11 Year Old Kills Himself After Gay Taunts Left Unaddressed

An eleven-year-old boy hung himself in Springfield, MA yesterday. He had been repeatedly taunted as "gay" even though he did not identify as such. His mother went to the school over and over again, trying to get something done.

Nothing happened.

So for all those right wing nuts who insist we are teaching all sorts of positive gay messages in our school, fuck you. You caused this kids death. You and your bullshit rhetoric.

I wish we were teaching more positive images of LGBT people because then "faggot" and "queer" wouldn't hurt so much. I wish that boy had an advocate in the school who listened to his mother. Who did something.

I'm angry. How can this happen today? Why did that mother have to lose her son? Why was that boy not taken care of by the school officials?

It reminds me of when my son Zachary wanted to do the day of silence in his class. He wanted me to go in and explain. I was told no, it's too scary to talk about Lawrence King. It's too... much. A permission slip would have to go out to the parents. We can't talk that way without permission.

Which of course meant it was sexual in nature, even though it was not. This crime is not gay only. This crime- and it was a crime the way the issue was handled- was about bullying. Teasing. Mean, hateful words.

I'm beyond angry. This is something that could have been prevented. I have an eleven year old son. He wanted to recognize the day of silence. He understood how words can hurt.

He's not gay.

And when we all wonder if marriage equality is the end all and be all of the movement? Think again. In the first state in the nation to accept equal marriage rights, kids are still taunted. Humiliated.

"Two of the top three reasons students said their peers were most often bullied at school were actual or perceived sexual orientation and gender expression, according to From Teasing to Torment: School Climate in America, a 2005 report by GLSEN and Harris Interactive. The top reason was physical appearance."

Carl would have turned 12 on April 17th, the national day of silence in schools. The irony turns in my gut. I must do more. How can I as an advocate, as an activist look his mother in the eye and say I'm sorry? We're trying to push for welcoming, safe schools but haven't made it there yet?

We still need permission slips to talk about how it's not okay to call someone a dyke. lezzy. How the words cut like knives, and the targets aren't just LGBT kids, but all kids.

An eleven-year-old boy is dead today because no one in the school did a thing to help him. They should be ashamed- and they should go to jail for it.

And on Monday, I am going to the funeral. I will promise the mother that until the day I die, I am going to fight for comprehensive anti-bullying policies in schools. Because I'm a lesbian, because I've been on the other side of the taunts but mostly because I am a mother.

We must end the violence.

"GLSEN, the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, recommends four approaches that schools can begin implementing now to address anti-LGBT bullying and harassment.

# Adopt a comprehensive anti-bullying policy that enumerates categories such as race, gender, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation and gender expression/identity. Enumeration is crucial to ensure that anti-bullying policies are effective for LGBT students. Policies without enumeration are no more effective than having no policy at all when it comes to anti-LGBT bullying and harassment, according to GLSEN’s 2005 National School Climate Survey.

# Require staff trainings to enable school staff to identify and address anti-LGBT name-calling, bullying and harassment effectively and in a timely manner.

# Support student efforts to address anti-LGBT bullying and harassment on campus, such as the formation of a Gay-Straight Alliance or participation in the National Day of Silence on April 25.

# Institute age-appropriate, inclusive curricula to help students understand and respect difference within the school community and society as a whole."

It's not that hard. It's not about sex. It's about dignity. And clearly, about saving kids lives.

California Supreme Court Declares, “YES TO MARRIAGE EQUALITY!”

Today the State’s supreme court decided the issue of who can get married in California. The answer is, everyone. Gay or straight, marriage is a right and there is no second-class status in their state.

I’m a proud resident of Massachusetts and I will never forget the day the court ruled in favor of the Goodridge Plaintiffs. I raised my fists up to the sky and felt powerful in a way that I had never felt before. I was equal. Discriminating against my right to marriage was unconstitutional. It was not acceptable in the eyes of the law.

As a lesbian, I have never felt protected by the law. When we went through the process of second parent adoption in Massachusetts for our three boys, each time I had a lump in my throat. The laws were created to keep people like me away.

No more.

California has taken the next step in the fight for equality. Without question. There are many more to take before LGBT people are seen as equals in the law, equals in this country on both state and federal levels.

And there will be backlash, threats of the end of the world. Funny thing is, we’re still all alive and breathing in Massachusetts. Heterosexuals are still getting married- and divorced- at the same rate as always. The biggest difference is a lot of kids, like mine, have their families protected.

Rights guaranteed.

Because it’s not about “gay marriage.” It’s about equal access to a legal institution that has been created to ensure committed couples are protected. It ensures the children of that couple are protected under the law. There have been thousands of legal precedents based on the institution of marriage that simply cannot be replicated by a new term, or new legal definition.

And no one is going to force any religious institution to embrace is because in our country, we have a separation of church and state. I know it doesn’t seem like we do, but in fact, that is required by our constitution.

Congratulations, California. Welcome to the increasing number of states that refuse to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation.

It feels good, doesn’t it?

The Ridiculous Notion of Gay Privilege

Watching Tim Wise today has me wondering... how do we do the same thing in the LGBT community? How do we push hard against someone else, make someone smaller, less than in order to feel our privilege?

ENDA, of course, comes to mind first. The ridiculous notion of Gay and Lesbian privilege plays out in national politics, with some of our leaders saying it's too difficult to include transgender in the language. They made a division between transgender and the rest of the alphabet soup.

We divide ourselves, like the people of New Orleans. The "normal" queers can have rights but let's be sure those people can't move in on our rights. Our agenda.

That's too much.

It is ironic, because those who are against us think we're all freaks. They liken us to pedophiles and sexual deviants. As if cutting off one of our arms will make us any more likable to them.

It won't.

We say that transgender inclusion is too hard. We'll be good little queers and dress the right way, look pretty and handsome, play the game the way those in power have dictated the rules. We have, after all, already pushed the envelope to the edge by including Gays and Lesbians.

Instead of "crossing the canal" and being stronger as a whole by including everyone we shun those who not only are our allies, but they are a part of our soul.

We're not freaks, we're human beings. Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender- all just people. We've been part of society since the dawn of time. We're not pushing a "gay agenda," we are pushing a human agenda.

Watch Tim Wise again. Think hard about the words in our own community, how we fight amongst ourselves, making ridiculous lines in sand to somehow feel more powerful.

We are not part of the club of those in power. We never will be.

It truly is a ridiculous notion of Gay Privilege.

Naughty Mom Night

I'm having the Naughty Moms over tonight. Having a group of self-proclaimed suburban "naughties" is a challenge.

You must have enough wine in the house. Good wine. They are suburbanites after all. I do NOT allow spritzers of any kind. I have my rules about wine.

When one of the naughties offers to bring a VERY LARGE bottle of vodka, you throw away the mixers and get the martini shaker ready, arming yourself with olives and lemon twists.

If the flowers you thought you could stretch out one more day are too dead after all? Improvise with a Chihuly. But remove before dessert so it doesn't end up being offered to double as a jello mold.

And that's all I can say. I am not allowed to divulge the naughty mom's identities. I am not allowed to share any of the conversations that take place.

It's Vegas here tonight.

Sticks, Stones and Dead Boys Bones

I love Ben's videos. This one is a little long, but if you hang on, Jake comes in the background and annoys him- welcome to my world.




And it is the reason why I am so afraid for him. After hearing about the boy who hung himself, Jeanine turned to me, looked at Ben and said, Well... we're doing okay, aren't we?

After he taped the video, he came running downstairs with lipstick and asked me to put it on.

No, thank you. Once a year, that's it for me.

C'mon, Mom, just put some on...

I couldn't write about Lawrence King's murder until yesterday. I still can't really touch on my own fears for my son.

When Ben was in pre-school, he wanted to dress up as Blossom for Halloween. Blossom was the head Power Puff girl. He loved her. I bought the costume.



Then I sat him down and said, Some people might not understand why a boy would want to be Blossom.

He didn't care. Blossom was his favorite character.

I remember shrugging and saying, I think you look great. But, I want you to know, someone might tease you about it.

Blossom was one tough chick.

He doesn't dress in pink anymore, or wear heels or make up, like Lawrence King. His budding sexuality is being expressed towards girls, for the time being.

And he is constantly anxious.

I don't have to tell him it's not safe. He knows.

He also loves posting on YouTube. He is a ham, at heart and incredibly creative. He has always been too afraid to join a theater club, but has a new outlet for his desire to be a star.

His friends have his address.

All I can say is it was a lot easier to walk him around as Blossom on Halloween night, armed with a firm look to all the people who opened the door to my boy dressed in pink.

Sticks and stones
may break my bones
but words will never hurt me

Unfortunately, now kids are carrying guns.

And we're left to bury the dead boys bones.

Dolly Parton and Me

The one thing that always amuses me, is when I'm wearing something tight on top? No one ever confuses me for a man.

That would be due to the enormous shelf I'm hoisting around.

Just like Dolly Parton. Poor dear, she's had to postpone her tour by 6 to 8 weeks due to back problems.

"Hey, you try wagging these puppies around a while and see if you don't have back problems," the folksy singer-songwriter said in a statement.

Amen, sister.

Who to Haunt?

My friend Suzy, whom I’ve known for about a million years, wrote me yesterday to tell me my mother has been haunting her dreams.

Funny, she’s been out of mine for a while. The last dream I had with her in it, we were very civil to each other, she helped me find something I needed and then we talked about a new cat she had.

In real life, I can say that I think about her every day. She was the sun, the moon and the stars to me for 43 years. That doesn’t go away overnight. Maybe it never will.

I haven’t written about her in a long time. I’m working on a longer piece. Our relationship could not possibly be squeezed into a few paragraphs on a blog.

I’ve been criticized about my decision to write about her. My mother was very private which is like saying the sun is a little warm. I, however, am not. I hope my story helps others in similar struggles. If not? Then it helps me to say it out loud.

We dealt with our narcissism in very different ways.

Someday my children will read what I have written. It is important to me to be as honest as possible and not fabricate an image of perfection in either my mother or myself. I am very much like my mother, pieces of which I am deeply proud of, pieces I am horrified by.

I’m sorry my mother is haunting your dreams, Suz. Try to remember that beneath all that judgmental bluster was a deeply insecure woman trying to make sense of her own decisions.

You know, just your friend you’ve known for a million years

Bad Habits

I walked into the kitchen yesterday afternoon and I saw one of my own worst bad habits. I had left the cabinet door where the plates are open, the drawer for the utensils open and the door to the glasses open. And the pantry doors were open, too.

I know it’s a horrible habit. I know I do it all the time. I have been known to leave the refrigerator doors open and walk out of the room.

I leave closet doors open.

I cannot seem to shut a door. Except the door to the house. I always shut that. Well, usually.

My wife ignores it. Which means she does not shut the doors behind me, just leaves them there, open maws, waiting for some kind soul to take notice.

I quit smoking cold turkey over twenty years ago. Can I stop leaving doors open? No. And I’ve been consciously trying for twenty years.

I will refrain from listing my wife’s bad habits.

Anyone else want to chime in? And I mean bad habits, not gross ones. I honestly don’t want to hear about anything nasty.

Storm Ahead...

I was talking to a friend last night that said she had started a new job 9 days ago and immediately her two young kids got sick and she’s been home with them.

Ah, I remember the days.

My kids don’t get sick very often anymore.

They were so sweet when they were little with a fever. You just wanted to hold them the whole time. You feel so bad for them, their listlessness.

Then they get older.

Case in point, last night.

You see, I know my friend with the two sick little ones who can only promise her new employer really, really, she’s a good worker and will do the great job she was hired to do, that someday, it’ll all be different.

It will be different, Susan. How? Well…

Jeanine and I went out last night. Had some lovely oysters down at B&G’s, the single best place in Boston to have a few shucked for you. We met up with Walter and another friend, ordered plates and plates of oysters from Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, Washington State. We topped it off with crab beignets with a light mustard sauce, slice of orange, fennel and olive. Add a couple glasses of a great Gruner Veltliner- crisp, bright, a hint of citrus to match the oyster’s perfectly- and we were in heaven.

Walking back to the car, hand in hand, feeling the love, things were looking good.

Guess who is up at 11PM when we walk in the door.

Ben.

Now, I know I’ve been picking on Ben lately. I love my son. I do. He is a good kid, with a big heart and can be the kindest soul at times.

And then there was last night.

Who hasn't finished his homework?

Ben.

His half hour on the computer had finished (then it locks him out) because he used it to listen to iTunes, and then when he needed to type his paper, no luck. The baby sitter suggests he writes it up by hand, so he can type it in the morning- oh no. That won't do.

Zachary- ever the middle child- offers his time (they all get 1/2 hour). Ben said, NOOOOOOOOOO.

11PM, there he sits, on his bed, screaming at Jeanine that it is HER fault because SHE locks the computer...

I honestly think I am going to need a Valium drip to get through the teen years. What the hell am I going to do when Zachary starts acting this way?

Another friend said to me today, You know, we’re all working on time management skills. He’s only 12. Take it easy. Work with him and remember some of this is his way of getting attention from you. It’s that push pull of adolescence.

When I calm, like after running three miles or swimming a mile, I get it. I do. I know he’s trying to figure out how to be popular, how to keep acne away and how to do his homework.

Homework is definitely last on the list.

I was 12 once.

I’m trying to find ways to help him negotiate his new, unfolding world of responsibility and to let him have enough freedom to make his own mistakes. I can’t save him from teen angst nor do I particularly want to. I think it’s healthy to struggle. I think we learn frustration tolerance through not having everything go smoothly.

He’s 12. I can’t keep holding his hand. It scares me when parents don’t let kids fail or try to mend every hurt feeling. Sometimes, things suck. They hurt.

And, eventually, it gets better.

I know he’s trying to figure it all out. So am I. I have never had a 12-year-old child before. I certainly don’t know how to do the math they do now. I’m not always the best at time management either.

But when it’s 11PM at night and I’m full of romantic notions of getting to spend some time with my wife, it’s really hard to be calm, even and know the right thing to say.

Jeanine told him to go to bed; we were not having one more moment of discussion. She told him she would set her alarm for 5:30AM- and did- so he could finish in the morning.

Tears streaming down his face, she shut the door. He loudly proclaimed, from behind the door, how much he hated the two of us.

I miss the times when their struggle was simple. They had a fever, or a cold, and snuggled up next to you on the couch, just wanting to be held.

I could make the world better with some Advil, a blanket, and the comforting sound of my heart beating, their head resting on my chest.

I’m clueless as to what I can do to help my son grow into a healthy young man. I’m navigating my own stormy waters of unknown, just as he is. When do I let go? When do I hold tight?

And when do I need to realize it is completely out of my hands…

Pop, Lock and Drop It

I love my job. I do. I cannot imagine doing anything else. I’ve always explained to my kids that I write, I serve on several foundation boards and I’m trying hard to have a positive impact on the world.

Today, I’m not so sure.

Ben came home yesterday, waltzed into my office and said to me, Are you a stay at home mom?

I said, No, I work at home.

So you’re a stay at home mom.

No, I work at home. My office is in my house. You are standing in it. But when you all were little, I was a stay at home mom. My full time job was taking care of you all. It’s not anymore.

Stay at home mom, he nodded confidently and walked away.

Today? He came in my office again.

MOM, what did you DO?

I got a haircut, Ben.

OH GOD… please don’t wear that fleece out anywhere, okay?

I have on my wife’s bulky, black and white checked fleece. It’s very warm and after having hot flashes to heat a small city this morning, I needed something more than the tee shirt I was wearing.

My hair is now short again. After two years of having it halfway down my back- okay, not really that long but it felt that way- I cut it off into a new, sassy do.

At least that’s what my stylist said.

Ben…

Okay, just wear a pink tank top. You know, layered look.

BEN…

But mom… it’s so short. People are going to think you are a boy.

Ben, people called me sir when my hair went halfway down my back. It’s the way I look. Now please, I’m trying to finish up…

I’m just sayin’

BEN, it hurts my feelings. Can you please lay off the pink tank tops and terrible hair comments? I know I’m not pretty…

Oh, but you are mom. If you didn’t look like a boy.

BEN! DROP IT!

At that point, he ran out of the office.

This is from a kid whose pants don’t cover his rear end.

Maybe I need a new job. One that takes me out of my home to a place where no one requires me to wear a pink tank top or comments on my hair style.

Or a lock on my office door.

How to Survive a Long Marriage

While I was standing in line at the grocery store, I was looking over all the magazines. What engages people today- I mean, do we really care how Larry King is trying to combat heart disease?

I saw one headline that read something like "How to Survive a Long Marriage." My guess is it really read, "Love and happiness for years to come" or "The Secret to Successful Marriages" but that's not what I remember.

Funny how that works, your brain reads one thing, your mind takes in another. Like how Obama wins South Carolina and suddenly he's winning the race.

I thought about the article, and what I would write. I have been married 17 years and it feels more like survival, most of the time, rather than success. Success, to me, is more about roses, winning and an achievement that has a beginning and end.

Unlike the war in Iraq, with a questionable beginning and no end in sight.

I see it more as survival. We've survived each other. We've managed to love each other even though every illusion has been stripped away.

Actually, continues to be stripped away.

Because while there is a beginning, there is no end. We continue to grow, evolve, at different rates. Core issues- the ones that start to harden after the first six months of being together- take the form of socks on the floor or dishes left in the sink.

If I looked at my marriage and tried to determine if it were successful, I would have to say no. After 17 years, we still bicker. A lot. We know what our core issues are and they still can send us down the rabbit hole in a heartbeat. We've both quit, at different times.

I have looked at my wife and thought, I don't even remotely like you right now.

I know she's felt the same.

But have we survived? Oh yes.

While we were away over Christmas, with four other couples, all in long term relationships, I looked around and realized, Damn. We're all miserable. Some more than others, to be sure. But no one is basking in love and happiness.

We've all survived.

How to? I have no idea. Having kids is no guarantee. A good therapist always helps but therapy is about effort from both sides. It's about digging in and if your partner is healthy enough, making it work.

Big if.

So, it's not perfect. Sometimes we don't like each other. We're often miserable.

The reward? Well, my wife just looked over at me and asked me, Why do we have children?

This is our standard question to each other when we want something we know we can't have because they are in the other room, radar on and tuned to the minute we have a private moment.

Um... I dunno. Why?

Because I looked at the fire, and at you and... I wish I could take you upstairs right now.

There's that part, too.

I have no idea how we've made it this far. Not really.

But I'm glad we have.

ROMNEY LOVES GAY PEOPLE

I found this on pageoneq.com, and I must say, I am concerned for Mitt's candidacy.



Mitt Romney Defends Himself Against Allegations Of Tolerance

Popular Party

The babysitter just filled us in about Ben's desire to have a "popular party."

Ben's term.

He only wants the popular kids here. He was on his cell phone all night trying to arrange it- while Jeanine and I were out.

Hmmm. Popular party? I don't think so.

It hits a nerve. I was never very popular. Sure, I wore the shirts with the little alligator on them. I wore the topsiders. I drove a bright green Chevy Chevette.

Okay, that was NEVER going to make me popular.

But I was also a lesbian, knew I was a lesbian, and struggling to maintain my closet. I was asked to a popular party once. My good friend Suzy's younger sister- who was my age- was THE popular girl in my class. I was hooked up.

It terrified me. They would all know I was a lesbian and then tell the whole school and I would be so tormented even the AV boys wouldn't talk to me.

No way.

Now, I have to say, only Ben and his friend is interested in this party. She's a lovely young girl I have had the chance to spend some time with and... I'd say she has some issues around gender/sexuality.

Just like Ben.

I'm not surprised there are very specific lines drawn by the two of them- but I am dismayed. Would you not invite this friend or that one? Kids you've known since you were a toddler? Who determines "popular?"

And the reality, I know, that when you try this hard? You always fall hard on your face.

Stay tuned... I am going to have a conversation with him tomorrow.

Failing Sixth Grade English

Um... I write for a living.

But I can't pass sixth grade English. I'm trying to help Ben with his similes homework.

She's as clumsy as a:
pig
dog
cow
ox

Ben circled pig.

I said, no it's ox.

Pigs are uglier.

It's not about ugly. It's about clumsy. And it's as much a figure of speech as it is a comparison.

No it's not.

Then you do the homework.

No, I need help.

He's as gentle as a:
lamb
kitten
mouse
dove

Dove, Ben circles confidently.

No, it's lamb.

Doves are more gentle... peace and all. It's dove.

Okay.

He looks at me. It's lamb? Really?

Really.

Finally, we finished the similes, some of which he refused to change because after all, what do I know?

I mean, Mom, you went to 6th grade a long time ago.

It's true.

Onto the Martin Luther King Crossword puzzle. I love crossword puzzles.

How do you spell "assassin?"

Ass,
ass,
in.

This leaves him howling in laughter. Too stupid for 6th grade similes but I am funny. of course, I typed it in Word first and spell checked it.

My confidence is shot.

"An organization of whites that sought to control blacks and keep them from gaining political power." 10 letters. second to last is the letter A.

Klu Klux Klan.

Mom, that's eleven letters.

Any ideas, folks?

I'm going to go dig out my diploma from college and kiss it. I'm so glad I'm done.

Gay Sex Equals Death! Again! Always!

Oh, those gay men are at it again. Or is it antibiotic use?

In San Francisco on Monday, it was reported “A new variety of staph bacteria, highly resistant to antibiotics and possibly transmitted by sexual contact, is spreading among gay men in San Francisco, Boston, New York and Los Angeles.”

Where did this new horror come from? Was it the gay men themselves that created it?

No.

In fact, “MRSA was first seen in several countries the 1960s. With increasing use of antibiotics, new strains of MRSA have developed over the past 20 years.”

And, “The culprit is a form of MRSA, or methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, a bug that was once confined to hospitalized patients but, since the late 1990s, has been circulating outside medical settings, afflicting anyone from injection-drug users to elementary school students.”

Wait… gay men having too much sex is causing elementary school students to get it?

I’m confused.

And I’m mad.

I’m mad because, like Sean Bugg wrote, “These kinds of infections have been a problem in medical settings for some time, but when a report comes out that attaches "gay" with "disease," everyone's certain to pay attention.”

A quick google search came up with comments and stories from NPR to The Onion, everyone quick to discuss the new findings. Gay men have yet another reason to panic and abandon their wanton ways.

When is anyone going to panic about lesbian sex? I mean, I do. Will I have enough? When will I get more? Today? Tomorrow? Tonight?

Major anxiety.

Instead, lesbians get blamed for tabouli and Birkenstock shoes.

What strikes me, though, is some of the worst abusers of antibiotics are parents of young children. In an effort to keep kids in school/at day care, these parents insist on antibiotics for almost every illness. In fact, the American public is so confused about antibiotics that patients routinely demand them for viral infections.

Antibiotics don’t kill viruses, people do…

Oh, wait. I forgot. It's about gay men having sex. And always TOO MUCH sex. Maybe Huckabee is right and we should just quarantine them.

Personally, I’m going to go back to being panicked about lesbian sex. We need MORE sex. Much more. And if that makes it out to the general population... well... Ann Coulter better watch out.

This is a serious disease. It comes from a strain of bacteria first found in hospitals, our most “sterile” of all environments. Whenever gay men’s sex lives ends up being classified as deadly instead of focusing on the pharmaceutical industries responsibility for the continued growth of new strains of antibiotic resistant infections, I have to wonder why.

The headlines end up continuing negative images, reinforcing stereotypes about gay men. It won’t help the problem.

But it’s a damn sexy, isn’t it?

Ben and the Mink

I know the world is going to hell in a hand basket. Citigroup lost billions. Stock market is tanking, oil prices rising, and average Americans who thought they might retire someday are realizing it's a ridiculous, outdated notion.

I know there are bigger fish to fry, like Mitt Romney over pretty much anything that comes out of his mouth. Or Huckabee's connection with various religious extremists. Or McCain's inability to string a sentence together without the clear desire to use a profanity.

Not that I mind that- it actually makes me like him.

But today I realized, I have to do something about my son Ben and the mink coat my mother left me.

He was on his way to pick up his brother's at after school- it's a block away from home and he is old enough to do this "errand" for me. He opened the closet for a coat.

Mom? Can I wear the mink?

I paused a moment- it is an expensive coat. Not that I ever wear it.

Yes.

Really?

Sure.

Then he paused a moment.

Nah, just kidding.

He looked longingly at the coat in the closet.

Should I just give him the coat? Take it somewhere and have it refashioned into a men's style?

The gender rules he's struggling with right now are so painful. I know he wants the coat. I know he wanted to wear it, just the way it is. It's soft, smells great and is so warm. When he puts it on, he does a little twirl.

He loves it.

(All the PETA members can settle down- these minks have been dead since about 1950. The coat has been refashioned more than once. Let's not have the minks have died in vain.)

On one hand, you don't hand a kid who never hangs anything up, a coat worth a lot of money. In our neighborhood, no one is walking around wearing mink coats. Not adults, not kids- no one.

On the other, for him it's a beautiful thing. It's secretly feminine in his mind. No one knows it's a "girl" thing and he can get away with it. It's like being a lesbian and wearing men's boxer shorts.

Not that I know anything at all about that.

I want to help him find ways to express himself that won't get him teased, taunted or humiliated. He's riding high on being "popular" and it's a position that he's worked hard to achieve. It also makes him tense about every moment and every choice around his presentation in the world.

It's not earth shattering, to be certain. It's only a coat. Ben is 12 and he's been making these choices since he was two years old. He's struggled with what is expected of him as a boy, what his heart tells him and the reality of him having to make a choice to express it. Our society accepts masculine girls (as long as they grow out of it) but not feminine boys. Go to any preschool and count the girls in jeans and sneakers.

Count the boys wearing dresses and tights.

I want him to grab the mink and wear it. And my pearls, which he's eyed at different times. I want him to say fuck it to all the rules and be who he wants to be, wear the clothes he wants and do his little twirl in public. It doesn't make him gay, it doesn't make him unmanly, it just makes him someone with a highly developed sense of style and fashion.

And I know what would happen if he did.

Open Doorway

I said there were a few moments of real clarity for me while I was away in Costa Rica. Some was inspired by the beauty around me. Some, from my friends, some my family. I would catch a glimpse of a look of astonishment on one of the kids faces, or listen to us all sing happy birthday. It moved me.

I keep going back to Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, "Eat, Pray, Love." A few lines stood out. One that did was a description of a soul mate.

“A true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave.”

I don’t think it’s about a soul mate, completely. I’ve had people- a very few- in my life who have shaken who I am, what I see, so intensely, I had to change. While being infatuated with each and every one of them., I didn’t necessarily sleep with all of them, so the soul mate description misses a little- I think of it as a mirror.

And when I think of a mirror, I think of someone very recent in my life.

My mirror was someone who had the same stories to tell, different characters, some different scenes. Played together, they were a symphony of discordant sounds, perfectly engineered, mathematically entwined and awful to hear.

We were both abuse survivors. She had recovered her memories years before. She pushed me- like a jackhammer on cement, a great force against an unrelenting object- to remember mine.

She told me a story about her grandfather’s basement, and I was in my own grandfather’s basement, with the tools and the workbench and the deer carcass, at times, waiting to be butchered.

The terror rose in my throat while I listened to her own. The rage was my own, it was hers, it was going back and forth so quickly I had no idea where it started and where it ended.

She would say to me, this is an incest thing. You don't even know, you haven't done the work. True at the time. It's like an out of body experience, I would explain.

She would nod knowingly, You need a level of intensity other people don't...

At a certain point, I stopped being afraid and simply let it happen. Everything was so out of control, why bother?

It was destined to end horribly. We were like fire, pushing each other, unable to draw boundaries, fighting like we’d known each other for 30 years.

We consumed each other’s pain.

I knew she needed someone calm. Rest. Peace. She needed someone to love her with kindness.

I knew because it was what I needed.

The connection we had shook me so hard, the layers it revealed bled uncontrollably. It was fucked up. It was about unbelievable understanding, a golden light of acceptance and searing images neither one of us could stand.

We cared too much about each other. We cared too much about ourselves.

I never want to go back. It was like a storm on the ocean, the waves beautifully crested with whitecaps, rising ten, twelve feet off the ground. You can ride them in, with a tremendous rush, but eventually, one is going to crush you, take your balance and leave you sucking in seawater.

It was a mirror reflecting all my fears. I saw a person who was unable to change, afraid to open her arms to any lover, chased by her demons every day of her life. I saw someone in the same place years after her memories came back. Someone who would hold her hand up and say STOP. NO. I CAN’T.

I couldn’t bear being that person. If I had to remember all these things, I had to be able to come out on the other side. I couldn’t live my life with the dreams every night. I tried to throw her on my own back and make her see she could, she had to…

Because I did. I had to. I had three kids and I could not be broken forever. I could not be afraid of their touch or to touch them; I could not eye every person who walked by wondering which one would hurt a child.

I imagine the reflection would have killed her, too. Too much pain to hold, barely limping along and watching yet another copy of herself limping along… I brought back all the dreams, the fears. My stories made the wounds new again, stirred up images put away in order to make it through each day. My held out hand was a ticket straight back to the deep, dark hole she had worked so hard to climb out of.

When I read the passage by Gilbert, I put down my book and started to cry. She wrote what I knew. It was too painful. It could never have lasted.

It wasn't meant to.

And I was so grateful. A gift, I realized. I no longer am walking through the world with my hand held up saying STOP. NO. I CAN’T.

For a long time, I missed my mirror. I missed being able to share the stories- not just the awful ones, but the good ones. The success.

And I read on, to this part:

“Send him love and light every time you think of about him, and then drop it. … If you clear out all that space in your mind to obsess about this guy, you’ll have a vacuum there, an open spot- a doorway.”

Instead of feeling like a failure for not being able to hold on, or that I needed her to know I was OK, how I made it through, I found that part of me filled with love and light, the part so grateful, the healed part, from my hammock in Costa Rica.

I closed my eyes and sent out my love. A joke I knew would make her laugh, and then I let it go. I didn’t wait to see the reaction, I didn’t imagine the response.

I just let it go.

I had let go of so much in the last couple years. The rage, the hurt, the betrayal all faded. But there was something so different in that moment.

I felt the doorway.

And I felt free.

The Hub

A lot of things became much clearer to me while I was away. A friend had said to me, as I was leaving, You’re the hub, you know. You are what draws everyone in.

I laughed. I do not feel like a hub.

But the truth is, I was the only one who knew everyone. Some I’ve know almost twenty years, some just a few, but if there was a chart drawn, I would be in the middle.

Take some time to think about that, she said. Why you don’t see yourself that way.

Why you should.

I did.

I am someone who loves to be around people, and needs quiet time, too. I love to listen, hear others stories. I love being connected, deeply, to as many people as I can hold. I love being the center of attention.

I’ve so often defined myself as narcissistic (this is true), needy and broken. The truth is, I’m narcissistic, strong and scarred.

I have scars. It’s time to stop living with them front and center.

I told a friend today I was going to gather all the negatives, my pals, my thoughts that run around and around in my head like gerbils on a wheel, and have a lovely dinner party for them.

Soak them in, give them airtime, take them all and acknowledge them deeply. After all, most of what I have craved in my life is acknowledgement. For people to see me for who I am. To know me.

After the dinner party, after the cake and toasts, it’s time to say goodbye.

I realized I hold these things, because they are familiar. It rocks my marriage- I not only allow my wife to label me the identified patient, I eagerly grab the title. It is better for me to be fucked up than the alternative- having it be out of my control.

When we first arrived in Costa Rica, Jeanine said to me, I know you’ve been really anxious lately…

And the truth is, I wasn’t. I feel calmer, more centered than I ever have in my life. Yes, Christmas is hard for me but I have also come to a certain amount of peace about it.

Especially being in Costa Rica. I was completely removed from all the triggers- the songs, the decorations and the snow. It wasn’t me.

It was her.

I read “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert, while I was away. Sweet book, well written. I kept earmarking pages because she hit the nail on the head so many times for me. At one point, I nudged Jeanine on the beach and read her this passage out loud…

“Moreover, I have boundary issues with men…. I disappear into the person I love. I am the permeable membrane. If I love you, you can have everything. You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family, my dog, my dog’s money, my dog’s time- everything. If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family. I will give you the sun and the rain, and if they are not available, I will give you a sun check and a rain check. I will give you all this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else.”

Is that me or what? I said.

Oh yeah, she said. But you’ve never done that for me.

I was blown away. I felt like all I did for the first fifteen years of our marriage was exactly that. But before I went down the narcissistic well of indignity, I asked her who I did do that for, with an answer I expected.

The person I became infatuated with when I was exhausted and depleted.

The infatuation is long over, and I appreciated Jeanine’s continued hurt about it. AND, it wasn’t about me. I wasn’t a bad person. I wasn’t broken or needy.

I’m curious about why she feels like I never did this for her- was it the continued hurt over my admitted emotional affair or was it something else? What about her was never able to take that all in?

More importantly for today, what is a healthy balance? Because if I’ve been working that hard for that long and she didn’t even take it in? What a phenomenal waste of energy.

The upside? Energy I have. Energy and desire to make my marriage work, to no longer project a screen of what I need or want onto my wife, but to see her for who she is.

To know her the way I want her to know me. Without the negatives running on their wheel, distracting me from what is real.

I’m here. I’m not broken, needy or fucked up. I am reminded of standing at the Fundacion Santuario Silvestre de Osa watching one of the free monkeys walk about. I stood beside her and held my arm out straight- I didn’t try to lean over and pick her up. I simply made myself accessible to climb.

She did.

After pulled herself up, walked across my shoulders, she curled into my side and I held her like you would a two year old on your hip. She put her head on my chest.

I’m strong. I love to help, to fix, to love, to laugh, to cook, to dance, to learn.

I am a hub.

And I’m here.

Christmas Exorcism, Part II

I'm sick of it. I want it over. I want it gone. I am no longer a little girl. I am a parent. I am the mom. I don't want my kids to be writing this essay in twenty years, "and then my mom, unable to let go of the past..." I want them to have the joy I never did.

Screw joy, I just want them to have some semblance of normal. Of waking up too early, opening gifts, eye rolling at ugly gifts and then, before the sun is up, it's over. A day about them, not about my doom and gloom.

After all these years, that's what Christmas means to me. A single, once a year shot at family love that is destined to fail. I've long since given up trying with my family of origin. My father is still alive, somewhere and can burn in hell as far as I'm concerned. The unmentioned sibling remains unmentioned. My sister and I are close but we've carved out new traditions in an attempt to wash away the past etched on us like tattoos.

I want my family to be happy on June 6th. And February 20th. And a lot of other days in between. The china comes out when a crowd gathers for Sunday night dinner. Or Thursday night dinner. Or not at all and we eat on paper plates watching the Red Sox together.

My mother is dead now. There is no one left to please. No more family to pretend to be, no more forced smiles.

I always felt alone while doing my dance as a child. It was me and me alone that could make everything better. I'm sure each of my siblings thought the same; it’s the nature of being a child of an alcoholic. I never expected, after the final act, I would feel so abandoned.

Enough already. I have a full house, a full heart. The Fates only win if I let them. I need to take off the shawl of misery because it doesn't fit anymore.

It can't fit anymore.

Otherwise, my kids will end up chasing after the same unachievable dream of making their mother happy.

I may not be able to break all the cycles I grew up with, but I will break a few. My children will never be physically or sexually abused by their relatives. They will not feel responsible for my happiness or my sadness.

I will never be drunk in front of them.

And they will always remember me holding them.


Okay, that was REALLY depressing. Please remember? I’m sipping a pina colada in Costa Rica right now.

Really.

Sorry.

Packing and Posting List

Let's see... deet, 4 tubes. 6 bottles of sunscreen, extra large lotion. eye cream, various hauschka products, celexa, claritin, probiotics, Imodium, Dramamine, Advil, neosporin, band aids, various tampon sizes but enough just in case...

WHERES THE VALIUM??

and about thirty hair ties. I can never be without a hair tie.

WHAT HAVE I MISSED???

I let the boys pick out their clothes. I have to be honest- I really want to go and make sure everything matches. I don't know why... they get dressed every day and I never say a word. why do I care if they have on a bright orange shirt and olive colored shorts?

Breathing...

I'm not allowed to put clothes into suitcases. I'm not a very good spacial relations person. Jeanine does that. But if we get there and are missing something important, like... bras, it's my fault. Or underwear. Or bathing suits.

I'm going to be fine. As soon as I hit the airport tomorrow morning? I'll be fine.

I had to shovel today. Run the snow blower. It better stop by 3AM tomorrow.

Upcoming schedule of posts...

Dec. 22- Toni's - my sister in law- piece
Dec. 23- my piece, part one. oh yes, it is depressing.
Dec. 24- Louise Kennedy's piece- I HOPE.
Dec. 25 my piece part two- please remember I'm in the warm sun.
Dec. 26- My sister's piece 1
Dec. 27- Donald's piece 1
Dec. 28- My sister, who has a name, Cathy- piece 2
Dec. 29- Kristen's piece
Dec. 30- Donald's piece 2
Dec. 31- Susan's piece

And then I'll be home.

PASSPORTS. Where the hell are the passports???

and that means I'm posting tomorrow. Catch me at 3am, live and ready to roll...