I am a crier. I always have been. I've spent most of today crying on the couch. For three reasons.
First off, I'm watching Julie and Julia which is quite possibly one of the most uplifting movies about living life with dignity, poise, and purpose. If you haven't seen it, it's about a woman in crisis who saves herself from herself via an epic quest through Julia Child's recipes. I think Julia Child's life is inspirational--an overly tall, gangly, outspoken (and sonorously offputting) woman conquering the world by finding purpose. And then there's my whole "I'm always mind-numbingly, pin-prickly aware that everything comes to an end" shtick that is boiled down to its essence by movies that end in an epilogue. Sappy feelings mean that I shed a tear or two. Almost always.
But this movie is particularly prescient today because the dignified, poised, and purposeful life theme practically bangs on the strings of my current life plan--the thing that is, in my mind, supposed to make fill my life with dignity, poise, and purpose. In the past two weeks I've received four rejections to PhD programs and two rejections to full-time jobs in the area. It hurts to admit that, even in writing on a blog that I rarely write in and is rarely read by anyone. I think it hurts because there is some crazy idea that, in this country, if you can't accomplish your dreams, there is something acutely wrong with you. Right now I feel stalled, like my dreams aren't happening. And I feel empty and worthless.
The third reason is always the underlying reason behind my tears--my mother. On days like today, when the bubble of hope starts rapidly deflating leaving behind empty feelings, I want to talk to my mother. I want to know what she would say to me. The world was different when she was alive--I was younger, floating in the carefree years of youth where there are very few occasions for rejection if you work hard.
It's not like that these days. And so I'm waiting for one more decision from one more school and I'm going to be trying very, very hard to wait with something resembling dignity, poise, and purpose because I can't keep waiting around for my mother to spring back to life or for a PhD program to decide I've made the cut or for a college to decide I'd be a fantastic teacher.
Or maybe I'll just find a bottle of wine.
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Friday, March 11, 2011
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
and that's life
When I get home, I going to swing by Barnes and Noble and buy a book for my mom. I saw several listed in the Mother's Day spread in Entertainment Weekly. They even had a section of books listed for "Mom's who like to read." That's my mom. It's been cold lately but I am sure, when I get home, it will be sunny out, and my mom's flowers will be in full bloom, and there will be just enough of a breeze to waft the pages of our books as we read together. I'm going to bring some of that Darjeeling tea I just discovered. She isn't a huge tea drinker, but this variety is just right. Not too dark with just enough of a fragrance to it. She's going to love it. Getting the tea will be my job and each time I get up to refill our cups, our dog Jules will look up inquisitively, only settling back down when I rejoin the peaceful afternoon with fresh tea and a few cookies to share. I will be in such a good mood, I might even bring him a treat or two. Maggie, our other dog, will be too busy sniffing something in the yard to notice. We will sit there, the two of us, reading our books in silence, simply enjoying each other's company as we spend that lazy, sunny afternoon together.
That's what I wish even though I know it can't happen. It's a dangerous fence to walk--maneuvering between giving agency to those wishes and, on the other side, gritting your teeth, nodding slightly, and moving on with your life. Despite the danger of walking constantly between option A and option B, balancing between the two is, by far, the happiest alternative. Either side, without the other, would diminish in importance on its own. And that's life, reduced to its essence.
That's what I wish even though I know it can't happen. It's a dangerous fence to walk--maneuvering between giving agency to those wishes and, on the other side, gritting your teeth, nodding slightly, and moving on with your life. Despite the danger of walking constantly between option A and option B, balancing between the two is, by far, the happiest alternative. Either side, without the other, would diminish in importance on its own. And that's life, reduced to its essence.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
will you get in the car now, ma?
"Goodnight, Christy."
"Goodnight, Ma. [Long pause as Bridget Brown turns and walks toward the car. She turns back to look at her son.] Go on, I'm all right. Will you get in the car now Ma, I'm fine." [Bridget gazes at her son, unsure of her place with him, unsure of his place with the world. She turns, and enters the car.]
And so ends, or nearly ends, My Left Foot--the movie starring Daniel Day Lewis as a man with cerebral palsy. It is a movie I must watch alone. I spend the majority of it crying. Crying not for Christy or his tortured body, not quite crying for his mother, but, instead, crying for my mother and what could have been or would have been between us had she not been the one to go first.
For me, the movie is about two things. First, it is about a tortured soul. Christy grew up misdiagnosed as mentally disabled, fought until he could communicate first with his left foot, then through garbled speech, then through painting, then through better speech, then, finally, through words on a page. While I am not crippled, I am tortured. When I watch the movie, I think of growing up gay and not knowing it, knowing only that I was different. That I am "different." But, truth be told, even my head can't fully justify placing myself on the same level as Christy Brown. I am only able to manage the parallel when my mind slips gracefully into the movie's second subject--the love of a mother for her child. The movie's portrayal of this subject really gets under my skin.
This woman, played by Brenda Fricker (the homeless woman in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York), is astounding. There is not a second when she is not fretting over her son, shielding him from his alcoholic father, pushing him little by little into the world, saving money for a wheelchair, trying to find him help, and worrying about his mental well being. She is the spitting image of my mother in some physical characteristics, but mostly in her personality.
My sister told me the story once about my bike accident. I don't remember it--I was unconscious for a while. The last thing I remember was closing my eyes for a second too long. I woke up in a hospital room with imprints a bridge on my face. But my sister remembers sitting at the table with my mom and my dad while I was out on my bike. Somebody told someone where I lived and sent someone else running to tell my parents that I had been hurt. As my sister remembers it, my mom was up, keys in hand, and out the door before my sister or my dad could even process what was going on. My mom's baby was hurt. That's all she had to know.
That's sort of who she was. You didn't notice her much (odd because her physical stature was quite imposing) until you either made her mad or hurt her children. Then she was scary. Nobody messed with her babies. Sometimes I think that protecting her children, offering them the best she could, was what she lived for. She certainly didn't get the chance to live much for herself.
But the movie also portrays a son's love for his mother. There is a scene in the movie, early on, when young Bridget Brown is pregnant, near her due date, carrying young Christy Brown up the stairs to his bed. She is sweating, breathing heavily, her eyes betraying doubts about her physical ability. She gets Christy in bed and again, it's her eyes--they tell us there is a problem. "Christy, I have to go and make a phone. Stay there. We hear her stumble out the door, down the hallway, and fall down the stairs. Her cry as she falls is absolutely sickening. The look in Christy's eyes is panicked and charged with adrenaline. Using his one good foot, he drags himself off the bed, out the door, down the hall, and to the top of the stairs. Seeing his mother collapsed, he half falls, half crawls to the bottom of the stairs where he pounds on the front door until help arrives. Christy, poor, crippled Christy, saved his mother's life.
That scream Bridget Brown makes as she falls down the stairs--I have heard that cry before. When my mother was caught in public with the evidence of a failed surgery, she made that cry--a cry of defeat and worry, a cry of concern not for herself but for others. She was defeated, and she couldn't fight much longer. She couldn't fight much longer for herself but what I think really got her was that she couldn't fight any more for others. Standing with her in that store when she made that sickening, end of the rope cry, I was alarmed and charged with adrenaline. I couldn't do much, but I would like to think that, in some way, I saved her that day. I put her in the car, and drove her home. It seems presumptuous of me to assume that my very presence gave her comfort, but watching this movie helps me remember the things my mom did for me when she was strong. Helps me remember the relationship we had. Helps me think that she needed her children just as much as we needed her.
And then we are back to the end, or the near end, of the movie--the point when Christy tells his mother to get back into the car. The last conversation I remember with my mother was at least a week or two before she died. We were cleaning out boxes of her things from her sewing room. I uncovered my pillow and pillowcase from daycare--items she made for me with her own two hands. I was devastated. I had forgotten about those things and I was suddenly afraid that there would be no one to make me things when she was gone. "I really would like to stay, Marc. But I can't." It was said in a caring voice, and her eyes showed caring and strength. But looking back, I think I also remember something else behind the front. A look of uncertainty. She was unsure of my place in the world, unsure of her place with me, unsure of what was to come, and most jarringly, aware that she wouldn't be here to find out firsthand.
And so she's still around. Not in any definite presence but she haunts my days, my nights, my weeks, my months. I have good days and bad days and they fluctuate based on how much of your memory I am able to process. Well, mom, I am not fine but I am okay. So will you get in the car now, Ma? I'm fine. Or I will be someday.
"Goodnight, Ma. [Long pause as Bridget Brown turns and walks toward the car. She turns back to look at her son.] Go on, I'm all right. Will you get in the car now Ma, I'm fine." [Bridget gazes at her son, unsure of her place with him, unsure of his place with the world. She turns, and enters the car.]
And so ends, or nearly ends, My Left Foot--the movie starring Daniel Day Lewis as a man with cerebral palsy. It is a movie I must watch alone. I spend the majority of it crying. Crying not for Christy or his tortured body, not quite crying for his mother, but, instead, crying for my mother and what could have been or would have been between us had she not been the one to go first.
For me, the movie is about two things. First, it is about a tortured soul. Christy grew up misdiagnosed as mentally disabled, fought until he could communicate first with his left foot, then through garbled speech, then through painting, then through better speech, then, finally, through words on a page. While I am not crippled, I am tortured. When I watch the movie, I think of growing up gay and not knowing it, knowing only that I was different. That I am "different." But, truth be told, even my head can't fully justify placing myself on the same level as Christy Brown. I am only able to manage the parallel when my mind slips gracefully into the movie's second subject--the love of a mother for her child. The movie's portrayal of this subject really gets under my skin.
This woman, played by Brenda Fricker (the homeless woman in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York), is astounding. There is not a second when she is not fretting over her son, shielding him from his alcoholic father, pushing him little by little into the world, saving money for a wheelchair, trying to find him help, and worrying about his mental well being. She is the spitting image of my mother in some physical characteristics, but mostly in her personality.
My sister told me the story once about my bike accident. I don't remember it--I was unconscious for a while. The last thing I remember was closing my eyes for a second too long. I woke up in a hospital room with imprints a bridge on my face. But my sister remembers sitting at the table with my mom and my dad while I was out on my bike. Somebody told someone where I lived and sent someone else running to tell my parents that I had been hurt. As my sister remembers it, my mom was up, keys in hand, and out the door before my sister or my dad could even process what was going on. My mom's baby was hurt. That's all she had to know.
That's sort of who she was. You didn't notice her much (odd because her physical stature was quite imposing) until you either made her mad or hurt her children. Then she was scary. Nobody messed with her babies. Sometimes I think that protecting her children, offering them the best she could, was what she lived for. She certainly didn't get the chance to live much for herself.
But the movie also portrays a son's love for his mother. There is a scene in the movie, early on, when young Bridget Brown is pregnant, near her due date, carrying young Christy Brown up the stairs to his bed. She is sweating, breathing heavily, her eyes betraying doubts about her physical ability. She gets Christy in bed and again, it's her eyes--they tell us there is a problem. "Christy, I have to go and make a phone. Stay there. We hear her stumble out the door, down the hallway, and fall down the stairs. Her cry as she falls is absolutely sickening. The look in Christy's eyes is panicked and charged with adrenaline. Using his one good foot, he drags himself off the bed, out the door, down the hall, and to the top of the stairs. Seeing his mother collapsed, he half falls, half crawls to the bottom of the stairs where he pounds on the front door until help arrives. Christy, poor, crippled Christy, saved his mother's life.
That scream Bridget Brown makes as she falls down the stairs--I have heard that cry before. When my mother was caught in public with the evidence of a failed surgery, she made that cry--a cry of defeat and worry, a cry of concern not for herself but for others. She was defeated, and she couldn't fight much longer. She couldn't fight much longer for herself but what I think really got her was that she couldn't fight any more for others. Standing with her in that store when she made that sickening, end of the rope cry, I was alarmed and charged with adrenaline. I couldn't do much, but I would like to think that, in some way, I saved her that day. I put her in the car, and drove her home. It seems presumptuous of me to assume that my very presence gave her comfort, but watching this movie helps me remember the things my mom did for me when she was strong. Helps me remember the relationship we had. Helps me think that she needed her children just as much as we needed her.
And then we are back to the end, or the near end, of the movie--the point when Christy tells his mother to get back into the car. The last conversation I remember with my mother was at least a week or two before she died. We were cleaning out boxes of her things from her sewing room. I uncovered my pillow and pillowcase from daycare--items she made for me with her own two hands. I was devastated. I had forgotten about those things and I was suddenly afraid that there would be no one to make me things when she was gone. "I really would like to stay, Marc. But I can't." It was said in a caring voice, and her eyes showed caring and strength. But looking back, I think I also remember something else behind the front. A look of uncertainty. She was unsure of my place in the world, unsure of her place with me, unsure of what was to come, and most jarringly, aware that she wouldn't be here to find out firsthand.
And so she's still around. Not in any definite presence but she haunts my days, my nights, my weeks, my months. I have good days and bad days and they fluctuate based on how much of your memory I am able to process. Well, mom, I am not fine but I am okay. So will you get in the car now, Ma? I'm fine. Or I will be someday.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
i sleep with my baby blanket
I am twenty-three years old and I sleep with my baby blanket. It's an odd admission when I am not curled up in my bed with the blanket itself nearby. It's not something I would admit to when I am teaching or when I am out with friends pounding shots at a bar. It isn't an admission that fits into the adult world. Adults don't sleep with their baby blankets. Baby blankets are things we leave behind when we hit puberty and the attractions of the same (or opposite, if you must) sex lure us out of our heads and into the "real" world. It's not normal. It might not be sane. But I sleep, unabashedly, with my baby blanket.
My baby blanket is worn and tattered. It has holes in it and the silk edges are frayed and, in some places, falling off. My baby blanket didn't always look like this. When I was home for semester break I did some cleaning and I discovered a picture of me on the family vacation to Disney World--I was somewhere around five years old. In the picture I am sleeping on the bed, half the blanket spread out under me while the other half wrapped around me like the bun of a hot dog. I was shorter then; the blanket was longer than I was and its pale yellow color, much purer then than it is now, is offset by my hard-won Florida tan. That picture gave me pause. It isn't that I have always slept with my baby blanket so peacefully and tranquilly as I did then. My recent baby blanket dreams are a product of my recent past.
During the summer between my sixth and seventh years in school, I had a biking accident. It was stupid. The neighborhood kids and I used to dare each other to ride down a hill with our eyes closed. At the bottom of the hill is a bridge of sorts--the road crosses a viaduct and is hemmed in with rough-hewn two by sixes that once were emblazoned with reflecting plastic but now show their age with the rusted-out brackets for these mythical, long-gone notifiers of traffic. The dare was to not open your eyes until you sensed that you were on the bridge--the high, wooden walls of the bridge changed the sounds that bounced back to your ears. I was never brave enough to do it in front of my friends, so one day, while biking alone, I decided to prove to myself once and for all that I could do it.
I wrecked.
Crashed head on into the side of the bridge leaving imprints and scars of the two by sixes and the vacant reflector brackets. I was unconscious for a while, woke up in the emergency room for a minute, and then went back under until I had been moved into a room in the pediatric wing of the hospital. I recovered quickly, as children tend to do (what with the cells replicating so fast and all) and was back on my feet in no time. Until the first day of the seventh grade when my balls hurt so badly that I had to go to the office during first hour orchestra practice.
At the doctor I was told I had a potential hernia--likely the result of my biking accident--and that I would need surgery. Subsequent visits to specialists confirmed that I would, indeed, need to go under the knife. At the last check-in before surgery the doctor told me I could bring a stuffed animal with me into surgery to comfort me as I went under the anesthetic. I felt a bit foolish being offered such a surgery companion. After all, I was becoming a man. I was rapidly growing upwards and outwards. I had at least three combined hairs underneath my two arms. You don't offer "men" with at least three combined hairs underneath their two arms the chance to take a stuffed animal into surgery. Secretly, though, I was grateful. I was petrified at the thought of going in there alone. I didn't have a favorite stuffed animal, but, as I recalled, I did have a baby blanket stuffed away somewhere.
Somewhere along the line my parents realized that the heavy blankets and pillows that helped to lull me into sleep before surgery would be stripped off--along with my baby blanket--during the operation. Sending a baby blanket in could be risky. It might not come back to me. And so my mom went down into her sewing room and embroidered my name--Marc Malone--into the silk hem in a light, mint green. After surgery, the blanket came back to me safe and sound.
That is the story of how my baby blanket became emblazoned with my sure-to-be-famous-one-day name. It is not, however, the story of how my blanket came to rest in the bed of its now twenty-three owner. That came much later, after my mom had died of cancer. Her death came at a rather unfortunate time. I had long undertaken the balancing act of leading a double life. In public, I was straight. In private, on the internet, in chat rooms, I was gay. I was okay with that balancing act until she died. Something about her passing toppled the framework of my delicate lie. I wasn't comfortable in my skin. I hated me. I didn't know how to be both things--straight and gay--at once. Something needed to go.
That process was long and difficult. Probably because my mom's death was its impetus, I tried too hard to hold on to my past and fight off the future. I became depressed and friends talked me away from window ledges and laid down underneath my car so I couldn't escape with an armful of pills and a bottle of water. It was rough, but on the other side of it all I found a different way of being--a way of being strong and confident. While this stage of my life seems to (in terms of my body) weigh a bit more than the double-life-living me, I am better off here.
Somewhere along the line, however, in between therapy sessions and finding myself in literature, I recovered my baby blanket. Perhaps it was the first night I cried myself to sleep after I was ousted from my double-life. Or maybe it was just the first night I drank too much alcohol and needed something comforting to put me to sleep in a spinning bed. Regardless, I found what I needed. I found the appropriate amount of comfort in the past while staying firmly grounded in the present. My baby blanket is more than just a threadbare, shredded piece of fabric. It is, rather, the collection of all my life experiences. It is my trip to Florida as a five year old. It is my double-life. It is my mother's embroidery. It is my mother's death. It is my nearly-experienced trip off the seventeenth floor. It is my trip to Paris. It is coming out of the closet. It is moving to Iowa. It is pursuing a dream. My baby blanket is everything I was from birth to a second ago and it is what propels me towards the life that I want to lead, whatever that is.
My baby blanket is worn and tattered. It has holes in it and the silk edges are frayed and, in some places, falling off. My baby blanket didn't always look like this. When I was home for semester break I did some cleaning and I discovered a picture of me on the family vacation to Disney World--I was somewhere around five years old. In the picture I am sleeping on the bed, half the blanket spread out under me while the other half wrapped around me like the bun of a hot dog. I was shorter then; the blanket was longer than I was and its pale yellow color, much purer then than it is now, is offset by my hard-won Florida tan. That picture gave me pause. It isn't that I have always slept with my baby blanket so peacefully and tranquilly as I did then. My recent baby blanket dreams are a product of my recent past.
During the summer between my sixth and seventh years in school, I had a biking accident. It was stupid. The neighborhood kids and I used to dare each other to ride down a hill with our eyes closed. At the bottom of the hill is a bridge of sorts--the road crosses a viaduct and is hemmed in with rough-hewn two by sixes that once were emblazoned with reflecting plastic but now show their age with the rusted-out brackets for these mythical, long-gone notifiers of traffic. The dare was to not open your eyes until you sensed that you were on the bridge--the high, wooden walls of the bridge changed the sounds that bounced back to your ears. I was never brave enough to do it in front of my friends, so one day, while biking alone, I decided to prove to myself once and for all that I could do it.
I wrecked.
Crashed head on into the side of the bridge leaving imprints and scars of the two by sixes and the vacant reflector brackets. I was unconscious for a while, woke up in the emergency room for a minute, and then went back under until I had been moved into a room in the pediatric wing of the hospital. I recovered quickly, as children tend to do (what with the cells replicating so fast and all) and was back on my feet in no time. Until the first day of the seventh grade when my balls hurt so badly that I had to go to the office during first hour orchestra practice.
At the doctor I was told I had a potential hernia--likely the result of my biking accident--and that I would need surgery. Subsequent visits to specialists confirmed that I would, indeed, need to go under the knife. At the last check-in before surgery the doctor told me I could bring a stuffed animal with me into surgery to comfort me as I went under the anesthetic. I felt a bit foolish being offered such a surgery companion. After all, I was becoming a man. I was rapidly growing upwards and outwards. I had at least three combined hairs underneath my two arms. You don't offer "men" with at least three combined hairs underneath their two arms the chance to take a stuffed animal into surgery. Secretly, though, I was grateful. I was petrified at the thought of going in there alone. I didn't have a favorite stuffed animal, but, as I recalled, I did have a baby blanket stuffed away somewhere.
Somewhere along the line my parents realized that the heavy blankets and pillows that helped to lull me into sleep before surgery would be stripped off--along with my baby blanket--during the operation. Sending a baby blanket in could be risky. It might not come back to me. And so my mom went down into her sewing room and embroidered my name--Marc Malone--into the silk hem in a light, mint green. After surgery, the blanket came back to me safe and sound.
That is the story of how my baby blanket became emblazoned with my sure-to-be-famous-one-day name. It is not, however, the story of how my blanket came to rest in the bed of its now twenty-three owner. That came much later, after my mom had died of cancer. Her death came at a rather unfortunate time. I had long undertaken the balancing act of leading a double life. In public, I was straight. In private, on the internet, in chat rooms, I was gay. I was okay with that balancing act until she died. Something about her passing toppled the framework of my delicate lie. I wasn't comfortable in my skin. I hated me. I didn't know how to be both things--straight and gay--at once. Something needed to go.
That process was long and difficult. Probably because my mom's death was its impetus, I tried too hard to hold on to my past and fight off the future. I became depressed and friends talked me away from window ledges and laid down underneath my car so I couldn't escape with an armful of pills and a bottle of water. It was rough, but on the other side of it all I found a different way of being--a way of being strong and confident. While this stage of my life seems to (in terms of my body) weigh a bit more than the double-life-living me, I am better off here.
Somewhere along the line, however, in between therapy sessions and finding myself in literature, I recovered my baby blanket. Perhaps it was the first night I cried myself to sleep after I was ousted from my double-life. Or maybe it was just the first night I drank too much alcohol and needed something comforting to put me to sleep in a spinning bed. Regardless, I found what I needed. I found the appropriate amount of comfort in the past while staying firmly grounded in the present. My baby blanket is more than just a threadbare, shredded piece of fabric. It is, rather, the collection of all my life experiences. It is my trip to Florida as a five year old. It is my double-life. It is my mother's embroidery. It is my mother's death. It is my nearly-experienced trip off the seventeenth floor. It is my trip to Paris. It is coming out of the closet. It is moving to Iowa. It is pursuing a dream. My baby blanket is everything I was from birth to a second ago and it is what propels me towards the life that I want to lead, whatever that is.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
you go girl
It seems weird to title a post about feminism with "girl" but it's a queer saying along the lines of greeting a friend with "Hey girl, hey!" so I am sticking with it. Consider it inter-marginalized-group lingo.
When I applied to graduate school, my personal statement articulated that I am gay. Coming out to a graduate admissions panel made my ultra-liberal undergraduate advisor pause, get up from her desk, and run next door to talk to her partner Nick. Was it okay? Should I not bring that side of myself up in such a situation? Thankfully, Nick's expert advice (which, in the end, correlated with Dr. Capo's gut instinct) was that it wasn't necessarily a bad decision as long as it was in the right context, aka I wasn't using it to get a pity vote for admission. Had I been told to take it out, I wouldn't have. You see, according to my personal statement for my M.A. program, a critical literacy autobiography (for Dr. Blakely's Theory and Research in Composition course), and an autobiographical essay and analysis (for Dr. Post's American Autobiography course), recognizing I am gay was a critical turning point in my academic career. I wasn't lying. It was a part of the culminating moment when I turned away from my future as an Architect, when I turned away from the prospect of a high-paying job, when I turned away from a childhood dream. When I came out I did it because I knew the world wasn't fair but I also knew I wasn't about to accept it. Coming out, in a way, led me to study literature, to study who gets it and who doesn't get it and why, to study what it is like to be disenfranchised, to study how these systems of oppression are created and sustained.
Tonight, however, I watched A League of Their Own for the first time in years and I had a memory, or multiple memories that aren't really memories; I had a feeling. I remember watching that movie with my mom and my sister. I remember the night my mom took me to see First Wives Club. I remember growing up with a definite sense that whatever men could do, women could do it and do it better because, damn-it, you just can't keep a good fighter down.
Until tonight I had never really considered who planted the original seed of social justice in my head. It certainly wasn't mass media. The same people who, up until Philadelphia, refused to portray gay people in a positive light are running around behind the scenes supporting cultural hegemony for the (imaginary) man / woman binary. (Did you know that scientists have identified at least five biological sexes? Seems to me like this whole man paired with woman by the grace of God and biology is *tisk, tisk* a societal construction.) It certainly wasn't the church. A woman's place is serving her husband? Well that's a bunch of bull shit if you ask me. Not that marriage is inherently bad but if men can't hold their own then they might as well just nominate themselves for a Darwin Award and watch some more football.
I realized tonight that one of the best things my mom ever did was to pull a Donna Harraway and sneak around (consciously or unconsciously) blurring the boundaries in the minds of her children. Movies like A League of Their Own and First Wives Club instilled in me early a sense of the differences that society constructs, the way it uses people. Those movies (thanks, Mom) set me off on the right foot, primed me for the path I am on now. It was a nice revelation to have, and, in a way, it answered some of the questions that I just don't get to ask my mom.
What did she think of feminism? I never got to ask her before she died but I can picture her sitting at the dining room table with her coffee, reading her daily devotional. If I asked her that question she would have gotten that indignant look on her face, crossed her arms and spoke her mind in that matter of fact, I grew up slaughtering chickens and sewing my own clothing voice. "Women can do it too, Marc."
You go girl.
When I applied to graduate school, my personal statement articulated that I am gay. Coming out to a graduate admissions panel made my ultra-liberal undergraduate advisor pause, get up from her desk, and run next door to talk to her partner Nick. Was it okay? Should I not bring that side of myself up in such a situation? Thankfully, Nick's expert advice (which, in the end, correlated with Dr. Capo's gut instinct) was that it wasn't necessarily a bad decision as long as it was in the right context, aka I wasn't using it to get a pity vote for admission. Had I been told to take it out, I wouldn't have. You see, according to my personal statement for my M.A. program, a critical literacy autobiography (for Dr. Blakely's Theory and Research in Composition course), and an autobiographical essay and analysis (for Dr. Post's American Autobiography course), recognizing I am gay was a critical turning point in my academic career. I wasn't lying. It was a part of the culminating moment when I turned away from my future as an Architect, when I turned away from the prospect of a high-paying job, when I turned away from a childhood dream. When I came out I did it because I knew the world wasn't fair but I also knew I wasn't about to accept it. Coming out, in a way, led me to study literature, to study who gets it and who doesn't get it and why, to study what it is like to be disenfranchised, to study how these systems of oppression are created and sustained.
Tonight, however, I watched A League of Their Own for the first time in years and I had a memory, or multiple memories that aren't really memories; I had a feeling. I remember watching that movie with my mom and my sister. I remember the night my mom took me to see First Wives Club. I remember growing up with a definite sense that whatever men could do, women could do it and do it better because, damn-it, you just can't keep a good fighter down.
Until tonight I had never really considered who planted the original seed of social justice in my head. It certainly wasn't mass media. The same people who, up until Philadelphia, refused to portray gay people in a positive light are running around behind the scenes supporting cultural hegemony for the (imaginary) man / woman binary. (Did you know that scientists have identified at least five biological sexes? Seems to me like this whole man paired with woman by the grace of God and biology is *tisk, tisk* a societal construction.) It certainly wasn't the church. A woman's place is serving her husband? Well that's a bunch of bull shit if you ask me. Not that marriage is inherently bad but if men can't hold their own then they might as well just nominate themselves for a Darwin Award and watch some more football.
I realized tonight that one of the best things my mom ever did was to pull a Donna Harraway and sneak around (consciously or unconsciously) blurring the boundaries in the minds of her children. Movies like A League of Their Own and First Wives Club instilled in me early a sense of the differences that society constructs, the way it uses people. Those movies (thanks, Mom) set me off on the right foot, primed me for the path I am on now. It was a nice revelation to have, and, in a way, it answered some of the questions that I just don't get to ask my mom.
What did she think of feminism? I never got to ask her before she died but I can picture her sitting at the dining room table with her coffee, reading her daily devotional. If I asked her that question she would have gotten that indignant look on her face, crossed her arms and spoke her mind in that matter of fact, I grew up slaughtering chickens and sewing my own clothing voice. "Women can do it too, Marc."
You go girl.
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