In Another Life We Would Have Been Artists

An activist's manifesto.

I don't usually like cross-posting, but, prompted by Vashanti I've been meaning to write a blog post about what activism means to me/why I do it. This is my column that's running in today's issue of The Eagle. A little background:

• I a write biweekly column. About hipsters. I know, right?
• This happened. Campus politics exploded. Activists and journalists alike suspended the notions that cigarettes are not a food group and that drinking every night is socially unacceptable. It was a time of crisis, y'know? A list of demands was made by the campus community, and then this happened. I'm not sure if anyone knows what to do with themselves right now.

-----

Dissent: it’s a theme I’ve covered in this column all semester. I’ve discussed it in the context of hipster history (hipstory, I suppose) – bandanas, skinny jeans, flannel, they’ve all at some point been donned as signs of solidarity, as separation from and statement against the mainstream. But their meanings now have largely been stripped of significance and appropriated into the fashion of the contemporary hipster, leaving histories of rebellion in their wake hidden under the guise of – you guessed it – irony. And although individuals sporting this style may catch a lot of flack, hipsters are not what’s threatening our generation. Rather, they are indicative of a much bigger, much more harmful issue: complacency.

It is easy for us to take for granted the freedoms we enjoy as a result of our predecessors’ struggles. Because of this, it is even easier for us to assume that these struggles are over, that all those nasty “-isms” don’t exist, and that there is little to nothing left for us to fight or defend. We have watched the most radical generation in our nation’s history age into conservativism, and we have watched the generations after that follow their lead, assuming either that the fighting is done or that it is futile.

But there is a greater stirring in our lives. It is a wave of recognition that some things (many things) are still just not right. We are the most highly educated generation that our country has seen, and as a result, we recognize injustices – whether they be the inadvertent results of misinformation, or atrocities spurred by ignorance or motivated by hatred.

Our generation does not know exactly what it is fighting for; we do not have one single cause, but honestly, it’s nice to see someone care about anything anymore. The only thing worse than the passive aggressive Hobbesian nightmare that is Internet fighting is passive progressiveness – the ability to realize injustice but the inability to speak up or take action. Perhaps the dissident publication Adbusters said it best: “This is our decisive moment. Either we wallow in debt as passive observers of history and pray that technology will eventually solve all our problems or we actively seize power and deal with the consequences.”

Despite all the controversy we (as a community and a generation) have been experiencing (potentially the largest understatement of my AU career), I am more than proud to have participated in and witnessed the way that various communities have overcome their differences and united in response to that which they oppose.
We have realized that it is not about the differences in our personal solutions but about the greater problems that we all have in common.

No, it is not right that this unification happened at the personal expense of individuals, and no it is not right that anyone must feel responsible for cleaning up the mess that another person or another group has made, but the vigor of response has been simply admirable and nearly unprecedented. We have recognized that the solution is not to walk way from the problem, leaving it for someone else, the solution is to refuse to be silent until satisfied. Talk about “ideas into action,” eh – not bad, right, Kerwin?

We are recognizing that as long as there exists injustice for one, there is injustice for all of us – that once a group’s rights or ability to live safely are taken away, then all of ours are at stake. Yes, in fact, the dignity and safety of one is more important and more powerful than the hatred of others. This is an ideal, and we must fight to make it a reality, or else we are being irresponsible to ourselves.

We can borrow from feminist rhetoric – as long as we live in this world, we are survivors, not victims, of injustice, and we can either continue to live through it like nothing is wrong, or we can take action to correct it. We cannot ask to see our vision realized any longer – we must demand it.

Our rights, our beliefs and our ideologies are not something to be taken and twisted into dirty words used to shame us by those who feel threatened by our liberation. These are ours to value and keep and to empower us to achieve greater things. You cannot claim to know fully (and therefore claim the right to speak on behalf of or judge) the suffering or indignities experienced by an oppressed group unless you yourself are a part of that group, but we can all do our best to act as allies and recognize what is wrong and how to help.

So yes, injustice is everyone’s problem, but I’ll acknowledge that activism isn’t everyone’s solution. Thankfully, we have been given the gift of diversity, so that individuals may utilize their different talents to effect change. Activism takes many different forms – it is not limited to the picket-sign protest of yester-generation. Activism comes down to who you are on the day-to-day, if you are living what you believe in. The opposite of hate isn’t love – it is justice, fairness and respect.

So if we’re truly going to be defending all those abstract nouns that we believe in so strongly, then all of us – journalists and activists (we have more in common than you think) – must commit to achieving it, not just by discussing it but by owning up to our responsibilities and living it – and there’s nothing ironic about that.

Confessions of a Teenage Runagay

AND THAT'S WHAT IT WAS. Running away was supposed to be arduous, maybe treacherous. And although it was terrifying, when it came to the rough-and-tumble-hitchhiking-living-out-of-a-knapsack lifestyle, I lucked out. There was a small house, there was a big house, there were a bed and a couch respectively, and each night I played out mild nightmares of prodigal return.

I was high every day. I was drunk every night. And in my sleepy mornings in between desperate glasses of water, my headspin caused the makeshift sleeping bag glide against the floorboards. It felt as though a reckless inertia was driving the particles of my body away from each other, which made sense since - as far as Rockland County is concerned - I've vanished into a black hole anyway.

And there you were the whole time, unfalteringly, unwaveringly beautiful. Like watch you in the car when you close your eyes to sing along beautiful. Like hazy teenage trips to the back of my mind when I would trace the shapes of girls for the first time. Now at 19, I'm old enough to feel embarrassed about it but young enough to clumsily hope for more.

We couldn't always hold hands in public, but we could make out in your car. And we did. In a very specific way. Like gravity, like collision. Like the way two teenagers make out in an airport parking lot, hungry and impatient, because that was who and where we were. An agreement made in a fever dream. We felt scared, but never alone. We felt right (we were right). We felt stupid ("We are so stupid"). We felt big (it's still true).

Because I knew that if I knocked long enough at the curve of your ribs, if I lingered just a bit, your anachronistic heart would wake, answering me suddenly, and I would be granted permission to live within the walls of your body.

And you didn't even come with any weird surprises. Not even a tacky winter coat.

In my time here I learned to talk to animals. I feel like that makes it sound like I fell flaming from the sky into the desert, where I was rescued by Bedouin people and given special powers. Or like I'm Eliza Thornberry (and however she got her powers, I don't really remember). In actuality, I just met a dog that didn't know she was a dog and a cat that thought I was a cat. Animal-queer is what Charles said. And I thought it was funny. And then I hid behind your best friend because the cat kept hissing at me.
--
Postcards from Mexico.
Postcards from Dallas.
Postcards from the road.

I am in none of these places, not right now, but they are from where I'm sending my love. It's unrequited, the way we all secretly like it, because there's no return address. Because there's no return, not really, anyway.

I just can't believe I left all my underwear at home. Scratch that, I can't believe I left all my underwear where my parents live.

I'll eventually have to trek it back to the East Coast. And if I could go back on wheels, I would. Fuck, If I could go back on foot, I would. I would send my love not from the places I am, but from the places I've been, so even if you try to go looking, you'll just find tire tracks and whispers, if that.

This is my pledge to never stop moving.

(If anyone feels so moved to read more on the adventures, check out my Autostraddle piece toooo).

There's Blood In My Mouth 'Cause I've Been Biting My Tongue

My parents know this: I came out on January 3, 2009.
My parents do not know this: I was scared, but I was not sorry. I waited a long fucking time after I was ready to come out to actually come out. While I was waiting, I did everything I could to prepare myself for the process. This ranged from pamphlets and other forms of literature to talking to friends about their own experiences and watching every damn Logo special on it. Also watching and memorizing that episode of The L Word where Bette tells her dad that God made her just as she was (I'm not sorry to say that I paraphrased her in my coming out conversation). I was ready for any argument they had to throw at me.

They don't know that it was the most empowering night of my life because it was at that moment that I realized that, with or without their approval, I was finally completely and totally unashamed and unapologetic about who I was. And I was happy. I was living it like I wanted. And I had a support system. And the sky was clearer than I had ever seen it, and it told me to just drive.

Six months later, after not mentioning it at all since that one Really Bad Conversation that finally caused me to run away to Rachel's house, a dinner table confrontation occurred.

It was pretty much the same old patronizing/denial deal about how they don't think I'm really gay because you can't know if you're gay if you've never tried not being gay and also if you're gay you can't have weddings or have children because you're gaygaygaygaygay.

In addition to this, my mother (oh also, my dad, while he doesn't approve of my "choices" or "lifestyle" is very rational and has promised to love me no matter what, should I eventually come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, gay) lamented over the fact that she had no idea how I, being raised in her household, could possibly have taken on such a set of values that allowed me to be like this. To be accepting and open and happy with who I am (I asked this)? She claimed that she was not prejudiced. I said it was okay if she was because everyone has their own prejudices and both my parents happen to come from an extremely conservative Catholic country, and whatever, that kind of wack shit happens there anyway. And then she finally admitted that no, she does not hate gay people, BUT she has worked hard and sacrificed so much so that she could one day see me get married and have kids.

1. WHAT.
2. Gay peeps are on the way to doing that now, don't'chaknow?
3. WHAT.
4. Listen. I'm sorry. But even if I were straight, being someone's Wife and having their kids would never ever be the measure of my success in life. It's just never been my dream. And I don't really appreciate my mother basing my value on whether or not I can attain this goal that I don't even want to pursue. I respect anyone who really, truly wants this, I do. But fact of the matter is that I don't. We've all got our own aspirations, and this just isn't one of them for me. Never has been. That's that.

They also said I couldn't possibly be happy like this, and that I was being way too closed-minded about the whole situation. As if it had never occurred to me to date men. Well yeah, I had never though of that, thanks for the suggestion, brb, being straight now! But no, really. I can pretty confidently say that I am one of the most sexually open-minded people I know to accept the label "lesbian." I'm not going to go into details about this, but you can ask Rachel because she gets all the phonecalls in the aftermath. Also claiming that I am not happy is just ludicrous. Because fuck, I am happy. I am like lay-spread-out-on-the-floor-and-stare-up-at-the-ceiling-and-just-sigh-because-I'm-so-happy happy. I said it before. I'm living it like I wanted.

But wait, there's more!
You see, I'm aspiring to be a professional gay, and I happen to be having the most mindblowing interning experience at a website that's allowing me to pursue this (I'd drop the name here, but I feel like this is kind of a negative context, so I'll sit and think about that, plus I've probably talked about it a shit ton to anyone who's reading anyway). Like fucking wow. Never before have I had the honor of being around such confident, intelligent, witty, (and coughsuperattractivecough) and self-assured queer women who are out simply unapologetic about their sexuality. It's what I've been working to be, even before I ever realized I was doing it.

My parents wanted to know why I insisted on living this lifestyle and told me that it was a choice. And yeah, sure, being out is a choice. But it's a choice to be honest and happy and just plain satisfied with my life. And in that sense, it's not really a choice at all.

The reason that one of my great goals in life is to create visibility for queer women is because shit like this, shit that happens with my parents, happens all the time for girls who are coming out. And they shouldn't have to feel ashamed about it. And they should have role models. And they shouldn't be afraid or feel alone, even if they can only get that reassurance through the Interwebz (I'm also a big believer in this).

ANYWAY.
This was supposed to be a big gay weekend for me. My Montreal buddy, Emily, is coming down tomorrow for Pride festivities, and the whole intern team is going to spend a big gay weekend together etc etc. Clearly my parents aren't going for this.

The plan is that, in about an hour (when we're both all tired and honest), I'm going to go talk to my dad and basically ask him permission to peace the fuck out this weekend. If it's a no, then I'm doing it on my own, runaway urban backpacking style. My life's been so fucking ridiculous lately. These past 6 months have proved not only that I am strong enough, but that I am just plain lucky enough to dodge and bob and weave through all the tight situations that I've encountered (this is saying A LOT).

This weekend is going to be a most excellent adventure, and goddamn, I can't wait.

Shakin' (Off) What My Momma Gave Me

I am not genderqueer.

And yes, that has been a real issue tracing back to my childhood, though more prevalently back to the summer when I realized that my predilection for boys' underwear was less (though still very much so) me falling for the trendy wiles of American Apparel and more indicative of the fact that I rarely perceive myself as anything feminine or womanly at all. If anything, for the majority of the time, I simply feel...neutral.

Since coming to American (University this time, not Apparel), I've had a newfound appreciation for androgyny in general, and what I would previously identified as my gender crises became closer to gender-contemplation sessions.

But.
Never ever have a felt more like a woman than on Sunday morning, when before church, my mother stopped me in the kitchen and told me that, as long as I remained in the house, I would have to "look like a girl."

What. the fuck. is that supposed to mean?

Apparently to her it meant changing out of my old-school Adidas kicks into a pair of black flats that actually looked cute with my black skinny jeans, and that I possibly would have worn on my own, had they not been forced upon me for the sake of convincing the world of my gender.

I realized then that it was ridiculous for me to try to "look" like a woman, because I already felt like one.
And not to pull the identity card, but as a lesbian and a feminist...well, I think I know what a woman feels like.

So how dare anyone tell me what it is to be one.
I will admit that maybe (just maybe) my presentation does not exactly adhere to the stereotype by which one would judge femininity, but gender isn't how you look, it's how you feel.
And besides, why, as an empowered and independent female, would I bother presenting myself in a way that would be judged "feminine" when the idea of femininity was constructed in order to oppress women to begin with?

So yes. I am a woman, though unconventionally so.
And it's better that way. Why conventionalize your own identity, or any identity at all?
Diversification and queering of the feminist movement. It's real. It's here. So lock up your daughters.
Or don't.