I'm going to get her back.

I went to first through fourth grade at the same school. After that it was one year here, one year there, one and a half, two and a half, two… Then university became one here, one home, one there… I was usually the nerdy outcast. All of this is to say, some people have things in their lives that others don’t. And that’s okay. Some people have nice cars. Other people have fifty year marriages. I had a fascination with books. Other kids had friends.

Not a big deal, I didn’t have close friends. Not long term anyway, but it didn’t really upset me that much. I had other things they didn’t have. I learned about philosophy while they had sleepovers. Who cares. That’s life.

One thing I do have is extremely vivid dreams. Quite frequently I have a memory and I’m not sure if it actually happened or if I dreamed it. I mean to say these dreams are indistinguishable from reality. I wake up disoriented and confused. Last night I could fly. I should be able to fly now. Sometimes I’m in waking life and realize what just happened was in my dream the night before. That’s disorienting, too.

The first person who became a real, long-term, close friend was A______ W_______. I don’t know why she picked me. We were working together, and she was simply kind to me. She’d share some of the food she brought in. Then she started bringing in special things just for me. I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought she was hitting on me. I didn’t know how friendship worked. After the third time we hung out I walked her back to her car and asked to kiss her. She laughed and asked for a hug instead. She wasn’t scared off. She helped me understand what friendship could be like. She was my friendship teacher. She moved to Florida before social media was a huge thing. I was sad. We still loved each other very much but the distance meant we drifted a little.

Another thing I have that some other people don’t is cooking skills. I mean I’m really good. I don’t know how to make bad food. What does a lifelong friendship matter when I can rock your world with chicken saltimbocca? You know how people make food with weed, and it always tastes like compost? Not my cookies. I make the butter first with a secret trick, and then I add delicious strong spices. Maybe ginger, orange peel, and lemongrass. Maybe cinnamon, clove, and vanilla bean. My pot cookies are the talk of the town at any party they decide to visit.

I think Andrea found another queer student before she found me. We were at university, and I had just changed from social chairperson to president of the campus queer straight alliance. If I remember our first encounter correctly, it was a sunny day in a long hallway, well-lit with natural light from windows the whole way down. It was one of those days, it was some of that light, that just gets inside you and lifts you up. And there they were sitting, the beautiful pair of them, and maybe someone had told them I was the QSA president, and they shouted out to me, and in that magical way that only exists in oppressed communities, we instantly fell in love and became friends. We started planning our “wedding.” It wasn’t real, of course, except that it was. If you know, you know.

That’s a thing I have. A skill at making communities. At bringing people together. You have family vacations at Hawaii every winter? I put people together who support one another and stay in touch for life. That changes the world, you know.

How exactly did Andrea and I become so close? What were the steps? I can’t retrace them. One thing I don’t have is a great memory. Seriously, I can forget anything. Once, a friend told me that the two years we spent having nightly conversations on the phone had meant so much to them. I have no memory of that at all. This is to say, I cannot remember a time when Andrea Milligan was not my very best friend in the entire world. Once it happened, it had always been that way.

I still wasn’t one of those long term friend people yet though. Andrea and I were friends in university, but I was only there three years. But somehow, it lasted. Bless technology I guess, the introduction of social media, messaging through phones, video chats. We were never not in touch. She was my best friend, and it lasted and lasted.

We used to do everything together. I mean we were a single unit item. You didn’t see one of us without the other. More people than I can count assumed we were a couple. I mean it happened a lot. Straight people, queer people, people who knew us well, people we’d just met. They would either ask outright, “Are you together?” or they would invite one of us to something and say, “Bring your girlfriend.” We would collapse into laughter and fall upon one another, which maybe didn’t help their perception but we didn’t care.

We’d have sleepovers four-fifths naked. She helped me unlearn my shame around my body. Look, sleeping in your underwear is just more comfortable than sleeping with clothes on. And one thing we had in common was how much we embraced how lazy we were. We could sleep all day. One of us would wake up and take video of the other one snoring, then fall asleep and the other would take video of the first one snoring. We’d share it later and laugh.

We’d cook together and laugh. We’d go to movies together and laugh. We’d go to protests and chant and march. We’d get new partners and gush over them. We’d go through breakups and have nasty cries and get sloppy drunk. I’d host parties with my famous cookies and all our local community and beloved chosen family would come and eat and giggle. After 7 years as friends she shared with me an article she read that says, if a friendship makes it to seven years, you’re going all the way. We were going all the way.

So much so in fact that when she got a new partner that refused to meet me on my trips home from the opposite side of the globe (I think Andrea never forgave me for moving so far away from her, but she still loved me), I didn’t mind. We’d both seen each other through terrible choices in relationships. This, too, would pass. I mean, the woman was literally married. That’s not sustainable, right?

My friend Keith killed himself over depression. My roommate Angela killed herself over depression. My roommate Tommy had an accidental overdose. My classmate Aaron fell asleep driving and crossed the median. My dear friend Sean killed himself over trauma. My adopted baby Nic killed himself over depression. Lucie laid down to sleep and never woke up and we never found out why. This is a short sample of the long list. Death must be one cool motherfucker. She takes all my favorite people to hang out with her. My first brush with a suicide was in sixth grade. My grandparents were dying before I was born, when I was two, when I was in fourth grade. Death has always been close by, eyeing my nearest and dearest. We’re very well acquainted. I am quite accomplished and practiced with grief.

Once after my roommate Angela died I had one of those vivid dreams. She was dancing around in a corset and a billowing skirt, her famous red lipstick flaring across her smiling mouth. But I thought you died, I said. She threw her head back and laughed. Please, she said, like something as weak as death could stop me. Then she kept dancing and I just watched and watched. I woke up disoriented and confused. It was so real. Was she back?

When I finally met Andrea’s new partner, who I will not name, she seemed nervous. Things seemed off. Whatever. Then she flew off the handle over something that was nothing. Weird. Then she demanded Andrea leave my vehicle and go into hers and talk about how horrible I was for the better part of an hour while I waited. Okay.

I had come back for another visit and to finally meet the partner. The spin was, some friends and I were actually having an intervention for Andrea the next day and she didn’t know it. We thought she might be abusing painkillers. We didn’t know we were having an intervention for the wrong substance.

Yeah, the painkillers didn’t help. But now we know who was placing them in her palms to be swallowed down. If that woman, who is already in trouble for physical assault with a deadly weapon, doesn’t stand trial for the murder of my best friend, … it’ll be her loss. As many people as loved Andrea, the woman would be safer in jail honestly. This is not a threat, it’s just a fact.

Have you ever met a person that just… like was the literal embodiment of unconditional love and support and who would celebrate and affirm you exactly who and how you are at all times? Maybe you think you have, but if you never met Andrea, no you really didn’t. That person you’re thinking of wasn’t a third what Andrea was. Honestly, fuck that person. How dare they pale in comparison to the greatest platonic love of my entire life? They should just retire and stop failing to hold a candle to my Andrea.

That was the thing that Andrea had that no one else had.

She once went to a party with red duct tape across her mouth. She managed, without ever speaking, to simply gesture and convey her meaning to enough people that an entire photo album exists of her “kissing” random strangers at this party. She would find lost kids and bring them to our QSA. She was in touch with more people than I have ever met, at all times, telling everyone sincerely and thoroughly how much she loved them. She brought me so many wounded birds that we would nurse back to self love together. Once a meeting at my house spontaneously devolved into a party where three of us were naked and the other six were painting all over the naked ones. This magical joy would just happen around her, and you felt loved and accepted and part of something, something good, something whole. That was her thing. She had that.

We did the intervention. It was hard. She agreed to go to a facility for an intake interview. She aced it because of course she did. She was a boss at stuff like that. They sent her home. I went back to the other side of the planet. I heard The Girlfriend had Andrea locked in a bathroom with a gun. Another friend went over to try and save her. The Girlfriend almost murdered two of my closest long term friends. Andrea didn’t file a restraining order. I get it. I was in an abusive relationship before. It happens. They make you crazy. You think only you understand your relationship. The outsiders, they don’t get it. They don’t understand what you have. It’s you two against the world.

During all of this, Andrea lost her mother. They were thick as thieves. It’s the kind of loss you just don’t heal from. And I couldn’t console her. I had to stay away. I had to wait until she was free from That Woman.

I didn’t mind waiting. I would wait for her. She’d get this relationship out of her system just like we both had all the other shitty partners and then we’d be back together again, good as new. Four of us, friends of Andrea’s, had united to try to do the intervention and we stayed in touch afterward. We all tried different methods repeatedly to try and help. We each played different roles. We figured, eventually she’d wake up, or we’d get through. We would get her back. We were going to get her back.

I don’t know what time Andrea laid down with The Girlfriend. I assume there were pills involved. The Girlfriend posted that the love of her life died in her arms as they slept. What time was it? Was it the same time that I became inexplicably tired very early in the evening and went to bed? It was 3 or 4am local time when I woke up to the “news.” It was still speculation at that point, the reports were coming in. I sobbed well past sunrise. Denial, anger, bargaining all at once. She isn’t dead. We can still get her back. I hate that woman. The wrong person woke up.

Around 7 I went back to sleep. I had a dream Andrea and I were in bed together. I got so excited. She was laying in the bed four-fifths naked under a thick blanket. I got on top of her and bounced and bounced. She was laughing like crazy. I was snuggling in all her chubby bits, tickling her with my nose and kissing her everywhere. I’m so glad you aren’t dead, I said. I knew it wasn’t real. She said, I did it to bring my mom back. She said, I knew if I faked my death she’d come back. Her mom was there too. We all laughed and bounced and cuddled four-fifths naked and the best friend I’ve ever had, the longest the truest, Love walking in human flesh and touching everyone she met, she was there again right beneath me. I woke up disoriented and confused. My friend is not really dead. I’m going to get her back. This isn’t real. I haven’t seen any obit or autopsy. Love can’t die, right? We’re going to get her back. I get to keep my best friend. I get to have that after all. Andrea, call me. I’m confused. Remember the article? How we're going all the way? I’m waiting. I’ll keep waiting as long as it takes.

10/30: reasons to be angry today

1. Because I set my alarms for P.M. instead of A.M. and woke up just in time to not technically be late to work.
2. Because I can't use my air conditioner, because it pisses water all over my belongings.
3. Because I'm ovulating and there's no one around to Do Me Right.
4. Because I didn't see the sun set.
5. Because I never see the sun set.
6. Because Dove has a new Beauty campaign out that still doesn't address how much easier it is for white able-bodied ciswomen to claim Beauty than it is for their sisters in the struggle.
7. Because too many white able-bodied ciswomen leave their sisters behind in the struggle.
8. Because the struggle.
9. Because I make my students do their homework, but I still haven't finished grading their tests.
10. Because I don't know how to reach some of them.
11. Because I had to teach them about Ferguson.
12. Because Amerikkka.
13. Because maybe there is no good country in this world.
14. Because this world.
15. Because depression.
16. Because antidepressants.
17. Because infinite downward spirals of existential thoughts.
18. Because I didn't have time to eat until 10PM.
19. Because I've already stayed up too late again tonight.
20. Because tomorrow *isn't* another day.
21. Because I still haven't finished unpacking into this new place.
22. Because I don't know where my heart is.
23. Because I'm scared to visit home, because what if I don't want to leave, because what if I never want to visit again.
24. Because I want to be home now.
25. Because home is a place where companies turn the water off on poor folk.
26. Because home is a place where white men in blue shirts shoot black men black women black children black people who did NOTHING.
27. Because too many black family trees are missing limbs these days.
28. Because this makes me sick, but I have the privilege of being able to stop thinking about it because I'm white.
29. Because home is a place where businesses can tell me get out cuz I'm queer.
30. Because I'm queer and woman in a world that hates queer and woman and black and and and.
31. Because that should be so alarming that we all immediately understand how wrong it is and change it.
32. Because people don't find it alarming and don't change it.
33. Because at 10PM my alarms did in fact go off.

2: Asa Cut-Up

This is a bill that in ordinary times would not be controversial. But these are not ordinary times.  This bill is not really complicated.  It's a balancing test.  The bill itself does not pick winners and losers.  It balances two competing constitutional obligations that our founding fathers gave to us.  But the issue has become divisive because our nation remains split on how to balance the diversity of our culture with the traditions and firmly held religious convictions.  It has divided families, and there is clearly a generational gap on this issue.  
--Governor Asa Hutchison of Arkansas on 1st April, 2015, announcing why he would be vetoing HR1228.


Balancing has become
founding.
This bill
is not ordinary.
These are
complicated times.
There is clearly a gap
between diversity
and religious convictions.
Split the founding fathers.
This nation is split: winners
and losers.  It's
controversial.  Test this bill.
This issue
is not really complicated.
Ordinary times?  Families,
traditions, convictions clearly
compete.  Our nation split
itself.  This bill is con-
troversial.  Test the times.  Really.
Two fathers are winners
and losers. and families.
and our nations.  and ordinary
culture.

9/30: Dear Veet: #notbuyingit

(Backstory here)

I still vividly remember the first time I shaved my legs.

It was being granted the permission more than anything, honestly, having watched

the other girls shed their peach fuzz one by one, congratulating one another

as it happened, and me, I mean

come on.

Look at me.

They had peach fuzz but I was outgrowing most of the boys,

and of course that carried plenty along with it.  But my iron mother,

who ruled the house and my body from hairy head

to hairy toes, said no, said

I needed to keep my childhood, my innocence, a little longer.

Whatever.  Eventually she caved and who knows why

but it happened and I wrote her a thank you letter afterward

in which I described how the only thing that felt finer than my clothes

brushing against one of my new naked legs was the other leg.  I stood

in the kitchen rubbing them like some diva cricket.  I went to school

and no one said a thing.

Whatever.

Fast Forward.  And there’s angry red bumps, painful stubble, cuts and bleeding;

razor blades get dull and need replacing and I’m less pretty 

than the other girls because of my stubble, my red bumps,

my ingrowth, then someone said

try Veet.

I did.

It didn’t work.  At all.  Whatever.

When I moved to Wisconsin I quit shaving.  A girl from Arkansas

dabbed smack into winter, I mean come on.  Of course

I took what extra insulation I could get.  Then I was married

and who cares at that point, right? But after the split I was working

in the UK and my friend said

try Veet.

I did.

Different formulas in different countries?  Who knows.  Oh, it worked.

Diva cricket was back and wearing bikinis all across the Mediterranean

even taking her top off here and there, so hairless and proud and sexy

and woman and sexy and woman and hairless and proud.

Then my stems and I were back in the states again, where it didn’t work.

Again.  Whatever.

Until a woman taught me to epilate and the pain

was real

but worth it.  No hair and no stubble and it stayed gone

for weeks but when it came back it came

ingrown and I had to pick

at the bumps to get it to break through

and there were angry red bumps

again and sweet merciful fuck all I ever wanted

was a sexy, hairless, thirty four inch inseam

to outshine all the other girls because this

is what we do, right?  Our lot

as women, we change

we alter we torture we fix we improve upon

because we are broken and wrong and naturally

not

desirable and it’s so so important

that we be desired.

Whatever.

I reassessed.  Decided function was so much more important

than frivolity.  Let it all grow in, everywhere, all of it

for learning, for science, found my armpits

were a huge disappointment.  It grew in short

and sparse and only made me stinkier.  So that came back off.

My downstairs?  I keep a trim welcome mat

because I like having something that differentiates me

from a nine year old but beyond that

it’s hardwood floors baby because when company comes calling

I want to make sure no one ends up flossing, and my legs?

Well.

They’re just as Atheist Jesus made me because there is literally

no function served by getting rid of all that and red bumps

can shove off except now,

Veet,

your commercials have told me that if I have hair on my legs

I am actually an actual man.

In actuality.

That’s right.  The commercial starts with a handsome gentleman

waking up to his lover’s leg being thrown across him and he reaches

down

to rub hair.

And jumps up.

And shrieks.

And grabs for the covers because his lover is now

a man in a silk nightie apologizing, explaining,

“I just shaved yesterday.”

Bitch I ain’t shaved more years than I have, how much

of a man am I now?  Does this mean I don’t have

to be afraid in parking garages at night

any more, can I get equal pay now, can I wear

what I want to a party and drink

as much as I like and not watch the glass?  Can I cut

in line?  Take up too much space
on the train? Can I interrupt women and explain things to them

that they already know?  Can I get called on more

in class ?  Can I get promoted

more easily and without being asked

who I fucked?  Can I be 49% of the US population but 83%

of its government?  Can I choose not to have children

without being asked why?  Keep my surname without

being interrogated about it?  Get better funding

and sponsorship for sports, be angry and justified rather

than “on my period,” drive carelessly without

having it blamed on my sex, can I fuck as many partners

as I like and be applauded rather than branded?

Can I now be told by Almighty God that I deserve

to be head of my household, that no woman

may try to teach me or even speak when I’m talking?
Hey Veet?  Can I now be the same gender

as Almighty God himself?  Hey Veet --

the man who wakes up in the bed in your commercial?

His chest is hairless, his face is beardless, is that man

now a woman?  Hey Veet, let me offer you

some direct quotes from my male lovers who I began

to ask, after fucking, what they thought

about my legs:

1)      “I didn’t even notice.”  That’s from the man

who actually squatted next to my legs

as he cuffed my ankles to a spreader bar before we spent an evening

exploring boundaries together.  He was probably lying

but that night was amazing.

2)      “I just figured it was part of your whole thing

you got goin’ on.”  That man fucked me four times

in one night.

3)      “When you fuck like that, who cares?”  That’s

my personal favorite.

Which is to say, Veet,

not one of them squealed

or grabbed for the covers

or pulled away after their hands brushed

against my legs; these lanky cricket legs

have been wrapped around more heads

than it took to approve your bullshit

BADvertisement campaign and each face

is left with a smile.  Hey, Veet

your series of commercials checks so many

boxes it may as well have come straight

from the first season of Mad Men, talkin’

misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, racism --

oh yeah, there's an Asian pedicurist, too --

but WHATEVER:

I'm exercising

my VEETO.

I'm fucking perfect

just as I've grown.

I ain’t buyin’

yo shit

and no

you cain’t even

have a sample

of mine.

**drops mic, leaves stage**

16/30: Questions I want to ask my grandmothers

Tell me your favorite shade of lipstick.
What was the weather on the day my parent was born?
What did you dream of becoming when you were young?
How close did you get?
Where were you when they told you they were going to have me?
What were you wearing when they told you they had me?
How many countries did you manage to see?
How many lovers did you take?
How old were you the first time you made love?  To whom?
Did you lose your virginity or did you gain experience?
When did you first vote?
How many regrets do you have?  Where do you store them?
What one thing could you never do without?
What would you change?  How would you change
yourself?  Do you forgive me for being queer?
Do you forgive me for being feminist?  Do you forgive me
for cursing, for fucking, for marching in the streets,
for holding signs, for supporting immigrants
and all sorts of things you never heard of, never
thought about?  Do you forgive
that I will never be a grandmother nor even
a mother for that matter?  Did you create
any art?  Where did you leave it?  How can I find it?
Why did you leave me so soon?  When
are you coming back?

My Letter to Governor Mike Beebe

Helpful links about what's going on:
http://www.kuar.org/kuarnews/27466-beebe-s-opposition-to-gay-marriage-won-t-budge.html
http://www.arktimes.com/ArkansasBlog/archives/2011/06/29/mike-beebes-very-bad-night

An abridged version of this letter is now up on the Arkansas Times website at http://www.arktimes.com/arkansas/beebes-place-in-history/Content?oid=1852081 , and can apparently be found in the Times's newsstands this week.


Dear Sir:

I need to tell you a story about my grandmother. Do you actually read these, or is there (more likely) a crew of employees who screen them for you? Either way, it is a cautionary tale, and a tale that you desperately need to hear, I'm afraid.

My grandmother was born Virginia Dare Swepston in something like 1911 or so. She married Beauford Jennings Wallace, with whom she'd been in love literally since the second grade, and gave birth to three baby boys, one of which was my father. My father grew up on a farm with a grain company owned by my grandfather. By all accounts, they were the typical Arkansan family, real "salt of the earth" type people.

The story that you need to hear, and you do honestly need to hear it, is a story my father tells me about my grandmother, for whom I am named. He tells me it was a day in late September, 1957, and he was in the kitchen, watching my grandmother do the dishes. She was very dedicated to her husband, their family, and their home, and caring for all three was her full-time job. My father was watching her wash the dishes until she looked out the window... and what happened next is what you most desperately need to hear.

She glanced up and saw a line of military vehicles passing in front of the house. At that time, there was an old Arkansas highway that ran past my father's childhood home going from Memphis into Little Rock. When my grandmother saw these vehicles, she became enraged. She threw down her dishtowel and ran outside to stand in the front yard with her apron on, shake her fist angrily at the vehicles, and yell at them.

It just so happens that these vehicles were, in fact, the 101st Airborne on their way to help the Little Rock Nine attend school at Central High, where their very lives were in danger from people like my grandmother for simply wanting equality.

I wonder how this story makes you feel. I wonder if you think that what my grandmother did was wrong or whether she was right. I wonder if you can imagine the shame I feel when I tell this story. My memories of my grandmother are good ones. She was always so kind, so extremely classy. She was the perfect example of a Southern belle to me. This one story, however, this brief moment discolors my memory of her. It makes me remember that at her core, my grandmother was a racist woman who went to her grave holding on to her beliefs.

It's easy to say, "But that's just how things/people were back then." But saying that is the wrong answer, Mr. Governor. Saying that excuses behavior that was wholly wrong and minimizes the importance of the issue. Without the people who stood up to question that type of behavior, we would never have had positive change. We would never live in a world like we do today, where I can look at what my grandmother did as wrong and pray for her forgiveness.

I tell you this story, Governor Beebe, as a warning. My shame will become your grandchildren's shame if you do not change your words and your actions and soon. I am embarrassed by this tale. I am ashamed of my grandmother. Even as I have good memories of her, I cannot forget that racism was a big part of who she was, and it leaves me feeling disgraced and humiliated when I think of it.

Sir, when you spoke in front of the Stonewall Democrats recently, you told them that you do not believe they deserved the same equal rights afforded to their heterosexual neighbors. You told them that not only should they accept their second-class status, but that they should refrain from being visible and active in demanding equality. You were no better than my grandmother standing in the front yard, shaking her fist at the 101st.

Some have tried to explain your actions. Some have said that even though you don't need to say those words in hope of being reelected, that perhaps you have said them in order to help build your legacy, in order to influence the way you will be remembered. What you did, and what you said, will accomplish just that, Mr. Governor.

But you have a choice, in the same way that Governor George Wallace had a choice. He chose to change his position from the easy answer to the right answer. Sixteen years after his 1963 inaugural speech in which he spoke strongly in favor of segregation (“segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever), he said the words “I was wrong. Those days are over and they ought to be over.”

And hear me when I say, sir, that if you do not open your eyes and realize you are wrong just as he was wrong, just as my grandmother was wrong, that this is an issue of equality for all and civil rights and human rights, your grandchildren will remember you with shame in their hearts. I pray for you just as I pray for my grandmother:

May God forgive you,
Susan Virginia Wallace



Write him yourself at:
http://governor.arkansas.gov/contact/index.php

My letter to CNN

Why does Kyra Phillips hate her own sex? This morning I watched as within five minutes of each other, she made two comments that each on their own set women back decades.

First she covered the republican presidential debate in which it seems Michele Bachman did well. Kyra's words, paraphrased, were: "Do we even need Sarah Palin any more?" She then further explored this tragically sexist question by even calling up a guest and asking his opinion which, as an apparently straight, cisgendered, white man of privilege was: "NO."

What on earth makes a quesiton like that acceptable? When Mitt Romney did well, did Kyra say to herself, "Do we even need Pawlenty any more?" The question is based only in sex and when boiled down to its core is, Do we need this token candidate with a vagina any more now that we have this new token candidate with a vagina? I am not a Republican. I have no love nor respect for Palin nor Bachman. But so help me, there is room for more than one vagina in a presidential race, and Phillips not only insinuating otherwise but bringing guests on to further such a discussion is disgusting and pathetic.

Then she went on to a story about Weiner in which she became the first anchor, journalist, or newsperson of any sort that I have yet witnessed to turn the microscope around onto the women. I'm amazed it took this long, to be honest, but never suspected it would be a woman who went there first. She asked of her guest a question she appeared to be wanting to ask the women, and her words (and again I paraphrase except for the pivotal word) were: "Ma'am, why are you such a HO."

Ho. The colloquial term for WHORE. As in: a person who engages in sex acts for money. As in: the word that is slung at any woman as an insult more than any other negative word in the English language. And what is this "whore's" crime? Presumably none. We have no evidence that these women solicited or even wanted these photographs. And if we assume they did - which, by the way, is a huge assumption - ...so what? The Weiner story is exactly what Weiner, our POTUS, and many others have said: A Distraction. The man is only guilty of being an exhibitionist, being a little kinky. Who among us has never done a single thing that might raise a neighbor’s eyebrow? In the meantime, Senator David Vitter gets away with bribing his sex scandal into silence with $96,000 and illegal lobbying jobs. In the meantime, Senator John Ensign admits to using the services of prostitutes. And in the meantime, Kyra Phillips would rather call these anonymous, innocent women WHORES on her program, compounding this terrible distraction and committing a grave crime against her own sex.

Not long after her program, or perhaps still within it, a story ran about Tracy Morgan, and how he is going to return to Nashville to apologize for his harmful words against the LGBTQ community. What, if anything, will Phillips do to “make right” her truly horrible actions and words against all women this morning? Here’s a hint: an apology would not be enough. This woman honestly needs to take time off of her job to get educated on what is and isn’t acceptable to say about women. Nothing else can prevent future errors, which obviously stem from some much greater problem, a negative and disparaging attitude toward females. There are those who would argue sexism is dead in today’s society: I would encourage those people to only watch five minutes of Phillips to see that it is sadly alive and well and even perpetuated by its victims.

day 19 pome 17 arkansassy

This pome isn't late I swear. I wrote it on Day 19 at 10:30 PM. I ended up at this open mic and I wanted to read one I wrote earlier in the month but I don't has 'em saved to my computer, just here on the interweb. And I couldn't get access to the interwebs. So, I figured, let's go ahead and conjure up something for Day 19. And I did. But I was still 2 hours away from home then, and we weren't yet close to leaving, and I was tired when I got in and busy today so I'm not uploading it til now BUT... I swear I wrote it on day 19. After that mid-month slack-off I'm trying to stay on top of things. I know I still have some catching up to do. We'll see if I pull it off. Anyway, here you are:



I have no idea how to leave this place,
this green green place, this cool verdance,
this lush humidity, this mountainous state,
this flatland state. The only reason
I wasn't born in Arkansas is because my yankee mother,
in labor in West Memphis demanded my father
drive her to Tennessee to pop me out. Like, really?
As if Tennessee is any less country. And yes,
y'all, we're country. Yes, the struggle of the
queers, the women, the people of color in the south
idn't nuthin no Yankee could ever imagine, but folks
will look you in the eye and give you a nod
on the street. And that has to mean something.
People bitch about this humidity but I
swim in it. I mean, I breathe it, I love the days,
the July days in which you find yourself
marinating in your own sweat, I love it, but then,
I've always loved a challenge, aka opportunity,
which is why perhaps as a queer feminist anti-
racist this place may just have been made
for me. How can I leave the land of my father,
my beloved father, the man I have to thank
for teaching me respect, confidence, self-worth, and how not
to get treated like shit by my partner, the land
of his father, the land of Lake Ouachita,
of Mulberry River, Buffalo River, the land of the Ozarks,
this place is in
my blood, my breath, my skin, my eyes, and I
am moving to the desert but I hear
in Arizona some people think
it's alright to pass laws that permit pig harassment
based on how "foreign" you seem, did someone
say challenge?
I'm there. I hear
sometimes
it even rains.

11/30: Passive Murder

Easy Ways to Commit Murder
Without Even Trying!
-----------------------

When you think something is stupid,
or silly, undesirable, or otherwise
awful, say of it, laughing:
"That's so gay!"

And just like that, Justin Aaberg,
at 16, will decide he would rather
hang himself in his bedroom than
hear that phrase once more. His
mother will find him, and only then
will she find out he was gay.

Men, when you compliment your male friend,
before you even take a breath, follow
it up with: "No homo!"

Easy as pie, Billy Lucas, age 15, will hang
himself from the barn rafters. Asher Brown,
13, will shoot himself in the head. Cody
Barker, 17, an activist working to make
his school safer for kids like him will decide
it isn't working.

Call a boy who's sensitive a fag, whether
he is gay or straight. Call your friend
who pisses you off a fag, doesn't matter
who he fucks. If you yourself happen
to be gay, shrug it off, or laugh, when
people use this language. Don't get
angry, don't rise up, don't speak out.
Laughter is safe. Laughter keeps them
your friends.

Seth Walsh, 13, will try to hang himself,
but fail for 10 whole days, kept
on life support, until, in the end,
you kill him. Tyler Clementi, 18,
will put down his violin for good,
stroll out to the George Washington bridge
and leap over, finally free for at least
a few seconds. 21-year-old Jeanine
Blanchette and 17-year-old Chantal Dubé
will stroll out into a field in the woods,
swallow your words along with the pills,
and lie down together one last time.

Vote to take homes away from foster children
just so they won't end up fostered by
The Gays. Vote to take marriage away from
The Gays. Vote in any way you can against
The Gays. When a news story, television drama,
or commercial comes on with any reference to
the gays, change the channel. Don't question
your privilege or the ignorance it comes with,
don't cross dress, do not acknowledge your
sexual desires and curiosities, do not ever,
ever, ever challenge heteronormativity.

Raymond Chase, 19, Providence, Rhode Island,
Felix Sacco, 17, Saugus, Massachusetts,
Alec Henrikson, 18, Salt Lake City, Utah,
Brad Fuglei, 19, Omaha, Nebraska,
Marcus Wayman, 18, Minersville, Pennsylvania,
the list goes on as long as my heart's
astonished silence.

When you go to wash the blood from your hands,
I hear ammonia can stop it from staining.

True Story

Once upon a time, a princess went into the enchanted forest. She met many amazing creatures there. There was a bear who told funny jokes and a fox who could cook and build houses. There was a lion who laughed and loved cheese, a turtle who listened to music all day long, and a deer who could solve puzzles and riddles. The animals shared their homes with her and she was happy for some time. Then one afternoon as the princess and all her friends were sitting around a small fire, another new princess came into the forest. The first girl knew her from a past life when they had been in love but afraid and she was still afraid. She wanted to hug her long lost friend, to embrace her and kiss her face but she was too shy. The other animals took the new girl into their homes as well and little changed. One day the animals wandered off on an adventure and the two princesses were left together in a cave. The first girl turned to say something to her friend, but as she turned her head, her mouth landed upon her friends and in that instant they remembered everything. They remembered names and places and times they had been and they flew over mountains and sang without words. Their fingertips touched and came together and in a blast of light the two princesses were one queen and then they were a star flying into the heavens where they perched and twinkled with such joy that people all over the world smiled without knowing why. The animals came back to the cave and found all the walls and the ceiling and the floor scorched and covered with soot. They knew the girls had exploded into electric joy and they smiled and went on to tell stories about them.