Clarification
ME: Honey, do you know why all the sales people kept telling you how pretty your eyes were today?
RUBY: Because I have brown skin and they don’t think brown skin is very good.
ME: Well (crap), no. (Think quick.) That’s not why. (Address it or not to address it, that is the question.) I mean (always address it), it’s true: There are people in this world who don’t think that brown skin is as good as pink skin. And they’re wrong about that. They’re what we call “ignorant”.
RUBY: And I just walk away from them!
ME: That’s right. You just walk away with your shoulders back and your head held high. You do not listen to them. You do not let their words get inside your heart.
RUBY: No!
ME: But those sales people who told you your eyes were beautiful? Remember them?
RUBY: Yeah.
ME: Yes?
RUBY: Yes.
ME: Well, they told you your eyes were beautiful because they are.
Three weeks and counting
My big almost-kindergartener.
Who’s buying me the first cocktail?
The righting of a wrong
In February of 2004, I flew to San Francisco on a whim. My friends decided to tie the knot, take the plunge, insert-your-own-cliché here and Gavin Newsom was the only person who brave enough to let them do it. It was a Sunday and the marriages had been taking place since Friday, so the crowds were huge. The line wound three deep all the way around City Hall and if you’ve ever been to San Francisco’s City Hall, you know this is a huge swath of land. There was an A-Line for people who had tickets to be married that day. There was a B-Line for those who might get in before closing time, a time extended by the mayor and his many generous employees, many of whom volunteered to work extra hours. And there was a C-Line—the “hopeful overflow” line as they were calling it—for those who didn’t get tickets, people who had driven and flown in from all across the United States but who were likely to be turned away. We were in that line.
Our friends managed to get in and have a ceremony because they knew someone in the DA’s office (it was all very illicit but times like this, you take advantage of any advantage). The women in front of us, a lovely couple in their mid-sixties, weren’t so lucky. They had flown all the way from Florida and they stood, their suitcases at their ankles, despondent at hearing a man on a bullhorn announce, as he paced the line, that they might as well come back in the morning and take their chances then. “But what about us?” one of them asked him. “We’ve waited for this day for 32 years. We just flew in this morning.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you except that maybe you can go to the A-Line and ask someone if they might be willing to give up their ticket for you.”
So the shorter and rounder of the two women kissed her partner good-bye, leveraged herself over a retaining wall onto the sprawling green lawn and made her way toward those lucky thousands (and their family members and friends who’d come out to witness the happy day) in possession of tickets. Forty minutes later, as we were still negotiating how we were going to be sneaked through a side entry to the building, the woman came running across the lawn, her hand raised high above her head and in it, was a little piece of paper.
“We’re getting married! We’re getting married!” She said. There were tears running down her face. The hopeful overflowers cheered and applauded and whistled and cried. The woman on the grass leaped into the arms of her beloved and they kissed. I remember they both had short hair the color of the clouded sky above us. I remember their suitcases toppling awkwardly as they heaved to pull them up and over the wall. I remember them walking away to get married, schlepping their stuff from the C-Line to the A-Line, their hearts buoyant and full.
The day was not a political statement for that couple or any of the other thousands of couples who waited to marry. It was not an agenda driven act designed to vex right wingers and the morally indignant. It was about love and commitment and a rightful public declaration of that love and commitment. It was, to this day, one of the happiest days of my life.
That a Bush One-appointed California judge overturned proposition 8 today has left me breathless. I had steeled myself for the other verdict. And in a time when each day–and the one that preceded it, and the one that preceded it, and so on and so on—is filled with so much bad news and injustice of all kinds, this clear and obviously just ruling blows my hair back.
And I’m not alone. Below are some of the status updates on my Facebook wall this afternoon:
WAY TO GO CALIFORNIA.
”Proposition 8 fails to advance any rational basis in singling out gay men and lesbians for denial of a marriage license. Indeed the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California constitution the notion that opposite sex couples are superior to same sex couples.” – U.S. District Court Chief Judge Vaughn Walker
To celebrate Prop 8 being ruled unconstitutional, I ordered this t-shirt for my kid. She loves toast. http://tinyurl.com/2djpywe
PROP 8 overturned in CAlifornia supreme court—–YAAAAAAA, now I need to find a husband
YES!!! Prop 8 GOES DOWN AGAIN!!!! Yay for Judge Walker!!
News flash: Prop 8 has been OVERTURNED! No More H8!
Yes!!!!!
“Moral disapproval alone is an improper basis on which to deny rights to gay men and lesbians.” Judge Walker
My love and I are no longer outlaws.
[Name redacted] is pleased to see that reason has prevailed, and very happy for those whose lives are directly affected by this law.
Woooooo!
I’m proud of California today! Woo-hoo!
#Prop8 gets rim-rocked, reminds me why I traded TX for CA in the 1st place.
blam suckas…all the fundie christians can pretty much, well, ya know…welcome to civil society, where your pastor/priest. etc doesn’t have shit to say about the law. Don’t like it. Move.
[Name redacted] must join the chorus and send mad props to Judge Walker for holding some truths to be self-evident.
Very happy that Prop 8 was overturned today. A big step forward in LGBT rights and for our society as a whole.
Human Rights = 1. Discrimination = 0. Prop 8 is overturned. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, the fight continues.
One Love
I never really understand why people are hesitant to take their kids to the Gay Pride Parade. Over the weekend, I had several different conversations about it—since I’d planned to take Ruby—and got several interesting reactions. One couple I met at breakfast this morning said that they’d always wanted to go, but motioned toward their six-year old and whispered that they’d heard it’s “basically a porn show.” Another friend dismissed it because all the “cocks” aren’t appropriate for her daughters.
Now, the porn thing is off by astronomical distances: This is a public event with participants from all across the city. The Mayor was in this past Saturday’s Pride parade, as was Republican Ron Roberts from the County Board of Supervisors, and believe me, there isn’t anything remotely titillating or even vaguely pornographic about either of these guys. Even the public defender’s office represented with a float bearing the slogan “Getting people off since 19[something or other]!”
However, while nobody was whipping out their cocks along University Avenue during this weekend’s party, I have to admit that my friend’s concern was wholly legitimate.
I stand corrected because I did indeed see Cox at the parade. As did my daughter and my bestie’s daughter and all the many children and grown-ups and families who sat on the curb in the heat, beneath a sky the color of swimming pools, sharing sun screen and snacks and spray bottles, celebrating our gay brothers and sisters.
Ruby was very excited about all the swag, the horses ridden by the Wells Fargo people (I suppose it could be argued that bankers are pornographic), and the stilt walker.
I was excited about my friend Barbarella‘s piglet, Carnitas—who may have cured me of my bacon habit forever—and the Gay Men’s Chorus, since my friends Skip and Andy were marching.
I didn’t find Skip and Andy but they were out there and they were proud, I know.
Oh, and speaking of excitement, Ruby just about peed her pants at the sight of the man with the RAINBOW! HAIR!
Who’s not tickled by RAINBOW! HAIR!?
Personally, I was tickled by the message on his shirt because the message is the reason I bring my daughter to the parade. Love, not hate, is what I wish to instill in her.
I guess this could be considered Jesus porn because I was practically orgasmic at the sight of these folks. Standing there in the street watching groups of people march beneath such signs is encouraging. They make you believe in humanity and remind you that The Rock church doesn’t represent all Christians. Just too many of them.
Of course, I’d be lying if I represented the parade as all Hail Marys and Holy Water. There was a little bit of shaking, jangling flesh out there, too. And God Bless it!
So she has pasties on her nibbles. Still: Not porn. Just a little edgy. And, I’m guessing, much cooler than my flesh-toned padded bra that’s so old it has dimples. Anyway, have you been to the beach lately? Right. Moving along…
Every parade is better with queens:
In fact, pretty much every situation in life is improved by the presence of a drag queen.
However, the people you really want on your side when the chips are down (or up, no matter) is your family. Which is why PFLAG is the greatest part of the Parade every single year. PFLAG is, hands down, the very best group, float or no float.
I challenge anyone to remain stony when these people walk by. I wanted to run up and hug them. Instead I took their blurry picture with my phone.
I don’t know who Ruby will love when she grows up. And I don’t care. I just want her to love, to be loved and to be happy. I hope that’s what she is learning from me.
What She Wore
I love fashion. It’s not a secret. But I’m not very good at putting things together in a creative or original way. I actually suck at it. Quite magnificently. When I go shopping, which I don’t care for at all, I tend to buy the same thing over and over and over again. I don’t mean to do it, I just gravitate to what’s safe: I have thing for jeans—though a reasonable argument can be made for never having too many pairs of jeans—which pile up higher than my stack of unread New Yorkers. And frequently heard comments from my husband include the back-tracking winner, “Oh, you bought another sleeveless, solid-color jersey t-shirt with ruching. It’s super cute!”
Thankfully, I’ve found a few websites to help me think “outside the box,” a phrase I dislike almost as much as “ah-ha! moment” and more than dressing room lighting, which is saying something.
Anyway, last Friday, I found and fell in love with a new-to-me website and subsequently gave over hours of valuable writing time to perusing What I Wore. The hostess, Jessica Schroeder is darling and very, very good at what she does; I would urge any woman who is looking for ideas to visit her site. I want to be her when I grow up, except that she’s probably 15 years younger than I am. There is no turning back the clock, but I can covet and borrow, which is the whole point of her website.
By Friday afternoon, I was inspired enough to dig out the only scarf I own. If I do say so myself, I think I looked just a little bit more fashionable this weekend as I cheered on the US men’s soccer team from my couch. Look at me, breaking out of my normal norms and trying some thing dangerous and new:
Okay, so maybe I look a little silly with a scarf tied in my hair. But I tried it! And the influence stretched beyond me.
He puts rabid soccer fans to shame.
Alright, if Sam and I can’t successfully translate Jessica’s ideas, then perhaps we should look closer to home for someone who can…
When:
June 13, 2010
What:
Dress: Target
Yoga Top: Target
Leg Warmers: Hannah Andersson
Socks: The Children’s Place (one purple, one pink)
Shoes: Target
Flower in hair: A stranger’s garden (she only took one!)
Where:
Breakfast at Brian’s and the Hillcrest Farmer’s Market
Why:
Because she can’t not. It’s in her DNA, which obviously is not mine. I have much to learn. The question is, can it be taught?
BP obviously began by consulting pre-schoolers
“Aw, shit,” I said to the car radio today, forgetting all about my impressionable roommate in the back seat.
“What, mama?” Ruby asked. So I explained to her that there was a big accident that had caused oil to pour out from a broken pipe deep in the sea and that it’s hurting a lot of animals and grasslands and sanctuaries and people. I told her that nobody knows how to stop the gushing and that I’m really, really sad about it.
Then the child who offered to loan me gas money from her piggy bank on Wednesday said to me, “Why don’t the sea divers go way, way, very deep down and put a bucket on it?”
The art of motherhood
If you happen to be free tonight (Tuesday, May 4), come by The Loft for the opening reception for “Exploring the ‘M’ Word,” a student produced art exhibition highlighting the complexities of motherhood. The show, curated by Aimee Harlib and co-sponsored by the UCSD Women’s Center, runs through May 21st. I will be reading a little something during the reception and am honored to be included among the many talented women who will be performing and exhibiting their work.
The party starts at 7:00 p.m. and is free to the public. Either come play or offer to babysit so someone else can.
Summer in April
Everything changes. Of all the many things about which I am uncertain, this is not one of them. The only thing we can count on in life is that everything—and I do mean everything—will change. Nothing stays the same and I hold onto this knowledge when life is darkest. It is the philosophy which has helped me make it through some very bleak times. And it is the same philosophy which compels me to embrace, acknowledge and celebrate when things are good.
I have no idea what tomorrow will be.
But today, right now, things are really, really good.
(First and last photos, like bookends, by Sam.)
Naked
Every Wednesday at 5-o’clock, Ruby has swim class. Once her thirty minutes of floating, leaping, belly-flopping and retrieving pink plastic rings has elapsed, it is our routine to head for the locker room and change her into her “soft pants.” This has proven to be a giant effort because while I’m trying to get her wet clothes off and her dry clothes on, she is involuntarily frozen in place like a zombie, transfixed by three 8-year-old girls who are also changing—secretly, beneath towels pulled around their bodies like cocoons—at the same time each week following their swim team practice. Oh, how her eyes swirl when these little girls tramp through the locker room in their swim caps and racer-back suits, dripping wet, shivering and hugging themselves on the way to the showers.
Ruby stares at them as I wiggle her swim suit over her bottom, around her hips and down to her ankles. She stares as I dry her naked body with the mostly wet towel, as I coach her like I might an invalid to step into her underwear (if I remember to bring them) and then into each of her pants legs. Meanwhile, the girls completely ignore her—with the exception of a slight smile offered by one on the very first day of lessons—while they gossip about other kids and prevent any accidental exposure of their privates.
As I’m pulling Ruby’s clothes across her sticky skin, watching her rapturously watching them, I’m aware of the already-in-full-bloom body image issues being modeled not 6 feet away from my daughter. And I’m reminded of 7th grade gym class. And my teacher, Mrs. Allen.
At nearly 6-feet tall, Mrs. Allen was an imposing figure. She wore white tennis socks, white leather athletic shoes and pleated navy blue Bermuda shorts, always with a cotton tank top, usually white. She might wear a wind breaker or warm up pants if it was cold, the kind that made a wooshing noise as she walked. She was big boned and thick-kneed with a voice like ball bearings and short, curly brown hair that looked like it had been plucked from a mannequin head circa 1977. I used to watch for wig confirmation, to see if it would slide around when she scratched her head, something she did often when she wasn’t handling equipment or managing fitness tests.
Whatever our activities, each day at the end of dreaded gym class, we were required to take a dreaded shower and then, to prove it. Mrs. Allen would lean against the doorway of the shower room with a clipboard in her hand, inspecting each girl for shower evidence. I don’t know where I’d learned to be self-conscious but, like the other girls in my class, I wasn’t about to get naked in front of anybody, which of course makes it fairly challenging to shower. But, like the other girls in my class, I managed my way around the requirement quite well.
I wrapped myself in a white towel, tucking it at mid chest like I’d learned from my mother, and I did the hokey-pokey in the communal shower like the rest of the troops: Stick one leg in, then the other. Stick one arm in, then the other. I’d splash some water on my chest, shoulders and face (sure, actual showering would have been less effort but this was equally convincing and less…nude). Then I’d show Mrs. Allen the necessary proof to be freed for a day. I was 12 years old.
Later, as a dance major in college—a situation that sometimes required full costume changes not just backstage, but in the wings—I had a very difficult time unlearning the don’t-get-naked-in-the-locker-room rule that had defined my self-loathing since junior high. I’d hidden and hated my body for a long time and that didn’t just magically come undone. And now my four-year-old is learning, from girls only twice her age, that she should be embarrassed and ashamed of her body.
Raising a daughter is treacherous. Short of stripping off my clothes in the locker room every Wednesday, I’m not exactly sure how to combat this message or if anything I say will be half as cool as what those girls do.
Positano: Detour
“Mama, I’m gonna give you a kiss you when you get home. I’m gonna give you a giant, giant, GIant hug when you get home.”