10
Things that made me happy yesterday:
- W came over for dinner. We finished up the sweet potato agnolotti I made in February, when I was still living at my old apartment. I made the sage creme fraiche sauce with sage from my sage plant! Using fresh herbs that I’ve grown myself makes me happy — I feel more connected to the food somehow.
For dessert, I made shortbread, heated some blueberries, and served them with lemon pastry cream on the side. Throwing together plated desserts on a whim and with ease makes me happy, too — reading Demolition Desserts at the gym must be paying off!
Things that made me happy today:
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An upside down picture of a cow, hills, and cloud-studded sky, with the text, "We married fudge, ice cream & brownies. Don't worry, it's legal in Vermont."
A Ben & Jerry’s ad in the BART station. It’s cheeky and funny and the bright colors and rounded, bouncy graphics lift my mood. I’m not much for ice cream, (more interested in making it than in eating it) but if I were, the amusement factor would get me to buy B&J.
I miss the +1. If all goes well, I’ll sign a lease at a new apartment tomorrow and set a firm move in date close to the end of the month. For the time being, though, I feel like I’m in limbo, waiting to move, waiting for the +1 to come home. My days are full and my planner has something penciled into it every day from last Friday to next Sunday, and still, I miss him.
6-9
Things that made me happy on Friday:
- AP was in town! We went for happy hour drinks at Cigar Bar and then went to dinner at La Mei Zi. Sadly, I was dizzy and sick; threw up at the bar; bailed in the middle of dinner; and upon arriving home, promptly ran for the bathroom and threw up everything I’d eaten that day. I am nothing if not thorough. However, when AP came to pick up her stuff from my apartment, she brought me leftovers of the fish from dinner! That was sweet of her.
- Having the day off and sleeping in until 10:30 A.M.
Things that made me happy on Saturday:
- Saw an absolutely gorgeous apartment in the morning. It literally took my breath away when I walked in!
- Got a gallon-sized ziplock of blueberries at the farmers market for $10! Having spent May making a succession of rhubarb tarts, I wanted to branch out into other summer fruit baking:
PD: How many cartons would I need for a pie? [little cartons are $2/ea]
Blueberry Seller: 6-7
PD: O_o
Blueberry Seller: {hauls out gallon-size ziplock of blueberries} Or, this is $10! You could probably make two pies with it.
PD: I’ll take it!The ziplock was full of reject blueberries: the overripe, the underripe, the squashed, the bestemmed. I wouldn’t use them for a dessert in which their natural flavor is the star, but they’re fine for boiling with sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, and putting into a tart.
- Went to a barbecue with some old high school acquaintances. It was fun seeing them again and it was nice to know that I could hang out with people I didn’t know well without being awkward. We had views of fireworks all over the East Bay.
- The +1 called from Guatemala. I missed the call, but he left a message, and it was nice to hear his voice.
- Sibling came home from vacation. Picked him up from the airport (where ‘picked up’ means ‘BARTed to SFO’ and ‘cabbed home’), fed him, and heard all about his adventures in Germany.
Things that made me happy on Sunday:
- Sibling finished off the batch of dumplings I made in April. I was afraid they’d linger in my freezer forever! Now, I have room in the freezer for the chicken and beef stock I made this weekend.
- Made the lemon cream from the Tartine cookbook, and filled a blueberry tart with it.
- Went to another barbecue at Sahiya’s neighbors’ place, and had fun relaxing and hanging out with them. The white barbecues I’ve been to are very different from my parents’ barbecues, in terms of the food.
- Made basmati rice according to the recipe in Madhur Jaffrey’s book on Indian cooking, and it turned out well! It’s the first time I’ve made palatable basmati rice.
Things that made me happy today:
- After debating between two apartments for the entire weekend, I went to sign the lease on the first one I’d seen and liked, only to find out that I preferred the apartment I’d seen on Saturday. This is a happy item, though–I made up my mind to take the Saturday apartment, and I’m dropping off an application tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me! The place is simply gorgeous and literally took my breath away when I saw it. I can’t believe it’s still on the market, let alone for what the landlord’s asking for it.
- Woke up early this morning to cook lentils for lunch. They were tasty, if not mouth-wateringly delicious, and it’s enough to be going on with. I want to replicate the awesome lentil curry that Shalimar serves, which I would happily eat for lunch for a week straight.
Home-Made Beverages
For all y’all beer/liquor/home cooking/vintage cookbook enthusiasts out there, here’s a PDF of Home-Made Beverages, an anonymous book by A Practical Brewer, published in 1919. It has recipes for beer, cordial, liqueur, and many alcoholic liquids. The PDF I’ve uploaded is a scan of a copy of a faded booklet from 1919, so while it’s legible, it’s less than crisp and clear. Right-click, save as, and wait for it to finish downloading– the file is 137 MB.
4-5
Things that made me happy yesterday:
- I gave notice at my current abode. When I got off the phone with the roommate whose name is actually on the lease, I felt free and light, as if I could fly. For reasons why I am feeling this way, see here
- I saw an apartment that I liked a great deal and not 15 minutes after I’d filled out an application and left, the landlord called and said that I could have the place. Cue some dithering about whether I really did like the place, whether Alamo Square would be a better place to live than Nob Hill, how much not having laundry in the building really mattered, etc. But in the main, I was excited. The kitchen’s adorable, all my furniture can fit in the apartment comfortably (minus the bed frame, which I want to dispose of anyway)
- Walking from an open house in Hayes Valley to an open house in Alamo Square, I saw this sign:
- The wonders of modern technology: the +1 called me using the Skype app on his iTouch, which was picking up a wireless signal from the bus he was riding to the airport. When I answered the Skype call, I found out that my laptop had a built-in microphone, and basically talked at my laptop while lying in bed. I remember when AIM first integrated voice chat, back in 2000 or 2001: LN and I were chatting over AIM, my laptop was plugged into a 56k dial up connection, and LN had to stick an actual microphone into her computer. I didn’t have a mike with the right size jack for my laptop, so she talked and I IMed back. I didn’t have a cell phone back then, and the reception at my house was terrible, too. We’ve come a long way since then!
Things that made me happy today:
- Realizing that I’m moving and that I’m done with apartment hunting. And I only had to see six places, too. SCORE.
- The +1 is flying back to SF in a few weeks, and I’ve been thinking about taking the afternoon off from work to meet him at the airport. Speaking as someone who’s flown a lot; is rarely met at the airport; and is usually a little envious of the happy reunions between family and friends at the arrivals terminal, I thought it would be nice to say, “Welcome back,” at SFO instead of giving him my new address and telling him to ring the buzzer when he gets there. AP is revolted by such schmoopy sentimentality, so I upped the ante:
PD: so i was thinking when [the +1] gets into SFO
PD: i should bring flowers, right?
PD: bc that’s what people do when they meet their significant other after time apart, right?
AP: I’m going to stop talking to you now,
AP: As I am eating with sandy
AP: And you are making me puke
PD: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA - Sleeping for eight hours and feeling rested when I woke up this morning.
- I got a new kind of granola for my morning yogurt, and it’s crunchy, nutty, and subtly honey-sweet.
1-3
Things that made me happy on Sunday:
- The Pride parade: there were so many fantastic people in the parade, from new, local grassroots groups to more established organizations. Many of the local politicians were there, including my district supervisor, and I had fun seeing which politicians were marching with which groups (e.g. Mirkarimi, one of the most progressive members of the Board of Supervisors, had the Green Party in his entourage). I had a blast watching the floats and dancing on the sidewalk. Dykes on Bikes (and motorini) kicked ass.
- SH’s beaded necklace, which looks like Mardi Gras beads, but the beads are heart-shaped! WK’s beaded necklace, from the Chipotle Pride contingent, was red and had a shiny red chili pepper on it!
- Going to Baker Beach with SH and WK and napping in the sun without getting sunburned.
- When the +1 and I were talking about my search for a new apartment, he said, “i’m excited for loud sex.” A person after my own heart! Moreover, the sex we have is good: we delight in each other. It isn’t something that is done to me or that I do to him.
Things that made me happy yesterday:
- AP, who is broke, and I, who am struggling to balance finances, were arguing about going out for dinner when she visits next weekend.
AP: clubbing/drinking heavily on friday
PD: have fun!
AP: um with YOU dumbass
AP: shalimaaaaaaaaaar? la mei zi?????????
PD: $$$$$$$$$$$$?
AP: oh *blinks *
PD: HEY, YOU TOO! $$$!!!!
AP: :(
PD: what is this ‘i have credit card debt’ ‘let’s go out’?!
AP: dude this is one a month!
AP: FINE let’s fucking buy a bottle of vodka from costco and drink it at your house!That last line cracks me up every time I look at it. It’s a ridiculous picture–we’re not going to sit around getting trashed in my crappy apartment when she comes to SF–but at the same time, it’s sincere: we’ll have fun hanging out together, because what matters is spending time being ridiculous together, whether it’s eating stinky tofu and ChiCKEN wInGS in FLaMIng hOt OiL!! at la mei zi or eating Indian take out straight from the carton and drinking gin straight from the bottle in her half-packed apartment.
- Reading Home-Made Beverages, an anonymous book by A Practical Brewer, published in 1919. It has recipes for beer, cordial, liqueur, and many alcoholic liquids. I especially liked the step by step directions for brewing beer.
Things that made me happy today:
- Reading Elizabeth Falkner’s Demolition Desserts while running at the gym. Running at the gym is good because exercise helps my mood, sleeping patterns, and overall fitness. Reading DD is good because it stays open by itself on the treadmill and Falkner’s approach to desserts is intriguing. It’s a dessert cookbook that’s as well written as my favorite savory cookbooks, and that’s rare. Good savory cookbooks are easy to find but good dessert cookbooks are much thinner on the ground.
- Writing this post and smiling at the good times I’ve had in the past few days with my friends.
Bordelaise Sauce
I want to make it. It’s like coming home, the way going home never was. It’s like looking up at the sky in Piazza di San Callisto and realizing that I’m back home, back where I belong. I breathed in deeply and when I exhaled, it felt like I was shaking off all my stress and narrow bindings and finally, finally expanding to wholly fit in my skin. It’s comfort and freedom and finding out that Rome was only ever a plane flight away. It’s peace of mind. It’s complex tastes, hours of labor, and the soothing routine of mincing shallots. It’s narrowing my focus down to the edge of my blade, the familiar feel of the knife in my hand and the familiar sight of the cutting board I’ve had for years.
It’s a mouthful that widened my eyes at an inspiring, provocative meal. It’s a dance of delicate tastes that I wished would go on forever. The day it’s made, all the notes are clear and distinct but somehow create a sum greater than the parts. The day after, the flavors have melded into something less sparkling clear but smoother and more relaxed.
I want to roll up and cuddle in it like a blanket. I want to make it. I want to simmer red wine with shallots, carrots, mushrooms, parsley, thyme, garlic, and a bay leaf, then pour in veal stock and peppercorns and reduce it. I want to spoon it over a double-cut rib steak, seasoned, seared, basted, and roasted.
How can something I’ve had only four times and made only three be home? It’s unreasonable. And yet, the first mouthful was a revelation and a homecoming all at once. This is a world you never imagined. This is where you belong.
I have a profound desire to make bordelaise sauce. I have one container of veal stock left and had been planning to make the full on boeuf bordelaise meal for C, my +1, but I might not wait.
Gender and Chef-ing
The Astor Center recently held a panel discussion on the topic of “Gender Confusion: Unraveling the Myths of Gender in the Restaurant Kitchen.” The premise was this: two men and two women from the foodie world did a blind tasting of menus prepared by female and male chefs and mixologists and had to decide if the dishes were prepared by a woman or a man, with the goal of identifying whether or not men and women cook differently. In other words, is cooking style rooted in one’s gender? Y’all can probably guess what my answer is.
I wonder, does anyone ask if cooking style is biologically rooted in one’s ethnicity? On the one hand, insofar as ethnicity correlates to exposure to a specific culture and its culinary profile, the ethnicity that you’re born into is likely influence how you cook. It’s likely to affect what spices, flavors, and techniques you’re exposed to. The level of influence depends on many factors, though: where are you living? Are you an immigrant? What generation? Are you adopted by parents of a different ethnicity? Etc. That influence, however, is also affected by where and with whom you do your training. Take Marco Pierre White for example. Half-English, half-Italian, he was born, raised, and trained in England, and became one of the best French chefs of the ’90s. Julia Child was born and raised in the U.S., grew up eating “traditional New England food” (Wikipedia), took classes at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, and along with Simone Beck and Louise Bertholle, did much to popularize French cuisine in the U.S. I think that most people would conclude that if there is a connection between cooking style and ethnicity, it’s one of influence rather than biological determinism, and it’s a potential connection rather than one set in stone.
Now, leaving aside the larger issues of sexism in the glorification and elevation of TV/restaurant/celebrity cooking; in restaurant kitchens; in society at large and how that shapes notions of what is considered feminine or masculine, I found the idea of gender determining cooking style amusing and interesting on a personal level. Personally, my cooking style is a mishmash, all over the map in terms of ethnic influences and stereotypically masculine or feminine techniques, colors, and flavors. I know very little of the Korean food I grew up with; don’t care much for American cuisine; and found my home in Roman and Cal-French cooking. My particular style stretches across the spectrum from lackadaisical and simple to complicated and perfectionist. I’ve been vegetarian and omnivorous, can cook both ways, and like the challenge of cooking to accommodate dietary restrictions. Some of my cooking preferences line up according to gender stereotypes and some don’t, but those are due to my idiosyncrasies rather than my gender. E.g., I don’t like cooking with beef. Dislike of red meat: stereotypically feminine. However, my taste probably stems from eating too much overcooked beef as a child, and were it not for that experience, perhaps I would love cooking beef. After all, my current favorite dish to cook and eat is boeuf bordelaise, with mushroom duxelles and pommes Anna. Complicated, showy, technique-driven, and perfectionist: stereotypically masculine. The reason for liking The French Laundry Cookbook’s boeuf bordelaise preparation, however, is because the complexity of it suits my neurotic nature.
Ed Levine was one of the tasters in the panel and wrote up his thoughts on it here. He shares some of the panel’s preconceptions about gender:
- Women chefs use spices more subtly than men
- Male chefs love to make use of lots of toys in their cooking (look out, Grant Achatz)
- Female chefs cook to nurture and feed people’s souls, while male chefs cook to compete and impress
- Women chefs are more likely to cook soulful “grandmere-style” food than their male counterparts, who are much more likely to be into dazzling, technique-driven cooking
- Male chefs like to cook red meat; women chefs are much more likely to cook pink food and use edible flowers
- Women chefs are more precise. They follow instructions more carefully than men do
- Women chefs’ food is more subtle and sophisticated, while their male counterparts cook gutsier, deep-flavored, testosterone-driven food
- Women chefs cook with their hearts and souls, while male chefs cook with their head and their private parts
As I was reading the list of preconceptions, my thoughts were mostly incoherent sputtering and “But what about Celebrity Chef X? Or Celebrity Chef Y? There are so many bloody counterexamples!” So, here are my thoughts on those preconceptions:
- Women chefs use spices more subtly than men
Really? I seem to recall my mom making a stir fry that was so heavy on garlic and chili pepper that my dad started coughing when he stuck his head in the kitchen and got a whiff of the air. - Male chefs love to make use of lots of toys in their cooking (look out, Grant Achatz)
Well, I’ll cop to disliking toys in my kitchen, but that’s due to disliking kitchen clutter. As far as molecular gastronomy, which is what the ‘toys’ and ‘Grant Achatz’ comments are referring to, goes, it seems likely to me that there are fewer female than male molecular gastronomists because molecular gastronomy is esoteric to begin with, and so female chefs have even fewer opportunities to be exposed to molecular gastronomy than to non-molecular gastronomy cooking. Furthermore, it also goes back to the restaurant industry being largely male-dominated and sexist. Achatz was exposed to molecular gastronomy when Keller, chef-proprietor of The French Laundry, arranged a trip to El Bulli, famed center for molecular gastronomy, for his then-sous chef. How many female sous chefs were there in TFL’s kitchen at the time (or now) to have a chance at that kind of opportunity? - Female chefs cook to nurture and feed people’s souls, while male chefs cook to compete and impress
After hearing Zuni Cafe’s Judy Rodgers give a talk, I’m fairly certain that most female chefs, like most male chefs, cook to meet the bottom line and keep the doors open at their restaurants. And what of celebrity TV chefs such as Cat Cora, who go into flashy, competition-style TV cooking where the cooking is to compete with other chefs and to impress judges, rather than to nurture restaurant goers? It’s worth noting that unlike the other, male American Iron Chefs, Cora did not have a restaurant prior to being on the show. I.e., the lone woman on the American Iron Chef went straight from the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) to a competitive TV cooking show where only a panel of judges tastes her food, and tastes it for critique, without stopping by a restaurant to “nurture and feed people’s souls” on the way. - Women chefs are more likely to cook soulful “grandmere-style” food than their male counterparts, who are much more likely to be into dazzling, technique-driven cooking
You know, it’s hard to evaluate this claim and think of professional counterexamples, because there are comparatively female restaurant chefs, and of the ones in the Bay Area, most of them operate restaurants that are beyond my budget. I’d suggest that the disparity in numbers between male and female restaurant chefs is the result of pervasive sexism and with so few samples, it’s hard to weigh these claims.Oh, wait, thought of one! Elizabeth Falkner at Citizen Cake makes desserts that definitely fall into the “dazzling, technique-driven” category. Her plated desserts look like modern art (and although delicious, are about as filling), and in Demolition Desserts, she lays out the step by step process of thinking, deconstructing, and experimenting that takes her from a chocolate chip cookie to this chocolate dessert (from the Kara’s Cupcakes post), which, given the Citizen Cake style, is likely some kind of meta dessert that playfully deconstructs the essence of chocolate and childhood nostalgia.
- Male chefs like to cook red meat; women chefs are much more likely to cook pink food and use edible flowers
Uh, yeah, tell that to Masa, who rarely serves red meat (does Masa serve any land animals?), and to Cindy Pawlcyn of Mustards Grill. Cafe Gratitude, which serves raw food (no meat there!), is run by a male and female couple. As far as edible flowers go, the only times I’ve had them have been at Oishii, a sushi restaurant in Boston, where the male sushi chefs put flowers on the nigiri. - Women chefs are more precise. They follow instructions more carefully than men do
Tell that to molecular gastronomists, who are mostly male and whose craft depends on subtlety, precision and carefully following instructions. See, also, Thomas Keller and The French Laundry Cookbook, which is all about the pursuit of perfection and carefully following the exacting instructions laid out in the book. See, also, CIA Certified Master Chef exam (described in detail in Michael Ruhlman’s Soul of a Chef), which has been passed almost entirely by men and which is judged by the participants’ ability to meet exacting criteria in their menu composition, cooking technique, plating, and presentation. Brian Polcyn of Five Lakes Grill was marked down by the male examiners during his CMC exam because when he sliced his duck terrine for plating, the slices were ever so slightly uneven. - Women chefs’ food is more subtle and sophisticated, while their male counterparts cook gutsier, deep-flavored, testosterone-driven food
See immediately above. - Women chefs cook with their hearts and souls, while male chefs cook with their head and their private parts
Is this question different from the “soulful grandmere vs. dazzling technique” question? Not substantially.
Gwen Hyman, who was also on the tasting panel at the Astor Center event, writes (emphases mine)
3. I do not think that women are inherently more “precise” cooks, or “better” cooks, or more “careful” cooks–as some folks said the other night. I think, in fact, that women who are more “precise” etc in the kitchen are probably just–you know–doing that thing women do? where they work three times harder than men? just to hold onto their place on the line? because of all those people who think women aren’t naturally suited to the kitchen?
4. I think that kitchens are still, by and large (though not always), tradition-bound, chest-pounding places that, like high school football teams, are veeeeeeery slow to accept women–and the reasons that there are so few prominent female chefs have very little to do with estrogen and arm muscles, and a whole lot to do with tradition, mentorship, access to funding, differences in education and attitude towards girls–in other words, culture.
… Women still face pretty serious barriers to making it in the kitchen, for lots of reasons–the lingering perception that women are somehow too weak for the kitchen; the paucity of female mentors and role models (this is changing, slowly); inequities and differences in how girls and boys are educated about their choices and interests; differences in access to funding for restaurants; that thing (perhaps you’ve heard of this?) where women are expected not only to do all the work of bearing children but also to do most of the work of raising them, (otherwise they are “bad mothers”)…I could go on. …
As I said the other night, even if you *do* believe in essential differences between men’s cooking and women’s cooking, you can’t actually measure it yet. Until half the important restaurants in the country are run by women–until half the chefs who mentor others, half the culinary instructors, half the professionals are women–until the term “woman chef” seems, in other words, as unnecessary and self-evident and silly as “man chef”–how can anyone judge?
Denver bound!
I’m going to be in Denver on a minibreak from Friday to Monday! If you’re in the area and would like to meet up for coffee or a drink or show off your favorite Denver haunts, please drop a comment here or email me at pizzadiavola at gmail. I’ve never been to Denver and am very excited!
Marriage Equality…
…pass it on. To echo Keori, the terrifying face of marriage equality: John Lewis and Stuart Gaffney (the link is to a PDF of their plaintiff statement in Woo v. Lockyer).

SF PRIDE banner in a MUNI station (the ad is also up on bus stops all over SF). Gee, the happiness and love on their faces is just terrifying, innit?
“Gay!”
I accidentally tapped a girl in the head with my book today while I was on the bus. As is typical of the 14, the bus was jam packed, standing room was at a premium, and people were falling over in the aisle and grabbing at hand rails while the bus lurched down Mission and the driver yelled, “Move to the back! Move to the back!” In the midst of it all, a querulous voice said, “You hit me in the head.”
I looked over and saw a black pre-teen, saw that my paperback was slipping ever so slightly from the hand that I was using to clutch a hand rail, and said, “I’m sorry.” And that’s the end of it. One of your run of the mill encounters on public transit, where the seething masses of humanity bump into each other, apologize, and move on.
As it turned out, the girl, another girl, her father, and I were all getting off at the same stop. As Girl #1 and her father stepped out, Girl #2 paused in the step well, looked at me, said, “Gay,” and stepped out.
I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly in the midst of all the noise–”Move to the back! Move to the back!”–and got off the bus and started walking to a coffee shop, in the opposite direction from Girl #1, Girl #2, and their adult. Not more than two steps away, I heard it again.
“GAY!”
Oh, hell no. I turned around, saw Girl #2 staring at me, walked up to her, and said, “Excuse me, what did you say?”
Girl #2 looked at me, looked away, and said, “I didn’t say nothing.”
PD: No, I heard you call me “gay.” Using that as a homophobic insult is unacceptable.
Girl #2: I told you, I didn’t say nothing!
At this point, Girl #1’s father, who is a good half a foot taller than me and probably 75 lbs. heavier than me, comes over, plants himself right in my face, and says, “Get out of her face! She’s my niece! You don’t talk to my niece like that!”
I figure he’s obviously hoping to intimidate me with his size and masculinity, and react accordingly.
PD: Excuse me, your niece called me gay. It’s completely inappropriate for her to throw around homophobic insults.
Father: DON’T YOU GET IN MY NIECE’S FACE! SHE’S MY NIECE! WHAT’D SHE DO TO YOU?
PD: I understand that she’s your niece, and her behavior is unacceptable.
Father: I DON’T CARE, YOU DON’T TALK TO HER LIKE THAT, YOU DON’T GET IN HER FACE!
PD: I wasn’t in her face, I asked her what she said, and I would appreciate it if–
Father: SHE’S JUST A LITTLE GIRL, GET OUT OF HER FACE!
PD: –you would get out of my face.
Girl #1 dances around her father and shouts, “She wasn’t talking about you!” Girl #2 smirks, making Girl #1’s claim dubious.
PD: I want your niece to apologize.
Father: GET OUT OF MY DAUGHTER’S FACE!
PD: I wasn’t talking to your daughter, I was talking to you.
Father: GET OUT OF MY DAUGHTER’S FACE, I DON’T CARE, SHE’S JUST A LITTLE GIRL.
PD: I don’t care how old your niece is, it’s completely inappropriate for her to go around calling people gay as if it’s an insult.
Father: HOW OLD ARE YOU? HOW OLD ARE YOU? SHE’S JUST A GIRL, YOU DON’T GO NEAR HER!
PD: I wasn’t near your daughter–
Father: YOU WERE IN HER FACE!
PD: How can I get in her face if she dodges around you to yell in my face while I’m talking with you?
Father: I DON’T CARE, YOU WERE IN HER FACE, I DON’T CARE I DON’T CARE.
At this point, I’m almost losing it because the scene is so surreal: two preteens who are by no means little girls, dancing around their father/uncle and smirking; a man visibly trying to intimidate me with his size and volume and utterly failing, even as he leans in closer and closer, trying to loom; the repeated cries of “DON’T YOU GET IN HER FACE!” while he’s most definitely in my face. All I can think is, “Do as I say, not as I do!” while trying not to break out in laughter.
Father: HOW OLD ARE YOU? HOW OLD ARE YOU? MY NIECE IS JUST A LITTLE GIRL.
PD: How old are you? I don’t care how old she is, trying to insult someone by calling them gay is homophobic and inappropriate at any age and your niece needs to learn that.
Father: I DON’T CARE. I THINK YOU SHOULD LEAVE.
PD: I think your niece should apologize and I think you should get out of my face.
The father leans in closer so that I’m practically looking straight up at him, and leans and leans and leans. It’s ridiculous. There’s a pregnant silence, where he looms, I refuse to step back or back down, and he tries to loom some more. The moment drags on and on because there’s nowhere for this tension to go: he and his niece aren’t going to apologize and I’m not going to run away crying. As we stare at each other, we both fail at our prescribed gender roles: he’s failed to intimidate me and I’ve failed to be intimidated. The father says, “Whatever,” and walks away, Girl #1 and Girl #2 in tow. As I turn and walk away, he calls out over his shoulder, “Go back to China!”
Oh, dear. At that point, my temper explodes and I turn around and yell at him, “RACIST BASTARD!” Then I rifle through my mental file of insults, thinking that using bastard as an insult is inappropriate, because there’s nothing wrong with bastardy. A couple minutes later, the ridiculousness of the whole scene strikes me:
- It’s bizarre to call someone gay as an insult, because, well, so what? It has never made any sense to me as an insult because sexual orientation has no moral value or lack thereof. I’m queer and if pointing it out is supposed to make me feel ashamed of it, that is illogical and stupid. When used as an insult, gay is a catch all phrase for everything from “doesn’t adhere to stereotypical gender roles” to “gross” and the conflation just doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t understand the homophobic mindset.
- In a heterosexist society, everyone is assumed to be straight, except when it comes to insults. So does this mean that Girl #2 and other homophobes think that the people they yell at are actually gay, in which case the insult is even more nonsensical (”Yeah, I’m gay. And the sky is blue. Is that an insult to the sky?”), or do they think that the people they yell at are straight and will feel insulted at being called gay? The latter also relies on the assumption that being gay is bad and so a straight person would feel bad at being called gay, which takes us straight back to point #1.
- There is something distinctly ludicrous about being called gay while feeling too sore to walk due to some acrobatic sex with my boyfriend last night. I’m queer but currently in a relationship with a straight man–how does this fit into a homophobic paradigm? Am I supposed to feel insulted at being called gay? I DON’T KNOW!!!!!!!
- The spectacle of the father standing with his face not half a foot away from mine, screaming at the top of his lungs not to get in his niece’s or daughter’s face while his daughter dodges around him to yell at me: oh, the irony. As I texted to a friend, “Easy to see where the kids got their manners.”
“Go back to China.” It’s not a new insult to me, but it’s frustrating nonetheless. It’s racist because it assumes that I don’t belong here by virtue of my ethnicity; it incorrectly assumes what ethnicity I am; and it tries to reduce me to that erroneous assumption. Couldn’t he think of a less tired insult?
-sigh- I texted my sibling afterward, saying, “while on the way to coffee, was called gay&told to go back to china. As far as insult accuracy goes i guess 1 out of 2’s not bad? Its a failing grade@school Lol” That about sums it all up.
Prop. 8 Case
[I wrote most of this on Wednesday and hadn't finished it by the time the Court announced that it would be ruling on Prop. 8 on Tuesday, May 26 (PDF).]
So, head down in cooking, dance class, going out, and figuring out things with the +1, I’ve mostly put thoughts of Prop. 8 out of my head. The CA Supreme Court began hearing oral arguments back in March and had 90 days from that date to issue their ruling. Since all the protests last fall and winter, I’ve dropped out of the local activist scene entirely. When the oral hearings began, I marked down the 90th day out in my planner and then avoided thinking about it.

June 4: dinner for three at Maverick. June 5: Court ruling? Schubert's Great at the SF Symphony
June was tucked safely away behind many, many pages in my planner, but now, it’s nearly here. The Court normally publishes opinions on Mondays and Thursdays, with announcements of forthcoming opinion filings going up the Friday or Wednesday before. Next Monday is Memorial Day and so any opinion that would have been published on Monday will be published on Tuesday, with an announcement going up on the website on Friday. According to Day of Decision, the Court will rule by June 3, which leaves three possible dates for the ruling: Tuesday (5/26), Thursday (5/28), and Tuesday (6/2). God, we’re so close.
This decision will be a ruling once more on our humanity, on our dignity and our worth as equal human beings. Yes, the ruling is about marriage rights, but it’s apparent from looking at the ads and rhetoric of the anti-marriage equality side that the issue at hand is much broader. Are GLBTQI people indeed people, or are we monsters? By virtue of our nature, do we deserve to be shoved into the closet and hidden away so that we don’t corrupt the minds of (assumed to be straight) little children with our existence? Are our lives political footballs to be punted around for points until the election’s over and we’re told to just wait a little longer, our expectations are unreasonable and our demands unimportant?
I’m not married and never plan to be unless it’s fully legal everywhere in the country. At the moment, I’m going out with a straight man. And still, this ruling matters to me, because it’s a judgment on my very worth and dignity as a human being. I know that eventually, Prop. 8 will be repealed, if not in the next two weeks then in the next decade or so. That is cold comfort, though, and the legal justifications for upholding Prop. 8 are equally cold comfort. No matter how much I cherish rationality, logic, and the rule of law over emotions, there comes a time when the law is wrong and people of principle must not acquiesce to it.
I love this city and I love this state, but if the government decides once again that I do not have the rights to equality that are inherent to me by virtue of my humanity, if it decides once again to codify my second-class status into law, not content to leave it unspoken, assumed, and societally enforced, what place will there be for me here?
Yesterday was the thirtieth anniversary of the White Night Riots (h/t Faith). This summer will see the fortieth anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. Activism and change are not always peaceful, are not always conducted within the stately halls of the legislature by calm, soft-spoken people who are expected to sigh, shrug philosophically, and accept it when their humanity is decried and they are accused of being perverts, child molesters, unnatural, disgusting, sick, sinners, and abominations that will destroy society. Homophobes unleash hatred and vitriol and attack GLBTQI people and batter and kill them. And yet, it is we who are admonished not to raise a fuss, not to defend ourselves, not to overreact, not to say a word about our lived experience of homophobia.
But how can you overreact to the persistent harassment and persecution? The admonishments to behave lest there be a backlash and the demands to go quietly into the good night, those are demands to keep heterosexism in place. Those are demands to not disturb the status quo and not disturb the illusion that things are OK and that queers will get our rights some day, if we only wait long enough and quietly enough, closeted enough. Those are demands to not make people uncomfortable with the fact that homophobia is a constant, active presence for most people who aren’t straight. Those are demands to hide our dead and our wounded.
Every time I go home to my parents’ house and see their old church friends, I get asked if I have a boyfriend. They assume I’m straight. They all voted yes on Prop. 8. I want to tell them that no, I don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, and thus challenge their default assumption of straightness by making it clear that loving a girlfriend is an option for me. I have to weigh that against my parents’ reaction, though, because if I so much as mention Prop. 8, homophobia, queer rights, or anything queer-related, let alone suggest that I’m not straight, my mother will pitch a screaming fit. She’ll ask me why I have to be so “outspoken,” why I have to talk about “those people,” why I can’t just “get along,” why I have to make everything “political,” why I can’t just be “quiet.” She’ll sulk the rest of the weekend and potentially for weeks afterward. She’ll never acknowledge that by demanding that I not disturb the social peace, she’s demanding that I lie about myself and hide. She’ll never acknowledge that she’s flaunting her heterosexuality every time she goes somewhere with her husband, calls him “honey,” and invites people over to the home that they’ve made together, where there are pictures of our smiling family all around the house: female parent, male parent, and two kids. She’ll say that her old friends have “the right to have their own opinions,” not realizing or not caring that those opinions are hatred for her daughter. Sure, our family friends think queers are sick and perverted sinners, but in my mom’s mind, saving face and preserving the gay atmosphere of a dinner party is more important than how I feel about breaking bread and quietly sitting at a table with people that say that people like me are subhuman, enjoined to say nothing in my own defense. The church friends don’t know they’re talking about me when they say that gay couples will destroy marriage, but I’m not allowed to tell them they are talking about me. I’m out of the closet everywhere but at my parents’ house, even though I’ve come out to my immediate family. For the sake of the fragile peace with my mother, I’m a hypocrite.
I believe in the importance of being out and used to speak about it as the most important component of changing the hearts and minds of Prop. 8 supporters. They assumed they didn’t know anyone who was queer and so they voted for Prop. 8. If they knew that their daughters, parents, children, friends, colleagues, and neighbors were queer, that would do more to change their minds about GLBTQI equality than anything else. That is what I said. For the sake of family, though, I’m not living what I believe: I’m out to my friends, out to my family, and have no problem talking with homophobes, but the stress of parental relationships makes me a hypocrite at heart. I’d rather keep the peace with my mother than live according to my principles and correct their friends when they assume I’m straight or go on about Prop. 8. I dread going to my parents’ house if I know that their church friends will be around. And it’s all my fault, of course, for having the temerity to think that I deserve equal rights and for thinking that I should be unashamed of who I am, rather than hiding in the closet.
I think P#1 knows I’m queer, given that I’ve mentioned working with Marriage Equality and local activists on Prop. 8 protests. There are also pictures of me wearing an “IN love with my girlfriend” t-shirt floating around on Facebook. If I were in his shoes, I would assume queerness, but I tend not to assume that someone’s straight unless ze explicitly says as much. Whatever way the ruling goes, it’ll open up a chance for conversation–either way, I’ll call him up for drinks, whether it’s, “CELEBRATORY DRINKS W00T!!” or, “I need to cry on someone’s shoulder.” I hope he understands.
The mess that is my mother’s uncomfortable relationship with my non-straight sexual orientation is a major part of why I haven’t told them about P#1 and don’t plan to either, in the foreseeable future. My mother would be relieved that I’m seeing a straight man and would assume that it’d mean that GLBTQI rights don’t matter to me anymore and would assume that it makes me not-queer enough to not care about GLBTQI equality. As much as she yells at me now for so much as mentioning Prop. 8 in casual conversation with family friends, it would be even worse if I told her about P#1, because she’d think that, since I’m seeing a man, Prop. 8 and homophobia have no relevance to my life.
I can’t deal with this. The Court is ruling on Tuesday.
I’m still bitter that when I organized a protest against Prop. 8, not only did my mother try to convince me that I shouldn’t and couldn’t do it, neither of my parents bothered to show up or even wish me good luck. I think that that action, right there, said everything I needed to know about how they feel about me, despite all my mother’s pretty words about how it’s okay that I’m queer. When I came out to her and my father, she said that, and then she yelled at me because she thought I was having a hard time with the conversation–”Is it so hard to talk to us about this? Are you so scared?” Yes, mother, I was scared, because your words say one thing and your actions say something completely different. You lie.
If I can’t feel safe and comfortable in my own skin with my parents, what else is left? We’ve never been close, but I guess I just need to get used to having this icy patch between us: we’ll skirt around it but never broach the topic directly, because it just won’t be productive.
A Shard of Happiness
Something to hold onto and look at during the bad times.
I’m still excited to see P#1 and to get to know him better, and I still get the butterflies in my stomach that come from worrying that he’s going to come to his senses and run away screaming. It’s different, however, from the bursts of happiness that I felt in the first few weeks, when the uncertainty and nervousness were much more intense, and thus, also, the happiness and thrilled excitement. The happiness that I feel now might be of a different variety, or it might be that I’m becoming used to being happy, which is thrilling in its own right. Happiness doesn’t come naturally to me and isn’t my default state; I had to learn to be happy and learn to relax and learn to enjoy myself. It’s been years since I first learned that it was okay to be happy and laugh and enjoy life, and it’s still a work in progress. One thing I’ve learned is that it takes effort. Another thing I’ve learned is that there are triggers for happiness as much as there are triggers for unhappiness. There are things that will put me in a frame of mind where it’s easier and and I’ll be likelier to be happy, such as sleeping regularly and sufficiently and working out. There are things that will directly make me happy, such as Di Stefano and Callas singing “Non sono in vena,” or Alagna singing “Una Furtiva Lagrima,” or making and tasting Bordelaise sauce.
Memories of people have their own category in things that make me happy. Shared jokes, time spent laughing and singing, thoughtful moments, wild dreams, etc. My happy memories tend to fade along with all the other memories, even if I want to hold onto them forever as talismans against unhappiness. So, here’s one set down to remember. Wherever this thing with P#1 goes, however it ends, I hope I can keep this in my head for the joy and uncomplicated happiness I felt.
Apr. 16, 2009: met P#1 briefly for drinks – first encounter since hooking up.
PD: lalalalalala
S: :-D
PD: i’m happy. not just like not-unhappy, but happy in an uncomplicated sort of way
S: yepyep :-)
PD: it’s the same kind of happy i felt about the french laundry. excited and good and nice [I was so thrilled by dinner at the French Laundry…I’d forgotten that, until now.]
S: :-)
S: im listening to stray italian greyhound now
S: lol now it reminds me of you
S: hmm its so funny to think u were bored
S: ive always considered ur life to be relatively dramatic
PD: my life? i am plain like vanilla
S: well for a good portion of last year was all the drama about L
PD: oh true, but that’s regular drama. i mean, ppl have drama and crap…it’s not extraordinary
S: all drama is drama. it makes for not a boring life
PD: hmm you’re right. i was about to say, that drama wasn’t monumental and earthshaking
S: umm sure in retrospect
PD: but then again, going for drinks with a cute boy a few days after hooking up and finding out that i don’t regret it–that’s not monumental and earthshaking, either, but suddenly i’m not bored
PD: so maybe it’s about happiness?
S: :-)
PD: -twirls-
S: lol
PD: i’m so happy. i like this feeling
S: ur so funny
PD: :P :)
S: emotionally exuberant
PD: yup i’m just…happy!
S: yes, i know
PD: it feels sorta novel?
This conversation came to mind because P#1 and I are talking music, and he also likes “Stray Italian Greyhound.” I haven’t ever done the talking music tastes and listening to music with people or exchanging mixes thing aside from classical with Laurence and Bob and, for a brief while, indie/experimental with A-squared. I read a book last weekend that repeatedly said that music is particularly important as a means of defining personal identity and that it tends to be more so among young people. I’ve always been more hung up on books than on music in that regard, but a large part of that might be due to not having any music in common with most of the people I meet. This experience of discussing musical tastes is intriguing.
Blogging Against Disabilism Day Links
Linking to BADD and general disabilism posts I find interesting.
The Hand Mirror: Lose the language. Now.: On using “lame” or “spaz” and other ablist language. YES, THIS. This:
‘ableist’ language. That is, language that uses disabilities to disparage something. Very, very simple stuff, like saying that something is lame, or that someone had a bit of a spas / spaz.
Just.Don’t.Do.It.
Here’s why. (This is very much Disabilism 101 – old, old news to people who work with these issues all the time, but evidently, not much known elsewhere.)
You can say that x is bad just by saying, “X is bad.” But another way to say it is to compare x to something (which is also perceived is bad). So, “X is lame” carries that same connotation i.e that “X is bad.” The two statements are equivalent. And from there, it’s just a short step to: “Lame is bad. You are lame. You are bad bad bad.”
For the love of god, people: STOP CALLING THINGS LAME WHEN YOU MEAN THAT THEY’RE BAD, STUPID, FAULTY, BROKEN, NOT WORKING PROPERLY. STOP. IT.
Metal Sunflower: Opening My (Shortsighted) Eyes: On opening her eyes and noticing things.
I’ve started to see things. Things like the way that you might find a supposedly progressive space, where perhaps one or two of the toilet door signs have the braille equivalent underneath, but there’s no way of knowing how to find them, because there are no braille signposts. … Things like big public events. I’ve been temping, and one of the places I was temping at was a horse race. All of the seating was up a hill, up stairs and almost completely inacessable for anybody with mobility issues. … Things like public transport, too – things I’d seen but not really registered. There are lifts now at most big stations that I’ve been through. There are announcements on some London busses, informing everybody where the next stop is, and what route the bus is on. But it’s still not really geared up for people who aren’t able-bodied.
Womanist Musings: Fibromyalgia: The Invisible Pain: Renee on living with an invisible disability and chronic illnesses.
Please just stop and think before you speak. Moving from able bodied to disabled is a life changing experience and each person needs a different kind of support. Trying to pretend that nothing has changed is insulting. Yes these chronic illnesses are invisible to the naked eye but they are felt in every fibre of my being. Respecting me means respecting my illnesses; they are a part of me just like the the hair on my head. If I have to ask for help, recognize that it is a concession of my own will and I don’t need to be shamed for asking. There will always be a time for laughter and smiles but sometimes know they exist to hide the pain I live with that you have difficulty dealing with.
Bipolar Girl: Disability and Class: With the links between disability and health care, disability is inextricably linked to class issues:
There have certainly been ups and downs and will continue to be, but overall, I’m ok. I graduated with honors, went on to law school, and now am a successful lawyer. I honestly and wholeheartedly believe that without my parents and their money, their willingness to argue with the authorities of a university, their comfort with the legal system and ability to use it successfully – I would be dead. All in all, I had seven suicide attempts, not even counting the extremely dangerous behavior I exhibited while manic. But instead of trying again until I got it right, I had the opportunity to get my treatment right.
I believe that being born into a family with socioeconomic privilege made the difference between my success and my death.
BADD: Blogging Against Disablism Day
Today is Blogging Against Disablism Day (BADD). Check out Diary of a Goldfish for links to many, many interesting posts. Over at Shakesville, Liss wrote “BADD: Out of My Closet,” a thought-provoking piece on living with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from sexual violence.
This, Shakers, is disablism in a nutshell: I’d rather call myself “fucked up” than disabled. And I’ve been doing exactly that for most of my life.
I have post-traumatic stress disorder as the result of a series of sexual assaults which began when I was 16, committed across several years by someone who started out as my boyfriend.
It is disabling. It’s it a disability. I am disabled.
SKM wrote “Domestic Work is Real Work,” a post on how living with a disability, feminism, and labor intersect:
Now that I live with chronic illness, I can feel the cost of domestic labor; it’s taken out of my hide, as my grandmother would have put it. I studied my spoon theory (PDF) first-hand. I should be way ahead of those whose understanding is limited by chronic wellness. But sometimes I still find myself surrounded by homemade food and freshly washed clothes and lamenting, “I haven’t done anything today!”
In addition to being BADD, today is also International Workers’ Day. It is fitting, therefore, to think not only about the work we do, but also about who gets the privilege of being counted as a worker and why. …
The work we do to support the wellbeing of ourselves, our families, and our dwellings is real work. Asserting that truth is not only a feminist act, but an anti-disablist one as well. It is an ongoing struggle for me; one which I don’t have the privilege of ignoring.
I first ran across Christine Miserandino’s The Spoon Theory (PDF) in 2004 and found it extremely educational, as an able-bodied person that had spent most of her life without even considering the existence of spoons. amandaw’s post “What Can I Do?” was similarly eye-opening and made me think about how my able-bodied privilege isn’t an abstract concept. It doesn’t exist only when I’m consciously aware of it or run into, say, broken escalators and out of service elevators at BART stations and think, “I can still make it in, but what about someone with mobility issues?” It exists every day and takes up space every single day. I wrote a post on this topic at my other blog, “Taking the Stairs“:
Elevator closures and station infrastructure as a whole are an example of ableism working at a high level. It’s not something that I or any one individual can fix. However, it’s a result and a reflection of a society full of many people who don’t think about ableism, disability, and making things handicapped-accessible. As with any society-wide prejudice, it’s the responsibility of everyone in the dominant group, even if you or I don’t think that we’re actively the cause of it, because society is built to accommodate the desires and needs of the dominant group, which in this case is able-bodied people. And so ending prejudice and able-bodied privilege requires work both in the individual and group levels.
I take the stairs. It’s not about whether it’s faster (sometimes) or easier (never) for me than the escalator, it’s about thinking and being mindful that although the escalator is convenient for me, it’s not necessary. It might be necessary for someone else, and by joining the clogged-up line, I contribute to that clog and make their day, their participation in society, that much harder when it doesn’t need to be.
Taking the stairs isn’t just about taking the stairs and thinking that’s enough; taking the stairs is about examining the idea behind taking the stairs and applying it to everything else. It’s about noticing what’s ableist and what is and isn’t accessible and working to change that rather than ignoring it or accepting it as the way things are.
That post deals specifically with the problems with the accessibility of public transit in SF and with the need to be mindful that people can have invisible as well as visible disabilities. Lauredhel touches on a similar topic in “Can I Have A Seat?“:
[B]ecause this library has put in a couple of obvious bits of effort, I feel like they are more likely to be receptive to other suggestions. Places that make no effort I just can’t deal with sometimes – once I’ve managed the effort of somehow negotiating the obstacles, I have nothing left for standing around having a conversation with strangers, especially strangers who may be clueless and obstructive.
This is the huge barrier to the “Why don’t you just ask them?” approach to disability accessibility. I’ve tried bringing this up in the course of a transaction before, and been variously ignored, insulted, belittled, lectured, stared at blankly, and offered unsuitable solutions.
Leaving accessibility enforcement to individual people with disabilities means that a whole lot of time, it just isn’t going to get done. Because we’re already running on empty from dealing with life. Sometimes, another five or ten minute conversation that could be thorny and confronting just isn’t at the top of the priority list. Sometimes we just run out of tolerance for being insulted or deliberately ignored one.more.time. And sometimes we’re just too bloody tired. When we need to sit down RIGHT NOW, standing around chatting about it doesn’t help. When we’re bled nearly dry, we have to avoid even papercuts.
Sometimes, I really just want other people to educate their own ignorant selves. For it to no longer be my job.
As someone who is able-bodied, it is my job to: educate my own damned self. To proactively be mindful of disabilities. To not default to the assumption that everyone is able-bodied. To advocate for accessibility. To take the stairs.
Reading through today’s BADD posts is a good place to start.
ETA: Check out Web Content Accessibility Guidelines 2.0, a useful resource for making your blog or website more accessible.
Hate Crimes, Not Hoaxes
Via Liss, Rep. Virginia Foxx (R-NC), lied about Matthew Shepard’s death on the floor of Congress today:
Transcript from Liss:
Rep. Virginia Foxx (R-North Carolina): The, uh, hate crimes bill that’s called the Matthew Shepard Bill is named after, uhn, uh, a very unfortunate incident that happened where a young man was killed, but we know, uh, that that young man was killed in the, uh, in the commitment [sic] of a robbery. It wasn’t because he was gay. This—the bill was named for him, the hate crimes bill was named for him, but it, it’s, it’s really a hoax! [emphasis mine]
Text: FALSE. Fact: “According to local police and prosecutors, the two men lured Mr. Shepard out of a bar by saying they were gay. Then, the Laramie police say, the pair kidnapped Mr. Shepard, pistol-whipped him with a .357 Magnum, and left him tied to a ranch fence for 18 hours until a passing bicyclist spotted Mr. Shepard, who was unconscious.”—The New York Times, 10/12/98
The representative’s sentence is ambiguous in that it could suggest that Matthew Shepard was killed as the victim of a robbery or that he was killed while committing a robbery. Now, his murderers robbed his body after killing him for being gay, so it’s possible that she meant the former (which would still be factually incorrect), but I’m not inclined to give Rep. Foxx the benefit of the doubt.
A hoax. In 2007, the Department of Justice found that 16.6% of bias-related incidents (i.e. hate crimes) were based on sexual orientation. The 16.6% rate was an increase from 2004’s 15.6%. There are multiple factors involved, but one is surely that people think it’s acceptable to assault people based on their sexual orientation and gender identity. Why else would they boldly admit to bias-related murder, saying, “Gay things must die”? (Allen Andrade, convicted of murdering Angie Zapata in a hate crime, quoted in CO Independent) When Rep. Foxx lied about Matthew Shepard’s death, she sent the message that targeting and killing queer people was acceptable. She sent the message that our lives and our deaths don’t count. She sent the message that even though bigots target queer individuals specifically to make us live in fear and to wipe us out of existence, politicians and people in power will whitewash our suffering as a robbery gone wrong and accuse our family and friends of perpetuating hoaxes when they seek justice. She sent the message that bigotry is acceptable, even when it takes on the form of violence and broken bodies punished for the sin of being lesbian, gay, or trans.
Fight back and reject these messages any time you hear them, starting with Rep. Foxx and the National Republican Congressional Committee. Show them that there are consequences to homophobia and transphobia and to denying the existence of hate crimes based on race, color, religion, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, and disability.
Foxx’s D.C. office: 202-225-2071
North Carolina office: 1-866-677-8968
National Republican Congressional Committee: 202-479-7000
Here, have a sample message:
“Hi, this is [PD], calling about Representative Foxx’s statements in Congress today on the Matthew Shepard Bill. The representative dishonestly claimed that Matthew Shepard was killed during a robbery, when in fact his murderers have confessed to targeting Matthew Shepard specifically because he was gay. They beat him and left him to die, tied to a fence on a freezing Wyoming night. This was a hate crime, and I ask that the representative publicly retract her statement and apologize. Her statement is an insult not only to queer Americans, but to all Americans who support justice and equality.”
The bill passed in the House, 249-175 (10 no votes) and is moving onto the Senate. Please look up your legislators and let them know you support the Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes Act.
NotAlwaysRight is Not Always Right
NotAlwaysRight.com is a site that posts “Funny & Stupid Customer Quotes.” Most of the time, the quotes are funny and show how amazingly entitled, racist, rude, and sexist, among other horrible things, customers can be. I like reading it because I did some patron-facing work at a library for a while, and got some experience in dealing with stupid, rude, and entitled patrons. I also like to read it to remind myself to not be stupid, rude, and entitled as a customer. One of today’s posts was irritating, however, because I’m certain that it was posted for “ha ha, that woman was so stupid, thinking she had a prostate!” laughs.
Sometimes Being Too Thorough Can Backfire
Military | Maryland, USA(This took place at our health clinic. The patient was an older female.)
Me: “What type of appointment do you need?”
Patient: “I need a prostate exam.”
Me: “I’m sorry, those appointments are for men only.”
Patient: “That’s discrimination – I want to talk to your supervisor!”
Sergeant: “The specialist is correct, ma’am, these appointments are for men only. You do not have a prostate.”
Patient: “How would YOU know? I’ve never had surgery in my life!”
Me: “Have you ever had a penis and testicles at any point in your life?”
Patient: “What?! How insulting! You’re sick! I’m going to sue you!”
Me: “If you were not born with boy parts, then you were not born with a prostate. Good luck suing the Army.”
It seems clear from the dialogue (”How insulting! You’re sick!”) that the patient was a cis woman, and likely a transphobic woman, at that. However, the assumption that, because she was a woman, she didn’t need a medical exam that she specifically requested is rooted in cis privilege and in not even considering the existence of trans people. It could have been the case that the patient was a trans woman in need of a prostate exam. There have been and are trans people in the U.S. Armed Forces, after all.
Just as outright transphobia leads to death, as in the cases of Robert Eads, a trans man who was denied treatment for his ovarian cancer, and Tyra Hunter, a trans woman who was denied medical care after a car crash, so, too, can ignorance of trans peoples’ medical and health needs. S is a med student, and a while ago, she attended a panel that included a Mexican trans woman.
S: hmm this is very interesting. She related an anecdote about her trans friend who died of prostate cancer. The doctor didn’t realize that prostate exam was still necessary and didn’t detect it in time.
PD: sad and interesting
S: ignorance – the root of all evil
PD: basically
S: she’s talking about a nurse practitioner who wanted to refer her out, because he “wouldn’t even know what he was looking at” (vaginal exam), which is a ridiculously insensitive way of putting it
PD: yeah
S: but i wonder if anywhere in our education we’ll be trained how to examine transgender patients
It was casual transphobia and cis privilege on the part of the clinician and the sergeant to assume that the woman was cis. It was casual transphobia for NotAlwaysRight to post the incident as a “haha, that woman’s so stupid she didn’t realize that only men have prostates!” because that thinking erases the existence of trans people.
Zapata Family Statement
[Trigger warnings: anti-trans violence]
Allen Andrade was convicted of first-degree murder and hate crimes charges (CO Independent):
A man convicted Wednesday of using a fire extinguisher to crush the skull of a transgender Greeley woman was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole just over an hour after a jury returned guilty verdicts on all four counts charged, including first-degree murder and hate-crime charges. Weld District Judge Marcelo Kopcow imposed the mandatory life sentence on Allen Andrade, 32, for murdering Angie Zapata, 18, last summer in Greeley.
“Mr. Andrade, I hope as you’re spending the remaining part of your natural life in the Department of Corrections that everyday you think of the violence and brutality that you caused on this fellow human being and the pain you have caused, not only on your family but the family of Angie Zapata,” Kopcow told Andrade, who re-entered the courtroom an hour after the jury verdict shackled and wearing a bright orange prison jumpsuit.
Andrade faces additional sentencing next month on the bias-motivated, or hate-crime charge and on felony automobile and identity theft charges. Prosecutors plan to pursue habitual offender charges against Andrade, court officials said.
Via Sarah in Chicago, the Zapata family’s statement, as read by Angie’s brother Gonzalo:
Transcript:
[Introduction]: This is the immediate family. We have sisters Monica, Ashley, Stephanie, Natasha,niece, and mother Monica–Maria, excuse me, and Gonzalo.
[Gonzalo]: Angie was my sister.
She was a member of our family. We loved her very much, and we will miss her every day. Every day and every night my mom has to deal with the great pain that she saw one of her babies being buried, an experience no parent should have to witness. Every day our siblings and I reach for the phone and realize we’ll never hear her voice. There are times we call and try to get her advice and realize there’s no answer anymore.
A part of our family is missing, stolen from us. Angie was 18, her life was just beginning. Angie was brave, she had guts, she had courage, and was beautiful, was fun, and loving. She was our little sister.
Throughout the past week and a half, we have watched as our sister Angie was lied about in this court. We watched angrily as defense presented an image of my sister that wasn’t true. Their strategy, and make no mistake about it, it was bullying, tearing down my sister to make a monster look a bit better, it will not work.
We want to make things clear: Angie was our sister, an aunt, and a daughter. Life was sometimes difficult for her, we learned along with her to understand that she was born a girl with a body that was wrong for her.
We know Angie was one thing above all else, she was honest. It took such courage to be who she was. Life wasn’t always easy, but she was so strong, and there was no reason to believe my sister was anything but strong and honest with everyone.
This week, we are deeply saddened and angry as we witnessed graphic details about the last few minutes of my sister’s life. A big brother is supposed to protect his–[sobs]–I got it. A big brother’s supposed to protect his little sister. It breaks my heart to think there was nothing I could do. [sobs] To protect my little sister.
My sisters, Monica and Ashley, when they saw what this monster had done, they wanted to hold her, to comfort her and to make her feel better. It was hard to realize that there was nothing they could have done.
He stole something so precious from us. Only a monster can look at a beautiful 18-year-old and beat her to death. This monster not only hit my sister, but continued to beat her head in over and over and over, and over again, until her head was crushed in. Then, he left her there to die.
He’ll never understand how angry we are at him and how much he has hurt us. This past week and a half, we’ve seen attorneys working their hardest to seek justice for my sister. Our family wants to thank Robb Miller, Brandi Nieto, Detective Thorpe, Kelly Winters, Kelly Costello, Crystal Middlestadt of CAVP, Mindy Barton, and the GLBT Community Center of Colorado, Fred Sainz of the Gill Foundation, and Adam Bass of GLAAD, along with the entire Weld County District Attorney’s Office, Ken Buck, for their support of our family and standing with us, and standing with Angie.
We are grateful Colorado has tough laws that make it clear that attacking people because of anti-gender bias will be taken seriously. Targeting someone because she is transgender will be prosecuted aggressively in Weld County. This means a lot to our family. We are grateful that the laws are in place that make hate crimes wrong.
In memory of Angie, we call on Colorado’s leaders to pass a federal hate crime law to protect everyone.
Justice was achieved for my sister today. A message was sent loud and clear that crimes targeting LGBT people will not be tolerated in Colorado, and specifically, Weld County.
We would ask everyone to remember my sister. Remember her like we do, as a beautiful, wonderful, precious teenager. She would want us to remember the happy times in her life. And together, and in Angie’s memory, make the world a better place.
We will always love you, Angie, and we will always miss you, mija.
Thank you.
Dating As A Feminist: Consent & Sex
Warning: brief mention of sexual assault and lots of mention of my sex life. If the latter is TMI, please stop reading here.
I recently had the pleasure of hooking up with a person that I met at a party. As usual, I didn’t see it coming*: we were chatting, wandered apart, wound up chatting some more, he suggested that we go for coffee sometime and asked for my number, we danced a bit, and then he leaned in slowly, clearly telegraphing his intentions–asking, not demanding–and we kissed. There was some PG-13 necking in the kitchen, which was sweet and nice, and then, since I figured that even I knew where this was going, I felt that I should do a couple things:
1. Establish consent rather than taking it for granted.
2. Inform him that I have an STD.
I didn’t want to fumble our way through assuming consent and him finding out later that I was drunk out of my mind or me finding out later that he was drunk out of his mind and that one of us wasn’t really into the other or didn’t really want to have sex. On a more personal level, I hate taking things for granted and relying on assumptions in these kinds of interpersonal situations, so I’d rather be the person who pulls back, looks the other person in the eye, and bluntly says, “Okay, question – are you drunk?”
In retrospect, there were much better ways to phrase that, such as, “Just to be clear, do you want to have sex?” Now that I’m looking at the words, although what I meant was, “Are you drunk? Because I want to establish that you’re capable of giving meaningful consent,” it could also have come off like a creepy, “Are you drunk? Because I like to rape people too drunk to give consent.” *wince* I think he got the drift, though, and I’ll get better at articulating myself with practice. Open mouth, insert foot–that’s me.
He said that no, he wasn’t drunk, and I said, “Okay, second thing–I have HPV.”
He said, “That’s okay, I wasn’t planning on having sex,” and asked, “are you drunk?”
I said, “No,” then thought about it for a second and said, “Well, yes, a little, but not much–I like this,” and wound my arms around his neck and kissed him.**
Cue slow, comfortable making out.
Until someone wandered into the kitchen looking for a drink, and flipped the lights on.
Oops.
We adjourned to his bedroom, had a good time, and went to sleep. I should note that although I badly wanted to have sex, I didn’t pressure him for it. I didn’t whine, I didn’t plead, I didn’t beg, I didn’t “forget” and grab his penis and sit on it (also known as rape, CA Penal Code 261 (a) (2), 263). He’d expressed his desire in that regard and I respected it. Doing anything other than respecting his wishes didn’t even occur to me until now, weeks later.
Not. That. Hard.
Fast forward to this week, when we met up, hung out, and he came over to my place. In the middle of rolling around in bed, while I was trying to figure out a smooth way to ask him to please fuck me now, he paused and asked, “Is it ok if we just go to sleep?”
I said, “Yes,” got out the extra pillow for him, and we fell asleep curled around each other. Again, not. That. Hard.
I keep thinking about these hook ups over and over again, and for a while I thought it was just that I was starved for sex and floating along in a delirious “I hooked up with someone! Who is smart and makes me smile and is cute! And we’re seeing each other again! Yay!” haze. After thinking about it some more, though, I’ve realized that it’s not just the physical acts that are wonderful and surprising to me, it’s their mutuality and our consent to them. They weren’t just about his pleasure or just about my pleasure, but about enjoying ourselves together and respecting each other’s desires and boundaries. It’s been a long time since I had a hook up like that, so long that these recent encounters stand out to me.
The last time I had penetrative sex with a man, I made it clear that I would not have sex without a condom. The first round, he wore a condom. The second round, when he was penetrating me from behind and I couldn’t see, he “forgot” and put his penis in me without a condom. I kicked him out of my apartment for that. The last time I let Reis try anal sex, it hurt badly and I told him, “No, stop, it hurts.” He insisted that it would feel better and kept going until I crawled away. They weren’t concerned with my desires or my pleasure, only their own, and they felt entitled to use my body to achieve it, regardless of what I said or wanted.
Now that I’ve been on the opposite side of the situation, namely, being the person that wants to do more and finding that my partner isn’t ready, is tired, doesn’t want to, etc., I would like to reiterate my disgust with the “common knowledge,” patriarchal, and rape-enabling assumption that it’s completely unreasonable to expect straight and bi men to listen to their female partners when they say, “No.” I’ve heard it said so many times that it’s impossible for men to control themselves, that it’s unrealistic and borderline inhuman to expect them to stop in the middle of a hook up or, god forbid, stop and pull out during penetrative sex when their partner asks them to.
It’s not.
Being a decent human being that believes that I have the right to do as I like with my own body but not anyone else’s, I already thought that it was a crock of shit to say that once a man’s stuck his penis into an orifice, he’s helpless to pull it out until he’s had an orgasm. He just can’t help himself. Blue balls. It’s unreasonable to ask him to stop. If she’s already said yes at any point to anything else, she can’t expect him to stop just because it hurts or she changes her mind.
Bullshit. The experience of respecting my partner’s desires when he said, “No, not now,” just reinforces my previously held belief, because, guess what! I really, really, really wanted to have sex. And yet, lust didn’t turn me into a mindless rapist. My clitoris didn’t shrivel up and expire. My night was not ruined. I didn’t think that just because he’d worn a shirt that set off his fabulously blue eyes (she was asking for it, wearing a skirt that short), had a drink with me (what’d she expect, drinking at a bar with a stranger?), kissed me (she danced with him, she led him on and that’s like consenting to anything and everything), and come home with me (she went somewhere with a stranger, what did she think would happen?), I had the right to rape him and ignore his request to stop fooling around. Fascinating.
Respecting your sex partner is not difficult. Checking for and obtaining enthusiastic consent, rather than operating on an assumption of consent-until-proven-otherwise is not difficult. All that’s necessary is thinking of your partner as a human being with the right to decide what to do with their body, not a life-size, breathing, living blow up doll for your pleasure.
Asking for consent was not awkward (aside from my terrible phrasing) and didn’t ruin the moment. It didn’t break the mood. What it did was establish that we were both interested in each other and also establish that there was a limit, i.e. he didn’t want to have sex right then. That was actually helpful for me, because it let me know that I shouldn’t expect it. In short, asking for consent was not the terrible experience that some people make it out to be (ZOMG! We’ll have to carry around contracts! It’ll kill the romance!). It was positive, helpful, and made me feel more comfortable and helped me figure out what my partner did and did not want to do. It clarified the situation and let me focus on having a mutually good time rather than worrying about whether or not I was reading him correctly about his boundaries. Amazing.
Just to reiterate: asking for consent is easy. And it’s good and necessary.
[Disclaimer: I'm sure some people will think that I just don't understand, because I'm a woman and women don't have sexual urges and so they can't understand that sometimes, men just have to rape because they can't control themselves when they're aroused, they desperately need sex . To them, I say, wrong and wrong. I quite demonstrably have sexual desires and men are capable of controlling theirs, despite a patriarchal, rape-enabling culture that insists that men lose their self-control and turn into ravening rapists when a woman walks by. "I couldn't help it!" is actually, "I felt entitled to raping my partner!" or "I didn't want to help it!"]
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* Seriously, I am the master of not seeing it coming: I fall for straight women and gay men and think that people are making casual conversation when they are actually saying, “Shall we go back to the hotel and screw like bunnies?” My attractiondar, it is broken.
** My response makes me a little uncomfortable, because it’s my general rule to not sleep with anyone who’s drunk. On the other hand, I think it’s very obvious and easy to tell if the person you’re with is willing, interested, and capable of making decisions, and I was all three of those. I might write on this more later.
