It began to rain as I biked to school this morning. When I turned onto the road that takes me out of the city towards the rural-urban fringe where the trades campus is located, the sunlight that had shone earlier in the morning gave one last hurrah: A rainbow appeared across the sky ahead of me, with one end seeming to point to the college. Ha! I thought to myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned these past months, it’s that rainbows are not particularly welcome around here, at least not the kind that celebrate sexual and gender diversity.
Of course, I’m more likely to wave a black flag than a rainbow one, but still. The point remains.
Then I was thinking of the other meaning of the rainbow: There’s a pot of gold at the end, right? Which I suppose is really a more accurate reading of this sign, if I want to take it as one.
For the first time in my life, I’m developing a career. When I was younger, jobs were only for the purpose of paying rent and careers were for sell-outs bowing down to the man. When I was a university student, and then afterwards when I worked at a research institute, concepts and critical analysis were what mattered, and jobs depended on who I could impress and what grants they could secure. All of my previous ideas for my financial future were either unsustainable or impractical: Silkscreening instructor, website manager, stained glass artisan, bike mechanic, graphic designer, radio show host…
I don’t mean that these aren’t great possibilities for some folks, but given my skills and my personality, none of them were logical choices unless I was going to simultaneously invest a whole lot of energy into expanding my knowledge. Which I wasn’t: I wanted them to just happen.
Even the idea of becoming a university professor: I think I’d be a rad prof, but you know what? I hate writing academic papers. Loathe it, in fact. Producing my honours thesis was a horrid experience, one that I’d question repeating. So really, while a return to academia is on my to-do list, it’s waaaaaaaay down at the bottom, after “have kids” and “bike across canada” and even “learn to speak Irish”. Why on earth was I considering making a living as an academic?!!!
Which is a long way of saying that even when trade school hasn’t been welcoming and I’ve felt frustrated by the way things are organized around here, I’m very happy to be on my way to being an electrician. Being qualified in a trade excites me, because I’ll be useful for both my problem-solving ability and my dexterity, and for the most part will be able to depend on making a steady living wage based upon those skills.
Also, I’m rather good at it: I am proud to report that I just scored 98% on an exam regarding calculating ampacities for different conductor applications.
the cool thing about moving back into an apartment that used to be my home at an earlier point in time is that it’s easier to know what needs to change.
usually, i’m the kind of person who takes months to get a place feeling like it’s lived in. last time i moved into this apartment, it was july of 2008, and i still had full boxes and empty walls in december. the only reason the artwork finally got hung is that oats did it for me as part of helping me set up for my solstice party. (this is also amusing because a freak snow storm hit that afternoon and of the forty or so invited guests, the only people who showed were oats, my upstairs neighbours, my bff, and my landscaper friends whose truck has 4-wheel drive. but hey, the apartment looked awesome!)
the point being, this time around i’m a lot more prepared. it’s a bit tricky since we’re now working with oats’ furniture instead of just mine, but for the most part i’ve got a handle on where things should go. there’s glasses in the cupboard next to the fridge, and we’re hanging old windows from the bedroom ceiling to create a defined office/sewing area in the corner near the door. guests and house-sitters will be annoyed that i’m again choosing the large drawer around by the window to hold cutlery, instead of the more obvious one next to the sink, but i’m sticking to my guns on that one. everything else is up for debate!
i used to cram dry goods into the same crowded cupboards where my dishes lived, which became an unsustainable activity and would be impossible with this household. oats and i cook even more than i did on my own, and also prefer to store a larger variety and much larger quantities of foods. with that in mind, the other night i tackled a tall shallow closet on the far side of our eat-in kitchen.
the last time i lived here, i had my computer printer and scanner on one of the shelves (oddly yet luckily, there is an electrical outlet in the ceiling of the closet!), plus different sorts of paper for printing. there was a vacuum cleaner in the bottom area, some boxes of fasteners, my toolbox, a bundle of kites (4 or 5?), and a couple big stereo speakers that came from a free pile (and went back to a free pile when i moved out). i think my canning was on the top shelf. i don’t know what else filled all the space. trash, garbage, and treasures that are hopefully making someone else happy cuz fuck knows i didn’t need them.
you know what i do need, however?
you know what would make me happy?
a pantry. a storage area that is full of dry/sealed food, where it is accessible yet safe. the kind of closet that i can open at the end of a rough day, and feel relief simply by seeing the possibilities it presents. even if school is frustrating, people are mean, and money is tight, i can bake muffins or sprout beans or roast some spiced veggies or otherwise make something from not much of anything.
it’s a practical tool for securing my belief in myself.
with some random boards that were kicking around (part of a wooden leaf support for an extending table, ballou’s former sky bridge to the skylight in oats’ old apartment, a rail from a futon frame that i gave away years ago, scraps from my subletter’s handmade kayak paddle), i added shelves between the existing ones, and tucked away all the bagged goods into labeled jars. the canning is spread throughout the back rows of all the shelves because there’s more of it this year and it’s heavy enough to bow the wood on its own. i’ve got one lower shelf devoted to kitchen appliances, and though the floor will soon become the puppy-safe shoe stash, for now it’s occupied by a 50 lb bag of onions.
i’m so pleased. in the past, right about now is when i’d feel a desperate need to dance around the kitchen while singing along with jawbreaker in order to regain punk points lost by my unrepentent love for organized food storage, but i’m over that. really, my punk rock ideology is all about do-it-yourself, and a good fucking pantry is allowing me to do-it-myself more than ever. i’m going to go bake some bread now, and maybe can some peach chutney.
Filed under: Anarchist, Artist, Homebody, Scavenger, Student, Traveler, Worker
i didn’t get the 35-hour-per-week job. this annoys me, because my qualifications should have at least earned me a spot on the shortlist. however, aside from that, i’m feeling good about it, because there are so many other things i’d rather be doing than giving a large amount of energy to someone else’s project. though i believe in the overall aim of that specific organization, i don’t think i’d have felt satisfied by the role i’d have had to play. all the freedom of my last job spoiled me, even as it drove me a bit crazy.
with some of my own plans in mind, as well as the general idea that i’d be more employable in the sort of flexible contracts that suit me best, i’m considering taking a bookkeeping course at the college in the fall. this is also because i’m realizing that i’d do better if i stopped ignoring my interest in money, and instead try to harness it for useful things. all those years of knee-jerk anarchism have made me reluctant to understand the reality of capitalism, even as they’ve made me very confident in my DIY pride and belief that you don’t have to fuck others over to survive. i have this idea that i can hold true to the anarchism that anchors me, as long as i don’t try to hide my struggles with ethics, how our economic system works, and my place in it. or maybe that’s me trying to validate myself; i don’t know right now. but i’m okay with that.
i’m also a tightwad. had i mentioned this yet? fanciful sojourns in the southern hemisphere to the contrary, i’m all about pinching pennies… which is why i was thrilled to pick up this book at a vinnie’s today!
it was written in 1966, but seems appropriate for these financial times. i’m two-thirds of the way through it so far, and it’s a pretty good mix of common sense, interesting ideas, utter pretentiousness, outdated advice, and totally fucked-up sexist bullshit, with a good dash of class/race/queer ignorance thrown in for fun.
no, i will not rent out my spare room to a single working mother in exchange for her cooking my meals when she gets home from work every evening.
yes, i will research factory stores if i ever need to buy a… huh… well, something that’s made in a factory and that i might want to have new instead of secondhand. i can’t think of what that might be, but there’s probably something. toothpaste?
i have another obsession as of late, aside from being cheap and mocking everything. it developed when oats and i were in queensland, because though we’re not your typical shopoholics, we both love the chance beauty and good deals of the small town thrift store. somehow, i ended up getting overly fond of small tablecloths and silk scarves printed with commemorative australiana of one variety or another. you know: koalas… or a map of the northern territory… or common birds/wildflowers. though i suppose i like most retro kitsch, i hate filling my house with crap, so rarely buy it. there’s something about these pieces of fabric, though: they’re so well-made, and yet tacky, that i find them unbearably appealing…. especially cuz they’re usually $1 or less. oats was good enough to take my new collection home with her when she returned to canada on friday, creating more space in my own bag. i’m not aiming to fill it, but i have picked up three more pieces.
to be fair, this isn’t like my collection of bad nautical art (i <3 embroidered ships and seagulls, in plastic frames!), with which i intend to decorate my bathroom until the end of days. for these tableclothes and scarves, my plan is to sew cushion-covers and/or picnic blankets, some of which i’ll be able to sell or give away as gifts. if enough people like them, i might even try to do a craft fair or maybe etsy. i don’t really want a full-blown business, but it’d be nice to cover costs for the stuff i make for myself.
the amazing oldandmoldy called me this evening, to invite me to his “gratitude potluck” this sunday. yeah, it sounds hippy, but this is the west coast… what do you expect? of course we have dinner parties centered around appreciating all the excellent things in our lives!
i’m stoked, because it reminds me of the old anarchist seders that used to happen every passover in our local activist community… we all were instructed to bring food, a bottle of wine, and something that represents freedom to us. good times, especially for goyish kids like me who don’t generally celebrate passover, anarchist or otherwise, but have often had lots of friends who do. it was a chance to share the magic, and i always left feeling like i was home.
aside from the dinner invite, oldandmoldy and i talked about other stuff, including my thoughts about calling people out on words and actions that are sexist, racist, ableist, and/or homophobic.
as a way of contextualizing this conversation, i have to tell you: oldandmoldy and i disagree almost constantly. at the same time, we love each other: not despite our disagreements, but because of them. he is one of very few people i’ve ever known who understand and appreciate the incredible value of discussing everything. he exhausts me, but in a good way, because i know that he respects and cares for me even when i’m telling him that he’s wrong. i’m pretty sure he knows that i feel the same for him. we enjoy the challenge that we bring to one another.
oldandmoldy has done a lot of work with non-violent communication and men’s groups, so has a few thoughts about conflict. we seem to agree that a successful confrontation of sexist, racist, ableist, and/or homophobic words and actions is one in which the discussion moves forward into sharing of feelings, ideas, and connections… or something like that. at the very least, it’s a discussion in which participants feel like they’ve learned something new and maybe gained a different perspective, or at least acknowledged that different perspectives exist.
actually, “confrontation” is the wrong word: i think what we want to see is more like a… negotiation.
oldandmoldy’s advice on how to have a successful negotiation of sexist, racist, ableist, and/or homophobic words and actions is as follows:
- own your judgments (even if you know your opinions are the truth, recognize that other people won’t see them that way, because they have their own truths; yours are based in your reality, and you need to take responsibility for this)
- ask questions (find out why people are saying/doing things, find out what their reasoning is, create a situation in which questioning accepted norms becomes a viable basis for conversation)
- speak from the heart (don’t rely on theory or logic to explain your point of view; focus on your feelings instead, and make it personal… for example, try approaching a homophobic remark with “as a queer, this makes me feel unsafe, because…”)
i think these are excellent ideas, and i’m looking forward to trying them out next time i’m engaging in this sort of discussion. obviously, they won’t all work all of the time, but hey: nothing does! it was good to talk with oldandmoldy about this, especially because i know how particularly guilty i am of going against that third item… dammit, i love logic.
for another great strategy for approaching these issues, check out Carmen Van Kerckhove’s “How to Respond to a Racist Joke”. (i’d link to the original article at new demographic, but it doesn’t seem to be working at the moment…).
anyone else got suggestions, throw them in the comments.
check your privilege! it’s fun and easy and just may change your entire life!
- White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack (the original concept)
- Daily Effects of Straight Privilege
- Daily Effects of Able-bodied Privilege
***************
the thing about homophobia is that it wears you down.
i think anyone who challenges the status quo can attest to this: even when it’s not constant, the recurring need to validate your right to be present, to exist, to be proud of who you are as you are, to have opinions and be respected for them… is just damn tiring.
especially when you’ve got this headtrip going on, telling you that you can’t just walk away.
i really, seriously, truly believe that there are no enemies, only future allies. this belief, combined with my relative privilege, gives me a sense of responsibility to call people out on their oppressive language, ideas, and actions, and discuss it with them. for the most part, i think this is a good thing. most of the sexism, racism, ableism, and homophobia that we all encounter on a daily basis is the result of peoples’ habitual thoughtlessness as opposed to outright maliciousness. it’s not that we’re ignorant so much as we haven’t thought things through.
given an opportunity to talk about our attitudes, we can see the faulty logic and the hurt in our words and actions, and strive to do better. most of us choose to do this not because we feel a need to “help out” the victims of sexism, racism, ableism, and homophobia, but because on some level, we recognize that as long as we continue with our oppressive viewpoints, we are preventing ourselves from relating authentically with our community: whether we realize it or not, we’re stopping others from feeling safe around us.
usually, i feel secure enough in myself that i can enjoy facilitating these sorts of conversations, and quite often do.
but sometimes i don’t want to do it. sometimes i resent that i’m asked to educate others about how they’re oppressive, even when it’s me that’s asking myself to do this, especially when it’s me they’re oppressing. sometimes i don’t have the energy to cope with the defensive backlash that happens when people are told their words and actions are sexist, racist, ableist, or homophobic. sometimes i’m too drained to explain that we’re all oppressive and it’s okay to admit that, as long as we’re not accepting it, as long as we’re working on it. sometimes, i do just walk away, because my need to protect myself overrides my need to build community.
but even in those cases, the hurt simmers in my mind and heart, and i wonder what to do with it. often i rant to a friend or two, and feel better. when i’ve been a student, i’ve written a paper about it. at times, it has fueled my involvement in political actions.
today, it’s becoming this blog post.
a couple years ago, i was talking with a mentor and used a common colloquialism that denigrates indigenous folks: i realized the offensive nature of what i’d said the instant it came out of my mouth, and was overcome with shame and embarrassment. my mentor told me to calm down, and then said: “the decolonization of our language is an ongoing struggle, but a necessary one, and we all need to take part.”
i think about this all the time.
we can’t let our shame of our thoughtless hate get in the way of dismantling that hate.
******
(UPDATE: there’s a bit of a follow-up post here, with some constructive ideas for dismantling hate)
this photo makes more sense if you watch the video, linked below
i exaggerate: i’m not actually legally divorced, because i’ve never exactly been married, per se.
however, i am the veteran of two common-law domestic arrangements that occasioned shared property and health care benefits as well as discussions of formal marriage ceremonies, in one case going so far as to get the license for such recognition. the genders of the people with whom i was involved in each of these two situations were different, but the time and place being what they were, this was not relevant.
or not in a legal sense, anyway… emotionally, that’s another story.
at any rate, i’m no longer legally attached to a partner, but have been so in the past. when each of those relationships ended, my ex(es) and i divided possessions, agreed on the custody of our dependents (cat and dog), and amended assorted paperwork to reflect our situation. we chose to do this: the dissolution of our legal relationship was associated with our decision to end our romantic relationship.
as is rather common throughout the wider heteronormative world, it was our decision to make.
and really? really, i should be able to take this for granted, but instead i feel damn lucky that i was able to make this decision instead of having the state make it for me. if i didn’t live in this province, in this country, in this time period, i could have had the government annulling my marriage based not on the status of my love but instead on my sexual identity.
i don’t think it’s simply my inner-anarchist telling me how crazy that would be.
and yet that’s the reality faced by 18,000 couples living just south of my small island city.
i’m prompted to write about this after reading about the ongoing struggle against proposition 8 in the american state of california, and especially the firsthand experiences of bloggers who have been working for marriage equality. want more info on prop 8? i’m sending you to the No On 8 page over at Lesbian Dad, because even though the author calls it an “unholy mess”, it’s really the best reference i’ve found.
also, check out this video… which had me at hello because i love regina spektor, and then was still making me all weepy on the 27th viewing.
props to amanda for putting this up on her blog ages ago… i’m always late to the party!
i was wrong in assuming that this hotel i’d be at would be cheap. i mean, i guess it’s cheaper than the other options, given that this is the nation’s capital and hotels are in high demand. i dunno what i was expecting, actually… just something more spartan, i guess. this room is almost bigger than my last apartment, and we had two humans plus a loud cat and a 70 lb dog in that space. the kitchen here is tiny, but i could still use it to produce a full meal if the situation warranted. thus far, all i’ve done is made tea in a pot on the stove. maybe tomorrow i’ll roast a chicken.
it’s past 1 am here in ottawa, and the temperature outside is below zero. the tea that i am drinking is of the sleep-inducing variety, and i hope it works. i’ve never stayed in a hotel room by myself before this. it feels weird. as is often the case, i believe myself to be a scruffy imposter who’ll get found out at ANY MOMENT. i mean, someone could bust in the door right now, and kick me out, while telling me that people like me, who believe in autonomy and non-violent communication and the power of collectivity and the ability of us all to solve our own problems… those type, them… people like me aren’t the kind who stay at nice hotels on their employer’s dollar.
because we don’t have employers?
or because we stay with friends/family/acquaintances/comrades?
hmmmmm… i’m not sure where that thought (anxiety) is coming from or where it’s going, to be honest… i’m tired from traveling and not thinking too clearly, let alone in any state to engage in serious navel-gazing. i just hope that if anyone’s gonna kick me out, it’s not until after i’ve slept for a bit.
it does feel a bit like i’m camping, though, i must say. i’m at an arbitrary location for a brief period and i’m saying “okay, this is my spot” and then i am making it mine for the next two nights and really, i may never seem these two trees again and wouldn’t recognize them in a photo but for now i’ve strung my hammock between them and am calling it home. i could come back next year and someone else will be in this spot so i’ll stay at the one just over those rocks there and it’ll be different but also still the same. or different. or both.
[photo: sleepy geographer]
Filed under: Anarchist, Critic, Family Member, Music Lover, Nerd, Queer, Reader
would like to seek refuge in exchanging emails and text messages with friends but instead am being good and *only* writing here. if you are one of the people with whom i would otherwise be communicating, i apologize. currently, i am supposed to be taking photos and explaining exactly who i am, as the majority of the guests at this party are confused by my presence: my stepgrandmother is introducing me as a grandchild and her friends know that i am the wrong age/gender/appearance to be related by blood.
so, i’ve been in the white wine and am beginning this list of drunken thoughts:
- most of the time i feel most my father’s daughter: we have the same nose, the same hair, the same penchant for criticism, sarcasm, cynicism, and inappropriate yet amusing comments. here today, however, i am channeling my mother: i have her height, her laugh, her love of adventure, her ability to chat with strangers as though they are friends. also, her awkwardness, which i think she has outgrown but know had a huge impact on her life when she was younger. none of these party guests have ever met my mother.
- i am glad that i have the body that i have, instead of the ones that my sisters each grew. i sincerely wish them well and hope that they are enjoying theirs, but would not want to have chests as large as the ones that they have. mine is as girly as i’d ever want, while still fitting comfortably into most clothes i choose and not distracting from my conversations with people. no, i won’t tell you what my kid sister is wearing.
**** LATER ****
- one of the old ladies told me that she likes my dress. “thanks,” i replied. “i got it for $4 at salvation army.” my stepmom was standing next to me at the time. “you’re so bad!” she exclaimed with a laugh. she does not approve of 2nd-hand clothes. i smiled, and the old lady did too, then said in a reassuring tone: “well, it’s very nice.” i don’t think she would be caught dead in a salvation army.
- i am wearing boxer briefs under said dress. this makes me feel like i’ve got a terrific secret, and am capable of anything. heh heh. magic!
- i am so fucking tired. i could go out dancing/drinking with friends tonight, but am not sure am up to it. i want companionship and understanding more than i want to lose myself. this is probably because pretending to be a member of this family all afternoon has been enough of an escape from reality. i want to be real again but am not sure i have the energy.
**** LATER STILL ****
- kin as experiment: it is a crapshoot that i should end up here with these people, drinking wine on a patio in the warm august twilight. we have stumbled together through the most unintentioned of legal and genetic events. i am feeling this “perception of their perception of me”, to paraphrase an email from a friend… and right now it is not the oppressive force that it usually is, but instead one that seems freeing. anything could happen to this group of people: we are outside the chosen paths we have each selected in our lives and yet we are together.
- i am desperately grateful for my chosen family, as in the people who love and care for me aside from the blood/legal kin. they are especially important to me as a queer and an anarchist: even as i feel loved by this family of origin, i know that they have trouble making leaps of understanding to meet me at the places i need them to, at times when i am in crisis.
- simultaneously, spending time with this family of origin reaffirms my desire to have children of my own. i want to know the continuance of all my variations of family.
- the song i now have in my head is “somedays” by regina spektor (www.youtube.com/watch
**** LATER AGAIN ****
- i have a limited tolerance for spending time in the company of others. this has always been a challenge for me in living situations, especially ones that find me sharing a bedroom with another person. it’s also difficult when in situations with family whom i rarely see. there is an expectation that i should spend as much time with them as possible, actively participating in conversation. i cannot do this. so, currently have retreated to living room, where my sister is chatting with one of the few remaining guests, who is close to her age. i will sit and ignore them, and read my book. they will be my cover: if anyone comes in, i will pretend to be socializing with them, in order to avoid the otherwise unavoidable commentary and questioning regarding my mood/sense of place/whatever. i am not bitter: this is just how it is. harry potter, ftw!
**** YEAH, IT’S LATER ****
“…We all thought that if you came back, it would mean revolution.”
- Neville Longbottom, to Harry Potter
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, pg 468
a revolution, sure, sounds great! count me in!
i’m pleased and enjoying it… but in that i’m-only-laughing-cuz-otherwise-i’d-be-crying sort of a way, because it’s the same old cliche of patriarchy and oppression. dear jkr, must i spend my entire life in the potterverse desperately hungry for some intersectionality?! you keep touching on it, brushing gently against themes of slavery and racism, and then oh! denying the opportunity to chance the depths that lies beneath it all. it’s so maddening… and yet of course, fucking hell: i’m loving tearing this book apart.
“If only they were educated to live instead of earn and spend, they could manage very happily on twenty-five shillings. If the men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldn’t think so much of money; if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome, they could do with very little cash. And amuse the women themselves, and be amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to sing in a mass and dance the old group dance, and carve the stools they sit on, and embroider their own emblems. Then they wouldn’t need money.”
Lady Chatterley’s Lover, page 362
By DH Lawrence
[photo: wild grasses in helliwell park, hornby island, june 2008]
i took this photo 10 minutes ago: it’s of the hail on the railing outside my door, hail that accumulated in a brief timespan… i’d guess about 15 minutes.
now, as i write, the sun has come out and there is water gushing down from the broken eaves troughs on each side of the house: three waterfalls, sudden and clamouring.
climate change: what a hoot it is.
and while we’re talking about climate change, i might as well mention peak oil, right?
my coworker sent me this link which is an interview with professor guy mcpherson. i highly recommend watching it, if only cuz it contains the memorable line “the existence of buddhist monks suggests that we can power down with all the tranquility of buddhist monks”… good thought.
optimistic.
i like optimism.
of course, he also says “i think anarchy is the best we can hope for”…
to which i reply: yes, yes it is.
