The corner of Nuance and Nostalgia

There I am, standing at the intersection of nuance and nostalgia, with a cell phone in my hand talking my old friend. The entryway to the Housing Authority of Portland is on my right, I am swinging slightly around this pole with a 90 minute parking sign posted an arms length above me. I am barely looking anywhere: antiquated building, cinder block sides, green solar parking meter, red car. I am lost in my chatter of lunch plans, waiting for the goodness of my friend to reemerge with her hands empty of that damned application. Instead, a big blue shirt emerges.
Big Blue Shirt is walking straight toward me, his chest puffed out like a pigeon, nostrils flaring so much that I can see a pocket of snot on the inside of his left nose hole. Suddenly I feel small, it’s been a long time since I felt this small, and Big Blue Shirt must be about a foot and a half taller than me. Dark complexion and angry as fuck he's coming right into my space and he's saying You gone call the fuckin' cops, You call them fuckin' cops. I am mid-cell-phone sentence so I say, I'm not callin' the cops man, I'm on the phone.
Big Blue Shirt throws down his right foot with a single stomp, pushes that big Blue Shirt further out, his eyes widen and he grows another foot wider Should I just rape you right fucking here, huh? There is a voice on the other end of the phone that I can't understand, my eyes shift from right to left as I take a step back, a step back, What?! Big Blue Shirt is taking steps with me, Huh? Huh? he's asking me. Backup man. I put out my free hand and he steps back a few steps from me. I have moved into the middle of the sidewalk, somehow, and it seems Big Blue Shirt is retreating You get on with yourself he says and mistakenly, I say, Yeah, you just get on goin' yourself when Big Blue Shirt pivots and starts back at me at the same time my free arm goes up and my cell phone arm and I squint, his arms are coming up too. He grabs them both.
What the fuck'd you say, What the fuck?
Stop, stop! My arms swinging about. He hits me, flat palmed, on my forearms and knocks my arms down. Stop! Stop! is all I can manage to get out as he walks me backwards down the street yelling - all his words gelling into, not even sound, now its just Blue coming at me.
Then Big Blue Shirt stops, pivots and starts walking the other direction. His mouth is moving but what's he saying. I put the phone up to my ear and the person on the other line says, So when are we going to meet? I look to the other side of the street Hold on I say. There is a couple walking, they aren't looking at me. There is man in a top hat, dressed in black on the sidewalk behind me, smoking. Um. Yeah. Genie's. We'll be there in a few.
I hang up and stand there. The sky is overcast. My friend emerges, her hands empty of the application, she is smiling, we are leaving, and I am shaking.


It's been a long time since a strange man has touched me. I have never had a man throw his hands at me or hit me. Not in my life. I said I would never tolerate it but in that moment I realized it didn't matter if I wouldn't tolerate it. I was small, much smaller than him. It made me refocus on the randomness of some events and that although I am 30 and far out of the range of targets for violent / sexual predators, it doesn't mean that it can't happen. Apparently it can even happen in the morning in downtown Portland in front of strangers. This event occurred at SW Third and Ash.
I'm shook. I haven't stopped thinking about it since it happened. Tonight, I would rather not be alone but I am going to be, and I am going to be fine. But I am deeply saddened by the event and the trauma it brought up, and once again, it brought up shit from past events. I have the resources inside me to deal with this emotionally and mentally but I am taking inventory. What could I have done differently? And I'm angry. Angry as fuck. Angry and fucking scared.
People. Don't disregard violence that is going on around you if you can, at all. I know we all got triggers and safety issues, don't get me wrong I understand this, but damn it no one came to ask me if I was ok and there were plenty people around - even watching.
I didn't call the cops. No. Why? You take a mentally ill person to jail, they get two hours and are free, and the repercussions are endless. Loss of housing, loss of income. Come on; call me out, excuses-excuses right? But you know the points I am making are true. We don't have the systems to help these people. It’s the streets or jail. Neither work.
I am prideful of my ability to navigate the mentally ill being that my other mother was the tyrant of my household for many years and I am saying, I usually know how to speak and act to keep myself safe and this time, I didn't have the words. Maybe I am out of practice.
Maybe I am fragile; not so tough as I thought I was.
Maybe this kind of assault shouldn't go unreported. But it does. And even though I advocate for others to report, I decided not to because I couldn't put a finger on what it was.

I can't end this rant without resources because this shit happens all the time.
Maybe I should call.

National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-HOPE
Portland Women's Crisis Line 503-235-5333
Multnomah County Crisis Line. a. 503-988-4888

Big News: Vandalized!

Vandalized.

March 4th. 9:00 a.m. Portland State University Cafeteria.

Coffee in hand, phone vibrating in pocket: a (208) area code on the screen. What's this call mean? I fumble with my coffee, head for a counter, and compose myself enough to sound professional.

Hello? I say.

Hello. He says, We've reviewed your application and were very impressed with the manner in which you handled your prose. We would like to offer you a position in our MFA program at the University of Idaho.

Composure is most necessary in this moment, not hopping around like some dingbat spilling coffee all over the floor and my shirt before I head off to poetry class. Oh my god! I mouth without my voice. Well Thank you! I verbalize.

The program's competitive. The top three selections have been offered at TA ship. If one of them decides to choose another school, I am right behind them in line. I am not sure of the likelihood that someone would turn down at Teaching Assistantship but, you never know. You never know what could happen in just a moment.

So this is it folks. This is the turning point for me. I will be relocating to a place where the summer is sunny and the winter is cold as fuck: Moscow, Idaho. My program is 2-3 years in length and when I am finished, I'll hold an MFA in Creative Nonfiction and I'll be prepared to teach writing.

And isn't it appropriate that the school mascot is The Vandal?

To those of you who have joined me in my writing classes, been enthusiastic about my endeavors, encouraged me to follow my dreams - Thank you. You are the reason why I've continued my journey.

And to Grandpa Rice, otherwise known as "Pops" - this is for you.

Carnal Discourse

Carnal Discourse

…when touch seems casual and only discourse intimate…

- John Hollander

you want me to write about our love

talk on the structure of touches

how they release uncontrolled emotion

that conquers the precision of our limbs

you wish I’d account for some details

the oceanic movement of our bodies

how our legs and arms wrestle for a grip

when we finally make time but

I hope you don't write about our sex life

when the whorls on your fingertips find the

arches leading to dark spots on my body

your kiss sits like salsa on my parted lips

I travel like the viscous droplets

that form and ease right down your spine

pausing like the weight of wine

a full-bodied finish in your mouth

but this isn’t the height of our intimacy

we are the odor of flint striking steel

destructive alone as fire and fire

embers burning into the morning

I ask if we can agree on anything

though I’m not sure I’d have it differently

By: Chelsia A. Rice

The Broken Word Volume Two

Church of Poetry 2007

What about "The Booty Call"

The origination of the term "Booty Call" comes from the early 90's comedian, Bill Bellamy. A long gone washed up old fool. But oh, the terminology has stuck around (even if it dates you) and so I offer up my examination of "The Booty Call" and ask that you consider a response.

First, a snippet from Wiki, just to enlighten ya'll a bit as to the unofficial definition of the terminology offered up in the title of this blog. A booty call is "communication, or visitation made with the sole intent of engaging in sex..." Well duh, now that we've settled that, just a bit more:" In most instances, a booty call is made when the prospect of a traditional date is highly unlikely (e.g., late evening, after midnight or pre-dawn), thus making it obvious what the intent of the call is for. That being, mutual satisfaction outside a traditional relationship (with all its complexities and commitments)."

Ah. Perfect. That latter poignantly exemplifies the niceties of the "call and ask" for the "ass and dash". I know, that's not very lady like of me, but who ever said I was lady like. I mean, I'm from Milwaukie...

So the question has been rolled through many mouths since I came out way back in like 2003 (sure, way back) and the question remains: Do booty calls exist in the lesbian community? Can women or do women engage in sex without getting the slightest obsessive about the prospect of a blooming relationship? Can ladies partake in booty calls with one another without feeling the commitment hooks of fake porno nails pulling at their panties? Ew... I'm getting more crass by the moment. (We all know that those porno nails aren't very nice anyway so the analogy is quite fitting.)

Now, I'm no gold star lesbian. No, sorry if that is disappointing, but kudos (I think) to all of you who are. And for one long term of my straight single life, I engaged in a booty call 'situation' that lasted damn near five years, even traversing the I-5 corridor when I resided in Seattle. It was consistent, safe, reliable, included no adding of hash marks to the headboard, no confused emotions, very straight (in sexuality and in communication) forward.

What was so wonderful about this arrangement? The attraction and the uncommitted commitment. Yes, there is a kind of commitment to a booty call situation and that commitment is to talk about some things and not talk about others (discernable by the parties involved). Here's an example of how mine usually went down...

"Hey, are you going to be in town tonight?"
"Why, do you want to hook up for a bit?"
"Yeah, do you have some time?"
[Two second time negotiation here]
"Great, I'll see you then."

And this is how the lovin' ensues. Its evening, one of us drops in on the other, it happens and then we allow for sometime to chat and stay warm (also known as cuddling) and then, see ya, have a great night. On rare occasion, sleep overs, and on rarer occasions, last chance ass when the party is nearly over. You know, when all that hitting on others doesn't work out and you realize your trusty reliable booty call has experienced the same shafting (ew... horrible phallic reference). You see, you get on with the evening and everyone rests soundly. Is that so awful?

And although I have been in back to back relationships since I came out in 2003, I have yet to see or hear of this 'unicorn' (you know, imaginary, fictitious, fantasy) in the lesbian community. I've heard of nothing like this. The sexist remark would be that "women are more emotional than men and therefore can't engage in sex without emotional involvement" but I call bullshit because, well, I am a woman and have done so.

Don't jump to calling me slutty, I'm just sayin'...
And this isn't a rant to try and negotiate a booty call with anyone, so don't run too far with it or pass it off like a baton to another source, thank you very much. And I'm not looking for anyone to offer it up. I don't think.

I just want to know. Lady lovin' ladies: Does it happen? Can it happen? Has it happened? Would you do it? Would you not? Why? What are the expectations? Are there rules? Is there an application process?

Maybe in our community the technical term is called "polyamory". But seriously, I've had only one straight on-going booty call in my life and have not considered myself polyamorous, even if I was dating other people. I mean, who said anything about having amorous feelings about more than one person. There was usually one person for whom I had amorous feelings and my booty call, well. I liked my booty call and all, but not enough to say hey, lets get into a little more than this. And I think, he would've agreed.

So please, chime in. Had em'? Want em'? Confused? All ya'll that are reading be you hetero, homo, bi, gay, les, queer, poly. Christ, I don't care what you identify as, just tell me what you think about the good old fashioned (about 27 years old now) term of endearment that's enjoyable to theorize about: the booty call.

Boxes

I'd been sitting at the reception desk for 4-hours. It was my second year at Portland Community College. It was fall, gray, the rain was coming down at a slant and puddles were forming in the grassy area outside. My jeans were soaked up past my ankles from dragging under my feet all day. A student approached the desk with an application in hand and a braced-face. I brainlessly looked over the application, scanning with a pen in hand, for empty or unchecked boxes.
"Ah!" I said without even looking up, "You forgot to mark your sex." I started for the male box when the person across the counter stopped me.
"Yeah, I meant to do that."
"Shit." I may have said either in my head or out loud. "I'm sorry. I should have known better."

Yeah I should have. I worked in the Women's Resource Center my entire time in the institution and had been called out by my peers on assuming gender, orientation, blah, blah, blah, and the list goes on. I should have known. But I went for it automatically, brainlessly. I put someone into a box they didn't want to be in. But the brain, any one's brain, automatically categorizes everything in order to make sense of the world. Every time someone crosses my path, I categorize. "White, male, upper-class, educated, large-frame, Republican (even if my categories are completely incorrect). Every time I cross another's path, categorized. White, femme, straight, middle-class, uneducated, naive. I try to be conscious of this, recognize it and not be assumptive, but how do we navigate this world otherwise.
We box ourselves in. Throughout my life, I can find the turning points of my identity. I was straight, I was queer, I was lesbian, and at one point I identified as second-gen, very admittedly. But during all phases, I always questioned the concreteness of identity. I slept with a woman when I was "straight". I dreamed of men when I was lesbian. I never really settled on the identity queer (although it's the most open identity available to me) and when I identified as second-gen, my mother was no longer a lesbian. None of those boxes feel secure to me and yes, I've considered the bi-sexual box as well but can't seem to bring myself to hang onto it. Even more confusing is where I stand today. Single, after dating women for five years, I still feel my appearance is too femme to be identified by other ladies as available (and safe, since dating a straight looking girl is dangerous). Maybe I'm too kicked-back and tom-boyish to date men (it takes a special man anyway).
Today, I may not identify as I did yesterday. My one chosen box is woman. No, I am not going to drop the 'man' portion out of woman either. I appreciate that part of my identity is adapted from the root word man. Don't get me wrong, I am a feminist of my own designation. I understand the issue with "history" and I understand the argument against 'woman', I just don't care. Also, I am agnostic. Another box I like to hang onto. But even in stating that I am agnostic indicates my uncertainty in a whole different department of my designated identity.
I get it. Boxes are secure and safe for some folks but boxes don't entirely fit me. I had this argument with my former partner. When I told her I identified more with queer than lesbian, she seemed a little unnerved. "But your in a monogamous relationship with a lesbian."
I said, "Then I am in a lesbian relationship but that doesn't mean I am lesbian."
"Well yeah, it kind of does."
"I guess." Internally I was saying 'for now', which isn't to say that the I didn't believe the relationship would last just that I didn't know what the future would hold and that is the nature of my problem with boxes. How long do they last?
For me, a box means your in it for good, i just can't allow myself to be put in some boxes forever. Even now, my former partner wouldn't be certain of the 'female' box she once put herself in, which would also put her 'lesbian' box in jeopardy. I know plenty of lesbians that sleep with men and still identify as lesbian and I guess that's the reality of identity. It's yours. No one else can designate your identity for you. Sure, they can categorize you as you pass them on the street. Even you close family and friends have boxes for you, and you them. The reality is, we don't ever have to stay in the box or follow the rules of living in the box. In fact, I commend fucking with all the assumed characteristics of boxes, chosen or not.

I often use the story of the application when discussing issues of gender and identity because it was a pivotal moment in my growth and thankfully, the person on the other end of the counter was generous and brave enough to seize the moment and call me out.
I left it blank but after the student left my desk, I walked over to the lead administrator and asked her, "Is it o.k. if they leave their sex blank?"
She looked at me softly and said, "They don't have to denote their race, sex, or age."
Of course, I thought to myself, nodded and headed back to my desk.

Scheduling Pain.

I spent three hours at Atlas Tattoo with Jen Billig finishing up a piece that has taken nearly two 1/2 years for me to complete. The actual piece is only about 10 hours total and worth about a down payment on a new car. I'm not saying this is the best expenditure to budget in but it's finished and now wisteria wraps around one shoulder and crawls across to wrap around the other. And I couldn't be happier the process is over.

Prior tattoos have been done on a whim and not so much as scheduled for completion. I can't say that I am a fan of scheduling tattoo appointments because the reality is, some days you just don't feel like you can bare any pain. Some days you can tough it out. Certainly, the older I get the more painful they are. These days, I am less concerned with being tough as not having to be tough if I don't want to. So when the tattooing process gets to hurting, I have a hard time not squirming.

Tattoo was one of my younger sisters first words. My mother has several: 4 pieces of flash art in random places on her body. She told me to never get tattoos in places that you couldn't hide them. I think this is great advice. Mine are all on my torso. My stepfather has tattoos all over his arms and torso as well. My other mother had tattoos all over her body from Jesus Christ on her forearm to the jumping dolphin on her calf. I have tried to maintain an organic theme in all of my adult work. But there is that god forsaken yin-yang sun looking business on my ankle that I don't regret, but certainly it isn't as pretty as the rest.

My intuition tells me that tattooing isn't as popular in other parts of the US. Particularly because I caused an accident in Kansas City, MO in 2001 when someone was rubbernecking at my lower back tattoo. At this point, I would like to disqualify it as a "tramp stamp" strictly due to its size. Tramp stamps, in my opinion are much smaller and typically tribal. I'm not a fan of the lower back tattoo, not even mine. SNL had a great skit one evening about the lower back tattoo eraser. I might add, I am also not particularly a fan of the term "tramp stamp".

So, some tips of advice and things to consider when scheduling an appointment to get tattooed.

1) Under no circumstances go out to drink excessively the night before. Not only does is SUCK to get a tattoo with any inkling of a hangover, you end up bleeding all over your artist and that's just rude.

2) Under no circumstances get drunk when you got to get a tattoo. Anyone who lets you get a tattoo when you're wasted is a dip ship and probably not the best person to get a tattoo from.

3) If you're going to get a tattoo, spend a little money. Getting a cheap tattoo is getting a cheap tattoo. You're going to have to look at that cartoon Tasmanian devil for the rest of your life. Get an artist who can put a real Tasmanian devil on you instead.

4) Eat a nice hearty meal about an hour before you go in. This way your not too bloated and you're not starving. Getting work done on an empty stomach is asinine.

5)Finally, don't just go to some joe-schmoe shop. Ask around, talk to people. Find out what style you like and find an artist whose work you admire. There are an abundance here in Portland and anybody at Atlas Tattoo is a good bet. I will also put in a good word for Matt, owner of Tiger Lily Tattoo.

6) Tattooing is pretty well regulated these days but if your tattooer doesn't pull needles fresh out of a new, sealed pack - I would think twice or get up and walk out.

And there is so much more. But enough for now. Happy tattooing.

Housing, Employment, Rosie & Ripa

Stipulations/Manifestations/Mediations: Housing, Employment, Rosie & Ripa

Homophobia is pervasive. It’s a theme that I am obligated to tackle over and over again. At first, as a child of lesbian parents and now as a second-generation, queer identified woman. There are severe implications of homophobia. As an individual, my self-esteem and safety are at stake; in public I am constantly checking and balancing what kind of conduct and/or expression is acceptable. I am sometimes asked to negotiate and/or sacrifice my quality of life in order to serve what the dominant norm is.

Here is a recent request and a past instance that I have been presented with:

Housing:
1)In attempting to secure a place to live, I was offered a basement studio by my mother’s best friend who is a self-identified fundamentalist Christian. When I first came out to my mother, her friend told her that my choices were an abomination. My mother disagreed with this and they stopped having conversations about my sexuality. Afterward, I was always cordial and friendly with her regardless of my opinion about her opinion. But, when her offer came to me this last month it was quite a surprise. She offered me an affordable space to live with a condition: I would be allowed to live there but I would not be allowed to have my partner stay the night. Her explanation was that she would not even let a straight unmarried couple stay together overnight if she rented to someone in a heterosexual relationship. Knowing her faith, I understand her position but have some issues regarding her request that I intend on discussing with her. This is my position and it is to the point: As a woman in a lesbian relationship, a citizen of the state of Oregon, I cannot get legal recognition of my partnership, I cannot get married to my partner. This stipulation of renting is discriminatory due to this and therefore I will not take up residency at her home.

Employment:
2)While working for Portland Brewing Company as a bartender in 2003, I started dating my first girlfriend. I was very excited about the new relationship and secure with being out. Often, my women friends and my lover would pick me up after work. Sometimes they would come inside and wait a minute at the bar while I wrapped things up. I approached my supervisor in the spring and requested, and was given, one day during pride weekend off. The next day, while I was taking a break in the staff room, a female head chef came in and I asked her for a smoke. She gave me one and asked me how I got the weekend off and said, “Did you finger fuck her (my supervisor).” I was so caught off guard that I sat there and said nothing but gave her a thank you for the cigarette. This was the first incident. A week or so later, the other chef came to the side of my bar and requested some beer for the kitchen. As I was filling up my bucket, several waiters and waitresses were gathered next to him waiting for their order. As I was getting everything together, he commented on my Anheiser-Busch belt buckle and said out loud that he knew why I liked it, “Its because of the bush” he implied. Everyone looked at me kind of strange and I shot him a hush look as he returned to the kitchen. About two weeks later, I was called into the supervisor’s office and “let go” due to what was described as “a personality difference.” I felt I was discriminated against because of my sexuality and called Basic Rights Oregon first, for referral to an attorney. I then contacted the Oregon Bureau of Labor and Industries to go about filing a complaint. I was told by both if I did not have someone who was present to hear the two instance as described above, that I had no case. I lost a job that I loved and was put into an instant economic depression while I tried to secure another job just as summer approached.

Recently, Clay Aiken was a stand-in host on the Regis & Kelly Show. During an interview Aiken interrupted Kelly Ripa by placing his hand over her mouth. She responded to him by saying, “Oh. That’s a no-no” and followed it with “I don’t know where that hand has been.” The following day on The View, Rosie O’Donnell stated the she believed Ripa’s remark to be homophobic, although Clay Aiken has never come out as gay. The two had dialogue live on the show and Ripa said that the remark was due to the fact that she has children and she was responding to the threat of germs.

In my opinion, I can see Rosie’s response to this as a homophobic remark but at the same time, it seems to be somewhat of a projection. I can also see Kelly’s position but not for the reason she state on The View. Clay’s actions were inappropriate because, in a male dominated culture, women have long been silenced but figuratively and realistically, and she certainly didn’t deserve to have any one’s hands placed on her anywhere. I am thankful however, that we have Rosie to represent the LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Trans, Queer) community, as we need more representation in media. We also need more individuals who are willing to speak out as frankly as she did. It is people who have this kind of courage that get other people to look closely at their actions and statements. These are issues that sometimes only get addressed in small situations but these situations are sometimes the most powerful.

For instance, in discussing my daily adventure to a roommate in 2003, I described a person who’s gender I couldn’t identify as being a “he, she, it, whatever…” and my friend immediately called me out, telling me how inappropriate that statement was. I was a bit taken off guard and nervous but asked her to explain to me why. Even as a lifelong advocate for the LGBTQ community, I didn’t know that the more appropriate approach to this situation was to not be concerned with gender and if I really needed to use gender to better know an individual, to wait until they identified themselves and go from there. This was a life changing moment for me, an invaluable learning experience that, although uncomfortable, changed my world-view forever. This is why it is important to work with each other on a one to one basis (as well as within the larger community) as a means of educating each other and helping people to better understand the complex world we live in.

As a part of my Women’s Studies class this term, these are a few issues I would like to explore. I am interested in hearing opinions and other observations on these matters from others so please, engage in dialogue with me.

Fathers Day

Fathers Day was never spent buying ties or fishing reels. We had a computer with stacks of connected green-tinted computer paper that rolled out into the printer. With an archaic design program I printed: HAPPY FATHERS DAY on a banner, stuck it to the wall with masking tape and held my breath.

Laurie was my 'father'. Today even, I call her on Fathers Day (and sometimes Mothers Day) to tell her I love her. Although my father lived just thirty minutes away, I knew deep down inside he had four boys of his own, and a new family to celebrate his day with.

My father is a short woman with bleached blonde hair who stands about 5'3" tall. She is stalky and round. She is rough and her knuckles are hard and wrinkled with age. She plays music loud in my childhood home. She is an exquisite cook but works in dive restaurants around the city. She has an onry smile and a vicious tickle. She smokes Player cigarettes in succession, at night kicks her high-top Vans atop the couch arm and watches Americas Funniest Videos. On my special days, she pulls me into her and tells me, "I love you Chelsia-bugs."

This year my cell phone was disconnected and my bank account extinguished. I wonder if she knows that I have no way to call and tell her that I still love her, no matter what. She is tucked away far above the United States on a Canadian prarie. I called my biological father, told him how happy I was that our relationship seemed to get better with the years and that its a pleasure to have him in my life. I called my step-father and we talked about motorcycle rides in the country and a visit soon. But I didn't get to call the father that comes to mind first, the lady who spent my most formative years as my other parent.

Laurie. Although you may not read this, you've been on my mind. The banner was strung high in my mind for you Sunday and I was caught up in memory about our family. Our road may be long and trecherous but my love for you has never seized. Thank you. You've taught me so many things about life. On the fine edge of pain and exhileration, I can honestly say: I love you.

Happy fathers day.

When it comes to fists.

I don’t think she remembers although, I hope I get to ask her, someday...

These days, our time on the telephone is brief. Shortened by her inability to stay focused. The medication stronger than her will. Sometimes she comes into focus, can have an even exchange of words with me. Sometimes I feel strong enough to ask her. Like the last time we spoke. She says, “They’ve got me on a good combination now. I take shots once every two weeks. My head still gets away from me. It was never like that when I was with your mom. Maybe it didn’t happen because I was so happy with your mom.”

I don’t know what to say to her. Maybe her memory is delusional, focused on what was good and ignorant of just how chaotic it was. I wonder if she remembers taunting us.
I never raised my hands to her and she never got her hands on me. My nimble feet could run for blocks to whose ever home would let me in. There are a hundred and one beds, homes, and parks where I could sleep alone, or with my biological mother by my side.

She called her a “fat cunt” one evening. One of her favorite terms for my mother, who never struggled with her weight. I was sixteen on that fall evening. We were preparing to head to a dinner with my French class at the local high-society dining establishment. In the kitchen with my back to their argument, I heard those words emerge and I turned on my heels; unknowingly, my fists clenched at my sides. Laurie looked at me with eyes wide and filled with an unleashed anger that kept her lids peeled back. Beyond her my mother watched, tears in her eyes and a readiness I recognized. “Come on, try me Chelsia Ann. You wanna fight me, bring it on.” She looked me down to my fists and back up to my eyes. All stood still in that moment. I looked down to my fist and realized that this time, I was ready. Or at least I thought I was. All I could say was, “Don’t you ever call my mother that, again.”

Laurie leapt towards me and I quickly ran around her as my mother threw herself against Laurie, and then up against the counter. Their struggle moved dishes and pans off the counter and onto the floor as I ran through the house to the unfinished bathroom. The door, I knew could not hold her back. Put up as a temporary fix, its particle board strength could not hold her. I put my back against the door, braced my foot against the toilet, pushed my other hand against the towel rack, and held on.

She made it to the bathroom door and through her weight against it like a rabid dog, attempting to break through. Her familiar threats of “breaking legs” or arms or ripping my skull out of my head came out of her mouth faster than her beating tempo against the door. Wrapped around her rage, I knew my mothers arms were there keeping her back until all I could hear from behind the door was her heavy breaths and her whisper in the crack of the door telling me, “You better not fall asleep tonight Chelsia fucking Rice, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Sometime between that time behind the door and the parking lot of the French restaurant, my mother and I reapplied our mascara, gave each other the love and hugs that we needed to put on our face for society, once again, and continued onto our plans to celebrate our union of mother and daughter under the guise of a french dinner. In the presence of my peers and instructors, we checked our faces, I ate escargot for the first time, and marveled at the flames on my banana flambé. I knew what happened that evening wasn’t over, we still had to return to our home and the conflict that would remain unsolved.

Second-Gen succumbs to Anxiety

Watching the drama unfold through on the little screen sometimes generates as much anxiety as my own melodrama. I try not to see myself in everything that happens around me but inevitably, I am looking for ways to relate my experience to that of someone else's. Like their outcome could possibly provide me with a prediction of my own. There was a time when I left media in order to cure the anxiety that it generates and this evening, I question if that time is approaching again.

In the stories of prime-time television we see love lost and recommence over and over again. Tonight's episode of L-word had me looking at all the dynamics of lesbian relationships (and straight relationships) that have me shaking my head in repitition like Shane to Carmen's accusations and insecurity. Sometimes I feel like that shaking could just go on and on. Just when a sense of security seems to emerge within me, I recoil, speculate, stand outside of myself and examine the dynamics of the relationships I keep, both casual and intimate. Too much introspection can make anyone question everything they are doing.

At a late night birthday party last night, a deck of Tarot complete with a reader (of over fifteen years) emerged. I asked her a simple question, knowing that her knowledge of the cards in the presence of many friends might make matters complicated if I asked something too specific. "What will summer bring?" Seems like a broad enough questions. From the deck, I picked the card that I felt best represented me. It was some card depicting the ends of arrows. This card representative of the many racing thoughts that consume me. "Full of speed and desire and passion" she said. I began to feel all my internalized and compressed issues unfold before the party.

In the future she says there will be justice and I am certain it will be served against me although she didn't predict it that way. Eventually a sense of calm will emerge, an ability to take into consideration where I come from, what has happened recently and what is currently going on. She mentioned that the defensive position that I am taking with all these things that seem to be surrounding and confronting me, may be ineffective. That coming into the power that I have is the only way to achieve the calm that is certain to come.

In this life at this time, there is so much to consider. Where I come from and how it is being recreated in my current life. What I am doing and how that will affect my future. Who I am involving myself with and how that will either nurture or cripple me. What I have done in my past, recent past and the present; and how life eventually evens the score in one way or another.

Somedays I feel I am truly at the mercy of the universe and other days I can feel that I still have the power within me. Tonight, I will return to the little screen where love is lost and recommenced, still looking for indications of direction in fictitious relationships, knowing that the only answer comes from waiting for the universe to provide the answers or taking the reins myself and driving the chariot back home to save myself.

Positive outcome, negative experience.

Speaking publicly about my family hasn't come easy. Especially considering the current political climate. Curtailing the real story to convey another story is sort of an art form which I am not so sure that I am comfortable with anymore. At some point, I have to tell it like it was and is. Sugar coating doesn't serve anyone's interest.

It wasn't easy and it sure wasn't perfect. My mothers weren't the best parents in the world. Although they loved me and provided me with affection and love, they created a home climate that will forever affect the way I live. In my relationships, I see reflections of the ways they treated each other. I see myself at the perpetrator and the victim all at once and this is what needs to be said: Domestic violence isn't something exclusive to heterosexual homes. It isn't something that men do to woman. It is without gender. It is a problem that permeates all sectors of our society and it needs to be exposed.

There wasn't a holiday that passed without a fight. Not an argument, not just an issue, an all out fist fight, exchange of demoralizing and insulting remarks, tossed furniture and food splattered against the wall. Broken down doors and shattered windows. Blood trickling from the ear of my battered mother. A manic monster storming through the house and destroying everything precious in her path. A family photo ripped in half and a stuck to the wall with a knife through the picture of my young, seven year old face.

I created a safe world, a silent and numb existence that protected me from the horror I was witnessing. When a silence fell over the house and tires tore out in the street in front of my house, when I could hear my mother sobbing from behind my bedroom door, only then could I come out and wrap my arms around my mother and begin to rebuild. Put the chairs back in their spots, mop up the soup that was flug across the room, rewrap the presents that were torn from under the tree and make the great escape to someone's house or a park where we knew we could not be found.

They ask me to speak locally about "celebrating our cultural tapestry" and I can say that my life was colorful and at times beautiful, but silencing the real story for the sake of creating positive images to gain more acceptance for our homosexual community, is killing me. There is more that needs to be said. The challenges of living twice closeted (once for my lesbian parents and twice for our domestic violence) is part of the story. Its is part of describing the positivity that can come from absolutely horrific experiences. These experiences are not ones that we can all relate to but therein lies the issue: it is time that we recognize that we are all a part of this society that allows this violence to continue. This is the motivator that will provide us with an issue common to families of all kinds. Your family is your foundation and you honor it regardless of your struggle. You honor all families for the sake of creating a space that is nuturing for children of all kind. There can be no more hiding.

How do you say Lesbian again?

I look down at the syllabus. I'm 28. My ASL class will be talking about family the third week. I hesitate. How do I articulate my family. I have two moms, a dad, a step-dad, a step-mom? What's the sign for lesbian again? Is that appropriate? After all this time and all my speaking I still hesitate at having to explain, even in all my proudness. The reality is, it takes a lot of words. Is the other person going to wonder if I think I'm so "special" by sharing that experience? Will they understand? Should I just give in and only tell them about my biological mother and father?
I wonder how children feel when they come across this? Are they ready and willing to give up this information? Are they proud? Is this easy or a challenge?

Wobbly Wonderings

It has occurred to me that time is running out. My non-biological mother lives far North in the prairie lands of Canada. She has become progressively mentally ill since long before I knew how to walk. These days as an adult in my late twenties, I can see that her functionality is decreasing. With or without medication she can barely hold a conversation. I am sure that the medication gives her some sort of grounding so that she can function as necessary throughout her day but I wonder how much of her mental illness is emotions trapped inside of her head with no conversation by which to escape.

I have been meaning to talk with her for years. After six years of not seeing her in person, I went for a forty-eight hour visit last summer. She shuffles in her knee length shorts through the house to her cigarette roller where she stuffs and packs tabacco into fifty pre-made cigarette shells. Her medication keeps her relatively sedated for the first of the morning, her eyes barely open enough to watch afternoon t.v. Again, her medication is administered at noon, another forty-five minutes of drool and unconsciousness. Later in the evening, a final dose puts her out for the rest of the night.

I wonder if she knows how much she has deteriorated in the last decade. I wonder if she is able to rationalize where she is and how she got there. I want to ask her questions about her life: what was life like on the streets? How do you resolve being sexually molested by your brothers? How do you feel about giving up your first daughter for adoption? Do you remember beating my mother? Why did you cut yourself?

I feel as if time is running out. Her weight gain, her mentality, her dependence on others has me questioning what kind of time I really have to ask these questions. She is my other mother. For fifteen years, although most of them wrought with abuse, she helped raised me. She was my greatest friend and my worst enemy. The most gentle and the most frightening person I know. My life has been infused with her presence in both negative and positive ways. This time, it is time for my own resolve.

Looking for opportunities to travel to her this spring. Spend two weeks with her and a dictaphone. Talk about the things that we have never got to talk seriously about. Ask her about her feelings, her life, what happened and what she remembers. Look for a way to resolve, this life that was built around the love the I have for her, regardless of the illness that nearly killed us.