tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53816016249471435912024-02-19T00:46:04.174-08:00Living In LiberationWritings on Culture, Arts, Social Change, Community, Love.Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-51885007156427846052014-03-02T11:50:00.001-08:002014-03-02T11:50:58.577-08:00Inside Komen's NGOized Culture <br />
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Please check out the article I co-authored with Kate Boyd for Solidarity: a socialist, feminist, anti-racist organization's special feature on women's struggles. Thanks!</h1>
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http://www.solidarity-us.org/site/node/4106</h1>
Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-67427446626518032162013-11-23T08:56:00.000-08:002013-11-24T08:53:45.228-08:00More Older, Sexy Women Please<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I confess to binging on season five of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sons of Anarchy</i> recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I was put off by the orgy of patriarchy,
raw vicious sexism, homophobia, white supremacy and fetishization of gang
culture, I was captivated and it took a little while (episodes 1-4 to be exact)
to pin point what it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What compelled
me, beckoning my fingers to push the blinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">play </i>arrow episode after episode was not the gratuitous fist fights
awash in glossy, sexy, hyper-masculinity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nor was it the obligatory mid-show motorcycle chase complete with crosscutting
camera shots and bass thumping rap music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And while the Greek Tragedy thematic interplay of love, deceit and betrayal
was interesting, what really intrigued me was Gemma Teller Morrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Gemma, played by Katey Sagal,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> is a wife, a widow and mother of men
who have all been president of the outlaw biker club for which the television show
is named.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gemma is the family and club matriarch,
she is older, and she is hot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sadly, it is still rare to see older
women characters in television shows that are not only sexy but also sexual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gemma is hot in a white biker mainstream
gender normative way to be sure, but she is hot nonetheless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gemma has sex and is a sex symbol and it’s
not a joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is not nervous or
anxious about getting old or being an older woman and she wears her sexuality without
apology or embarrassment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not to
revel in the presentation of femininity or womanhood in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sons of Anarchy</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The women
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sons</i>, as one might imagine, are relegated
to the unfortunately enduring dualistic pure/good or whore/bad roles and are
not extraordinarily complex in their characterizations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These women uphold gender stereotypes and
demonstrate internalized sexism in predictable ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They manufacture deceit, manipulate and facilitate
access to power through their sexuality. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Women are dominated via a variety of mechanisms
including the constant fear of rape and co-occurring mythos about the need to
be protected by men (who also assault them).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While violence against women is a staple of mainstream media, it remains
uncommon to see older women being victimized or subjugated through sexualized
violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gemma’s brutal rape by rival
club members occurs because she is viewed as sexual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Older women are de-sexualized in most media
representations and as such, sexual assault or the fear of rape is rarely used
as vehicle through which to assert power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gemma, as a sexually active and sexual older woman, however, is a body
that can be violated and her rape is used to assign her viability as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">woman </i>as well as assert power over her
and by extension her husband and son.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Despite the machismo, violence and gender
provincialism on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sons</i> of I love
watching Gemma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Portrayals of older women
characters as sexy, devoid of being a cougar or fraught with aging insecurity
remains refreshing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gemma is older
without a lot of hoopla.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I understand
her character is probably too distracted by coke deals gone bad, kidnappings, gun
smuggling dramas and the ever constant triage of stoic men-in-danger to worry
much about crows feet or lip lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
get it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has much bigger fish to
fry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am also well aware that an army
of professional make up artists primps her, like every other actress, and that
her sexy sans puffy eyes close ups are the result of hours of carefully crafted
lighting and an array of cosmetics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
she rocks her soon-to-be senior status so well and the cinematic poverty of
older woman characters is such that I find myself not begrudging her the
absence puff, bags or her smoothed over skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It remains depressingly novel to see an older woman on the screen that
is not either sculpted into seeming perfection that allows her to be “sexy” or
relegated to the sexless void of old age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gemma is unapologetically older with wrinkles, under arm flab and sun spotted
cleavage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I watched Gemma and found myself
reflecting on other bad ass and sexy hot women actors of a certain age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to see more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I could recall some women is fantastic
but does little to counter the onslaught of youth-beauty focused images flooding
media and saturating young (and old) minds with ideals of mis-perfection that
encourage anxiety, body dysmorphia and insecurity driven consumerism which make
scads of niche diet, exercise and “health and beauty” marketers very rich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Gemma and the other female characters in
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Son</i>s are not offering a radical
alternative to normative beauty standards nor providing a counter narrative to the
axiom of women—as –objects, it is nevertheless inspiring to see an older woman
unashamedly sexual and not digitally altered into an “ageless” perfection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There are plenty of people striving to
diversify the media landscape for women of all ages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This includes agitating for more women in leadership positions, the inclusion of women and older women writers and producers in
media, more roles for older women as well as creating and supporting alternatives to mainstream media.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is a great deal of work to be done to this end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, the sad reality that forty is
considered “older “and older female actresses are mostly celebrated for how
youthful they look speaks to the long road ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want more complicated character representations
for all kinds of women and I want a much more diverse array of examples of
older (and sexual) women in television and movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the mean time given the absence of older sexually
active women characters in movies and TV shows, I will undoubtedly continue my
Gemma and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sons of Anarchy</i> binge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-59663057259499382062013-08-30T09:12:00.000-07:002013-08-30T09:12:24.574-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<u>Details on Dying</u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPGXcbRRH4-4ndEApGEHO9q8ngjsQEDH7kKBg-MJny-OVpzUBAvsp93FvXte5isjerlYZqVZDTGhth1WqMmafr031Q0RQ6j3gXWesVCcOIH2R4eAiZganAzdHBA6OFszTLVqinvh39eWM/s1600/open+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPGXcbRRH4-4ndEApGEHO9q8ngjsQEDH7kKBg-MJny-OVpzUBAvsp93FvXte5isjerlYZqVZDTGhth1WqMmafr031Q0RQ6j3gXWesVCcOIH2R4eAiZganAzdHBA6OFszTLVqinvh39eWM/s320/open+road.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I died last night<o:p></o:p></div>
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in dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
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An endless tumbling free fall,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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fireflies <o:p></o:p></div>
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fluttering, sensory recollections <o:p></o:p></div>
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escaped <o:p></o:p></div>
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well worn, and <o:p></o:p></div>
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overgrown neural pathways<o:p></o:p></div>
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every day<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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These events<o:p></o:p></div>
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dim<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the search for happiness, satisfaction, security. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Everything <o:p></o:p></div>
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we are told <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Dying in a black dreamscape <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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neural fireflies hum<o:p></o:p></div>
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as if they are not already occurring <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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brilliantly before us<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Simply share <o:p></o:p></div>
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in the mundane,<o:p></o:p></div>
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each moment<o:p></o:p></div>
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unfolding <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-47414826303523499022013-07-31T13:35:00.000-07:002013-07-31T13:35:27.244-07:00Nature Is Dying, Is There a Pill For That?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4pPjcXCyd4r1NAPA5hzx7CtYlrdQOHDr8T1gQwRI2PQxYfTYIRh0BZN8cuOFN8dz8hAtJZhJ6mNJ5Uu44KQeXk4ydQ8iC2j1kLoyagK5hFEgBR9g5icMTIBz43vGfgfRa_Jp1cvSs_0/s1600/Ladybug.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4pPjcXCyd4r1NAPA5hzx7CtYlrdQOHDr8T1gQwRI2PQxYfTYIRh0BZN8cuOFN8dz8hAtJZhJ6mNJ5Uu44KQeXk4ydQ8iC2j1kLoyagK5hFEgBR9g5icMTIBz43vGfgfRa_Jp1cvSs_0/s320/Ladybug.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Our world is heating up. Polar bears are drowning, bee colonies are collapsing, island nations are submerging in acidifying sea water, coral reefs are being bleached, desertification and water security are household words, and dengue fever is making a serous come back. <br /> <i><br />Have you picked your color? </i><br /> <br />I am sitting in a brown massaging chair, a rolling machine kneading and digging up and down my spine, both feet soaking in a warm bluish bath. A twenty something woman with ladybugs painted on each fingertip smiles at me patiently. I set down my bottle of <i>Gobsmacked</i> Butter London Nail Lacquer. She nods and I lean back and close my eyes. <br /><br /> <i>Relax. Put your feet up. </i><br /> <br />The blue footbath water reminds me of swimming in <i>Lake Chabo</i>t when I was a teenager. I breathe in and out slowly in an attempt to unwind my shoulder muscles and still my thoughts. Arctic sea ice is melting at an unanticipated and alarming rate. The exposed Arctic earth warms more quickly as it absorbs rather than reflects the suns rays, this in turn, accelerates the release of water vapors which are a greenhouse gas –a deadly system feedback loop. <br /><br /><i>Walk this way, please. </i><br /><br />Ladybug finger lady leads me like a lost puppy shuffling awkwardly on bare feet across a tile floor to a drying table. With a smile and head tilt she directs me to insert my fingers and toes under a purplish light beam. My nails have been sanded, buffed, polished and painted like an old house and looking shinny and new all the layers of primer and base paint need to dry. I wiggle my extremities as they bask in the UV rays. A woman next to me is wearing tan and bejeweled fingerless gloves. She smiles at me and mouths Finger cancer. I smile back not sure what to say, then we both return to clumsily flipping pages of our magazines. Kim Kardashian survived an early and dramatic baby delivery and Angelina Jolie’s son had his iPad stolen while he was playing paintball. <br /><br />I watch one of the employees slip on a white paper facemask. Two teenagers in short shorts and high heel sandals enter and a bell chimes. An older extremely tan woman with gnarled feet and bright orange toes sits across from me reading <i>People Magazine</i>. I feel claustrophobic. I slip my Gobsmacked toes slowly into my flip-flops, wave at Ladybug and ease out the door. My polish is not completely dry and I absently pick at it, wondering about the chemical smell wafting from each nail tip. I look down at my glittery metallic toes. The silver makes them look longer and thinner. <br /><br />I am on vacation and a mani/pedi seemed a small luxury in a world designed to tell me I deserve many, but the more layers I peel the stronger the scent of toluene and formaldehyde seems to become. A feeling of despair elbows it’s way past the crowd of other feelings in my stomach like teenagers at a Vampire Diaries signing at ComicCon slipping easily to the front of the line. Despair urges me to keep picking and peeling and when I remove the final <i>Gobsmacked</i> and basecoat layers, my nails seem large, naked and vulnerable. <br /> <br />Nature as we know it is dying and nature as I know it will be dead in my lifetime. The anguish this causes me when I think about it is overwhelming. I Google “eco-friendly salons + San Diego” which does not make me feel better. I am pretty sure we cannot consume our way out of global warming. I am also sure that the devastating reality of climate change is overwhelming enough to lure me into wanting carbon credits, green label purchasing choices and organic beauty salons to be enough. I know I am not alone. The reality of our planet’s possible demise looms large and immediate. I want to dissolve into the background noise of foot traffic outside and not think about the eroding shells of oysters in Elliot Bay or the tap water that lights on fire in Northeastern Pennsylvania. <br /> <br />As a therapist, I am a mandated reporter and am trained, educated and ethically bound to respond to emergencies. I am required to report to authorities if I have reason to believe a child or senior citizen is being abused for example. This requirement is a legal one but it is also moral, ethical. Bystanders of all kinds need the skills, support and capacity to intervene when abuse is happening. Knowing what science is telling us about global warming and appreciating that inaction will undoubtedly inflict the burden of climate change on everyone, but will inevitably impact the most vulnerable far more, I have a moral and ethical if not legal and personal imperative to intervene, to take action. <br /> <br />Our daily existence is intertwined with an overwhelming and ever present existential danger that threatens to incapacitate even the most resilient of people. I hope tending to the mental, emotional and psychological as well as environmental and physical consequences of coming face to face with the insecurity of nature, our planet earth, does not amount to the creation of a new diagnosis and subsequent prescription protocol. We clinicians have to get our hands dirty (mani be damned) and that means understanding, exploring and helping people navigate the links between rising rates of anxiety, depression, interpersonal violence, somatic expressions of dis-ease and global warming. Symptoms must be viewed in the larger environmental context in which they occur and the psychological impact of species extinctions, increasing weather related disasters and planetary insecurity must not be minimized or pathologized. Despair is a reasonable response to global warming and given the proper conditions, can motivate people to take immediate action. We therapists and others in healing professions of all kinds must be compelled to be part of creating those conditions by normalizing and naming the mental, emotional and psychological impact of climate trauma on everyone including ourselves. <br /><br />Self-care, pampering and small luxuries are important for a healthy and balanced life and are not things to sacrifice in the name of environmental awareness and after considering the environmental impact of any self-care we choose it is critical that we make sure to enjoy it. While I will not be lounging in a brown massaging chair in a nail salon anytime soon, I will be doing self-care of all kinds. After all, we have a lot of work to do and I want to on my game. <br /><br />
<!--EndFragment--> Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-80758522949920128482013-06-29T10:47:00.000-07:002013-06-29T10:47:47.648-07:00Just Say No? Is informed consent possible in our current mental heath care climate?
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kHb_NJXYpcpmxxbsZAcGmPFToLEgv7nqALMuEqrIHsugjAz6wDUu95XWPWAjnkRdRYJsvl_o21E2tJ6lCDWsCzlvEFqkjXsEAG9KUY5lVUEKvKvOV-85zizL1GVYG2UBMt5xaNpuTbw/s800/Informed+consent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kHb_NJXYpcpmxxbsZAcGmPFToLEgv7nqALMuEqrIHsugjAz6wDUu95XWPWAjnkRdRYJsvl_o21E2tJ6lCDWsCzlvEFqkjXsEAG9KUY5lVUEKvKvOV-85zizL1GVYG2UBMt5xaNpuTbw/s320/Informed+consent.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">My profession
has been coopted. Seduced by the siren of medicalization whose sweet medical-model
notes lure my colleges into a diagnostic slumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we mental health therapists, psychologists
and psychiatrists amble along in a prescriptive haze, it is easy to dismiss
from mind the curious and magical roots of the healing arts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our current counseling climate, most
people seeking therapy expect to receive and are given a clinical diagnosis. A diagnostic
code based on the medical model of illness and disease is necessary in order to
bill insurance companies who have situated themselves in the lucrative position
of reimbursing clinicians for approved therapeutic services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While diagnostic codes have become a
pragmatic reality for the business of therapy, I fear my field is loosing sight
of the exquisitely human, relational and mysterious art of psychotherapy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Symptoms have
been rearranged into diagnostic checklists categorized to codify evidence-based
practices developed to treat mental disorders, the list of which has expanded
decade by decade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This mental health
manifest destiny, we are assured, empowers patients and enables practitioners to
use the most scientifically advanced treatments possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are barreling headfirst down the
mental-illness-as-a-brain-chemical-imbalance-disease path and I want us to slow
down and take a break by a waterfall or in a sunny spot to give us time to contemplate
if this road will truly take us where we want to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am concerned
the mainstreaming of medical modalities to treat mental illness may be making
us crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, more alarmingly, is pathologizing
reasonable responses to human experiences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The quest to mold mental illness into a brain disease model has been motivated
by multiple social and political forces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Treatment and profit, once engaged, have married in an opaque market driven
ceremony and my profession is doing a celebratory prescriptive waltz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mental illness
does exist. Medication is one of many viable treatment options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My worry is that this one viable treatment
is expanding in every direction to the exclusion of other possibilities and to the
detriment of all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">As a therapist,
I am regularly asked to give a diagnosis or make an educated guess about
whether or not someone needs medication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When a client asks me if they should take psychiatric medication because
they are depressed or anxious or worried they are bi-polar because they
experience ups and downs in mood, a tiny mental health seraph urges me to
scream, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hell no! This brain chemical
imbalance theory supports fictional disorders designed by a cadre of big pharma
sponsored psychiatrists and has absolutely no currently credible medical
evidence to back it up and the medications themselves are toxic and deadly!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another therapist seraph sits on my shoulder
and whispers the stories of all the people whose lives have been saved by
psychiatric medication. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am not
anti-medication, nor am I an advocate of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just say no!</i> approach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
like drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have taken drugs to treat
illness, heal from injuries and trauma, alter consciousness, connect with people,
disconnect from the chaos of life, and sometimes just to have a good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am by no means anti-drug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am, however, a steadfast advocate of empowered
and informed choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am concerned that
informed choice is being coopted under the banner of consumer choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The psychiatric medication-marketing machine is
just too big, too strong, too wealthy and too invested in the medical model for
other theories and treatments to be accessible in any mainstream manner. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mental health
treatment is now almost synonymous with a mental health diagnosis and more alarmingly,
with a psychiatric medication treatment protocol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Increasingly, a mental health diagnosis is a
required component for services such as having your insurance cover therapy,
accessing counseling through a mental health agency and participating in some
state funded programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>School children,
for example, receiving supplemental support services often face compulsory
conditions: they must obtain a diagnosis and take any prescribed psychiatric
medication in order to receive services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Typically there are no other treatment modalities available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brain chemical imbalance disease model
has become the only treatment available for many people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That this is happening when the scientific
evidence for a brain chemical imbalance theory is slim to none is disturbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no blood tests, or any other actual
tests, that can prove definitively that someone has a brain chemical imbalance
or a mental illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The philosophic
roots of psychology are being ripped out from underneath our profession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The relational importance of healing work is
becoming a radical outlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
concerns me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">People should be
involved and engaged in their healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In order to do this, we need to be informed, not coerced by science and
it’s mental health proxies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Informed and
engaged consent is not unlimited access to direct-to-consumer psychiatric
medication advertising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a mental
health therapist, I continuously struggle with how to support my clients in
making informed decisions about medication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Informed consent is critical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
massive amounts of pharmaceutical industry messaging that floods professional
offices, personal homes, consumer advocacy groups, university research programs
and media outlets is staggering. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
other mental health treatment modality has as much professional and cultural
influence as the pharmaceutical industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How then, is informed and engaged consent possible?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I used to think that
offering a space for clients to reflect on their values and beliefs about
medication was enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not any
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not in the face of
medical-model-brain-chemical-imbalance marketing madness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can no longer in good conscious simply say,
there are many options and medication is one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The influence of big pharma sits between me and my client luring them with
the sirens song of clinical trials, brain imaging photos, late night heat to
heart infomercials and bouncing yelling mascots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I don’t have a
mascot or MRI machine. I do however, have the power to speak up and share my concerns
about where I see my profession heading and the damage I believe is occurring
in the name of scientific, psychiatric progress. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I remain silent I am, in effect, colluding
with an out of control, profit driven industry that has obtained seemingly
unregulated access to and control over psychiatry, psychiatric research,
psychology and mental health counseling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I worry that we are pathologizing reasonable responses to complex human
experiences and that countless normal behaviors are being diagnosed and treated
with medication. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fear this is creating
a mono-social-psychological cultural landscape in which a vast range of human
behaviors are equated with disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
need radical provocateurs, daring visionaries, audacious artists, outspoken healers,
courageous warriors, brilliant loners, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">mischievous</span>
misfits, obsessive mechanics, insomniac bakers, anomic urban gardeners,
wildlife saving savants and every other wild child, quiet adult, party animal
and solitary scientist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nature abhors monoculture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are learning this lesson in devastating,
bee colony collapsing ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Humans are incredible
diverse and it is our differences that make humanity possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as different crops nurture, feed and
sustain one another, we pollinate humanity through difference. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Psychiatry and
psychology need to widen, rather than narrow, the enormous range of acceptable
normality in behavior, personality, and psychological constitution and embrace both
the science and the art of healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will take serious effort to counter the
cultural influence of pharmaceutical driven care so that multiple treatment modalities
are widely accessible for the general public and that the craft of healing work
is recognized as being viable even as it eludes scientific verifiability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consumers, clients and clinicians will need
to continue to collaborate, speak truth to power, support seemingly “radical”
alternatives, mainstream multiple healing modalities, challenge science to
research towards collective good, and organize in solidarity across different therapeutic
approaches, fields and professions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-68134195231785332882013-05-19T08:53:00.002-07:002013-05-19T08:53:54.724-07:00Dreaming in Dance: Relationship Rumba <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9g9Fj7TCmIKXw7eRv6cZxKhwxidKqTY1iZF8onJGuuNqYRXXBXp7581hxeIfHWL0bMeaDH-8PV8dHU0-yUEljImoI-X0mvcdtaW_lQiMG9gOGZxZUS4BxBB7GAPpXTth-PxPbAaZtBg/s1600/Shadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9g9Fj7TCmIKXw7eRv6cZxKhwxidKqTY1iZF8onJGuuNqYRXXBXp7581hxeIfHWL0bMeaDH-8PV8dHU0-yUEljImoI-X0mvcdtaW_lQiMG9gOGZxZUS4BxBB7GAPpXTth-PxPbAaZtBg/s200/Shadow.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit in the dark, wedged in row twelve, aisle C, seat
sixteen, my legs crossed tightly and I wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The audience is suspended in blackness; the single center stage
spotlight with the number eight filter falls faintly on the middle five seats
in the very front row.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watch the people
seated there<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One man leans forward, tightly coiled as if he’s
going to spring from his seat at any second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The woman sitting next to him picks lint off her black scarf,
occasionally patting her grey hair piled loosely in a bun at the nape of her
neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman on her right is
motionless save a slightly tapping forefinger in an otherwise still hand
resting in her lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next to her, a young
man in canvas shorts, long sleeve t-shirt and silver Asics running shoes, fidgets
all his extremities, crossing and uncrossing feet, legs, arms and hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The final man in the row wears sandals and I
see his toes curling tightly and then stretching, toes fanning out with an
impressive amount of space between each toe. He must do yoga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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extreme caution. The air feels like the low pressure before a summer storm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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</span>The veins in his forearm pulse slightly. Otherwise, he is perfectly still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is impossible to detect his
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<br /></div>
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joints to flick forearms, wrists, fingertips in crashing waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feet rolling, knees angled assertively to the
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knees up in high jumps and land soundlessly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Move! Do something! </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is what I hear when I watch them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lone man remains motionless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know who I should root for.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A ballerina leaps across the stage, all legs and long arms with
fingers that seem to stretch for miles, dark hair piled tightly in a neat bun
on the back of her head, a red tutu unraveling behind her as she leaps, legs
stretched impossibly straight, across the stage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lookatmelookatmelookatme…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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stage and is silently screaming.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Earlier that day my husband and I were arguing about what it
means to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really listen</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Would it have been a better argument if we could communicate
this way? Me, popping, rolling and chin jutting to make a point about the
importance of clarification and reflection while he twirls, kicks and
summersaults across he living room in rebuttal:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> You don’t have to reflect to listen</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would we end up in flailing versions of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">West Side Story</i>, a Jets vs. Rockets: Communication
Miscommunication Breakdown! Would we listen differently? Discover new
perspectives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would we see one another
anew? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The mime is gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How does he do that? Just appear and disappear? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other dancers have left as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lone man remains standing in a white pool
of light, one arm arched over his head, fingers dangling towards the floor. The
other arm folded around his waist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
a few moments, I realize his arms are reversed and that if I’m patient enough,
I can see the slight rise and fall of his abdomen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reach over for my husband’s hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will not be pirouetting through the living
room to tell him that he does in fact, need to learn how to validate my feelings
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I can try.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-86013002977015713312013-04-30T11:02:00.000-07:002013-04-30T17:12:51.833-07:00Wild<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqW0-hG-C7eidk_dBBjxPQx97hyphenhyphenmcGQ6GoM1ZNaE2aHPdl_rlCeR-xR92bWkKlrDNTDCacuvlbg4zxAJDkc_qfsBycOQSE2XPpUhX5EQK5d5YlQk7DAL4DEX6iiPiA3qHW5rph3AMycHI/s1600/Afternooon+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqW0-hG-C7eidk_dBBjxPQx97hyphenhyphenmcGQ6GoM1ZNaE2aHPdl_rlCeR-xR92bWkKlrDNTDCacuvlbg4zxAJDkc_qfsBycOQSE2XPpUhX5EQK5d5YlQk7DAL4DEX6iiPiA3qHW5rph3AMycHI/s320/Afternooon+.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boy</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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scrambles <o:p></o:p></div>
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grassy hillside bare <o:p></o:p></div>
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toes squish<o:p></o:p></div>
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gain purchase<o:p></o:p></div>
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dark brown earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Upturned red worms<o:p></o:p></div>
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curl, <o:p></o:p></div>
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seek darkness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten fingers <o:p></o:p></div>
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claw<o:p></o:p></div>
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clumps of crabgrass<o:p></o:p></div>
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boy pulls himself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
pushes off <o:p></o:p></div>
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mossy stump<o:p></o:p></div>
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runs down<o:p></o:p></div>
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fast <o:p></o:p></div>
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arms spinning<o:p></o:p></div>
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laughing <o:p></o:p></div>
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snorts of air<o:p></o:p></div>
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jumps sideways<o:p></o:p></div>
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dodging invisible foes<o:p></o:p></div>
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wind draws tears <o:p></o:p></div>
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down cheek <o:p></o:p></div>
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muddy red t-shirt<o:p></o:p></div>
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frayed edges<o:p></o:p></div>
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clings to slim torso<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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he runs <o:p></o:p></div>
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wild<o:p></o:p></div>
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climbs ancient oak tree<o:p></o:p></div>
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griping shreds of bark<o:p></o:p></div>
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ten fingers encircle<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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long, sturdy limbs <o:p></o:p></div>
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he jumps,<o:p></o:p></div>
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pumping legs<o:p></o:p></div>
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smiling <o:p></o:p></div>
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flings himself in the air. . .<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stop that, Brian! It’s
not safe. Get over here.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His mother<o:p></o:p></div>
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worry wearing thin <o:p></o:p></div>
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lines <o:p></o:p></div>
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puckering peach-tinted lips.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Brian<o:p></o:p></div>
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walks over<o:p></o:p></div>
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plunks down<o:p></o:p></div>
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on a brightly colored square of plastic<o:p></o:p></div>
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designed for easy assembly<o:p></o:p></div>
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so ten tiny fingers <o:p></o:p></div>
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will not get caught. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brian<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
folds in on himself<o:p></o:p></div>
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swings his legs off the side of the bright plastic cube<o:p></o:p></div>
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absently kicking <o:p></o:p></div>
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his mom returning to her paperback<o:p></o:p></div>
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…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ten baby chickens<o:p></o:p></div>
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snuggled inside<o:p></o:p></div>
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high metal wall<o:p></o:p></div>
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watering tub home <o:p></o:p></div>
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nestle <o:p></o:p></div>
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under heat lamp waves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Personalities, silent <o:p></o:p></div>
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make startling proclamations<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
when ten baby chicks<o:p></o:p></div>
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are released <o:p></o:p></div>
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into the yard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Let the real sun <o:p></o:p></div>
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which has made a welcome April appearance <o:p></o:p></div>
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warm them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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White tiny ball of feathers<o:p></o:p></div>
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jumps from my hand<o:p></o:p></div>
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flaps wings<o:p></o:p></div>
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lands on <o:p></o:p></div>
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sweet summer grass<o:p></o:p></div>
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dashes right, left<o:p></o:p></div>
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chirping like a car alarm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Grey one,<o:p></o:p></div>
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dark streaks<o:p></o:p></div>
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smudged eyeliner<o:p></o:p></div>
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reminds me of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flock of
Seagulls</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She runs<o:p></o:p></div>
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directly to the highest point<o:p></o:p></div>
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caws loudly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Orange baby chick<o:p></o:p></div>
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neat white, brown and tan spots <o:p></o:p></div>
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sports shinny black tail feathers clumped together <o:p></o:p></div>
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a blunt triangle <o:p></o:p></div>
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like a rudder propelling her<o:p></o:p></div>
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dashes madly, <o:p></o:p></div>
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stops so suddenly <o:p></o:p></div>
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you can almost hear the cartoon <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">screeeech!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Black baby chick<o:p></o:p></div>
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red and green undertones<o:p></o:p></div>
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that shimmer in sunlight<o:p></o:p></div>
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runs in circles <o:p></o:p></div>
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flaps her wings<o:p></o:p></div>
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peep-peeping. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Grey and silver chick<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
silently<o:p></o:p></div>
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stretches each wing methodically<o:p></o:p></div>
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flaps one then the other <o:p></o:p></div>
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slowly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brown and black baby chick<o:p></o:p></div>
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leaps<o:p></o:p></div>
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pecks at a blade of grass that arches <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
over her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She is determined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Hop-hop-hop. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She rests. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Begins again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, snatches the tip mid-hop. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Triumphant, she scoots off <o:p></o:p></div>
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pecking at an ant carrying a cracker crumb. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sun dims<o:p></o:p></div>
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shadows cool air,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one by one<o:p></o:p></div>
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I place them back <o:p></o:p></div>
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inside watering tub home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They collapse<o:p></o:p></div>
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a collage of colors<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
clustered under<o:p></o:p></div>
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amber heat lamp light.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They do not run or chirp<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They do not scratch cedar chips<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
do not stretch wings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They fold in on themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watch ten baby chicks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
silent in a safe contained tub.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hold dear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
rowdy, loud children<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
grass in hair<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
dirt on face<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
laughing madly as they climb<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with reckless abandon <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to the edge of tree limbs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
swaying under the weight<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as they climb, climb, climb.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-67541170809566724722013-03-31T08:34:00.000-07:002013-04-09T10:44:47.378-07:00Pink Obedient<!--StartFragment-->
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQ0x5opo_38AyV9oYHuOQc3oH70tQ6G38viHi-Dmx0Grrr8fCRBRp4W2olTCARpgvLUaWiWHga2ypfiDIOrL0OZe96XDTM9TqcY7macKNWSVtOxJSoHfCyVR5popRgHMOualXiDOr33U/s1600/Flowers+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQ0x5opo_38AyV9oYHuOQc3oH70tQ6G38viHi-Dmx0Grrr8fCRBRp4W2olTCARpgvLUaWiWHga2ypfiDIOrL0OZe96XDTM9TqcY7macKNWSVtOxJSoHfCyVR5popRgHMOualXiDOr33U/s320/Flowers+.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I would get stuck with a name like Pink Obedient. It figures. My mom, Miss Manners comes from a newer, more orderly variety and she and her friends keep to themselves in well-behaved clusters. She loves it, all of them huddled together. I feel claustrophobic. I hate it here. The neat corner of each white pine panel, hand sawed by the Lady in Residence as I have come to call her. She lovingly jigsawed alternating notch and grooves in each board so she wouldn’t have to use <i>unsightly nails</i>. I don’t care about nails. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> She does make her own compost. This I care about. I can feel nitrogen and phosphorus making magic on my lateral roots. It makes me feel flush and firm with possibilities. My pink petals, thick around the oval edges are sturdy and resilient. I am hardy, healthy, I’ll giver her that, she makes good soil. I feel as if I could lift a root through the black dirt, plant it firmly, lean slightly then push down to pull up another root. I’ve seen enough people walk by from my perch in the middle of the parking strip to see how it’s done. They make it seem effortless, this one broad foot in front of the other business. I’d like to see them try it buried mid-thigh in freshly composted and de-pebbled dirt. Sometimes they stop, smile, and bring their faces close to me, enormous and looming they inhale and tell me how pretty I am. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sundays, the Lady in Residence walks down her front porch steps, feet encased in thick blue gardening socks and matching Crocs. She leans towards me, pinches my petals, pats the soil around my stem, smiles and says, <i>You look like you could use a drink</i>. She spends the afternoon pruning and picking while NPR’s Lynne Rossetto Kasper blares from her open living room window. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> On warmer days, new neighbors stop at the corner to chat. The twenty-something couple with matching pegged skinny jeans, close cropped hair, and square glasses. The recently divorced mother of two downsized from a three bedroom suburban home to one of the three-story glass and steel condos sprouting up like Scotch Bloom. Her small square patch of gravel and ornamental grass makes her miss her garden and brings her outside to talk to our Lady in Residence. They stand over fattening Green Zebras tomatoes, Rainbow Chard, snap-pea vine sprouts, dill, Butter Lettuce, bright Daffodils, Stargazer Lilies, and of course clusters of Miss Manners and Pink Obedients, talking about compost and divorce attorney fees. There is Marty and Marlene, stay-at-home moms with ponytails and power walking tennis shoes. They laugh as they swap horror stories of canning thirty jars of farmer’s market strawberries or tying to find a bicycle powered honey extractor. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There I am, right in the middle of them, swaying in the slight breeze. Occasionally a hummingbird swoops by delighting the women. They stop talking, grab one another’s arm and watch silently as the hummingbird gorges on the organic cane sugar and distilled water glistening in the red glass feeder shaped like a giant sunflower. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">They gossip and trade war stories of making home made baby food and fresh Yakasobi noodles. Sighing, they talk about painting over graffiti and telling teenagers in freshly washed and waxed cars to <i>slow down!</i> They commiserate about the unsightliness of the adjacent vacant lot with the bulldozed remains of Mrs. Bella’s home. Mrs. Bella, a grandmother who unsuccessfully fought off developers in pressed blue suits and sunglasses, who refused to take no for an answer as long as she could, had moved father south. The women, excited about their newly formed neighborhood watch group discussed when they should schedule a clean up and planting day to <i>pretty up </i>the vacant lot.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Pretty. I’m sick of pretty. I watched the adjacent lot they lamented. I saw blackberry vines climb in, around, over piles of rocks and framing wood left after the bulldozing. I admired their slow moving deftness and refusal to stay in place. They, like Mrs. Bella, would not give in without a fight. I envied the way a discarded Diana Althaeas shrub took root then lengthened itself left and right across the northwest corner of the lot and how a seemingly dead Fuchsia Ganii was coming back to life, its branches arching neatly next to a deflated bicycle tire framing bunches of dandelions. Annual Bluegrass spread in cracks in the cement while clusters of daffodils burst open with possibility. I wanted to be in that lot, not stuck here, neatly planted in tight rows. I was sick of being picked, patted, weeded, watered, aerated, smiled at and told I was pretty. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> As the newly formed neighborhood watch members ended conversations about calls to the city for new street lamps, how to pickle asparagus and whether or not it hurt property values to have a food bank in the neighborhood, peeled off to unload groceries, I savored the silence and blue sky.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I remember Mrs. Bella’s house, leveled a month after the Lady in Residence moved in. I remember Mrs. Bella talking to the men in pressed suits, shaking her head <i>no</i>. I remember groups of young people going in and out of her house with stacks of flyers full of numbers and quotes about how people who grew up in this neighborhood could no longer afford to live here. I watched the day the bulldozers came, dust swirling in the morning breeze and then settling inside each and every one of my cones. Within days of bulldozing sprouts of Bluegrass began to sneak itself in between mounds of gravel and blackberry vines eased into crevices, slowing taking over. At night, under the stars, you can hear the rustle of plants as cats hunt mice and avoid families of scavenging raccoons. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It felt inevitable that a square stack of glass and steel would replace Mrs. Bella’s house and the empty lot. I wanted to yank myself up by my roots, march over to the blackberry vines and organize a takeover. I wanted an uprising of Diana Althaeas, Fuchsia Ganii, Annual Bluegrass and feral cats. I love how we learn to grow sideways, inside minuscule obscured spaces and pop out of every unweeded crack and crevice. I did not want to live up to my name, Pink Obedient or my mother’s Miss Manners. After Sunday’s patting and pruning, I focused all my energy into shooting roots in every direction, imagining them spilling over the pine board, edging along the sidewalk, spreading across the street and up the Lady in Residence’s freshly painted porch steps. I imagined steel and concrete buried inside lush forests of pea vines, raspberry stalks, and towering grass grown wild. I dreamt of rioting rose bushes busting through gates and pushing down wood fences. These dreams keep me alive and hopeful just as the compost keeps me strong and resilient. </span></span></div>
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Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-63754442415798488102013-02-25T11:41:00.002-08:002013-03-31T08:41:00.745-07:00One in a Sereis of Six Year Old Good Ideas<div style="color: white;">
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">I am
standing in front of my bedroom mirror, leaning against my J.C. Penny bunk
bed. I am looking alternately at
myself, dressed in my favorite purple, brown and green pantsuit and at the
posters of thick boned and shiny coated Appaloosa and Thoroughbred horses
dotting the white walls, their hooves glistening as they run through wheat
fields and on windy beaches. I
could hear my mom in the other room, vacuuming. I took a deep breath.
I was ready. It was go time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">It
started with a bottle of baby aspirin.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">I
recently experienced my first high grade fever and my mom gave me an orange
baby aspirin. I loved the orange-y
way they tasted; like Tang but condensed into a tiny flavor button that
exploded when you bit into it. I
let the pinky-orange tablet sit on my tongue until it was at the perfect stage,
just between mushy and powdery, then with reckless abandoned, I would smash it
between my back molars. I decided
one fateful Saturday afternoon in 1974 that if one baby aspirin had so much
flavor and was so much fun, then, well, more would be even better. By the end of my mushing and biting and
savoring and swallowing adventure, I had consumed the entire bottle of Bayer's
Baby Aspirin. My mom knocked on
the bathroom door. I had been
sitting on the toilet chewing then getting up to look at the pinky-orange glob
on my tongue before swallowing. I
felt sick. My stomach rolled
around like a Kit Kat wrapper in a windstorm. My head, in an ironic twist, my six year old self was not
quite old enough to fully appreciate, throbbed with one of the worst headaches
I had ever experienced. I opened
the bathroom door. My mom stood,
framed in the doorway, her yellow sundress with white and brown overlapping
circles shimmered under my gaze. She leaned towards me, eyebrows furrowed, blue
eyes crinkled. “You don’t look
good, Cristien. How bad is
it?” I slumped onto the bathroom
floor unable to answer her. She
saw the empty bottle of baby aspirin on the counter. “Did you eat the entire bottle?” I tried to nod but was
pretty sure my head was not cooperating. “Yes...” I finally eked out. “Crap.” She replied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">I
was leaning against my mother’s shoulder as we sat in the emergency room, both hands on my stomach in a vain
attempt to stop what felt like a roller coaster competition for: Worst. Ride.
Ever. My mom absently patted my back.
Then, he appeared. I looked
up from my miserable, nauseous, throbbing, aching, shaking, moaning state of
existence, and saw him. I sat up,
tried to smooth my sweat-matted hair.
He looked me in the eye, put a soft warm hand on my shoulder and said,
“Hey there, seems like you like those aspirin.” I nodded, smiled and felt even more flushed, which I hadn’t
thought was possible given my feverish state. His voice was husky and full of concern. His green eyes sparkled with just a
hint of a smile. When he took his hand away from my shoulder, I put my smaller
hand over the spot, letting the lingering warmth seep into my palm. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The
rest of the afternoon was a blur of efficient nurses in white snapping gadgets
together, poking me with sharp metal objects, cold metal tables and the taste
of strawberries when a mask was placed gently over my mouth. I woke up, lying flat on my back
encased in a million baby blue polyester blend hospital blankets. My stomach felt like someone had
vacuumed it, which as I found out later was not too far from what actually
happened. Every inch of my body
ached. Even my fingernails felt sore.
I looked over and saw my mom through the side rails on my bed reading a
magazine. The doctor came in. “How are you feeling? he asked. I nodded and a thousand pebbles crashed
against one another in my head creating electric blue and white sparks that
blurred my vision. “Ok.” I tried
to smile and look brave. He smiled
back at me, put his hand on my forehead and I leaned into it like a cat does
when you pet it. I wanted to stay
that way forever. “Looks like you
are feeling a little better.” He said as he moved his hand from my forehead to
my shoulder, swiping his small grey pen-light into my eyes. “You’re all set to go home, but no more
aspirin for you young lady.” I
nodded, pebbles clanging as I silently glowed under the words, young lady.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The
rest of that day and for much of the following week, I recalled the feel of his
hand on my shoulder and the concern in his voice. My parents, barely on the other side of adolescence
themselves when my sister and I were born, were overwhelmed with raising twins
and getting my dad through graduate school. Because money was tight, they worked as RA’s or residential
associates in a doom filled with over 30 hormone-raging physicist-in-training
and were constantly being called to put out a small chemical explosion, or help
disassemble the motorcycle that had been built in the women’s bathroom, or
remove the still functioning and ungodly heavy cannon that had mysteriously
been dropped into the wading pool.
In other words, my parents did not have a lot of time for my sister and
me. This was fantastic in some
ways. We were the only children on
campus and we got to run around the entire 100 plus acre grounds unsupervised,
playing for hours, sometimes entire days in the various dorms, auditoriums,
libraries, the wading pool and enormous olive tree grove. I got to watch someone light a cannon
full of gunpowder and paper mache on exam day in order to startle the masses of
students slumped over test papers. I helped students prank a dorm resident when
he was on vacation by rearranging his entire dorm room using glue and basic
geometry so that the ceiling became the new floor. It was fun getting woken up by giggling grad students at 3am
so you can help them TP the dean’s residence or fill the wading pool with
hundreds of gold fish. It was
amazing when the students who lived in our building constructed a haunted house
just for my sister and me. I got
to help build contraptions that shot small household items into space. No one challenged me when I took long
serrated knives from the cafeteria or Bunsen burners from the chemistry lab to
use for my daylong archeological digs.
I parachuted from the top of the one of the graduate housing dorm room
roofs with two bed sheets tied together.
When one of the dozens of students who looked after my sister and me was
busy studying or making out in the TA’s lounge, I learned how to nurse my own
bruises and soothe myself when I became scared. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Despite
the excitement and daily sense of adventure my life had at the time, I secretly
longed for a mom or dad who would hover over me at bedtime asking inquisitive
question after question. I ached
for an adult who would sit next to me on Saturday morning to watch cartoons, or
brush my hair while we ate popcorn and listened to the radio. When I got hurt, my mom or dad would
ask, “How bad is it Cristien?” As in, do we need to take you to get stitches?
To be fair, I got a lot of stitches.
Instead of a clinical assessment, I wanted someone to rush over, put a
warm soft palm on my forehead and gush, “ Are you ok?” So, when Mr. Doctor, as I called him,
leaned over me, a concerned look creasing his forehead, a slight smile curving
the edges of his mouth, and put warm soft hand on my forehead while asking me
“How are you feeling Cristien?” I
was hooked. I wanted more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The
rest of the week was spent plotting.
How does a six year old get admitted to the emergency room on a Saturday
afternoon without getting hurt too badly?
How do you assess the dangerous-to-dumb ratio of an idea? How do you
know the where the tipping point is between a brilliant plan and a
could-get-you-killed-stupid scheme? How do you know the scenario you picture in
your imagination will actually come to fruition? I didn’t. But I
had to try. The memory of those
green eyes, soft palms and the way he thoughtfully warmed his stethoscope
before placing it on my shoulder blades were powerful. I couldn't resist. I fine tuned a plan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Being
someone who enjoyed exploring the world through my senses, and being willing
to, on a dare, taste just about anything that smelled good, I came up with the
perfect idea. The time I drank whole
bottles of vanilla and almond extract I felt woozy but the burn the liquid made
as it poured down my esophagus was tolerable. When I drank all the cherry cough syrup in one sitting, I
felt ok, sleepy all the next day, but generally fine. What else smelled good enough to drink and would make me
sick? By Friday, I had my
answer. Gasoline. I loved the way it smelled. I loved the tangy, bitterness of
gasoline vapors when they wafted up my nose. Perfect. By
Saturday morning, my good idea was turning out great. I brushed my hair, smoothed my bangs, and after asking my
mom to help me put on my favorite outfit, I was ready. I stopped to look at myself in my
bedroom mirror. Ok, I thought as I
checked out my 6 year old reflection staring back at me; my purple, brown and
green checkered pant-suit look good, my vest was buttoned up, the bell bottom
of my pants hung just below the heels of my worn in brown cowboy boots. I even wore my appaloosa belt with its
dappled horse-head buckle. I
sauntered out of our dorm room apartment, cowboy boots clipping on the
sidewalk, the bright Saturday morning sunshine warming my shoulders. I walked to the parking lot where I had
previously stashed the bit of hose I lifted from the chemistry lab earlier in
the week. I unscrewed the gas cap
on my dad’s blue Volvo, savoring the tangy waft of vapors, stuck in the hose,
and with a deep inhale and satisfied smile, sucked in the sweet smelling
gas. The last thing I remember as
I slumped against the Volvo’s rear tire trying not to get any of the gasoline
I’d spit back up on my purple, brown and green pants was my dad leaning over
me. “Cristien, did you just drink
gas? Jesus Christ. How bad is it?”</span></div>
Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-30844751088738682832013-01-28T11:53:00.001-08:002013-01-28T11:53:43.837-08:00The Magician’s Corner<br />
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m
walking downtown</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">down
a street swimming in suits, sewn</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">with
nimble fingers, worn to the jointbone of resistance.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Sharp
segments of time, reflecting grim faces</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">clipped
heels snapping against ground gravel</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">grinding
smiles into these thin lines.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Smog
and sun settling densely,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">a
thick fog of power</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">suck<u>s</u>
wry grins</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">uncalloused
fingers clench steamy coffee cups, to-go orders</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">thick
wrists snap, check cell phones</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">toned
upper arms sling gym bags and briefcases</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">stride
down the sidewalk</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">stride
in and out of meetings</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">from
event to pre-scheduled event, bustling</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">walking
PTA time bombs.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>A
sea of excellence, power suited to dance a mean-ass techno tango.</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">One
hand hinged around the bones of a sculpted</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">upper
arm, the other hand smothering any excuse for why things could,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">in
fact, be different.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m
an undecided lesson in ethics, posturing</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">in
an Aikido dance with attitude and intentions, moving</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">towards
sidestepping executive exhales of disdain,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">of
dissatisfaction that I’m interrupting images of perfection.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
am a human wrinkle in power-time</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">generating
a generation of giving. O.R.G from</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">a
dot.com handshake and deal-stealing-dot.do.your.own.dirty.work.dot.com</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m
focused on getting down the street,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">swimming
through the patriarch of patent leather,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">when
time stops in a silent spasm of shock ripples.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Inbetween
glimpses, snatched</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">as
woolen gray-blue blurs of power primp by, primly</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">looking
forward, only forward and slightly down</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">
—I see him.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Sitting
on the heels of a significantly held breath,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">is
a man perpendicular to pedestrian traffic<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">a
man who is directly facing me</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">long
hair, strands of black curtains, cascade in stringy chunks down his face.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">He’s
staring at me but seeing nothing</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">one
hand squarely crammed down the front of his pants,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">the
other is fanned out on his breastbone</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">fluttering
slightly each time his tongue appears briefly between his lips .</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
turn away for a moment,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">then
look back to make sure</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">he’s
still there behind the traffic of people</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">framed
in by the wall of some business or bank<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">he’s
got a wide berth of space around him</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">about
as wide as the law of polite distance and resentment can give.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">His
face, what I can see through the curtain of black,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">wears
pain as broken blood vessels, little road maps</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">of
mistaken turns and dead ends</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">as
the hand down his pants moves faster the rest of his body seems impossibly
still</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>Shit!
Who the hell does he think he is, jacking off on a corner!</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>Taking
up space, the space I have to walk around just to feel safe!</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">As
I turn on my heels, stride away in a huff of stuffed up</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">rage
and resentment, I find myself sucked back into the void</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">of
his fluttering fingers and that damn smile on his face.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">He’s
staring at something behind his open eyes<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">something
that is still</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">within
the parameter of space around him,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">that
wide berth of concrete and sidewalk</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">that
he’s allowed, that’s what he’s got</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">it’s
all his.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
feel a little like a voyeur staring as I continue to</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">stare,
transfixed by those fluttering fingers, his smile<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">bigger
and my anger at the danger of being caught, being a voyeur</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">begins
to reorient its self.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
find I am suddenly angry, that he’s probably more angry</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">than
me right now,<u> </u>pissed off that all the hustle </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">of
daily life can’t just shut up for five fucking minutes</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">so
he can get off<u>.</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">He
already has to wake up, sleep, shit, smile, snore, and daydream</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">on
9-5 time. He has eight feet of personal space,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">and
I’m somehow pissed off because he’s jacking off</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">on
a street corner</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">in
public.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Why
not be angry that people have to make walls out of necessity<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">make
walls out of resentful eyes and smoggy city air</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">why
not be angry at a city,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">at
a city that does not provide enough space for everyone</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">to
jack off privately<u>.</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">How
can I be angry with this man who’s magic</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">is
making space out of no space</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">and
walls out of thin air?</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m
angered<u> </u>at a magician for surviving</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">and
worried about how I got there<u>.</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m
out of place among the power</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">suits
of gray wool and expensive perfume<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">angry
and disgruntled</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">at
the sights and smells of true pain</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
wonder about his anger</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">this
man, who stands across from me,</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">inside
his house, his castle, his soul, his mind, and his body</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">outside,
on his street corner</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">his
home</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
wonder about my anger<u>,</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>how
did I get here</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPS-ItalicMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>
how can I come home</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
want to make change<u>.</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I
want us to all come home<u>.</u></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-91422553779310771592012-12-22T08:58:00.000-08:002012-12-22T08:58:59.773-08:00Holiday Garbage<div style="color: white;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It
had come down to digging through garbage.<span>
</span>The two 20 gallon trash containers, sitting side by side behind a
decorative wood slat structure were overflowing with things my mother had
recently decided we no longer needed: kitchenware, food, jackets, clothes,
family heirlooms, toys, books, photographs and each and every last gift wrapped
holiday present.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My
family had moved to Diablo, California two years earlier.<span> </span>In those two years things had not gone
well.<span> </span>There was a divorce that I
was old enough to feel some relief about.<span>
</span>The relief was short lived.<span>
</span>Soon after my dad moved out, the fighting stopped, but other things
changed, and not for the better.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When
we first moved to northern California, I had extraordinary freedom.<span> </span>I slept alone outside in the rolling
hills near our house all summer.<span>
</span>My friend Chris and I rode horses up Mt. Diablo and camped for days on
end.<span> </span>My mom would occasionally
drive up the mountain and drop off boxes of food that we ate around a campfire,
adding mustard seeds we picked from the wild yellow and green stalks that grew
everywhere.<span> </span>With flair, Chris and
I would toss handfuls of seeds into our cans of chili or spaghetti o’s. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My
dad, like many dads, worked long hours.<span>
</span>My mom got a job as a realtor and was out most of the day and many
evenings showing homes.<span> </span>I learned
how to cook what I thought at the time were fairly elaborate meals including
omelets and grilled cheese sandwiches with tomatoes. I got myself to school and
generally took care of myself.<span>
</span>When I got lonely, I brought my pony, Merrylegs, into the house.<span> </span>I even brought her upstairs to show her
my bedroom.<span> </span>This, as you might
imagine, did not go over well.<span> </span>To
this day, it remains a mystery as to how my mom was able to clean hoof prints
out of the carpet and I am still a little surprised that my pony was able to
navigate our staircase.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
am not sure if the years of unrestrained freedom, or ponies in the living room
eventually became too much for my mom, or if the chemicals in her brain morphed
in response to some unidentified stimuli, but she began to change.<span> </span>No longer was I allowed to ride my dad’s
green Schwin bicycle to school.<span> </span>A
10-mile ride through windy tree lined streets that I loved.<span> </span>One morning, I begged and pleaded
enough that she relented, after insisting that she follow me in her car the
entire way.<span> </span>I pounded the petals,
pumping as fast as I could in a vain attempt to get away from her hovering
shadow.<span> </span>My sister and I now had to
come straight home from school, had to sit in the back seat of her car reading
TinTin comics while she showed houses to strangers.<span> </span>She bolted the front door.<span> </span>No more camping or sleeping outside.<span> </span>No more after school adventures in the
hills next to our house.<span> </span>Friends
were told not to stop by.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then,
things changed again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">She
arrived unannounced at my elementary school one morning claiming the principle
was trying to poison us with pencil lead. We were taken out of after school
sports, and no longer allowed to attend parties or school functions. She began
to turn pictures around on the walls.<span>
</span>She told me that my sister was supposed to be born a boy but the doctors
changed her gender at the hospital.<span>
</span>When I asked what gender I was supposed to be, she looked at me, her
blue eyes cold and hard and said, “The doctors didn’t know what they were
doing. I know that now.<span> </span>Stop
listening.”<span> </span>I had no idea what she
meant.<span> </span>Recently, she had started
saying things that made no sense to me.<span>
</span>At that point, her crazy phrases as I called them, were the least of my
worries.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On
Saturday mornings, in addition to pancakes and cartoons, my sister and I were
told to scour the house looking for tiny microphones.<span> </span>Sometimes this was fun. I would pretend I was a brave girl
detective solving small important domestic mysteries or uncovering
international spy rings.<span> </span>Other
times, it was scary.<span> </span>I wasn’t sure
what would be more frightening: finding a tiny microphone, or never finding
one.<span> </span>I began to whisper when I
talked and often felt as if I was being observed even though no one was around.
There were new dangers we were told to be aware of and new rituals we had to
follow.<span> </span>For a few months, we had
to eat three Tums nightly. I remember stacks of Tums on my bedroom dresser.<span> </span>She would sit at the end of my bed,
quietly waiting for me to finish chewing, then get up to leave, refusing my
plea to close to door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This
was also the year my mom threw out most of my clothes. I ended up with two
basic outfits to wear to school.<span>
</span>Having only two basic outfits to wear to school was, among other things,
a grade school girl’s worst nightmare.<span>
</span>I tried desperately to mix and match like they told you to in TeenBeat,
but, I lacked the necessary <i>statement</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> accessories.<span> </span>I was loosing
friends.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My
dad, just beginning to realize the depth of the delusions, tried to get us out
of there.<span> </span>It took a long
time.<span> </span>While he was fighting courts
and filing paperwork, he would occasionally stop by Green Valley Elementary
School to visit my sister and me.<span>
</span>Sometimes he would take us out for lunch, ask how we were doing.<span> </span><i>Fine.</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>You get
used to it.<span> </span>You figure out how to
get by day to day.<span> </span>You work out
routines, ignore the sad looks from adults and pretend not to see the sneers
from your schoolmates.<span> </span>You wrote
in your journal, watched TV and slowly let go of the hope that your mom would
suddenly snap out of it and things would return to normal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As
the holidays arrived, so did my mother’s madness.<span> </span>I saw her screaming at the mailman one day, yelling at him
to take back the boxes he tried to hand her.<span> </span>He didn’t take them back and my mom threw them all in the
trash.<span> </span>For some reason, watching
her methodically put each holiday wrapped box, each letter, each large
seasonally decorated envelop into the garbage was the point when I realized
things were bad.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Really
bad.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When
things are bad, you look for the silver lining.<span> </span>Or in my case the silver and white boxes of Norwegian candy
my grandmother sent every year at Christmas.<span> </span>My sister and I snuck into the decorative wood slate
barricade.<span> </span>I gasped.<span> </span>Our two garbage cans were over flowing
with holiday fair.<span> </span>Red and green
boxes, sliver containers with snowflakes, dark chocolate and marzipan bars, two
holiday wreaths with plastic lingonberries and the silver and white boxes of
Norwegian candy.<span> </span>I started yanking
things from the cans, while simultaneously stuffing a hastily unwrapped
marzipan bar in my mouth. I wasn’t sure how much time I had, and I was
desperate to cram as much stuff as I could into my Charles Angles backpack.
Earlier that morning I had dumped my schoolbooks behind the large oak tree in
our driveway.<span> </span>That way, I could
fill my empty backpack and smuggle my goods into the house.<span> </span>I pictured sauntering casually past my
mom, waving hello <i>Yes, school was fine, no Mr. Tincanus didn’t make us re-do
our history assignment. Gonna go do homework.<span> </span>Be downstairs in a bit. Bye.</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
wanted time to open each box, one by one.<span>
</span>I wanted time to decide what to keep and what I would, under the cover
of night, put back in the two metal garbage cans.<span> </span>My sister, slightly smaller than me, despite our being
twins, was able to perch on a wooden platform to the left of the cans, a pile
of boxes of all sizes next to her.<span>
</span>She was taking a different approach.<span> </span>While I stuffed everything I could into my backpack to be
sorted out later, she took a box, shook it, looked at the label and after
studying it for a moment would either place it in her ever growing pile or
discard it by tossing it on the ground.<span>
</span>There were advent calendars and small blue boxes with white snowflakes
that we know were jewelry from Farfar, our paternal grandmother who lived in
Norway and who, every year, sent my sister and I delicate jewelry that I
inevitably lost or broke while riding horses, or playing kick ball. My sister
was more careful than I and had a pile of gold heart pendants, tiny turquoise
rings, and brass bracelets with square lip gloss containers welded on the top
to prove it.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">After
cramming our backpacks with as much candy, small pink and green marzipan pigs,
toblar bars, tins of fruit candies and boxes of unidentified gifts as we
possible could, we casually sauntered into the house.<span> </span>We walked past our mom, making after school noises: yeah, <i>school
was fine, got a lot of homework, be down for dinner.<span> </span></i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Splitting up at
the end of the hallway, we went into our separate rooms.<span> </span>Closing the door behind me, I
sighed.<span> </span>I had taken measures into
my own hands.<span> </span>Had made and followed
through with a plan.<span> </span>There would
be some kind of holiday after all.<span>
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Charlie’s
Angeles backpack bursting, I sat on the floor and began removing items one by
one.<span> </span>I took a box out, looked at
it from all sides, and then carefully unwrapped the paper, mindful to not tear
it.<span> </span>After removing the wrapping
paper, I would fold it neatly and set it aside before attending to the gift,
savoring the moment, enjoying the anticipation.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><i>For
God’s sake, Cristien, just open it. </i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>I could hear my dad saying.<span> </span>His yelling this at me as he ripped
wrapping paper off one of his presents and crumpled it into a ball so he could
throw it at me, was as much a family ritual as getting to open one present on
Christmas eve, or eating his famous Storm eggs with Aquavit on Christmas
morning.<span> </span>Alone in my room, I
laughed out loud.<span> </span>I loved those
moments.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Because
I was a child, it is through my child’s memory that I recall my dad dropping by
the house in Diablo the day before Christmas Eve that year. He was always
excited about Christmas.<span> </span>363 days
of the year he was more focused on neurons, particle receptors and office
politics than anything else.<span> </span>But
Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, he lit up.<span> </span>He would shop like a mad man a few days before
Christmas.<span> </span>If you were lucky
enough to be invited to go with him, you were treated to a running monologue
about cooking, the right kind of beer to pair with a roast and snarky
commentary about the general public.<span>
</span>It was like being allowed to enter his inner circle.<span> </span>I felt important when he told me to go
get a bag of Brussels sprouts or demonstrated how to choose between cuts of
meat.<span> </span>He would let me eat half of
the candy bar he brazenly opened while we shopped. It was the one time of year
I felt close.<span> </span>He loved watching us
open presents.<span> </span>I loved the smile
on his face as he drank his cup of coffee or sipped Aquavit and watched.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In
my wintery child memory, I see him at the door that year.<span> </span>It is the day before Christmas
morning.<span> </span>I see him and my mom
fighting.<span> </span>I see her taking each
gift and throwing it out the door.<span>
</span>I see him picking the boxes back up.<span> </span>I see them struggle.<span>
</span>I see him push the door open when she tries to close it.<span> </span>They continue to argue.<span> </span>I am holding both hands to my
ears.<span> </span>I cannot hear them.<span> </span>I see him walk away.<span> </span>I see her take each and every last
holiday gift and toss them into the two 20 gallon trash containers, sitting
side by side behind a decorative wood slat structure.<span> </span>I see her walk back into the house.<span> </span>Go into the bedroom.<span> </span>I see her close the door.<span> </span>I cannot hear anything.<span> </span>I go back into my room.<span> </span>I will have to wait until nighttime to
find out what my dad bought me for Christmas.<span> </span>I am excited.<span> </span>I
anticipate his excitement.<span> </span>I
imagine his smile and for an instant I smell coffee, roasting vegetables,
smoked ham.<span> </span>I hear the clink of
glasses as he makes us toast one another. He allowed us to drink beer and
aquavit on Christmas morning and I am remembering how the bubbles stung the
back of my throat. I sit in my room and wait for sunset, hoping that he
remembered how much I wanted a new pair of riding boots.<span> </span></span></div>
Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-87827890617293013342012-11-25T08:15:00.000-08:002013-03-31T08:50:39.339-07:00Literary suicide<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQbNvcnjTw9bBEOuwfnnzOGv5YF7ike3k2-ioC0oA2aYVdvLlooOX75h1jQsVRVIcvdFRYRunoa6bs0BK8G0Tyx7nBYmTty37EeAr0O4fRUEkG2cfidxStCvle803lm2kEfVSUVIKMfA/s1600/Oliver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQbNvcnjTw9bBEOuwfnnzOGv5YF7ike3k2-ioC0oA2aYVdvLlooOX75h1jQsVRVIcvdFRYRunoa6bs0BK8G0Tyx7nBYmTty37EeAr0O4fRUEkG2cfidxStCvle803lm2kEfVSUVIKMfA/s320/Oliver.jpg" width="287" /></a></div>
<span style="color: white;">She asks me, <i>Can you perform literary suicide by writing yourself out of existence? </i><br /><br />Then explains,<br />suicide is, in reality, a messy and problematic thing to do.<br /><br />There is no guarantee in drinking gallons of Gallo or gin <br />fights that bust dental work and cause permanent joint pain,<br />may or may not take you to the other side<br />motorcycle crashes, guns, a slow moving waltz towards a semi<br />do not provide a money back guarantee<br />and after all your efforts<br />you may still have to explain to friends and family why <br />you woke up spooning a shotgun.<br /><br />It takes a lot of energy to override survival instincts <br />fight or flight wrestling for control<br />your body tossed around like a seagull in a jet air stream</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"><br /><i>it’s exhausting <br />this struggle to not be here</i></span><br />
<span style="color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: white;">there was a moment <br />an intolerable moment, that lasted forever <br />even after it ended<br />she lives with that moment<br />hovering always<br />she has tried to make it disappear <br />has decided, she will try to disappear<br />belletristic self-immolation<br />writing a fictional world where she doesn’t exist<br /><br /><i>How will you live in a world where you don’t exist? </i> I ask her.<br /><br /><i>Precisely.</i> She replies.<br /><br /><i>If you scream who will hear it? <br />If you crystallize then shatter into a million pieces, who will notice? <br />If you slowly disappear, limbs dissipating like clouds, no one will pay any attention. <br />If you cut yourself nobody will look at you with sad eyes. </i><br /><br />Maybe that’s the point<br />no one listened when she screamed<br />or noticed when she disappeared inside herself like a tumor <br />left alone for so long, while <br />being paid attention to in the worst possible ways <br />she stopped struggling outright<br />turned inward<br />focused on how to not be<br />in the moment<br />not be there, then<br /><br />She smiles wide<br />at me<br /><i>It will be so much better there,<br />action figures with realistic body proportions and flat feet<br />a killer sound track<br />they never played X when I had to pull down my panties and play ride the horsey,<br />here, I can crank out Exene Cervenka and Corrosion of Conformity any time </i><br /><br />What is the soundtrack to a literary suicide<br />a graphic novel kamikaze? <br />You make the play list <br />construct the dialogue<br />call the plays<br />edit, loop, cut<br />end. <br /><br />Exist by not existing<br />invisible puppeteer<br />no longer struggling to subdue <br />invasive memories<br />bashed into momentary non-existence by bare-knuckled fistfights with your hippocampus.<br /><br />Lexiconic Seppuku<br />available to anyone with an imagination <br />a willingness to use language, a syntax placebo effect<br />it’s free<br />you don’t get arrested<br />wake up on a parking strip in the middle of Yakima <br />no hangovers<br />no overdraft fees <br />no std’s, or cracked teeth<br />no awkward smiles at the person you wake up with <br />just you<br />plot lines<br />a parade of characters <br />and endless possibilities</span>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-53288936608481953932012-10-27T15:09:00.000-07:002012-10-27T15:09:16.171-07:00Fact, Fiction, or The Game of Telephone?<span style="color: white;"><i>“What then is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms -- in short, a sum of human relations, which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.” </i><br /><i> --The Viking Portable Nietzsche, p.46-7</i><br /><br />I have been writing and performing poems, stories and essays about my life and experiences and the world I live in for over three decades. I’ve written about surviving sexual abuse and domestic violence. I’ve written about struggling with sexism and how my privilege as a white woman fighting patriarchy complicates allyship work with communities of color. I’ve performed pieces about transphobia, class struggles, having sex in a body that did not feel safe much of the time and in a world that did not have my safety in mind. I’ve written about my individual experiences in collective work.<br /><br />I wrote and performed these pieces with a poetic and artistic license that allowed me to focus on bringing the listener into an experience, on creating an emotional journey. I did not concern myself with whether or not a particular memory or detail was factual or “objectively true.” When I drafted a poem about seeing a homeless man masturbating on a street corner and the inhumanity of having to be “home” inside an urban prison, I did not worry about whether or not his hair was really black as I recalled. I did not march back to the corner to confirm there was a bank at the intersection as I wrote in my piece. I didn’t think about such things. I focused on sharing the feelings and experiences not on documenting exactly what happened.<br /><br />As a writer, I want to be able to share my experiences and tell a good story. For me, this involves taking bits of truth and fact and mixing them with elements that are interesting, poetic, and sometimes not entirely historically accurate. I would like to be able to do this without a disclaimer on every piece stating that while this or that element is based on events in my life, the story is not entirely “true.” I want to do this without labeling these essays fiction. Maybe I want too much. When I shared a story about my dog getting lost, I did not go back and fact check the organization that helped me find him to confirm the set up their makeshift office in front of the animal shelter. The name of the organization in the story is fake. I made it up because the story was not about their particular organization or their work. The people in my fake organization were characters some based loosely on some of the people I met. The part about wearing a neon safety vest was true. The overall storyline, my experience, my feelings and thoughts were all true.<br /><br />When I started writing and sharing my experiences of abuse, I chose to be vague on the particulars of who and when, and detailed on the particulars of how, what and why. Instead of trying to document only events I could prove, I worried about the sounds of the words, the rhythm and the emotional content. I concentrated on how to move people, let them experience what I was feeling; then and now. This was, and still is, more important to me than naming the particular people who caused harm or creating a verifiable or chronological document of what transpired. Like many trauma survivors, I have snippets of memories, fractured and sensory. I wanted to share these memories as they are held in my body, not rip them out so they can be fact checked.<br /><br />Now that I am writing more of what I call narratives or essays rather than poems and am writing works to be read rather than performed, I find myself hesitating at important junctures. Because I am telling a story in a different kind of way, with a different structure, I am bumping up against the pressure to tell “a truth” that I cannot tell. I find myself stumbling into the literary assumption that if a story is not specifically declared fiction, it must be true. And if it is true, everything in the story must be factual.<br /><br />I feel a cultural tension inside this assumption, a uniquely American pursuit of “the truth” in the air as I hold my black pilot pen over my Meed Composition journal to write a sentence. In that very pregnant pause, my inner storyteller and the voices in my head argue wildly. These imagined conversations used to paralyze me. Part of me was convinced that if I wrote an essay that included anything about my experience of being sexually abused, I had to track down every detail to make sure it was factual and could be verified. This was, and still is, overwhelming. It is also rooted in a victim blaming culture. A culture that demands those who survive abuse, prove that something happened by providing verifiable facts that can be corroborated. This reinforces power structures that re-victimize many survivors who struggle to navigate relationships and social structures complicated by power and privilege. It ignores the reality that many people store memories and recall overwhelming or traumatic events in sensory, non-linear, unstructured and fractured ways. It also ignores the fact that many survivors are unable or unwilling to be in contact with anyone who could verify events or details.<br /><br />Our memories, like the whispered phrases in the game of telephone, not only fade with time, they are altered as we move through our lives, and they change each time we recall them. Memories shift as we heal and as we apply different meanings to events. Our memories are not static. They evolve as we do, shape-shifting to reflect the complicated intersections of present and past; of emotion and meaning; of thought and storytelling. What matters to most of us living with and in these shape shifting realities is that our stories, our memories, are not more or less important depending on whether or not they can be measured, weighed and accurately accounted for by objective or scientific means. <br /><br />I do not want the way I share experiences to be held hostage to how well I can do research or offer evidence that proves my experience is real. I am not the least bit interested in verifying whether I was in a cabin in northern California, a dorm room at the University my father taught at, or at a neighbor’s house when I remember sitting on someone’s lap, listening to a bedtime story trying to figure out how to make large and calloused fingers stop pinching and pulling as I squirmed and made up excuse after excuse to get away.<br /><br />I am struck that readers sometimes feel betrayed when they find out something in a “true” story is not objectively factual. This sense of betrayal is rooted, in part, in a desire to find a reflection of themselves inside some aspect of the narrative, and the conviction that this reflection must based in “facts.” If I wrote that I was in a California cabin when an adult fondled me as he read me a bedtime story, when in reality, I was in an apartment in Michigan, would it matter? If so, why? If you connected with my narrative or the experiences I shared, would your sense of connection be any less if you discovered the location had not been verified but based on a fragmented memory and the preference for placing the narrative in California because I like the way the word fits in a sentence? It is assumed that writers will not simply access memory, but seek to verify memories so that they are “accurate.” <br /><br />I want us to hold with more curiosity, reverence and complexity, the various ways we share narratives and the varying, shape-shifting ways we all see and remember reality. I want to witness and hold Nietzsche’s metal without demanding that we recognize it only as a coin. <br /><br />There has to be more than two categories for sharing our experiences. I do not want my stories categorized entirely as fiction simply because I want to focus on the story rather than creating a document that stands up to fact checking. Works that are rooted in real experiences will always exist in the intersections of memory, witnessing, sharing, and storytelling. This is, I believe, how we experience most of our reality--fractured, sensory and partial, prioritized through our particular lens and shaped by our histories and who and how we are in the world.<br /><br />There are many different ways to tell a story. To have our stories be defined as either fact or fiction does not honor the complexity of our lived experiences and it shuts down imagination or relegates it to “fantasy”. The people in my world are themselves and they are also symbols, triggers, representations of emotions, containers of experiences, bodies onto whom I project my own fears, insecurities and desires. I want narratives to be able to hold this complexity. I do not think focusing on “the facts” always helps us. It distracts us from the multi-layered, shape-shifting ways we are in the world. Focusing on whether or not something in a particular story is “true”, guides us in a very particular way and informs how we listen, read and learn. Focusing on facts in a story is not bad or wrong, but I want more ways to read, to listen, to understand, to integrate and to experience.<br /><br />I will continue to write my essays the way I do. I will undoubtedly continue to struggle with the categories we currently have and try to breathe life into a sense of curiosity, expansion and complexity with each and every decision I make when I choose to tell a story that is true and very real but not completely based on facts. I hope you keep reading.</span>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-48277590377483601442012-09-17T12:18:00.002-07:002012-09-17T12:18:49.323-07:00Sick. Of. It.<div style="color: white;">
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Not one of my relationships in my adult life has been
unaffected by sexual abuse.<span> </span>Not
one. Whether they are survivors, witnesses, bystanders, or friends and family
of abusers or survivors, just about everyone I know and care about deeply has
been impacted in some way by sexual abuse.<span> </span>That sucks.<span> </span>I
am tired of dealing with the triggers, flooding, unhealthy numbing and
distracting behaviors that I and the people I care about have to deal with on a
regular basis.<span> </span>This sucks too. The
collateral damage of sexual abuse is staggering.<span> </span>I could inundate you with statistics about the prevalence of
sick days, lost jobs, physical aliments, mental health issues, relationship
struggles and other interpersonal shit survivors of all kinds and the people
who love them have to navigate.<span>
</span>But I won’t.<span> </span>This is not
about statistics; this is about the rage and pain that is part of living in a
world where sexual abuse is rampant.<span>
</span>There is so much resistance to really acknowledging how deeply
entrenched sexual abuse and incest are in our society. This compounds our
individual and collective pain.<span> </span></div>
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Bystanders of all kinds, please step the fuck up.<span> </span>I don’t want you to call CPS or the
police or any other institution or agency (unless you have to). What I want is
for you to be there when it get shitty, which it will. Because this is shit is
shitty.<span> </span>Too many people can’t be
bothered or don’t know how to be there for the long haul. It is hard being
close to a survivor. I know. I am one and I love many, many, many survivors.
Because, well, there are many, many, many survivors.<span> </span>And we get crazy made like mad. The collateral damage of
sexual abuse gets pathologized, criminalized, or otherwise diagnosed as single
issues: depression, anxiety, bi-polar mood swings, chronic fatigue, hypertension,
insomnia, anorexia, bulimia, addiction... Collateral damage includes all the
rippling effects of surviving abuse: the emotional, mental, psychological and
spiritual impacts, lost opportunities, lost jobs, somatic and health concerns,
physical pain, the inability to set boundaries and the consequences of this,
the impact abuse has on current relationships, time spent in bed, in bars, in
hospitals, in counseling offices...time which could have been spent living,
loving, inventing, creating, writing, dancing, daydreaming, organizing--the
loss is staggering to individuals but also to communities, to all of us.<span> </span>When I think of all the energy that
people expend surviving first the abuse then surviving and navigating the
collateral damages, time and energy that could have been spent doing so many,
many other things, it breaks my heart.</div>
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It is hard to be close to the dark, painful shit that comes
out when we come face to face with the brutal reality of sexual abuse.<span> </span>It’s ugly.<span> </span>The anger and rage that survivors (rightfully) have, often
makes people uncomfortable. And afraid. Sometimes survivors act out of this
pain and rage in ways that hurt themselves and others. This can be hard to deal
with. But we must.<span> </span>I am not
suggesting we accept whatever behaviors a survivor does and do nothing.<span> </span>We can hold them fiercely, lovingly,
and compassionately accountable. This is hard too. I have been on both sides of
this and it is brutally difficult to hold and be held accountable.<span> </span>It must be done without shame or judgment.</div>
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I am tired of triggering my partners and them triggering me
because the world does not create a safe enough place for people to say, “Shit
I am in a rage because, well, there was a time that someone made me very unsafe
and my body is freaking out now. So, can I take the day off work, or get a
massage, or go for a huge ass hike or get a drink with friends?<span> </span>(I am not advocating using alcohol or
substances to deal with the effects of trauma, but let’s be real, sometimes
it’s too much and you need to shut your system down and judging someone for
trying to get through another day, or night, by having a few drinks, getting
stoned or throwing up, while important to address when people are ready to, is
not my primary concern here). What I am concerned about is the lack of concern
for survivors. We don’t want to talk about sexual abuse for too long.<span> </span>After a while we get frustrated with
survivors who want to “keep” talking about it, or are talking about it in the “wrong
ways”, or have cycles of rage and depression and want to talk about that.<span> </span>We want them to move on. Stop thinking
about it. Be positive.<span> </span>Moving on
means they have done their work and have healed.<span> </span>But we rush the process by being focused on the goal rather
than moving through the heartbreaking reality that it takes a long ass time to
get through a day when you have been abused.<span> </span>It just does. As a culture, we need to get over the time
line. Get over the goal of moving on.</div>
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This is a call for anyone who has rolled their eyes when
someone gets triggered. Again. It can be hard to be close to people who may act
out of their pain in ways that are destructive, challenging, and exhausting.
Please stop rolling your eyes and start opening your heart.<span> </span>I know it’s frustrating when people act
out of pain in ways that are harmful, hurtful and difficult, but so is having
to live with the on-going collateral damage of sexual abuse. Let me reiterate,
I am not saying passively accept any and all behaviors that people might engage
in--but know that limits can be set with compassion. </div>
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Friends, family, co-workers, adults, bystanders,
everyone--believe survivors.<span>
</span>Believe survivors even if they don’t remember everything, or hell, even
if they don’t remember anything.<span>
</span>Abuse fucks with your body, your brain, your biochemistry and your
memory.<span> </span>We need to stop being
defense attorneys when someone discloses--stop asking “What happened? When? Who
did what?” It’s hard to hear that someone we care about has been abused and
it’s natural to want to know what happened, but step up and do survivors a
solid: Don’t interrogate, validate. Not sure how to validate? Communicate
understanding and support.<span> </span>Ask
what they need and if you can do it, do it. If they don’t know, hang out with them
in the not-knowing.<span> </span>If they still
need something and you are tired, get support for yourself, ask someone else,
or lovingly and compassionately set boundaries.<span> </span>Supporting survivors is not about supporting them
unquestioningly and endlessly. We all need boundaries and to know when we have
hit our limit.<span> </span>Sometimes survivors
take boundaries badly. That’s ok, sometimes people who have not been abused
take boundaries badly. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t set them. Don’t fragalize
survivors.<span> </span></div>
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Friends and family members, please keep validating the impact
the abuse has on people. Too many survivors have to deal with shitty responses
when they tell people. Then, they have to deal with people not wanting to talk
about it, wanting survivors to get over it.<span> </span>When we address sexual abuse, we come face to face with the
harsh reality that people we love and care about can, and do, horrible things.
I want us to stop shutting off survivors so that we do not have to face this
ugly truth.<span> </span>It is understandable
to not want to talk about sexual abuse and incest.<span> </span>But we must. We must keep talking about.</div>
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We put too much emphasis on holding those who abuse
accountable in ways that are reactive and pathologizing, and less on all the
various conditions that allowed the abuse to happen.<span> </span>It takes a village, right? Well, it takes a lot of not
looking, not asking, not speaking up and not stepping in for someone to abuse
and this is a shout out to all of us who have been around abuse and did not
look, did not ask, did not speak up, did not step in.<span> </span>There is not a statute of limitations on supporting
survivors. If for any reason you were unable to when it happened, which is a
complicated reality that many witnesses and bystanders face, you have ample
opportunities to now.<span> </span>Even if it
was years ago, you can still step up now. <span> </span>Not by calling CPS or the police, but by making a daily
commitment to believe, support, defend, validate, acknowledge that sexual abuse
is rampant in our communities and that while it is hard to look at that tragic
reality, we must.<span> </span></div>
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We want to close our eyes. Witnesses and bystanders, as well
as survivors and the badass people who love and support them, please open your
eyes, ears, and mouths. Speak, write, dance, perform, about sexual abuse, talk
about it even when people don’t want to.<span>
</span>If you are someone who has a hard time listening to these things,
challenge yourself to increase your capacity to listen.<span> </span>Then find ways to act.<span> </span>Please do not stop having fun or doing
and talking about things that bring you joy.<span> </span>This is not about being heavy all the time. This is about
being real.<span> </span></div>
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We need each other.<span>
</span>This means we need to feel safe enough to connect, to create conditions
in our relationships and communities that promote healing, hope and
possibility.<span> </span>This means learning
how to keep listening, keep talking, keep healing, keep holding space for
healing, keep taking care of ourselves and the people in our worlds.<span> </span>Ok, my
it’s-late-and-I-am-sick-of-it-rant is over.<span> </span>Thanks for listening.</div>
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Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-39327175821373918442012-08-31T07:16:00.000-07:002012-08-31T07:16:36.043-07:00Chemical Aura<span style="color: white;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.7701063156973341" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
step into the elevator and bam! It hits you. A perfumed wave that
punches the insides of both nostrils and does a Capoera
flip-kick-jab-step up both of your nasal passages then left, right
across both cheekbones through you maxillary sinus cavities. You feel
the sting, a bright burn in the back of your throat. You breathe short
shallow puffs of air in a failed attempt to filter the chemical assault,
but each inhale brings a tidal wave of tingling that saturates your
throat and oozes down your esophagus into your stomach and intestines. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
feel dizzy, stoned, nauseous. You have trouble reading the elevator
buttons because your eyes are watering, but you can clearly see the
slice of outside air in front of you disappear as the elevator doors
begin to slowly close. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Panic. You panic. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
invisible poisonous fog clings to you like a million tiny burrs digging
into your skin. You stifle a scream. Try to calm yourself down, but
it is difficult because you are still trying to not breathe too deeply.
You end up panting quietly. The doors click shut. She turns to face
you, a cloud of strawberry shampoo, vanilla conditioner, lavender body
wash, “spring” body lotion, “decadence” perfume, country fresh dryer
sheets, peppermint chewing gum, and lingering dry cleaning fabric
softener all competing for top olfactory billing.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“What number shall I push for you?” She asks you.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“...6,
thanks.” You choke out. You try to smile and stop panting for a moment.
A throbbing headache is making a grand entrance as a wave of fog
pounds up your frontal sinus cavity and is demanding to be attended to.
You may have to pee, but you are not sure because everything inside you
feels flooded. A scent overload. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
wipe tiny tears from the corner of your eyes with the back of your hand
hoping the scent is not layering on top of your skin in an invisible
film. You picture tiny foam bubbles with microscopic sinister smiles
floating around you, silently landing on your arms and face.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You close your eyes, listening to the elevator’s internal mechanisms whirl as it makes its assent. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Your
panting is making you lightheaded so you stop. When you inhale a full
breath through your mouth, you taste the “decadence” in her Decadence
perfume. It tastes like someone sprinkled gasoline and orange juice on
your tongue.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
watch her through watery eyes. The smart black pantsuit with it’s
matching blazer and crisp white blouse. You watch her standing, one arm
crossed in front of the other, tipping back and fourth from one plum
pump to the other, noting that she probably has lower back pain and
pinched baby toes. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
notice her “Saturday Night Special” red nail polish that eats into the
nail bed making them yellow and brittle under all that shine. A hazy
chemical aura radiates around her. A reddish shadow outlines her
business casual self and occasionally reaches out with foggy fingers to
touch the world around her. You have to stop yourself from stepping
away from her, from retreating to the opposite corner of the elevator.
You wonder if you are leaning back unconsciously. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She
smiles at you with “Dusty Rose” lips shimmering with phthalates and red
# 40 made from coal tar. Her bright bleached teeth remind you of the
chlorine you tasted when you swam in your neighbor’s pool as a kid. Her
chemical aura sways along with her as she tips back and forth from foot
to foot, occasionally reaching up to touch her hair with careful,
curious fingers.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
are strikingly aware of how much we live awash in chemicals, each of us
so saturated with products that seep into our skin from multiple
avenues, slowly dissipating and sometimes more frightening, not
dissipating. The chemical compounds that make up “country fresh”,
“line-dried”, “crisp and clean” “fruity” and “herbal essence” smells
need to be stable over time, temperature and conditions. If the
chemical compounds are unstable, they can break down, re-form into other
compounds which is not good if you want your laundry detergent to be,
well, laundry detergent the entire time it sits on your shelf. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
same chemicals that make the smells stay stable, the colors last
longer, the brights brighter are introduced into and then stay in our
bodies. These chemicals seep into our cells, blood and bone marrow
through our hair follicles, cuticles, pores, skin—any accessible avenue
will do. Once they have taken up residence inside our bodies, they can
transform, like a rogue chemistry experiment, binding together to form
and re-form new and different microstructures. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We
have no idea how these chemicals and the new ones formed when they
enter our bodies affect us. Scientists can say they are safe, but
science does always not have a great track record. With thousands of
new compounds being created daily, we will surly discover, at some
point, the impact of our caviler introduction of new chemicals into
thousands of products we use daily. Claims that despite being toxic the
levels are so small as to be insignificant and so are safe, ring hollow
along side rising rates of cancer, autism, and unexplained neurological
and tissue diseases. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Caution
and any voice of warning are continuously drown out by massive
marketing machines churning out messages that tell us we can’t live
without these safe and good smelling products that are not correlated
with, and certainly not related causally to, growing rates of birth
defects, cancers, hormone problems and nervous system disorders to name a
few. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We
want to believe. We want to look healthy, shinny; we want our hair to
bounce just so, our teeth to gleam, our clothes to remain sweat stain
free. And at the end of a long work day, is it too much to ask to get a
mocha latte and drop off your clothes to be dry cleaned before you head
home to eat a take out dinner and try to get at least 5 hours of shut
eye before facing another day of cranky supervisors and exhausted
co-workers? Don’t we deserve popping nail colors for our $20 bi-monthly
mani-pedi indulgence? If a new shimmering eye shadow or over-sized
handbag (which it was recently discovered contain lead that can leach
into people’s skin) makes you happy and helps you get through a busy and
overwhelming day, why not splurge on a bottle of Decadence perfume?
By-products be damned.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 21px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Have
a nice day!” She tells you, smiling over her shoulder as she trots out
of the elevator, a haze of purple, red and green trailing after her.
You see bits of her foggy chemical aura clinging to the sides of the
elevator doors as they begin to close. Unconsciously you begin your
shallow panting, push number 6 on the elevator button panel and begin
slowly rising towards your destination.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-17540098517088998512012-07-30T16:41:00.000-07:002012-07-30T16:41:42.119-07:00A Lot of Violence...<div style="color: white;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.5420619635143026" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There
has been a lot of violence in my world and the worlds of many people I
love and care about recently. A few suicides; a gun held to the head of
a friend, thankfully not fired; a mis-fire that did hurt a friend of a
friend; another friend leaving an abusive relationship after it became
physical. These incidents gives me pause, as these types of incidents
do. I wonder what conditions, incidents, environments, personal
experiences the people who decided to cause the harm have lived through?
What were their relationships, families, work-life, daily existence
like before these incidents occurred? Do they feel loved? Valued?
Supported? Do they feel connected? Do they have a sense of social and
personal value? Do they believe they matter in the scheme of things?
What systems or institutions have they been involved with and what was
their experiences with them? What is their generational family history?
How has that been impacted by social, political, and economic contexts
that most certainly inform how individuals and communities feel valued?</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When
violence or harm occurs, it is human nature to try to make sense of
what happened. Across communities and cultures, there are rituals for
grief and loss as well as rituals for healing. These rituals help us
move through the pain and give us something to hold onto, something to
believe in when violence and trauma have shaken our faith. These
rituals, however, are not necessarily geared to answer </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">why</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> an act of violence happened. The media attempts to fill this role, highlighting violence in an attempt to answer </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">why</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
with responses from “experts” crammed into three minute sound bites.
And there are many, many three minute sounds bites. The current
saturation of negative and fear based media in the United States
cultivates an anxiety-promoting fear-driven culture. While the “if it
bleeds, it leads” mainstay of media is nothing new, the sheer magnitude
of fear-inducing information constantly streaming in and around our
environments is affecting us. When something bad happens our fear and
anxiety levels rise. If we are not mindful, anxiety and fear can drive
us to ask why or how something “like this” could have happened, in the
hopes of swiftly making sure it never happens again. While this is a
reasonable reaction to the fear that experiencing a traumatic event can
produce, it can, and often does, lead to victim blaming and reductive
attempts to “make sure this never happens again.” Until it happens.
Again. Because it will. Unless we change the conditions in which
violence is more likely to occur than not occur. Changing the
conditions in which violence occurs will take time. Lots of time.
Changing conditions is a slow process which can feel pretty inadequate
in the immediate aftermath of a violent incident. When something
violent happens, we want, understandably, to respond immediately. And we
need to respond immediately with fierce urgency to keep people safe,
address the impact of trauma, provide security, offer compassion,
support, food, help people address basic needs and navigate any systems
or institutions they may need to access because of the incident(s).
What I wonder is, how we can respond immediately while also imagining
and working towards radical alternatives? Can we rush to support
survivors while not rushing to answer the questions, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">why? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> And </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">how do we make sure this never happens again</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">?</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We
respond to incidents of violence by seeking the diagnosis, the lost
opportunity, the missed signal, the neural circuitry, the biological
marker, the childhood incident that can explain why such an event
occurred. To explain why someone would do such a thing. We look to
“answers” to soothe anxiety and fear. And we want these answers to draw a
clear line between us (those harmed) and them (those who cause harm).
We do this because trauma shakes the foundation of our reality, tosses
what we know into a cyclone of confusion. Fear, anger, doubt, grief,
swirl around incidents of trauma. Fear reminds people that it could
happen to them. It is a jarring attestation that any of us could be
next. In the wake of a traumatic incident, we are also reminded of the
possibility that we could be like the person who caused harm. This
fear, a dark secret relegated to the silent shadows of our souls,
creates an anxiety which drives us to seek simple, solid answers.
Answers that clearly state the difference between us and someone “like
that”. We want a boundary that can signal safety, security. These
boundaries, however, do not keep us safe. They do not address the root
causes nor the conditions of harm. But in a moment of crisis, they are
something tangible to hold onto.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
want us to hold on to different things. When we reduce incidents of
domestic violence, suicides, or a seemingly random shooting rampage to a
missed diagnosis, a gene, a hormone imbalance, addiction, we locate
causes inside the person. Literally in the body. This does not reflect
the complexities, the generational histories, the social, political,
economic, racialized, gendered, able-bodied conditions which informed
all aspects of what occurred and how individuals, communities,
institutions, and systems respond. When we operate out of fear and an
urgency to fix things so that “This never happens again” we come up with
solutions that while seemly rooted in social changes, do little to
shift the conditions that make this violence more likely to occur. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">People
argue for solutions such as making the cost of ammunition outrageously
high, or lowering the bar for involuntary inpatient treatment, seeking
longer jail time for people arrested for domestic violence, building
more mental health facilities, training CPS workers to better identify
signs of potential violence. These kinds of solutions, while sometimes
necessary, are located in the idea that things will never change, that
this is the way it is. It is challenging when faced with incidents of
violence and abuse that shake us at our very core, remind us of our
vulnerability, trigger our own traumatic histories, and hold up the ugly
reality that we cause great harm to one another, to not be motivated by
fear, anger and urgency in ways that push us towards quick fixes.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It
is imperative that we continue to ask questions and tease out
possibilities not motivated by fear, or urgency; questions and
possibilities that hold space for loving compassion and fierce
accountability; questions and possibilities that seek to hold onto the
humanity in all of us, including those who have caused harm; questions
that seek long winded solutions, complex in their accessibility and
determination to not leave people or communities behind; questions that
look back to history as well as imagine radical new possibilities;
questions that imagine the possibility that we can create relationships
free from violence and communities where abuse does not occur. I know
this may sound “Pollyannaish” to some. I am not suggesting we not stay
grounded in the violent and de-humanizing reality of the world we live
in currently and be prepared to respond to the harm that happens. I am
simply hoping that the responses we have and the solutions we offer are
not located in the pedagogy of quick fixes and a “that’s just the way it
is” paradigm. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We
don’t have to have a blueprint to start imagining. This can be an
in-process process. In fact, it has to be. We can start small with
neighborhood and community focused alternatives to how we respond to
incidents of harm in our lives and communities and use the process of
this work to keep imagining other possibilities, other ways of being,
other types of systems, organizations, institutions. We can keep our
eye on the immediate need to respond, while we keep our gaze firmly on
the horizon because change will take time. We can work on our own
healing so that we have the emotional capacity to respond to harm done
without de-humanizing, criminalizing those that cause harm, or reducing
their acts to a diagnosis. I don’t have any clear road maps or specific
answers, but I do know some amazing groups of people struggling with
smart and engaging questions that can help individuals and communities
respond in complex and compassionate ways when violence and abuse
happens. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">http://www.generationfive.org/tj.php</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">http://inciteblog.wordpress.com/2010/05/22/815/</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">http://beyondinclusionbeyondempowerment.com/</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Capacity Project: seattlesomatics@gmail.com</span></div>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-67514533750339254862012-06-18T16:51:00.000-07:002012-06-18T16:51:23.687-07:00Peyote Peep Show<div style="color: white;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.6924103389912875" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Glow<br />She waltzed in the room, pausing in the doorway to twist her right knee slightly inward and fling her arms up wide on either side of her. She leaned forward and smiled, all Marilyn Monroe.<br /><br />“Hello there darlings! I can’t wait to tell you about the glorious weekend I had. It was ah-mazing!” She rushed to the table, sat down, leaned back and then tilted her eyes to meet mine. “Perfect.” She sighed, “It was just perfect.”<br /><br />She had met a Shaman, a real, live, flesh and blood Native American Shaman who lead peyote ceremonies. She enthused about spiritual awakenings and personal healing as both her suntan and self assurance shimmered under the blinking fluorescent lighting. Her eyes sparkled as she explained how plant medicine allows you to be in communication with “The Creator.” She said it opened up channels and chakra centers, unblocked energy pathways and described how medicine, or peyote, helped you get into proper relationship. Anticipating one of the many questions she predicted were snapping around in my mind like grease in hot skillet, she looked directly at me, “Getting into proper relationship with other people, with yourself, even with The Creator, means getting clear on your intentions, having clean energy, clean intentions. It’s not just about individual healing, Sarah” she said with wide and serious eyes, “but about community healing.” <br /><br />She continued, enthusiastically, to describe the deep connection we all have to nature, to each other, to the divine and to things larger than ourselves and how this connection gets stripped away in our daily routines, and disappears in our lives which are so full of consumption. “It’s a blessing that he is willing to share his culture, his wisdom and really help people.” She raved about being outside of consumer culture and getting to connect with nature. She told me she was developing a spiritual family that was teaching her to push past emotional blocks and how to receive love. <br /><br />I pictured a group of 30-something middle class white professionals sitting cross-legged in a circle trying to look serene and spiritually serious while getting totally stoned on peyote. A weekend ceremony facilitated by a U.S. government recognized non profit church licensed to provide peyote did not seem radically outside consumerism or capitalism to me. <br /><br />How much does it cost?” I asked her, breaking my reverie. “Isn’t it a few hundred bucks?”<br /><br />“Oh yes.” She nodded earnestly, “Of course, you have to offer something. The money you donate is your intention, the more you offer the more you receive.”<br /><br />“More what? More peyote?” I asked.<br /><br />She laughed, “Money is an exchange of energy, an expression of your intention. The more you give, the stronger your intention. The stronger your intention, the more you will get out of the ceremony.”<br /><br />I sighed and muttered something about how fucked up it is that the rich get more of everything from ocean views, beach access, vacation time, and, it seems, spiritual enlightenment. She didn’t notice. As she continued her story, I watched her tan face, eyes bright and clear. She looked healthy. Happy. Her glow made her look like she had discovered some secret skin cream or gone through an expensive spa treatment. She had an aura of confidence and a calmness that remarkably contrasted with the overworked and stressed faces I was used to seeing in my daily life. It was, to be honest, a little captivating. Who doesn’t want to have a little more inner calmness and a happy, healthy glow? I sighed again, reflecting on my own sun starved, stress lined face. I did not glow, that’s for sure. She finished her story. I went back to work.<br /><br />A few weeks later, she invited me to “sit” at a ceremony. She talked to a few of the organizers and they told her I would benefit from the experience. I felt conflicted about participating in an “Authentic Native American” healing ceremony. How does one reconcile participating in an experience that many Native Americans and their allies call cultural theft, with the possibility that participating in a such a ceremony could offer deep personal and spiritual healing? I asked her why profits from ceremonies did not flow back into reservations and how to respond to the sentiment that selling a ceremony experience is like selling your grandmother. I was assured that because the Shaman was Native American, that he (and the profits from his ceremonies) were connected to a reservation, although no one knew which one. I was also assured that because he was offering to share the ceremony with us, it wasn’t cultural theft. “He is offering this to us, it’s not like we’re going into Native American communities without being invited.” Another organizer told me. “Faith communities welcome new observers, they want to share their healing, their message, their faith.” My friend assured me that healing ceremonies are a way to connect and build relationships between Native and non-Native peoples. I was told over and over that I could not fully understand until I sat in ceremony. While I don’t quite buy this (I don’t have to attend a NASCAR rally to know I won’t like it), I did, eventually, decide to “sit.” <br /><br />Here’s a peyote peep...<br /><br />Intentions (Or, Let’s Be Real, My Money)<br />You had to think of an intention. As the Shaman’s wife, a deeply tan white woman with long black hair, gobs of chunky turquoise and silver jewelry, and thick bulging veins in her freckled hands, went around the circle, you whispered your intention in her ear. She made any corrections and then looked at the Shaman who would either nod approval or offer his own suggestion. After receiving his approval, she handed your intention back to you in an assertive whisper along with your cup of “medicine.” My intention was to get high and see what all the fuss was about but I didn’t think that was appropriate to share. I scrambled to think of a more suitable one. When Mrs. Medicine, as I dubbed her, finally squatted in front of me, on admirably flexible hips, I said in my best dramatic whisper that I wanted to develop more spirituality in my life. She nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact and repeated back to me, “You are realizing that you need help, that you need spiritual guidance and healing in your life.” Her smile made me want to alternately jump into her arms and slap her. I felt 3 and 30 years old at the same time. Damn, I thought, she had my inner child screaming to be loved and cradled while my outer-adult was telling my inner child to sit down, shut up, and pay attention to me instead of her.<br /><br />Mrs. Medicine handed me my cup of medicine. I drank it, vomited, as is expected, and then got down to the business of being high. The first time I tried peyote, it was at a beach party in Santa Cruz, California. Everyone did their own thing. I walked around enjoying the warm summer night air, the sound of birds singing and the ocean waves lapping rhythmically. When I needed to, I would lie down and let whatever experience was happening occur. When I wanted to move, I would get up and move. It was a fun, powerful, and surprisingly moving experience. This, on the other hand, felt more like school work. Everyone had to stay in the circle. We were told quite specifically that we could not leave the circle and it was strongly implied that we were to keep sitting cross-legged. No laying down or cloud gazing during this trip. The Shaman informed us that it was necessary to keep the circle intact for energetic principles and to protect our spiritual space which was more vulnerable when earth elements opened to sky and wind elements. It seemed like straight up supervision to both me and my inner child but I relented, put my punk rock ethos aside and, proudly, neither one of us tried to start a revolt by demanding to lie under a tree. I watched the fire and let any last yearning for a solo trip dissolve into the ascending sparks. My body began to melt and I settled in for the ride.<br /><br />From The Mouth Of Mrs. Medicine<br />She crouched, brushing her long black hair away from her eyes in a practiced gesture, leaned in to listen to yet another intention, once again silently cursing her bum knee which cracked loudly each time she squatted. She re-worked the intention while studying the face before her just like she had been taught. Was the face open? Guarded? Fearful? Excited? Eyes darting? Gaze downward? It all mattered. She learned to read faces and body language at a very young age, the child of two addicted and unpredictable parents. She fine tuned the art of interweaving an intention with whatever she read in someone’s expression, just like she had fine-tuned her attractiveness to the Shaman. You have a gift, he told her more than once. A gift that had been alluring to him. It had been enough in the beginning. Not any more. She looked over at the Shaman, smiling serenely, keeping watch on everyone. She recalled their argument earlier. He was tired of her jealousy. She was sick of his endless flirting. Especially with the younger women. He insisted it was just healing fatherly-love energy, but she wondered. It seemed like his gaze landed too long and too often on places fatherly gazes should not linger. She snapped herself back to the face in front of her. Open. Waiting. Good, she thought. Easy. She murmured back the intention, “You are becoming more aware of how self protective you are and you are deepening your consciousness of the energy blocks you hold. You need help to unblock.” The face nodded eagerly. She looked back over at the Shaman, he was watching her with his Eagle-Eyes. Those eyes meant she would have to hear what she had done wrong later at home. She tried not to think about it as she squatted in front of the next person. Questioning face. New to this. Nervous. “You are afraid of yourself, of what you will discover. You need to let yourself be held.” She whispered, keeping eye contact, smiling slightly and nodding once authoritatively. The face before her smiled back with obvious relief. Bingo. She felt, rather than saw, David the fire keeper move behind her. Goddamn dork, she sighed. He was a good kid, but nervous all the time. Frantic, really, trying to do everything perfectly. He worshiped the Shaman unconditionally. They all did, but David did so with a desperation that bordered on hysterical. She sighed again and squatted in front of the next face, bracelets jangling, knee popping, chin angled, cup held aloft, her ear open to hear yet another desperately whispered intention.<br /><br />Keeping The Home Fires Burning<br />Counter clockwise. Then clockwise. Stir the fire gently, then blow at the bottom. Otherwise smoke and ashes will spray all over people. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he berated himself as ash scattered in the wind. He had been honored, at long last, with keeping the fire and didn’t want to mess it up. He wanted a title, a title and a role. He desperately wanted these things, hoping they would disintegrate the “dork,” “dumb ass,” “shitbag” titles he grew up with and finally severe his seemingly endless role as his father’s verbal and sometimes physical punching bag. Let’s see Jimmy Wagner tend a fire, he murmured to himself. Jimmy, a strawberry blond jock with the power to charm venom from a snake, was also meaner than a viper and had directed his rage at David throughout their high school years. Teachers never believed that Jimmy would stoop to bullying and all but called David a liar. David’s dad would scream at him to grow a pair and stop complaining. He would yell at David, spittle flying from his thin bloodless lips, as he told him that he’s the one who should be complaining, having a bean stock smart ass son rather than the football playing, iron pumping son he deserved. “Tough break, snot nose.” he would tell David, cuffing him on the back of the head. <br /><br />David loved sitting in ceremonies. They saved him. “Literally, saved me,” he often thought remembering how he had been looking up “suicide + methods” on the internet the same day he saw a flyer for the church on the downtown coffee shop community bulletin board. The Shaman respected David and he grew more confident under his tutelage. The Shaman believed in David. He told him he could tend fire, an enormous privilege, once he sat long enough. David worked two jobs that winter so he could sit over and over. At the ceremonies, he wasn’t “David the dork,” he was respected and appreciated. He loved being responsible for the fire. Dashing around, crouching on his haunches, he felt a gush of pride that he could squat so deeply. It made him feel more spiritual. He was sure that he was connecting directly to The Divine. In yoga class, he breathed more deeply, more slowly and more loudly than everyone else. He even thought he was starting to look like an Indian. He had dark hair long enough to tuck behind his ear or pull back in a ponytail. He was tan from being outside all summer sitting in ceremonies and tending fires. David liked thinking that as he shed his boyhood identity as a dork and dumb ass, he was also transcending his born identity. He knew he could never be Native American per se, but the Shaman had told him he carried special energy that made him unique. He was appreciated by the Shaman and his wife, even though he thought she looked at him with annoyance sometimes. She was just under a great deal of pressure lately, he told himself. The two of them were running three ceremonies a weekend and as the church grew, everyone had more responsibilities. He loved it. He spent as much time as he could at the church and in ceremony. When he was away for too long, he felt like his true self began to fade and his old identity as his father’s punching bag would begin to materialize. He hated that feeling and fought to push it down. The medicine helped. Thank God for the church, he muttered. Thank God for medicine. He leapt from his crouch and kept moving, counter clock wise, then clockwise, then kneel and stir the fire gently by blowing at the bottom...again, and again and again....<br /><br />Guilt Is A feeling, (Not A Disease)<br />He looked just like Indians did in the movies, except without the headdress, the feathers and all that other stuff. Majestic, that’s it. He looked majestic. And, powerful. She needed help, she knew that much. Her life was in chaos. Her boyfriend loved her, but her family hated him. Her after-school church group was no longer a refuge. She and her boyfriend had been intimate and that was a bell she could never un-ring. Not that she wanted to, but the guilt was so strong inside her. It felt like a beast growing in her belly. A beast that would periodically take over her, make her say and do things she would later regret. She hated this guilt, wanted it yanked from her, pulled out by the roots. The Shaman’s wife told her that guilt was a disease and that sitting in ceremony would help her get well. She believed her. It felt like a disease, or a tumor, and it made sense that there was medicine to fix it. She reached over and clasped Mike’s hand. He was a good boyfriend. He stood by her. When her dad called her those filthy names, Mike held her while she cried, rubbed her back and told her she was a good person. They both had risked being kicked out of their church, but it didn’t matter as much now. They had a whole new community. A place to go. A circle of love and support. She could feel it. She looked around at all the faces and then at the Shaman. He radiated love. He was solid, strong. He told her that he could remove her guilt like sucking snake poison from her soul. He said that once this was done, she could truly be the person she was meant to be. He would remove the darkness that blinded her. She trusted this. She did feel blind. She wished the Shaman and his wife could be her parents. She just knew that if she had them for parents she would be confident, sure of herself and that things would be ok. Of course, you can’t pick your parents. She smiled as she remembered her real father telling her this when they were fighting on the way to Yosemite for a family summer vacation. Her new friend Mary, who had been sitting for a long time, told her while she couldn’t choose her biological family, she could choose her new family. She told her this new family loved her, accepted her and would always be there for her. Thank goodness for the Shaman, she thought, as she felt the medicine radiate in her heart and her fingers began to tingle. Everything will be ok. He will take care of everything. <br /><br />Never Look Back<br />He was tired. His knees hurt. He didn’t want to finish the closing ceremony. He had to go around the entire circle, stopping at each participant and good God, he was happy that the church was growing, but the circle was big and he was tired. Really fucking tired. He and his wife had been arguing earlier that morning about how his flirting with the young women was embarrassing to her. They hadn’t had sex in over a month. He needed to get laid. His wife? Goddamn, couldn’t she just see how hard he worked for them? It cost a lot of money to do this. Peyote, fire wood, the mortgage on the house and on the church, transportation for the volunteers, park permits. It all added up. He worked hard. He deserved some of the good life. Deserved to not be nagged so much. Deserved some peace. He moved on to the next participant. She had blue eyes that slapped you in the face like waves hitting sand. He was seeing more young activists like her at the church and man, they made him work hard. They questioned everything. He whooshed the eagle feather up the right side of her body, chanting, singing, then whispering to her, “You are strong. Much spiritual energy.” He used the broken English vernacular he reverted to when he wanted to cut to through their defenses, cut to the core, cut to the fucking chase, he thought. “You are special. A leader.” She looked up at him when he said leader, her blue eyes still guarded but more open, questioning. “That is why I chose you for Eagle Feather. You have great power.” He flicked the feather around her head maintaining eye contact, watching her shoulders, looking for soft spots, vulnerabilities. “This one may take more work even still,” he thought with a tired sigh. He finished with a grand flourish, circling his wrists, snapping the feather tip lightly and finally enveloping her in an energetic hug. Sometimes they just need to be held. You can feel their muscles twitching then slackening as they lean into him, their big, safe, Indian Father. Even the men, most of them longed to be loved and held by a strong and compassionate father figure and he could certainly provide that. He held onto her, waiting through her first, second and even third slight pulling away, and then he squeezed just a little more, chanting ever so softly. She stepped back when he released her. Looked at him, then looked down. Good, he thought. A tough and edgy woman like her would be valuable for the church. She could bring in a new demographic. He nodded at her, using his Eagle-Eyes and then walked away slowing. He didn’t look back at her. Never look back, he had learned. It kept them wanting more.<br /><br />Why is it always an Eagle?<br />I watched his deeply lined face, wondering how old he was as he flicked the eagle feather up and down my body. The small wisps of air felt intimate and vaguely sensual. I refrained from taking a step back while I wondered if I felt uncomfortable because he seemed so intent on making me feel special, or because his gaze seemed slightly manipulative. He used broken English, which I though was unnecessarily dramatic. “You have great power.” He said in a breathy whisper, lowering the feather and clasping me in a bear hug. I let him hold me for a few seconds then tried once, twice, and a third time to pull away. He waited a beat after this then released me. <br /><br />The ceremony ended, we packed up and headed back to our guest house. The rest of the weekend was pleasant enough. We had a communal dinner, went swimming, discussed local development projects and explored good hiking spots. On our final day I had my “exit interview.”<br /><br />She called herself Eagle Soaring. As we sat at a big wooden table, sipping green tea, she watched me with sharp brown eyes and peppered me with questions. “What did you learn from the ceremony?” “ What work do you need to do to continue your journey?” She shared what the Shaman thought I needed to do including a detox cleanse, Reiki and an herbal tincture. She asked when I was planning to sit again and if I had other friends or family who could benefit from sitting. I was told to expect that there would be people who would not understand ceremonies and was offered talking points on how to counter their ignorance and prejudice. She clasped my hand with chubby, amethyst adorned fingers and told me I could always count on the community here to support, love and hold me. I was encouraged to keep sitting, keep expanding my consciousness. If one ceremony was good, another was better. I thought of Milton Freeman’s free market principles and how expansion-capitalism modalities were never in service of the poor and working class. Maybe I was just being stingy and transcendence-adverse because at $250 a peyote pop, “more as better” was simply out of my price-range. I told Soaring Eagle how much I appreciated the experience and said something vague about when I planned to sit again. I had the feeling that if I told her I was not planning to sit, she would organize another Eagle Feather or energy ritual of some kind. And I was ready to be home. I had no intention of sitting again. Not only did I not have the disposable income, I was uncomfortably aware of the intensely operational energy under the ceremonial flare. These people were running a business. My special eagle feather ritual and exit interview with Soaring Eagle were part of the hard sell. As the plane took off whisking me back to Seattle, I wondered why it was always an Eagle. White people never name themselves or their retreats and rituals after a tiger, dog, elephant, red ant, or queen bee--which are all fantastic animals. Why not a ground hog drum circle?<br /><br />I got home late, tired and hungry. I ate a dinner of heated up leftovers. After dinner, I crawled into bed and settled under my covers, loving my bedroom, my pillows, my bed. It felt good to be home. As I dozed off, feeling the cool pillow on my cheek, a voice whispered quietly in my head, “What if you are wrong? What if you are just being cynical? Why cut yourself off from the love and acceptance these people are offering? You will be alone and unloved when you could be loved and accepted.” I froze. For a few heartbeats I couldn’t breathe or move. I waited for the voice to pass, my body tense and guarded as a deep panic pulsed throughout my body. I thought to myself, “What if the voice was right?” “What if I was cutting off the very thing I really needed?” I don’t remember falling asleep. I woke the next morning with a jolt. As I lay back down under my comforter, feeling the morning light sprinkle across my closed eyes, I recalled the voice and shuddered. This was powerful stuff. The capacity to get under one’s skin, inside one’s head this way. “This is the stuff of cults,” I thought. “The cult of wannabe Eagles lead by Mr. Shh-shh-shh-Shaman,” I giggled trying to insert some levity into the slowly pulsing panic that had begun to rise inside me. Besides feeling caught off guard by the whispering voice in my head and unsettled by the actual doubt it inspired in me, I was anxious. The rituals, the ceremonies, the fancy feathers and flashy flourishes were seducing. The illusion of ancient history, the offering of a family, and a leader who would provide you with answers, all of these were very alluring. It was difficult to feel anxious, alone, uncertain and, at the same time, not want what they offered: security, certainty, family. Doubt and insecurity continued to burrow in the deepest parts of me. After a few minutes, though, this began to piss me off. “Get the fuck out of my head, Mr. Shamtastic!” I shouted silently. It worked for a while, but I knew he would be back. Voices like his, voices that have a certain resonance, a particular tone that play on the shadows of uncertainty would always return. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-31551745630911604472012-05-18T07:59:00.001-07:002012-05-18T07:59:16.672-07:00Dodgeball Dilemmas and Sixth Grade Recess Crushes (Wrong Place, Wrong Time)The spinning curve of the red rubber dodgeball eclipsed everything in my vision. It even took over everything inside my mind’s eye. It’s bumpy surface, like sunburnt skin, was spinning closer and closer directly towards me. I could make out scuff marks and a shiny patch where the tiny bumps had been worn smooth by so many kicks in kickball and the not so many dodges in afternoon dodgeball games. I saw the red rubber sphere spinning towards me at light speed, but it was all happening in slow motion. It was inevitable. The smash of rubber to the center of my face. I hoped I would look tough with a broken nose or a nice purple bruise. I could put a neat white strip of adhesive tape over it like Jaclyn Smith did in the episode where she fell off her skateboard chasing a diamond thief. She looked tough and pretty. <br /><br />Maybe if I had a cool but sexy adhesive strip, Kenny Evers would finally like me. Or, at least choose me when we lined up at the tetherball pole to pick teams. It was humiliating, standing there wishing you wouldn’t be picked last. Well, you knew you wouldn’t be last. Josh Fickner was always last. But, to be left second to last with just Josh, that was almost as bad as not being picked at all. That had never happened to me. There were always at least two or three other people still standing there awkwardly when I was finally chosen. But, still, the horror of it loomed large. <br /><br />Kenny had never picked me. He was so dreamy, in his Tough Skin bell bottom jeans. He had wild dirty blond hair that always looked like he just woke up from a nap, which, more often that not, he just had. He didn’t care about grades or what the teachers said. He had a crew. They wore sleeveless jean vests and half shirts. When he went to school birthday parties he and his crew hung in the back silently looking over one another’s shoulders, occasionally murmuring quietly.<br /><br />Looking back, Kenny was just a shy quiet kid surviving a loud alcoholic father and a Farah Fawcett look alike mom who wore staggeringly high heels and tight jeans to school events. She looked glamorous but sad, and sometimes a little scared. Despite the somber dusting she wore like shimmer powder, everyone watched her shamelessly whenever she was around. One day I overheard Kenny’s dad yelling at him when we were shopping at Alpha Beta. He was yelling at Kenny’ for hurting his mother’s feelings and Kenny was looking straight ahead. I pretended I hadn’t heard anything and offered Kenny a quick smile then looked away as my mom and I bustled past them in the frozen dinner section. <br /><br />As the red rubber ball continued it’s trajectory towards me, I pondered an important 6th grade dilemma. Would getting smacked in the face help rather than hurt my chances of being picked by Kenny to be on his dodgeball team? My chances, all but hopeless after “The Incident” could use improving. <br /><br />“The Incident” happened a few weeks earlier. My sister and I were dropped off at school way before the first period bell. It was foggy. Someone had forgotten to put a lone dodge ball in the storage locker and it glistened in the sunrise-red morning fog calling to me. I knew we weren’t supposed to use the sports equipment without a teacher present but hell, we had over an hour to kill and who could blame us? I picked up the ball and threw it straight at my sister with a satisfyingly sharp snap. Tania caught it and smiled as we both ran to the white 4-square outline. Game on.<br /><br />With the words: You say you wanna go for a spin, the party’s just begun, we’ll let you in. You drive us wild, we’ll drive you crazy. You keep on’, you keep shoutin’...I wanna rock and roll all nite and party every day blaring in my head, Tania and I started our game. We were tied, 3 to 3, when I stopped to re-apply the watermelon Bonni Bell Lip Smacker that Kris, my best friend, and I both wore on strings around our necks, and that’s when I saw him. <br /><br />He was just becoming visible in the slowly dissipating morning fog. His green and white Kangaroo tennis shoes making a slight squishing sound on the dewy asphalt. His Hotter Than Hell t-shirt was frayed at the sleeves and cut back to show off his pale, narrow shoulders. He was the only boy in our class brave enough to wear his shirts like that to class. He was constantly sent to the principals’ office and would inevitably return to class the following period in an over sized plain white t-shirt or blue windbreaker zipped all the way up. Despite being punished he always kept a defiant smirk around the edges of his thin pink lips. That smirk made most of the Green Valley Middle School sixth grade class members either want to be Kenny, or be with Kenny, even though most of us were still not exactly sure what be with entailed.<br /><br />That same defiant twinkle beamed across the playground as Kenny sauntered towards us. Desperate to look as cool as possible, which to be honest, was not very cool at all, I refused to look at him. I bounced the ball to Taina, who struggled to keep her eyes on the game. I could feel his gaze, like an electric pulse tugging at me to look at him. I willed Tania to ignore him and thankfully she did. The ball was in mid-air coming back to my left when he pounced. He snatched it like a lizard catches flies. SNAP! With a soft swoosh he landed, his green and white Roos facing squarely in front of me. He jerked the ball over his head and beamed those twinkly green eyes at me. “Game over, Catholic.”<br /><br />He had started that Catholic thing. I hated him for it, even while secretly admiring the comic wit. Having a name like Cristien Storm which everyone pronounced Christian Storm, was, as you can surely imagine, not easy in grade school.<br /><br />What is that, like a Jewish Hurricane? Catholic Thunder was another nick name. Today these might be excellent roller derby alias’ but in 6th grade there was no such thing. I endured the teasing and taunting and like to think I am stronger for it, but I am probably not. <br /><br />“Whatcha gonna do Catholic?” Kenny sneered.<br /><br />For some reason at that precise moment a chemical change or emotional charge, a storm of some kind, if you will, occurred. I had had enough. I wasn't the prettiest girl in my 6th grade class. I wasn’t the smartest. I wasn’t the best at playing baseball or writing A+ worthy essays on historical figures of note. I wasn’t a spelling champion or algebra whizz. I was just a normal little girl trying to navigate the maelstrom of sixth grade at Green Valley Middle school. I had new hormones raging through me and acne that made me wish the sidewalk would open up and swallow me whole. I didn’t have a red Goodie comb and no boy had ever asked me to walk the perimeter of the playground during lunch recess, arms crossed behind each others' waists with our hands in each others' back pocket. I didn’t want to bully anyone, but I was tired of being collateral damage, close to but not the direct target of the worst of the bullying. Without saying a word, I walked right up to Kenny and kicked him in the shins. Twice. He dropped the ball.<br /><br />“What the fuck Catholic?” He said leaning over to rub his shin.<br /><br />I turned my back on him and walked over to the white 4-square outline and my slack jaw sister. I nodded at her, rolled my shoulders back, stood in the center of my white square outline and bounced the ball in her direction.<br /><br />“Whatever Catholic.” He said as he walked away.<br /><br />My sister and I finished our game. Other kids joined us on the playground and eventually the incident got swallowed up in the chaos of a Green Valley Middle School Tuesday morning. The teachers arrived, took the dodgeball back and blew sharply into their shiny silver whistles to make us line up. The school bell rang, first period started and I assumed the incident was forgotten<br /><br />The incident, however, while lost in the chaos of a Green Valley Middle School morning, had not been forgotten.<br /><br />We had all lined up. Boys on the right, girls on the left. Michael Evenson and Jimmy Johnston were, of course, the team captains. They were always captains. Even when the teacher tried to make two other people team captains, one would choose Michael and the other would choose Jimmy to be on their teams and they would end up being the actual captains. Jimmy would always pick Julie and Bobby for his team and Michael would choose Rachel and Justin. There was a specific order and system that would seemingly self-correct whenever a teacher or anyone else tried to alter it. You don’t mess with the system. There are rules.<br /><br />Green Valley 6th Grade Middle School Rules:<br /><br />1. Jimmy and Michael were always captains<br />You never threw the ball at them<br />They never went after the weakest player<br /><br />Rachel and Julie were second in command. Julie was always on Jimmy’s team and Rachel was on Michael’s. <br /><br />Rachel and Julie were nice and didn’t bully anyone<br />The girl bullies, Lisa and Tammy, left Rachel and Julie alone and Rachel and Julie didn’t intervene when Lisa and Tammy slammed someone in the face with the ball or tripped someone; Rachel and Julie never saw anything<br />You could count on Rachel and Julie to be nice, but they would never have your back<br /><br />3. The biggest bullies, Kenny and Lisa had their own pecking orders complete with their second in commands Sarah and Peter.<br /><br />4. If you were not part of any identified group, you were left alone during free times and recess but basic targets when playing games or sports.<br /><br />5. If you were not part of any group and were noticeably not nice, however they defined it on that particular day, to Peter, Lisa or their sub group members you were dealt with: public humiliation,and teasing. This was different than the bullying that other classmates endured, but enough to remind one of their place in the Green Valley Middle School 6th Grade Social Hierarchy<br /><br />Today, the Green Valley Middle School 6th graders were playing dodgeball. Teams had been chosen. Our team was in the center, three balls in action. I had been dodging well and was feeling proud of my deft maneuvers. A shoulder duck mere seconds ago had been executed perfectly. The shiny red surface of the dodgeball had skimmed over my right shoulder, smacking Becky Dieters squarely in the back. I crouched, stood, pivoted left. That was when I saw it. The red rubber ball spinning straight at my face. I froze. I am not proud of it, but that was my response none-the-less, the proverbial “deer in headlights.” Stuck in place, I watched in horror as the red rubber ball spun closer and closer. Impact was imminent. My nose itched and my eyes watered in anticipation. The smack was coming. It would be loud and it would hurt.<br /><br />Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kenny’s eyes twinkle. He was looking right at Rachel, who was the one who caught me off guard and lobbed that red death globe at me. I looked past the spinning surface into her eyes. She was smiling shyly and coyly looking down. There was no mistaking it. She was smiling for Kenny. Shit, I thought. All images of Kenny gently touching my bright white adhesive strip with his forefinger then touching my cheek dissolved. I was left with the sickly residue of betrayal and the heartbreaking realities of Green Valley 6th Grade Middle School recess crushes. Rachel had broken rule number 2 and gone after me to not only restore Kenny’s ego, but in the hopes of walking the playground perimeter with him later that day at lunch, her hand neatly tucked in his back pocket. I wanted to scream I won’t do it again, I will never kick Kenny again! Instead, I sighed. The inevitable was approaching and there would be no sexy purple bruise or white adhesive bandage. Only me and a red splotchy mark in the center of my face. I willed something, anything to happen that would alter the tragic fate of this moment. I wished I could beam myself to a different place like Captain Kirk or that the playground would open up and swallow me whole, neither of which, I knew, would happen. Shit, I sighed again.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*While Green Valley Middle School does still exist and I do have a sister named Tania, this essay and the characters in it are an amalgamation of the many sixth grade experiences that many of us survive.</span><br />Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-7003499727778755942012-04-11T11:14:00.000-07:002012-04-11T11:14:30.136-07:00Beyond What?<div style="color: white;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.23731045933035444" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
want to believe I am beyond the nefarious manipulation of advertising
executives and sell out psychologists paying off second vacation homes
by running research studies on what shiny object will open my wallet,
what direction I will turn in a store in response to a blue 50% off
sign, or how my heart rate changes when I see the word SALE! in all caps
followed by a crisp, clear explanation mark in Helvetica font.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
really do. Want to believe. But I am not. Impervious. Neither are you.
The “Pacific Winter Blue” of your striped scarf, the “Midnight
Summer’s Black” of your sweatshirt, or the “Rose-hip Red” of your leg
warmers—they all have been scrutinized, categorized, manipulated,
planned and selectively, carefully named in order to be sold to you. And
me. Well, not the red leg warmers for me, but you get what I’m saying.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
want to believe. Need to believe I am not so easily emotionally
manipulated by a movie soundtrack. But when I sneak a peek at the inner
tick-tock of my heart, pulse, and other miscellaneous bibs, beeps
clunks and clicks going on inside me I have to admit my pulse does
change. It changes with the tick-tick-tick drumbeat and my breath
becomes more shallow as a haunting base thunders quietly in the
background while a young blonde actor who I have absolutely no affinity
for opens a basement door and even though you know that means he’ll die
first, your pulse seems to be desperately whispering ‘watch out!” Don’t
open the door!” “Don’t do it!” </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When
I get angry at a vapid love scene and am not careful, the underbelly of
my anger appears pink and vulnerable. I want to be loved. And I’m
grateful that I am loved and fucking angry that the shallow
sanctimonious heteronormative sanitary exchange of saliva between
Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet even touches that part of me. It
feels invasive, icky, sticky like the old man on the bus who sticks his
tongue out at you as he slips his hand down his pants with a sloppy
smile.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Because
they do reach out and touch you without your consent. Sure, I rented
the movie but I can’t compete with a 50 million dollar research budget
focused on what 25 to 45 year-old white women like me will buy. That’s
a lot of funding to figure out what will make women like me, women who
own chickens, write anti-fascist poetry, hate gin, love whisky, feel a
little socially awkward a lot of the time but have lots of good friends,
grow misty-eyed and feel inadequate. Not so inadequate that women like
me turn the movie off—just inadequate enough to subconsciously register
the H&M product placement and have a subsequent urge the following
week to buy large pieces of clunky costume jewelry and new skinny jeans.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We
cling to the crazy notion that we are a nation of free thinkers,
radical, no bullshit taking, independent-minded personas non-grata. But
my friend, we are not. Most of our moves are choreographed by a
million manipulated moments. There are a number of possibilities and a
wide range of choices of course, but really where is the free thought in
whether you drink Pepsi or Coke, shop at Whole Foods or Red Apple, buy
Neumann’s Oatmeal or Kellogg’s Oaties?</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That
fact that we cling to the belief that consumer choice is a radical way
to enact social change is a little sad. I mean, well, it was radical for
a moment in like the 60’s and 70’s. Now it’s probably a branding
campaign by Nike or part of a Go Green by Nature’s Choice Organics who,
by the time I read this, may in fact be owned by Nike—making a
circumlocutory but very calculated link between cereal choice and
footwear.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How
do we resist? Get off the well-worn footpath? How the hell do we not
throw our hands in the air and say fuck it let’s just watch television.
What’s a “conscious” consumer to do? It’s not like we can stop
consuming unless we want to be like the hippy girl in Portland who got
interviewed by NPR. She was interviewed because in addition to eating
only what she could grow in her garden, she found a sheep farm in the
requisite 30 mile radius of what she defined as “local” and talked them
into giving her the wool from the the sheep they slaughtered. She used
this wool to sew her own clothes and stuff her homemade pillow cushions
for her handcrafted bed. Or maybe it was a hemp-woven hammock—I don’t
know, I don’t remember all details of that one particular story.
Anyway…</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Personally,
I don’t want to weave my own clothes and even though I have a garden, I
can’t for the life of me find the inner peace in it. It’s just a pain
in the ass. Don’t get me wrong, I love eating my own beans and
strawberries and tomatoes, but I never have that bounty that people talk
about and weeding is never restorative. My hands hurt, and I just
think, “well that’s the fuck over,” when I’m done. I want to like it
and if I think deeply about it, I have to admit I’ve been manipulated to
want to like it. Granted, I totally support gardening and value any
disruption of food monopolization by giant, greedy corporations. But I
did not come up with these values willy-nilly. I have aligned myself,
turned left instead of right at the blue 50% off sign and I have no
doubt my every choice is being observed, studied, and documented in some
research study somewhere. How else can you explain the abundance of
$30 hemp tote bags?</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Knowledge
is power. But knowledge alone is not enough. I’m beginning to think
that humility can be even more powerful of a weapon. When I admit I can
be manipulated (not that easy for a someone with long and deep punk
rock roots and “fuck you authority” pulsing in my veins), I can widen my
peripheral vision to see where their million dollar research funding
touches me. My vision expands outward and inward allowing me to
register the subtle echo of manufactured desires which feel so much like
my own, but are not. I can tune in to the shiver, the slight caress of
a sophisticated marketing strategy moving up my spine. The caress
triggering a (highly anticipated and profit making) knee jerk f”uck you
corporate America, fuck you!” A knee jerk is easily telegraphed and
predicted—think urban counter culture branding campaigns like Woodstock
99, Camel Street teams, or American Apparel “Real People Ads.”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Part
of me thinks it’s grown up to strive for a home repair or gardening
metaphor, but you know how I feel about gardening, (and perhaps
subconsciously you’ll feel my conflicted state about this thing called
growing up) so, a combat metaphor it is. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How
do you fight an invisible, highly adaptable, and cut throat
multi-million dollar monstrosity with no sense of compassion and for all
the products it’s myriad heads spews forth, very little fashion sense
if you ask me straight up? Well, you have to train. Not purify or
detoxify--both very fine things but too much detox or purity and our
body forgets how to digest poison and this, to be sure, is a poison our
bodies need to be able to handle.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Our
bodies need to recognize the particular fever-flu the blue 50% off sign
subtly ignites in us and have the power to use that fire as an
oppositional gale force. We need to learn to feel the longing, the
desire, the lust, greed, wanting, wishing and funnel it into bad ass
social networking campaigns designed to think beyond a “branded
lifestyle.” We can train ourselves to absorb the left hook of
physiological manipulation while keeping our eyes open so we can see the
unguarded corporate chin or industrial solar plexus and make a sharp
unpredicted uppercut and rapid “bam-bam-bam” jab to the soft spots just
inside campaign goals and marketing strategies. Think beyond the
elliptical freedom of consumer choice and reach for radical
participation in making the people in your world feel, think and be
better to each other. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Where
is freedom in walking home from a local farmers market if I can’t look
the homeless mother in the eye? Or, if I can meet her gaze, she
registers a satiated consumer’s pity rather than a reverent regard and
bad ass action plan for her and her family’s well being? Where is
freedom located in the ever expanding outlet malls? Malls, hidden
neatly between highways, a stone’s throw from the multitude of ever
expanding prisons, also neatly tucked away to render invisible the
people erased by the branding campaign of criminality? Choice is
powerful when it’s authentic not a corporate branding bi-product. It
matters not whether I buy Green Goddess or Sunset Granola when people
languish in clandestine obscurity. There is no liberating force in
which organic snack crackers I buy when only a handful of us can afford
soy dogs and locally made garlic nan. It’s not liberation if only a
select few get to join in. It’s a VIP party gussied up to resemble a
fake revolution. I know the Hors d'Oeuvre are looking scrumptious, but
the price of the ticket isn’t worth the hand whipped truffle sauce or
local cherry compote because it will start off smooth, but finish with a
sour burn you will have to teach yourself to ignore over and over and
over. Wouldn’t you rather put your fist in the air, grab a crab cake
off the polished brass serving tray and take the house down with a good
old fashion party crashing? Some drunk girl will spill her mango
martini and cry. Her date will get angry because he is scared and feels
helpless so he will turn beet red and huff about how this is
reprehensible. Older dudes will cut out, join in, or make mental notes
in case someone wants to sue somebody in the morning. The wait staff
will hope you have figured out how to make sure they don’t lose their
jobs and the catering company will try to make sure you don’t break
their shit. Come on, it will be fun. Way better than standing in front
of the snack aisle wondering which kind of organic cracker to buy.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-54480547297177078812012-01-20T14:45:00.000-08:002012-01-20T15:20:39.239-08:00A Drop of Blood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjxrlsCoH1GAx71CLyW_u2xwFr7X6W-QCzX072oHYARPfTp6JPwXfReuN30Gw0IwzWyxJMm4FXH4LKsmUn_VyucVnkNxEeUxuDzAdpotU3vosbaS1em-VfxQclFU_7vFhUXprdMTfvQA/s1600/sispic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjxrlsCoH1GAx71CLyW_u2xwFr7X6W-QCzX072oHYARPfTp6JPwXfReuN30Gw0IwzWyxJMm4FXH4LKsmUn_VyucVnkNxEeUxuDzAdpotU3vosbaS1em-VfxQclFU_7vFhUXprdMTfvQA/s320/sispic" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>The Dream </i><br />
She smashed her fist into the coffee bean sized nob of bone protruding just below the bridge of his nose. Index and middle finger leading slightly, she muttered a silent prayer. She knew she had a 45% chance of breaking a finger from this angle. She didn’t really care. Small price to pay. Drawing back she snapped her right fist again and again, as her left hand locked around his esophagus. Pulling him slightly forward, she used her body weight to dip his chin making her sharp thrusts more powerful and effective. <br />
<br />
Time seemed to pass slowly. Her hand ached, her fingers had stiffened and a muscle in her left palm was twitching. She wanted to stop. She couldn’t. There was a rhythm and momentum driving her and under the tempo, a need. She needed to see blood. “I just need to see you bleed. God damn, mother fucker why don’t you just bleed?” She roared at him. Unable to speak, he rolled his eyes towards her, searching her face. He had been trying to pry her fingers open, but she countered this by punching the hollow in his throat just below her grip. He attempted to punch her but she angled sideways, left, then right, just out of his reach and by that time he was having trouble breathing through the torn cartilage in his throat. He decided to focus on breathing. Air. And blood. He willed himself to bleed. Imagined it gushing. Imagined drops flowing freely down the pulpy mess of his nose. <br />
<br />
She silently wondered why he wasn’t bleeding. As her attention turned to the noticeable absence of blood, she became aware of a quietness, a stillness and slow motion-ness. A strange, erie and ethereal quality to what was happening. “Fuck! I am dreaming!” She yelled. “It’s a god damn dream.” And, because this was a dream, despite realizing that she was dreaming, she remained inside her dream.<br />
<br />
The man in her dream looked like she imagined her abuser would look like 30 years later. And, because this was a dream, he also looked exactly the same as he did when he was big and she was small. Bam! She punched him in the face again when she realized this. She had wanted him to bleed but having realized this was a dream, she no longer did. The lack of blood, the silence, the slowness, they let her enact revenge without continuing the generational legacy of abuse. That felt important to her. <br />
<br />
She gave his throat a final squeeze and shoved him backwards. He stumbled into a black abyss, the white soles of his giant Reeboks were the last thing she saw. She slumped down and stretched her fingers. She slowed her breath and looked around. There was nothing to indicate the carnage that had just occurred. That felt familiar to her. The lack of visible evidence. You couldn’t tell anything happened by looking at her. As she stood she looked down at her feet and saw a single drop of blood shimmering in the blackness, smeared by his fingers as he fell. It looked like how her insides felt the first time his fingers colonized her body. She leaned down, smiled and flicked the drop into the abyss.<br />
<br />
<i> The Question</i><br />
“...how much blood was there?” she asks my sister. My sister turns to me, puts her hand over the phone receiver and says, “She wants to know if there was any blood.” My mind fizzles. Actually, crackles and pops. For a few beats, I am deafened by the cacophony.<br />
<br />
Why the fuck does she think it matters if there was blood? Because if there was no blood there was no damage? No lasting consequences other than night terrors, self esteem issues, a lifetime of shame to contend with, a love of things that numb that shame, unidentifiable somatic problems, chronic pain, fear of intimacy, blinding rage at ill timed moments and an ongoing social awkwardness that does not recede with seemingly endless march towards maturity? That kind of no damage?
<br />
<br />
At the time I didn’t entirely understand why she asked if there was any blood or what dark secrets were embedded in that horrible question flung at my sister when she finally summoned the courage to speak the unspeakable truth that everyone knew but no one was brave enough to hold. This allegiance to silence not only left my sister and I vulnerable, it made the next generation an easy target. I didn’t think knowing how much blood there was, mattered. <br />
<br />
“Tell her it doesn’t matter.” I said. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. It was short. I crawled into a corner inside myself. My sister crawled into bed. I went home the next day and quietly shut down. Then, imploded. The story had been told. Again. It wasn’t news. No one would talk about it but we all knew what happened. At least everyone knew exactly what happened that one summer. I had made sure of it.<br />
<br />
<i> The Blood </i><br />
I was around 7 years old. I was sitting outside the bedroom door. It was summer. We were visiting family in desert country and my sister, cousin and I practically lived in our bathing suits. I wore a blue two piece suit that night with cut offs. As I sat outside the door, I played with my cousin’s six million dollar man action figures. It was late. I didn’t know what time it was but I knew that my vigil would last much later. My sister sometimes wasn’t allowed out of the room until after sunrise. There were noises coming from behind the door. Bad noises. The same kind of noises I made when it was my turn to be inside the room, rather than sitting outside the closed door willing my sister and I to be beamed to another planet like on Star Trek. There were other sounds as well, thumps from being thrown. I don’t remember being thrown, myself, but I understood the sound. <br />
<br />
What I didn’t understand was why the other adults were letting this happen. I knew why I wasn’t storming in to stop him. He was big. He was mean. He scared me. At the time, my vigil was the only choice I had to try to interrupt things that were more powerful than me. We had a few more weeks until the end of summer and I was trying to believe we would survive. I made Steve Austin and Jamie Summers take alternate leaps over my calf as I hummed the theme song. By that time, I learned to stay awake all night. Learned to wait for sunrise and then sleep on my Love Boat beach towel next to the pool in the apartment complex courtyard. <br />
<br />
We both survived. <br />
<br />
We are in the backseat, making the long drive home and he is hissing, “Don’t say a word. Do you understand? Don’t say a word.” Over and over. My sister and I don’t say a word the entire drive home. What is there to say? We sit silently. Clumps of hair missing. Bruises you can see and many more you couldn’t. It is a very long, hot car ride home. <br />
<br />
We pulled into our wide driveway, my mom standing at the end smiling and waving. Her black hair bouncing around her shoulders in the slight breeze. I get out of the car before it has completely stopped and run towards her. She takes me in her arms and holds me tight. I am wrapped like a small jewel held close to her. I smell the familiar, dry California air sweet with the scent of pine and eucalyptus; my mother’s Chanel No 5 perfume; the sharp smell of tomatoes and Jergen’s lotion on her hands. Closing my eyes, I inhale and I whisper in her ear. Tell her I love her. Tell her what happened. I share secrets about dark, long, nights with vigils and prayers; about little bodies flying and the sounds their impact made on the thin bedroom walls. I don’t tell her about what happened to me. I had no words for that. No language. But, I could speak as a witness. It was the only thing, in that moment, that I could do. I couldn’t stop him, but I could hold vigils. I could expose him. His power came from silence. I could, for a moment, annihilate that power.<br />
<br />
And when my mom, big and strong and invincible like Jamie Summers, let me fall from her arms and began screaming, he was, in that instant, powerless. She yelled and flung her fists in a flurry. She shoved him backwards again and again until he scrambled in the car and backed slowly down the driveway without saying a word. <br />
<br />
My mom had became superhuman. Her rage, her willingness to shatter silence, inspired me. I felt bigger, stronger and a little bionic, by proxy. I believed her indomitable.<br />
<br />
It was inevitable that we would discover her own personal cryptonyte, buried in the shallow genealogy of muteness that shames survivors and witnesses, as well as the stories they try to tell back into the silent dark. Once the story is supplanted, all witnesses subdued, or otherwise gagged and tied, the old order is restored and you get back to the business of surviving. <br />
<br />
We all knew how to survive and we did it quite well for a few months. The silent gathering of daughters into a safety net of retreat required a modicum of normalcy. There were brunches and back to school shopping on Sundays, cookie making and watching Gilligan’s Island on the couch in the living room together on Tuesdays. There was homework and weekend bike rides, arguments over who fed the dog, who was going to take out the garbage and when to get off the phone. My sister and I went to school, cleaned our rooms, played with our rabbits and made forts in the downstairs closet. We fought over who picked the last tv show, threw tantrums, and stormed like the little girls we were dramatically into our separate rooms when we felt like we weren’t being listened to. Then, as the safety net of retreat frayed dangerously at the edges, we faced my mother’s cryptonyte: the family gathering. <br />
<br />
The three of us were taking a road trip--my mother, sister and I. The electrical sensation radiating in my chest and arms affirmed all my fears when we pulled up to the cabin and my aunt clamored down the steps to greet us. My sister and I stiffened in unison. We both knew he was inside. We were ushered inside where adults sat around raising highball glasses and endless cigarettes to their lips while playing Yahtzee. He was talking about getting addicted to cigarettes because, at 25 cents a pack, they were cheaper than food. We sat on the couch. I was trying to make sure my sister and I sat next to each other. Everyone smiled and talked about the weather and how nice it was to see one another again. When my mom told us to go to bed, my sister and I silently picked up our bags and walked to my mom’s room. <br />
<br />
Time passed. I crawled back into the familiar corner deep inside myself and tried to focus on things I could count. Three red tiles then two blue ones on the bathroom floor. 6 sides of the Yahtzee dice. Fifty threads per square on the living room carpet. Five taps with my pointer finger, then five more with my middle. Switch sides then another set of five. Seven bubbles in my morning pancakes, 3 squeezes of syrup.12 steps to the front porch. I could count anything. <br />
<br />
“Come on Cristien, we’re going.” My aunt smiled at me as she leaned in and tried to catch my eye. Six blinks before she said, “Come on, no more excuses.” I was out of excuses. They had made it clear earlier that morning. No more stomach aches, no more bladder “trouble,” no more headaches. My mom and aunt and I were going shopping that afternoon and that was that. My sister would not be joining us. He was staying home too. I don’t remember the reason. It really didn’t matter what they said. I knew we were leaving my sister as a silent peace offering. The old order had risen from the ashes of immolated memories. My mother, once a super-sonic bad ass who had used the power of her rage, bionic vocal cords, and matriarchal roar to silence him and send far away, had been put back in her place. My mother stood, a fuzzy outline in the background, as my aunt handed me my coat and opened the front door. I knew no one would step in to help us ever again. The women had all retreated back into whatever space they had created for themselves and there was no room for me or my sister in those spaces.<br />
<br />
<i> The Future</i><br />
I folded myself over and over, an origami girl, all sharp edges and paper cuts. I survived. Cut myself. Cut other people. Until the gradual unfolding of corners allowed room for things beyond just surviving. Years later my sister and I would compare details about hiding places, survival strategies, and our similar somatic ghosts. This was done with few words. We had never talked about what happened with anyone. Even after jumping out of the car that searing summer day to spill secrets to my mother, no one said anything to me. No one asked questions. No one acknowledged anything at all. But, I knew that everyone knew. Silence can protect some people, but it cannot undo a story once it has been told.<br />
<br />
That was why, so many years later, when my sister decided to say what happened in her own words, the response, “Well, how much blood was there?” was a clear and bloody line in the sand. My sister and I had tried to draw a protective circle around the boys and girls growing up in the bruised and battered silhouettes of our family members by breaking the silence. Again. But blood is powerful and often people who have been indoctrinated through their own pain and the desperate need to not see what is right in front of them, believe that if there was little or no blood, there was little or no damage. And, if there was little or no damage, the individual stories could remain buried, alongside the safety and well being of future generations. If there was no blood and therefore no damage, then the children he was currently allowed to be around were not in danger and it was not necessary to do or say anything. My sister and I were expected to sacrifice the next generation of children to an endless silent plea to not speak the unspeakable. I suppose offering sacrifices can become habitual and blood, in the contorted legacies of exploitation and survival, continues to draw lines in the sand. Blood quantifies. Blood signals. Assigns blame and responsibility. Blood is given the power to define who is a willing participant, who is an accomplice, who is a real victim and who is a lying whore. <br />
<br />
Understanding why the presence or amount of blood was so important doesn’t change anything. I still grind my teeth. I still have inappropriate implosions of shame. I am over or under emotional in response to a now nonexistent danger. I continue to be socially awkward. The map of my body is still contested terrain under constant construction. I still have nightmares. Less often and less intense, they change and re-configure as I do but they are simply a regular feature on both my waking and dream-scape. That’s just what comes with this kind of shit. You don’t get used to it, but you figure out how to live during the day and throughout the night. And that matters. Over time you begin to imagine, you start to feel and then gradually embody the women in your dreams who dares to hold steady. She is barefoot and small, gorgeous and giant. She punches like a piston and reminds you very simply, very sharply, very clearly and precisely, of your own humanity and grace.<br />
<br />
*<span style="font-size: xx-small;">When I read my works, people often ask me if something or other is
"true" or “real.” I never know how to answer this. Yes. No. What would
be different for you if you discovered what was “real”? What complex
factors compel one to ask? While this story is based on “real”
experiences, I am not trying to offer a detailed account of “facts” or
writing a memoir. I am sharing my experiences. </span>Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-81062122028145654382011-12-07T13:33:00.000-08:002011-12-07T13:59:52.699-08:00Malicious JoyI call them the shinny, happy, magazine people. They look like glossy ads. Shinny skin, blemish free, blissful gaze, plump lips, bright white teeth, dewy eyes, wind swept hair, flawless cuticles and no cellulite in sight. I imagine they smell like an expensive hotel lobby, subtle, decadent, and deliberately, manipulatively delicious. They radiate confidence. And competence. They look like they get shit done. Shit, they look like they have other people get their shit done for them.<br /><br />She was one of them. A shiny, happy, magazine person. I’d brush past her on the way in our out of yoga class, clomping along, feeling like an un-brushed Clydesdale to her long leg gazelle prance. She always had positive things to say and made sure to turn any frown upside down with ‘budda-rific” (as she called them) tidbits. <br /><br />You make your own destiny<br />You can meet everything with gratitude<br />Negative energy ages you<br />There is abundance of everything<br /><br />I often felt petty or greedy around her, sometimes even hostile, like when I heard her say, “You just need to put out more positive energy and you’ll feel better.” When someone had the flu. Or, “That’s karma for you.” When someone’s bike was stolen. All in all, very un-Buddha-like of me. <br /><br />Which, to be frank I was ok with. I didn’t want to be like her or the other perma-smile, bright eyed rosy cheeked white men and women whispering to each other about lulu lemon tank top sales and home made vegetarian stew recipes. I did, however, want some of that shinny happy stuff. I had acne, frown lines, enormous pores, and my hair never looked wind swept in that kind of way. But really, under all the shiny shit, what I really longed for was the confidence that sparkled like the clunky silver jewelry they wore. My insecurity and awkwardness seemed to bloom around these shinny, happy, magazine people. My feelings of inelegance didn’t change despite knowing that she was, in fact, a shinny, happy, hot, Buddha mess. <br /><br />But there was something appealing; an American “by the boot-straps” allure in the idea that messes and mishaps can make you stronger and wiser. Me, after most of my mistakes, I feel embarrassed at best and often totally incompetent. I don’t tend to feel wiser or stronger, but drained and a little sheepish. The messes that she grappled with, she claimed, gave her opportunities for prayer and practicing Buddha love. I wondered how you Buddha love your way into paying a past due electric bill or deal with a student loan creditor who’s calling you 20 times a day. She would laugh, a brilliant cascade of shinny ha ha’s and give me a just-right crinkly smile that somehow erased rather than accentuated the lines around her eyes. “Oh, Cristien, the universe will provide. You just have to be open.” Open to what, I thought, picturing Buddha on a cloud or tree limb somehow sticking out in the sky with a big black check book, laughing as he dashed off checks to Puget Sound Energy or Citi Bank student loans and tossing them so they drifted like little blue rectangular leaves wherever they were needed. On one hand, I agreed with her, that there is an abundance of everything. On the other hand, one percent of the population owns most of it, and the rest of us can’t afford any of it, so, well, that’s complicated.<br /><br />She tried to simplify it for me. She explained the energetic principle of karma and how the vibrations we put out make up the world we live in. How, I wondered, did all these vibrations not knock us down? I’d picture a giant tuning fork or enormous bass amp. I mean, my body throbs for days after a Neurosis show. I know that vibrations are everywhere and that they are powerful stuff. Just the other day I hear about this guy, Oliver Beer. He taps into the resonant frequencies of a structure, and makes them “sing”. He records chanting or singing inside a structure like a tunnel or bridge and as the words bounce around the structure, he records them, then loops the recording, plays it back and then records that. He does this over and over until the natural frequencies of the structure resonate and the structure itself produces sound. Singing. It is haunting and deeply touching to listen to a tunnel or a parking garage sing. But vibrations, no matter how powerful or moving, do not have positive or negative qualities. No matter what words the singers sang, no matter what the words meant, no matter what the text, the words always bounced back indiscriminately. The mathematics of resonance and science of sound is completely indifferent to the meaning of the actual words being chanted or sung. <br /><br />So, my friend, she was right of course, in some sense. Vibrations are powerful. Moving. Emotional. But her conviction that imagining the job she wanted or offering a mantra for a coveted pair of boots and somehow thinking that the vibes she put out there would manifest in these material things, is something I couldn’t wrap my head around. Science can’t wrap its head around that either. That kind of energy, if it existed, would crush us. Or at least knock us on our collective asses—and not in a metaphysical or metaphorical way. But in a physics, atom-smashing, ass knocking kind of way<br /><br />But shinny is shinny and happiness does clamor for our attention. I watched her over the year, coming and going in the yoga studio we both went to, her long auburn hair longer and shinier each time I saw her. Every time I asked how she was doing, she would say the same thing “Buddha blessed and divine. How are you?” Sometimes I would tell her about something fucked up going on in my world in a voyeuristic delight of listening to her insistence on making whatever it was, a joyful, positive experience. It was like watching the car accident she told me she had been in. I couldn’t turn away or stop listening as she explained how her insurance was refusing to pay her medical bills and she felt like the universe was really trying to tell her something. <br /><br />“That insurance companies are greedy and fucked?” I’d blurt out. <br /><br />She would smile that smile, crinkle her nose at me and say, “Oh Cristien you are so funny!” <br /><br />Or, when her life coach doubled her fees and informed her that her hesitancy to continue working with her was an emotional block around success and loving herself. She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “She is really teaching me about love, you know. And how to not try to control things.”<br /><br />She would smile a shinny, happy smile at me and prance away ever more light and ethereal. I became a little obsessed in watching her transformation. Week to week, I’d check in with her. I watched, as her insistence on seeing the joy and gratitude in everything seemed to nibble away at her physical frame. She became more airy which I hadn’t thought possible, her feet hardly seeming to land on the ground. <br /><br />She told me about her hours being cut at work and how that was a blessing because it forced her to simplify and focus more on her spiritual life. She did not, I noted, stop seeing her spiritual coach whom I happened to know also doubled her fee, but none of my Buddha business, right? She kept her life coach. “An absolute necessity” she would insist, espousing the need to let go of trying to control things. “The only thing you can control is your reaction to things and it’s just spiritually laziness to chose to be miserable and I choose to not be lazy and not be miserable.” She’d bluster with small stamp of a bare foot.<br /><br />“What about people who have been evicted, or lost their home, or got fired or downsized, or have a terminal disease caused by waste from the chemical plant up stream from where they live, or are homeless because of domestic violence, don’t they have the right, or even the moral and spiritual obligation to be a little bit pissed off and miserable?” I asked her.<br /><br />She smiled, all white teeth and pink lip stain, patted my hand and said, “They should be grateful. They have amazing opportunities. Happy people put out happy energy. Positive people attractive positive things. Negativity attracts negativity. It’s science.” <br /><br />She said this with such confidence. A confidence buoyed by years of social messaging and her own personal evidence-based experiments. Everything provided evidence of this energetic exchange between her and an ever-generous universe. When she got the best parking spot, she had visualized it. If the barista remembered her drink, it was because she put out positive energy, not because of good customer service. Her new yoga pants, on sale exactly the same day she got her refund check-a minor miracle and scientific proof of the power of positive thinking. <br /><br />This insistence on happiness, on gratitude and joy, a forced serenity fascinated and disturbed me, appealed to me and repelled me. She offered assurances that it was natural, healthy to practice positively. That it was unnatural to live in negativity. But I noticed the more she insisted on being happy, on seeing the joy in everything, the shinier and smilier she looked that the thinner and more ethereal she became. Joy seemed to eat her up, like a bulimic cell burrowed deep inside her endlessly devouring and demanding more joy! More joy! More joy!<br /><br />I don’t mean to disparage joy or gratitude. Our world would be much better if there were less greed, less selfishness, less of the never-ending sense of never-enough-ness that divides our capacity for solidarity and cultivates a collective and cultural anxiety. An anxiety that fuels both the reality of an ever expanding class divide and reality shows like Keeping Up With The Kardashians—and both of these realities fuel massive industries built on top of and out of our anxieties and desire to avoid, well, reality itself. I want more joy and gratitude in my own life. I want reality to include the lovely and the loving, without out bright washing the painful shit. I feel better, am a better friend, a better ally when I am able to hold the complex reality that really good and positive, fabulous things occur alongside really painful, negative shit. But painful, is painful and it makes sense to some degree that we try to avoid it. And, truth be told, sometimes it’s helpful to avoid feeling bad. But there is a collective cognitive moral dissonance that begins to warp our capacity to be fully human when we ignore “the bad” to focus only on “the good”.<br /><br />One day, she told me she was going to transcended negativity by refusing to engage in anything negative. This included, I found out, me. I discovered this because she simply stopped talking to me before or after class. She would smile and bow at me in a way that made me annoyed and slightly uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She wore her joyful bliss like a costume she refused to take off. A pretty party princess dancing alone long after all the partygoers have gone home. The joy she radiated was eating her, that was painfully clear. Her joy was insatiable, she an anorexic vessel with the privilege to refuse to engage in the real world. Her privilege, however, was unable to prevent joy from draining her, even as she insisted that every obstacle or unfortunate event was an opportunity or Buddha-moment. <br /><br />I began to see cracks in the shinny, freshly scrubbed and veggie juiced veneer. One day she forgot to smile when sharing how blessed she was, her green eyes flat and dull. Another day as she arched her long limbs into bow pose, clunky jewelry jangling, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed in a very not-so-serene sneer. And another time she began to complain about a 30% rent increase, caught herself, shook her head, whipping her long auburn hair in front of her face and sheepishly slid away. Despite these small cracks, she continued to be enveloped in a vaporous cloud of fierce serenity and would have resembled a “non-violent or pacifist zombie” if you didn’t get a whiff of very-human and not so zombie like Stargazer Lilly shampoo every time she walked by.<br /><br />But even her zombie-ness began to seem too real, too practical and probably full of too much negativity for her and it began to melt away, as her body, desperate to contain all the joyful gratitude her practice demanded, deteriorated around the edges. She became ratty at the seams, less dense and when people tried to engage her in conversations that were not “positive”, she not only refused to engage, she would smile a slowly vanishing smile, fading, as she did, quietly, mutely dissolving into the void of eternal gratitude while a malicious joy consumed her endlessly from the inside out.Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-21987801739608525322011-10-26T12:05:00.000-07:002011-10-26T12:07:54.570-07:00Unhinged: Unpredictable Responses to a Predictable WorldThe single malt scotch burned its way down his throat, scratching at his insides with sharp precision like the red polished nails of a high-end escort. <br /><br />His sense of entitlement, nestled in the depths of his insides, sat next to his guilt about the damage he was responsible for, the arrogance of his youth and pomposity of a wealthy middle age, each of them drowning in a sea of Chateau Montifaud Cognac, regret and just a shy sliver of hope.<br /><br />“You’ve gone mad!” They told him. “It just isn’t done.” They hissed at him. And it isn’t. So maybe he was mad. But he also felt better than he had in years. More sure. Calmer. His acid reflux, a sure symbol of corporate manhood, was receding like a warm nighttime tide under a sweet tropical moon. <br /><br />He had redistributed 99% of his assets: savings, property, stocks, bonds, all of it. He’d liquidated most of his properties and miscellaneous cars, boats and big-ticket items he’d acquired like some people accrue extra socks or hats. He’d given that 99% to 99 different communities starting in his state and in the poorest neighborhoods—they got the biggest percentage. No strings. No government hand out hooks. Just delivered checks to three community centers, 12 different churches, temples and mosques, and dozens of different neighborhood development projects and then in a final fait accompli he simply handed out bundles of cash to people at the local corner stores and coffee shops like some drunk Santa Claus. And it did feel a little bit like Christmas. Not the Christmas’ of his adulthood, crammed with stressful shopping trips in order to find just the right gift for this or that associate, investor, partner, politician, not to mention wife, lover, children, parents and siblings. And good god if being rich wasn’t just a pain in the ass sometimes—they all expected perfection from him. After all, he could afford it. It took a toll, all that striving towards and expectation of perfection. <br /><br />He sighed slowly and took another meaty mouthful of amber liquid puffing out his extract-of-Scandinavian-seaweed moisturized cheeks, savoring the smoky film that lingered on the back of his throat. <br /><br />It was a pain in the ass, both the spending and hoarding of riches, the constant search for expansion balanced by a need to keep everything tightly controlled. It was a pain in the ass, and the back—more specifically and more literally a pain in his hemorrhoids and his slipped disks and pinched sciatic nerve. He shifted in his chair, the buttery leather softly caressing the backs of his thighs.<br /><br />His body told the story of ladder climbing and bootstrapping. He had soft un-calloused fingers and manicured nails, shinny with clear polish designed “to look manly for the dignified executive,” claimed the beautician. His belly rounded out the front of his $500.00 Paul Fredrick button up shirt just enough to let the world know he could afford both a personal trainer and a private chef. His posture was erect but his shoulders rounded forward with the rolling edge of someone always having to bully their way through rather than sit back and enjoy. Even when he sat back to enjoy, which he tried more and more of as he matured and grayed around the edges, there was a restless look about him—all energy still in forward motion.<br /><br />He sighed again, shoulders drooping in a familiar forward gesture. The second city had been fun. He was in and out in a single day having arrived unannounced and ahead of the press buzz from his previous stint in his hometown. He was chauffeured efficiently by a long time and well trusted driver from one end of town to the other with checks and thick envelopes of cash. Again, he’d started with the poorest part of town. His black town car, a study in contrast, garnered long sideways glances and interrupted neighborly conversations as people paused to watch him drive by, held their breath when he stopped, and held themselves erect when he got out. Some automatically started giving him directions back to the highway assuming he was lost and his driver incompetent. He wasn’t lost. “I’m not lost.” he’d say, “Well not in that sort of sense,” he’s sometimes added quietly with a soft smile. The people would smile back politely. Waiting. He was used to being indulged. When he handed them the envelopes or asked their names to write a personal check, they would often refuse to accept, holding arms up in front of their chest in both a protective and defensive posture. Or, they might not raise their arms at all, but tilt their head at a sharp investigative angle watching him as they took an instinctual step back. In the first, second and even the third city he had been confused. After countless exchanges such as this he finally understood. There was no reason to trust him and every reason to believe he would do them harm, or at the very least make them a pawn in a dirty rotten joke at their expense. He got it. He got it because he came from a world where these sorts of people were expendable, faceless, nameless and even human less. They were numbers on a graph, statistics in a power point presentation. Data to be crunched then mulled over during a three-course lunch or stint at the driving range. And they knew it. Knew he knew it. Their eyes called him out and reflected himself back to himself. <br />……<br />He pulled the trigger back. Boom! Then silence, save for the soft splatter of gristle, bone shards and blood sliding down the mahogany panels of his office walls and the slight tremor of his left hand which lay on top the handwritten note drafted carefully on the monogrammed stationary he preferred to use. “I don’t like what I saw when I looked at myself through other people’s eyes,” it began, “You will be tempted to think I am crazy or unbalanced, while I, of course, prefer to think I am not. I don’t suppose you can begin to look clearly at the world that we have made, that I have helped to build without teetering on the edge of sanity. Had I stayed, I would have gone mad.” The note continued with personal assurances of love and pleas for family members to not place blame on themselves. Of course, they participated in making the world he was trying desperately to disentangle himself from and he knew they were to blame in some regard. But this decision, to end it this way, was all his. <br /><br />He made sure his family was taken care of to some degree in the way they had come accustomed to, but not completely. After that, he gave the rest of what he had to the homeless man he passed every day on the street walking into his building but never really saw until he put this plan into motion. The homeless man threw a party at the shelter handing out fistfuls of cash to everyone he ran into. No one called him crazy or told him “That’s just not done”. They all took the money and threw parties of their own.Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-46639921948054956442011-08-31T17:08:00.000-07:002013-03-31T08:49:28.288-07:00Lost Woman. Reaward?<div style="color: white;">
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Life changes in an instant. One moment you are sitting in the sun, enjoying a warm July afternoon and then next, you are running up and down the streets by your house frantically searching for your most loyal friend. Last summer my dog, Sukhi, got out of a small hole in our fence left by the construction crew working on the new fourplex condos being built next door. One minute he was in the yard sitting slyly by my feet and begging for a bite of my cheese sandwich, then the next, gone. As I frantically searched the yard after turning over every blanket and pillow in the house (the last time I thought he was missing I found him asleep inside a pillow case) I found the hole he escaped from. <br />
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I canvassed the neighborhood that night and put up flyers first thing the next morning. Because it was Friday on the Fourth of July weekend, I had to wait until Tuesday to check the animal shelter to see if he had been dropped off. I was devastated. I cried as I put up flyers and posted a notice on Craigslist. Cried as I sat on my front porch, gate open willing him to trot up the stairs. Cried some more as my husband and I recanvassed the neighborhood Saturday, Sunday, Monday. I was inconsolable. Saturday night when the fireworks started, I left our front door open hoping he would come rushing up the front steps and leap into my arms. Sukhi and I had been through a lot together. I missed my four-legged sidekick. </div>
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Tuesday we went to the animal shelter. He wasn’t there. He’d been gone five days and I was heartbroken but trying to remain hopeful. As I walked out of the shelter, numb and tired into the bright July sunshine I didn’t notice the canvas tent set up in two of the parking spaces until a freshly-shaved, bright-eyed man called out, “Did you lose your dog?” I nodded. <br />
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He rose and walked over to me. “What kind of dog?” </div>
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“Little Chihuahua” I replied realizing the unnecessary repetition. <br />
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“Friendly?” he asked. <br />
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“Yes.” <br />
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“OK. We can help.” He replied with such conviction, such assurance that I found myself wanting to believe everything he said. <br />
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I was emotionally exhausted, slumped into a tired, sad ball. In my heartbroken state, it is hard to recall exact details and I mostly have impressions of people and events. I remember he had ramrod posture, exuded confidence and his freshly scrubbed face rosy from the sun and soft blue eyes conveyed sympathy that made it easy for me to want to trust him. I nodded and followed him to the makeshift tent set up in the parking lot. The tent had a banner running across a fold up table proclaiming to help people find lost pets. The man, clearly part of the group running the activities inside the tent, indicated that I should stand by the table. <br />
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Crates of papers were stacked neatly on one end, an old computer rested on a sagging plastic folding table, stacks of bright pastel poster board were piled against an ice chest on which an older white woman was sitting. I stepped into the buzz of six or so volunteers identified by their orange vests and walkie-talkies. A young blonde woman with a toothy smile and long fingers held a clipboard and began asking me questions. It helped to have someone take charge. Take care of things. Name? Age? Size? Chipped? Collar? Tag? I answered. Someone handed me a sweaty bottle of water while an older woman with a short sensible salt-and-pepper bob and brown loafers asked if we had a photo. <br />
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“Not with me,” I replied. <br />
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Another woman marched over looking very much in charge and she explained things to me with military precision and an authority as crisp as the crease in her button-up shirt. She said something like, “Statistically, most small friendly dogs are picked up one to three blocks from their homes and if not found at the shelter, are found by posting flyers around the neighborhood so that whoever found the dog knows he has an owner.” She paused to let that sink in, smiled neatly and continued, “We have found in our research that putting notices on cars is a very effective tactic—you get your message out as you drive around your neighborhood, doing your shopping, going to work, running errands. You should also include that the dog is micro-chipped so they know that the dog is registered and offer a reward. You don’t have to state what the reward is, just that there is one because statistically that increases the chance you will get your dog back.” <br />
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I nodded. The man who had called out to me, Blue Eyes, I silently dubbed him, asked if I wanted him to put a notice directly on my car. He informed me that research shows it helps to use bright colors and explained which words convey the most information. He asked if I was okay with him using the bright pink markers, assuring me it washed right off with soap and warm water. I nodded again, feeling overwhelmed but also lighter and hopeful. These people were attentive and helpful and seemed to know just what to do and what to say. I, on other the other hand, felt like I had been running around handing out flyers willy-nilly, dashing off in one direction on a whim and then running home to sit and cry while I hopped Sukhi would simply bound in the yard. <br />
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It felt good to ride the wave these people created with their efficiency, productivity, and energy. I was drained from walking for hours four days in a row while crying myself into a fitful sleep at night. Blue Eyes found my car and began entering information from the clipboard on my back windshield. Another person asked again for a photo. I looked pleadingly at my husband and he silently nodded and walked to the car. He drove home and returned with a photo. <br />
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Another young blond woman with wide eyes and a neat ponytail told me she would print out flyers for me to post. I thought this was nice as we had no money and I had to pull out our penny jar when I went to the copy shop to make flyers. Their flyers were on neon posterboard with large commanding lettering and centered color copy photos. Our flyers were copied sheets of 8 1/2 by 11 white paper with blurry photos and my chicken-scratch handwriting. <br />
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I sat on the curb and drank my water thinking it was laudable of the volunteers to take time out on beautiful holiday weekend to make posters for my missing dog. An older gentleman hobbled over on bowlegs and held out a bag of SunChips to me with a smile. I gratefully took a handful of chips realizing I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. As I sipped my water and munched on my snack, I watched the volunteers—they hummed about, printing flyers, writing posters, scribbling on the backs of car windows and approached people when they came out of the animal shelter with an understanding look and low voice, asking if they lost a dog or cat. <br />
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They would ask the dog or cat owner if they wanted any help and if so a volunteer would guide them to the folding table and in a soothing voice, begin to gather the necessary information— what kind of dog, how big, friendly or not and then share their strategy depending on what the research said. <br />
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“Ready?” <br />
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“What?” I looked up to see four volunteers. Two men, one long and lanky the other short and husky and two woman, both with short blondish hair, all in orange vests, were standing over me. <br />
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“We have a team of people who will take the posters and do intersections for an hour,” the husky man said. <br />
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“Do intersections?” I asked. <br />
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“Yep.” He explained that doing intersections is one of the most effective ways to get an animal back if you believe that someone found it and is keeping it—for whatever reason. He told me that a lot of times the person who found the dog may think the dog doesn’t have a home or that they have bonded and do not want to give them back. But, when they see the poster, they know the dog has a home and is loved. <br />
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“If you have people on all four corners of the biggest intersection near where the dog was lost, you maximize coverage—people see it on their way home from work, running errands,” he said with authority. <br />
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Here were four volunteers willing to hold up posters with pictures of my dog for a couple of hours to help me get him back? I felt rolling waves of emotions: hope, joy, gratitude. I wanted my dog back. I was so grateful for how much help and support I received on this sweltering Tuesday in July. I felt lucky to have stumbled on this dedicated group of volunteers who, rather than go camping or relax over a holiday weekend were offering to help strangers find lost pets. But I also felt a pang of guilt and hesitation, even some confusion. Doing anti-racist and allyship work has made me aware of all the ways disparity impacts individuals and communities differently. I know, for example, how little support many poor families and families of color receive when their child goes missing. The image of four white semi-paramilitary looking volunteers in orange safety vests, walkie-talkies dangling from pockets, holding pink signs with a picture of my missing Chihuahua…well, it felt a little uncomfortable. Awkward. Privileged. White. <br />
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And, it wasn’t just the bright orange safety vest they handed me. Blue Eyes informed me apologetically that there was only one extra vest, so my husband I would have to choose who would wear it. My husband and I looked at each other silently. Safety vest? Knowing how distraught I was, he said nothing as he took the vest, shrugged it over his black Sunn shirt, hugged me, and walked away with his oversized sign and stack of pink flyers. I watched as he stopped to talk to an elderly couple exiting Walgreen’s with three bulging plastic bags and an enormous twenty-four pack of toilet paper. I watched him approach a group of Pakistani men sipping espresso and smoking outside of Starbucks, and then walk over to hand a flyer to two teenage girls waiting in front of the nail salon. <br />
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Many of the families living in this multi-ethnic working class neighborhood are struggling to make ends meet and keep the ends they have. I walked past a yellowed Xeroxed flyer of a little girl who had been missing for a few months. I wanted her picture to be plastered on enormous pink posterboard. I wanted an army of volunteers to do intersections for her. I looked at my group of volunteers handing out crisp professional looking flyers and working diligently to find my “Small, friendly, tan with white paws, male Chihuahua.” I felt a pang of sadness at the inequity of the world. I don’t know what supports the family of the little girl had, but I know from doing organizing work that many poor, working class families and families of color have not experienced an outpouring of support when their child went missing or was abducted. Holding this awareness, made me feel a little sheepish about all the help I was receiving. <br />
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Not that I didn’t want to find my dog. I was devastated by his disappearance and desperate to get him back. I have no doubt that many of the working class families in this neighborhood would feel the same desperation if they lost a pet. But I was also keenly aware that having a group of volunteers armed with walkie-talkies, oversized pink poster board and current research statistics, ready to canvas for me was a privilege. <br />
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While it was important to me to find my missing dog, it was also impossible to ignore the reality that holding a bright orange sign for a missing Chihuahua in the middle of a community that regularly deals with police brutality, fatal shootings, hate crimes, and discrimination on multiple fronts, can seem, well, to be honest, a little trite. I do not mean in any way to trivialize the painful reality of losing a pet. For many people, myself included, pets are family. However, I am painfully aware that I live in a country where spending on basic and preventative healthcare for many people is far outdone by the billions spent on the care, feeding, health and well being of household pets. <br />
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I was touched by the number of people who took the time to read a missing dog sign, then offer kind words, a pat on the back, or a compassionate look even as they carried six grocery bags on their way home, or shuffled by in mud crusted workboots, a neatly folded bus transfer in their hands. I imagined some long sideways glances and shaking of heads. In some ways, it does seem crazy to have nonprofit organizations dedicated to using scientific research to figure out the best way to find lost pets when people who are sick can’t afford medical care, homeless people die from exposure to the elements and communities of color continue to face racial disparity in myriad ways. I am not advocating that we dissolve all the nonprofits working to help find lost animals or any other pet rescue center. I love animals and think they make our world a much, much better and more vibrant place. Animals can teach us about love and healing in deep and powerful ways. They are companions and friends and vital parts of our communities. But there is something very disturbing about living in a society that will rally to make dog fighting illegal and more recently with the Michael Vick case, make sentences for dog fighting harsher, while “bum fights” videos received some news coverage but little legislative energy and are still being sold in the U.S. despite being banned in many other countries. <br />
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Years ago I developed and taught self-defense and boundary setting classes. During this time I realized how deeply entrenched victim blaming is in the American social fabric. Class after class participants would respond to stories of surviving incidents of violence with variations of blame-the-victim. The cultural intersections of pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps and victim blaming can create social conditions that sometimes make it easier to feel compassion for an abused or abandoned cat than a homeless person. The cat is blameless, but the homeless person, or the victim of a mugging or even domestic violence, must have done something to get themselves into that predicament and so they are responsible for getting themselves out of their predicament. This makes sense to some degree, human beings can agitate and advocate for themselves in ways that animals can’t. Sukhi couldn’t tell whoever found him to take him back home. Abused cats cannot call a hotline or decide to go to a shelter. But human beings are surviving and navigating predicaments within complex social conditions. I know from my work at a domestic violence shelter that for a lot of survivors calling a hotline has not helped them leave an abusive relationship and that a homeless shelter has not always been a stepping stone to housing and employment security. Life is complicated. In that complicated messiness, I think it can sometimes be easier to open our hearts to animals than to people. Animals are often less complicated and blameless—there is never a question as to whether it is a dog’s fault when it gets abused or is found homeless. </div>
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That hot July day reminded me that my privilege buffers me from having to feel the pain of not being cared for. My health and well being, the care of my family has never taken a back seat to an animal. This is important. Having privilege means being able to avoid or not have to think about certain things. I have never felt less important in the eyes of my fellow citizens than a dog or cat. For many communities struggling to be treated with basic human dignity, there is no such privilege. As a white person in the Untied States, I do not have to reflect on the deeper meaning that animals will often be better taken care of than many of the human members of my community. That is the nature of privilege. But once you are aware, it is your responsibility to do something. But what do you do? We most certainly do not stop taking care of animals, dismantle dog parks or cut funding to shelters and rescue centers. We widen our circle of compassion. <br />
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I wonder this, as I hold my missing dog poster. Within ten minutes a woman stops at a red light and yells at me across the intersection “I have your dog!” She pulls over and tells me she will go get him. I am ecstatic. We have a happy family reunion replete with doggie squeals, face licking and ear-to-ear grins. I walk home with him, feeling happy and lucky. Their research was right, he was found less than three blocks away by someone who bonded with him and planned on taking him to the shelter but was taking their time because they enjoyed having him around. Seeing the signs made her realize he was loved and cared for and not forgotten or abandoned. I am grateful to the volunteers and, of course, happy to have my dog back. The incident reminded me of how important animals and pets are in the world I live in. Animals fill our lives with love and for some people pets fill a void, reduce a sense of isolation or disconnection and can even give people a reason to live. That we love and trust our pets is not bad or something we should change. But I want us all to be able to love and connect with one another as much. I believe we can. I believe we have an awful lot of work to do to get there. I am committed to doing that work to the best of my ability in my lifetime with hope and faith that it will continue in future generations. I hope other allies will join me. <br />
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Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-83409403483766441232011-08-09T15:19:00.000-07:002011-08-09T15:28:20.677-07:00Skirting SexismIt was one of those music shows where people shushed angrily if you dared to speak quietly to a friend standing next to you. During any of the bands or spoken word performances if you tried to talk at all someone would glare at you, snap a forefinger to their lips and give you an angry SHHHHHHHHHHH, which was inevitably louder than your whispered conversation. My band was playing a very short set in a very long lineup of what was being billed as “revolutionary radical political women performers.”
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<br />The three of us were on stage sound checking franticly when one of the women organizers elbows her way past the sound guy. She’s an L.A. suntanned white girl with long blonde dreads spiraled in a lopsided pile on top of her head. She’s sporting an ankle length “wrap” made from a multi-colored tapestry that looks like she bought it at what she might call an “ethnic” store. She has a tank top tied around her neck in the same pattern, different color combination of red, orange, yellow. She has a clipboard, she’s in charge and she’s pissed. Slapping her palm down on the stage, she points a finger at the bass player and barks, “you know, if you’re a guy you have to wear a dress on stage. You need to find a dress. Now.” We look at each other. It was almost nine o’clock. Stores were closed. We were supposed to play in ten minutes. Matt, our bass player who’s round face is always sporting a smile, looks up from his bass, smiles and asks, “Um…know where I could find one?” Eric, our lanky drummer who in addition to drumming does double duty as a father and clothing designer, pulls out a crumpled white prom dress from his bass drum. Tries to yank it over his head. “Is everyone wearing a dress?” It’s to small for him. He tries to pull it up over his knees. Still too small.
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<br />Rebuffed and snorting resentful puffs from flaring nostrils, she blurts out something like “Work on finding one—give it some effort guys. You need to support your sisters, yo.”
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<br />She pronounces sisters like sistahs and yo like a command. Why do I find it irritating when white people say yo? I don’t think it rolls off our tongues easily. I know a couple of white people, whose working class tongues can wrap around yo gracefully. But for the rest of us, it sputters out from between our lips like two pieces of stringy spittle—yyy-ooo. Makes my teeth itch.
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<br />Great, I’m thinking. A tightly wound event organizer with an attitude, who thinks making men wear skirts will help close the gender divide. Don’t get me wrong, I’d gladly wear a skirt for a good cause. The guys in my band love to dress up. If the promoters of the show wanted it that way, none of us would have any problem showing some leg for an evening. I don’t even have a problem with dress codes in general—they have their place. However, no one had mentioned a dress (or skirt) code. Now, we have a embittered stage manager yelling at us to just go find a skirt—like we all had one stashed in a back pocket or backpack and hadn’t put it on yet just to piss her off. I went to the bathroom wondering why they didn’t keep a box of skirts backstage for instances like this?
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<br />What got me muttering under my breath was the idea that making men wear skirts equalizes anything. I know misogynist drag queens and homophobic frat boys who wear dresses on stage—neither of which address gender oppression in any particularly revolutionary way. Having men in skirts doesn’t make me believe they know how to back me up any better than they could wearing pants, or shorts, or suits. What about the trans men and women in the show—do any of them have to wear skirts? If so, who has to and how do you decide? How is “feminizing” men via dress code (and being really rude about it) going to build an anti-sexist community? Hemlines have changed along with gender roles, women’s rights, civil liberties for g/l/b/t folks. The skirt it’s self has stitched a new identity threaded with various possibilities. Each skirt is a symbol as variable as the legs it covers. Mini skirts, suit skirts, business skirts, wrap skirts, flowing skirts, ankle length skirts, Betty Page skirts, punk rock skirts. Each one gives definition to a person. What I’m struggling to understand is how putting male performers in skirts creates a safer, or more feminist, or more women centered environment.
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<br />Instead of making men wear skirts, can we help them in addressing gender oppression of all kinds? Can we help them learn how to call their friends out in a locker room sexist shake down? Can we help them gain the skills to interrupt homophobia when it happens across bar stools at their local watering hole? Gender oppression puts us all in tight, narrow boxes. Neither feminine nor masculine is inherently bad and personally, I want macho, heterosexual (looking) men of all kinds to know how to call out sexism—in their own language. I can’t expect that a man calling out homophobia at a football game or on a construction site will use the same language I would.
<br />I keep wondering how identifying sisterhood with dresses will liberate us? How are men on stage in skirts backing up a woman any more feminist or revolutionary than two guys in pants backing up said woman? How can we learn to support each other if we have codes about what a feminist man looks like (or a feminist woman)—especially if that “look” involves using rigid codes of gender identity that keep us isolated and separated from each other—like said skirts? Instead of wrapping our white middle class feminist consciousness around serapes bought at “Authentic/Ethnic” stores, let’s drape our brothers and sisters from everywhere in love and respect and dignity.
<br />We can work with the men in our lives, in our bedrooms and in-between our legs to create models of liberated and respectful relationships. We can share and compare these with each other. For those folks who don’t want to be around men, have at it—as much as you can, don’t be. But, please don’t think forcing them to wear skirts when you do have to be around them makes them any less male, or masculine, or threatening, or capable of understanding gender oppression, or even better dressed.
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<br />Making men wear dresses does not break down linear definitions of gender and does not help us see gender as the fluid and ever developing phenomena it is. How can we learn to embrace trans people of all kinds of genders and orientations, fems, butchs, girly straight chicks, macho-feminist men, women who like porn, sex workers of all genders and orientations, fat chicks, muscled chicks, skinny dudes, beefy dudes, bisexual folks, asexual folks, pan sexual folks and everyone else on this sexual planet if we treat each other so badly at some “revolutionary” performance show? Getting distracted by a skirt means we often miss opportunities to do the real work; changing how gender oppression connects to and supports other forms of oppression; creating revolutionary gender oriented change in our shows, our relationships, our non-profits, our sex lives, our families, our bedrooms, our friendships, our social interactions and our way of being in the world.
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<br />I’m not feeling it in the skirt—yo.
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<br />Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5381601624947143591.post-12751191910090311802011-07-12T09:50:00.000-07:002011-07-12T09:56:56.686-07:00Let's Get To WorkListen…you can hear it...<br /><br />all the shock jock nonsense, no sense making noise drumming, chest thumping big boys with a microphone jabbing right, left hooks into radio lines in a static fervor pitch, elbowing into airspace with a smug sneer and statistical fabrication. <br /><br />Got to love stats, they are like that little boy in 3rd grade who followed you around, 3rd grade reverence in his 3rd grade eyes. You can make them do just about anything. <br /><br />Listeners beware, buyers beware—objects of hate may be bigger than imagined in your rearview mirror. Hindsight being all that it is and all that. Looking back may be a step worse for wear, wearing badges of war torn imaginations igniting thunderous declarations of dishonesty. Crazy how these radio hucksters shucking their evil mythology rely on good old fashion know how to the tune “if someone don’t understand you, say it louder”, and louder and louder still. It’s not a matter of truth, it’s a matter of volume. <br /><br />You know the drill. We drill them out, tune them out, thinking their linguistic sewage won’t seep into our brain space. But like any toxic sludge it’s got an impact radius and ecological boot print bigger than any bad ass alternative statistics shouting back, or talk show debate with pseudo civil, pressed suit wearing, turn taking hosts who believe they help facilitate “the truth” by making room for “both sides”. They call it objective. I call it ratings making, money making hypnotica. <br /><br />There are things that are not debatable. <br /><br />But the shock jocks just get louder, the TV hosts smile wider and CNN keeps us hypnotized and otherwise occupied. And name calling, truth telling illusion busting savants are waved aside with volume control and statistical squabbling. Like spitting in the wind. These epistemological wizards concoct magical illusions with just enough spice to make them seem tangible. Debatable. <br /><br />And like a street fighter gunning to find a puffed up and pissed off wanna be boxer with a one two punch that telegraphs itself like Christmas lights, all they have to do is parry with a few well placed words and then duck under the one-two with a Cheshire smile that says trust me, I work for you. And even though your gut is rumbling, you chalk it up to the chicken curry and Guinness from last night and keep on listening like an accident you don’t want to know the details about but you can’t stop staring at. Our Manichean shock jocks jerking heads around reality demand debates about the un-debatable because it’s an effective way to spin the truth into the fantastical. And we are living in fantastical times. <br /><br />The bad news about that is that bad news is not only a better headline, it captivates us, holds our collective attention way better than news about a kitten who walked 20 miles home! A woman who survived being struck by lightening! A pig that called 911! Or, a woman who finds ten thousand dollars and gives it back!<br /><br />The good news about this is that we can train ourselves to listen to the good news as a reminder that we still need to fight and listen to the bad news to rev us up like Jason Statham, kicking and flipping and knuckle punching to a bad brains song. <br /><br />And like any good street fighter, we need to train for street fighting, be lean mean no debating machines. Truth is not up for prime time Sprite sponsored Q&A. We need to get back to the basics of philosophical uncertainty. The world is not a safe place; The universe is not here to provide you with whatever you manifest with active visualizations like a one stop shopping deity dispenser. You can’t get shoes by being grateful or a Prada handbag by putting out good vibes. You’ve got to actual work. So, let’s get to work. The radio lines are full; the competition is in shape and is ready to rumble. Let’s go kick some shock jock ass.Cristien Stormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161899721544731375noreply@blogger.com1