Burning Man projects, prompting a Hopi woman to go off.

"I'm trying to articulate my feelings as best I can without completely losing it," she said. "What we do is not an artistic expression. And you don't have artistic license to take little pieces here and there and do what you want with it. That's something you people don't understand, probably never will understand.

"Name your little villages whatever you want, but don't ever associate it with Native Americans. Call it the Crystal Ranch or something. Call it the Mars Ranch. If you want to be spiritual — go be a Druid or something."

That's pretty much it. I am not kidding you, I laughed out loud in real life. Sure it's cruel, but goddamn I hate over privileged fake-liberal white folks, especially when they REFUSE TO RECOGNIZE THIS. These Native American groups do not WANT your apology and from all looks of it, they don't care. They don't care about your tears because you didn't care about their anger. Now they're calling you to your face and you're sad? Go the fuck home.

Do you want to know why? Because in the end, you ultimately get it so incredibly wrong:

"Elaine" on Tribe.net writes: "Dude, don't kiss anymore ass! [Visionary Village] did nothing wrong in the first place. This whole thing is blown completely out of context and out of control. The public apologies shouldn't have to be made. Its not like the theme camp was screaming some Michael 'Kramer' Richard shit at the tribe. Sorry this is just ridiculous."

Anquoe says the non-party was a rare example of effective conflict resolution that is unique to the Bay Area, and he commends Caapi for their actions. Those bystanders who claim overreaction should reverse the situation.

"If Indian people put together a fund-raiser advertised to benefit the Catholic Church where we did our version of a Catholic Church ceremony and there wasn't actually a fund-raiser — you know what the reaction to it would be in the white community!?" he asked. "People would take legal actions against us, it would be crazy, it would be far beyond not having a party. As it is, these kids didn't get to have their party and they had to listen to Indian people being angry and that's about right for the injury they caused the Native community."

Caapi maintains that the fund-raiser for the Native American Church was genuine, and will be providing the names and phone numbers of the event's beneficiaries as soon as he can collect them all.

I'm not Native American. Well, not fully anyway, I do have some Native American blood. So I won't act like I speak for Cherokee or Blackfoot, or any repressed minority but myself. But this is the type of shit I think of whenever I see any half assed apology from the majority to a minority group, whether it be from Congress or Mrs Johnson down the street. You don't mean it and not only do you not mean it but you fully continue to BANK your rights to warp culture wherever you go and SEE NOTHING WRONG. You, Oh Privileged One, can't seem to wrap your head around ANGER at being kicked in the gut so many times and for what.

Shit like this is why I don't care or trust.

See, I started out laughing then I just got pissed. I can laugh again though, white kids crying over not being able to appropriate Native American culture? That's my shit.

To gripe or not to gripe over American Lit (to my white friends)

Sup from subspace,

It seems I've been in a bit of a posting drain lately. Oh sure I still update daily with something random as hell, but the drafts are piling up and I've just been unmotivated as...I don't know WHAT.

Saturday I was so unmotivated I had to have someone go eat with me. It was sadness. More on that in a second.

As you good folks know, either via twitter or my posts (scroll a few months for the hate), I hate my AmLit class. I unabashedly sit in the very front row RIGHT IN FRONT of the man and threaten him with my eyes. I meanmug and side-eye at the risk of going crosseyed or permanently blind. He probably senses this as we rarely make eye contact anymore. I've totally disengaged from this shit not only because of our caucasian malecentric reading list (I've seen him purposefully skip over women and people of color, just cause) but because of his...well, is it privilege to just sort of assume that everyone in the class has a grandparent that grew up/owns a farm therefore we're all instilled with intricate agricultural knowledge? I kid you not. You know what, fine. Maybe I just hate him in general.

(Okay, granted my dad IS from the country side...but that's not a farm)

The professor rambles on and on and has developed a tendency to start injecting religion where there is none indicated. I can't even pinpoint anymore the issues I have with that class, and I decided a while ago to just stop complaining and read something else, since my grade is currently invincible in that class. I fully believe in the power of a library and my ability to just find random stuff to read. I can't just wait for diversity, I gotta go get it. That's a lesson in life for everyone!

Anyway, I've vaguely touched on this issue, mostly to white friends of mine, because it seems (unfortunately in a lot of cases) white friends are all I have in the moment. Woefully unaware white friends. I haven't dared mentioned my displeasure with the whitecentric list but, oh, last week it came out to a person I don't particularly like, and she giggled.

"Who are more people going to know, Robert Frost or WEB Dubois?" she said behind a glass. Not missing a beat I laughed in turn and said, "You should know both" and kept right on going. She faltered, I glared.

Huh. Well going back to Saturday, as I was leaving with my dining buddy we stopped upon another friend of ours working the info desk. As we were talking we got around to discussing our English classes, and I again brought up my displeasure with my AmLit reading list in addition to the fact that the teacher just sucks. When I exclaimed "WHITE DUDES!" and boring not too long after, yeah I got a bit of a look. Then one of the girls just went on to say some mildly racist/fatphobic junk later on in the conversation (don't worry, I called her out...what the fuck is speaking Asian?)

I'm beginning to wonder if even soft activism is just lost on the people I tend to associate with--again I guess because I'm their safe negro--and if I should just give up. You see, I have no choice but to live my skin color daily. It kind of follows me around and the bad things that go with my skin color? Also stalk me. I wish I could just shed it and hang it up on the door every night but sadly I can't. Things stick out to me when I see myself unreflected in my most favorite of subjects, let alone when I know damn well there's a good portion of our reading dedicated to people of color. I suppose I'm impatient. I guess we'll never get to it. I suppose I shouldn't care so much since I'm going to have to take Am Lit I next semester, and I should be lucky to get slave narratives.

So I go on and on. But I'm a little tired of bringing up the itty bitty and the biggie things that irritate ME so much only to have either laughter as a result or at the least a subtle "what's wrong with you? Why can't you be quiet? What are you talking about?!" in response.

Such is the life of people of color, we seem to be the only ones that understand that. And yeah, my phrasing is correct and you read me right.

Ehhh. As carefully as I try to pick my classes, it seems I'm benefiting more and more from just tuning out of them and learning things on my own, as it usually is. Sigh.

Random movie flashback: Tales from the Hood

Or: Get your activism on...or else.

Part I of II, I felt it was getting a little long as it turns out I had more to say about the movie than I originally thought. Oh well! Gives me something to do.

So, I believe Saturday or Sunday morning according to my Twits, I had a random movie flashback and found myself watching Trilogy of Terror. You know what the fuck I'm talking about, what with the frightening dolls and Karen Black. Unfortunately, it still terrifies the life out of me, it seems. I was eating my grapes aghast the whole time. Just...uuuugh.

I really like anthology movies & TV shows done right, unfortunately they rarely are *sigh* I think the last good anthology type I've seen was Three...Extremes, and that fucked me up for some time as only asian horror can do.

Anyway, while I was feeling nostalgic, I drifted over to my another movie from my childhood. I kid you not, I think just about everyone I knew had this movie on tape somewhere in the house to unleash upon unsuspecting victims. And again it still scares the bejeesus out of me without much effort. If you didn't notice the title I'm talking about 1995's Tales from the Hood (as in, not the crypt you know). Goddamnit, it's something about little black dolls running after you that's just...unsettling as hell.

I've seen the movie again at different stages of my life, from being sheet-pissingly frightened as a child to being so-so apathetic towards it as an adolescent, to...being afraid of it again, I have no idea why. Umm...

I will tell you that there's something way deeper here besides little black dolls running after the KKK dude...the stories. Rusty Cundieff, who also directed Fear of a Black Hat and somehow found his way onto Chocolate News (I guess it's the David Alan Grier connection) and...just believe me when I say you know this dude--he manages to successfully, I think, combine supernatural horror with the horrors of reality.

What do I mean? Well, I mean the stories. Other than being a completely black cast (which is pretty rare for a horror anthology--shit, did I say rare, I mean never) I think this is what truly makes the movie stand out. If you haven't actually seen the movie before I won't spoil it too much for you, even though for the most part they're pretty straight forward. BUT...I just...weirdly contradicted myself, anyway--

The movie juggles several prominent & horrible aspects of the black community like gang violence, domestic abuse, drug abuse, and, of course, racism in different forms. The wrap-around story is that of three gang members on their way to pick up drugs from a funeral home (and they didn't question this, for real) and they get roped into hearing the mortician--played by the naturally frightening Clarence Williams III--and his strange tales. It's a weird set up that will have you either rolling your eyes half way through or still wondering WTF to the end but oh well. It's not a great movie or a perfect movie, but by damn it's original and pretty successful at being both scary (well, to me...dolls) and thought provoking.

The first story, Rogue Cop Revelation, is about extremely crooked white cops who take their new black recruit Clarence on patrol and the white cops end up beating a known (fictional) black civil rights activist to death and smearing his name posthumously. Clarence, who only sat by and watched this brutal beating and never reported it, ends up resigning and turning to demon booze to cure his, well, demons. Until a mural of the slain activist, Martin Moorehouse, compels him to bring his murderers to his grave for revenge, and zombie hijinks ensue.

I think this story probably ends up being the most successful because it's so damn close to life without going over the top, except for the, uh, zombie. Corrupt white cops killing a black man trying to make change? Minus the whole undead revenge thing (and the, uh, creative way in which one of the officers is killed) you can't tell me that shit doesn't sound awful familiar. The ending is also rather unexpected, in a good way...let's just say that no one really escapes Moorehouse's revenge, and it leaves you just thinking about it. It's not so much the undead soul that gets you, it's the fact that this DOES happen, sometimes right under our noses, always unfairly, and will unfortunately probably continue happening unless some serious change comes about *sigh*

The second story deals with domestic abuse and child abuse in a way I think is pretty damn believable. It's called Boys Do Get Bruised and it's about a little boy, Walter, dealing with a "monster" in his life. Well...I take that back, the story's believable but the way it's carried out kind of made me cringe at times. Mostly the teacher, I was wondering a few times where the hell he got off. And...yeah those signs of abuse were pretty damn obvious I thought. Goodness. The acting also just took a random dip in this piece. There's also a little not-totally-obvious hueism going on (dark skin=bad light skin=savior). Anyway, Walter finds a way to express himself through art, which proves to be deadly. Pretty good, but deadly. Boy musta had weak bones.

Aside from the annoying ass acting I found this also pretty successful in conveying its message. It's about a boy dealing with his abusive home life the only way he can--he draws the "monsters" he wants to destroy then crumples the paper up, effectively mangling them it seems. First he takes his vengeance out on a bully then on the real monster in his life. I felt particularly close to it because art & stories is the way I tried to express what was going on in my life at various times. I still remember the rather gruesome pictures of women and heads on stakes that I used to conjure *shudder* it's disturbing. The only place this fails I think is length. It's probably the shortest story and doesn't really bother to get all into the story, just abused boy & savior teacher. Not a lot to go on and it makes it pretty cliche. And the...uh...fight scenes. David Alan Grier was apparently using the force on people.

That's the first two stories...I'll talk about the other two later on in the week.

Ah, gay history erasure: Black Edition

So, for what's probably going to amount to be a pretty short post, I've thought about this a lot. What to say?

First off, I'm having a blog memory fail because I wanted to show you all a particular & interesting article I saw a few days ago that made me think of this...but now I can't find it *sad* goddamnit Xands.

AHAHAHAHAHA I FOUND IT. It's was Kai Wright's essay called "Queering Hansberry" here. The full essay is included with that link. Thank you very much Google.

That may turn out to be okay though because what I'm about to say isn't exactly new *shrug* as you may tell by the title. By damn I might just have to switch my major to history 'fore too long. It is a great interest of mine, by the way, even if I wouldn't call myself a buff. Is it so wrong to want to see all the facets of history represented equally?

History just focuses on the winners, no, and we are not the winners, that's for sure. If I had that blog entry on hand I wanted to show *sigh* this would make sense, but for the past couple of days I've been wondering about the black community and it's erasure of LGBT history. Specifically the black community because in this case, I mean we're doing it to ourselves.

When my history class last semester snuck (yeah I said snuck, do something about it) homosexuality into our lessons I was amazed and excited. Holy shit he just acknowledged the history of gays in the military. No shit! Too bad that professor gave such drama and is now gone. Then, as you know, I'm in African American history class now...

Part of our grade in that class is our ability to do oral¹ and we all more or less chose a topic in the beginning of the year--a person to give a report on. We ran a little late even for being a small class but I think everyone that needed to has performed, we've gone from Reconstruction to the Harlem Renaissance so we're about in the 50s now.

Now...the reports don't have to be terribly thorough, just THOROUGH ENOUGH for about 5 minutes. Fine. One person gave a report on Langston Hughes and I was...disturbed at a lot of info that was missing (again, thorough enough). But while I was taking notes I mused on the first time I heard that Langston is/might have been (jury's still out of course) a closeted gay. As well as his potential Communist ties, for some reason we just like to glide over that. Then another person gave a report on Claude McKay who was bisexual--again I wondered, "Huh." Then someone neglected to mention that Paul Robeson was blacklisted for alleged communist ties. WTF, pick up people.

The reports were thorough enough. I wondered after the class, a little before my migraine from hell, SHOULD the reports have mentioned Langston & Claude's respective homosexuality & bisexuality? Was it trivia or an important facet of both of their lives? Hmm.

Those are only two examples though...the blog entry I'm still looking for references Lorraine Hansberry, writer of Raisin in the Sun. Did you know she had LGBT community ties as well? If you did you knew better than I did...it seems that aspect of her life is just washed over.

It's pretty irritating and disturbing how easy it is to just wash over the gay & lesbian history of blacks. We're already marginalized for our skin color, just Cthulhu help you if you've got something else going on over there. People of color, it seems, are in general at more risk of coming out that closet than our white counterparts *shrug* it's not a great situation...with blacks especially it seems our strong community ties to the Church seem to be at the unfortunate root of it. Many of us take that "love the sinner hate the sin" garbage a little too far and people suffer.

It's a curious thing. I wonder if my African American History class will be open enough--by open I mean timewise--to include just a little LGBT history in our curriculum. As we get closer to the 60s & 70s it won't be as easy to deny it I don't think, it's got to come up in there somewhere. I hope it does.


_{Note¹: I'm actually worried about how often I can get away with saying that.}

Different is Bad

I did this post talking about Cat Cora and made another, shorter jokey (I assume they know I'm joking) post on Facebook demanding my friends (that pay attention) explain, in baby words, to me, what a gay person looks like.

We've already seen why that's so hard because GAY FOLKS LOOK LIKE EVERYONE ELSE.

But a comment popped up that I just need to accept that everything different isn't bad. I was going to continue the joke about different, in fact, being very bad as history has shown us, but I'm sleepy so I let it die.

But let's just be clear in a semi-serious manner that, being different is bad. It's very bad. Being different gets folks killed. If you don't meet the default you're pretty much fucked all your life regardless of those who love you, your success in life, how you love yourself. The world doesn't want you to exist, the problem is you do so it's sort of obliged to just let you...but not without grief.

This piece of misandry brought to you by the fact that I think I hate white balsamic vinaigrette X(

Fear of Dying.

Warning: Talk of death and suicide, and the futility of life. Actually...that's what the whole damn post is about. It's the weekend!



I am tired and this is the weekend, ergo this is bound not to be pleasant.

But.

I will tell you something I need to get off my chest.

I cannot wait to get out of my teen angst stage. I refuse to believe I will be a depressed individual for the rest of my life. I've changed and I will change again.

And yet the more things change the more they stay the same.

I'm not sure how to put this other than I'm tired of being fed up with the world around me and myself. I'm tired of seeing others as untrustworthy. I don't want to hate. I don't want to drown in self pity. I don't want to die.

Let me tell you about death. I had a kooky dream Thursday night/morning no doubt brought on by the fact that I had voraciously consumed not one, not two, but FIVE PACKS OF M&Ms.

The dream was this. I was the Angel of Death. Aaand I killed Mark Sandman. In his sleep. Umm.

I helped him write a song, a couple that appeared on Morphine's final album, the Night (I remember one being "The Way We Met", dunno the other). It was a fairly lucid dream because at the end I remember telling myself, "wait, he didn't die in his sleep, he died on stage!"

Anyway, the dream, I was helping Mark write awesome tunes and while we were talking at some point he asked me if I was tired. I don't remember my response, but then he began taking on a little sickly and I ordered him to bed. I tucked him in (coz I like doing that) and we spoke again...I ended the dream by saying, "The next time I see you it'll be for that final sleep."

"...Damn," I thought upon waking. "The fuck was that."

That was a dream. I don't put much stock in chocolate-induced dreams pretty much for that reason, because I am neither the Angel of Death and nor do I wish any harm on musicians that are already dead.

But like all good Morbid Folks (which is going to be the name of my shoe line I swear) death enters my mind a deal. Being an atheist...or better yet, just being me for some reason I often encounter the question of just what happens after death, I'm so smart. My usual answer is "Just that" or "What the fuck you think happens?!"

I think about it. It's a useless question really, I don't care what happens after death, I'll be fucking dead. I used to be awful determined to find out just that though, either that or prove my immortality to the world, being a former teenage Weekend Para Suicider. That is to say, I used to cut. A lot. First in attempt to kill myself (then there was that one time I drank rubbing alcohol, pills, etc...) then, honestly, for the hell of it. It felt nice compared to everything else.

/soul baring

I stopped suicide after I realized, I was deathly afraid of dying. I didn't want to really leave the earth because I didn't know what would happen next, atheism or not. Not because I might be wrong and end up in that ol' Lake of Fire with the Old Man, not even worrying about my family and...uh, acquaintances, but just because I wouldn't be LIVING anymore. I'd be dead. Deceased. No more. I'd be an ex-Xands. But overtime I lost my fear of death and haven't really regained it.

What drove me nuts about our little shooting incident in January is just how close I had seriously come to dying. If I'd gone and taken a nap I'd have a bullet lodged somewhere in my abdomen. I thought perhaps it was just adrenaline taking over and I was in Co-Ops Mode or something, but days after the fact I realized...I didn't care at all. Perhaps it's just my fatalistic outlook that tells me, well if I had died that would have been it, but I didn't so oh well. Then I had to laugh at the irony that I'd nearly got what I wanted about 5 years ago, and all I had to do was go on the couch for that final sleep. Death is beautiful in it's simplicity, isn't it? Murder. Those men will never get caught you know, fact.

So yes, I am tired, Mr Sandman, I get tired a lot. I am the Angel of Death and sometimes I wish I could crawl into my own tomb.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

More LGBT Cinema, I needs it

I do. Last night (or I THINK it was nighttime) while reading this movie review and this interesting post, I realized that it's been a while since I've delved into the world of gay cinema. Not movies that just so happen to have gay folks in it, but movies actually centering around LGBT (and sometimes Q), FUBU¹ movies.

The last movie that I can actually recall that would fall into that vein, I'm pretty sure it was either the Celluloid Closet (which you should all watch) or Edward II by Derk Jarman. That movie actually just frightened me, which is strange because I'm perfectly okay watching Caravaggio, which should actually scare me more. Why did it scare me? I...I don't want to go there right now *sniffle*

Anyway, I have seen plenty of movies that fall into "well there's gays IN it" category and TV that does the same. But I've been kind of miffed at LGBT cinema for reasons I can't quite describe. I thought maybe it's because there's a, uh, lack of gay movies that cater to my unique experience. That's true but by damn there's a LOT of movies that don't cater to anything remotely resembling my experience, and clearly the only way for me to remedy that is make my own damn movie.

But that's not really it. I actually hate things that relate to myself, like movies and books. They just annoy me for that simple fact. So why am I miffed. It's strange. Is it because I'm not watching the right movies? Has my love for trashy movies spoiled/numbed me? It seems that at least for a while the movies I was watching catered so heavily to a single demographic (paging all white gay men and hetero women) that I just got tired. They weren't catering to my experiences but they weren't to anyone else's either. Bleh!

So I guess in the end it is just lack of diversity, or my inability to find any. With subject matter, actors, techniques, just boo. Boo on all of it!

Fortunately for my sanity, I heard about this movie called Little Ashes, which is the tragic story of the brief affair between surrealist and all around lovable kook Salvador Dali and his colleague Federico Garcia Lorca. Fascinating! That's a story you never hear, like, ever, unless you're addicted to Wikipedia like I am and/or study this shit. Will that cure my apathy for LGBT cinema, probably not in one fell swoop, but shit, I'm buying 10 DVDs to show me support.



_{Note¹: For us by us. Yes that's what the clothing line meant.}

Nigerian gay activists speak against gay marriage ban

Oh dear, just when you were beginning to lose faith in America, here come the rest of the world.

On that note, why does BBC have to make everything a damn noun?

Nigerian gay activists speak out

Nigerian gay rights activists have told the country's lawmakers that a new bill to outlaw same sex marriage would lead to widespread human rights abuses.

The new law would mean prison sentences for gay people who live together, and anyone who "aids and abets" them.

The plea by activists was made to a public committee of the National Assembly which is discussing the bill.

It is already illegal to have gay sex in Nigeria but the new law would extend police powers to arrest suspects.

"This bill is not necessary, we see no reason why people should be criminalised," Rashidi Williams, 23, of the Queer Alliance of Nigeria told the committee.

"I did not choose to be gay. It is trial enough to live in this country, we should not create more laws to make us suffer," he said.

Uhhh tell it. It is, in fact, hard out there for a homo. Even worse in Africa where some countries still hold homosexuality an offense punishable by DEATH.

I'm really mad at the picture of the children wearing the "Same sex marriage is unnatural and unafrican" t-shirts. Why do we indoctrinate the children this way? Well, why do we treat human beings this way.

Can you imagine outlawing gay sex? Well, it'd be hard if some states didn't choose to do that in the land of the free & the home of the brave *side eye* the connections to the church in this article also make me increasingly ill. I really am looking forward to the fall of religion from a roaring cry to a barely heard whisper.

What DOES a lesbian look like?

AKA Cat Cora is a lesbian. She's pregnant. She's pregnant AND a lesbian. And so is her partner.

Special note: My E key is being a petty bastard again, forgive any typos

When mama informed me of this devastating news last night/this morning, I was....

...ehhh?

I didn't know Cat was a sister in sappho. Oh well, there you go.

Mother, however, was flabbergasted. Cat Cora, she said, the Iron Chefess (I mad that right up) doesn't look like a lesbian. She just looks...serious.

After extensive rolling of eyes I asked mother, "What DOES a gay person look like?"

She answered quickly with an "I don't know", Cat just doesn't look like one.

And that's too bad BECAUSE SHE IS, SO SUCK IT. YOUR CHILDREN ARE IN DANGER.

Those pesky chameleon gays, infiltrating every walk of life and shit. Soon we won't know who's gay, who's bi, who's really a man or a woman! OH NOES.

Seriously though, why do people still hold these outdated ideals of what a gay person looks like. Sure, some of us do willingly follow the flamboyant limp wrist or ultra butch stereotype just to name a few, and that's fine, but when is it going to sink in that gays ALSO look like Mrs Jones down the street or the dude at Jiffy Lube fixing your car? WHEN, I ask, is it going to get through that gays, lesbians, transpeople, and anyone falling under the queer spectrum, as a whole, just look like regular normal folk?

We are people. We're all unique, we're all individuals (like lil snowflakes!), but we are PEOPLE. That's it. You can work on your gaydars and what not all you want but you need to own up to the fact that gays are human beings and look just like you, mama, daddy, auntie an'nem. That's pretty much it.

So yeah, I guess Cat Cora DOES look like a lesbian. Oh and about her being pregnant, I thought that made news last year anyway. I must be traveling through time and getting timelines mixed up and shit, again. Oops!

The Day I Was Unable to Do Oral

Or, There Goes My Last Chance at Straightness, Again.

Warning: TMI Alert & Rambling Awareness set for RED. Take the women, hide the children, run in circles, scream if you must.

So, I only bother putting that half-hearted "disclaimer" up just because this might get graphic. Shit, I've talked at length about sex, masturbation, made bestiality jokes about rabbits and cold twitchy noses (yeah try to sleep with that imagery). This might also being extremely hilarious and/or discomforting (read: awkwaaaaard) to folks that know me in real life so I'm giving you a fair chance.



Okay? Everyone gone? Alright let's talk dir-tay.

I do recall talking a bit about my first REAL relationship with a boy. I'm so not looking for those entries because that's not a particularly painful point at my life but I really do have to wonder just what I was doing. He was the first guy to show interest in me that I've ever shown a remote interest back. It's teenage dating y'all. How serious was I? You'll see in a minute.

I knew OF this guy as he'd gone to my middle school and he knew of me. It was the first day of a new school year and for some reason I talked to him in the stairwell. He was funny and found me funny (everyone does). That particular year was grievously stupid for me in terms of school years so it was nice to have someone who made me laugh, to ease the tension of dealing with punk ass teachers, whack ass principles, and jivin' motherfuckin' guidance counselors (who neither guided nor counseled).

So long story short, after a few initial mis-starts we started "dating". I put that in quotes because at a certain stage we were still just hanging out, more or less, now with the added benefit of making out and groping. Until he learned that I actually just lived down the street from him. Ohhh deeeear~

Understand that no matter how comfortable I am right now, I'm probably going to be figuring out where I lie on the sexual identity plane all my life. I can't. I've settled into being bisexual because it at least allows me to admit I like teh wimmens while the general assumption is that I like guys as well. And that's fine with me even if it's not particularly true. I just don't feel like I'm sexually attracted to guys. When I mentioned the fact that I had caught me a mans, my brother remarked that at least it wasn't a girl (and fuck him by the way). I felt, for a rushed few months, that this was a great chance for me to prove to my family that indeed I was not a freak of nature and perfectly capable of being "normal". Which, as it turned out, is WROOOONG.

This particular guy was a great ego boost since he made me feel wanted even if I felt dubious about his intentions the whole time, and turns out I was right anyway--that's actually a story for another day, and you will laugh hard at it. But the fact is, sure he just wanted to zoom zoom in the whatever--sex. It was a little unnerving but I have to admit I was kind of okay with it. Until I was expected to...

PERFORM.

It came up that maybe we should do this sex thing. No real pressure, I knew how to resist him and put him the fuck out of my house if need be. I'd like to consider myself well informed enough with sex, and at least he had the decency to have a condom on hand. And sure I was curious. But not on the first date homeboy.

So the first date went by and he had to evacuate my premises before I laid hurting on his ass. Second one too. About our 2.5 date (yes it was a half) the issue came up again and I near successfully pulled off a hand job. I felt great. I'd gotten a guy hard and almost made him orgasm! And penes (yeah I know the plural for penis, I'm a geek) feel funny! I say near successful because, no joke, my arm was hurting too much to fully bring him off. I still felt great though staring at his near-orgasm face. I rocked for about 5 minutes.

Later on in the course of our semi-date, I finally decided that maybe I wasn't quite ready for vaginal penetration. He was disappointed sure but naturally there are other ways to get off--like a boob job. Sadly, I have itty B-cups and I'm short so that didn't work out so well. Finally oral came up.

Now...get this. I can receive oral all day long and had nooo problem with that and I don't think I ever will. But me being expected to PERFORM made me realize that in order to make this equal--and I'm all for equality--I'd have to put a penis in my mouth.

Needless to say I was a bit...daunted. Uh, he was pretty large (thus my hand hurting). But after some debate I thought I'd give it the college try anyway and put my lips on it and...

...promptly gagged. What the fuck was that horrible salty taste?! AUUUGH!

I looked and realized my tongue had landed right on the so-called pre-cum aka Cowper's fluid aka God's Way of Telling Me To Repent. I wasn't expecting it to taste like 3 years of salt off someone's brow though. Ugh ugh ugh! I thought if I held my breath for a moment it'd take away the taste but auuuugh it didn't work. I didn't mind the taste of flesh so much as I did THAT. Auuugh! How do other girls (you know, THOSE girls I guess) and gay guys do it, I wondered in awe!

Apparently I did semi-good and much like the hand job couldn't quite bring him off (did I mention my mouth hurt?). He didn't much seem to mind providing oral for me though so it was all good. At least I tried!

It wasn't just the horrible "pearly fluids" that I hated though. It was...everything. The weight, the texture...the feeling of it sliding in and out and feeling like, of all things, a failure despite his insistence that I wasn't. We tried it a bunch of different ways--lying down, standing up, in the shower (hoping the water would take away that aauuuugh taste) and nothing seemed to work. It felt like my Baptist training was coming back and I was having a biblical freak out, even though I didn't mind his penis everywhere ELSE on me that much. I probably wouldn't have even minded it directly in my eye compared to sucking on it.

I was still disturbed, a little. A lot of times if I can envision myself doing something, I can do it fine--this works a lot with drawing and essay writing especially, but, a penis is neither a micron pen nor a pencil so no matter how much I saw myself enjoying giving him a blow job, in reality I just could not. I felt guilty! He could pleasure me just fine but I couldn't seem to return it and that was selfish of me wasn't it? What on earth was wrong with me?

So as it turns out, of course I'm not the only woman with this issue or even the only person. Some of us just can't tongue-lash our lovers like that. It might have even just been that particular penis, but in the end it came about that I just don't like to give oral. That relationship disintegrated anyway so maybe it's for the best that I couldn't so readily hand myself over to him completely. Perhaps one day I'll find that super special penis or even that awesome fountain of youth vagina, but for now it just makes a funny story.

That's too conflicty, let's not discuss it

So, while I was working on revising my race & hip hop post I went off on a bit of a tangent and decided that, instead of bogging my taste of fame down with it, I just...made another post. Coz I do that! It's not very much, but really, you know what I'm tired of? Inconsistency.

I'm a lazy bastard and often times, admittedly, I don't like a lot of confrontation. SOMEtimes. Then there are sometimes I just don't care, like when it's something important to me. There are just some conversations that need to be had. So it annoys me a little bit (read: a lot) when folks try to wiggle out of conversation claiming it's "too divisive".

It's actually bigger than that though. When people decide to just flat out IGNORE issues because, as they claim, it's too conflicty for them. This is rather self-defeating and conflicts with the good ol' American way of individualism and bootstrap-y-ness. When you dodge things and suggest that if we just ignore them they'll go away, do you realize what you're saying?

Let's take our other favorite topic, queerness. I want to say homosexuality but I think queerness is more encompassing in this case. But let's start with gays. You have folks on either side--pro gay and anti gay. They fight. But have you ever heard the people that basically plug their ears and claim that it's way too divisive and we shouldn't even talk about it? I wonder if these folks can hear what they're saying, sometimes, and realize how stupid they sound.

"Divisive" is not an excuse. Everything is "divisive" one way or another and sweeping it under the bed like it isn't there is just self-defeating. The issue doesn't vanish, it swells like a wound. You probably didn't even know you had that wound until one day it gets infected and it itches and hurts, and suddenly you have to DO something about it or bye-bye limb, no? (Then of course you have the people that just say "Fuck it" and cut the limb off...soooo...)

It's a silly mentality. Nothing is just going to vanish into thin air because you say it is, but at the same time if we keep talking about it, it's not going to go away either. Until you fix it. So what to do, what to do...

Me, personally, I'm off to write more kinky short stories and eat. It's productive!

Run, don't walk, to the Tell It WOC Speak blog carnvial

Shit, I knew there was something I forgot to shamelessly advertise today.

If, at some point, you've ever thought for a moment that you love me, or at the very least don't hate me a lot, I implore you to drop by and stay a while at Tell It WOC Speak. Created by Renee of Womanist Musings it's a blog carnival featuring writing by women of color and allies.

To better explain, the opening paragraph why not:

Welcome everyone to what I hope will be the first of many blog carnivals dedicated to the voices of women of colour and our allies. In every sphere of life women of colour are marginalized and exploited. Often, when we attempt to engage to change our circumstances we are silenced.

This carnival is our attempt to give voice to our shared issues. We have a strong history of activism and organizing and it is in this vein that we have chosen this space to highlight the various ways we have attempted to carve out a niche in the online world. We shall not be silenced, and our dreams shall be realized. We are women of quality and worth.

I'm so ridiculously happy that this came about and all the topics covered & authors covering them are looking excellent. So let us run, not walk and go get ourselves some of that elusive awareness.

Masturbation: it's not a big deal...

...or is it?

So, my dear mama reminded me of why we can't talk about shit with each other. Earlier in the year I told you we tried to have the dreaded sex talk and it went...alright. For a minute she seemed okay talking to me about sex. For a MINUTE. Then I went back to school and she must have been so relieved that we didn't have to press the issue anymore. I guess.

So tonight I tried to talk about masturbation. And she FREAAAKED OOOOUT.

Now, I don't take much pleasure in making my mother cry over the phone. I wasn't even EXPECTING that. She can handle my jokes about masturbation, hell, she has quite a few toys of her own and it's sort of an open secret. She was even alright breaking her comfort zone to talk to me about sex if only briefly. But for some reason the subject of me touching my "naughty places" blew her miiind, maaaaan.

Let me explain the scenario and tell you why I don't really feel bad about it.

So we're talking on the phone, calling Danz a punk bitch and going generally well. Then she mentions going to Nashville's only Hustler Hollywood store outlet and how slammed the parking lot was with couples for Valentine's Day. It's around here that I make the joke of wanting a rabbit. She thinks I mean the animal, then Labbits, then finally she realizes I mean THOSE RABBITS. Ohhh nooo.

So she yells at me about it. I'm...taken aback. I didn't say anything about my own habits, just would she buy me a rabbit. Make note that I actually DO NOT want a rabbit vibe, I just used it as a generic term for a vibrator. I was completely joking about her buying me one but I didn't expect her to yell. Because I can't let shit go, I asked well what if I bought me own.

Well...yeah, that's about the time that I apparently upset her so much (because I "don't need anything like that") that she starts crying. Then sobbing. At this point I'm just blinking over the phone, flabbergasted. I had no idea why she was crying about it. Again, nothing about her or my own masturbation habits, just talking about apparatus. For some reason this is...distressing? I wasn't feeling it...

...But don't forget, I'm inexplicably pissed at the world this week, so I ask why it's okay for her to masturbate but not me. She doesn't give an answer. I press it gently as I can then she insists that I don't need anything like that.

Fine. No, it's true, I don't need a rabbit, or any "device" to masturbate with but my own hands and maybe the shower when I'm feeling fearless *shudder* _{oh god} But I still don't get it. I looked back over that "dreaded talk" and remembered that she was the one telling me to "save myself" for marriage, despite the fact that she didn't. She had me AND my brother out of wedlock so I suppose I'm supposed to get a "do as I say not as I do" vibe but I DON'T GO FOR THAT SHIT, and I've expressed this. Why is it so hard? I really don't get it. Masturbation's not a big deal to me. I don't think it should be to ANYONE. It used to be when I felt so guilty about it, to the point where I couldn't even enjoy an orgasm because I would freak out about not being "normal" (this is long after I went agnostic/atheist too) but seriously, who the hell am I hurting when I touch myself? It's natural and it makes you feel good.

I still don't get why she freaked out. Is it that her daughter might finally be interested in sex? (shock and horror) Is it the phallic nature of the rabbit vibe? (which is actually why I don't want one but I didn't tell her that *cough my fault*) What? I can't ask her any of this because our views on sex are so fundamentally different, and I wish they weren't. I want her to talk to me and it makes me sad that her bravery only comes in spurts. It's also silly.

I wouldn't call myself all that liberal on sex, but it seems that my mom holds such a strange, twisted "traditional" view on it that I'm honestly kind of confused on what I'm supposed to be doing. How can one acknowledge having multiple partners (not really poly) but still spin me some outdated shite on masturbation & sex? Seriously. Again I can't discuss any of this with her because, like this phone call, she will freak the hell out.

And this is why I really don't get in to it and just keep my views to myself. If she wants to do the "do as I say not as I do" thing, whatever. I try to be as honest and open as I can with my mom because she's like my best friend and she doesn't even have to hear about me having sex or masturbating--even I wouldn't go that far, to describe my habits to her. I just wish we could be more open about the possibilities that are so plainly there, ALL THE TIME, just not once every blue damn moon. Shit, living is damn difficult these days.