NL #8: Two years ago, when I was wearing an eye-patch fulltime, I visited a school whose mascot was the pirate. My role there was to observe teachers and students, but all I could think about was what an enthusiastic visitor, dressed like the mascot and all, I must have seemed. I even happened to be wearing my Vans (shoes) that day with a skull and cross bone and spider design. I felt relieved that no one made fun of me. I thought of plenty of cracks in my own mind: “Nice to meet you. How ARRRGH you?” and such.
In the three years since my surgery, students in schools have made fun of me only once, when a struggling student yelled "crip" at me as I walked down the hall by his classroom. Other than recognizing that the voice was male, I had no idea who it was. A few days later, I went to talk with the class about the experience and told them why I walked with a cane. I asked what they thought about how I should respond to "Crip!" The consensus seemed to be that anyone who would yell out so obnoxiously wasn't worth my time. But honestly, teenagers are always worth my time. A few weeks later a student I didn't recognize approached me in the hall with a most gracious apology. I have gotten to know him somewhat in a class that I'm now working with. I know that he struggles and he knows, in an interesting twist, that I am an advocate for him.
Even the students I don’t know are kind. Before my disabilities, I thought teenagers in public spaces didn’t notice me because I was always dodging them and their stuff. Now I know that they saw me; they just ignored me. For these past three years, teens in school halls have moved themselves and their friends out of my way; they’ve gone out of their way to open doors for me; they’ve helped me around obstacles like their backpacks.
One afternoon, walking downtown wearing my patch and carrying my cane, I walked past a group of teenage skateboarders. A couple of boys got into yelling “Arrgghh” at me. I wanted to flip them off, but I was afraid I’d fall, so I didn’t. I tried to think of what a pirate might do, but I blanked. I’m sure those teenagers would have found me cool if they’d noticed my theme-appropriate Vans.
Another time, riding the Metro bus home (in a front seat with other people with disabilities), a well-dressed man in his fifties boarded with three plastic bags from Rite Aid, talking away on his cell phone. He dropped his bags in the middle of the aisle and people with disabilities had trouble getting by. A woman with disabilities needed a seat and asked him to move his bags and to give up a seat for her. He interrupted his cell phone conversation to say, “You’re evil. That’s why you are the way you are.” I can still see him jiggling his penny-loafered foot as he continued his phone conversation. I really think it was one of the meanest things I’ve ever seen.
Because I know of persons with disabilities who can’t ride the bus because they can’t be guaranteed a seat, I wrote Metro to ask that they require drivers to require riders who are not disabled to move from “priority seating.” The current rule seems to be that drivers must ask but need not insist. The driver on my bus did neither. The response I received from Metro is that the situation does not require a revision of the rules. I still think it does.
Once, after a WNBA Storm game, a woman my age was rude. We were in a line for the one stall in the downstairs restroom when some people she knew got in line behind me. She went on with them about a party that was a great party even though she broke her ankle and tore "all the tendons and ligaments and had to get screws put in." I think she was high--probably both times. Even though she was quite loud, I mostly tuned her out. At some point she made some comment about "the blind leading the blind" and apologized to me, but she was too into herself for a real apology. I hate being singled out, especially for disabilities. She kept apologizing as she peed and finally said, "I think I should just stop talking." To her partner, I noted that this might be a good idea in general. As they left, they argued about whether her apology was adequate. It wasn't.
The only other times I have been treated rudely, even dangerously, have been at Town Hall and the symphony hall with large numbers of well-dressed elderly people. My theory is that they are so focused on getting themselves around that they don’t notice anyone with disabilities around them. Give me a crowded hall of teenagers any day over that.
I’m a nice pirate. Be nice to me. Arrgghh. Mary
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
NL #7: I Stand for Hope
NL #7: This weekend, I saw two films at the Langston Hughes African American Film Festival. They were great fun and very moving. As you know, I love experiencing cultures different than the one I grew up in, and seeing performances with an African American crowd is one of my favorite things to do because the experience—like church services-- is so different than seeing a performance with a white crowd: lively and interactive.
The first time I saw a film with a primarily black audience was during college, when I went to see The Color Purple at Crabtree Valley mall in Raleigh. The house was packed. Four of us were white; the rest black. Throughout the movie, the audience hollered out to the screen in a way that I had never experienced. I remember especially the moment in the film where Shug leans down slowly to kiss Celie. The audience was absolutely still and quiet. I’m not sure anyone exhaled. Finally, a man in the front right shouted, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Oh, Lord, she did it!” and the tension broke into laughter.
Friday night my friend Chris and I went to Doubletime, an independent film focused on two double-dutch teams, one from Raleigh NC (my hometown) and another from Charlestown, SC, as they prepared for and then competed in the 2004 International Double Dutch championships at the Apollo in Harlem. Before the movie, two local double-dutch teams performed and encouraged young ones in the audience to perform. The theatre was packed and there was plenty of appreciative applause and laughter.
Throughout the film, as jumpers, their coaches and parents talked about their experiences, we got to know some of the competitors and watch them practice and perform: there was more applause and laughter and “Mmm. Hmmm.” At the end of the film, the directors ran a “Where are they now?” Tia made the honor role in middle school (everyone clapped); Erica delivered her Bat Mitzvah speech on strong women; Antoine was working in a beauty salon; and Tim, articulate and sweet with a Masaii leap and Obama ears, entered The University of North Carolina at Charlotte, studying electrical engineering and jump rope. For this, the mark of academic success, there was vigorous applause. I’m pretty sure we all left laughing and feeling hopeful.
Saturday night Ann and I went to a more sobering film, Soundtrack to a Revolution. The film told the story of the1960s Civil Rights movement through old film clips, interviews with those still living, and music. The film certainly showed the power of music to bring people together, but though I’ve seen them before, those images of dogs and fire hoses and batons tearing at young black people take my breath away, make me a bit sick to my stomach, even with the hopefulness of the music. This night, I left with more complex emotions: hope in the way that masses changed public policy and sadness at how much one human can hurt another.
Today, as I go into a remarkably diverse classroom, I remember how differently those of us from different cultures have experienced working with groups and learning, and I feel lucky to continue learning from this teacher and these students as they learn from me. Here, too, I can feel the complex emotions of hope and fear. But here, in middle school, I experience mostly hope.
What do you stand for? I stand for hope. Mary
The first time I saw a film with a primarily black audience was during college, when I went to see The Color Purple at Crabtree Valley mall in Raleigh. The house was packed. Four of us were white; the rest black. Throughout the movie, the audience hollered out to the screen in a way that I had never experienced. I remember especially the moment in the film where Shug leans down slowly to kiss Celie. The audience was absolutely still and quiet. I’m not sure anyone exhaled. Finally, a man in the front right shouted, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Oh, Lord, she did it!” and the tension broke into laughter.
Friday night my friend Chris and I went to Doubletime, an independent film focused on two double-dutch teams, one from Raleigh NC (my hometown) and another from Charlestown, SC, as they prepared for and then competed in the 2004 International Double Dutch championships at the Apollo in Harlem. Before the movie, two local double-dutch teams performed and encouraged young ones in the audience to perform. The theatre was packed and there was plenty of appreciative applause and laughter.
Throughout the film, as jumpers, their coaches and parents talked about their experiences, we got to know some of the competitors and watch them practice and perform: there was more applause and laughter and “Mmm. Hmmm.” At the end of the film, the directors ran a “Where are they now?” Tia made the honor role in middle school (everyone clapped); Erica delivered her Bat Mitzvah speech on strong women; Antoine was working in a beauty salon; and Tim, articulate and sweet with a Masaii leap and Obama ears, entered The University of North Carolina at Charlotte, studying electrical engineering and jump rope. For this, the mark of academic success, there was vigorous applause. I’m pretty sure we all left laughing and feeling hopeful.
Saturday night Ann and I went to a more sobering film, Soundtrack to a Revolution. The film told the story of the1960s Civil Rights movement through old film clips, interviews with those still living, and music. The film certainly showed the power of music to bring people together, but though I’ve seen them before, those images of dogs and fire hoses and batons tearing at young black people take my breath away, make me a bit sick to my stomach, even with the hopefulness of the music. This night, I left with more complex emotions: hope in the way that masses changed public policy and sadness at how much one human can hurt another.
Today, as I go into a remarkably diverse classroom, I remember how differently those of us from different cultures have experienced working with groups and learning, and I feel lucky to continue learning from this teacher and these students as they learn from me. Here, too, I can feel the complex emotions of hope and fear. But here, in middle school, I experience mostly hope.
What do you stand for? I stand for hope. Mary
Friday, April 23, 2010
NL #7: Degrees of Separation
DAR #7: I don’t get too excited about famous people. Mostly, probably, because I don’t recognize them. When, in my twenties, I worked for the United Way’s fall campaign, the other young women in the office came in very excited: “Jeff Bridges is outside! He touched my shirt!” The call to fame evacuated the place. I continued making phone calls from my desk. (I now know who Jeff Bridges is.)
I figure if someone is so famous, we probably won’t have much of a relationship, so why bother.
Ann’s and my siblings seem to be surrounded by famous people. They all have friends with private jets. I think that’s a sign of connection to fame. Sister Jenn mentioned that “George Clooney had a pig and he said they make terrible pets” and my brother-in-law Todd says, “Martha Stewart had a neighborhood party, so I went.” Ann’s brother Gene got us backstage tickets to see his client Lyle Lovett and Ann's sister-in-law seems to hobnob with Barbara Bush.
I guess I too have had my brushes with fame. I went to first grade at E.C. Brooks in Raleigh, NC with the humorist David Sedaris. (I don't remember him and I'm guessing he doesn't remember me.) In college, I had dinner with Elie Weisel, the holocaust survivor who wrote the famous memoir Night.
When I taught high school in Dallas, a colleague’s daughters—then in junior high school, were in a band called “Blue Light Express” that played at a nearby bar. They were good. When they got older, they formed a new band called “The Dixie Chicks” and my friend Rick (RIP) and I would go see them at a local Italian restaurant on Wednesday nights. Once, after playing at the opening of a Texas Ranger baseball game, the team’s owner, George W. Bush, sent 15 year-old Emily a note, wanting to set her up with his friend. She asked me what she should do, and I suggested she not respond but keep the note. I wonder if she did.
I taught both Dixie Chick sisters in their senior years and before I moved away from Dallas their band played at a party in the school’s library. Years later, I was channel surfing (not a common activity for me) and landed on the Grammy’s, where these sisters were accepting their first Grammy.
I would still recognize them and would be excited to see them again, but not really because they’re famous. Really because I liked them, and I wonder how they are.
I’d still like Hillary Swank to play me. I’m sure we’d get to be buds. Mary
I figure if someone is so famous, we probably won’t have much of a relationship, so why bother.
Ann’s and my siblings seem to be surrounded by famous people. They all have friends with private jets. I think that’s a sign of connection to fame. Sister Jenn mentioned that “George Clooney had a pig and he said they make terrible pets” and my brother-in-law Todd says, “Martha Stewart had a neighborhood party, so I went.” Ann’s brother Gene got us backstage tickets to see his client Lyle Lovett and Ann's sister-in-law seems to hobnob with Barbara Bush.
I guess I too have had my brushes with fame. I went to first grade at E.C. Brooks in Raleigh, NC with the humorist David Sedaris. (I don't remember him and I'm guessing he doesn't remember me.) In college, I had dinner with Elie Weisel, the holocaust survivor who wrote the famous memoir Night.
When I taught high school in Dallas, a colleague’s daughters—then in junior high school, were in a band called “Blue Light Express” that played at a nearby bar. They were good. When they got older, they formed a new band called “The Dixie Chicks” and my friend Rick (RIP) and I would go see them at a local Italian restaurant on Wednesday nights. Once, after playing at the opening of a Texas Ranger baseball game, the team’s owner, George W. Bush, sent 15 year-old Emily a note, wanting to set her up with his friend. She asked me what she should do, and I suggested she not respond but keep the note. I wonder if she did.
I taught both Dixie Chick sisters in their senior years and before I moved away from Dallas their band played at a party in the school’s library. Years later, I was channel surfing (not a common activity for me) and landed on the Grammy’s, where these sisters were accepting their first Grammy.
I would still recognize them and would be excited to see them again, but not really because they’re famous. Really because I liked them, and I wonder how they are.
I’d still like Hillary Swank to play me. I’m sure we’d get to be buds. Mary
Thursday, April 22, 2010
NL #6: Please don't pick my brain.
NL #6: "I'd like to pick your brain about something." This expression, which I hear often in my work as a consultant, gives me the willies. The surgeons, after all, did pick my brain and thank heavens they took out the tumor, but I've seen the video, and it's not pretty (though it is amazing.) The expression “give someone a piece of your mind” also makes me queasy and makes me wonder what the surgeons did with the parts they removed. I think somebody has a piece of my mind.
Having had two eye muscle surgeries, "Peel your eyes," also gives me the shivers. It's hard not to think literally about it. For some reason, crows come to mind. And oranges.
Though as a general rule, I appreciate a good drink, please don't offer me a "bloody Mary." As a Mary who has been through brain surgery and puberty, I really hate this drink. I realize it was named for Mary Queen of Scots and not me, but my 7th grade social studies teacher called me Mary Queen of Scots (I think he was insulting me--I found him juvenile.) Either way, I take it personally.
I’m guessing people who’ve had major heart surgery don’t like the expression, “My heart bleeds for you” and those who have had heart transplants (like my friend Terry) don’t like it when someone “wears their heart on their sleeve.” That’s just bad surgery. I’m guessing those who have had nose surgery know about paying through the nose and bleed at the expression “take a nosedive.”
Perhaps crows don’t like the expression “eat crow.” Perhaps birds find it irritating that something that’s worthless is “for the birds" and that a fool is a “bird brain.” They may also not like the plan to “kill two birds with one stone.” Perhaps chickens find it demeaning that poor pay is “chicken feed.”
I wonder if Adams feel the Adams’ apple irritating or if soldiers returning from any war zone flinch when a teenager calls them the ultimate compliment: “da bomb.” I wonder how the Van Gogh fan club feels about the expression “I’m all ears.” I wonder how doctors feel about their patients eating all those applies and how apples feel about bad apples.
Cats and dogs must hang around just to listen to us talk about them. Cats hear about getting folks’ tongues and about being fat. Dogs probably don’t like the doghouse (ours didn’t even though his house matched ours, without indoor plumbing) and they don’t like to be really sick. I’ll bet cats do like being let out of the bag and sleeping dogs would prefer to lie. I’m guessing that neither likes it when it rains cats and dogs. Perhaps, though, pigs like to wear lipstick and cows like being sacred.
I’ll bet frogs don’t like the idea of being in peoples’ throats, that monkeys don’t like being on peoples’ backs and that bulls don’t like being grabbed by the horns. I’m betting snow balls don’t like the idea of being in hell, that guinea pigs don’t like being guinea pigs, that horses don’t like being held and that cats don’t like being skinned in any way.
I wonder how the person who invented post-it notes feels about the expression, “the best thing since sliced bread.”
We’ll have to pick their brain about that one. Mary
Having had two eye muscle surgeries, "Peel your eyes," also gives me the shivers. It's hard not to think literally about it. For some reason, crows come to mind. And oranges.
Though as a general rule, I appreciate a good drink, please don't offer me a "bloody Mary." As a Mary who has been through brain surgery and puberty, I really hate this drink. I realize it was named for Mary Queen of Scots and not me, but my 7th grade social studies teacher called me Mary Queen of Scots (I think he was insulting me--I found him juvenile.) Either way, I take it personally.
I’m guessing people who’ve had major heart surgery don’t like the expression, “My heart bleeds for you” and those who have had heart transplants (like my friend Terry) don’t like it when someone “wears their heart on their sleeve.” That’s just bad surgery. I’m guessing those who have had nose surgery know about paying through the nose and bleed at the expression “take a nosedive.”
Perhaps crows don’t like the expression “eat crow.” Perhaps birds find it irritating that something that’s worthless is “for the birds" and that a fool is a “bird brain.” They may also not like the plan to “kill two birds with one stone.” Perhaps chickens find it demeaning that poor pay is “chicken feed.”
I wonder if Adams feel the Adams’ apple irritating or if soldiers returning from any war zone flinch when a teenager calls them the ultimate compliment: “da bomb.” I wonder how the Van Gogh fan club feels about the expression “I’m all ears.” I wonder how doctors feel about their patients eating all those applies and how apples feel about bad apples.
Cats and dogs must hang around just to listen to us talk about them. Cats hear about getting folks’ tongues and about being fat. Dogs probably don’t like the doghouse (ours didn’t even though his house matched ours, without indoor plumbing) and they don’t like to be really sick. I’ll bet cats do like being let out of the bag and sleeping dogs would prefer to lie. I’m guessing that neither likes it when it rains cats and dogs. Perhaps, though, pigs like to wear lipstick and cows like being sacred.
I’ll bet frogs don’t like the idea of being in peoples’ throats, that monkeys don’t like being on peoples’ backs and that bulls don’t like being grabbed by the horns. I’m betting snow balls don’t like the idea of being in hell, that guinea pigs don’t like being guinea pigs, that horses don’t like being held and that cats don’t like being skinned in any way.
I wonder how the person who invented post-it notes feels about the expression, “the best thing since sliced bread.”
We’ll have to pick their brain about that one. Mary
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
NL #5: Warning: Do not try this at home.
NL #5: Teens are easily fooled, something they don't want you to know but once you know, fooling them can be great for their education.
My friend Colleen, a science teacher, told me last week that she has a frog stuck in her walls. From time to time it ribbits. (I would say "croaks", but I don't want you to think I'm writing about a resurrecting frog). Colleen told her students that this frog came to talk to her. It's there, it told her, because it wants to learn about freshmen, but it's shy and afraid, so it stays in the wall. Some don't believe her, but others nod knowingly each time it ribbits.
I learned the most about fooling teenagers from my colleague Don. When we were teaching an American Studies course together, our class was discussing Ben Franklin's "How to Make a Great Nation into a Small One." To experience the frustration and sense of powerlessness Franklin was discussing, we orchestrated a little trick so that students might experience similar emotions. We were in a new school, one that had separated from the historical high school, and these juniors were frustrated with a sense that they were powerless in the school (the "hat rule," stating they were not allowed to wear hats, was the symbol of this powerlessness for them.)
Before class, Don and I wrote a letter on school letterhead, signed by the principal, saying that there would no longer be reserved student parking for upperclassmen. We promised the gun-shy principal that we wold not let the letters escape the room. The principal, a good sport, came into the class with the letters, placed them with evident exasperation on a table, and told us to pass them out. "What's it about?" we asked. "Just do it. I'm sick of this," she demanded and sort of slammed the door as she stomped out. The students laughed a nervous laugh and angled for the letters.
Don and I acted as though we would distribute the letters at the end of the class, but students got ahold of them and passed them around. A ripple of fury went through the class. They ranted. Finally, one student (Andy, who was particularly fond of his duct-taped hat), sort of yelled, "This is just what Ben Franklin was talking about. We don't have the power to make decisions that affect us!" Don smirked. I was guarding the door both to insure that students did not run after the principal and to make sure that I didn't give the hoax away.
Don said to them, "You [pause] have been duped." The room got very quiet. Finally, Maya asked, "What's duped?"
Teenagers may seem skeptical, but this skepticism is an act of self-preservation. They really don't know what to believe, so they're guarding themselves with doubt--sometimes with doubt cloaked in surety. Maybe that 's something we never grow out of, protecting ourselves from our own sense of vulnerability.
Warning: Do not try this at home. Teenagers can be unpredictable and such tricks should only be applied by a professional.
Mary
My friend Colleen, a science teacher, told me last week that she has a frog stuck in her walls. From time to time it ribbits. (I would say "croaks", but I don't want you to think I'm writing about a resurrecting frog). Colleen told her students that this frog came to talk to her. It's there, it told her, because it wants to learn about freshmen, but it's shy and afraid, so it stays in the wall. Some don't believe her, but others nod knowingly each time it ribbits.
I learned the most about fooling teenagers from my colleague Don. When we were teaching an American Studies course together, our class was discussing Ben Franklin's "How to Make a Great Nation into a Small One." To experience the frustration and sense of powerlessness Franklin was discussing, we orchestrated a little trick so that students might experience similar emotions. We were in a new school, one that had separated from the historical high school, and these juniors were frustrated with a sense that they were powerless in the school (the "hat rule," stating they were not allowed to wear hats, was the symbol of this powerlessness for them.)
Before class, Don and I wrote a letter on school letterhead, signed by the principal, saying that there would no longer be reserved student parking for upperclassmen. We promised the gun-shy principal that we wold not let the letters escape the room. The principal, a good sport, came into the class with the letters, placed them with evident exasperation on a table, and told us to pass them out. "What's it about?" we asked. "Just do it. I'm sick of this," she demanded and sort of slammed the door as she stomped out. The students laughed a nervous laugh and angled for the letters.
Don and I acted as though we would distribute the letters at the end of the class, but students got ahold of them and passed them around. A ripple of fury went through the class. They ranted. Finally, one student (Andy, who was particularly fond of his duct-taped hat), sort of yelled, "This is just what Ben Franklin was talking about. We don't have the power to make decisions that affect us!" Don smirked. I was guarding the door both to insure that students did not run after the principal and to make sure that I didn't give the hoax away.
Don said to them, "You [pause] have been duped." The room got very quiet. Finally, Maya asked, "What's duped?"
Teenagers may seem skeptical, but this skepticism is an act of self-preservation. They really don't know what to believe, so they're guarding themselves with doubt--sometimes with doubt cloaked in surety. Maybe that 's something we never grow out of, protecting ourselves from our own sense of vulnerability.
Warning: Do not try this at home. Teenagers can be unpredictable and such tricks should only be applied by a professional.
Mary
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
NL #5: And the envelope please...
NL #5: How do you prepare for brain tumors? Come out as a lesbian--though coming out, for me, was in many ways harder.
Saturday night Ann and I celebrated our 15th U-Haul anniversary (anniversary of living together.) That means that it was also about 15 years ago that I came out to everyone I knew. It was a hard time.
The hardest part of coming out, for me, was coming out to myself. I’ve never believed in a God who creates beings to hate, so I never had the religious struggles that many gay people have. The fact that some others thought this meant I was “condemned”, I found ridiculous. Clearly, we understood the messages of the old and new testaments, the ways of the spirit and of God, differently. I thank God and the church of my youth for that hippie upbringing and the radical notion that all people are created to be loved.
Still, the notion that I had lived with myself for so many years and had not realized I was gay was hard for me. The realization made so many things clear: why I could not marry the first person I fell in love with, why I always found girls walking down the sidewalk more attractive than guys, why I felt so attached to so many female coaches and teachers, why I was so afraid that I would always feel lonely, not alone, but lonely.
I remember the only line in the final Ellen Degeneres sitcom that I really liked. Coming out to her parents, Ellen says, “Mom, Dad, I know you’ve always wanted me to be honest with you.” Her mom interrupts her to say, “No dear, that’s what you always wanted. We don’t need you to be honest.” Perhaps I was the one who needed to be honest, but I felt I couldn’t really be in relationship with these people if I was hiding an essential part of my life.
I decided that letters would be better than phone calls or in-person conversations. That way, family and friends could deal with their initial reactions and could decide what they wanted to say to me. I mailed individual letters to all of my family on the same day and then mailed letters to everyone I knew. I didn’t want any more pretending; I didn’t want to wonder who knew and who did not; I didn’t want to worry about a hierarchy of who knew first. As my letters travelled east, I received letters from both my mother and my sister asking what was going on. Each wrote that she no longer felt the closeness we had once had. This is especially remarkable in that members of our family do not as a general rule write letters to one another. Though I thought I was just hiding a part of me they didn’t want to see, I couldn’t be close to my family if I wasn’t being honest with them about who I was.
Reactions ranged: my mom called immediately and then came to visit. Not that she was comfortable with it, but she wanted to communicate clearly that her love was stronger than anything else. My dad and I wrote letters back and forth for over a year, dealing with our lives over the years in the context of dealing with my coming out--a different way of living his love. My sister was immediately joyful as she had never really liked my husband. My brother was also supportive, writing a letter saying that he understood that since I could not be with him, he being my brother and all, of course I couldn’t find happiness with any other man. Both my sister and my brother helped my parents come around and helped them to see that if I was going to be part of their lives, Ann would be, too.
Telling my family about my tumors was not so hard as coming out because I could better predict that they would be supportive. While I fell from the Christmas card lists of a couple of childhood friends after coming out, no one said “they didn’t understand” or judged me in any way when they learned I had a tumor.
When I was first coming out to myself, before I came out to everyone I knew, I felt alone with my anguish. With my tumors, without hesitation or explanation, I came out immediately to my family and my community and they embraced me. When I was first coming out to myself, my emotional system was so upset with me that I punished myself: I exercised endlessly, slept little, lost a lot of weight. With my tumors, I took care of myself and so did my partner, my family, colleagues, my community. I felt scared sometimes, but I never felt alone.
After coming out, I eventually came to trust myself and my place in the world and to believe that I could make a positive difference here. I also learned through coming out that I could face a very dark time and emerge from the darkness. I learned that I could struggle and be okay. I came to believe that, though I could not know the future, I would not be lonely.
This trust and belief, in myself and in my community, has sustained me in this difficult time. I have been stronger in the face of both life and death than I would have suspected.
For your companionship, for this community, for being with me through it all, thank you. That's mostly what I feel: grateful. Mary
Saturday night Ann and I celebrated our 15th U-Haul anniversary (anniversary of living together.) That means that it was also about 15 years ago that I came out to everyone I knew. It was a hard time.
The hardest part of coming out, for me, was coming out to myself. I’ve never believed in a God who creates beings to hate, so I never had the religious struggles that many gay people have. The fact that some others thought this meant I was “condemned”, I found ridiculous. Clearly, we understood the messages of the old and new testaments, the ways of the spirit and of God, differently. I thank God and the church of my youth for that hippie upbringing and the radical notion that all people are created to be loved.
Still, the notion that I had lived with myself for so many years and had not realized I was gay was hard for me. The realization made so many things clear: why I could not marry the first person I fell in love with, why I always found girls walking down the sidewalk more attractive than guys, why I felt so attached to so many female coaches and teachers, why I was so afraid that I would always feel lonely, not alone, but lonely.
I remember the only line in the final Ellen Degeneres sitcom that I really liked. Coming out to her parents, Ellen says, “Mom, Dad, I know you’ve always wanted me to be honest with you.” Her mom interrupts her to say, “No dear, that’s what you always wanted. We don’t need you to be honest.” Perhaps I was the one who needed to be honest, but I felt I couldn’t really be in relationship with these people if I was hiding an essential part of my life.
I decided that letters would be better than phone calls or in-person conversations. That way, family and friends could deal with their initial reactions and could decide what they wanted to say to me. I mailed individual letters to all of my family on the same day and then mailed letters to everyone I knew. I didn’t want any more pretending; I didn’t want to wonder who knew and who did not; I didn’t want to worry about a hierarchy of who knew first. As my letters travelled east, I received letters from both my mother and my sister asking what was going on. Each wrote that she no longer felt the closeness we had once had. This is especially remarkable in that members of our family do not as a general rule write letters to one another. Though I thought I was just hiding a part of me they didn’t want to see, I couldn’t be close to my family if I wasn’t being honest with them about who I was.
Reactions ranged: my mom called immediately and then came to visit. Not that she was comfortable with it, but she wanted to communicate clearly that her love was stronger than anything else. My dad and I wrote letters back and forth for over a year, dealing with our lives over the years in the context of dealing with my coming out--a different way of living his love. My sister was immediately joyful as she had never really liked my husband. My brother was also supportive, writing a letter saying that he understood that since I could not be with him, he being my brother and all, of course I couldn’t find happiness with any other man. Both my sister and my brother helped my parents come around and helped them to see that if I was going to be part of their lives, Ann would be, too.
Telling my family about my tumors was not so hard as coming out because I could better predict that they would be supportive. While I fell from the Christmas card lists of a couple of childhood friends after coming out, no one said “they didn’t understand” or judged me in any way when they learned I had a tumor.
When I was first coming out to myself, before I came out to everyone I knew, I felt alone with my anguish. With my tumors, without hesitation or explanation, I came out immediately to my family and my community and they embraced me. When I was first coming out to myself, my emotional system was so upset with me that I punished myself: I exercised endlessly, slept little, lost a lot of weight. With my tumors, I took care of myself and so did my partner, my family, colleagues, my community. I felt scared sometimes, but I never felt alone.
After coming out, I eventually came to trust myself and my place in the world and to believe that I could make a positive difference here. I also learned through coming out that I could face a very dark time and emerge from the darkness. I learned that I could struggle and be okay. I came to believe that, though I could not know the future, I would not be lonely.
This trust and belief, in myself and in my community, has sustained me in this difficult time. I have been stronger in the face of both life and death than I would have suspected.
For your companionship, for this community, for being with me through it all, thank you. That's mostly what I feel: grateful. Mary
Monday, April 19, 2010
NL #4: Everything I need to know about auctions I learned from basketball
NL #4: High school basketball prepared me for auctioning. Friday night we attended our annual church auction. I’m competitive by nature, not necessarily a strength in competitive bidding. Some things I learned from playing high school basketball prepared me for auctioning (now a verb):
1) The one with the biggest number wins. Though I didn't win in basketball very often, I do "win" a lot of times in auctions.
2) If I’m not in the game, I can’t steal or score. This was an especially painful lesson as I sat on the bench for most high school games. When we played weak teams in high school, my coach would say, “We gon’ kill a gnat with a sledgehammah.” I loved the expression, but it’s not really practical. In reality, killing a gnat with a sledgehammah often means you spend a lot of energy, damage walls, but miss the gnat. On our basketball team it meant that our strongest players (not me) always played pretty much the whole game. And some gnats got away. A soft tissue is probably more practical in gnat warfare, and in basketball strategy. I finally quit.
As in basketball, if I’m not in the bidding war, I can’t win. Even though I’m a lovah not a fightah, I love bidding wars. Sometimes, I bid just to start a war. Years ago, Ann left me at the table with the bidding card while she went to socialize. Lewis had donated two beautiful antique chairs that did not fit in our home in terms of color or size, but the chairs were about to go for a pitifully low price. Bid card up. Ann ran across the room, a kind of OJ Simpson through the airports run (before the days of the slow chase), and ripped the bidder number from me. Someone else won those chairs at about four times the original price. I felt like a good person.
3) It’s important to box out for highly coveted items: in basketball, of course, the ball. In auctioning something more like a framed autographed cartoon of WNBA Seattle Storm players Sue Bird and Lauren Jackson. In high school, this was hard for me. I was tall, somewhat willowy (some often mentioned a long stick) and a little off-balance. Once, when I was walking past a table of boys in the school library, the whole table got quiet. Finally, I overheard one say to the others: “That girl ain’t got no butt!” When walking down the street once, some fellow leaned out the car window to holler: “You don’t even make a shadow!” Yes, I was thin, skinny, which meant that I got knocked around under the boards. Since I have my cane now, I’m wider at the silent auction table, I have a weapon, and I have an excuse to write my name and number slowly.
4) Teamwork is important: Once my friend Jerry and I were bidding on a vacation that we intended to take together (with our partners, of course). We were bidding against each other until we finally realized that we were just raising the price for ourselves. I think alcohol was involved. I’m pretty sure. Maybe I would have had a more illustrious basketball career if alcohol had been involved.
5) As in basketball, the last few seconds of an auction can determine the difference between winning and losing. If I start a silent auction bidding war too early, the price just goes way up, so I am learning to enter the fray as a spoiler. I don’t bid for anything I really want until the end of the bidding period. When the auctioneer starts counting down, I take the final five seconds to sign my name. That way I "win."
6) In basketball, I had to learn when to quit. This was a hard lesson for me and not one that I have yet applied to auctioning.
I have been more successful with auctioning that I was with basketball. Evidence is all around our home: four-foot high Appalachian dolls that I call Grandma and Grandpa and that all the older ladies stop to talk to: “Hey girl. How are you?”, a large blown-glass dish that reflects the summer sun onto the den wall in pinks and purples (Ignore the inscription on the back—must have been someone’s wedding gift), photographs and memories of dinners and trips with friends, Grandma and Grandpa. The evidence of my basketball success is here, too: pictures of other people who play.
Of course, in the end it’s always all for a good cause and a good time. That’s what I say. But to be honest, it’s about winning.
Mary
1) The one with the biggest number wins. Though I didn't win in basketball very often, I do "win" a lot of times in auctions.
2) If I’m not in the game, I can’t steal or score. This was an especially painful lesson as I sat on the bench for most high school games. When we played weak teams in high school, my coach would say, “We gon’ kill a gnat with a sledgehammah.” I loved the expression, but it’s not really practical. In reality, killing a gnat with a sledgehammah often means you spend a lot of energy, damage walls, but miss the gnat. On our basketball team it meant that our strongest players (not me) always played pretty much the whole game. And some gnats got away. A soft tissue is probably more practical in gnat warfare, and in basketball strategy. I finally quit.
As in basketball, if I’m not in the bidding war, I can’t win. Even though I’m a lovah not a fightah, I love bidding wars. Sometimes, I bid just to start a war. Years ago, Ann left me at the table with the bidding card while she went to socialize. Lewis had donated two beautiful antique chairs that did not fit in our home in terms of color or size, but the chairs were about to go for a pitifully low price. Bid card up. Ann ran across the room, a kind of OJ Simpson through the airports run (before the days of the slow chase), and ripped the bidder number from me. Someone else won those chairs at about four times the original price. I felt like a good person.
3) It’s important to box out for highly coveted items: in basketball, of course, the ball. In auctioning something more like a framed autographed cartoon of WNBA Seattle Storm players Sue Bird and Lauren Jackson. In high school, this was hard for me. I was tall, somewhat willowy (some often mentioned a long stick) and a little off-balance. Once, when I was walking past a table of boys in the school library, the whole table got quiet. Finally, I overheard one say to the others: “That girl ain’t got no butt!” When walking down the street once, some fellow leaned out the car window to holler: “You don’t even make a shadow!” Yes, I was thin, skinny, which meant that I got knocked around under the boards. Since I have my cane now, I’m wider at the silent auction table, I have a weapon, and I have an excuse to write my name and number slowly.
4) Teamwork is important: Once my friend Jerry and I were bidding on a vacation that we intended to take together (with our partners, of course). We were bidding against each other until we finally realized that we were just raising the price for ourselves. I think alcohol was involved. I’m pretty sure. Maybe I would have had a more illustrious basketball career if alcohol had been involved.
5) As in basketball, the last few seconds of an auction can determine the difference between winning and losing. If I start a silent auction bidding war too early, the price just goes way up, so I am learning to enter the fray as a spoiler. I don’t bid for anything I really want until the end of the bidding period. When the auctioneer starts counting down, I take the final five seconds to sign my name. That way I "win."
6) In basketball, I had to learn when to quit. This was a hard lesson for me and not one that I have yet applied to auctioning.
I have been more successful with auctioning that I was with basketball. Evidence is all around our home: four-foot high Appalachian dolls that I call Grandma and Grandpa and that all the older ladies stop to talk to: “Hey girl. How are you?”, a large blown-glass dish that reflects the summer sun onto the den wall in pinks and purples (Ignore the inscription on the back—must have been someone’s wedding gift), photographs and memories of dinners and trips with friends, Grandma and Grandpa. The evidence of my basketball success is here, too: pictures of other people who play.
Of course, in the end it’s always all for a good cause and a good time. That’s what I say. But to be honest, it’s about winning.
Mary
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