Open letter to the Massachusetts Legislature:
Don't you find it just the tiniest bit ironic that the Puritans, who were fleeing religious tyranny in England, landed upon your shores nearly 400 years ago -- and by voting today to amend the State's constitution to ban gay marriage, you have endorsed precisely the persecution the Puritans were escaping?
March 27, 2004
March 26, 2004
March 25, 2004
lost in time ...
To know where one is going, one must understand where one has been.
I don’t remember anything from my childhood. I don’t remember playing with friends, being in school, games at recess, places I went or things I did. I don’t remember having dreams or hopes, and I don’t remember what I wanted to be; I only remember wishing I wasn’t.
When I realized I had no memory of being a child, I became incredibly angry. It meant that that time was taken from me, never to be replaced; I lost 14 years of my life and I have nothing to show for it. But I think I found a way to get some of it back.
When I was six, we moved to a new neighborhood. There was a girl the same age as me who lived down the street, and we walked together to elementary school every day. When we started junior high we became a bit more distant, and the gulf grew throughout high school. But we still talk occasionally and even manage to get together every five years or so, because there’s something special about having known someone nearly 40 years.
I recently called her to ask a favor. I asked her to think back to the years when we were close, to remember the things we used to do, the places we used to go, the dreams we used to share. Yesterday, we finally were able to connect and get our schedules to mesh, and we set a time to get together and talk … and she can tell me the stories of things I don’t remember.
And yet, I’m terrified. She has no idea why I don’t remember, because she never knew what my life was like at home. Even though I’ve come to terms with it personally, it’s something I never told her. I’m afraid she’ll start telling me things that no amount of searching will help me recall, and that I’ll only grieve more the loss of those years. I hope it is instead a gift that fits the missing piece of my identity puzzle.
I don’t remember anything from my childhood. I don’t remember playing with friends, being in school, games at recess, places I went or things I did. I don’t remember having dreams or hopes, and I don’t remember what I wanted to be; I only remember wishing I wasn’t.
When I realized I had no memory of being a child, I became incredibly angry. It meant that that time was taken from me, never to be replaced; I lost 14 years of my life and I have nothing to show for it. But I think I found a way to get some of it back.
When I was six, we moved to a new neighborhood. There was a girl the same age as me who lived down the street, and we walked together to elementary school every day. When we started junior high we became a bit more distant, and the gulf grew throughout high school. But we still talk occasionally and even manage to get together every five years or so, because there’s something special about having known someone nearly 40 years.
I recently called her to ask a favor. I asked her to think back to the years when we were close, to remember the things we used to do, the places we used to go, the dreams we used to share. Yesterday, we finally were able to connect and get our schedules to mesh, and we set a time to get together and talk … and she can tell me the stories of things I don’t remember.
And yet, I’m terrified. She has no idea why I don’t remember, because she never knew what my life was like at home. Even though I’ve come to terms with it personally, it’s something I never told her. I’m afraid she’ll start telling me things that no amount of searching will help me recall, and that I’ll only grieve more the loss of those years. I hope it is instead a gift that fits the missing piece of my identity puzzle.
of Zen and self-discovery ...
Identity theft is all the rage these days. “Keep or destroy your receipts,” “Beware of camera phones when standing in the grocery checkout line with your credit card.” Billions of dollars are lost every year to identity thieves who gain access to an individual’s social security number and date of birth, open a few fraudulent credit accounts, then go on free-wheeling Internet shopping sprees. But as damaging as financial identity theft is there is another, more insidious form that strips one of their identity entirely, not to be rediscovered for years. And other forms cause harm that isn’t apparent for a generation or more.
An example of the former is mental, physical or sexual abuse: endured as a child, the psyche defends itself by shutting down everything not absolutely essential to basic survival. And the mechanisms that block the hurt also shut out … everything else. The ultimate cost is calculated in the years spent in vain attempts to recover what was irretrievably lost, all the while losing out on opportunities for lack of knowing how to handle them and losing friends because they never understood.
The theft of identity that evades discovery for generations is just as costly. In late 1941, my paternal grandparents were living in Stockton, California; my maternal grandparents were in Los Angeles. They and their families were among the 120,000 Japanese-Americans who were forced to leave behind their homes, businesses and lives for uncertain futures in internment camps surrounded by barbed wire. The majority of evacuees were second-generation (Nisei), most in their late 20s or early 30s with young children. Their parents, being the first generation (Issei) in the country, spoke little or no English and relied on their children to explain why everything they had worked for was suddenly gone. The end of the war saw their release from the internment camps but not from the prevailing anti-Japanese sentiment. Some Issei elected to return to Japan, and many Nisei renounced their U.S. citizenship to join their parents; and many more renounced Japanese culture altogether, refusing to speak the language or hand down the traditions, even refusing to give as yet unborn children Japanese names.
I grew up without knowledge of my own culture, with only an American name, and not the slightest idea of what my great-grandmother ever said to me. It is ironic, then, that I should have to endure the prejudice of looking Japanese without even knowing what one is supposed to be. Still, I hope to one day learn the language and customs that were withheld, and synthesize that with the identity I’m discovering in my journey as a survivor of abuse. And when this incarnation reaches its end, I know I’ll take a better being to the next.
An example of the former is mental, physical or sexual abuse: endured as a child, the psyche defends itself by shutting down everything not absolutely essential to basic survival. And the mechanisms that block the hurt also shut out … everything else. The ultimate cost is calculated in the years spent in vain attempts to recover what was irretrievably lost, all the while losing out on opportunities for lack of knowing how to handle them and losing friends because they never understood.
The theft of identity that evades discovery for generations is just as costly. In late 1941, my paternal grandparents were living in Stockton, California; my maternal grandparents were in Los Angeles. They and their families were among the 120,000 Japanese-Americans who were forced to leave behind their homes, businesses and lives for uncertain futures in internment camps surrounded by barbed wire. The majority of evacuees were second-generation (Nisei), most in their late 20s or early 30s with young children. Their parents, being the first generation (Issei) in the country, spoke little or no English and relied on their children to explain why everything they had worked for was suddenly gone. The end of the war saw their release from the internment camps but not from the prevailing anti-Japanese sentiment. Some Issei elected to return to Japan, and many Nisei renounced their U.S. citizenship to join their parents; and many more renounced Japanese culture altogether, refusing to speak the language or hand down the traditions, even refusing to give as yet unborn children Japanese names.
I grew up without knowledge of my own culture, with only an American name, and not the slightest idea of what my great-grandmother ever said to me. It is ironic, then, that I should have to endure the prejudice of looking Japanese without even knowing what one is supposed to be. Still, I hope to one day learn the language and customs that were withheld, and synthesize that with the identity I’m discovering in my journey as a survivor of abuse. And when this incarnation reaches its end, I know I’ll take a better being to the next.
March 24, 2004
Why the question of citizenship is moot
The United States Supreme Court today will consider the case of the Pledge of Allegiance, or, more specifically, whether the phrase “under God” in the pledge violates the country’s Constitutionally-mandated separation of church and state. (For a brief history lesson on the Pledge, as recorded by Dr. John W. Baer in 1992, visit http://history.vineyard.net/pledge.)
I am not at all certain why the Supreme Court is taking up the matter, as it doesn’t appear that the Pledge was ever mandated by any municipal, state or federal law. Nevertheless, I refuse to recite the Pledge ... although the reasons aren’t premised entirely upon my disdain for organized religion.
On April 19, 1942, in response to war-time hysteria brought about by the allegedly surprise bombing by Japanese imperial forces of Pearl Harbor, then-President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the forced removal of 120,000 Americans of Japanese ancestry from the West Coast of the United States. The Order decreed that anyone with as little as 1/16 Japanese blood was subject to evacuation, and that they leave their residences within 48 hours taking only what they could carry by hand. For the duration of the war, life for these evacuees would be eked out in a 10’ x 20’ space in tar-paper barracks, strategically located on the most desolate lands of the U.S interior, including Death Valley. But despite the fact that not one individual of those imprisoned was ever been found guilty of a war crime or espionage, the Supreme Court determined that the U.S. government acted properly.
That random abrogation of Constitutionally-guaranteed civil rights -- just one of many in the U.S. and all for no better reason than unfounded fear -- demonstrates unequivocally that neither loyalty oath nor pledge will save my ass from the whim of government or its God.
I am not at all certain why the Supreme Court is taking up the matter, as it doesn’t appear that the Pledge was ever mandated by any municipal, state or federal law. Nevertheless, I refuse to recite the Pledge ... although the reasons aren’t premised entirely upon my disdain for organized religion.
On April 19, 1942, in response to war-time hysteria brought about by the allegedly surprise bombing by Japanese imperial forces of Pearl Harbor, then-President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the forced removal of 120,000 Americans of Japanese ancestry from the West Coast of the United States. The Order decreed that anyone with as little as 1/16 Japanese blood was subject to evacuation, and that they leave their residences within 48 hours taking only what they could carry by hand. For the duration of the war, life for these evacuees would be eked out in a 10’ x 20’ space in tar-paper barracks, strategically located on the most desolate lands of the U.S interior, including Death Valley. But despite the fact that not one individual of those imprisoned was ever been found guilty of a war crime or espionage, the Supreme Court determined that the U.S. government acted properly.
That random abrogation of Constitutionally-guaranteed civil rights -- just one of many in the U.S. and all for no better reason than unfounded fear -- demonstrates unequivocally that neither loyalty oath nor pledge will save my ass from the whim of government or its God.
March 19, 2004
What's in a word? Dyke ... Fag ... Homo ... Queer. Sticks and stones may break my bones, blah, blah, etc.
One of my work pals told me she discovered that she isn't as straight as she thought. After looking up the word "queer," she determined that it really did suit her. I now consider myself in good company. Way to go, labelle. Love ya always :)
When I sat down to think of a catchy name for this blog (mind you I have not one creative molecule in my body), I couldn't shake the concept of zen as it relates to the transition in achieving one's potential. Then the notion of queerness arose and I thought, "Shazam! A perfect example of lifelong transition!" (One never stops "coming out.") You see, there's been a controversy in the gay community for decades, centering on the notion of deliberately referring to ourselves as dykes, fags and queers. As the argument went, reclaiming those terms would eventually remove the concomitant stigma when said terms were flung by detractors. Well, I've never understood how [what amounts to be] self-deprecation could dull the razor-sharp pain of being called something that dictionaries categorize as derogatory slang.
However, popular notions of what it means to be queer have flexed with time. In the U.S., "queer" in the 30s or 40s meant "odd" or "strange." It only recently became synonymous with homosexuality and, because of that association, I always shied away from using it. On the other hand, there is NO ambiguity about "dyke" or "fag." [Remember grade school?]
My journey then, is ... The Zen of Queerness. And even if I weren't a lesbian, I'd still call myself queer.
One of my work pals told me she discovered that she isn't as straight as she thought. After looking up the word "queer," she determined that it really did suit her. I now consider myself in good company. Way to go, labelle. Love ya always :)
When I sat down to think of a catchy name for this blog (mind you I have not one creative molecule in my body), I couldn't shake the concept of zen as it relates to the transition in achieving one's potential. Then the notion of queerness arose and I thought, "Shazam! A perfect example of lifelong transition!" (One never stops "coming out.") You see, there's been a controversy in the gay community for decades, centering on the notion of deliberately referring to ourselves as dykes, fags and queers. As the argument went, reclaiming those terms would eventually remove the concomitant stigma when said terms were flung by detractors. Well, I've never understood how [what amounts to be] self-deprecation could dull the razor-sharp pain of being called something that dictionaries categorize as derogatory slang.
However, popular notions of what it means to be queer have flexed with time. In the U.S., "queer" in the 30s or 40s meant "odd" or "strange." It only recently became synonymous with homosexuality and, because of that association, I always shied away from using it. On the other hand, there is NO ambiguity about "dyke" or "fag." [Remember grade school?]
My journey then, is ... The Zen of Queerness. And even if I weren't a lesbian, I'd still call myself queer.
March 17, 2004
An interesting thing about falling within three distinct demographic categories - gay, Asian and female - is that each category has unique proscriptions which preclude acceptance of the others. Hence, being gay means being distrusted by straight females; being Asian means being rejected by your own race because you're gay; and being a female who is neither femme nor butch pretty well eliminates acceptance by everyone.
But then, I've spent my entire life trying to fit in somewhere. Fitting in with my family of origin was impossible because of childhood mental and physical abuse. Eventually, the learned distrust interfered with healthy interactions with people outside the home; that is to say, I was so fearful of anyone outside the home "finding out" that I became painfully withdrawn around others. But it comes out as being standoffish, so that no one really knows how to take me. I suppose I've gotten better about fitting in, but it still takes a long time for people to get to know me.
And then there's that thing about one group shutting out the other. Why is it so hard for people to just accept others, to realize that every one of us has a story worth telling and none of us is better than our neighbor? A local alternative newspaper recently published a column about lesbians who do visual evaluations of each other, taking stock of a person's potential worthiness based upon what their appearance conveys. (The only reason the columnist wrote of the subject is that she was subjected to it herself ... and isn't it true that one doesn't fully understand another's situation until they've experienced it, too?) But, I honestly can say that I haven't experienced racism, classism and sexism from others to the degree I have from lesbians.
It's sad when you aren't even accepted in your own subculture(s).
But then, I've spent my entire life trying to fit in somewhere. Fitting in with my family of origin was impossible because of childhood mental and physical abuse. Eventually, the learned distrust interfered with healthy interactions with people outside the home; that is to say, I was so fearful of anyone outside the home "finding out" that I became painfully withdrawn around others. But it comes out as being standoffish, so that no one really knows how to take me. I suppose I've gotten better about fitting in, but it still takes a long time for people to get to know me.
And then there's that thing about one group shutting out the other. Why is it so hard for people to just accept others, to realize that every one of us has a story worth telling and none of us is better than our neighbor? A local alternative newspaper recently published a column about lesbians who do visual evaluations of each other, taking stock of a person's potential worthiness based upon what their appearance conveys. (The only reason the columnist wrote of the subject is that she was subjected to it herself ... and isn't it true that one doesn't fully understand another's situation until they've experienced it, too?) But, I honestly can say that I haven't experienced racism, classism and sexism from others to the degree I have from lesbians.
It's sad when you aren't even accepted in your own subculture(s).
March 16, 2004
Gorgeous weather today ... think I'll take my scooter for a ride. If you've never ridden a scooter, it's an experience I recommend highly; a buddy took me for a ride on hers last summer, and I've been hooked since. Unfortunately, there still aren't many riders in this area, even though we have 300 days of sun on average per year. But my buddy still managed to put together a small group that regularly gets together in the summer to ride in a gaggle - and we must be a sight to see!
The best part of owning a scooter? Parking wherever I want to, rolling right up the sidewalk to the establishment's front door. And a fill-up only costs $1.75....
The best part of owning a scooter? Parking wherever I want to, rolling right up the sidewalk to the establishment's front door. And a fill-up only costs $1.75....
March 15, 2004
It's funny, that this one short life we're given is often compromised because we can only select one option from among many. On the other hand, there are a few of us who had - in some respects - no option whatsoever, and we've paid for it all our lives.
Somewhere along the way we discover that, even though there were once factors beyond our control, we can exercise a form of personal manifest destiny. Territory that was once claimed by others can be repossessed and restyled as our own, despite lacking the purity of first effort. Perhaps it is just as well. Speaking only for myself, I'm not sure I would have traded any of those choiceless instances; they made me who I am. And even though it's taken most of my 43 years to realize it, who I am the best gift I have to give.
Somewhere along the way we discover that, even though there were once factors beyond our control, we can exercise a form of personal manifest destiny. Territory that was once claimed by others can be repossessed and restyled as our own, despite lacking the purity of first effort. Perhaps it is just as well. Speaking only for myself, I'm not sure I would have traded any of those choiceless instances; they made me who I am. And even though it's taken most of my 43 years to realize it, who I am the best gift I have to give.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)