“Nice save,” he said. She smiled, glancing around the room. Four hands were in the air. “Yes, Mitch?” AP called on the 7th grade violinist.
“What’s wrong with your sister?’
AP bristled. “Nothing. She has disability called Williams Syndrome. According to google, that means that she has “a rare congenital disorder associated with deletion of genetic material in chromosome 7; characterized by mental deficiency and some growth deficiency and elfin faces but an overly social personality and a remarkable gift for vocabulary. In reality makes her high strung, hyper, and a bit emotionally volatile. She’s a little slow on the uptake, but she does learn. My mother spent months teaching her the bus routes. Now she can go anywhere she wants all by herself. She’s memorized every bus route. She could you what buses to take to get from South Deerfield to Springfield and back without ever having to consult a schedule.” AP smiled, as she noticed that a few of her classmates looked impressed.
“ She takes budgeting and learning to do laundry and make her own food,” AP continued. “ She can play music by ear. She plays the panio, flute, and violin. She sings really complicated material really beautifully. She goes to Berkshire Hills Music Academy. It’s a special postsecondary school for musical people with developmental delays. She with her roommate Julie, in a dorm on the second floor. The school only has one building I love her just the way she is. At least she’s not rude like some people I could mention.” she glared at Mitch who shriveled into his seat.
“Are there any other questions?” Mr. Russo moved quickly to disarm the tension. “Alison, how about you? Why don’t you ask Aretha about her very well presented report?” said Mr. Russo. Mr. Russo didn’t believe in nicknames, AP was listed as Aretha on his roster, so Aretha she would be called in his classroom. There was no room for democratic negotiation in his class, unlike other teachers classrooms at PVPA. He also didn’t let students call him by his first name. “I know it’s old fashioned, particularly in a place like this. But it feels disrespectful.”
“How did your mom come to take the position at Mount Holyoke? I mean she sounds like a seriously accomplished artist and why is she taking a non-paying fellowship.”
“That’s a good question,” said Mr. Russo, relieved at the change in topic.
AP considered. “Well, my dad is here for a year. And, I think although of course I can’t truly tell you what her motivations were because I’m not her, she wanted to make sure MJ and Moonbeam were settled in at school properly and taking this fellowship would although her plenty free time to intervene if she needed to. Paying visiting professorships wouldn’t allow that freedom. But, my mom being my mom, just couldn’t sit around for a whole year playing wifey and doing nothing to stimulate her mind. She loves making art and educating young people. When dad goes back to Yale, she’ll return to chairing the Art Department at Gateway Community College.”
The last two students with raised hands asked about the Freedon Rides. After 10 more minutes, AP was permitted to return to her seat.”Very nice, Aretha,”
After class, Mary one of the few people she was stating to think of as her bestfriend in the strange, new world of PVPA, said, “I’m sorry about Mitch. He just lost two rating points for being an insensitive jerk.” Mary kept an ongoing list of every boy in school, rating them from high to low in terms of future husband potential. She had several factors that determined a boy’s standing: They were, in no order particular order: interest in girls, personality, sense of humor, motivation, money (because she figured the more money they made the less she’d need to make from dancing), and physical appeal. Each factor was given a 1 to 10 rating Freddie Murray the sophomore dancer, who’s arabesque was the envy of the dance department, was atop the list right now. He ranked an astounding 47 out of 60. The only reason was nearer the perfect 60 was that his interest in girls was less than zero and his family was middle class on their best days and working class on their worst. Mitch ranked an already poor 22. This deduction would make a 20. And move him into the lowest 10 percent in Mary’s rating system.
AP didn’t much care for the system. Usually whenever Mary brought it up, she changed the subject. Being the daughter of an ardent feminist, she could hear her mother’s unspoken critique within the walls of her brain without even thinking to hard “Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams, we can’t object to men talking to our breasts instead of looking us in the eye or cat calling us in the street, if we’re going to do the same thing to them.”
Under normal circumstances, AP supported her mother’s position, but today because he dared ask “What’s wrong with your sister?” in the tone of voice that AP had learned was a bad disguise for unspoken bigotry by the time she was 6, she egged Mary on. “Doesn’t that move him into the bottom 10%?”
Mary removed a notebook from her backpack, flipped to the section labeled “PVPA hotties and the otherwise” and consulted it. The notebook made AP uncomfortable. “It was on thing,” she thought, “to rank boys. It was another thing to keep records of these rankings and treat them like they actually mattered. “Yes,” she said with a giggle, “It does.” AP laughed deeply, despite her reservations.
Two weeks later, it the official start of National Novel Writing Month or Nanowrimo. This would be AP, MJ, and Moonbeam’s fifth year in the worldwide endeavor. The young organizer and artist in AP was drawn into the idea that she and her siblings were involved in a process that 150,000 people worldwide (99.99% of whom they would never meet) was appealing to her. Even if she was incredibly busy which she was, there was no way she was going to miss the opportunity.
But November 2nd was not a very good for day for AP. Her mom always called her the Diva of Organization, but that day she proved that even divas had their off days. In A block, she discovered that her much sweated over and well researched paper was somehow missing. This was despite the fact that she remembered the feel of the folder in her fingers, the sound of the book bag unzipping and rezipping to accept the precious document, she had left somehow left her Malcom vs. Martin paper at home. Mr. Russo had not been amused and AP was sure he would deduct every bit of the bit of the threatened half grade for turning in the paper 24 hours late.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment IV for 2010
They graduated both from UMass in 1969. He’d gone to Howard to get his doctorate in history and seeking to relish the experience of being surrounded by my black intellectuals in the nation’s capitol. He had, of course, invited his beloved Belle to join him.
She’d refused. Being a liberated woman, there was no way Isabella Washington was going to simply follow a man somewhere. Even if she did love him more than the moon as she told all of their friends. Upon graduation, she’d packed her own bags upon graduation and headed her own way. To NYU and a certificate in museum studies, to go along with her dual master’s degrees in sculpture and Africana Studies. It had taken her three years and my father was on the train from DC to New York so often that the regular train crew knew him by name. ‘Off to see that girl of yours?’ They’d joke as he pulled out the always rumpled ticket from his pocket. When Amtrak was founded in 1971, he’d gotten a 10-trip commuter pass which had cost him an entire week’s salary from his two menial jobs as a grocery bagger and a burger flipper at McDonalds. Odd jobs to have for you were an ethical vegetarian as he and Belle both were and still are. So are their three offspring! Anyway he told me that He’d always blush and fork over the ticket in spite of the teasing.
Now, she’s here as a fellow at Five College Woman Studies Center. They don’t pay her, but she’s influencing tons of young women and getting a free place to display her art as well as internet access, a bus pass, and a student assistant. It’s not like matters much, my father makes enough money to support them both, she said. Then realizing what sort of woman that made her mother sound like added quickly, “Not that she would. My mother contributes 50% of her earned income to house. Her money pays our allowances. I get $10 and my sister and brother get $25 each. After that, whatever’s left over gets divided between the holiday fund, the vacation club, and the emergency fund.”When they got married in the June of 1972 merely because neither set of parents would condone their living together and this a direct quote from my mother “the social appropriateness of matrimony.”
Her classmates laughed. I know I thought it funny, too,” AP admitted. “But I guess that’s how it was back it the day.”
AP couldn’t resist adding just one more ‘How cool is my mother’ fact my mother refused to take my father’s name unless he took hers to, so they both changed their names to became Washington-Williams. Diploma in hand, she moved to DC to be with him that July. I don’t think they’ve spent longer than 2 weeks apart ever since. But my father’s buddies at Howard teased him mercilessly about changing his name just to get a girl.
He replied that Belle which just some girl, she was the girl and that they were just jealous. After she came to live with him, he caught back to one job, because he didn’t need to by a train ticket every other week. She made enough money teaching and selling art that that he could quit working complete during his dissertation defense year and just write. This was something else his friends with rather horrible about. To my father’s credit, he always told him that they wished they were that lucky and had found such accomplished women for themselves.” He defended his dissertation in April of 1975 and became in associate professor of history at Hendrix College that fall. My mother got a job as an adjunct in the Hendrix art Department, which later turned into an associate professorship of her own. My father was awarded a full professorship and helped found the Africana Studies department there. They saw the population grow
from 15,000 when they arrived to over 25,000 when they left.
My mom applied to teach at Spellman in 1991 and my father used his sabbatical year, and a separate jobs opportunities teaching two classes each at Morehouse and Spellman follow her for a year. He thought they’d go back to Arkansas at the end of year, but it didn’t work out that way. My mother was always a city girl and even though she loved exposing her Hendrix students to new things, it didn’t take long for Atlanta and Spellman to steal her affections.
She told my father that she would stay in Atlanta and he could go back to Arkansas. It was only a nine hour trip by car, 3 hours by plane. They’d seen each other every Thursday through Sunday. More than most 2 income couples, she reasoned. Plus they would have more to talk about and actually be happy when they did see each other. This arrangement would enable them both to pursue their careers in places that suited them. This arrangement continued until my mother found herself pregnant in mid-October. At almost 40, she knew this was probably her last chance to have a biological child.
My father completed his contracted year at Hendrix, and applied for teaching job at Morehouse. He got it. It was just an associate professorship, but it was a job that let him live with his wife and take care of his family.
She moved down the poster board. “ On to my generation.” That’s my big brother, Morgan Abraham Washington-Williams, Jr. We call him MJ. She pointed at the picture of her brother from when he played Jesus in Jesus Christ, Superstar last year at the Shubert Theater. He goes to Hampshire College were he studies musical theater and video game design. He’s a freshman. I have a big sister. They’re fraternal twins. My parents named her Moonbeam because my mother always said, as I told you before that she loves my father more than the moon. They’ve been married 38 years now.
I was an unexpected silver anniversary present. They actually found out on the day of. In case you’re curious at 46, my mom was still was a full decade ahead of the oldest woman to have a kid the old fashioned way. Her classmates giggled. She blushed and wondered if, contrary to daddy’s opinion, there actually was such a thing as too much information.
“You see, my parents are very ecologically minded, they planned to only have two kids one to replace each of them. They thought about not having me, but my mom said one the saw the sonogram that idea went out the window. In order to make me truly the family’s baby instead of just theirs, they wanted my siblings to have a part in my naming. Moonbeam and MJ got to give me one name each. They flipped a coin to determine who got to give me my first name and you would give me my middle name. “ She paused “My brother won and as he worshiped Aretha Franklin at the age of 12. In fact, he still does. He was her for Halloween last year. My sister was really into Pocahontas the time. She can still sing every song on the soundtrack. That’s why she wanted to call me Pocahontas. My parents tried to talk her out of that, but to no avail. My birth certificate actually says Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams.” her classmates laughed again. “Is it any wonder I go by AP? Thank you for listening.” she did a curtsy and started to return to her to her seat.
Then she stopped, remembering to ask, “Are there any questions?” Mr. Russo had told the 7th graders that he would deduct 10 points from the grade of anyone who forgot to ask that.
She’d refused. Being a liberated woman, there was no way Isabella Washington was going to simply follow a man somewhere. Even if she did love him more than the moon as she told all of their friends. Upon graduation, she’d packed her own bags upon graduation and headed her own way. To NYU and a certificate in museum studies, to go along with her dual master’s degrees in sculpture and Africana Studies. It had taken her three years and my father was on the train from DC to New York so often that the regular train crew knew him by name. ‘Off to see that girl of yours?’ They’d joke as he pulled out the always rumpled ticket from his pocket. When Amtrak was founded in 1971, he’d gotten a 10-trip commuter pass which had cost him an entire week’s salary from his two menial jobs as a grocery bagger and a burger flipper at McDonalds. Odd jobs to have for you were an ethical vegetarian as he and Belle both were and still are. So are their three offspring! Anyway he told me that He’d always blush and fork over the ticket in spite of the teasing.
Now, she’s here as a fellow at Five College Woman Studies Center. They don’t pay her, but she’s influencing tons of young women and getting a free place to display her art as well as internet access, a bus pass, and a student assistant. It’s not like matters much, my father makes enough money to support them both, she said. Then realizing what sort of woman that made her mother sound like added quickly, “Not that she would. My mother contributes 50% of her earned income to house. Her money pays our allowances. I get $10 and my sister and brother get $25 each. After that, whatever’s left over gets divided between the holiday fund, the vacation club, and the emergency fund.”When they got married in the June of 1972 merely because neither set of parents would condone their living together and this a direct quote from my mother “the social appropriateness of matrimony.”
Her classmates laughed. I know I thought it funny, too,” AP admitted. “But I guess that’s how it was back it the day.”
AP couldn’t resist adding just one more ‘How cool is my mother’ fact my mother refused to take my father’s name unless he took hers to, so they both changed their names to became Washington-Williams. Diploma in hand, she moved to DC to be with him that July. I don’t think they’ve spent longer than 2 weeks apart ever since. But my father’s buddies at Howard teased him mercilessly about changing his name just to get a girl.
He replied that Belle which just some girl, she was the girl and that they were just jealous. After she came to live with him, he caught back to one job, because he didn’t need to by a train ticket every other week. She made enough money teaching and selling art that that he could quit working complete during his dissertation defense year and just write. This was something else his friends with rather horrible about. To my father’s credit, he always told him that they wished they were that lucky and had found such accomplished women for themselves.” He defended his dissertation in April of 1975 and became in associate professor of history at Hendrix College that fall. My mother got a job as an adjunct in the Hendrix art Department, which later turned into an associate professorship of her own. My father was awarded a full professorship and helped found the Africana Studies department there. They saw the population grow
from 15,000 when they arrived to over 25,000 when they left.
My mom applied to teach at Spellman in 1991 and my father used his sabbatical year, and a separate jobs opportunities teaching two classes each at Morehouse and Spellman follow her for a year. He thought they’d go back to Arkansas at the end of year, but it didn’t work out that way. My mother was always a city girl and even though she loved exposing her Hendrix students to new things, it didn’t take long for Atlanta and Spellman to steal her affections.
She told my father that she would stay in Atlanta and he could go back to Arkansas. It was only a nine hour trip by car, 3 hours by plane. They’d seen each other every Thursday through Sunday. More than most 2 income couples, she reasoned. Plus they would have more to talk about and actually be happy when they did see each other. This arrangement would enable them both to pursue their careers in places that suited them. This arrangement continued until my mother found herself pregnant in mid-October. At almost 40, she knew this was probably her last chance to have a biological child.
My father completed his contracted year at Hendrix, and applied for teaching job at Morehouse. He got it. It was just an associate professorship, but it was a job that let him live with his wife and take care of his family.
She moved down the poster board. “ On to my generation.” That’s my big brother, Morgan Abraham Washington-Williams, Jr. We call him MJ. She pointed at the picture of her brother from when he played Jesus in Jesus Christ, Superstar last year at the Shubert Theater. He goes to Hampshire College were he studies musical theater and video game design. He’s a freshman. I have a big sister. They’re fraternal twins. My parents named her Moonbeam because my mother always said, as I told you before that she loves my father more than the moon. They’ve been married 38 years now.
I was an unexpected silver anniversary present. They actually found out on the day of. In case you’re curious at 46, my mom was still was a full decade ahead of the oldest woman to have a kid the old fashioned way. Her classmates giggled. She blushed and wondered if, contrary to daddy’s opinion, there actually was such a thing as too much information.
“You see, my parents are very ecologically minded, they planned to only have two kids one to replace each of them. They thought about not having me, but my mom said one the saw the sonogram that idea went out the window. In order to make me truly the family’s baby instead of just theirs, they wanted my siblings to have a part in my naming. Moonbeam and MJ got to give me one name each. They flipped a coin to determine who got to give me my first name and you would give me my middle name. “ She paused “My brother won and as he worshiped Aretha Franklin at the age of 12. In fact, he still does. He was her for Halloween last year. My sister was really into Pocahontas the time. She can still sing every song on the soundtrack. That’s why she wanted to call me Pocahontas. My parents tried to talk her out of that, but to no avail. My birth certificate actually says Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams.” her classmates laughed again. “Is it any wonder I go by AP? Thank you for listening.” she did a curtsy and started to return to her to her seat.
Then she stopped, remembering to ask, “Are there any questions?” Mr. Russo had told the 7th graders that he would deduct 10 points from the grade of anyone who forgot to ask that.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment III for 2010
So far, she’d been holding her own. In the past week, she’d gotten an A on an English paper, a B+ on a report on the Shay’s Rebellion. A B on a science quiz, and a disappointing C on her latest middle school advanced math homework.
The biggest test thus far over whether she maintain before her grueling dance schedule and meet her father’s academic standards came on October 15th. AP bounded by her mother and father on the stairs. She full backpack and had a dance bag dangling from her left shoulder. She also managed to carry a large red, trifold, poster board all without falling over.
“Morning, daddy! Morning, mama! Remember you’re driving me to school today, right?”
“Yes, princess! I remember,” her father said, “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“ Don’t you run down these stairs, young lady, ” warned her mother. “If you fall down and crack your head, you won’t be giving any reports this morning or dancing Sugar Plum in December. You’ll have to spend the whole day getting patched up in the ER instead. And I don’t have to spend all day sitting there with you. I’ve got work to do that’s not going to put itself off because my youngest child, who’s old enough to know better, took a header down some stairs.”
“Gee, I love you, too.” AP shot back. Her father didn’t care for her tone and shot her one of his looks.
“Sorry, mama. I can’t be late,” AP knew she whining but didn’t care. “Mr. Russo loves to write detention slips.” AP walked down the few remaining stairs at a more reasonable rate.
“So you mentioned about 5 times yesterday,” her father said. “Don’t worry you know how important I think education is. You’re not going to be late on my account.” he kissed her mother on the cheek as she gave his tie a final smoothing. “I have to go before our youngest decides to hotwire the car and drive herself to school.”
Her mother smiled. “You drive safe now, Morgan, your carrying precious cargo. Call me when you get a minute. I’m going to be working in the studio all morning. Then I’m giving a lecture on African Art history at the Research Center. Maybe we can grab a bite after that, before we go have to go pick up on our resident ballerina and hear how stellar she was in rehearsal today.”
AP blushed. She could hear her parents clearly and her mother’s comments made her sound four. “Daddy, c’mon!” she called and was relieved to hear his footsteps a moment later. AP was a 7th grade dance major at the Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Charter School. Going to the school was the only positive
thing, as far as she was concerned about the move from New Haven. Maybe if she did well at PVPA, she’d have a prayer of convincing her father to let her enroll in the Walnut Hill School] for the Arts (where she’d major in ballet) or Innerlochen Arts Academy where she could study in the rigorous comparative arts department, combing her various love of writing and ballet.
Daddy said that because the New Haven Public School system had a very good dance program, that also allow to explore her other artistic interest and take rigorous academic courses. She’d be going to Cooperative Arts & Humanities Interdistrict Magnet right in New Haven which was free, supported by his tax dollars, and most importantly, met he “got to keep his youngest daughter at little girl for just a little longer.” As badly as AP wanted the prestige that came with a Walnut Hill or Innerlochen diploma, she had to admit that going to Coop, as it was called, wouldn’t be the worse thing that ever happened. After all, she’d grown up in the New Haven Public School System’s magnet program. She’d enrolled, fresh as a 7-year-old transplant from Atlanta, into second grade at Davis Street Arts and Academics where mutual love of the arts had made it easier for her to make friends. Then in the fifth grade she’d been accepted Betsy Ross Arts. Coop was the next logical stopover in her educational career.
Wherever she ended up attending high school, she knew she’d go on to study at NYU, Purchase College, the University of the Arts, or Cornish College studying either dance performance, choreography, or performance studies. Perhaps she’d even try for Julliard. If the universe was really on her side, she’d spend at least a few years dancing with the Dance Theater of Harlem. This was her big dream. First she had to survive 7th grade and big part of that was nailing this family history report. It was her first major academic assignment since she enrolled at PVPA. She’d spent over a month delving through photo albums, and e-mailing, facebooking, and phone all the relatives who she had any contact information for. She talked to her parents friends to get the real lowdown on them. She spent hours creating and recreating the perfect family tree. In the end, she still wasn’t happy with it, but she had run out of time to fix it anymore.
About two hours later, A.P.’s family tree was on display in the history room and she was mostly speaking without looking at the note cards she’d written in case she got stage freight, although that would be an odd thing to happen to someone who’d spent over half her life on stage trying to be the center of attention . “The first person here is in my maternal great-great-great grandmother Bulla Mae James and her husband Marcus. There are no records for my father’s family at that time as is typical of the era.”
The first mention of them is here. She used the pointer again to indicate a faded black and white photograph of a still handsome, well-muscled black man. This is Alexander Williams. He was the first member of my father’s family born free in America. He was born in 1870. He had two wives, Silvia Marie who died given birth to their first child. Silvia Marie died in child birth, although the baby survived. He then married Annabelle with whom he had six more.”
AP talked and talked detailing each relative. Glad, for once, that her father was a historian packrat who saved everything. She paused dramatically when she got to the part about how her grandfather Peter Williams had fled the South and its rampant racism, seeking a better life in the North. That was how she came to be standing in front of them. “Mogan Washington-Williams, my father, is a tenured professor in African-American studies, on sabbatical for Yale University who had decided to use his sabbatical year to teach at UMass/Amherst.
The proudest of Minuteman, he had jumped at the chance to return to his old stomping grounds and give a little back to the public university system that had helped make him. She told her classmates,” He and Isabella Washington, who everyone still calls Belle, met in the mid- sixties at UMass. After freshman year, They’d both been part of the last group of MJom riders in 1965, helping Southern blacks register to vote, over their more conservative parents objections. You see my mother was the product of a Yankee mill worker and a high school teacher, who’d given up her teaching career to have 5 children of which mama was the youngest and be a
housewife.
Daddy sprang from the loins of Southern Black folks who’d never, and this is a direct quote, “gotten over the damage inflicted by generations of slavery and sharecropping.” They were too households full of people who firmly believed in not rocking the boat, but my parents believed that if the boat needed rocking they were the people to rock it.
The biggest test thus far over whether she maintain before her grueling dance schedule and meet her father’s academic standards came on October 15th. AP bounded by her mother and father on the stairs. She full backpack and had a dance bag dangling from her left shoulder. She also managed to carry a large red, trifold, poster board all without falling over.
“Morning, daddy! Morning, mama! Remember you’re driving me to school today, right?”
“Yes, princess! I remember,” her father said, “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“ Don’t you run down these stairs, young lady, ” warned her mother. “If you fall down and crack your head, you won’t be giving any reports this morning or dancing Sugar Plum in December. You’ll have to spend the whole day getting patched up in the ER instead. And I don’t have to spend all day sitting there with you. I’ve got work to do that’s not going to put itself off because my youngest child, who’s old enough to know better, took a header down some stairs.”
“Gee, I love you, too.” AP shot back. Her father didn’t care for her tone and shot her one of his looks.
“Sorry, mama. I can’t be late,” AP knew she whining but didn’t care. “Mr. Russo loves to write detention slips.” AP walked down the few remaining stairs at a more reasonable rate.
“So you mentioned about 5 times yesterday,” her father said. “Don’t worry you know how important I think education is. You’re not going to be late on my account.” he kissed her mother on the cheek as she gave his tie a final smoothing. “I have to go before our youngest decides to hotwire the car and drive herself to school.”
Her mother smiled. “You drive safe now, Morgan, your carrying precious cargo. Call me when you get a minute. I’m going to be working in the studio all morning. Then I’m giving a lecture on African Art history at the Research Center. Maybe we can grab a bite after that, before we go have to go pick up on our resident ballerina and hear how stellar she was in rehearsal today.”
AP blushed. She could hear her parents clearly and her mother’s comments made her sound four. “Daddy, c’mon!” she called and was relieved to hear his footsteps a moment later. AP was a 7th grade dance major at the Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Charter School. Going to the school was the only positive
thing, as far as she was concerned about the move from New Haven. Maybe if she did well at PVPA, she’d have a prayer of convincing her father to let her enroll in the Walnut Hill School] for the Arts (where she’d major in ballet) or Innerlochen Arts Academy where she could study in the rigorous comparative arts department, combing her various love of writing and ballet.
Daddy said that because the New Haven Public School system had a very good dance program, that also allow to explore her other artistic interest and take rigorous academic courses. She’d be going to Cooperative Arts & Humanities Interdistrict Magnet right in New Haven which was free, supported by his tax dollars, and most importantly, met he “got to keep his youngest daughter at little girl for just a little longer.” As badly as AP wanted the prestige that came with a Walnut Hill or Innerlochen diploma, she had to admit that going to Coop, as it was called, wouldn’t be the worse thing that ever happened. After all, she’d grown up in the New Haven Public School System’s magnet program. She’d enrolled, fresh as a 7-year-old transplant from Atlanta, into second grade at Davis Street Arts and Academics where mutual love of the arts had made it easier for her to make friends. Then in the fifth grade she’d been accepted Betsy Ross Arts. Coop was the next logical stopover in her educational career.
Wherever she ended up attending high school, she knew she’d go on to study at NYU, Purchase College, the University of the Arts, or Cornish College studying either dance performance, choreography, or performance studies. Perhaps she’d even try for Julliard. If the universe was really on her side, she’d spend at least a few years dancing with the Dance Theater of Harlem. This was her big dream. First she had to survive 7th grade and big part of that was nailing this family history report. It was her first major academic assignment since she enrolled at PVPA. She’d spent over a month delving through photo albums, and e-mailing, facebooking, and phone all the relatives who she had any contact information for. She talked to her parents friends to get the real lowdown on them. She spent hours creating and recreating the perfect family tree. In the end, she still wasn’t happy with it, but she had run out of time to fix it anymore.
About two hours later, A.P.’s family tree was on display in the history room and she was mostly speaking without looking at the note cards she’d written in case she got stage freight, although that would be an odd thing to happen to someone who’d spent over half her life on stage trying to be the center of attention . “The first person here is in my maternal great-great-great grandmother Bulla Mae James and her husband Marcus. There are no records for my father’s family at that time as is typical of the era.”
The first mention of them is here. She used the pointer again to indicate a faded black and white photograph of a still handsome, well-muscled black man. This is Alexander Williams. He was the first member of my father’s family born free in America. He was born in 1870. He had two wives, Silvia Marie who died given birth to their first child. Silvia Marie died in child birth, although the baby survived. He then married Annabelle with whom he had six more.”
AP talked and talked detailing each relative. Glad, for once, that her father was a historian packrat who saved everything. She paused dramatically when she got to the part about how her grandfather Peter Williams had fled the South and its rampant racism, seeking a better life in the North. That was how she came to be standing in front of them. “Mogan Washington-Williams, my father, is a tenured professor in African-American studies, on sabbatical for Yale University who had decided to use his sabbatical year to teach at UMass/Amherst.
The proudest of Minuteman, he had jumped at the chance to return to his old stomping grounds and give a little back to the public university system that had helped make him. She told her classmates,” He and Isabella Washington, who everyone still calls Belle, met in the mid- sixties at UMass. After freshman year, They’d both been part of the last group of MJom riders in 1965, helping Southern blacks register to vote, over their more conservative parents objections. You see my mother was the product of a Yankee mill worker and a high school teacher, who’d given up her teaching career to have 5 children of which mama was the youngest and be a
housewife.
Daddy sprang from the loins of Southern Black folks who’d never, and this is a direct quote, “gotten over the damage inflicted by generations of slavery and sharecropping.” They were too households full of people who firmly believed in not rocking the boat, but my parents believed that if the boat needed rocking they were the people to rock it.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment II for 2010
In the end, the ever practical AP, had decided to ask for the shoes as a Christmas present, as well as a pair each of silver and gold ones she’d bookmarked on her list of favorite websites. Starting in November she’d simply start dropping hints to all the people that typically brought her presents. If she somehow received all three pairs of shoes she wanted (a happening she would indeed be surprised by) it would only cost $58.25. As hard as she working, she felt totally worth it.
Mama said it wasn’t practical to spend hard-earned money on shoes that wouldn’t meet the dress code at most dance schools. However, she had smiled when AP reminded her that she danced in technique shoes for at least one class per day during a typical 5 day PVPA week and typically she went through a pair of canvas technique shoes every month or two she was almost certain to wear out her special non-dress code shoes before she finished her time at PVPA in the middle of June. “That way,” she tired to reason with her mom, “I’ll go through fewer standard shoes, if I wear my special ones to PVPA everyday, and only wear my pinks to class at Pioneer Valley Ballet or for other special classes.”
“You’ve got it all figured don’t you?” Belle Washington-Williams had laughed. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Like mother, like daughter.”
“Absolutely.”
She mailed the letter as she left school at 4:15 after her advanced ballet class. She was proud of herself for being in this class, which was one of the few that mixed middle schoolers and high schoolers. She was one of only three 7th graders in the class. Her friend Beth and Katie were the others. But AP was the only 7th grader who was part of second line.
Every serious ballet class AP had ever taken was divided into lines. Third line was for the least accomplished dancers. They ones who were slightly too good to be in the intermediate level, which was occurring simultaneously. Second line was for the next best dancers. First line was for the best dancers in class and incidentally in the school, at least in terms of ballet.
Now she sat on the curb and waited for Missy Taylor. Missy was advanced ballet, too. She was a pretty 11th grader who always went to first line and the head of it at that. She gave AP rides to PVB, where they were in Advanced II, the school’s highest level, together. “Hey, kiddo! You ready to dance some more?”
“Always and absolutely,” This exchange had been going on verbatim since they pair had met after AP had put up a sign asking for a ride to PVB. “Are your excited for Nutcracker auditions this weekend?” AP asked.
“Kind of,” Missy admitted, although she could hold her own in a ballet studio, was much more of a modern dancer. “I really want be Mother Ginger. That part is so fun.” Mother Ginger was this obese woman that was usually played by a very petite ballerina on stilts covered in layers and layers of fabric. “Of course, the part of auditions I’m most looking forward to,” the older girl admitted is seeing you wipe the floor with Ashley. We’re all counting on you, young lady.” said Missy with fake sterness.
AP giggled, “I’ll give it my all ma’am.” AP had quickly gotten on the good side of the other girls in Advanced II, despite being so much younger. There had been none of the typical prima donna jealousies that were so common in the ballet world. Secretly AP thought that was why the other girls were so nice to her. They were happy that someone could knock Ashley off her pedestal even if they couldn’t do it. . Before AP had arrived, Ashley had been the school’s resident diva. She took the lead role in every dance recital for four years running. She’d danced all six roles of Sugar, 24 performances. She didn’t even need to share the role! She’d been Cinderella. She’d been Coppelia and Princess Aurora.
“That’s my girl,” Missy said, as pulled into the parking lot. As soon as the car was parked, AP got out and headed to the locker room. She too out her PVB dance apparel, and slid into the familiar outfit. She kept into the tiny practice room and begin to use the 45 minutes before class, after setting her alarm to 5:55 to ensure that she didn’t get lost in her own dance world and miss class. was to work on various combinations.
Saturday, September 11th was a very weird day for AP, as it felt weird to audition for The Nutcracker on a national day of morning. She had Advanced II in the morning. Then had to hurry out of the dance studio so the smallest kids could audition for Nutcracker. After that, she went to Moovin’ and Groovin’ dance at Fit Together gym. This was a very relaxed dance class for people various disabilities and mental health concerns that met from 1-2 every Saturday. She’d been taking it with her sister after since she got break from her third consecutive year at the prestigious Boston Ballet Summer Dance Program. She didn’t find it challenging, but did find it freeing. At three that afternoon, she headed back to PVB for her own audition, during which she tried to maintain a grip on what her Moovin’ and Groovin’ instructor called “that good dancing energy” she’d gained at Fit Together and to just dance because she loved it; rather than being anal about which part she’d receive.
You would have thought that after dancing a minimum of 20 to 28 hours a week, the last thing she’d want to do was to spend another hour of her life dancing with people who lacked the ability to attain her level. Such a people were not only bigoted they were wrong. AP thought it was awesome to be in a space where so many different bodies were encouraged to dance. Her ballet school, and even PVPA to a lesser degree, was very much about dancers having the right body type. At Fit Together, they believed every body had a dancer inside them. After Fit Together, AP knew she needed to back at PVB by three, for the first round of older student auditions. Then she had to wait until Saturday night and see whether her e-mail said she’ d made the call back list or not.
Then, if necessary, she would dance on Sunday (she was pretty sure it would be). After all, she’d danced with the Dance Theater of Harlem. She’d danced with the New Haven Ballet, and even been a Junior Camper at Buck’s Rock Creative and Performing Arts Academy for two years when she was 9 and 10. Most importantly, she’d danced with Boston Ballet Summer Program for three years running. Her father paid the $5,250 without so much as a blink. “Bribery in exchange for report card’s full of A’s,” he’d joked. Before adding, ”Let the scholarships go to those who have as much talent as you but less successful parents.” That comment bothered AP. While in Boston she set herself to proving that it wasn’t her father’s ability to pay full tuition at SDP, as the more catty dancers suggested, that made her belong there. It was nothing more than talent and dedication. This past year, her father decided over his wife’s objections, that she was old enough to take the Metro North from New Haven to New York three a week to take classes at Dance Theater of Harlem. She hadn’t really thought about his reason at the time. She was too busy jumping for joy. She’d somehow managed to continue with classes at the New Haven Ballet in the fall, because she aimed to become the Sugar Plum Fairy in that year’s Nutcracker, she knew she would be the youngest person in the school’s history to dance that part if she got it, which she had. It was a huge honor even though she shared it with her best friend Shelley, who was a year ahead of her in school. She hadn’t failed to make a call-back ever.
This year was no exception. And come Monday’s class she’d found herself in the role of Summer Plum Fairy, cast A, and Leading the Waltz of flowers, cast B. It was more then she could’ve hoped for. She wrote down her rehearsal schedule. They all fell on Saturday after the normal ballet closed and Sundays. Suddenly, AP realized that she would have a lot less time to do homework over the coming months and wished she’d signed up for homework support rather than modern dance for middle schoolers in F block, but it was to late to alter her schedule now. She was stuck. And she was also stuck with daddy’s “You can take many dance classes as you want, as long as you bring me a B+ or better average.”
Mama said it wasn’t practical to spend hard-earned money on shoes that wouldn’t meet the dress code at most dance schools. However, she had smiled when AP reminded her that she danced in technique shoes for at least one class per day during a typical 5 day PVPA week and typically she went through a pair of canvas technique shoes every month or two she was almost certain to wear out her special non-dress code shoes before she finished her time at PVPA in the middle of June. “That way,” she tired to reason with her mom, “I’ll go through fewer standard shoes, if I wear my special ones to PVPA everyday, and only wear my pinks to class at Pioneer Valley Ballet or for other special classes.”
“You’ve got it all figured don’t you?” Belle Washington-Williams had laughed. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Like mother, like daughter.”
“Absolutely.”
She mailed the letter as she left school at 4:15 after her advanced ballet class. She was proud of herself for being in this class, which was one of the few that mixed middle schoolers and high schoolers. She was one of only three 7th graders in the class. Her friend Beth and Katie were the others. But AP was the only 7th grader who was part of second line.
Every serious ballet class AP had ever taken was divided into lines. Third line was for the least accomplished dancers. They ones who were slightly too good to be in the intermediate level, which was occurring simultaneously. Second line was for the next best dancers. First line was for the best dancers in class and incidentally in the school, at least in terms of ballet.
Now she sat on the curb and waited for Missy Taylor. Missy was advanced ballet, too. She was a pretty 11th grader who always went to first line and the head of it at that. She gave AP rides to PVB, where they were in Advanced II, the school’s highest level, together. “Hey, kiddo! You ready to dance some more?”
“Always and absolutely,” This exchange had been going on verbatim since they pair had met after AP had put up a sign asking for a ride to PVB. “Are your excited for Nutcracker auditions this weekend?” AP asked.
“Kind of,” Missy admitted, although she could hold her own in a ballet studio, was much more of a modern dancer. “I really want be Mother Ginger. That part is so fun.” Mother Ginger was this obese woman that was usually played by a very petite ballerina on stilts covered in layers and layers of fabric. “Of course, the part of auditions I’m most looking forward to,” the older girl admitted is seeing you wipe the floor with Ashley. We’re all counting on you, young lady.” said Missy with fake sterness.
AP giggled, “I’ll give it my all ma’am.” AP had quickly gotten on the good side of the other girls in Advanced II, despite being so much younger. There had been none of the typical prima donna jealousies that were so common in the ballet world. Secretly AP thought that was why the other girls were so nice to her. They were happy that someone could knock Ashley off her pedestal even if they couldn’t do it. . Before AP had arrived, Ashley had been the school’s resident diva. She took the lead role in every dance recital for four years running. She’d danced all six roles of Sugar, 24 performances. She didn’t even need to share the role! She’d been Cinderella. She’d been Coppelia and Princess Aurora.
“That’s my girl,” Missy said, as pulled into the parking lot. As soon as the car was parked, AP got out and headed to the locker room. She too out her PVB dance apparel, and slid into the familiar outfit. She kept into the tiny practice room and begin to use the 45 minutes before class, after setting her alarm to 5:55 to ensure that she didn’t get lost in her own dance world and miss class. was to work on various combinations.
Saturday, September 11th was a very weird day for AP, as it felt weird to audition for The Nutcracker on a national day of morning. She had Advanced II in the morning. Then had to hurry out of the dance studio so the smallest kids could audition for Nutcracker. After that, she went to Moovin’ and Groovin’ dance at Fit Together gym. This was a very relaxed dance class for people various disabilities and mental health concerns that met from 1-2 every Saturday. She’d been taking it with her sister after since she got break from her third consecutive year at the prestigious Boston Ballet Summer Dance Program. She didn’t find it challenging, but did find it freeing. At three that afternoon, she headed back to PVB for her own audition, during which she tried to maintain a grip on what her Moovin’ and Groovin’ instructor called “that good dancing energy” she’d gained at Fit Together and to just dance because she loved it; rather than being anal about which part she’d receive.
You would have thought that after dancing a minimum of 20 to 28 hours a week, the last thing she’d want to do was to spend another hour of her life dancing with people who lacked the ability to attain her level. Such a people were not only bigoted they were wrong. AP thought it was awesome to be in a space where so many different bodies were encouraged to dance. Her ballet school, and even PVPA to a lesser degree, was very much about dancers having the right body type. At Fit Together, they believed every body had a dancer inside them. After Fit Together, AP knew she needed to back at PVB by three, for the first round of older student auditions. Then she had to wait until Saturday night and see whether her e-mail said she’ d made the call back list or not.
Then, if necessary, she would dance on Sunday (she was pretty sure it would be). After all, she’d danced with the Dance Theater of Harlem. She’d danced with the New Haven Ballet, and even been a Junior Camper at Buck’s Rock Creative and Performing Arts Academy for two years when she was 9 and 10. Most importantly, she’d danced with Boston Ballet Summer Program for three years running. Her father paid the $5,250 without so much as a blink. “Bribery in exchange for report card’s full of A’s,” he’d joked. Before adding, ”Let the scholarships go to those who have as much talent as you but less successful parents.” That comment bothered AP. While in Boston she set herself to proving that it wasn’t her father’s ability to pay full tuition at SDP, as the more catty dancers suggested, that made her belong there. It was nothing more than talent and dedication. This past year, her father decided over his wife’s objections, that she was old enough to take the Metro North from New Haven to New York three a week to take classes at Dance Theater of Harlem. She hadn’t really thought about his reason at the time. She was too busy jumping for joy. She’d somehow managed to continue with classes at the New Haven Ballet in the fall, because she aimed to become the Sugar Plum Fairy in that year’s Nutcracker, she knew she would be the youngest person in the school’s history to dance that part if she got it, which she had. It was a huge honor even though she shared it with her best friend Shelley, who was a year ahead of her in school. She hadn’t failed to make a call-back ever.
This year was no exception. And come Monday’s class she’d found herself in the role of Summer Plum Fairy, cast A, and Leading the Waltz of flowers, cast B. It was more then she could’ve hoped for. She wrote down her rehearsal schedule. They all fell on Saturday after the normal ballet closed and Sundays. Suddenly, AP realized that she would have a lot less time to do homework over the coming months and wished she’d signed up for homework support rather than modern dance for middle schoolers in F block, but it was to late to alter her schedule now. She was stuck. And she was also stuck with daddy’s “You can take many dance classes as you want, as long as you bring me a B+ or better average.”
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment I for 2010
As usual, this particular Monday twelve-year-old A.P Washington-Williams woke up before her alarmed dinged to signal 5:30 AM and the start of what was becoming her typical school week. She charged into the bathroom eager to beat her older sister who would soon wake up and want her own shower before she begin her own early morning practice ritual on either the violin or the piano. For herself, AP always showered after she finished practice. She loved to dance but had no desire to smell of dedication in Mr. Russo’s humanities class at Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Charter School, where she was a 7th grader and the new darling of the dance department.
It wasn’t until after she had donned her dance apparel, including pointe shoes, and was halfway down the basement stairs, before she remembered that she wouldn’t be fighting her big sister for the bathroom anymore until December 19th unless Moonbeam came home on the weekends. Her older sister had just enrolled in Berkshire Hills Music Academy. Her parents had just dropped her off on Thursday. It had been a big deal.
AP had really wanted to go. But her father had told both MJ, Moonbeam’s twin, and herself to go to normally scheduled classes. “It wouldn’t do,” her father reasoned. “for two of my children to skip school to see my third child off to her first day in a dorm know would it?” Morgan Washington-Williams was very educationally minded.
So AP had simply hugged her sister extra long that morning and bounced out the door. Soon she was immersed in a lecture about local history, but her sister was never far from her mind. Instead of wolfing down her usual lunch of cut up apples, tuna in Tupperware, and string cheese and the hitting the locker room to change and entering the dance studio 10 minutes before dance foundations and choreography on DF&C, as PVPA dancers referred to it. She lingered in the Radioactive Café, the student run cafeteria, where they served the way more popular connivance food that went over smashingly well with everyone but the dancers, sipping caffeinated tea and munching a broccoli and cheese Hot Pocket while she typed a quick note to moonbeam on the computer that set off in a
corner of the lunch space.
Dear Moon,
I’m at lunch, but I don’t feel much like eating. I miss you already and hope that you are settling in well. Say “hi” to Julie for me and don’t fall in love 5 times in your first week. I know you can’t help doing that, but just try, okay? I will see you Saturday for Moovin’ and Groovin’ at Fit Together or, if you’re too busy with BHMA orientation stuff I will see you Sunday when everyone comes to visit.
Your loving little sister.
She printed out the letter, shoved it into her pack back, and went to change for class. There was no dress code, even for dance classes, here. At first AP had
found that odd after years of solid color leotards, pink tights, and pink technique slippers and/or toe shoes being the only acceptable class attire. But that Thursday as she slipped into a red leotard and blue tights, she decided she was beginning enjoy the freedom. She was even toying with the idea of raiding her savings account to have pair of technique shoes professionally dyed lavender, her favorite color. Mama said that if AP wanted to that she wasn’t going to stop her, but she would make her youngest child pay for both a new pair of shoes and the dye job on her own.
It wasn’t until after she had donned her dance apparel, including pointe shoes, and was halfway down the basement stairs, before she remembered that she wouldn’t be fighting her big sister for the bathroom anymore until December 19th unless Moonbeam came home on the weekends. Her older sister had just enrolled in Berkshire Hills Music Academy. Her parents had just dropped her off on Thursday. It had been a big deal.
AP had really wanted to go. But her father had told both MJ, Moonbeam’s twin, and herself to go to normally scheduled classes. “It wouldn’t do,” her father reasoned. “for two of my children to skip school to see my third child off to her first day in a dorm know would it?” Morgan Washington-Williams was very educationally minded.
So AP had simply hugged her sister extra long that morning and bounced out the door. Soon she was immersed in a lecture about local history, but her sister was never far from her mind. Instead of wolfing down her usual lunch of cut up apples, tuna in Tupperware, and string cheese and the hitting the locker room to change and entering the dance studio 10 minutes before dance foundations and choreography on DF&C, as PVPA dancers referred to it. She lingered in the Radioactive Café, the student run cafeteria, where they served the way more popular connivance food that went over smashingly well with everyone but the dancers, sipping caffeinated tea and munching a broccoli and cheese Hot Pocket while she typed a quick note to moonbeam on the computer that set off in a
corner of the lunch space.
Dear Moon,
I’m at lunch, but I don’t feel much like eating. I miss you already and hope that you are settling in well. Say “hi” to Julie for me and don’t fall in love 5 times in your first week. I know you can’t help doing that, but just try, okay? I will see you Saturday for Moovin’ and Groovin’ at Fit Together or, if you’re too busy with BHMA orientation stuff I will see you Sunday when everyone comes to visit.
Your loving little sister.
She printed out the letter, shoved it into her pack back, and went to change for class. There was no dress code, even for dance classes, here. At first AP had
found that odd after years of solid color leotards, pink tights, and pink technique slippers and/or toe shoes being the only acceptable class attire. But that Thursday as she slipped into a red leotard and blue tights, she decided she was beginning enjoy the freedom. She was even toying with the idea of raiding her savings account to have pair of technique shoes professionally dyed lavender, her favorite color. Mama said that if AP wanted to that she wasn’t going to stop her, but she would make her youngest child pay for both a new pair of shoes and the dye job on her own.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Returning
(a slightly racy story featuring Li, one of the favorite characters I've ever created who happens to be transgender)
I lay on our full sized adjustable bed (that was actually Frankie’s), looking at the clock, feeling pretty good about how I looked in my medium tinted repair wash jeans (which had cost $49.50 at American Eagle Outfitters, a hefty portion of my monthly allowance, but they were the most masculine pants I’d ever owned and that was the
important thing.
I was lonely. I was horny. I was counting the hours until my girl returned from her lesbian activist conference. I hadn’t gone. I had rehearsal. Besides which I wasn’t a lesbian, at least not anymore.
I’m a guy, a without a Y chromosome, but a guy nonetheless. That had caused me a bunch of problems. I had to change my ID. I have to take hormones to go through puberty again (the right one, this time). I need to talk to my parents (I’m still working on that one).Most horribly, I almost lost the love of my life.
Frankie and I have been an institution since we were 12. I always thought we’d be that way forever. Whatever else was going wrong in my life, and for someone like me it’s always something, I knew I could always court on Frankie being there, along with our four best friends. Growing up people called us the “six pack.”
We all went to UMass. We’re sophomores, nearly juniors, now. I came out to myself on October 11th, National Coming Out Day of freshman year. It’s very cliché. I know, but it’s also true. I came out to the rest of the six pack in April. I waited until everyone was busy with activities. I thought that would make it easier on everyone.
It did and it didn’t. Everyone was pretty okay with it. Everyone, but Frankie. She cried herself to sleep every night for a week. She kicked me out of our room. Not, she said, because she was angry, but because she needed “to consider us.” I slept on the couch for nearly 2 weeks and felt wretched.
Frankie is doing better now though. After the incident last semester, I told her she had to be or she wouldn’t be with me. I shuddered, whenever I thought of that it still physically hurt.
Someone knocked. I looked up, expecting Frankie and her mahogany waves. My smile faded as I realized that 1) It was only 4 and the conference had only ended an hour ago and even if they sped you can’t get from Boston to Amherst in an hour. 2) Frankie wasn’t the type to knock on her own door at 4 in the afternoon.
Jessi entered. “Wanna get a pizza?” my suitemate asked. “Marc’s running late and I need to eat.”
“I don’t feel like being the third wheel.”
“You won’t be. We'll order in. You won't miss her." Jessi said with a grin.
“Does everybody in the world think I have nothing better to do than wait on my girlfriend?”
“That’s not what I met. I just think it must be weird for you. Her being gone all weekend. I know weekends the two of you are usually more inseparable than usual.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just… jumpy. Spinach, mushroom, pepper, okay?” Jessi nodded. I dialed. We waited 30 minutes and just polished off the first slice when Marc walked in.
He kissed Jessi’s cheek as her mouth was full of veggie pizza. Then he turned to me. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad she had someone to order with. I thought she was going kill and eat me when I told her I was going to be late. Your lady here?” Frankie made Marc nervous. It made sense. If someone tried to kill me, I’d avoid them to. Frankie could create pain in any person she chose to- unbearable pain. I know, she accidentally did it to me last November. She was aiming at Marc and I interfered.
Poor Marc hadn’t done anything. Frankie was just afraid he’d hurt Jessi, because he was able-bodied and Jessi had Down Syndrome. Each of the six of us had some sort of disability and able-bodied people who were attracted to us frequently had less than honorable intentions.
“No,” I told him.
“Not that it would be a big deal if she was. Frankie’s a different person now. “ Jessi added. “All she wants is for me is for me to be happy, as long as your part of that, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I know you all say she’s different and you’re probably right. But, no disrespect intended, the girl still creeps me out.” We ate the pizza in silence for a few moments. Then Jessi asked Marc about school. Academic matters dominated the conversation until the last slice was eaten. Jessi talked about her photography class. I talked about my African theater class, at Smith. Marc spent 15 minutes talking his computer science and graphic design classes.
Jessi beamed. Her former lay about of a boyfriend was excelling at Hampshire, despite enrolling in the spring semester and undergoing that horrible Frankie-induced injury in November. After the last of the pizza was devoured, Jessi and Marc went to a movie, as for once Jessi was basically deadline free for an evening. They asked me to tag along.
I declined. I figured it was a pity invitation and, also knowing that if I left for the movie I’d miss Frankie’s arrival, and, therefore, my chance to alleviate the most carnal of my needs as soon as possible.
I went to my room and glanced at the clock 5:55. I opened my notebook, figuring that I might as well do a little bit of next week’s reading. I had completed Monday’s homework yesterday and had completed by first off book rehearsal for the Laramie Project today. I was reading Helen Keller for my disability theater class at Mt. Holyoke. I didn’t like this play very much, but I had to pick a monologue to do, extra credit if you could do it off book. The problem was that there weren’t a lot of male parts. Only Helen’s brother, Annie’s brother, Dr. Aganois, and the boy slave.
I chose Percy the boy slave, because the role is unique. I work on my Southern, Negro accent. crouching in the corner. Away from the door. I am so focused on my role that I don’t hear Frankie until she says, “Well done!” at the end of the monologue.
I turn, beaming. “Miss me?” she asked as I bounded over to her and kissed her, stroking her chestnut hair.
“Not terribly, I masturbated frequently.” She was surprised and I realized she
didn’t know I was kidding.
“It was a joke, love.” Frankie knew I didn’t like to touch myself. It was just a reminder of everything that was wrong with down there. The only way I can interact with my genitalia is if she does it, although in desperate times, such as when had a three week fight last Halloween, I’ve been known to do the whole shower messager over jeans thing. Frankie has spinal muscular atrophy and doesn’t move very much. She can drive her wheelchair and move her fingers enough to hold my hand. She uses Naturally Speaking to type, IM, and talk to Jo- our Deaf housemate, who types back.
Some people, not our housemates, think Frankie and I don’t, or more the point, can’t, have sex. They’re wrong. I det it more often than most people, at least 10 times a week on average, as long as we are on speaking terms, which we usually are, although we fight like every other college age couple I know. I spend about 3 days a month sleeping on our suite couch or crashing at friends places, when we’ve not getting along. This is usually at her insistence. She irritates me regularly, but rarely enough so that I want to forgo my bed or my bedmate.
Besides which, as I tell myself every time I opt to curl up with her in our soft Craftmatic even though she’s done or said something offensive (which happens way more often than I should let her get away with), the couch is horribly scratchy and bad for my Epidermolysis Bullosa. The blistering skin condition I was born with.
Most people who had the disease are perpetually wrapped in bandages. Most people don’t know I had it. They would if I couldn’t heal myself in the same way Frankie can hurt people. Those who know about our gifts call me a “fixer” and Frankie an “inflictor”. The yin and yang thing suits us, although I wish she didn’t take as much joy in applying her ability as she sometimes does.
Frankie smiled. “We’ll see if we can do something more acceptable about that.”
“Good, I guess I missed you a little bit after all.” Frankie scowled. I stroked her hair. She smiled. “I love you.”
“So you say six times a day on average.”
“You count?” I tease. “Do you want me to put you in bed?”
“Not just yet,” Frankie laughed. “Patience, patience! I want you to stand next to it though.”
“What? Why?” I said.
“It’s a surprise, but I think you’ll like it,” she told me. I knew that tone.
Whenever she used it, I ended up liking what happened, so I obeyed. She smiled, suddenly shy, and maneuvered her chair right in front of me. I begin to wonder what I was getting into, but I decided that if she wanted to play I’d play. “Lock the door. I don’t feel like being an exhibitionist!”
“Since when?”
“Since ever. You’re the theatrical one!”
“You wish is my command,” I bowed, turned and locked the door.
“Don’t I wish! We both know you’re not a much of a submissive as you like to pretend.”
“Just like you’re not as much of a butch.”
She smiled. “We’ll see if you still think that after this.”
I raise my eyebrows involuntarily. Frankie turned and faced me. I am acutely aware of our difference in stature. Out of habit, I squat, so I could look her in the eye.
“Sweet sentiment, but we can’t play if you do that.”
I straightened myself to full height again. I may wish I had male genitals, but for the moment my female bits were pretty happy. I smiled and she smiled back. How many times had we been in similar situations? I’m standing there waiting for something to happen when Frankie leans forward and catches my bonze zipper in her teeth. “What the-“
She doesn’t respond because she too busy causing my fly to descend. I’m wearing boxers, because that makes it easier hide my absence than it would be in briefs. Frankie knows, of course, that there’s nothing there so she pushes the fabric up, into my nether reasons. I feel her tongue through the material. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” I’m aware that this sounds ultra girly, but I don’t care.
With good deal of reluctance, I remove myself from Frankie’s decidedly able
tongue. I feel her stiffen. “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of her voice. I squat, kiss her fully, and pull off my boxers with one head, while I stroke her hair with my other hand.
“There’s nothing wrong, honey. I was just trying to make things work a little better. Trust me, I’m not complaining.” I’m aware that I’m waist down naked and moist and my girlfriend is about to cry.
“I thought you didn’t like it.”
“You thought I wouldn’t like it be seduced by the person I love best in the world, who has, by the way, been gone since Friday? Do you know me at all?” I taunt her slightly and she grins. I breath, crisis averted.
Suddenly Frankie kisses me and all the drama is forgotten. She held my tongue in
her mouth for a moment. Then lowers her head to kiss my neck. Without words, I rise against her enjoying the feel of her month against my flesh. I get wetter and wetter, lubricant sliding down my legs. I bend myself slightly backwards, while thrusting my hips forward.
She places her face between my legs and licks, but rearranges herself just before I come. She runs her tongue up and down my thighs. One then the other, careful never to brush my midpoint. I wait, swallowing my objection.
She’s in charge here and knows I know it. Frankie may be fragile, but she’s very good at certain things. If I complain, she’ll just make me wait longer and I’ve been waiting since 7:30 Friday morning. What seems to my aching anatomy like hours later, she gives in. I hold verticality, moaning in a very non-passable pitch.
Would there ever any moment with her in the future that my gender disforia wouldn’t damage? I redirect my thoughts. I’m quite sure than anybody walking by our door knows exactly what’s happening at that moment. I suddenly decide that I care what they know.
I come three times and think that one thing I’ll miss when, and if, I ever acquire male genitalia is multiple orgasms. Still, I regularly imagine myself pushing a manmade penis into Frankie (even one that required a pump as they all do now) Mind you, I’m not sure if she would even ever allow that. That’s a big if. I know there’s no one else who’d even have a prayer of ever convincing her that male penetration is a good idea. The only reason I have the half chance I do is that she adores me “beyond all sensibility”. At least she adores the woman me.
Whenever I think of Frankie deciding to be with someone other than me merely because I wanted to make my soul more harmonious with my genitals, I want to vomit. About a million times a day, I wish I could just go back to being a normal girl, a normal actress, a normal daughter, a normal girlfriend.
But, even as I wish for that in the mist of this, I know the wish is incompatible with personal survival.
I lay on our full sized adjustable bed (that was actually Frankie’s), looking at the clock, feeling pretty good about how I looked in my medium tinted repair wash jeans (which had cost $49.50 at American Eagle Outfitters, a hefty portion of my monthly allowance, but they were the most masculine pants I’d ever owned and that was the
important thing.
I was lonely. I was horny. I was counting the hours until my girl returned from her lesbian activist conference. I hadn’t gone. I had rehearsal. Besides which I wasn’t a lesbian, at least not anymore.
I’m a guy, a without a Y chromosome, but a guy nonetheless. That had caused me a bunch of problems. I had to change my ID. I have to take hormones to go through puberty again (the right one, this time). I need to talk to my parents (I’m still working on that one).Most horribly, I almost lost the love of my life.
Frankie and I have been an institution since we were 12. I always thought we’d be that way forever. Whatever else was going wrong in my life, and for someone like me it’s always something, I knew I could always court on Frankie being there, along with our four best friends. Growing up people called us the “six pack.”
We all went to UMass. We’re sophomores, nearly juniors, now. I came out to myself on October 11th, National Coming Out Day of freshman year. It’s very cliché. I know, but it’s also true. I came out to the rest of the six pack in April. I waited until everyone was busy with activities. I thought that would make it easier on everyone.
It did and it didn’t. Everyone was pretty okay with it. Everyone, but Frankie. She cried herself to sleep every night for a week. She kicked me out of our room. Not, she said, because she was angry, but because she needed “to consider us.” I slept on the couch for nearly 2 weeks and felt wretched.
Frankie is doing better now though. After the incident last semester, I told her she had to be or she wouldn’t be with me. I shuddered, whenever I thought of that it still physically hurt.
Someone knocked. I looked up, expecting Frankie and her mahogany waves. My smile faded as I realized that 1) It was only 4 and the conference had only ended an hour ago and even if they sped you can’t get from Boston to Amherst in an hour. 2) Frankie wasn’t the type to knock on her own door at 4 in the afternoon.
Jessi entered. “Wanna get a pizza?” my suitemate asked. “Marc’s running late and I need to eat.”
“I don’t feel like being the third wheel.”
“You won’t be. We'll order in. You won't miss her." Jessi said with a grin.
“Does everybody in the world think I have nothing better to do than wait on my girlfriend?”
“That’s not what I met. I just think it must be weird for you. Her being gone all weekend. I know weekends the two of you are usually more inseparable than usual.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just… jumpy. Spinach, mushroom, pepper, okay?” Jessi nodded. I dialed. We waited 30 minutes and just polished off the first slice when Marc walked in.
He kissed Jessi’s cheek as her mouth was full of veggie pizza. Then he turned to me. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad she had someone to order with. I thought she was going kill and eat me when I told her I was going to be late. Your lady here?” Frankie made Marc nervous. It made sense. If someone tried to kill me, I’d avoid them to. Frankie could create pain in any person she chose to- unbearable pain. I know, she accidentally did it to me last November. She was aiming at Marc and I interfered.
Poor Marc hadn’t done anything. Frankie was just afraid he’d hurt Jessi, because he was able-bodied and Jessi had Down Syndrome. Each of the six of us had some sort of disability and able-bodied people who were attracted to us frequently had less than honorable intentions.
“No,” I told him.
“Not that it would be a big deal if she was. Frankie’s a different person now. “ Jessi added. “All she wants is for me is for me to be happy, as long as your part of that, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I know you all say she’s different and you’re probably right. But, no disrespect intended, the girl still creeps me out.” We ate the pizza in silence for a few moments. Then Jessi asked Marc about school. Academic matters dominated the conversation until the last slice was eaten. Jessi talked about her photography class. I talked about my African theater class, at Smith. Marc spent 15 minutes talking his computer science and graphic design classes.
Jessi beamed. Her former lay about of a boyfriend was excelling at Hampshire, despite enrolling in the spring semester and undergoing that horrible Frankie-induced injury in November. After the last of the pizza was devoured, Jessi and Marc went to a movie, as for once Jessi was basically deadline free for an evening. They asked me to tag along.
I declined. I figured it was a pity invitation and, also knowing that if I left for the movie I’d miss Frankie’s arrival, and, therefore, my chance to alleviate the most carnal of my needs as soon as possible.
I went to my room and glanced at the clock 5:55. I opened my notebook, figuring that I might as well do a little bit of next week’s reading. I had completed Monday’s homework yesterday and had completed by first off book rehearsal for the Laramie Project today. I was reading Helen Keller for my disability theater class at Mt. Holyoke. I didn’t like this play very much, but I had to pick a monologue to do, extra credit if you could do it off book. The problem was that there weren’t a lot of male parts. Only Helen’s brother, Annie’s brother, Dr. Aganois, and the boy slave.
I chose Percy the boy slave, because the role is unique. I work on my Southern, Negro accent. crouching in the corner. Away from the door. I am so focused on my role that I don’t hear Frankie until she says, “Well done!” at the end of the monologue.
I turn, beaming. “Miss me?” she asked as I bounded over to her and kissed her, stroking her chestnut hair.
“Not terribly, I masturbated frequently.” She was surprised and I realized she
didn’t know I was kidding.
“It was a joke, love.” Frankie knew I didn’t like to touch myself. It was just a reminder of everything that was wrong with down there. The only way I can interact with my genitalia is if she does it, although in desperate times, such as when had a three week fight last Halloween, I’ve been known to do the whole shower messager over jeans thing. Frankie has spinal muscular atrophy and doesn’t move very much. She can drive her wheelchair and move her fingers enough to hold my hand. She uses Naturally Speaking to type, IM, and talk to Jo- our Deaf housemate, who types back.
Some people, not our housemates, think Frankie and I don’t, or more the point, can’t, have sex. They’re wrong. I det it more often than most people, at least 10 times a week on average, as long as we are on speaking terms, which we usually are, although we fight like every other college age couple I know. I spend about 3 days a month sleeping on our suite couch or crashing at friends places, when we’ve not getting along. This is usually at her insistence. She irritates me regularly, but rarely enough so that I want to forgo my bed or my bedmate.
Besides which, as I tell myself every time I opt to curl up with her in our soft Craftmatic even though she’s done or said something offensive (which happens way more often than I should let her get away with), the couch is horribly scratchy and bad for my Epidermolysis Bullosa. The blistering skin condition I was born with.
Most people who had the disease are perpetually wrapped in bandages. Most people don’t know I had it. They would if I couldn’t heal myself in the same way Frankie can hurt people. Those who know about our gifts call me a “fixer” and Frankie an “inflictor”. The yin and yang thing suits us, although I wish she didn’t take as much joy in applying her ability as she sometimes does.
Frankie smiled. “We’ll see if we can do something more acceptable about that.”
“Good, I guess I missed you a little bit after all.” Frankie scowled. I stroked her hair. She smiled. “I love you.”
“So you say six times a day on average.”
“You count?” I tease. “Do you want me to put you in bed?”
“Not just yet,” Frankie laughed. “Patience, patience! I want you to stand next to it though.”
“What? Why?” I said.
“It’s a surprise, but I think you’ll like it,” she told me. I knew that tone.
Whenever she used it, I ended up liking what happened, so I obeyed. She smiled, suddenly shy, and maneuvered her chair right in front of me. I begin to wonder what I was getting into, but I decided that if she wanted to play I’d play. “Lock the door. I don’t feel like being an exhibitionist!”
“Since when?”
“Since ever. You’re the theatrical one!”
“You wish is my command,” I bowed, turned and locked the door.
“Don’t I wish! We both know you’re not a much of a submissive as you like to pretend.”
“Just like you’re not as much of a butch.”
She smiled. “We’ll see if you still think that after this.”
I raise my eyebrows involuntarily. Frankie turned and faced me. I am acutely aware of our difference in stature. Out of habit, I squat, so I could look her in the eye.
“Sweet sentiment, but we can’t play if you do that.”
I straightened myself to full height again. I may wish I had male genitals, but for the moment my female bits were pretty happy. I smiled and she smiled back. How many times had we been in similar situations? I’m standing there waiting for something to happen when Frankie leans forward and catches my bonze zipper in her teeth. “What the-“
She doesn’t respond because she too busy causing my fly to descend. I’m wearing boxers, because that makes it easier hide my absence than it would be in briefs. Frankie knows, of course, that there’s nothing there so she pushes the fabric up, into my nether reasons. I feel her tongue through the material. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” I’m aware that this sounds ultra girly, but I don’t care.
With good deal of reluctance, I remove myself from Frankie’s decidedly able
tongue. I feel her stiffen. “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of her voice. I squat, kiss her fully, and pull off my boxers with one head, while I stroke her hair with my other hand.
“There’s nothing wrong, honey. I was just trying to make things work a little better. Trust me, I’m not complaining.” I’m aware that I’m waist down naked and moist and my girlfriend is about to cry.
“I thought you didn’t like it.”
“You thought I wouldn’t like it be seduced by the person I love best in the world, who has, by the way, been gone since Friday? Do you know me at all?” I taunt her slightly and she grins. I breath, crisis averted.
Suddenly Frankie kisses me and all the drama is forgotten. She held my tongue in
her mouth for a moment. Then lowers her head to kiss my neck. Without words, I rise against her enjoying the feel of her month against my flesh. I get wetter and wetter, lubricant sliding down my legs. I bend myself slightly backwards, while thrusting my hips forward.
She places her face between my legs and licks, but rearranges herself just before I come. She runs her tongue up and down my thighs. One then the other, careful never to brush my midpoint. I wait, swallowing my objection.
She’s in charge here and knows I know it. Frankie may be fragile, but she’s very good at certain things. If I complain, she’ll just make me wait longer and I’ve been waiting since 7:30 Friday morning. What seems to my aching anatomy like hours later, she gives in. I hold verticality, moaning in a very non-passable pitch.
Would there ever any moment with her in the future that my gender disforia wouldn’t damage? I redirect my thoughts. I’m quite sure than anybody walking by our door knows exactly what’s happening at that moment. I suddenly decide that I care what they know.
I come three times and think that one thing I’ll miss when, and if, I ever acquire male genitalia is multiple orgasms. Still, I regularly imagine myself pushing a manmade penis into Frankie (even one that required a pump as they all do now) Mind you, I’m not sure if she would even ever allow that. That’s a big if. I know there’s no one else who’d even have a prayer of ever convincing her that male penetration is a good idea. The only reason I have the half chance I do is that she adores me “beyond all sensibility”. At least she adores the woman me.
Whenever I think of Frankie deciding to be with someone other than me merely because I wanted to make my soul more harmonious with my genitals, I want to vomit. About a million times a day, I wish I could just go back to being a normal girl, a normal actress, a normal daughter, a normal girlfriend.
But, even as I wish for that in the mist of this, I know the wish is incompatible with personal survival.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Speech I made
This is the speech I made at UMass today. It was to a group of students in a class called My Body, My Health"
I’m so happy to be talking with you all today. My name is Martina Robinson. I’m a bisexual woman of color with a disability. I have a speech impairment. Hopefully this projection will help you understand me. During Q&A, please ask me anything you want. If you don’t understand my reply, simply ask me to repeat myself. I’m used to that. I have to do it 15 times a day on average. It doesn’t embarrass me. I’d much rather answer your question than have you leave here with a burning one. I also gave your professor slips of paper with my contact info, please contact me if
you feel you need to at any time.
I’m 34. I live in Belchertown. I am a writer and an organizer. I just got promoted. Now I am the Disability Examiner for the whole country on Examiner.com in addition to covering Western Massachusetts. I spend a good deal of my time fighting for justice, which includes giving speeches with the Speakers Bureau. I have assistants who come to my house and perform tasks for me such as putting me to bed, getting ready in the morning, and coming with me wherever I happen to be going (which today was here). They also make my food, do my laundry, clean my house, and tend to my cat.
I’m out to every person that works for me. I feel that that is very vital to having a healthy mental state. There are still places that require me to be the closet. Since coming out to my family at 21, I’ve vowed that my house would never again be one of them. It hasn’t. This decision has costs me a few workers, but I wouldn’t change it.
I’m a health educator by necessity, if not degree-based training. You see people in certain of my communities especially the disability community and certain communities of color, don’t believe that lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender people exist within their membership. This makes it very hard to discuss matters like sexually transmitted infection (STI) prevention and same-sex domestic violence, both of which are issues that every community needs to deal with no matter how deep their denial goes. So, being a community organizer and activist by training and passion, I became a health educator by default. There was no way, I decided (and I’m pretty stubborn) that I was going to let issues like HIV and domestic abuse steal away the people I valued most.
So I learned and I studied. I gave workshops. I was publicly out as a bisexual, woman of color with disability. Some people didn’t like the things I said. Some people wanted me to shut up. They failed, obviously.
I was and still am willing to defend the people I value, whatever the cost. As society becomes more and more accepting (which I believe it is despite the failure to abolish bigoted laws like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell or to as yet legalize same sex marriage in every state) the risks that publicly out people take becomes less and less. I’m overjoyed about this turn of events.
From experience, I can tell you that it’s in no way healthy to have the very truth of your existence questioned or denied by people whom you value. My parents, who live in a very small town in Pennsylvania, blamed my deciding I was bisexual on going to a very liberal arts college and taking women’s studies courses. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I no more decided to be bisexual than I decided to have darker skin than some of my co-presenters. It’s just part of my biological makeup. People, some of whom I respective, have argued that it’s not the same. They say you can hide not being heterosexual, but you can’t hide being a person of color.
Obviously, people with these opinions haven’t studied history. Before the civil rights movement, lots of light skinned people of color tried to pass themselves off as white to escape the grip of segregation. This was not a physiologically healthy practice. It was a survival skill.
I feel that being in the closet is the same thing. It’s painful to always watch your pronouns to make sure you’re not outed. It’s horrible to not bring your significant other to family gatherings, because of what people might say. Never knowing what to do when your mom/aunt/grandma decides that it’s “time you met someone” and proceeds to introduce you to her neighbor’s friend’s son when you’re already head over your heels in love with a girl they’ve never met is just gut twistingly awful. It hurts to lie to people you care about. If you do it often enough it’s hurts physically and can affect your well-being. Trust me, I know.
I’m an organizer and I am not just going to sit here and tell you some “poor me” story without giving you the tools to make it better for the next person down the line. So, what can you do as people, regardless of your sexual orientation, to make this campus and the broader world beyond UMass more accepting of GLBT people?
Be an ally. Let your friends and family know that you love them, regardless of who they love.
Confront and Interrupt anti- GLBT bias! Be it in yourself, the dorms, your family home, or on the street. Be mindful of safety, though. Sometimes, the best course of action is to sneak off to a corner, discreetly call the authorities, and make them come deal with what’s happening.
Learn about GLBT history and culture. GLBT people are not a some new phenomena that simply popped up 20 or so years ago. We have always been here. We will always be here. Celebrate us-even if you are straight.
I’m so happy to be talking with you all today. My name is Martina Robinson. I’m a bisexual woman of color with a disability. I have a speech impairment. Hopefully this projection will help you understand me. During Q&A, please ask me anything you want. If you don’t understand my reply, simply ask me to repeat myself. I’m used to that. I have to do it 15 times a day on average. It doesn’t embarrass me. I’d much rather answer your question than have you leave here with a burning one. I also gave your professor slips of paper with my contact info, please contact me if
you feel you need to at any time.
I’m 34. I live in Belchertown. I am a writer and an organizer. I just got promoted. Now I am the Disability Examiner for the whole country on Examiner.com in addition to covering Western Massachusetts. I spend a good deal of my time fighting for justice, which includes giving speeches with the Speakers Bureau. I have assistants who come to my house and perform tasks for me such as putting me to bed, getting ready in the morning, and coming with me wherever I happen to be going (which today was here). They also make my food, do my laundry, clean my house, and tend to my cat.
I’m out to every person that works for me. I feel that that is very vital to having a healthy mental state. There are still places that require me to be the closet. Since coming out to my family at 21, I’ve vowed that my house would never again be one of them. It hasn’t. This decision has costs me a few workers, but I wouldn’t change it.
I’m a health educator by necessity, if not degree-based training. You see people in certain of my communities especially the disability community and certain communities of color, don’t believe that lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender people exist within their membership. This makes it very hard to discuss matters like sexually transmitted infection (STI) prevention and same-sex domestic violence, both of which are issues that every community needs to deal with no matter how deep their denial goes. So, being a community organizer and activist by training and passion, I became a health educator by default. There was no way, I decided (and I’m pretty stubborn) that I was going to let issues like HIV and domestic abuse steal away the people I valued most.
So I learned and I studied. I gave workshops. I was publicly out as a bisexual, woman of color with disability. Some people didn’t like the things I said. Some people wanted me to shut up. They failed, obviously.
I was and still am willing to defend the people I value, whatever the cost. As society becomes more and more accepting (which I believe it is despite the failure to abolish bigoted laws like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell or to as yet legalize same sex marriage in every state) the risks that publicly out people take becomes less and less. I’m overjoyed about this turn of events.
From experience, I can tell you that it’s in no way healthy to have the very truth of your existence questioned or denied by people whom you value. My parents, who live in a very small town in Pennsylvania, blamed my deciding I was bisexual on going to a very liberal arts college and taking women’s studies courses. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I no more decided to be bisexual than I decided to have darker skin than some of my co-presenters. It’s just part of my biological makeup. People, some of whom I respective, have argued that it’s not the same. They say you can hide not being heterosexual, but you can’t hide being a person of color.
Obviously, people with these opinions haven’t studied history. Before the civil rights movement, lots of light skinned people of color tried to pass themselves off as white to escape the grip of segregation. This was not a physiologically healthy practice. It was a survival skill.
I feel that being in the closet is the same thing. It’s painful to always watch your pronouns to make sure you’re not outed. It’s horrible to not bring your significant other to family gatherings, because of what people might say. Never knowing what to do when your mom/aunt/grandma decides that it’s “time you met someone” and proceeds to introduce you to her neighbor’s friend’s son when you’re already head over your heels in love with a girl they’ve never met is just gut twistingly awful. It hurts to lie to people you care about. If you do it often enough it’s hurts physically and can affect your well-being. Trust me, I know.
I’m an organizer and I am not just going to sit here and tell you some “poor me” story without giving you the tools to make it better for the next person down the line. So, what can you do as people, regardless of your sexual orientation, to make this campus and the broader world beyond UMass more accepting of GLBT people?
Be an ally. Let your friends and family know that you love them, regardless of who they love.
Confront and Interrupt anti- GLBT bias! Be it in yourself, the dorms, your family home, or on the street. Be mindful of safety, though. Sometimes, the best course of action is to sneak off to a corner, discreetly call the authorities, and make them come deal with what’s happening.
Learn about GLBT history and culture. GLBT people are not a some new phenomena that simply popped up 20 or so years ago. We have always been here. We will always be here. Celebrate us-even if you are straight.
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