IDKE.8 - Body Pathways

I spent this past weekend in Austin, TX attending the 8th annual International Drag KingCommunity Extravaganza (IDKE), Unchartered Territory: Gender Exploration Down South.

(Lots to say about the weekend, the conference especially, but later when I have more time...)

Right now, I wanted to post about the Saturday morning workshop that I attended, Body Pathways: A Writing Workshop presented by Laura Smith. According to the program description, in this workshop we were to:

Document your body's journey, transform genders on paper, carve new maps to groove inside of. Imagination, language and creative writing come together in this workshop led by an experienced writing teacher. Where in gender do you live, what was your gendered childhood, what seams do you stitch or unstitch on the streets? Exciting, safe, stimulating writing exercises for people of any level of experience.

This description, however, was not Smith's, who was filling in for the original presenter. Still, she did a good job making the workshop her own and leading us to interesting places. I have to give much thanks to Reggie, too, who not only housed me for the weekend, but also recommended this workshop to me. I wouldn't have known it if I hadn't gone, but I would have definitely missed out.

One of the things that I really enjoyed about this workshop was that it was a good creative release. Friday's conference schedule was full of exciting discussions (again, more on this later), and so it was nice to start off Saturday morning with a creative exercise. I hadn't realized until I was in the middle of the workshop that I really needed time away from discussion (important as though they might be), and instead needed time flexing my creative muscle. I also loved the intimacy I felt being part of this small-sized workshop (I think there were a dozen or so of us), a definite contrast to the other workshops I attended during the two days which averaged at least 60 people per session.

It's been a long time since I was part of a (creative) writing group, and I definitely forget how much I like it--although I'm now finally getting back into the open mic/poetry/slam scene here in DC, so maybe there's change brewing in the horizon...

In any case, during this hour-long workshop (which was slightly shorter since we decided to start a few minutes late), Smith gave us three writing prompts. I'm sharing them hear because I found them so stimulating, I thought others might, too.

The first exercise was a quick one. We were to list nouns and verbs that we associated with gender (thinking outside the usual "box" to consider things like what kitchen appliance best suits our gender).

I came up with:

Nouns:
turtle
glasses
recliner
lined paper

Verbs:
Tying
Relax
Traveling
Spooning
Gazing

For the second exercise we were asked to think of a body part that knows our gender and to write about what that body part knows. Here's what I came up with (Warning, this is totally unrevised from that morning's quick free write. I definitely want to revisit this piece, but I also thought that for 5-10 minutes of writing, it was a great start as is, and wanted to share it in its "original" form.)

My hands know the feeling of my hair
shaved, soft, on the top of my head
long, wiry, on my legs
thicker, kinkier, under my arms and
between my legs

My hands know the weight of women's breasts
hers, yours, my own

My hands know the grip on the wheel
as I speed down the road, feel
the ball of the stick shift securely in hand

My hands know the motions--cross over,
go behind, pull through, and again--
(just like dad showed me all those years ago)
of tying
a full Windsor knot

My hands know the fists they make
when jerks throw thoughtless taunts
because they're afraid of my
hands and what they know
about me, about them, and about the world

My hands know the sweat they feel
when beautiful girls and boys
and all the rest of you
walk by and smile and make
eyes at me

My hands know the strength they
share when I meet others
like me and
we connect
eye to eye,
hand to hand,
our selves

The third and last exercise Smith had us do was to write about our gender journey (thinking of the journey in a literal way, describing the landscape and the markers we passed along the way), and if possible, to incorporate the nouns and verbs that we had conjured in the first exercise.

Getting on the plane to go across the country
yet again

Relaxing when I finally make it from the
cab to the ticket counter and
of course
through the security gate

I remembered this time
(not like last time)
to forego the support of an underwire bra
to try and make it through the metal detectors
without being detected
without being detected

Although the time before last it didn't
stop the wand from finding the
ring that runs through my nipple

(Thank goodness
thank goodness
that wand didn't fine the three that
run through the lips between my legs!)

I've made it to the gate, and now to
the plane
Where I fold myself into my preferred
window seat
You see, here at the window there might
not be an easy aisle escape
but here at the window it's just me

The comfort of the wall next to me
who holds me up when I lean into it
and who offers me a friendly face
my own
reflected in the window
Traveling in/with myself
Gazing into my own eyes
Spooning with myself

Whatever Lola Wants

A small tribute to Kinky Boots (which I just finished watching, and ABSOLUTELY loved!) and to giving in...

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets
And little man, little Lola wants you
Make up your mind to have
No regrets
Recline yourself
Resign yourself, you're through

I always get, what I aim for
And your heart and soul
Is what I came for

Whatever Lola wants
Lola gets
Take off your coat
Don't you know you can't win
You're no exception to the rule
I'm irresistible you fool .. give in
(Give in, you'll never win)

Whatever Lola wants
Lola gets

I always get, what I aim for
And your heart and soul
Is what I came for

Whatever Lola wants
Lola gets
Take off your coat
Don't you know, you can't win

You're no exception to the rule
I'm irresistible you fool ... give in
(Give in, you'll never win)

Give in (give in, you'll never win)
Give in (give in, you'll never win)

More on the film later...

More on The Realm of Possibility

If my earlier post on David Levithan's The Realm of Possibility hadn't already convinced you to go out and buy, and then read it, here's a taste of what you're missing out on:

"Writing" (p140-144)

I've always put thoughts in the margins. Some pages are all margins--just the words thrown down and recorded wherever they land. I have spent most of my time in high school doing this. Sometimes a word or two from the teacher will break through. But not often. Instead I just think through the pen. Whatever comes. I won't ever try to explain it. There is no need to explain it. Some people like to doodle cartoon animals and other people write notes to other people. Fine for them. I've never been like that. It is always raining in my head. The closest thing I have to order is the way the lines are set on the pages. But even those I disregard. And then one day I jump right off. Instead of turning the page I just start writing on the desk. All that open surface. Right there. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. The words just start to fall there. And I feel some satisfaction from that. I've never written just for myself. And I've never written for anyone else. I write for the release of it. For finding out what will be there when I am done. The desk in the dull yellow that can only be found in school furniture. My ink is the blue that can be found anywhere. I don't even give thought to what I am writing. THERE IS NO MEASURE TO VOLATILITY. I write it again and again. No idea where it's coming from. The appeal is that one word. VOLATILITY. Next period that is all I write. VOLATILITY. Carved so hard I almost break my pen. Stains the side of my hand. Nobody notices. But I know the people who come in the following periods will have to notice. Will have to think about it. Even if they are just going to dismiss it. The next day words the same way. I get a sentence. COMMISERATE WITH THE COMMON. And then I pare it down to a word. COMMISERATE. This time someone notices. This guy named Daniel leans over and asks "What's That? I tell him I have no idea. He nods as if that makes sense. The girl in English isn't as cool. She says You Know You Really Shouldn't Be Doing That. So I write YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. She looks like she wants to tattle. But she doesn't want to be that uncool. Something about the YOU ARE grabs me. The next day I write YOU ARE HAPPY EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT. And it makes sense. Because how many times have I heard everyone complaining and complaining and complaining? As if sitting back and acknowledging that things aren't all that bad is somehow wrong. Then I write YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. Nobody wipes off the previous days' messages. They accumulate like skid marks. Sometimes they intersect like answers in a crossword puzzle. It gets crowded. I start writing on wall. I KNOW THIS IS NOT A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE THING TO DO. I start in the bathrooms because it is more hidden there. Sneaking into the stall. Avoiding the blow job notices and the anonymous insults. YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. That one gets to me. I sit there on the toilet and stare at it long enough to miss the late bell. I try to convince myself that I don't believe in who I am. Even though I know that itself is a belief. I take the phrase outside. Hit the hallways when everyone else is in class. Write small. People start to notice. There is a mystery to it. I think people will know right away that it is me. The desks haven't been cleaned off. The evidence is right there. But I think at first people like that it's a mystery. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS. It would be easy to simply baffle them with jibberish--The Walrus Walks At Midnight. But that's not what the margins have been about. I want to make sense. One day all I can write is the word PLEASE. Over and over again. Above mirrors. Besides fire extinguishers. PLEASE. I have to be careful now. Teachers are starting to frown on it. The janitors clean off the desks. They try to erase the walls. YOU SHOULD NOT HIDE, I write. Those are the words that come. Are they addressing me or everyone else? I just put them up and walk away. People start to become uneasy. I don't know how to describe it. I walk in between classes and see people gathered and staring. GIVE HER A CHANCE. And the bizarre thing is that I can see some people are finding meaning in it. Like I'm posting bulletins from the truth. YOU SHOULD NOT WALK AWAY QUITE YET. Like the trick of flipping the coin. When what you're really doing is seeing if you agree or disagree with the outcome. Or the fortune teller's wisdom. Knowing the vague is the universal. Know that we all have these things in common. The word PLEASE means something to us all. We are all so damn insecure. With unease comes hostility. People start to cross me out. The Principal makes an announcement. Daniel asks It's You, Isn't It? But I know he won't tell. He is intrigued. PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT. It's that girl. I know it is. Amber something. The next day's announcement is for me and me alone. So I go down to the office. But not before stopping around the corner. Pen ready. The first word: LIVE. The second word: UP. The third: TO. The fourth: YOURSELF. The Principal doesn't care what I've been writing. He says it's where I've been writing it. I am to clean every last word. Erase every last thought. Strange, I don't mind. I know I've only been borrowing the walls. I know the thoughts have grown old. So I sponge. And I whitewash. The next day I am back with my notebook. COWARDICE, I write. This time I know it's directed at me. Perhaps directed by me as well. I cannot push the words back in the margins. So I start to write on my jeans. DESPAIR IS NOT THE ANSWER. People look at me strangely. A few ask me what it's about. And I tell them I don't know. Some tell me to keep going. Others tell me to stop. Not nicely. I find the words will not come out in the wash. Across the inside of my arm I write YOU ARE IMPLICATED. People stop me in the hall. They stare. One girl actually grabs my wrist. Reads my arm. Asks me Why Are You Doing This? Who Do You Think You Are? I can feel her hinges loosening. I don't know what it means. We are so used to releasing words. We don't know what to do with them if they stay. Not on the walls. I'm not talking about the walls. I'm talking about what happens when they stay with us. No matter how many times we let them go, they come back. The words that matter always stay.

Serendipity

It used to amaze me when I’d meet new people and discover that we were separated not by six degrees, but usually half as much. Now it’s happened so much so that I’m hardly surprised. It’s a small world after all.

But there are still happy surprises just around the corner. Today, for instance, a friend I haven’t spoken to in quite some time updated her blog and ended up saying just what I needed to hear.

She writes:

The thing is, for some of us, the love of our life may be that one girl who never knew we existed. Or it could be that gorgeous monk who already made a vow for celibacy, yet we have to come and see him every Tuesday (no darling, there's no gorgeous monk in my Tuesday meditation club). It could even be the guy who knew we loved him dearly but decided that he doesn't want to be with us (and whose fault is that? ;). We then moved on.... the brave ones stay single because they dare to say, why live with someone who don't share our passion, love, interests, etc... but some of us moved on and found new relationships because we are so afraid to be and die alone... because the effect and affect of your journey partly depends on your travelmates, you'd better choose them wisely. Know when to let them go: not a minute too soon, not a minute too late.

I wonder if bravery every feels like itself in the moment, or only in retrospect?

Suspended in Fullness

Having absolutely LOVED David Levithan’s novel Boy Meets Boy, I was skeptical when he followed it with a book that at first looked to me to be too full of poetry.

I’m glad I turned out to be so very wrong.

The Realm of Possibility is full of poetry, but not too full. And in fact, my worries that its mixed narrative genre wouldn’t compare to the storytelling in Boy Meets Boy were completely unfounded. In Boy Meets Boy Levithan makes us a part of Paul’s world, lulls us into the fantasy that is Noah, and surrounds us with the love and community of Kyle, Tony, and other good friends. I came away from Boy Meets Boy feeling comfortingly wrapped in warmness.

It was different, though, in The Realm of Possibility-—not different, worse, but different nevertheless. Reading Boy Meets Boy was like easing into a hot tub, whereas entering into the worlds of the characters in The Realm of Possibility is more like diving into the deep end of a pool and swimming underwater. You become submerged in Levithan’s words...sometimes losing track of which way is up and which way is down. Not to the degree where you panic and take in great gulps of water drowning yourself, but rather to the degree where you reach this place and time where you are suspended in the fullness of each moment-—feeling infinite.

It’s a book I know I will read over and over again, each time carefully contemplating Levithan’s choices of words...images...messages. It’s a book I know I’ll give as a gift to a woman who captivates me, hoping that it’ll touch her as much as it (and she) has me.

You think you know your possibilities.
Then other people come into your life
And suddenly there are so many more.
(Levithan, The Realm of Possibility, 207)

The Testosterone Files

Valerio, Max Wolf. The Testosterone Files: My Hormonal and Social Transformation from Female to Male. Emeryville, CA: Seal Press, 2006.

I happened across this book by chance at an exhibitor’s table at the National Women’s Studies Association's (NWSA)
annual conference this past June in Oakland, CA. (Other purchases I made that day include Dhillon Khosla’s Both Sides Now: One Man’s Journey Through Womanhood, Norah Vincent’s Self-Made Man: One Woman’s Journey into Manhood and Back, and Susan Stryker and Stephen Whittle’s The Transgender Studies Reader.)

I was excited to see The Testosterone Files because having already run across essays of Valerio’s in the feminists texts This Bridge Called My Back (edited by Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua) and This Bridge We Call Home (edited by Gloria Anzaldua and AnaLouise Keating), I was looking forward to what Valerio would bring to a memoir of his “transformation from female to male.” It also helped that Seal Press, a reputable feminist press whose other publications (e.g. Colonize This, Cunt, Listen Up, Body Outlaws) I’ve enjoyed and used in the classroom, was the publisher. And, there was also that the back cover blurbs were by authors whose work I have also enjoyed--Susie Bright, Patrick Califia, and Michelle Tea.

Before going on, I have to stop here and say that I applaud Seal Press for making Valerio the first male author they have ever published (in a single-authored text). They went outside their usual “By women. For women.” focus--a focus that I not only support, but cherish. Just as valuable to me, however, is that a book like The Testosterone Files was able to be published. It may not be by a woman, but it certainly presents some interesting analytical challenges for feminists and women that I think are very much in keeping with the rest of Seal Press’ publications. So, cheers to Seal, and a happy 30th anniversary to them!

But back to the book itself...

If you can’t already tell, before I even opened the book to start reading it, I was already coming to it filled with particular expectations. I actually think that we often/always approach books, among other things, in this manner. In this case, though, I was fortunate enough to be aware of what those expectations were from the beginning. In particular, given Valerio’s past associations with This Bridge Called My Back and This Bridge We Call Home, I was looking forward to race and feminism being figured in more centrally in The Testosterone Files than other FTM texts (memoir and otherwise).

While by no means have I exhausted the entire genre, I’d have to say that in my readings thus far, I’ve been hard-pressed to find a FTM text that leaves me feeling satisfied with its treatment of race. So, admittedly, The Testosterone Files had a lot to live up to...perhaps too much.

Frankly, I’m torn...I’m definitely glad to have read the book, as well as to own it. I will proudly display it on my bookshelf (where self space is at a high premium). As a trans text, I think that its focus on testosterone (as opposed to surgery) helps to stretch the boundaries of the genre, and of how we think about trans itself. Like other FTM texts, there is much focus on the body and its physical transformations, but because the emphasis isn’t on surgery it offers something to those readers who either want to transition without surgery, or simply have to transition and live without surgery due to other constraints (e.g., affordability, or lack thereof).

Even though Valerio makes clear in the text that he experienced discomfort with his breasts, and that it was because of the lack of being able to afford top surgery that he hadn’t had surgery (well, until he wrote this book!), the need for surgery becomes an undertone in the text--ever present but not overwhelmingly so. Instead, what dominates is talk about testosterone.

“The hormones really work.”

It’s a realization that Valerio seems taken aback by. He writes, “The hormones…I’d read about testosterone and its dramatic effects in his [Lou Sullivan’s] booklet, but I had never in my wildest dreams imagined that it could be this good. This transformation is a miracle” (103).

Like other similar texts, Valerio describes the changes his physical body undergoes as he begins to inject testosterone--the disappearance of his extra fat, the coarsening texture of his hair, the changes in his skin. Interestingly, Valerio also describes the changes his bodily emotions undergo with the effects of testosterone. I say bodily emotions here because Valerio makes clear that it’s not just about emotions disconnected from his body, but precisely the way in which his body, because of its changing chemistry, processes emotions differently than it once did, ultimately resulting in different physical manifestations of those emotions.

Specifically, he finds that testosterone has limited his ability to physically cry as he once did, and instead has increased his aggressiveness. When I first encountered these testimonials of his about how women are biologically predisposed to cry and men to fight, something in me tightened. My initial reaction was to get defensive and to wonder how a text that I thought would be so feminist could so blatantly reinforce traditional gender stereotypes. Then I remembered that there are grains of truth in most stereotypes, and that what was important was to not overcompensate by trying to make the argument that not all women cry at the drop of a hat, or that men can cry, but rather to respect and honor Valerio’s experiences. In this way, The Testosterone Files, has been invaluable to me in challenging my understanding of myself as a feminist, gently helping me to grow further into the kind of feminism that inspired me from the beginning--one that not only prized difference, but saw our power coming from those very differences (thanks Audre Lorde!).

As I said earlier, however, despite the ways in which The Testosterone Files added to my knowledge and understanding of another man’s transformation, I was disappointed that race wasn’t a more central issue throughout the text. There are moments when Valerio writes about his Native heritage, about his mother and being on the reserve, about passing as white at some times, and Latino at others, but these are but moments, and conversations about race don’t seem to be sustained throughout.

In the end, I feel like the book Valerio wanted to write about was about testosterone above all else. In that respects, he succeeded. The book I wanted Valerio to have written was about negotiating racial and feminist consciousness and politics in a context of FTM transition. I recognize that my disappointments in The Testosterone Files are not Valerio’s failings, but rather signs of my own longings.

In fact, there are many gems in Valerio’s book. Here are just a small handful:

(6) “There are infinite permutations of identity, now identified as ‘transgender,’ currently in vogue in queer communities: ‘FTM dyke butch,’ ‘dyke boichix who cross-dress,’ ‘genderqueer tranny fag boi,’ and ‘biofemme transgender lesbian.’ Let there be no mistake: Everyone has the right to be who they are or thing they are at any moment, to shock, to piss off, to repossess, to realign their scrotum, tits, attitude, skin color, hair color, outfit, and cheekbones! Everyone has a right to be admitted to that exclusive, sexy party. And it’s beginning to look as though everyone wants to be. That said, I am skeptical and ultimately wary of enthusiasm for these new ‘queer’ self-congratulatory and self-conscious ‘transgressive transgendered identities.’ After all, the desire to have all your options open and never close a door behind you is very American. The belief that you should be able to make any choice at any time. We consume commodities, lifestyles, and now identities with the avidity of jackals with one finger on the remote control and another on the index to our crotch.”

(107) “If the physical transformation is so complete and so convincing, it is irresistible. This incredible and nearly absurd act, this act that feels so illogical, so defiant, so completely wondrous. I will take on the risks, the rejections, the possible pain, the long-drawn-out changing of the physical form. And I know I can make it work. The idea makes me so excited I could burst. If this transformation is possible, I know I will not settle for anything else.”

(141) “Endocrinologic sex is determined by the ration of testosterone to estrogen. The bodies of men and women generate both estrogen and testosterone, so in the strictest sense, estrogen is not exclusively a ‘female’ hormone and testosterone is not exclusively a ‘male’ hormone. It is the ratio of estrogen to testosterone in the body that determines whether the person is male or female.”

(147) “I was convinced I was a lesbian. What does that identity mean now? What will it mean to me in years to come? Was there something redeeming in all those years, in spite of the fact that I eventually chose to leave? Or did I waste all those years of my life?”

(149) “This change in perception is due to the fact that when you see someone, you unconsciously compare them to yourself. You are your own standard.”

(150) “I’m beginning to discover just how many of our “perceptions” are contextual—in contrast to, or grounded in, who we are, relative. Perceptions could be as much about the relationship between the observer and the observed as it is about actual definitive observations.”

(270) “There are modalities or shades of perception and feeling more apparent to men than to women, and vice versa. Just as there are colors that certain animals or insects can perceive that humans can’t. Because we have never experienced these colors, which are outside of the range of our human senses, we live our entire lives as though they don’t exist.”

(337) “It was Marie-France Boisselle who first taught me about risk, ambiguity, and peril. Then Marie-France Alderman, she wrote, ‘The thread that runs through Monika Treut’s Female Misbehavior…is about imagining and imagination’s conditions; mainly, willingness to befriend ambiguity and peril…Ideologies cannot accommodate such adventurous goals. Art can. People can. We go on imagining; that is how the civil rights movement started, that is how feminism started.’”

Life Soundtrack (1)

In the movie High Fidelity, John Cusak's character comes up with several different "top lists"...I wouldn't say these are my top favorite songs...but they definitely capture a slice of my life right now...

Ladies’ Mix For a Lady

1. Shooting Star, Adrianne, Sweet Mistake
2. Let Go, Frou Frou, Garden State Soundtrack
3. Dreams & Nightmares, Brianna Lane, Radiator
4. Into the Morning, Weekend, Music from D.E.B.S.
5. Wrong Hands, Brianna Lane, Radiator
6. Ordinary Life, Kristen Barry, Cruel Intentions Soundtrack
7. Who You’ve Become, Adrianne, Sweet Mistake
8. Sad Songs, Brianne Lane, Radiator
9. Be Like Water, Sarah Fimm, Music from D.E.B.S.
10. Fix You Up, Tegan and Sara, So Jealous
11. Take Me Anywhere, Tegan and Sara, So Jealous
12. Every You Every Me, Placebo, Cruel Intentions Soundtrack
13. No Braver Thing, Adrianne, Sweet Mistake
14. Where Does the Good Go, Tegan and Sara, So Jealous
15. As Cool as I Am, Dar Williams, Mortal City
16. Birthday Song, Julie Loyd, All That You Ask For
17. Hightide, Laura Tsaggaris, Proof
18. Crumbling Plaster, Julie Loyd, All That You Ask For
19. Wasted Word, Kris Delmhorst, Songs for a Hurricane
20. It’s Good to Be in Love, Frou Frou, Details

Sweet Mistake

So, in a previous post I wrote about seeing Adrianne perform in person...

It's weeks later, and I'm still listening to her album Sweet Mistake on repeat...in the car, at home, and at the gym...

I keep flashing back to watching her on stage--live or recorded her voice fills me up with a mixture of peace and nostalgia about the past, and hope and dreams for the future.

Just wanted to share a couple of songs that have been particularly captivating to me of late...

"No Braver Thing"

I hear it in your voice
it moves without a noise
and everything you do speaks for you
I wanted you to know
all the thing I could not show
but everytime I tried
oh, you did not care
you made me swear
you wanna run me out
you wanna push it down
where no one else can see
yeah no one else but me
oh baby let it go, oh let it overflow
cuz when you're listening
there is
no braver thing
the best that I could do
was to give myself to you
but you made me take it back
when I yelled your name
but you never came
it's not easier the way things were
you can't ignore the sound
of your heart breaking
yes it's breaking
you wanna run me out
you wanna push it down
where no one else can see
yeah no one else but me
oh baby let it go, oh let it overflow
cuz when you're listening
there is no braver thing


"Who You've Become"

What you gonna do when
your whole world shatters
how you gonna deal then
when nothing matters
when all that's left is you
but you're just a shell of what you knew
I don't think I know you anymore
but if you got the time
I got all night
I'll wait all day
for the moment to arrive
and when it comes
it's sooner done
and you'll still be
who you've become
everybody runs now
and it wears your heart down
no one ever told you
you had nothing to prove
no one's good enough
to be giving up your precious love
and I don't even love you anymore
I got all night
I'll wait all day
for the moment to arrive
and when it comes
it's sooner done
and You'll still be
who you've become


"Shooting Star"

You shine in my eyes
frozen still, open wide
come down, fill my heart
with a fire you flaunt
and I can't say a word
they would only sound absurd
maybe you're my
shooting star
blindly falling through the dark
burning a hold in my sky
so fierce, so bright
and maybe it's all I need
so baby come, shoot through me
wishes won't survive
on you tonight
if you stay for good
on the ground, think you should
it's not a life that you lead
it's just a path, following
cuz everybody else
has you aiming at yourself
silver tear
fall for me and forever, ever, ever
you belong here
my love can fly you higher, higher
higher
maybe you're my shooting star
blindly falling through the dark
burning a hole in my sky
so fierce, so bright
and maybe it's all I need
so baby come, shoot through me
wishes won't survive
on you tonight

Love

I seem to have a vague memory that in the last several years there has been a lot of scholarship written about the power of LOVE...

(Okay, more specifically I recall being skeptical of these texts, and possibly even dismissing them with a laugh. And of course, because I had such attitude against these texts, I'm not remembering them as well as I'd like to right now, but Alice Walker and bell hooks come to mind, although I know they are not the only ones...)

But, oh how I've realized my erroneous ways...LOVE does have the infinite potential of transformation

Loyalty

I once asked someone what quality she most admired in her best friend, and she answered, "loyalty."

I've been thinking about that a lot lately...probably because now that school is in full swing and work is gearing up for our busiest season of the year I've had less and less time for friends. (Really, I haven't even made the time to run errands or sleep as much as I need/want, which isn't an excuse, but rather an indicator.) Still, I try to make time to enjoy all that's going on in the area as well as to spend time with friends (even better when I can do both at the same time).

I've known loyalty from friends who adjust their schedules when I'm visiting in CA so that we can spend time together during the time I'm available on my usually too-short stays. There's also the kind of loyalty where friends stand up for you even when (especially when) you're not around to stand up for yourself (like Hagrid or Harry Potter continuously do for Dumbledore).

I hope I've shown the same kind of loyalty to friends. Since being here in DC, I've definitely struggled with friends more than any other time and place in my life. I've lived here for seven years now, and I don't know that I would need more than one hand to count my friends. I mean, I know lots of people, but they seem more like acquaintances than friends. What differentiates the two? Well, acquaintances are people who you don't make plans to meet up with for a good night out, but rather who you run into while out and have a good time with. Acquaintances are also the people you let know that you'll be out at a certain place and time, and put an invite out to (usually in the form of a mass e-mail and/or mass text msg)--it'd be nice to see them, but you don't really expect them, and your level of enjoyment is most likely independent of their presence. If you have people you see only when you go out for happy hour (or other semi-organized events), they're probably acquaintances, too. Don't get me wrong, not every relationship has to be a friendship--acquaintances are important for balance.

Still, I've been feeling light on friends lately. This one person, who I've been getting to know, I thought had a lot of friends. Every time she's invited me out, she's always with a bunch of other folks. It's been great, actually, because you can see how alive her network is. I wonder though, if she has the friends I think she has. I guess I say this because just this past Friday she put a call out to folks to ask for packing help. Granted, helping people move is never all that fun, but at least this request was for packing, not moving. I haven't moved in over a year, but I still remember how nice it was when one person helped me with the furniture I couldn't have moved by myself, and another loaned me his truck so that I could move the furniture. It made such a huge difference, even if I moved everything else on my own, in my little sport coupe of a car. In any case, I had originally wanted to check out the 5th annual Women's Words Slam hosted by Michelle Sewell at Provisions Library, but when this invite came out, I couldn't in good conscious choose poetry over packing. I arrived about 10 minutes after the time on the invite, much to the surprise of the host--apparently when you say 6pm there isn't an expectation that folks will arrive before 8pm! I'm glad I did go to help pack...others didn't come until about 9pm, and in all there weren't as many bodies as I expected.

Did that night show my loyalty and the lack of loyalty of others? Hardly. One night isn't nearly enough for either of those things to solidify. Why bring it up then? Oh...I guess just to remind myself that kindness is a good quality, too.

After all, when the person I asked answered, she also made clear that what she admired was her friends' loyalty in all aspects of their life, not just towards her. That kind of loyalty is really an admirable quality--one that to me speaks to the depth of interest, care, commitment, and follow-through of a person, not only to another individual, but perhaps to groups of individuals and even larger things.

I wonder where my loyalties lie...