To Touch a Diseased Body

To touch a diseased body is powerful.
To watch a pillowy torso turn to a rocky terrain.
They mark her body with sharpies, map where her tumors are and point radiation into her abdomen. Her waist is bruised around her sides from injections, as if she’d been beaten and kicked.
She lies in a hot bath before me, naked, her body exposed and falling, wrinkles appearing at the corner of her mouth overnight. Her forehead wrinkles with concern, she can’t tell the difference between dreams and visions.
What is reality to any of us, anymore?
Time is lost in hospitals. A week is gone in a flash of a camera which strives to only capture what unity we have, bouquets in a corner, Mylar balloons with superficial prayers, a Chia pet farm in the window.
I rub her feet, I want to push the tumors from her body, I work her feet like dough, I watch her eyes tighten and her words stop when I find a spot behind her ankle bone, the pressure point for the ovaries, the place she feels so much relief when I coax the soft and pliable skin through my fingers.
I clean their house which has been left for days, maybe weeks, without being swept.
There are bags of movies that people have brought to occupy their minds.
The port for the chemo dangles from her arm, a purple and blue rubber cord bobs each time she reaches her arms to hug me. She can’t hug me long. Her body quivers, her hands shake. She has not yet cried on me, not until I kneel in front of her and hold her face in my hands and look her in the eyes. We stare at each other without saying anything, for so many minutes, blinking, and yet we hold our stares. She suddenly looks confused and smirks, she asks me what I am doing and I laugh as I cry.
I feel as if I am saying goodbye, as if we have words for one another even though we don’t have words. I get one chance to tell her before I leave, so I take the chance to tell her and this is what I say “I will support you not matter what direction of treatment you take. If you want to fight I will fight with you, and if you don’t then I support you". I think she hears me this time. We hold each other and she clutches and shakes out a few tears.
I am afraid I will never see her again that my last memory will be of me leaving her on her couch, when I feel like I should be with her for the journey. The entire journey. I just want to be there.

Nugget & Buddy: two-syllable, easy-to-say names for my two animals.

Nugget & Buddy: two-syllable, easy-to-say names for my two animals. One cat, one dog. Both ripe with character, both I love so much, both a big-ole pain in my ass, and pocket book.

First, Nugget, also known as 'beef stick' or 'Noooget' or 'Nugsie', bless her soul, is a 12 pound, 1/2 blind, diabetic, Chi-weinee (chihuahua/dachshund mix) who likes to chase anything that runs and throw herself off of high places even though she doesn't have the spine to support that impact. She was only two of these things, 12 pounds and a Chiweinee, when I got her off Craigslist with my former partner (ex is such a dirty word) from a clean-and-sober woman who was in the middle of divorce and selling everything (including her two dogs) so that she could live and drive her RV where ever the hell she wanted to go. We, knowingly, were getting Nugget to save our relationship in the same way that straight people have a baby to save a marriage.

A year after we got Nugget, after me and my "let's-get-a-dog-to-save-our-relationship" partner broke up and got together for the umpteenth time, on a weekend at the beach to revisit our relationship under more romantic conditions, Nugget came in after an afternoon pee only to turn around and pee again, and again. And then head for her water bowl with a voracious and unquenchable thirst and pee again, inside. Perplexed, we thought she'd got into a tide pool and ate some bad shellfish. But the peeing didn't stop, so we took her into the boutique-priced-vet that all vets are in Portland, when we got back into town and after several hundred dollars of testing found that, at the age of 3, she was diabetic, an illness that is expensive and hard to regulate. Even more expensive and hard to regulate for a 29-year-old, single woman, who likes to drink and go dancing, and is surviving on student loans and a server's income. Diabetes means a special diet and keeping a regular schedule and shooting your dog up with insulin every 12 hours (9 and 9).

Just so we're clear: Nugget isn't diabetic because I fed her twinkees and the fat off my steak every night, the diabetes came down through her genetic line.

At first I considered a rescue, or putting her back up on Craigslist because I didn't think I'd have the money to give her a good life, but after careful consideration and because I knew Nugget had been in three homes in her first year of life, I decided to give it a go and do my best to give her a stable home and a good life.

Needless to say, our first year was rough. Finding the right diet, not skipping shots, getting me trained to meet her needs was difficult. In May of 2008 she weighed 8 pounds and was practically a walking skeleton. Family and friends were split, as was I, on whether to put her down or try to help her recover. I decided to take the summer to try and get her regulated and make the decision after a more consistent regimen. Thankfully, we found something that worked: never missing shots, prescriptive food, lots of water, lots of money. Nugget is back at her normal weight and is doing fairly well, until lately when she's started having seizures.

This is the second episode this summer and it's gone the same way both times. In the middle of the night she pushes herself out from under the covers and falls on the floor without attempting to catch herself. Then she wakes up early and starts licking and pushing herself into my face, looking all around the room, her round body pulsing with muscle spasms. Then, for a few days afterward her muscles are weak and her balance unsteady. After this mornings episode I took her to the reasonably-priced-not-in-the-big-city vet for an exam and lab work. Our total expenditures for today: $201 and 3 lost hours of sleep. They gave me diazepam for her seizures (now you can be on the same medication as mommy!) and an anti-inflammatory (Metacam) and told me lab answers are to come by the end of the day...

Answers? Maybe...

Now, Buddy, the other break up based pet. Buddy, a short-haired, black and white who has also been known as 'Snake' and 'Budinski' and 'Fat bastard', came to me from the Oregon City projects shortly after my first major break up in 1998 with my first major boyfriend. I got him as a kitten and often slept with him in the nook of my collar bone, and since then he's thought it okay to still sleep there whether of not he weighed 9 or 15 pounds.

Today, Buddy is eleven years old (in his sixties in human years) and has lived with me in seventeen different home in three different states. He's been rather durable and accommodating, living with a variety of animals, in a variety of conditions and regions, with a variety of lovers and roommates. He's been the most reliable long-term relationship (which sounds like I've turned into that creepy cat person) up until recently.

About three years ago I took Buddy into the boutique-priced-Portland-vet for an exam for wheezing episodes. The vet blamed it on anxiety and I took his diagnosis as golden. But this year, when the wheezing episodes got more intense and were accompanied by a dilated pupil and raised third-eyelid, I took him into the reasonably-priced-small-town vet who found a lump in his throat and diagnosed him with Horner's Syndrome.

Since then, Buddy's appetite has decreased, his purrs and breathing have become more labored, he's lost weight, about three pounds, and sleeps all the time. I've tried changing his diet, giving him a variety of food, consulting the vet for treatments and what I've gotten is a shrug, following the offer to do an MRI to find answers, and another prescription for Metacam (at least both my animals are on the same drug).

Maybe I've always had a thing for differently-abled animals, after all, my first pet was a gray, one-eyed, long-haired, bladder-problem-ridden feline named Toke. But I've come to realize that at this point in my life of pet ownership, I am essentially running a convalescence/geriatric/hospice home for my pets. And that's okay. I love them both, and I am committed to them both, pain in the ass or not.

Not only is pet ownership expensive, it's fun, joyful, time-consuming, sleep-losing, awesome, heart-breaking, terrifying, and quite a commitment; a life-long commitment. I don't remember it being this way as a child. Was it that it wasn't as expensive, or that it wasn't my money being spent?

Regardless, I've come to understand that one should not take on the responsibility of pet ownership unless they are ready to spend the money, whether boutique-fees or reasonable-vet-fees, to maintain the health of their animal(s). And when my current pets pass I will likely take a break from ownership so that I can leave for the weekend without paying someone to come feed them, or without consideration of how to travel with them. But because I've been raised in a home that has always had pets as part of the family, I have a feeling it wont be long before I invite another animal into my home.

Then too, I'll be there to hold their paw through whatever health issues come their way, and hopefully my income can support providing them with the best treatment I can afford, and that is possible.

Interfacing With A Murderer

Minam is a place of solace for me; a locale where my distant relatives once tended to timber and made moonshine up the mountain during prohibition times. I go there to listen to the Wallowa River rush by, to watch the cedar waxwings flip and fly over the river catching small flying things, I watch the rafters put in across the river at the boat launch, listen to the Osprey's clip cry, and joyfully tend to customers in the market and people lodging at the motel.

Although I go to Minam to get away I often find myself working on small projects or motel upkeep; mostly laundry, which is a never ending chore. I always try to get a ride on the lawnmower if only for the excuse to sip a cold one while doing circles in the front lawn. I spent seven weeks working at the motel last summer and enjoyed most of my time there, with the exception of a few nights where I found myself alone in the canyon with no one in the motel.

I am afraid of the dark - particularly dark wilderness areas with little light pollution. I like to see what is coming at me and this is problematic even when I have the porch lights on all night. One night in Minam during my stay last year, some raccoons were fighting in the middle of the night, or god knows what, which nearly made me pee my pants. During a spring time visit, a mob of dear were eating grass around the back side of the manager's unit, snorting and brushing up against the walls of the motel which also scared the bejesus out of me, even though I knew damn well it wasn't a crazed serial killer. The issue is that the motel is the only lodging place between Elgin and Wallowa - a 30 mile stretch of a scenic by-way - which is remote but beneficial for us because the weary traveler can find a place to stay when they come through the winding canyon in the dark. But every time someone comes in a little past 10pm, it rattles me just a bit.

I've been to Minam three times this year; I just arrived home from a week in the canyon yesterday. I arrived last Thursday, a little after 5pm, to an empty motel - which I expected - and a damn hot summer day. My first customer rolled in around 6-6:30pm. Being that we are along a thirty mile stretch of well, nothing, people from the country or adjoining towns often drop in to chat, or use the telephone if there is an emergency in the canyon somewhere, or to grab a cold beverage or ice cream. So nothing to be concerned with when my first customer rolled down the driveway in a dirty and dusty Jeep Wagoneer - complete with fake wood paneling and came to ask me if I had a paper. In the car was a woman smoking a cigarette, a couple of dogs bouncing about her lap.

I grabbed the paper and handed it over to the man. He was about my height, tan from days in the sunshine, had on a pair of white paint splattered pants and a myriad of tattoos about his torso. He had big brown eyes and his hair was done. He got down on one knee in the gravel drive-way and turned the page to a article about the recent find of a murdered woman and her dismembered hand that was found in a local pond; a news report that I had been following since before I headed down to the canyon. For a moment I thought it peculiar that he would come in, ask for a paper, and go for that column, but the county was alight with rumors and everyone was interested in the news - no one had heard of such an occurrence in years...

"Isn't that awful?" I offered.
"Yeah" he moved his finger quickly down the sentences, "she was a distant relative of mine."
I thought about the care I should take with my words. Nothing to strident, nothing to disregarding.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
He got up and handed the paper back to me, I forgot if he said 'thank you' or another 'yeah', he just turned around and headed back to the car and left.

I went back into the manager's unit and thought about my safety - I got a buck knife out of the kitchen drawer and set it next to the front door. I slept with it by my side that night, the front doors locked, the bedroom locked, the windows closed and locked on a 98-degree day.

The rest of the weekend was delightful: family came in to do some remodeling, some friends in for a little R&R on Friday. The great thing about Minam is that we really know how to have a good time: country drives, a little sauce and some music, some time by a fire telling fish-stories, good food, and good conversation. There is a welcoming aura there at the confluence of the two rivers, a feeling that you are free to enjoy time as you please, and we encourage those who visit Minam to do just that. After a fun weekend, everyone skirted out on Sunday and once again, I was alone in the canyon.

I went to bed on Sunday at 2:30am, anxious at being alone, and woke up to my mother calling on Monday around 8am. "They released a picture of the killer, Chels. I want you to get a good look at him."
By this time the news broke that there were three victims total, people in the county were so certain there was a serial killer on the loose that the police had to release a statement dispelling the rumors. There was also rumors of a head found in a backpack. Also not true. I wasn't reading the paper that was being delivered daily to the motel, I was only quickly glancing to see whether or not that murderer had been captured. In Saturday's paper there were three pictures - two of people in plain clothes and one of a young man in a mug shot. I figured that was their prime suspect and moved on with my day.
"Yeah mom," I said yawning, "I already saw the guy. I haven't seen him."
"Okay, well, I just want you to be careful."
She headed off the work and since I was awakened by the phone call, I was up. I turned on the news anyway to get a good look at the guy and to make sure I knew his face. And this is probably no surprise to any reader of true-crime, but when his face came up on the news I nearly fell off the bed: my first visitor on Thursday was the guy.

I called my mom - or at least tried to - to ask her what to do. Should I call the police since the guy is still on the loose? She wasn't there to ask.
I decided to call the Union County Police.
A 1/2 hour later the news broke that Gregory A. Cook was captured in Rainier, Washington.In a news report he confessed and apologized.

Although I am scared of the dark and the dark is where most of the "bad" things that have happened to me have occurred, it's no stretch to say that frightening things happen in broad daylight - and often within a mile of home.

Minam is not where I reside, but it is one of my homes.
Even though we fondly call it The Minam Asylum.

Is Feminism Obsolete?

In this video forwarded to me by my friend Rebecca Rod, republican strategist, Mary Matalin can't even say "feminism," she stalls every time before she utters the words, which doesn't surprise me, even though she says the feminism she once fought for in the 60s has been perverted over the years. Perverted? By whom? By what?

While I stand behind Palin defending her daughters (what mother wouldn't defend their daughters from nationally broadcast comment like that), I also balked at her for saying that it's a matter women's rights. Pft. Whatever Palin... Like women's rights are on the forefront of your mind. Whatever bus you want to ride...

But I eat my words...Like Jessica Valenti at feministing.com, a philosophy of feminism professor once told me that a feminist is someone who designates themselves as one, or someone else who designates another as one. So is it any surprise that the word "feminism" is convoluted, and doesn't have the same meaning as it did in the 60s or 70s? Because, as feminists, we have so many issues that matter to us, we have so many agendas, that it only seems the word is "obsolete."

But it's not. It wasn't lost in 2004 when The March for Women's Lives drew over a million people. I believe that today feminists are more widely spread. From the people who are returning to more domesticated ways of living and staying home with their families, to the people on campuses programming and bringing awareness to student communities, to separatists who are still working the land and maintaining women's communes, to queers working on trans issues, to people of all genders continuing to work on abortion rights, to women seeking equality in the military, to the men and gender benders who stand behind our cause and walk with us at marches...

Feminism isn't "obsolete," unless you are only paying attention to national media..

But if Tina Brown thinks Hillary Clinton is real female power and Naomi Wolf thinks Angelina Jolie is the "embodiment of female power and liberation," I wonder what other public figures we can point to that demonstrate the diversity of feminist activist who continue to demonstrate "real" female power. Why not bell hooks? Isn't she still writing, still speaking out, still working for the cause? What about Gloria Steinem? Is she not longer relevant because she of her age, or her married status? What about the men who work for the feminist agenda, wouldn't Cornell West consider himself a feminist? And one of my favorite people to reflect on, Phillis Schlafly, I might even point to and call a feminist even though she would never call herself one, and was nearly the antithesis of feminism in the 60s and 70s. But wouldn't she fall in line with some of our feminists today?

I care about being a feminist, but I wonder if we should consider the questions posed by CNN reporter, Carol Costello. Why care about being a feminist anymore? If everyone has their own definition of feminism, why even use the word?

And finally, has feminism really become an exclusive club?

A Controlled Burn

The hardest part of negotiating a relationship with my other mother is determining whether or not she is of sound enough mind to maintain contact.

We haven't spoken to one another since before Christmas when I decided that her schizophrenia combined with drug and alcohol usage was effecting her ability to have coherent conversations with me. Also, after several phone calls that pursued the same line of questioning about my mother I felt as if her intentions for remaining in touch with me were not so much about our relationship, but with the desire maintain a thin line of contact with my mother. Just in case. And maybe that is her reason for remaining in touch with me - I am the last thread that connects her to a life she cannot recover, the one life in which she felt she really lived.

And maybe I keep in touch with her for my own reasons. She is a part of my connection to an identity: daughter of lesbians. And I keep in touch with her because I worry that she has no one, or few people, in her life that support her and love her unconditionally. Though, I am not even sure I love her unconditionally anymore. My psychological and emotional state is valuable to me and cannot afford to teeter any closer to the line where I could potentially break down and give into confusion. I've already been there and know what it takes to get out. I don't have time.

I also keep in touch with her out of guilt. I am her daughter. Her only daughter, as her biological daughter with whom she adopted out at birth, fled the relationship after meeting her in person for the first time, and has not kept in touch with her after seeing her physical and mental state several Christmases ago. Maybe she too closely saw what she could turn into and ran for her life. Sometimes I wonder if I should also run.

She called me few days ago after receiving the news that my grandfather passed through her brother whom my mother emailed to relay the message, and her voice mail plead for a phone call if it was in fact true. I considered it for days and finally called today to confirm her suspicion. Our conversation was short, she told me to give her condolences to my grandmother and my mother, and she told me that demons chased her from her apartment and I understood how that could happen, and she told me that she should write down her history so that I could write about - that there was so much to talk about, and she said that she had taken up painting again and this was a surprise to me because the only art I'd seen her do was during her times of institutionalization. But she laughed, she didn't mean she was using paint - she meant she had been smearing her own feces on the walls.

"Ew" I said instinctively and without thinking. And I had already said it when I realized there was a more appropriate response that should've come from my mouth. I could only ask about her meds, if she had been to the doctor lately, if she was ok.

She rarely tells me that she's anything but ok.
She's not ok.
She hasn't been for a long time.

Sometimes the mind snaps and the mind deteriorates before your eyes, as out of control as a brush fire in August. And sometimes the deterioration of the mind is slow and steady as a controlled burn, ever square inch of the minds land charred. Both fires have the capacity to spread flames onto the lands around them, and I often find myself fighting a fire which I allowed to ignite.

I rarely tell anyone I am anything but ok.
I'm also not ok.
I haven't been for a long time.

But I still have my mind.

The Rising Tide of White

Every morning I look in the mirror and find a razor-gray stripes highlighting my round face. They are prolific little buggers and I've given up trying to control them. It wasn't that I was trying to control them really, what I was trying to control was the red-ended grow out that is the last twenties years of my hair dying experimentation. My reasons for attempting to modify my dye-crazy behavior and let the gray grow out is due, in part, to watching my mother's hair grow, dye, and be cut. The two of us have been dying our hair a nice rusty auburn color for so long that people assume we are natural reddish-heads. Because of this, we've been unable to see the slow transition of our dark-ash-brown crowns turning to sterling. Catch my mother in a lull between dye-jobs and you'll find she has a white halo around her face and down her skull that spreads a few inches, as if Moses himself was parting the supermarket Red-Sea. By gauging the clone-like similarities between my mother and I, the decision was made to grow out the dye now and face aging head on (or at least on my head).

At 51, if you eek a peek under the red cloak, at the base of my mother's roots, you will see that her hair is a shiny white with a few stray brown survivors holding on for their lives. My hair, now down to my waist, is a result of nearly eight years of growing my hair out. From the skull, the first 5-6 inches is my natural color, the rest is curly, over-processed, reddish-brownish, what stylists without the right descriptive words call "ethnic-like" hair. Since we all have an ethnic heritage, I guess it's safe to assume that I got this hair from the smattering of god-knows-what European heritages with which I am composed. People more familiar with Irish folk will tell me that is where my curly coarse hair comes from. And the like for the Italian side of me. But there is that long lost branch of my heritage which remains a mystery. All I have is picture of the man who would've been my biological grandfather had he not passed in a plane crash when my mother was four, and a hazy memory of my great grandparents Zefa and Jesse Jones, both of who were blazing white-haired folk who passed long before I could ask them questions about that side of the family. All I knew is that Zefa made her way to Oregon on a wagon-train. The memory of sitting at her feet while she rocked in a chair telling me the story, is something I believe I made up. Maybe after my mom relayed the story to me herself.

Without knowing the heritage of that branch of my family, I am also not privy a great deal of additional knowledge. I know there are some Jones family in the SF are, but my curiosity hasn't compelled me to go dig through public records to find out more about this, as of now, fictitious family. Particularly since I've heard that a certain woman was brazen enough to say "Oh, bullshit" at a funeral my mother attended for her late uncle when the read the list of survivors and included her a a niece. Maybe I don't need to get to know the Jones family after all...

And I look at my grandmother, a Sparks, and see that it took here a long time to grow in the gray. And I look at my Dad who's 52 and see that he's just starting to brighten up a bit above the brow. His parents went gray - but not until much later - so I am sure that I am more Jones than I can ever imagine, though I can only look into the eyes of my mother and see her father's and see his mother's eyes and realize that not only do my eyes droop in the corners as they do, but that my hair might be one of the only living Jones histories with which I am able to have tactile contact.

In the mornings is when I touch it, feel it, get close to the mirror and examine the prism of light that passes through the hair and wonder how long it will take me to rid myself of the awful red-dyed ends hanging from my head, or how quickly I will turn platinum like my mother, my great-grand-mother, and if I will coil my hair in a bun as she did, or if I will find my way back to the dye and try to reclaim my youth for 11.59 in the beauty products aisle. Or maybe I will just love the hell out of this hair, all these stray grays that my ex individually points out while saying her name. And though they say that we don't go gray because of stress, even though we now know it's a chemical reaction that comes from the inside and works it's way out, these gray hairs are all bricks through the pathway that is my life.

So I'm gonna let them grow. Because although it's been a crazy ride, and a helluva journey, I'm ready (for now) to recognize that it's all been worth the slow rising tide of white upon my head.

Many Means of Expression

On a day like this, how can one not have something to say?

There are many political goings-on that have moved me to tears over the past eight years:

• My family called from Canada the night before I voted. They left messages on my voice mail saying, "We are just calling to remind you to vote for Gore." But, President George W. Bush's election in 2000 was not one of the events that caused me tears; quite the contrary, I was infuriated. But at that point, I was still too young and far too self consumed too think much of his election other than a halfhearted, "Well, it's the end of the world" or "it's certain we'll go to war with him in the White House."

• There were tears of unhinged fear upon seeing the World Trade Center's twin towers fall along with so many people. There was a voice mail from a friend in Brooklyn with whom I had spent a long evening under the towers, just three days earlier. He said, "Chelsia. Oh mah gawd. I'm fine, but I am standing on Carol Street and there are pencils falling from the sky." And the line went dead.
  

• March 20th, 2003. 12 a.m. PST. In bed, beside my girlfriend. We held each other, crying, talking, fearful that our president was keeping his promise and dropping bombs on villages in Afghanistan. We asked each other, "Do you really think he'll do it?" We looked at the walls of her basement and imagined Children asleep in houses made of clay, thousands of miles away. We fell asleep with our eyes wet and when we woke the next morning we protested with 30-thousand others in the streets of Portland.

• Then, the "mis-election" of President George W. Bush defeated me in 2004 and put me to bed early. My tears, that day, were for my the failure of my state (Oregon) to support equal rights for GLBT families when they decidedly passed of a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage. I had worked so hard that year for equal rights for my family of origin and for my relationship and those of my chosen family and community. And o top it all of, my country reelected a man I was sure would bring down not only our country, but many others.

• April 24th, 2004. Tears again. When I walked onto the National Mall and saw 1.5 million other people present in defense of women's rights to privacy and choice. I cried at the magnitude of people who showed up in D.C. at what was called the largest march on Washington for women's rights, ever. And that I was so privileged to attend with the gracious support from the students and faculty from my community college to get me there. It was there that I heard Senator Hillary Clinton speak. It was that march that, I believe, caused Dick Cheney to withdraw his request for the medical records of women in the US who had had abortions. It was a small victory, but an important one.
  

Today and last night, off and on, I've released a few tears, mostly of joy, for the achievements of the incoming administration and the men and women of our country who fought for so long prior to this moment; for those who died, who wrote and sang and marched in the streets so that our country could elect a President of color. And on this day, (I hate to use such a cliche' campaign slogan but...) I am filled with such hope that gains will be made for equality in all of the spectrum of community in this country; be it that of race, nationality, religion, socio-economic status, political affiliation, sexual orientation, gender, ability, age, and any other identity included. I feel as if opportunity has broadened for many and that a new spirit may prevail, if we allow it so. I believe that spirit is that of Love.

I can't help but think of my sisters on a day like this. One 13 and the other 11. Although this may be somewhat only interesting to them, I hope they someday understand the importance of this day in the history of this nation. I hope that our world and that the people of this nation demonstrate the recognition, accountability, and responsibility President Barack Obama asked us to dutifully undertake for the sake of future generations.

When I was in Jr. High School, there was a blip in time where I became aware of international politics. My mothers recorded the news that broadcast the firing of artillery through night vision. Little green dots flew through the air in all directions and explosions erupted on the horizon as the newscasters detailed what was happening to a entranced audience. Although we didn't know the ins and outs of Desert Storm, we knew war was wrong and therefore, protested by walking out of school and having a sit-in on the grassy field at Rowe Jr. High School. We sat for a while and then the administrators pulled us back in. Unfortunately, I didn't become aware of politics again, or the impact of national politics, until long after I left high school.

I was awakened by the Seattle WTO protests and Y2K. It was then that I realized how much each of us is woven into the power of the larger systems this country and this world. It was then that I realized I couldn't afford to not pay attention.

But I haven't been paying much attention and I haven't been working for the last three years. I've been disheartened, angry, self-involved, unable to look, and I simply turned the channel. I can afford to do work and maybe I should have been doing work all along. But I believe that change occurs no matter how small of a change you make or no matter how few hear your voice.

Today President Obama said, "...your people will judge you on what you can build, and not what you destroy." And although he directed this remark to the leaders of countries in conflict, I believe it is a message we should all hear. No matter how small you think your impact is, lets build instead of destroy, love instead of hate, have hope instead of fear, and go forward in the spirit of building a better world and community that will sustain for many generations to come.

Does My Hair Make My Ass Look Big?

Weight: 155 / BMI: 26% / Height: 5'6" / Target Weight: 137-145

This is what the internet tells me as I click through site after site of weigh loss advice.
Oh, there is no lack of information on the web for how to get your skinny on.
The problem, no one is getting skinnier by sitting on their ass at the keyboard.
Some people want to get slimmer, some people want to gain weight, and a very few and select special people love their body just the way it is.
That's right, they are the special ones.
Realistically, I know there isn't any reason for me to lose weight except for my own desire to get in shape and trim up or whatever my newest body ambition turns out to be.
At this point, I am relatively comfortable with my body.
80% comfortable. That's a pretty good number.

But I believe most women aren't happy with their body (I'll not be sexist and say that a majority of men aren't satisfied as well). But this is about women in particular. At one time or another most every woman with which I've had a conversation talks about their weight. Some in a very direct way, "Oh, I've gotten fat since...(insert minor traumatic or life changing experience here)" or "I've lost so much weight since...(insert minor traumatic or life changing experience here)." Some ladies go about it in a very round-about way, "I've stopped eating wheat and sugar, and drinking. And I feel great!" (An apology for my composite characterization of a few select friends). Some in a very understated way, "I just don't feel like myself anymore." I like to think I avoid conversations about weight with my people because it's a conversation that has become as casual as, "How's the weather out there." It's a conversation that doesn't necessarily need to happen. I really want to know about you as a person, not the size of your ass or your muffin top.

So, I try (and I emphasize try) to avoid the weight conversation because I think we women obsess and ultimately damage our confidence and self-esteem when we talk about our weight. There are far too many people in the world with eating disorders that are so consuming they become life threatening. Once upon a time (earlier this year), I teetered on the edge of Bulimia when I found myself eating so much my stomach would ache - so I would purge afterward and found it was the best possible solution to ease the bloating. For those of you who haven't engaged in repeititve self-induced puking, I am here to tell you that after a while of forcing yourself to puke, it gets real easy to do it over again despite the fact that you consider the acidity taking the enamel right off your teeth and a myriad of other health issues associated with the process as you tickle the back of your throat and proceed to fill up the porcelain bowl.
I'm beyond this stint at this point in my life, likely because these days I am happier.

Anyway, I am far less concerned with the weight of other people than I am my own. The women in my family, at least the generation ahead of me, are always on diets and because of this I am always worried my ass is going to get big and I will have no control over it. About once a week I say to myself, "I want to start running now that I've quit smoking (almost 5 months now)," usually after I eat dinner and desert and watch The Biggest Loser. I say to myself, "If only I had a trainer like Jillian to yell at me, or a treadmill in my living room, or the ability to put my laptop in the book holder of the elliptical machine at the gym, or if I had better shoes, or an Ipod holder, and some Mace, and if the sun didn't go down so early, then I would run."

Boy... Turns out it takes a lot for me to get my ass up and exercise.

This is what I've found in my life-long search for the right exercise program:

1. I hate: Yoga (what kind of liberal hates Yoga: the new-age spiritual exercise of choice).
2. I can run but it takes a while to do a mile without stopping. When I finally reach that goal I go back to letting my imagination run instead of my feet.
3. The pool is the best place for me to exercise and meditate at once. I don't care that my ass looks bigger in a bathing suit. The problem: it does nothing for the slimming of my ass-tree-trunk-kankle-legs.
   
4. I have to do the elliptical in the student rec. center - usually within eye-shot of a student who is gliding away, all 105 lbs of them, as I push buttons frantically trying to figure out how to start a program.
   

Now there are other methods for losing weight that don't involve exercise and this is what I've learned from those excursions:

1. Meth or any form of amphetamine is a quick way to drop the pounds. But like the commercials depict, you will pick every pore on your body, be gross, have awesome (in the not so awesome sense) Kate Moss like black circles under your eyes, and your new found community will likely take more away from you than your weight.
2. Break ups and divorces. Nothing is better for my figure than heartache, loneliness, and a general dislike of myself. I lose my appetite, drink more, stay up late, and go out too often, all in effort to keep myself busy and all the while the deep pit in my stomach helps me to get my skinny on.
   
3. I love dancing. Throughout my life, my commitment to shaking my ass on the dance floor has been in flux. I spent my late teens at the underage night club and various all night Raves. My early twenties in the bars and a few clubs, my mid-twenties at queer nights and then came my late twenties and thirties - and I lost all my enthusiasm for second-hand smoke and hangovers.
   

With all this in mind, I believe the time has come for me to get in shape again. I am going to fore go all the methods of weight loss that don't involve exercise and try to go to the gym and do it the hard way. But I would like to make a couple of suggestions to the community at large in order to help us all be a little more in shape and a little less concerned with our bodies.

1. Can we bring the portion sizes down a tid-bit. Christ people, no one needs to eat that much.
   
2. I wanna see more "fat" girls in advertisements. You know, women that reflect my own body type so I can be reminded that I'm not, god forbid (cyber-sarcasm here), a "big girl" (all 5'6" / 155 lbs of me - a whole twenty pounds heavier than I was in Jr. High School (and last year for a few weeks, but lets not go there again)).
3. And can we make exercise "fun" and cool again? For instance, Jazzercise sounds like so much fun - but no one has been brave enough to resurrect this lost exercise program of the 80s. Boy, it's really too bad. I have my leotard ready and everything. Besides, when the current fad passes, it will be a great way to put those leg warmers to good use.

For now, I am going to put my laptop to rest and shut off the light and hope that tomorrow I get up in time to go to school, change, and with my Ipod recharged and my tennis shoes in hand, and my fingers fumbling with the freaking buttons on the elliptical machine, get a freaking workout.

Gay Purgatory

Mr. Williamson, my high school biology teacher, made his position on homosexuality clear. He posted "Yes on Measure 9" propaganda all over his desk: bumper stickers, fliers, signs, etc. He wore a button on his suspenders, which cuddled the sides of his round belly, everyday. He turned on Rush Limbaugh and let him rattle away his conservative values while we worked away at our labs three days a week.

I sat at a table with four people who I remember very distinctly: three who, although they couldn't yet vote, were against Measure 9 (including myself), and one who was for it. I don't know if my table mates knew my mothers were gay and had been together, by that time, nearly 13 years. I certainly didn't out us. Maybe the mask I'd put on for the world was so affixed that not even I wanted to admit to myself that my parents were gay.

I'm not a unicorn. There are kids all over this world; biological, adopted, fostered, or otherwise; who have parents, aunties, uncles, cousins, or grandparents who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transexual, transgendered, or queer. And they're not going away. And they will remain both out and faceless. The will not be heard from, they may not be asked or they may not speak out. The will need to be protected and they will need to be consoled. They will not understand and they will understand very clearly what the consequences of hate has upon their families.

I was once one of those kids. Now, I am one of those adults who endured a lifetime barrage of anti-gay legislation. There have been many in my time: Measure 8, Measure 36, Measure 13, Prop 8, and so many more I can't recall, and so many more to come.

Today, with the passage of California's Prop. 8, I can't help but consider so many things. To a degree, I am still closeted, blog and all. I am in Idaho and although my peers here are my allies, I am still afraid and careful of how much I am visible. How much can I be visible in the Idaho collegiate system? How can I be an advocate for my students who are in the process of developing their own identity? How can I be an activist in this community and be safe? How safe can I be when my partner is in town for a visit?

I am in gay purgatory, and have always been. Somewhere between being out but not being identifiable. Pass me on the street and you would never know I had gay parents or that I myself, identify as queer. And although I've sat before rooms full of people at city hall, at conferences, in colleges, and community meetings, I am still hesitant to engage people in conversations about gay rights. I know people sit at their desks reading the news about protests in California and roll their eyes? "Well, the people have spoken and you have to accept that." I've heard the apathy from our own community, "Oh well, it's been this way for a long time." I know both of these responses because I've responded the same.

Yes. It's been this way for a long time. Ballot measure comes up, gay rights come into question, and measure passes. We are used to defeat and elated by scraps of separate-but-not-equal rights we get.

Rights? These are the rights I have: I have the right to look over my shoulders in public, before I give my partner a good-bye kiss on the lips. I have the right to consider my vacation destinations because my partner and I could be killed in state parks while camping, in small towns as we leave the bar, on hiking trails, in our own town, and in foreign nations across the globe. I have the right to hide my identity from my landlords for fear that my relationship will have my lose my housing. I have the right to hesitantly hold hands in public. I have the right to determine what actions may cause me and my partner to be gay bashed. I have the right to fear small towns and rural communities. I have the right to be unionized or partnered in counties or states but as soon as I cross the state-line, lose that recognition. I have the right to, god forbid something happens while we are together, be separated from my partner in an emergency room because we are not family.

I am tired. I am sad. And I am fucking angry.

The View From Here.

When I woke up a half hour ago, my eyes were dry from the pumpkin beer I shared with friends last night. They were dry from staying up too late trying to beat one of my peers in a game of Wordtwister on Facebook. My eyes were dry because, although it rained last night, I now live in the Inland Northwest where we've seen a deliciously crisp and dry run of fall days. It's the season of dark, both in the morning and night.

I didn't want to get up. My eyes could not get wet. I blinked. And blinked.

My warm and soft little wiener dog curled up next to my hand and I rubbed her belly. My phone went off and my girlfriend sent a text message from Portland: Wish you were here.
Me too. I replied.

NPR was blaring from my bedside (an unreasonable volume for 6 AM) and Lakshmi Singh was saying People are lined up in Carson, Nevada where the polls have just opened.

It's a big day. I thought to myself.
And in an instant I was overcome with emotion and for just a second my bleeding liberal heart took a few deep pumps in my chest and I wept.

I know better than to put a moment of tears or crying into my writing. It's an action that needs to be written with a delicate hand (or typing since this is 2008). But since this is a blog and well, I don't filter and revise much here, I am going to tell you how it is and how it happens.

It was maybe three tears. Just three.

From 2001 to 2006, I fought the good fight. I was in the streets the day Bush decided to drop bombs on Afghanistan and Iraq with my best friend. We stayed in the streets until night fell. We blocked the freeways to demonstrate our need to stop our dependence on foreign oil. I sat in on anarcho-feminist meetings with friends and other revolutionary minded individuals and we looked at ways to serve disadvantaged populations in Portland. I worked in the Women's Resource Center with a group of women and we served women and men who were sexually assaulted, needed housing, support, education, supplies, food, resources of all kinds. We fought oppression in all forms. We called each other out on our shit. We had discussions about queer identity and the role of feminism in just about anything you can imagine. We educated. I spoke to people about being raised by lesbian mothers and how anti-gay legislation effected our household and my mind. I was out and fighting against Measure 36, the Oregon Constitutional Amendment to Ban Same-sex Marriage. I was anti-Bush and truly wanted Dennis Kucinnich in office ( a long shot) but voted for Kerry anyway. I sat before the television that night and watched as Bush, again, took office.

How could it be? I thought. All this work. All these people. This war. How could this happen?
And then I watched Oregon vote for the constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage and I couldn't believe my ears, my eyes. My state. My blue state. My liberal enclave on the West coast. Voted no for families like mine. For relationships like mine. For equality.

And I quit a certain kind of fighting that I had been doing for so long. I stopped being involved with politics and started talking to people and having conversations. I lost my faith in democracy. I still don't believe a true democracy exists here and I'm not sure it ever has or will. There is too little we, the American people, know.
So when the hype for this election started some 2 years ago, my enthusiasm was already lost. My will to fight, the get excited, to be involved dissolved with my state's, my nation's, inability to include me and my family (given and chosen) as an equal member or this society. I had it.

I felt a moment of exhilaration when I put my ballot in the mail and sent it back to Oregon.
And this morning, I felt another moment when I realized that no matter who is elected today, as cliche and repetitious as this is, history will be made.
And this is when my eyes got wet.
Provided that Obama (likely) takes office, we will have breached the rein of white-supremacy in our highest office. And if Obama takes office I believe I will feel a collective sigh come like a wave across the oceans, from the furthest reaches of the globe. To me, having Obama elected is asking the world to give Americans another chance. We don't want to be stereotyped as gluttonous consumers of the world resources, disregarding of our pacts with allies, our-way-or-the-highway war mongers.

We want a chance to show you another side of the American people.

And I get to be a part of it. My vote (hopefully) counts. That bottle of Champagne in my fridge might finally be opened because there may be a real reason to crack it. I might go dance in the streets of Moscow in the company of my friends and professor and students here in Idaho. I may...

But because I've been excited before, because I had hope and dreams, because I fought with all my intellectual strength and stood on my feet through the night and stood up against the police blockades and sat in meetings and protest Bush and worked hard for my community and STILL I was denied and STILL I watched my community both small and wide, denied. Still there is a chance I will, we will, be denied again.

And so, I put on my work clothes. I sit at my kitchen table with my laptop. I start writing my paper that is due at noon and I look out the window and see that although the world could change, the view may be the same.

Or the view could change and the world will never be the same.

I Get Around.

The temperature for tonight is supposed to dip to just below freezing. 31 degrees to be exact. I'm neither excited nor disappointed by this. At some point, I am going to have to learn to love the cold crisp weather of the inland northwest. Might as well start right away. Two days ago, it was damn near ninety and today, I'm not sure it got over fifty-five. I turned on my thermostat for the first time this morning. When I woke up it said it was a bullshit-nineteen-degrees in my house. I started pressing buttons. The highest my thermostat will reach is thirty. On came the fans and out came warm air. Everyone was excited - even Nugget crawled out from under her comforter and napped in the open. I walked around in my underwear a while and before I left, turned the heat back off. Oh by the way, I did put on pants before I left.

I knew I would get home after dark so I on my way out of the house this morning, I put on a pair of gloves, a wind/water proof coat and my beenie. Thankfully. It was damn cold coming home on my bike (with my new headlight and rear flasher) at eight pm. I gained a little warmth peddling up that godforsaken 3rd Street hill. No, there is really no way around it. It reminds me of trying to get from downtown into NE Portland by bike. Eventually, you have to go up a hill. The choices are the steep ass quick incline (NE. 15 th Avenue for example) or the slow graduated incline (N. Vancouver). It's much quicker just to put it into gear and peddle up the steep hill. Either way, your ass cheeks are going to hurt. Either way, every time a car passes I am going to say to myself "If I only had a car. If I only had a car."

I had a car for a while, you might remember it: The Chevy Corsica. My mother gave me the car to drive because she didn't feel safe having me come home to North Portland at midnight from swing shifts at the Y. It broke down at will and preferred to stall mid-intersection. One time, the car stalled near Lloyd Center mall in an on-street parking spot. My friend Tessa and I couldn't get the damn thing to start no matter what we did. Out of frustration or pure absurdity, we took turns jumping into the air and landing our nice plump asses onto the hood. We both did this a couple of times until a nice round dent appeared. I called my mom who said to me, "Just try to turn it over after in a while. Give it sometime, I bet you it will start." One of us got back into the car and low and behold, it started.

That car was a lady getter - let me tell ya - not like I was out cruisin' for chicks or anything. The girls (my sisters) had plastered stickers on the back windows. Inside, it had a pleasant smell of mildew, cigarettes, gas, and stale soda. Mildew from the rusty-rotted floor boards, cigarettes from - well - what was left from Jeff and what I occasionally contributed, gas from a can that tipped over in the trunk, and stale soda from the bums I believed to sleep in my car at night because I left the fucking thing unlocked 24-7. What exactly is the use of locking your car in a neighborhood where your loose (uninstalled) 1989 Panasonic CD Player (which is propped up on two red fluffy dice) gets stolen. Come on now, can a crack-head get enough money for a rock from a stereo like that? I'm not so sure.

Anyways, when I am peddling up that hill, I would do just about anything for a car. I don't ride my bike because it's ecologically more sound. I don't ride my bike because it saves me money - although, that is a perk. I don't even ride my bike to "put the fun between my legs". I ride my bike because it gets me around this small town in a jiffy and it's the fastest transportation I have. It is not, however, my favorite.

You know I prefer my roller skates but since moving to Moscow, I've resisted being 'the weird girl on roller skates'. This is totally acceptable in North Portland where you are apt to see far weirder shit such as the guy who is posted on the corner of MLK and Killingsworth who wears what? A life-jacket. On rainy days he actually latches the front clasps. On sunny days they stay open. Anyway, a few days ago, I gave into the fact that I am that freaky-girl on roller skates and I got out the Reidells (and plugged myself into my Ipod) and tended to my chores on eight wheels: I took Nugget to the vet and back, and I skated to school to what? Pick up my bike. This was probably about 5 miles worth of skating. By the time evening rolled around I had developed a thumb-sized blood blister on each of my feet. I had to cancel my fun for both Saturday and Sunday night because I was hobbling around like a old man with gout (and because I had a hang-over from Friday night, let's just be honest).

The problem with roller skating is that I have to control my urge to jam-out (not with my clam out, thank you). Because I started roller skating at the age of eleven, I have 1) a catalogue of bad eighties music that 2) makes me want to dance on my roller skates, preferably in sync with anyone who will roller skate with me (but preferably, my best friend who has done such a thing with me since I was eleven). Unfortunately, real like isn't an Ipod commercial and I am not so uninhibited to allow myself to dance on my roller skates like no one is watching. No. I can't do it. When was the last time you saw someone jammin' out on a corner - just dancing - to the music in their headphones (that's so eighties) or if your more contemporary, a MP3 player of some sort? What did you think? You know what you did? You smiled and thought to yourself - Ha! What a nut! (and then you secretly thought: I wish I could do that). Well, me too. I wish I could do that and sometimes I do, albeit in short bursts between main streets in back neighborhoods in the middle of the day when everyone is at work and I have a hat on.

The more pressing problem is this: roller skates are expensive and I it's time to replace mine. They were never mine to begin with. I bought them from my best friend and former synchronized-dance-skating-buddy for a mere fifty bucks when I moved to Seattle. They are exactly one size to small for me, have no boot lining, and no stoppers. They have been in this condition since 2000 and I have still used them to get around, to run the dog, to go skating at actual skating rinks and now, I cannot handle it any longer, I need comfort. I am old. Late into last night I started pricing skates and this is what I found. I new set up, the kind that I want, will cost me around $300. You know I am serious about skating when I consider that a pretty good deal.

So I scrapped buying skates for now and I am going to rely on my trusty Target bought Schwinn "Built for Women" bike (that was actually a gift from dear Sharla - Thank you love). It's a nice sturdy ride with a nice cushiony seat for my nice cushioned tush. I have a stolen milk crate strapped on the back which I often put more than the recommended maximum of fifteen pounds (I'm a grad student and a teacher for fuck-sakes). It carries my books, my Mac, my lunch, my water bottle (now if I could only figure out how to put Nugget in it). It has chunky mountain bike type wheels which I think will fare better when it starts to snow out here on the Palouse and it has a low bar - like 'women's' bikes have - so I can wear a skirt on sunny fall days and giggle at the silliness of riding down hill while not trying to expose your fundies.

Seems there are many different ways to get around, some more practical than others, some more fun, some more comfortable. Turns out you can get around without actually owning a car. Turns out cars are the warmer lot of transportation options and I have to say, I am a sucker for comfort.

But comfort will come when I retire... Oh wait, I'm going to be a teacher, who am I kidding.

For now, or until I get enough money for new skates, or until I get enough money for a car or one is given to me, or until I get a different kind of quad (the motorized-jazzy kind), I'll peddle my bike into the cold morning and be thankful I am able-bodied enough to do so, think of the trees I am saving and the cleaner air everyone is breathing one less car is on the road, and I'll curse the assholes who drive by me smiling with their heater running and their windows rolled up, rockin' out to the best of the eighties - something warm and superficially island sounding like Kokomo - on their way to the empty lot across town where they will do cookies in the fresh powder of winter, spewing a freshly unleashed cloud of fossil fuels back into my face reminding me that I ride because, I have to.

A bump in time...

I can't get my mind of my left breast - precisely, my left nipple. I can't tell if I imagining that occasional sharp pain or if I have put a tiny bump of fiction there, born of my little, but certainly not irrational fear. Somewhere in the textbooks of my seven year college stint I read that lesbians are more prone to breast cancer than heterosexual women - maybe due to the fact that we don't often use our breasts for milk delivery. I'm not sure. Ask the "God Hates Fags" crew and I am sure that lesbians are being punished and therefore, of course, breast cancer. I'm not going to indulge myself in the reasons why I might maybe be feeling a tinge of pain now and again. All I know is this, at my annual exam during a chatty moment between my doctor and I about the many ways to feel your breast for lumps, she finds something, brings it to my attention by pulling my index finger over it a few times, has the medical student take a feel for herself and in a very conversational tone tells me, "Check it out in a few weeks, after your period, if it's still there then call me, but don't lose any sleep over it."

Frankly, I'm not one to lose much sleep over anything except for an evening where I get caught up with youtube.com, unintentionally surfing videos of 12 year-old boys lip singing R&B with their shirts off. No, I swear, it's unintentional. But it's hard not to imagine the implications of a lump in you own breast especially in the wake of another family member's battle with the same beast. I'm not scared but I'm thinking about it with the loose ends of my mind - between the nonfiction stories of my peers and the lesson planning for my freshman class - there lingers a brevity of fear, a pictorial of myself in a variety of film-like scenes: crying in the shower, a unilateral scar across my chest, my partner's hand in mine, my hands roaming across my body, appointment upon appointment out on the Palouse, a sharp pin through my nipple.

The mind can go many places in it's exploration in managing distress and in search for meaning.  The fear of death is alight in the minds of many in my family, so it comes as no surprise to me that my own mortality came into question. The reverberations of age and illness permeate all the generational lines: my uncle passed of melanoma, my grandfather's age is taking him, my parents are aging and displaying signs of less vitality than I've known before, and I am at the age where invisibility is diminished by all these things. We can never be sure that we will survive, indefinitely, to see our retirement and certainly for my generation, a social security payment. And when I consider the monetary implications of a breast cancer diagnosis, I realize I don't come from money - no one in my family is rolling in it either - I am a student on a very minimal student health insurance plan with a clinic that doesn't do much more than treat you for the clap or a cough. Anything else is shipped out to an outside provider, someone you don't know who gets to touch your business, whether its Northern or Southern, and all you can do is hope that you like the doctor choices you get.

Which leads me back to existence in itself, you don't really get a lot of choices when it comes to biology or genetics (and if your on the "God Hates Fags" team - then you don't get a choice in what kind of punishment you receive for your sins). If there is a God, I don't think he's on their team. If there is a Goddess, I don't think she would deliver pain to our breasts. If there was a broader pantheon of great Spirits, my hope would be they'd reach a consensus: lets not inflict the human race with cancer - let alone put it in their pleasure places (not to mention mass genocides, war, poverty, etc.).

It's going to be rather hard to keep my fingers off my breast - as if I could magically press into this new found lump and like a zit, the source of the problem would come squirting out. But I am going to keep my hands off it until my next period, until a week after my next menstruation when my doctor says, "It could disappear." But I feel my chest on a regular basis and honestly, I've felt this before. I recall lying in bed a few years back doing my semi-monthly breasts exam, at the house that sat on top of I5. As I felt it up and down, I was wondering if the exhaust fumes from the freeway were as caustic as the log-like power lines they string above poor neighborhoods and reservations. And then I found it, square in the middle of my nipple and I thought to myself, Cystic breasts, and moved on. Nothing to be worried about. I went and felt it again. Round, isn't it. Not very hard. Hmmm... I'm tired. And with that, I was off to dreamland. Not losing any sleep. Nope. None at all.

And such is the case today. I am going to put my trust in my doc and do what she tells me. I will save my worries for when they are warranted. (And if you are my family or friends, do me a favor and do the same). There are better things to attend to: cooking dinner, spending time with friends, having a drink, loving your family or like me, you could be running off to teach freshman the art of writing the essay.  

Mosow and It's People.

Moving into Moscow has been quite an experience. Although I've only been here a little over a week, I feel as if I have been here for long time. Only now and then do I feel the awkwardness of the newcomer. Particularly when I am interacting with strangers here in this strange town. Morrison had it right, "people are strange when you're a stranger."
Yesterday morning, I was waiting at the shuttle stop for the Moscow Valley Transit free shuttle service, dressed up a bit for my first day of teaching, sweating in my button up blouse at the thought of standing before a room full of freshman, reading a novel for my nonfiction workshop class and catching a back draft of warm air off the wheaty hills. It was the first time in months that I dabbed a little bit of essential oil on my neck and wrists and the smell seemed overwhelming even though it was very faint. As I'm plowing through a memoir of childhood lived in Idaho, The Enders Hotel by Brandon Schrand (Coordinator of my program at UI) and waiting for my ride, this obnoxious yellow-jacket gets and starts taking interest in the book, or maybe it was my wrists, as if I was a freshly cracked cardboard bowl of fried chicken.
So I start doing my discrete 'leave me alone dance' which entails walking forward a few steps and moving my hands around while kindly asking the yellow-jacket to "Go find a flower or something." I have to do this trot up and down the gravel sidewalk a few times before the bee decides to go find some Peonies somewhere. Of course, I am afraid he has landed in the nest of hair on my head or in my vest so I am still paying close attention to the space around me and my clothes. So focused on being sure the bee is gone, that I don't notice a car has pulled up and stopped at the stop sign with the window rolled down.
"You ok?" the guy asks.
I am a bit startled because, in all honesty, I don't think that I am flailing over the yellow-jacket. Nothing that looks out of the ordinary as far as I am concerned but here is this guy, who seems to intuitively know that I am a bit distressed. I tell him it was a bee and he goes about his day.
Ok. Now that's just sweet. So onto today...
I had to stop into the local eye glass shop to get new pads put on my glasses. So, I park my bike outside the window, left unlocked with my bag in my basket and walk inside. The lady working has a slight limp and is obviously not getting around as well as she might like. I have class in fifteen minutes but am patient, happy to have a nice day to ride my bike to school. She takes care of everything efficiently, perfectly, charges me a few bucks for a new case and sends me on my way with a little friendly conversation and welcome to the city.
As I walk out the door, a woman passes by me and says "Great glasses! And a beautiful woman to go with them." Smiling, she keeps walking and says something to every person she passes on her way down the block. She's not crazy, no, she's happy actually. Happy in the way that Portland people used to be.
I'm not baggin' on the Portland folk because 99% of you reading this are likely of the Portland breed (as I am). But the whole reason I came running back from Seattle (besides Sept. 11th interrupting my sabbatical) was due to the friendly nature of the Portland horde. Seriously, what I loved (past tense) about Portland was the way people recognized each other. "Hello" or "Nice shirt!" or "I like your hair" or even something as impersonal as "Good day for a walk!" This is the whole reason I returned (and to go to school). And here I am, over 300 miles from Portland and I have found it again. A city that recognizes each other and I love it!
Is friendliness lost with the growth of a city? I'm curious. Or is it just the kind of community that a city creates? Maybe a kind of persona that a group of people collectively decide to embody? Whatever it is, I am grateful to be a part of this community. I feel as if all the doors opened on the journey to where I am and so far, nothing has indicated this decision wasn't the right one.

Moscow, Moscow, Moscow...

I've arrived...

Since showing up in Moscow with my U-haul trailer packed full of accumulated odds and ends, I've experienced the great hospitality of the local folk. Betty, my sweet overtly religious piano instructing neighbor, showed up on my doorstep Saturday in 100 degree heat with a plate of veggies. "I would've baked cookies" she said "but, its just too hot, so welcome to the neighborhood. Here's some veggies from the farmers market."
Sweet huh? I had just come back from the farmer's market myself. Nugget and I tromped down there in the heat of the morning and got there just before closing. I scurried over to buy a few tomatoes and the guy behind the counter said to me, "Grab as much as you can for a dollar. It's gotta go." So there I was fiendishly filling this box with a bunch of produce: Cantaloupe, blueberries, cucumbers, zucchinis, squash, and tomatoes. "Five bucks." he said when I finished. The thing was, I had to lug that full box all the way back home, which entails going up one very steep hill. Since I have no upper arm strength I balanced that damn box on my head the whole way. About a mile and a half. I thought about the women in the Sahara who carry water on their heads or backs for many more miles regularly. Although I felt like the town weirdo with that box on my head, it made me consider why us Americans don't carry more on our heads. Is it a pride thing. Or am I just behind the times and don't have my rolling-cart.
Anyway, my landlords and next door neighbors on the other side are quite the opposite of Betty but just as friendly. They have loaned me their bike for the week so I can get to and from campus until I get my own ride. They invited me over for ice cream on one of these oh so exhausting days. They are dropping off a box of my things at Goodwill today and they have sent me links to god-knows-how-many resources in town. From local veterinarians to the Lentil Festival (happening this week), I've got plenty of local digs to check out.
And this week, I am in Comp. Camp with about twenty other TA's. We are essentially learning how to deal with incoming freshman. Now, I've taught women transitioning out of prison classes on Life Skills, Communication, Healthy Relationships, and Self Identity. But I am terrified of teaching incoming freshman. How does an instructor contend with the age of IPODs and Myspace?

Minam Mayhem

Life in Minam is not for the faint of heart...

Mothra and I have come to terms with each other. 'Round these parts, the evening light fluttering critter that I'm known to run screaming from, comes in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors. There's no fear of moths in the canyon because I am far out numbered. In order to cope with the magnitude of the moth infestation, I ask myself "What Would Grandma Wilma Do?" (WWGWD?). This is a running joke in the family but good in times of question. So, I grab my Audubon Field Guide to the Pacific Northwest and start identifying.

Often found mid-day kickin' back on a screen door sippin' a Corona. Not very mouthy, just likes to look pretty and lay about. About 2"-4" big. I know, that's bad vocabulary but have you seen my spelling? And this other moth here is like your grandpa. Sits back with a bud light and watches shit go by. About 4"-5" big (country talk). Can't identify the damn thing - he's not in the book so WWGWD? We named it the Skunk Moth.

I don't fear moths anymore - I can't. Not with all these flying things around me.
Let me not fail to mention there are two flying insect events occurring at this time. The Flying of the Drones = when flying ants are leaving the nest, and the Mating of the Catis Flies = Doubled up two inch long flying fish foods with no sense of direction.

It's quiet here. You aren't surprised by this? These are the sounds of the Minam Valley: a car passing on the freeway, a mosquito in your ear, Nugget barking at deer, the river rushing by, rafters "puttin' in", the washer cleanin' linens, the coffee pot brewin' in the morning, the Red-winged Blackbirds trill.

These are the sounds from NoPo I don't miss: The sound of Bus 4 & 72 roaring by - sometimes in tandem - starting at five in the morning, the neighbors and their four-day-consecutive-two-a.m.-damned-domino-game, the teenagers from Jefferson and Rosemary Academy talking in their normal 200 decibel tone of voice at seven-thirty in the morning, the sound of drunk footsteps coming up the apartment stairs at two-thirty am.

Have I revealed that I don't like my sleep disturbed much?

There is so much to marvel at, here in Minam. I am looking forward to doing some bird identification. King Fishers cruise the river behind the motel. I am also enjoying keeping the motel in fine shape - cleaning the rooms while remembering the love and intention that Uncle Chuck put into maintaining this place. So far, it's what I think about while I am on my hands in knees scrubbing the bathrooms floors. It's an honor to be here - to be trusted to care for this magical place.

And my sisters are here with me for a week and a half. It's a pleasure to get some time with them before I head out to Idaho.

Some family came out to memorialize Chuck and enjoy a weekend in Minam - and help me relocate (thanks Hanna, Lindizzle, Dad, Mom...) At the memorial, we had a nice jam session and I sang some Bonnie Raitt songs with some amazing and kind musicians (friends of Chuck and Dawn).

Later, in the evening - we danced to records, played some Nurf football and Frisbee in the school house. Lots-o-liquid including a polishing off of a bottle of private reserve Bush's Pilot's whiskey - and potluck goods were consumed in great portions. In true Minam style - we partied our asses off - in remembrance.

I am taking Nugget into the vet now for a Buddy (my cat) related injury. Yesterday, Maggie & Jeff's Golden Retriever spooked Buddy who proceeded to attack Nugget - ripping off a quarter sized circle of flesh on Nugget's underside. Up until then, Nugget has been enjoying the freedom of roaming the grounds - chasing deer - and peeing freely. She's even got a tan - her skin has turned a tone of black/gray and her coat has become darker. Mine is staying white with all this sunblock. And that's the way we like it.

We love it here.

Rumors on the Rocks: Elk Rock Island’s mysterious and mischievous past

“When you’re a kid, you’re a sponge and you’ll take anything someone tells you as gospel”.

I agreed with Milwaukie Police Officer Ron Glenn during a recent conversation and told him my generation’s legend is about the ghost of Elk Rock Island, famed to walk on its knuckles and drag its feet around the island in search of human bait.

At a recent back yard campfire in my old hometown of Milwaukie, I asked some childhood friends if they remembered the stories about the ghost of Elk Rock Island. Jennifer grew up about a block from the park's entrance and nearly fell over in her lawn chair squealing when I brought up the ghost, she’d nearly forgotten the story.

On night, when Jennifer and I were in our early teens we took a boom box, a flashlight, and an Ouija board down to the banks of the Willamette River, just south of the Island and north of the Lake Oswego train trestle. We turned the flashlight on and sat it on top of the radio and placed our fingertips gently onto the heart-shaped planchette and after several bouts of giggling, calmly asked the oracle for any spirits present to make themselves known. And we asked again, and again, and again.

Finally, in the dark silence, the flashlight rolled of the radio and hit the power button; we jumped with the blare of white-noise coming at us. One of us quickly flipped off the radio and from the darkness we heard the muffled shout of a voice nearby. We abandoned the radio, the board and maybe even the flashlight and started running back to the house. When we finally caught our breath safe inside, no one could recall the words that were shouted or if the voice was that of a man or woman. I was certain it was the ghost of Elk Rock Island.

In Officer Glenn’s multiple years with the Milwaukie Police Force, he has been called out to the island at all hours of the night and has never once felt scared.

But as a kid, Glenn was also told a story about the waters surrounding the Island. Back in the late 70s when Glenn was a young teen, a strange metal shoot use to stick out a rocky structure just below the island. During his annual boat trip with Portland Parks & Recreation to the island, two guides who took children from around the city on a river tour and stopped their boat near the Milwaukie waterfront to tell the kids the story of a Duke and Duchess that once lived in a castle above the shoot. The story told of an upstairs torture chamber that had a guillotine hanging in its doorway. Heads would roll from the bedroom, down the shoot and into the waters of the Willamette.

“They were trying to portray this as actual history” Glenn now says with a sardonic tone in his voice. But even to this day, Glenn is careful not to go down while water-skiing near this site.

The mysterious and mischievous Elk Rock Island is located just South of Milwaukie on the Willamette River. The island came to life 40 million years ago as an under-sea volcano larger than the current Mt. Hood. The Waverly Basalt lava flows created the large jagged rocks seen on the island today, which may be the oldest exposed rocks in the Portland area. As the prehistoric sea receded, sediment settled atop the rocky outcrop, and eventually, the volcano eroded down to its current position.

Native Americans are said to have run elk off a cliff on the opposing side of the river, floating their carcasses down towards the bank where they could gather them for food. This story claims to provide the area with its namesake.

With easy access to the river, the area surrounding the island became a logical site for early settlement. The land was part of the original donation land claim of Milwaukie pioneer Lot Whitcomb, and naturally, was known as Lot Whitcomb Island in the 1860s. At this time, Whitcomb utilized the island as a steamboat landing.

In the early 1900s, the island took on a more practical business venture and became home to a dancehall owned by the Rock Island Club. Officer Glenn said the rumor around the water cooler at the Milwaukie Police Department claims that the Oregon State Police eventually had to come down to the island and bust the partygoers for gambling and prostitution.

So it seems the good-times rolled just like heads at the Duke and Duchesses castle downstream, until grain exporter and Portland businessman, Peter Kerr, purchased the land in 1910. At that time, the dancehall went vacant and the land saw no further development.

88 year-old Bob Hatz didn’t actually dance in the famed dancehall, but when he was a teen in the 1930s and the dancehall was abandoned, Hatz took his roller skates out onto the island to roll around the dance floor.

Hatz spent a considerable amount of time on the island doing various recreational activities, but found the dancehall most interesting. “It was in such shape that we would take the shingles off the roof and use them to start fires for weenie roasts on the beach.”

It’s been a long time since Hatz has been out to the island, but he recalls a couple of one-room cabins on the island, that his friends rumored to be “houses of ill repute." In other words, the rumor was some prostitution went on down there.

In his long life as a Milwaukie resident, Hatz also hasn’t had a single ghostly experience on the island. However, when I asked local resident Mary Avalon, a self-proclaimed freelance environmentalist and Elk Rock Island enthusiast who spent four-years on the island doing restoration projects, what she thought about the ghost on the island she said, “Just one? I’ve heard there are a lot of ghosts!”

If its not already obvious, there are a lot of rumors about Elk Rock Island’s past. But the island has a ghostly existence itself, since it is only an island some of the time. It is actually a peninsula and only an island when the waters of the Willamette are high. Visitors can get to the island by crossing a wet and rocky area that connects to the mainland. Sometimes you have to wade through the water in this area in order to get to the island and other times you can tiptoe safely across or jump from rock to rock.

Today, Elk Rock Island and the adjoined Spring Park are preserved natural areas with large trees and a diverse bird population. In fact, a bald eagle pair that has been nesting on the island for years has decided this year, to nest in a Cottonwood on the shoreline.

Island Station Neighborhood resident Charles Byrd said it’s unusual that the pair don’t have offspring yet and that some residents of the Island Station Neighborhood believe that trains idling nearby are impacting their breeding habits. According to Byrd, the eagles use to nest on the island in order to better snatch up the young Blue Heron from their nests. Recently, the Heron’s have not been making their annual return to the island and Byrd believes the eagles have relocated to the shore to gain a better vantage point for hunting.

The eagle pair can be seen from the one and only street-level entrance to Elk Rock Island, behind the house closest to the parks entrance located on the corner of SE Sparrow Street and 19^th Avenue.

Strange bedfellows maintain the protected area. In the 1940s, Portland businessman Peter Kerr gave the park to the City of Portland with the requirement that it maintain its natural state. In order to get onto the Island, a Portland City Park, visitors have to cross through Spring Park, which is maintained by the City of Milwaukie.

The park has no facilities, not even a parking lot, so visitors park on the street. Nonetheless, this island of rumors provides visitors with a quiet retreat from the city. Visitors to the island can see the fiery barks of the Pacific Madrone and a variety of succulents along the shores. But the best way to experience the island and it many features is to find a quiet and comfortable spot and watch the island unleash.

But be forewarned, during summer months, motorboats in the Willamette River somewhat detract from the serenity of this protected natural area. But if you’re into boating Officer Glenn says there is a perfect inlet to pull a boat into on the backside of the island, complete with creepy concrete stairs carved right into the rock where the dancehall use to be.

"And Tango Makes Three" tops challenged literature list!

I may be behind the times a bit, since the book was released in 2005 but, speaking of behind the times...Oh, good lord...

And it appears that some of his followers are at it again.

This year, the top book with the most complaints made to the American Library Association are for a children's book titled "And Tango Makes Three" released in 2005 and written by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell and illustrated by Henry Cole.

The children's story is abased on the true story of Roy and Silo, two males Chinstrap Penguins living in Central Park Zoo in New York City. The two were observed caring for a rock that resembled an egg. When zookeepers realized what the couple was up to, they gave them the second egg of a mixed-sex penguin couple who had been previously been unable to hatch two eggs from one delivery. Turns out, Roy and Silo successfully nursed the young egg and brought a female chick into the world named "Tango" by zookeeper. The three, naturally, were kept together as a family. And so, then came a book that follows the lives of the three penguins'. The message, of course, that it's ok to have a "non-traditional" family.

I don't have children and therefore, cannot imagine the kind of awareness parent's must have when determining what their children are exposed to and the appropriate time for exposure (if at all) so I cannot speak from the position of a parent. I can, however, speak from the position of a child with same-sex parents who did not have access to literature that included depictions of non-traditional families, such as my own.

It wasn't until 2003 that I ran across a book titled "Heather Has Two Mommies". Published in 1989 by Leslea Newman and Illustrated by Diana Souza, the children's book released by Alyson Publications (of course) features Heather and her two moms: Mama Jane and Mama Kate. The book, like "And Tango Makes Three" was one of the most challenged books of the 1990s, having repeatedly been accused of pushing a militant, political agenda. In an Afterword published in the 10th anniversary edition in 2000, Leslea Newman says, "My goal in writing the book was, simply, to tell a story."

A story that resonates with thousands of children and adults who raise children in same-sex headed families or that are raised by, friend with, live next door to, have family members or friends that are same-sex families with children. Since I can only speak from the place in which I live, here in Portland, most of us are not hiding our sexuality or our family structures away. In this little progressive mecca of liberalism, we can be out with our families and visible without much fear. That is not to say that we still don't experience discrimination or hate crimes because I have certainly experienced them myself, we just have it a little easier here.

But there are other families in rural and suburban areas that still lack the access to the resources that we have here in the metro area. There is a severe lack of community organizations that cater to the needs of children, particularly, involved in the LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Trans, Queer/Questioning) community. For a brief stint I was involved with COLAGE (Children of Lesbians and Gays Everywhere) and although I no am involved, I still get phone calls from all over the US from people seeking resources for their families and children.

I bring this up because there are not community functions for "Families Like Mine" (a book published by Abigail Garner) in places where, in order for safety, families remain closeted. Sometimes, the only resource, or the only way for a child or a family to know they are not alone is through media, alone. That is why it is so important that books like this exist.

In the final passage of her afterward, Leslea Newman writes, "All children, including children of lesbian and gay parents, will only benefit as more books on the subject of diversity get published... In the words of two such (grown) children, Stefan Lynch and Emily Omerek, codirectors of COLAGE in a letter dated January 1994 and written to Ten Percent magazine: 'Those of us raised in alternative families, especially lesbian and gay families, have grown up feeling invisible without knowing why. As the next generation grows up, they'll have resources like Newman's book in which they can see themselves reflected and therefore validated.'"

Whole heartedly agreed...

Side note - here is a brief list of other top-ten books which were/are often "challenged" with a formal or written complaint through the American Library Association (in no particular order):

"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" - Maya Angelou
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" - Mark Twain
"The Golden Compass" - Philip Pullman
The Harry Potter Series – JK Rowling
"Of Mice and Men" – John Steinbeck
"Forever" – Judy Blume

And here is a link to the ALA's website for challenged literature.
Check it out: http://www.ala.org/ala/oif/bannedbooksweek/bbwlinks/challengesinitiator.cfm