Kindred Spirits

Yeah, I know this blog goes back and forth. A lot. One day I'm talking God, the next day, I'm talking Disney movies, and the next day, I'm a radical feminist. What can I say...it's all in here. Kinda like Prego, but different. Hang on. It's a wild ride, but it all adds up, and even sometimes overlaps in the most unexpected ways. In the end, it's who I am--someone who feels deeply, wonders frequently, thinks too much, rejects the dominant paradigm, plays freely, and laughs far more than average. I'm trusting you, you're smart, you can deal, you're a go-with-the-flow kinda person (or if you aren't, get workin' on that, it's good for your health, not that I'm always the best example myself).

So here's the deal for today...

Don't you love it when you find someone or some blog on the web that says exactly what you want to say but either haven't found a way to say it or haven't gotten around to saying it or are maybe a wee bit shy of the flogging that will ensue? Sure ya do.

Well, today, thanks to my friend Ron on facebook, that happened to me. And so I'm just doing the good do-bee thing, and passing it on.

I'm tired of pretending that it's over--not only for queer people, but hell, for half (more than half?) of the human race. I'm tired of the naivete and lie-down-and-roll-over ethic expressed by the people holding signs saying "We Are Equal" or "Freedom=Equal Marriage" because marriage has become legal in six states. I'm tired of assimilation, of a movement that has morphed into a fight to be regarded as "normal". I'm tired of a movement that, without criticism, adopts overly sexualized heterosexual norms in order to advocate for a civil rights issue (one which, frankly, has very little to do with sex, and a lot to do with justice) without regard for the fuel that they provide to the oppression of women (which, believe it or not, is not up for trade in exchange for gay rights). I'm tired of the political correctness which has made frank and analytical discussion about some subjects taboo, even within the gay and lesbian community--that we have become a people who silence one another for not going along with the "party line"--the very antithesis of our genesis. I'm distressed at the misogyny that is inherent in the disappearance of butch women in the lesbian community (and the lack of conversation about it).

No, despite all appearances, I'm not a killjoy. I like a parade. I like a party (well, by some people's definitions of party, since I don't drink and don't understand its relationship to fun). I like celebrating. I like marching with friends. I am proud of who I am. I just think we've lost sight. In a big way.

I'm someone who believes in history. I'm someone who believes in honoring those who came before--not through holding them up as tokens or heroes (which serves our purposes rather than theirs)--but by digging in, reading, understanding what they did, why they did it, who they were, and what they have to say about what is happening now. I'm someone who believes that every action is a political action, that, in the parlance of the 70's, the personal is political. Sadly, I am someone who, like a lot of us, folds a bit too easily under the pressure or even subtle ostracism of peers, who can't always live up to the excellent advice to speak your mind, even when your voice shakes.

I'm someone who has no shame in my age, in my grey hair, in my history in the women's movement, in the earlier days of the gay and lesbian movement, in the women's music movement. I'm someone who has no qualms about being a feminist first, that I have and will always have--not individually but as a rule--far more in common with women than with gay men. I'm not embarrassed at the music I like, the shoes I wear, the clothes I wear, or my size.

I sound angry. It is shocking to say, but in the almost 30 years since I came out, I feel as if have been increasingly and steadily isolated from my community by my own (purported) community. It continues to this day. In our "transformation" into "everyone else", into an indiscernible part of the dominant culture, those of us who used to be welcomed in our renegade troupe are once again nearing the fringes.

I don't know, I think that would piss anyone off.

Father's Day

Robert S. Einzig, 1921-2007

In one week, on June 28th, it will be two years since my father was suddenly weak and went to the hospital.

In eight days, on June 29th, shortly after noon, west coast time, it will be two years since my father died.

I don't know if I called him that Father's Day--in 2007, it was June 17. I sometimes did, I sometimes didn't--my family was never big on such things. But maybe I did. He was fine then. Hell, he was fine (at least as far as I knew) on June 27th, when I chatted with him on the phone.

When I cleaned up his desk after his death, still not sure of his diagnosis (we didn't get test results until a week later), I found all of the profiles of doctors that he had printed out, all the specialists that he had researched. And a scribbled note in his writing, that said "Lymphoma?" "Leukemia?". He was right, on both counts. He hadn't wanted to bother anyone until he knew for sure. That was typical. I had no idea.

He was an atheist. He believed definitively that when you go, that's it, it's over. And it wasn't an idle belief, either. When I feel myself reaching out to speak with him--in whatever form such a thing is possible--I have to do it through a thick curtain of "What a lot of nonsense". I've learned to deal with it. Do I have a choice?

There was no funeral. No memorial service. No grave. No obituary. These were his wishes. In the days foll0wing his funeral, people would say "Did you tell him that [these rituals] were not for him?", probably because they couldn't imagine not having those tethering points themselves. As for me, I'd want my wishes honored. I'm like him, I guess.

So, in the absence of funeral, service, grave, obituary, I am left with....well, Everything.

I am left with the memory of reading the play of Fiddler on the Roof to him in the living room when I was ten or eleven, complete with all voices and songs, as he listened attentively.

I am left with the memory of the "jobs" he gave me, like cutting out marked articles in the newspapers (he was an "x", and my mom was a "check") with the enormous pointy scissors or checking the change from his pockets to see if there were any old silver coins.

I am left with that hat that he's wearing in the picture. I wear it for warmth. I wear it for remembrance. It looked better on him.

I am left with the memory of playing Bookshelf games with him as a child, most notably "Stocks and Bonds", a game I chose because I knew he'd like that. And Probe, which was a great word game. And cards. Lots of cards--gin rummy, blackjack (which we called "21"), War.

I am left with the sound of his shoes coming down the hallway as I ran into my room, slamming the door behind me, in trouble again. I am left with the sound of his voice, singing lullabies in Hungarian and French. I am left with the whirring sound of the juicer, every single morning in recent years, as he made fresh orange juice for breakfast. I am left with the sound of his skipping rope--he could skip rope like a boxer, fast and smooth. I could never jump rope like that, I had to do that double jump little-girl rope-jumping thing. I was amazed.

I am left with the memory of picking him up at the train station on the day I got my driver's license.

I am left with the sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter memory of his laughter, which was hearty and wonderful and welcome, except when it wasn't.

I am left with the memory of how he loved sailing, how he bought two sailboats and named them both after me, something that never really sunk in. Of pulling the El Toro out of the boat rack, putting on the orange lifejacket and bobbing around in the Redwood City harbor by the huge salt pile. Of sitting on the bigger boat that he barely ever took out of its berth, but loved and was so proud of anyway.

I am left with the memory of someone shouting "Daddy's on TV!" (maybe it was me) and running and sliding in my stocking feet into the TV room to see him there, on the black and white TV, talking about something I couldn't understand (economics) on a show I didn't even know existed (probably something like Wall Street Week). It wasn't Father Knows Best. Though I guess it kinda was.

I am left with the vivid memory of the two houses that he thought about buying (not both of them, just one or the other) when I was in my early teens--I remember everything about them, even where they are. I could drive to either one now, almost 40 years later. I am left with the memory of his memory of the houses, and his shaking his head and remarking, even in recent years, "I shoulda bought that house".

I am left with his watch, which I have worn every day since shortly after he died. I am left with a few of his drawing supplies, which he hadn't used in years but loved dearly. "Your father used to doodle on everything" she says. Me too. Even just looking at the colorful old boxes of pencil lead makes me smile.


I am left with the acute perception of his presence in Paris 10 months after his death. How I could suddenly speak French far better than I expected, though nowhere near the fluency that made someone argue with him at least once that he could not be, in fact, an American.

I am left with the legacy of disdain for religion, for stupidity, for lots of things.

I am left with memory of an amazing meal in the French countryside when I was thirteen, where there was a waiter stationed behind each person's chair. I don't even remember the food (I probably didn't like it), other than the sorbet that was served between courses (ice cream in the middle of a meal? O-Kay!!!). I was focused on the fact that every time I took a sip of water, the man standing behind me stepped forward and filled my glass. Or so I recall.

I am left with the memory of him telling me that he loved me a lot when he was in the hospital recovering from bypass surgery, and how I attributed his softness to pain medication, but I didn't care.

I am left with the memory of food. He loved chocolate, goat cheese, bananas and sour cream, cholent, Hungarian food. He picked all of the chestnuts out of the chestnut stuffing at Thanksgiving. He made a mean oatmeal in later years.

I am left with photos, from the red plaid photo box in the high cabinet in the TV room, the one that he was always the only one tall enough to retrieve, the one that I can now take down with ease. Photos that I admired of him as a young man, goofing around with his friends, or just so suave.

Photos from the Army.

Photos from the liberation of Nordhausen concentration camp, stuffed into a small manila envelope that mysteriously was whisked away out of my hand every time I came upon it and asked "What is this?", until, of course, I was old enough to find it on my own. Photos of my parents, gorgeous in their happiness and youth (dig those saddle shoes).

I am left with memories of my father with my daughter--walking with her in the back yard when she was a baby,

playing card games, especially War (he'd say "you stinker!" when she won, just like he did to me),


the two of them gazing at each other in admiration.


He always seemed surprised when I did well.

He told other people he was proud of me, but could never tell me.

He wasn't perfect. But he was a good man. And he was my dad.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

And no, this doesn't mean that I think you can hear me. Feel better?

Saying Singing Feeling What I Mean

You might not know that I sing in a chorus. I don't talk about it much here. At the moment, I am neck deep (I was going to say knee-deep, but then I gave myself a healthy slap in the face, a la "Snap out of it!" in Moonstruck) in concert prep, with all that that means, which I'm not going to go into because it's more than enough to be doing it, I don't want to be spending my time writing about it on top of it all. Just take my word for it. I'm swamped. Which probably explains why tonight I am channeling past seasons. You know, because they're [shhh...whispering now]...OVER.

But there is one thing I want to say (you knew it). I want to say that being a second alto (you too, can be promoted to a lower register simply by watching the seasons go by...amazing thing, time) has its benefits and its pitfalls. It's an interesting life, being the percussion section, singing a lot of oohs, ahhs, dum-dums, ba-dums...you get the idea. This season, we actually have less of that than usual, which is kind of a treat. "Words!", the six of us say, with wide-eyed wonder. Whoa! Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. Getting to sing the introductory "doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo bum" of "Goodnight Sweetheart" is a blast, no doubt about it.

What I am saying is that as a person who is so keyed into lyrics, for whom lyrics are the everything in the music that I love, as someone who knows every word to every song that has been a part of my life back to and including San Francisco Children's Opera, circa 1968 ("let's hurry, hurry, hurry, let's hurry to be merry. We go to the ball! We go to the ball! It's the greatest event! It's the greatest event of winter, summer, spring, and fall, to the ball, to the ball, to the ball, to the ball!") as someone who has inherited her mother's gift (?) and propensity for "give me a word, I'll give you a song" and who has fully incorporated her repertoire of 30's and 40's tunes, not knowing the words to songs we have performed is oddly unsettling.

Like tonight. I was sitting here, thinking on what I wrote yesterday. About the shifts in my life, about returning to the familiar at exactly the same time as I am venturing into places I have never been before. About the moments in every day when I think "what am I doing, I have nothing particularly special to offer!" and the moments when I think I've undersold myself for a long time. And a song from my first season with Voices Rising came to me, loud and clear. But here's the thing. It was the melody that came to me, because, well, that's the part that makes sense. And I realized in short order that I don't know the words. I remember the "Oh, oh-o oh, oh-o oh" perfectly. But those people over there on the other side--you know, the ones with the high voices--what were they singing?

They were singing some portions of this, a poem by Laura Hershey, a lesbian and disability rights activist. I'm thinkin' that it's part two of my running away to join the circus. Take a gander.

You Get Proud By Practicing

If you are not proud
For who you are, for what you say, for how you look;
If every time you stop
To think of yourself, you do not see yourself glowing
With golden light; do not, therefore, give up on yourself.
You can get proud.

You do not need
A better body, a purer spirit, or a Ph.D.
To be proud.
You do not need
A lot of money, a handsome boyfriend, or a nice car.
You do not need
To be able to walk, or see, or hear,
Or use big, complicated words,
Or do any of those things that you just can’t do
To be proud. A caseworker
Cannot make you proud,
Or a doctor.
You only need more practice.
You get proud by practicing.

There are many many ways to get proud.
You can try riding a horse, or skiing on one leg,
Or playing guitar,
And do well or not so well,
And be glad you tried
Either way.
You can show
Something you’ve made
To someone you respect
And be happy with it no matter
What they say.
You can say
What you think, though you know
Other people do not think the same way, and you can
keep saying it, even if they tell you
You are crazy.

You can add your voice
All night to the voices
Of a hundred and fifty others
In a circle
Around a jailhouse
Where your brothers and sisters are being held
For blocking buses with no lifts,
Or you can be one of the ones
Inside the jailhouse,
Knowing of the circle outside.
You can speak your love
To a friend
Without fear.
You can find someone who will listen to you
Without judging you or doubting you or being
Afraid of you
And let you hear yourself perhaps
For the very first time.
These are all ways
Of getting proud.
None of them
Are easy, but all of them
Are possible. You can do all of these things,
Or just one of them again and again.
You get proud
By practicing.

Power makes you proud, and power
Comes in many fine forms
Supple and rich as butterfly wings.
It is music
when you practice opening your mouth
And liking what you hear
Because it is the sound of your own
True voice.

It is sunlight
When you practice seeing
Strength and beauty in everyone,
Including yourself.
It is dance
when you practice knowing
That what you do
And the way you do it
Is the right way for you
And cannot be called wrong.
All these hold
More power than weapons or money
Or lies.
All these practices bring power, and power
Makes you proud.
You get proud
By practicing.

Remember, you weren’t the one
Who made you ashamed,
But you are the one
Who can make you proud.
Just practice,
Practice until you get proud, and once you are proud,
Keep practicing so you won’t forget.
You get proud
By practicing.

Anti-"Choice"

Hmm. And again, I say: Hmm.

In February, two bills were debated in Utah. They didn't even get out of committee, and are now "dead". One was to allow gay and unmarried couples (yes, straight people) to adopt ,and one was to protect LGBT people from discrimination in housing and employment. The opponents of both of these used "choice" as their sole argument (thanks to Joe for these):

"...those who choose alternative lifestyles suffer the consequences..." (Stephen Sandstrom, R-Orem)

"What we're talking about is choice -- someone's sexual choice," she told a House panel. "Why would we put into law someone's sexual choice? … This is not the right thing to do." (Gayle Ruzicka, Eagle Forum President)

Clearly, it worked.

The Family Research Council (aka "The Axis of Evil") is certainly clear about it. Their handy brochure, "Homosexuality is Not a Civil Right" will fill you right in, 'splain it all to you so you understand clearly that being gay is a choice (or possibly you will understand clearly that the agenda of the RRR is to make that case, which is kinda different, don't you think?). Whatever you understand, people believe them.

And so do I.

Now, now, now....put away the pitchforks.

It has long been the stance of the GLBT community that being gay or lesbian is not a choice, but an inborn characteristic, as evidenced by the chorus of "Why would anyone choose THIS?. Way to feel proud, guys.

Yeah, some in GLBT groups are now saying, "Oh, we aren't using that argument [what I call the "poor-us-we-can't-help-it-so-please-give-us-equal-rights" argument] anymore." When you google the subject, you find lots of people saying "what does it matter if it's a choice or not?" (yay, I've been saying that for years, I knew they'd come around). But you also find this. HRC, the largest and most visible LGBT political organization in the U.S., continues to fight the good fight on the nearly abandoned front of "It's Not A Choice!!" (a few examples here , here and here) along with their pals at the APA and the AMA (who apparently have to choose between inborn or illness, kind of a black and white world view, no?).

Not to mention the hubbub about recent statements by Miss California (the symbol of all that is good and fair), who I don't think really did anything that wrong (yes, I know I'm digging myself in deeper every second)--she just stated her opinion. Why do we care what she thinks anyway?

I don't get why our own community, people who support us, would do that. At all. What's the matter with choice? Sure, it means facing persecution, but so does conversion to Judaism, and nobody says that people are crazy to do that. Why wouldn't people choose it, if there's nothing wrong with it? Are they saying that those who DO choose are not "real" gay or lesbian people? Seems to me the only reason to argue that it's not a choice is to say that we can't help it (with the obvious implication that if we could, we would). I don't know. That's not what pride (of any kind) or self-acceptance is about, in my opinion. On that note, check this out. Yikes.

[If you're reading, and inclined to leave a comment that says "Well, I didn't choose it!", you've got no argument from me. Some of us did. Some of us didn't. All I'm saying is that it's got zip to do with your (or my) right to equality.]

Many's the time I've wondered why HRC and other groups, not to mention individuals, so often fall back on this "not a choice" line. Maybe it's simply a reactive response to the right wing tactic of calling it a choice--but isn't that letting them define the conversation? Not for me, thanks. Maybe it's because the men who run the organization feel that they didn't choose it--but isn't that a little egocentric?

Or....or....(wait, I'm on to something)...is it because we (or some segment of "we") actually believe that immutable characteristics are the only rational justification for being given full protection under the law?

In the spirit of that old Jewish joke about the guy who didn't get a spoon for his soup....

AHA! And again, I say: AHA! (I know. I already used that. I like it.)

Today, the results of a huge new study were released by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life. You can read about it here -- or for you stats geeks who want to run the data yourself--been there done that-- the study itself is here. (Just for a moment, we're going to slide right over the fact that the charts presented on CNN only refer to Christian denominations- it's my birthday and I'm feeling generous today.)

The gist of the thing is that half of Americans have changed religion in the course of their lifetime.

So. Religion is a choice (like we didn't already know that). Hmm.

And its practitioners are protected by law. Hmm.

And no one is pointing that out. Hmm.

And it's tax-exempt. Hey!

We've argued the "we can't help it" line for too long. I don't care what APA, AMA, HRC, FRC, and all them other three letter organizations say. We have argued it because immutability is one of the requirements for being a protected class.

I'm here to say that I'm picking another requirement (there are two others, you know). Mine is not less, it's not more. It's equal. (Equal. Hey, what a concept).

If something is not immutable, it either needs to be innocuous or protected directly by the Constitution. Let's see. Eeny-meeny-miney-mo. Either one of those works for me.

Let's just stop staying we can't help it, okay?