It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, to absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
Slash me with your sloth…father, and I will prevail with my GOSPEL
‘Too tall to feel this small’
‘Wholesale dysfunction…one size fits all’
‘Love a dangerous drug’
‘Who died and made you King of anything’
Often I am so afraid of writing…of…the shit. The abuse, the excuse, the reasons, the life that had been laid out for me.
Sick and tired of being…sick and tired.
My family is such that ‘preferential treatment to undisclosed bad behavior’ should and always will remain…not discussed. That through rite of passage, someone else’s poor choices and illness of soul…should be our cross to bear. Like a second-hand pair of worn sneakers. Needing repair, lacking in luster and essentially, useless to the human race.
We find our true selves on the road to avoiding it.
Seems to me…many of us…were sent to a church in order to purchase a receipt of absolution. Confession of the sins of youngsters. Weren’t we barking up the wrong tree?
I had been sent to a catholic church every now and again, by myself or with my siblings…Not a parent to be found…within secular sight.
I wonder, now, had we not been sent there to be freed of childhood sins? Or, had we been instructed to lose the sin of handy me down crimes?
Indeed, childhood transgressions of white lies and false alibis…were only a shielded veil to the catastrophic family affairs that lay in wait.
By chance, I had entered a non denominational church, last week. A Reverend with a smile. Prayers and meditations of eternal life being a friendly experience. Thoughts of… who and whatever greets us at the end of this the ‘tunnel of love’ is not angry.
I walked away with a sense of peace never derived from the Icon/Idol/Image that would leer down upon me…as a child.
Also, by chance, I discovered a list of requirements to be checked off at will…on the bathroom wall.
How common is it for those who are abused to continue on? Why do we? And, how do we break the chain of fiendishly foul family non fiction?
Dear Mom, dear sister, dear wife, dear…everyone and anyone who is a victim:
Do you feel threatened?
Are you constantly being criticized?
Are you being told how to act?
The list is ongoing. But my question,is…Ruth, why do you have to continue the family tradition of…pretending, defrauding, masquerading…the fact you were abused. Why must, from the angry God to years of neglect, you carry the rosaries on?
Am I scared? Will I be alienated? Would others who once pretended with me…never forgive me?
I am the problem…with past, present and future domestic abuse…if I do not seek a solution. Half of my baggage isn’t mine to begin with.
From the time I could crawl…I ran! From the time my mother could cry…she lay in a fetal position…before my eyes. From the moment my father would quarantine my siblings and I with his persistent and constant remarks of belittlement…I had been told to HUSH!
I cannot remain HUSH any longer. And, possibly, the most vocal critic will be those who wrote the lines to my youthful play.
I am now the writer to this line. I am the orator to the ‘Ghost’ story. I will no longer be ridiculed into silence. The Buck-et of Abuse will stop only be the means of one single strong voice…one by one by one. We need to stand alone to rise together. Break the silence!
Let’s face the facts, it maybe 2015, but it sure feels like the early 1960’s! Unrest and ambivalence are never a handy combination.
Are we a nation divided under color? Are we a nation poised for battle in the bedroom?
I have a nasty little quirk. A formidable habit of becoming stoically silent and ferociously quiet…when I feel forced into a corner.
Anger, to me, has been such an over explored emotion, at least, in my family. Violence with the threats or without? It did not matter. It, anger, felt like a choice. A sort of sink or swim. Do or die!
I ran so fast from the scenes of my childhood. I ran as fast and as far…as my empty wallet and dying from alcohol to kill the pain, body…would take me.
The world to me feels like a grander scale of Alcoholics refusing to get help. People shooting people for no real reason. No real reason other than a wanting to be center stage, top dog and/or the actor, director, producer…of our own play.
Dear Old Grandfather had been in law enforcement. He saw anger. Therefore, he brought anger home. It had nowhere to go. He died a dry drunk…angry and without remorse for the aches he had left behind.
He also had disowned my homosexual ass! Declining any contact with me. He opted out of my young adulthood years. And, to that, I felt anger.
And so, the cycle went on and on and on.
Anger has nowhere to go…if it is left to it’s own.
WE are all faced with choices. Whether we are the dirtiest of poor or the richest of the self appointed jesters in our court of It’s All About Me!
The question is:
Has America hit rock bottom yet? Or, is there still room and time to play around with the idea that…the white man is better than… and the heterosexual couple will go to heaven?
I don’t think there is much time left. Even so, I’ve gone back into hiding.
Hiding in my Alcoholic’s Anonymous books. Finding salvage amongst Native American philosophies. Packing up my soul and psyche and heading into the written word!
On our own will alone, the world just isn’t holding water.
Goddess, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
The courage to change the things I can.
And, the wisdom to know the difference.
Three simple sentences that stopped my ass from being on fire…many moons ago.
Later along I learned that anger is unnecessary when going to a fight. The concept should be…I didn’t have to go to the fight in the first place.
Can I change someone else? Make black blue? Make queer straight?
Should I even worry about those persons do anyway?
I suppose the best we can do is join or don’t join. Be party to the hysteria, the back turning, the name calling and the discrimination?
Or, we can write, vote, standup to, one voice at a time, the misplaced anger.
My grandfather passed away leaving me with a vivid memory…
He had been insistent that my grandmother had been having an affair with a Puerto Rican cemetery man. (His words, not mine.)
Day in and day out, right up until the end. He made my grandmother’s life a living hell topped with resentful spite!
He was becoming senile and the violence in his soul was getting the best of him.
Shortly after the wake and the funeral. Shortly after my grandmother relieved herself of fifty years doing the dirty with a bitter man.
Shortly after the smoke cleared and the feverish fog lifted…She, my namesake, my grandmother…told me this:
I loved your grandfather but it was anger that did him in!
I often think of her, him and those words…as I watch the world unravel!
Back before Rainbows were known to exist other than in the light of day…after a fresh and linen covered spring rain, I had thought something amiss.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the God I had been shown. It had been more of a fear based and obscure presence that never released its grip on me.
Hatred, hangings, crosses to bare and/or bear and sins over running my beer mug! How distant the feelings I had been? No further away than the ache within my heart.
‘Was I bad? Had there been a mistake? Will this strange and unusual creature of habit…Me, change her ever-present freak stripes?’
Did I know gay? Brevity, maybe? Men with odd tastes for polyester and spangles. Or, perhaps, the ‘gay’ twenties where the roar came from the pits of rooms locked behind store fronts with no names.
Somewhere between the playing out of roles: Who gets to be Sabrina and who gets to be Farrah/Jill? Somehow linked from one end of the Good News Bible and my passion for watering down my ache. Between the sheets and not discrete attempts at playing ‘straight’…it all came out wrong like a bad love song.
I cried, of course, I shed tears…I do to this day.
How is it my parent’s child cannot be straight? What a disappointment, once again, in the normal kids rule class?
It is a shame my grandfather disowned me with words.
‘It is an abomination to mankind and a sore on the ass of the world’, he would have most likely whispered loudly to his uniformed friends.
The train that took me so many times before into a land of semi comfort and acceptance left South station and never looked for me again.
How difficult it must be not to know where to begin your history…when your past has been clouded by bias and poor judgement by the powers that be.
In the end, I sat a six-pack down on an oak table in the heart of This Land is Your Land, New Hampshire. I shook and wondered what will become of me? I waited until she arrived. She held my tiny hand and fresh kissed skin when I arrived in this world. And most likely, I will hold her hand as she departs for greener pastures.
‘I have something you need to know…I can’t hide it anymore. It’s just how it is!’
No response from her or a language of body movements would have helped. The room seemed shallow and filled with demon ghosts from confusion past.
‘I am GAY! I’ve tried to not be…but it just ain’t working.’
These were the rhetorical words that still carry the burden of my nonconformist ways today. A forever covenant… in which I feel safe enough to unveil even the darkest of truths.
“Oh, is that it? I was waiting for you to figure that out…Well, dear, as long as it will make you happy”
We never really understand the understanding statements we make until the clouds lift and we see the light. My mother, bless her sainted heart, most likely felt she didn’t say enough.
My mother had said with few words what the world should be learning everyday:
…as long as you’re happy…
Really isn’t that all that matters when it comes to matters of the heart?
‘We have to dare to be ourselves. However frightening or strange that self may prove to be.’
‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’
‘The unexamined idea is not worth speaking!’
I suppose if a majority of US were male…we would all stumble into complacency…We would all believe in ‘our job is done here’. Yet, the majority of us are not male. In fact, a slight tilt of the scales and a majority of us are females!
Andocentrism is a strange word. It reminds some of us that we have fallen into the hands of male thinking.
How often is it we hear athletic young girls and women called, androgynistic looking? Or, referred to as a Tomboy?
Women, republican/democrat/liberal/white/black and/or whatever belief system and orientation or background not mentioned, can finally see the brass ring!
The following are examples of why we must continue on in our melting pot effort. To forge forward in making a name for ‘our-selves’. Whatever the journey to self we choice to take!
is the practice, conscious or otherwise, of placing male human beings or the masculine point of view at the center of one’s view of the world and its culture and history.
A ‘majority’ of viewers would easily know of the first set of slides. Who the persons were. And, subsequently, HIS place in history!
A ‘majority’ of viewers would perhaps not know or maybe have to think twice, ‘where had I seen that piece of work before?’. When it comes to the second set of slides.
Simply put,if we want our daughters to know who they are, they need to know and witness where they came from!
‘It isn’t easy to be a woman poet. Partly because one is always seen-and this may be true of the woman writer in general, the woman artist-one is always seen to be a little outside the main stream, not in the center of life.’
The same could be said of women who have made our history!
We are thrilled to let you know that on May 7th, the U.S. House of Representatives passed legislation to form a Congressional Commission on the Potential Creation of a National Women’s History Museum in Washington, DC. The bipartisan legislation (H.R. 863) co-sponsored by Representatives Carolyn Maloney (D-NY) and Marsha Blackburn (R-TN) passed by a vote of 383 to 33 and now heads to the Senate where Senators Susan Collins (R-ME) and Barbara Mikulski (D-MD) are leading the charge. Right now the Senate version of the bill, S. 398, has 26 co-sponsors including all 20 of the women Senators. We are so appreciative of your support so far! Together, we will make this happen. For more information: http://www.nwhm.org/blog/house-of-representatives-passes-national-women%E2%80%99s-history-museum-bill/
I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts