I am gay. It is an essential part of who I am. It defines me. I didn't pick it up one day and decide it looked like a fun thing to try on for awhile. I also can't just decide to put it down. My queerness is essential to who I am.
And yet, and yet, and yet...
I hear nearly every day the mantra of "love the sinner, but hate the sin." How can that be? How can you love me but hate who I am? Not what I do. Not choices I make. But who I am?
I hate analogizing sexual orientation to race because it's incredibly essentializing and misses a lot of points, but I do think it has some value here: you cannot claim that being black is a sin, but still truly love black people. It doesn't work like that.
I saw on a Facebook comment the other day, in response to a post with a link to Matthew Vines explaining his interpretation of the major Bible verses used to condemn homosexuality, that the commenter could not even finish reading Matthew Vines' words because it made them sick to their stomach.
I wanted to comment and ask if they really had a problem with his Biblical interpretation skills or just with the conclusion he was coming to. More specifically, was it contemplating the particulars of gay sexuality that was making this person physically ill? Did it really have anything to do with esoteric discussions of Biblical interpretations?
I've talked to my Dad a few times, not a lot because it's painful all around, but a few times, about our differences on this issue. And one thing he's said several times is that he just doesn't and can't understand it, and he lists off that he doesn't get it theologically, mentally, emotionally, or biologically. I always want to go, really? I expected the theological objection. I disagree with it and think it's invalid, but I was expecting it. But it made me wonder, how much of people's ostensibly religious-based objections to gayness have anything to do with actual, earnestly held theological beliefs and how much has to do with ignorance, fear, and yeah, a gut-level disgust with something that they personally don't and can't understand?
Pretty much all straight people don't and can't understand why homosexuality would be appealing. Doesn't matter if they're true allies or not. They don't and can't "get it."
Well, of course not! There's a very simple reason behind that: they are straight! They were born that way. As in, they don't (and can't) understand sexual attraction to the same sex because they simply are not attracted to the same sex.
Guess what? I feel the exact same way about the opposite sex. It doesn't make sense to me. Now, of course, for myself and a whole heap of other gay people out there, there's this little thing called compulsive heterosexuality that forced us, from the earliest of ages, to think straight relationships were our only option. So, yeah, I spent most of my life contemplating what it would be like to be in a romantic relationship with the opposite sex. It never felt good or right in any way. But I thought about it. A lot. Because that's what good Christian girls are supposed to do, supposed to think about. Not only that, but because of internalized homophobia, I actually tried to convince myself it was what I wanted. I spent years doing that.
Imagine, just for a second, being a straight person doing the same thing your entire life: contemplating and trying to force yourself to be excited for the prospect of one day engaging in a relationship with someone of the same gender as you. Feels uncomfortable, if nothing else, right?
Straight people probably don't think about their sexual orientation as being integral to their identity. In fact, I know that they don't. They don't have to spend years trying to figure it out. It's just assumed. They don't have to explain it to anyone else. Again, it's just assumed.
Anyways, back to my point: I'm gay. And it's part of who I am.
So when you say that being gay, or acting on same sex attraction, or however else you want to word it is a sin, you aren't just attacking my actions or my choices. You are attacking who I am, at my very core.
Last time I posted on here, I called for a conversation with my parents. We have had a conversation, and we're still trying to figure out how to dialogue about any and all of this. None of us are good at it. It's all very painful and awkward and it feels like we never get anywhere. There was this one moment during that conversation where I got frustrated and I was crying and as I walked over to grab a Kleenex, I just half-shouted "when will you just accept that your daughter is fucking gay!" My dad said "that's not helpful," and, yeah, on a big level, it wasn't. We were trying to have a dialogue on a subject that is emotional and awkward and hard to talk about all around. And it's never helpful when someone gets angry or curses or yells in those situations.
But, at the same time, there is just so much truth to it.
My parents and I can talk theology in circles until our heads explode. But I honestly don't think that theology is at the root of the disconnect. I think a disagreement about whether or not gayness is innate is at the true heart of it. And I don't know how to get past that. I truly don't. I can cite experts who make clear that being attracted to the same gender isn't a choice. I can cite incredibly in-depth research regarding how the church has not always condemned gay weddings, and has at times (back in the Middle Ages) even performed them.
But if a person can't get past the mental block surrounding the physical and biological mechanics of gay sex...then I honestly don't know where to go from there. It's like trying to explain why seafood would be appealing to someone like me who gets nauseous at the sight and smell of it. It just doesn't compute.
But here's the major difference: I don't think that eating seafood is wrong simply because I don't like it and don't understand why or how anyone could.
My parents believe that monogamous heterosexual Christian marriages are at the centre of God's plan for humanity. They've built their lives around that belief. They counsel couples and teach classes on how to better fit within that model. So I think this whole thing is harder for them than most, because their straight Christian marriage is so central to who they are, too.
But if I were to keep telling them that their marriage, their love is a sin, that they are hurting themselves and each other by continuing it, they would be hurt. And offended. Because it defines them.
Well this, my gayness, who I love, it defines me, too. And I can't change it. Believe me, I tried. I tried for the longest time. I hated myself for this. I hated being around others like me. Other gay people made me so incredibly uncomfortable. Because I knew. But I couldn't let myself go there.
But now I'm here. It's been well over two years now. I've embraced and celebrated who I am. I've found someone to love and build a life with. I can even get married now. In every single state in the entire country (!!!!!!!).
So I guess what it comes down to for me is this: don't try to to claim that you love me, that you want what's best for me, or that you in any way respect me, if you are going to then turn around and say that who I am is a sin. I can't change anyone's minds about the theology, and I definitely can't make anyone understand attraction to the same gender. But when you say that being gay (or acting on same sex attraction or whatever slightly nicer-sounding thing you want to say) is a sin, you are saying that I am a sin.
I am not a sin.
Furthermore, when the Church and every single Christian who has ever uttered the phrase "love the sinner, hate the sin" perpetuates this belief, they are telling me, every member of the LGBT community, and every other ignorant and/or bigoted person out there that we, the queer community, are not human. We are sins. So it's okay to not serve us at your restaurants, to not let us into your hardware stores. It's okay, because we are sins. It's okay to deny us marriage licenses, while granting it to every twice divorced person and every atheist marrying a Christian and every other person who walks through that door. Because that twice divorced person may have sinned, but they are not a sin. That Christian may have sinned by marrying an atheist, but they, themselves, are just a human who made a bad choice. A gay person, however, is, inherently, a sin. Until they stop being a sin, they cannot have civil rights. They can be discriminated against.
How long does it take to get from denying basic civil rights like marriage licenses and equal employment opportunities to enacting actual, physical violence?
Harvey Milk.
Matthew Sheppard.
Sakia Gunn.
Brandon Teena.
Lawrence "Larry" King.
CeCe McDonald.
And what kind of effect does calling LGBT people "sins" have on LGBT young people?
Tyler Clementi.
Leelah Alcorn.
Adam Kizer.
Jadin Bell.
If you think calling LGBT people, who they are, at their very core, a "sin" has absolutely nothing to do with LGBT suicide rates and violence against LGBT people, I challenge you to think a little harder about it. Think about it this way (and, again, I don't like to compare, but it's useful here): if there was a very strong narrative in this country that being black was a "sin," don't you think that the KKK, the Aryan Nation, and other hate groups would feel that much more comfortable carrying out their heinous acts of violence? And don't you think those people who called being black a "sin" would have blood on their hands too? Even if they never once enacted physical violence against a black person? Wouldn't it also be harder to make the argument that that violence is wrong? (I could go on and on about how distrurbingly close to the truth each of these statements are, but that's for another post entirely...)
When you call gayness a sin, you are saying that I, because of who I am, am less than you. I am not human. I am "sin."
There's nothing Christian about that. Believe what you want for your own lives. But don't call me a "sin." And stop deluding yourself into believing that you can label me "sin" and still claim to love and respect me. It's not possible.
I am not a sin.
Friday, July 3, 2015
Monday, May 18, 2015
Growing Up
I just graduated law school. That's right, I can officially call myself a lawyer.
I still have a long road ahead of me. There's bar prep and then taking that grueling two day long test, then waiting (way too long) for results, and then somewhere in there I have to hit the ground running to try and get a job.
It's all happening. It really is. These are the things I've been dreaming about and preparing for since I was fourteen years old.
Something else really, crazy big is happening, too.
This amazing, thoughtful, talented, generous, beautiful girl. And I am completely in love with her. I can see myself building a life with her someday. And it's been so amazing, this journey I've been on with her for the last few months. I don't think I have the words to describe just how much she means to me, but I'm gonna try.
Do you know all these cheesy rom-coms about people falling in love with their best friends after dating all the wrong people for so long? Yeah, this was nothing like that, and yet I'm dating my best friend nonetheless.
We knew each other from work. And by knew each other, I mean we had sat in the same room with a bunch of other interns a couple of times. We never even made eye contact and so (despite my awkward best efforts), we never did the stereotypical "I see you, too" queer person head nod thing.
I didn't know it then. I never would've guessed or imagined that that girl would change my life.
Like so many bored and slightly lonely people out there, I used Tinder off and on over the past year or so. Never too seriously. I talked to a handful of people and went on a couple of dates, but, back in February, I was literally only on there because I was bored. I wasn't looking to start anything, mostly because Tinder is a strange, strange universe full of shallowness, awkwardness, and weirdly amusing shenanigans. So I was bored. And, while I would sometimes take my time in reading people's profiles and looking at their pictures, that one day in early February, I was just in a particularly bored and antsy mood and I just swiped right on pretty much everyone for a couple of minutes. I would like to make up some sweet story about how I saw her picture and felt butterflies or something corny like that. But that wouldn't be true.
I once tried telling her this part of the story and she told me to just stop digging...
So, no, I don't have a specific memory of that one magical right swipe. But, man, am I glad I did swipe right.
She immediately recognized me (for reasons that are hers, not mine to tell) and messaged me with something along the lines of "yay for another lgbt intern at our work." Being the awkward idiot that I am, it took me two whole days of non-stop messaging and one completely fabulous date to realize that she wasn't just "networking" with me...
Yeah, I'm that much of an idiot.
So I kept seeing this girl, and she kept telling me how she likes to take things slowly and that we weren't going to label whatever this was. Even though I already knew I was falling for her, and falling hard, I told her I understood, and that was fine. I didn't want to scare this amazing girl away.
Thankfully, she actually sucks at taking things slowly.
Within basically a half a month of that first fateful Tinder message, we were "official." And, let me tell you, as I dated this girl and got to know so many amazing things about her, I not only fell in love with her, but she became my best friend. I can tell her anything and everything and I feel so incredibly comfortable around her.
I'm not someone who makes friends easily. When I do become close with someone, it's usually fairly instantaneous. There are two other people in my life who I have instantaneously clicked with. And when I click with someone like that, I immediately know that they are going to mean something to me for the rest of my life.
So, yeah, there's this feeling I get when I meet someone new and I just "know." It's always been like that with her. Maybe not from day one, but definitely since we put labels on things.
She's let me express parts of myself that I've kept hidden for a very long time. She helps me bring out my inner little kid. She might even one day see my hyper side. She challenges certain thoughts I've resigned myself to and encourages me to have faith in myself, despite my issues and scars.
She lets me love her and do my best to protect her, even when I know that's not something that comes easily to her.
There are parts of parts of my life that I've learned to compartmentalize. I do this because of certain priorities that I've chosen to have in my life.
This post is about growing up. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to speak up, when to confront situations that aren't healthy. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to change some priorities in your life.
I've mentioned my family a lot on this blog. My family, specifically my parents, and I have been through a lot together. They've stood by my side through twenty years of school, through countless doctors appointments and random, seemingly inexplicable medical issues, and through unspeakable physical pain. My mom, through so much of that, has been equal parts my compassionate companion and emotional punching bag. I'm not proud to admit that last part. I think I've tried to apologize for that, but here's the thing about my mom: she has the wisdom to realize that that wasn't me, and that I honestly didn't even realize I was doing it. So she took it in stride. And never left my side (even when I thought I wanted her to). My dad has always been my rock, the voice of reason, and the one who can always calm me down.
My parents and I also carry around some major baggage in our relationship. Throughout my life growing up, but especially in high school, I felt that my parents would not truly love and accept me if they knew what I really thought, how I really wanted to act and speak. So I hid myself away and became increasingly bitter and angry and depressed. I eventually became suicidal, and blamed my parents. I'm not rehashing this to try and refocus blame or even to explain any of it away. From my perspective, that's our history. And it took me a very long time to get to a point where I could accept the fact that they do, in fact, love me unconditionally.
Whether or not they accept me, truly, accept me, is still a work in progress, especially since I came out.
In fact, I know that they don't accept me. My dad told me soon after I came out that if and when I start dating someone, he will never invite my girlfriend into his home because to do so would be to display "approval" over our relationship.
That hurt. It hurt so much (and still hurts so much) that I shut down and stopped talking, really talking to my parents again, to a certain extent.
I love my parents so incredibly much. They have been there for me through an incredible amount. And I know that they love me. I also know that they do want what's best for me. But the problem is that their version of what is "best" for me is nowhere near my life.
In fact, there's a giant fucking chasm between the two, and I don't know if anything will ever be able to close that gap.
I've been dealing with accepting and processing all of this for a couple years now. And I honestly thought I was ok with the status quo. With the "don't ask, don't tell" life we had set up.
Part of growing up is facing some harsh truths.
This isn't okay. Any semblance of a good relationship my parents and I have is a farce until they are at least willing to accept the fact that this is the life their daughter is pursuing, it makes her happy, and nothing is going to change that.
More to the point, the status quo is hurting my parents, it's hurting me, and it's hurting my girlfriend.
There are so many little things that are different now that hurt so much. When my two oldest brothers met and started dating their now-wives, my parents were engaged and wanted to meet and get to know these amazing women that my brothers would one day build lives with. When we had family dinners or even went up to Canada to visit extended family, the women my brothers were seeing were welcomed with open arms. When my grandpa died a few years back, my sisters-in-law weren't able to make it, but they were more than welcome to attend the memorial service. And anytime there was a graduation in the family, my brothers' girlfriends-turned-fiances-turned-wives were expected to attend, if they could.
I graduated from law school yesterday and my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me. Not because she didn't want to. She would've loved to be there. But I made the choice to not force an incredibly awkward meeting between this amazing girl that I'm in love with and my parents, the two rocks who have stood by me through it all.
I shouldn't have to make that choice. But I did. And it sucked. For me. For my girlfriend. For my family. Because they're missing out, too. They're missing out on this huge journey that I'm embarking on, and they're missing out on this amazing girl that I am hopelessly in love with.
They know so little about her. They don't know about her adorable obsession with pigs (or the fact that she wants to teach their grandson how to oink properly). They don't know how she caught on to Dutch Blitz (my family's card game obsession) faster than anyone else I've ever seen try and learn. They've never played Dutch Blitz with her. They don't know about the cat we rescued together or our amazing bowling skills (actually, Grandpa Scheerer would likely be disappointed by our horrible bowling skills if he were still here, but still...)
They don't know how happy she makes me. With just a look, just a smile, just a simple #luff text message. It's hard for me to be happy. I lived so much of my life wallowing in the dark, hidden places. I felt a measure of this happiness when I first came out. But like I said then, that was more about finding peace (at last). I have that here, too. But I also have happiness.
But then I go home. And I can't let my heart gush over with all the things I want to tell my mom about this amazing girl. I can't tell my girlfriend, "my dad really isn't intimidating or scary at all, I swear!" I can't get excited for the first time my dad cracks one of his incredibly dry and hilarious jokes around her and she realizes there's nothing to be afraid of.
I also spent so much of my life nervous about my dad finally revealing that he actually is in the CIA when I finally start seriously seeing someone and he breaks out the interrogation tactics. Because I'm his little girl. And he wants to protect me from ever being hurt.
That's what I don't get. I don't understand how someone who has always vowed to do everything in his power to protect me would let his religious-based, moral objection to the gender of my significant other stop him from being my dad, stop him from wanting to protect me. I definitely don't get how he could let himself hurt me like this.
And I know I have utterly failed at communicating any of this to my parents. But every time I tried to even mention the tiniest morsel, like saying what we were doing that weekend or telling them something funny that happened, both my parents just shut down, stare straight ahead, and then change the subject.
I want so badly for my parents to understand and accept that this isn't about morality, it's not about religion, it's not about their convictions. It's about real life people who are hurting. It's about their daughter who dreads coming home half the time because she knows that the moment she walks in the door, that happiness she felt all weekend is going to evaporate the moment no one asks about this girl that has stolen her heart.
I love this girl, and I want to build a life with her. I want my parents to be a part of that life, I really do. But part of growing up is re-evaluating your priorities. I would never cut my parents out of my life. That's not in any way what I'm saying. But there will come times, there will be life events, seasonal celebrations, and just everyday family gatherings where, if they don't start engaging in and, yes, accepting, this part of my life, they will stop being my top priority.
I don't want to have to make that choice. And I know that I shouldn't have to. I know we need to have a conversation. I also know that my parents need to meet this girl. That meeting her doesn't mean that they've changed their moral or religious views. It just means that they love and accept me and want me to be happy. And that they want to be engaged in my life. But mostly, it involves them making the choice to stop hurting me and hurting us.
I still have a long road ahead of me. There's bar prep and then taking that grueling two day long test, then waiting (way too long) for results, and then somewhere in there I have to hit the ground running to try and get a job.
It's all happening. It really is. These are the things I've been dreaming about and preparing for since I was fourteen years old.
Something else really, crazy big is happening, too.
This amazing, thoughtful, talented, generous, beautiful girl. And I am completely in love with her. I can see myself building a life with her someday. And it's been so amazing, this journey I've been on with her for the last few months. I don't think I have the words to describe just how much she means to me, but I'm gonna try.
Do you know all these cheesy rom-coms about people falling in love with their best friends after dating all the wrong people for so long? Yeah, this was nothing like that, and yet I'm dating my best friend nonetheless.
We knew each other from work. And by knew each other, I mean we had sat in the same room with a bunch of other interns a couple of times. We never even made eye contact and so (despite my awkward best efforts), we never did the stereotypical "I see you, too" queer person head nod thing.
I didn't know it then. I never would've guessed or imagined that that girl would change my life.
Like so many bored and slightly lonely people out there, I used Tinder off and on over the past year or so. Never too seriously. I talked to a handful of people and went on a couple of dates, but, back in February, I was literally only on there because I was bored. I wasn't looking to start anything, mostly because Tinder is a strange, strange universe full of shallowness, awkwardness, and weirdly amusing shenanigans. So I was bored. And, while I would sometimes take my time in reading people's profiles and looking at their pictures, that one day in early February, I was just in a particularly bored and antsy mood and I just swiped right on pretty much everyone for a couple of minutes. I would like to make up some sweet story about how I saw her picture and felt butterflies or something corny like that. But that wouldn't be true.
I once tried telling her this part of the story and she told me to just stop digging...
So, no, I don't have a specific memory of that one magical right swipe. But, man, am I glad I did swipe right.
She immediately recognized me (for reasons that are hers, not mine to tell) and messaged me with something along the lines of "yay for another lgbt intern at our work." Being the awkward idiot that I am, it took me two whole days of non-stop messaging and one completely fabulous date to realize that she wasn't just "networking" with me...
Yeah, I'm that much of an idiot.
So I kept seeing this girl, and she kept telling me how she likes to take things slowly and that we weren't going to label whatever this was. Even though I already knew I was falling for her, and falling hard, I told her I understood, and that was fine. I didn't want to scare this amazing girl away.
Thankfully, she actually sucks at taking things slowly.
Within basically a half a month of that first fateful Tinder message, we were "official." And, let me tell you, as I dated this girl and got to know so many amazing things about her, I not only fell in love with her, but she became my best friend. I can tell her anything and everything and I feel so incredibly comfortable around her.
I'm not someone who makes friends easily. When I do become close with someone, it's usually fairly instantaneous. There are two other people in my life who I have instantaneously clicked with. And when I click with someone like that, I immediately know that they are going to mean something to me for the rest of my life.
So, yeah, there's this feeling I get when I meet someone new and I just "know." It's always been like that with her. Maybe not from day one, but definitely since we put labels on things.
She's let me express parts of myself that I've kept hidden for a very long time. She helps me bring out my inner little kid. She might even one day see my hyper side. She challenges certain thoughts I've resigned myself to and encourages me to have faith in myself, despite my issues and scars.
She lets me love her and do my best to protect her, even when I know that's not something that comes easily to her.
There are parts of parts of my life that I've learned to compartmentalize. I do this because of certain priorities that I've chosen to have in my life.
This post is about growing up. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to speak up, when to confront situations that aren't healthy. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to change some priorities in your life.
I've mentioned my family a lot on this blog. My family, specifically my parents, and I have been through a lot together. They've stood by my side through twenty years of school, through countless doctors appointments and random, seemingly inexplicable medical issues, and through unspeakable physical pain. My mom, through so much of that, has been equal parts my compassionate companion and emotional punching bag. I'm not proud to admit that last part. I think I've tried to apologize for that, but here's the thing about my mom: she has the wisdom to realize that that wasn't me, and that I honestly didn't even realize I was doing it. So she took it in stride. And never left my side (even when I thought I wanted her to). My dad has always been my rock, the voice of reason, and the one who can always calm me down.
My parents and I also carry around some major baggage in our relationship. Throughout my life growing up, but especially in high school, I felt that my parents would not truly love and accept me if they knew what I really thought, how I really wanted to act and speak. So I hid myself away and became increasingly bitter and angry and depressed. I eventually became suicidal, and blamed my parents. I'm not rehashing this to try and refocus blame or even to explain any of it away. From my perspective, that's our history. And it took me a very long time to get to a point where I could accept the fact that they do, in fact, love me unconditionally.
Whether or not they accept me, truly, accept me, is still a work in progress, especially since I came out.
In fact, I know that they don't accept me. My dad told me soon after I came out that if and when I start dating someone, he will never invite my girlfriend into his home because to do so would be to display "approval" over our relationship.
That hurt. It hurt so much (and still hurts so much) that I shut down and stopped talking, really talking to my parents again, to a certain extent.
I love my parents so incredibly much. They have been there for me through an incredible amount. And I know that they love me. I also know that they do want what's best for me. But the problem is that their version of what is "best" for me is nowhere near my life.
In fact, there's a giant fucking chasm between the two, and I don't know if anything will ever be able to close that gap.
I've been dealing with accepting and processing all of this for a couple years now. And I honestly thought I was ok with the status quo. With the "don't ask, don't tell" life we had set up.
Part of growing up is facing some harsh truths.
This isn't okay. Any semblance of a good relationship my parents and I have is a farce until they are at least willing to accept the fact that this is the life their daughter is pursuing, it makes her happy, and nothing is going to change that.
More to the point, the status quo is hurting my parents, it's hurting me, and it's hurting my girlfriend.
There are so many little things that are different now that hurt so much. When my two oldest brothers met and started dating their now-wives, my parents were engaged and wanted to meet and get to know these amazing women that my brothers would one day build lives with. When we had family dinners or even went up to Canada to visit extended family, the women my brothers were seeing were welcomed with open arms. When my grandpa died a few years back, my sisters-in-law weren't able to make it, but they were more than welcome to attend the memorial service. And anytime there was a graduation in the family, my brothers' girlfriends-turned-fiances-turned-wives were expected to attend, if they could.
I graduated from law school yesterday and my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me. Not because she didn't want to. She would've loved to be there. But I made the choice to not force an incredibly awkward meeting between this amazing girl that I'm in love with and my parents, the two rocks who have stood by me through it all.
I shouldn't have to make that choice. But I did. And it sucked. For me. For my girlfriend. For my family. Because they're missing out, too. They're missing out on this huge journey that I'm embarking on, and they're missing out on this amazing girl that I am hopelessly in love with.
They know so little about her. They don't know about her adorable obsession with pigs (or the fact that she wants to teach their grandson how to oink properly). They don't know how she caught on to Dutch Blitz (my family's card game obsession) faster than anyone else I've ever seen try and learn. They've never played Dutch Blitz with her. They don't know about the cat we rescued together or our amazing bowling skills (actually, Grandpa Scheerer would likely be disappointed by our horrible bowling skills if he were still here, but still...)
They don't know how happy she makes me. With just a look, just a smile, just a simple #luff text message. It's hard for me to be happy. I lived so much of my life wallowing in the dark, hidden places. I felt a measure of this happiness when I first came out. But like I said then, that was more about finding peace (at last). I have that here, too. But I also have happiness.
But then I go home. And I can't let my heart gush over with all the things I want to tell my mom about this amazing girl. I can't tell my girlfriend, "my dad really isn't intimidating or scary at all, I swear!" I can't get excited for the first time my dad cracks one of his incredibly dry and hilarious jokes around her and she realizes there's nothing to be afraid of.
I also spent so much of my life nervous about my dad finally revealing that he actually is in the CIA when I finally start seriously seeing someone and he breaks out the interrogation tactics. Because I'm his little girl. And he wants to protect me from ever being hurt.
That's what I don't get. I don't understand how someone who has always vowed to do everything in his power to protect me would let his religious-based, moral objection to the gender of my significant other stop him from being my dad, stop him from wanting to protect me. I definitely don't get how he could let himself hurt me like this.
And I know I have utterly failed at communicating any of this to my parents. But every time I tried to even mention the tiniest morsel, like saying what we were doing that weekend or telling them something funny that happened, both my parents just shut down, stare straight ahead, and then change the subject.
I want so badly for my parents to understand and accept that this isn't about morality, it's not about religion, it's not about their convictions. It's about real life people who are hurting. It's about their daughter who dreads coming home half the time because she knows that the moment she walks in the door, that happiness she felt all weekend is going to evaporate the moment no one asks about this girl that has stolen her heart.
I love this girl, and I want to build a life with her. I want my parents to be a part of that life, I really do. But part of growing up is re-evaluating your priorities. I would never cut my parents out of my life. That's not in any way what I'm saying. But there will come times, there will be life events, seasonal celebrations, and just everyday family gatherings where, if they don't start engaging in and, yes, accepting, this part of my life, they will stop being my top priority.
I don't want to have to make that choice. And I know that I shouldn't have to. I know we need to have a conversation. I also know that my parents need to meet this girl. That meeting her doesn't mean that they've changed their moral or religious views. It just means that they love and accept me and want me to be happy. And that they want to be engaged in my life. But mostly, it involves them making the choice to stop hurting me and hurting us.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Limitless
I recently got a hair cut.
Not that uncommon for me, especially recently. I love trying new styles and going edgier and edgier without crossing the line into unprofessional for my line of work.
What makes this hair cut different, why it spurred me to dust off my semi-annual blogging shoes is because of what it exposes.
You can see my scar.
The scar I got at 11 years old when a neurosurgeon cut into my head. The scar that ended the pain I had been living with for months. The scar that meant my rescue.
I've had this scar now for more years than I lived before I got it. It's part of me. But I don't think I ever really wanted it to be. Yeah, the medical struggles I went through as a kid were something I'd bring up in casual conversation. I'd randomly and sarcastically say that my brain is too big for my skull and I have the scar to prove it.
But it wasn't something I really, truly wanted people to know about me. And I think I finally know why.
It's because I didn't know what it meant about me. And I think cutting off my hair, exposing the visual proof of what I went through, what I survived, this piece of me that shapes so much of who I am is actually forcing me to come to terms with it all.
But, you know, it's not actually about exposing to the world the fact that I had brain surgery. What's so different about leaving my scar exposed is that it forces me to think about what I went through. About the pain.
Chronic pain is a singular experience. I don't think anyone who hasn't lived through months and then years of uncontrollable, debilitating, life-altering pain can ever grasp the impact it has on a person's life. You just don't get it till you do.
When I was 11, I dealt with chronic pain for 4 months. It started August 1st, 2002 and ended November 22, 2002. And it changed me. When I was 20, in my junior year of undergrad, I started on a journey of chronic pain that wouldn't stop for nearly two years. It started in March of 2011 and wouldn't finally stop until January of 2013. And that journey changed me more.
Those are facts and dates that I know and even talk about if it comes up in conversation. But I don't often stop, sit, and think about what it actually means for me.
You know with bar applications due this week and work supervisors giving me their tips and tricks on studying for the bar, the topic of how difficult the bar is has come up quite a few times. And quite a few times I've heard classmates or co-workers or supervisors tell me that taking the bar exam will be the hardest thing I ever do in my life.
I honestly have to stop myself from laughing every goddamn time I hear it.
I know I haven't been there yet, I know I have no clue how time/life-consuming studying will be. I know that I have no clue how mentally, emotionally, and physically draining actually sitting down and taking that test will be. I don't know.
But I do know this with absolute certainty: on my list of hardest things I've gone through in my life, it won't even rank in the top 5.
There's something about living with chronic pain that gives you the confidence to understand exactly how far you can go. I didn't think I could make it. But then I did. And now I know. I know exactly how much I can take.
I know that I can make it through the most grueling academic transition of my life (first semester of law school), all while barely being able to walk or even use my hands. I made it through first year while hopped up on a huge cocktail of medications, medications that enabled me to show up to class, but that was about it. My mind was so gone half the time, both from the mind-altering effects of the drugs and the emotional and psychological drain of the physical pain, only slightly dulled by the meds. I couldn't concentrate in classes. There was one night I got home from class and the pain, which was normally just in my arms and legs, extended to the rest of my body. My neck was stiff and I couldn't move. It was like I was paralyzed. I might have even been on my way. I had to be rushed to the ER so they could give me IV dilaudid (read: drug store heroin) and then a lumbar puncture (i.e. my worst fear on the face of the planet). I went home and then got up and went to school the next morning and started again.
I made it through. I made it through the chronic pain and the academic load, and on top of all of this, I was struggling with and finally coming to terms with my own sexuality. By the end of my first year of law school, I had come out, to myself, to my closest friends, to my family, and finally to everyone else. I had surgery on my spine and side to finally alleviate the pain. I slowly but surely recovered from that shunt surgery. I weaned myself off of all the medications I had been relying on to simply keep moving for the prior two years.
I made it through the most grueling, physically painful, emotionally and psychologically draining year of my life. And then I kept moving. Because that's one of the things that chronic pain teaches you: you can't stop. You can't pretend that the pain isn't there, but you can't put your life on hold just because it hurts. You have got to push forward. Which is exactly why I don't often stop and take stock of what my journey through chronic pain has taught me. Because life keeps going. So did law school, and I had to catch up.
But then I chopped my hair off. And I realized that everyone I encounter, when they look at the back of my head, will know that something has happened to me in the past that has shaped me, that has forever altered me. And, you know what? Before I went through that two year long chronic pain journey, I never would have had the confidence to show off my scar. But now I do. Now there's very little that I don't have the confidence to do. Because, as I said, I know my limits. Which is to say, I know that I don't have any that I can't push through if I need to. I know that you strip everything away from me and I'll keep going.
Not that uncommon for me, especially recently. I love trying new styles and going edgier and edgier without crossing the line into unprofessional for my line of work.
What makes this hair cut different, why it spurred me to dust off my semi-annual blogging shoes is because of what it exposes.
You can see my scar.
The scar I got at 11 years old when a neurosurgeon cut into my head. The scar that ended the pain I had been living with for months. The scar that meant my rescue.
I've had this scar now for more years than I lived before I got it. It's part of me. But I don't think I ever really wanted it to be. Yeah, the medical struggles I went through as a kid were something I'd bring up in casual conversation. I'd randomly and sarcastically say that my brain is too big for my skull and I have the scar to prove it.
But it wasn't something I really, truly wanted people to know about me. And I think I finally know why.
It's because I didn't know what it meant about me. And I think cutting off my hair, exposing the visual proof of what I went through, what I survived, this piece of me that shapes so much of who I am is actually forcing me to come to terms with it all.
But, you know, it's not actually about exposing to the world the fact that I had brain surgery. What's so different about leaving my scar exposed is that it forces me to think about what I went through. About the pain.
Chronic pain is a singular experience. I don't think anyone who hasn't lived through months and then years of uncontrollable, debilitating, life-altering pain can ever grasp the impact it has on a person's life. You just don't get it till you do.
When I was 11, I dealt with chronic pain for 4 months. It started August 1st, 2002 and ended November 22, 2002. And it changed me. When I was 20, in my junior year of undergrad, I started on a journey of chronic pain that wouldn't stop for nearly two years. It started in March of 2011 and wouldn't finally stop until January of 2013. And that journey changed me more.
Those are facts and dates that I know and even talk about if it comes up in conversation. But I don't often stop, sit, and think about what it actually means for me.
You know with bar applications due this week and work supervisors giving me their tips and tricks on studying for the bar, the topic of how difficult the bar is has come up quite a few times. And quite a few times I've heard classmates or co-workers or supervisors tell me that taking the bar exam will be the hardest thing I ever do in my life.
I honestly have to stop myself from laughing every goddamn time I hear it.
I know I haven't been there yet, I know I have no clue how time/life-consuming studying will be. I know that I have no clue how mentally, emotionally, and physically draining actually sitting down and taking that test will be. I don't know.
But I do know this with absolute certainty: on my list of hardest things I've gone through in my life, it won't even rank in the top 5.
There's something about living with chronic pain that gives you the confidence to understand exactly how far you can go. I didn't think I could make it. But then I did. And now I know. I know exactly how much I can take.
I know that I can make it through the most grueling academic transition of my life (first semester of law school), all while barely being able to walk or even use my hands. I made it through first year while hopped up on a huge cocktail of medications, medications that enabled me to show up to class, but that was about it. My mind was so gone half the time, both from the mind-altering effects of the drugs and the emotional and psychological drain of the physical pain, only slightly dulled by the meds. I couldn't concentrate in classes. There was one night I got home from class and the pain, which was normally just in my arms and legs, extended to the rest of my body. My neck was stiff and I couldn't move. It was like I was paralyzed. I might have even been on my way. I had to be rushed to the ER so they could give me IV dilaudid (read: drug store heroin) and then a lumbar puncture (i.e. my worst fear on the face of the planet). I went home and then got up and went to school the next morning and started again.
I made it through. I made it through the chronic pain and the academic load, and on top of all of this, I was struggling with and finally coming to terms with my own sexuality. By the end of my first year of law school, I had come out, to myself, to my closest friends, to my family, and finally to everyone else. I had surgery on my spine and side to finally alleviate the pain. I slowly but surely recovered from that shunt surgery. I weaned myself off of all the medications I had been relying on to simply keep moving for the prior two years.
I made it through the most grueling, physically painful, emotionally and psychologically draining year of my life. And then I kept moving. Because that's one of the things that chronic pain teaches you: you can't stop. You can't pretend that the pain isn't there, but you can't put your life on hold just because it hurts. You have got to push forward. Which is exactly why I don't often stop and take stock of what my journey through chronic pain has taught me. Because life keeps going. So did law school, and I had to catch up.
But then I chopped my hair off. And I realized that everyone I encounter, when they look at the back of my head, will know that something has happened to me in the past that has shaped me, that has forever altered me. And, you know what? Before I went through that two year long chronic pain journey, I never would have had the confidence to show off my scar. But now I do. Now there's very little that I don't have the confidence to do. Because, as I said, I know my limits. Which is to say, I know that I don't have any that I can't push through if I need to. I know that you strip everything away from me and I'll keep going.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Burn This B**** Down
"Burn this bitch down! Burn this bitch down!"
These are the words Mike Brown's step-dad shouted over and over again right after the grand jury announcement. He has since apologized. His wife, Mike Brown's mom, has said that he was just full of emotion, but he didn't really mean it that way.
Well, I gotta say, why the fuck not? Why not burn the whole thing to the ground? Let us empty our prisons, our police stations, our courtrooms, our prosecution offices, then burn the whole damn thing down.
That's honestly seeming like a good option at the moment.
I posted this quote from a Jezebel article on Facebook yesterday:
I also re-posted a status update from Andrea Gibson that said, in part, "If your sympathies lean towards Darren Wilson -- a murderous systems OWNS your humanity."
Needless to say, I haven't been the most popular person in my social media circles recently. I've gotten in some pretty heated discussions with family members and even some acquaintances I haven't talked to in years. I've been pissed off and filled with grief and despair and hopelessness.
My family has this tradition at thanksgiving dinner of going around the table and saying what we're thankful for. I'm having a hard time figuring out how to answer that question this year. I am so goddamn privileged. But I can't and I won't claim to be grateful for benefiting from the oppression that kills people who don't look like me. I won't say that I'm thankful for my education opportunities and for my good job prospects or even for the health and safety of my family. Because every single one of these things are, in one way or another, benefits I enjoy without any effort or thought because of the systems of oppression that own the soul of this country.
I think I've reached a breaking point. For awhile now I've been wondering how I can be a prosecutor, be a cog in this system, in this prison industrial complex that owns our country. I spent this past summer working for the State's Attorney's Office at the misdemeanor and traffic court a few minutes from my house. I actually seemed to get my love for prosecution back over the summer, and I was blissfully grateful. Part of the reason why I didn't struggle with my moral opposition to the system as much over the summer was because I honestly thought that fining people for driving without a license or having a small amount of weed couldn't possibly be feeding into the system. Who could it harm? It's just a fine. It's just a bit of community service. That isn't contributing to a racist system. They're guilty. They didn't have a license. They were legally stopped. They violated some minor traffic law. They had a bit of weed on them. I'm not sending them to prison, so who cares? It's not like I'm sentencing people disparately based on their race (or the types of drugs used most predominately by a particular race). So I'm morally clean, right?
Yeah.
That was some ignorant, privileged, bullshit.
We live in a country that funds huge parts of its government functions through the criminalization of every day actions. We live in a country where it is perfectly constitutional for a cop to pull someone who looks like they might be "up to no good" over as long as the cop has the pretext of a petty traffic offense.
And let me be clear: every single cop in this country can find a petty traffic offense any time that they want to.
Failure to yield. Failure to signal. Improper lane usage.
I can't tell you how many cannabis possession police reports I read through over the summer where the pretext for the traffic stop and then the search was "improper lane usage." All this means is that the cop thinks (or claims) that the driver crossed over a traffic line too early or too late or something. No one really knows or cares, because there's no way of proving it one way or the other, and chances are that the cop is going to throw out the ticket for the alleged violation if the stop doesn't yield more.
And every cop has pre-conceived notions of what type of person, what type of driver, they should be looking to for one of these pre-textual stops. And this isn't because every cop in this country is a hateful, racist asshat. It has nothing to do with personal hate harboured by individual officers. This isn't a cop problem. It's an American culture problem.
I also cried because my brother and sister-in-law are in the process of adopting a son from Africa. I cried for my future nephew. Because he will be a black boy growing up in this country. I cried for him. Because no matter what we do, no matter how well my brother and sister-in-law raise him, he will still be a black boy in America. Unless the current culture and climate that criminalizes black bodies changes quickly and drastically, my little black nephew will have to one day be told that, when faced with a cop, he needs to "be strong. Be smart. Be kind, and polite. Know your laws. Be aware of how quickly your hands move to pocket for wallet or ID, be more aware of how quickly the officer's hand moves to holster, for gun. Be black. Be a boy. Have fun. Because this world will force you to become a man far more quickly than you'll ever have the need to."
One month ago in South Carolina, a state trooper pulled up behind a young black man, Levar Jones, in a gas station. The trooper claims that he saw Jones driving without his seat belt. The trooper asked Levar Jones for his ID. Jones, who had already parked and exited the vehicle when the trooper approached him, immediately reached into his vehicle for his ID. This young black man was doing everything in his power to comply with the officer's instructions. When Jones reached into his truck, the trooper shot him. Because the culture we live in today tells everyone, cops included, that young black men quickly reaching into an unseen area probably means that they are reaching for a gun.
This whole incident was caught on the officer's dash cam. The most haunting part of the whole exchange to me was that even when Jones is lying on the ground, bleeding, trying to figure out what happened, he's still saying "yes, sir" every other word, being as polite as humanly possible, and complying with every single order and instruction of the Officer who just shot him.
It terrifies me to know that my future nephew could be Levar Jones. One day he could be doing his job, stopping for a snack at a gas station, only to have a cop pull up behind him and ask for his license. My nephew could be strong, smart, polite, and kind. He could be perfectly compliant, say "yes, sir" with every other word. He could lean into his vehicle to grab his license. And, still, his quick, compliant actions could be misinterpreted by the cop as a dangerous attempt by an inherently dangerous person to get a weapon, to endanger the officer and the public. And that cop could shoot my future nephew.
My future nephew could be Trayvon Martin, walking down the street in his comfy, mostly white neighbourhood with his hood up, headphones in, talking to a friend on the phone. And some random vigilante could see this black boy, not fully fitting in in the neighbourhood, and call the 911. Or follow him. Or shoot and kill him.
My future nephew could be spotted by neighbours in his own home, and those neighbours could call the police, thinking that this black boy doesn't belong in this white home, in this white neighbourhood. The police could arrest and pepper spray my nephew, thinking he was burglarizing his own home. That's exactly what happened to DeShawn Currie, a black teenager, when he walked into his home, where his white foster parents lived.
When they were teenagers, my brothers had airsoft guns, and sometimes they carried them around. I'm terrified that if my future nephew does the same thing, and a cop sees him with it, he will be shot. I doubt my brothers every faced that fear. But my future nephew will. Tamir Rice, a twelve year old black boy was shot and killed by police in this exact situation.
These are just a few of the stories, a few of the realities of black boys in America today. I hope and pray that these realities change long before my future nephew arrives in this country, long before my future nephew becomes a teenager, a young black man assumed by far too many people to be a danger, to be a criminal, to be "up to no good" simply because of the colour of his skin.
I don't know how to live in this world. I don't know how to fix this. And I don't know how to make this treacherous, oppressive world safe for my future nephew to come into.
These are the words Mike Brown's step-dad shouted over and over again right after the grand jury announcement. He has since apologized. His wife, Mike Brown's mom, has said that he was just full of emotion, but he didn't really mean it that way.
Well, I gotta say, why the fuck not? Why not burn the whole thing to the ground? Let us empty our prisons, our police stations, our courtrooms, our prosecution offices, then burn the whole damn thing down.
That's honestly seeming like a good option at the moment.
I posted this quote from a Jezebel article on Facebook yesterday:
We knew Ferguson would burn. We prayed it wouldn't, but we knew that the protests that have taken place over the past 108 days have been an accumulation of emotion, deep disappointment, and anger. Last night, along with all the other days and nights in Ferguson since Mike Brown was killed, was a culminated response to years of violence and oppression and racism and injustice. You're a fool if you think protesters were only protesting against Darren Wilson. They were protesting for Mike Brown, of course, but also for Trayvon Martin and Renisha McBride and Danroy Henry and Fred Hampton and Medger Evers and Emmett Till.In the comments, I said: "And if you're a white person complaining about the property damage last night, but don't know the names of the martyrs listed here, then you have no right to talk. Open your eyes to the violence inflicted on black bodies before you moan about the violence done to store windows."
I also re-posted a status update from Andrea Gibson that said, in part, "If your sympathies lean towards Darren Wilson -- a murderous systems OWNS your humanity."
Needless to say, I haven't been the most popular person in my social media circles recently. I've gotten in some pretty heated discussions with family members and even some acquaintances I haven't talked to in years. I've been pissed off and filled with grief and despair and hopelessness.
My family has this tradition at thanksgiving dinner of going around the table and saying what we're thankful for. I'm having a hard time figuring out how to answer that question this year. I am so goddamn privileged. But I can't and I won't claim to be grateful for benefiting from the oppression that kills people who don't look like me. I won't say that I'm thankful for my education opportunities and for my good job prospects or even for the health and safety of my family. Because every single one of these things are, in one way or another, benefits I enjoy without any effort or thought because of the systems of oppression that own the soul of this country.
I think I've reached a breaking point. For awhile now I've been wondering how I can be a prosecutor, be a cog in this system, in this prison industrial complex that owns our country. I spent this past summer working for the State's Attorney's Office at the misdemeanor and traffic court a few minutes from my house. I actually seemed to get my love for prosecution back over the summer, and I was blissfully grateful. Part of the reason why I didn't struggle with my moral opposition to the system as much over the summer was because I honestly thought that fining people for driving without a license or having a small amount of weed couldn't possibly be feeding into the system. Who could it harm? It's just a fine. It's just a bit of community service. That isn't contributing to a racist system. They're guilty. They didn't have a license. They were legally stopped. They violated some minor traffic law. They had a bit of weed on them. I'm not sending them to prison, so who cares? It's not like I'm sentencing people disparately based on their race (or the types of drugs used most predominately by a particular race). So I'm morally clean, right?
Yeah.
That was some ignorant, privileged, bullshit.
We live in a country that funds huge parts of its government functions through the criminalization of every day actions. We live in a country where it is perfectly constitutional for a cop to pull someone who looks like they might be "up to no good" over as long as the cop has the pretext of a petty traffic offense.
And let me be clear: every single cop in this country can find a petty traffic offense any time that they want to.
Failure to yield. Failure to signal. Improper lane usage.
I can't tell you how many cannabis possession police reports I read through over the summer where the pretext for the traffic stop and then the search was "improper lane usage." All this means is that the cop thinks (or claims) that the driver crossed over a traffic line too early or too late or something. No one really knows or cares, because there's no way of proving it one way or the other, and chances are that the cop is going to throw out the ticket for the alleged violation if the stop doesn't yield more.
And every cop has pre-conceived notions of what type of person, what type of driver, they should be looking to for one of these pre-textual stops. And this isn't because every cop in this country is a hateful, racist asshat. It has nothing to do with personal hate harboured by individual officers. This isn't a cop problem. It's an American culture problem.
It's not about whether or not the shooter is racist, it's about how poor black boys are treated as problems well before we are treated as people. Black boys in this country cannot afford to play cops and robbers if we're always considered the latter, don't have the luxury of playing war when we're already in one.When the announcement was read Monday night, I threw my computer. I physically collapsed on the floor. And I cried. I cried for so many reason. I cried because of the injustice for Mike Brown. I cried because I knew this decision would tear the Ferguson community apart. I cried because I know, or at least have some clue, about the pain and grief and despair that would be felt by black people across this country. I cried because I knew that, to them, the decision said that the death of an unarmed black boy at the hands of a cop isn't even worth the question, isn't worth the effort of a trial, isn't worthy of an attempt at justice.
I also cried because my brother and sister-in-law are in the process of adopting a son from Africa. I cried for my future nephew. Because he will be a black boy growing up in this country. I cried for him. Because no matter what we do, no matter how well my brother and sister-in-law raise him, he will still be a black boy in America. Unless the current culture and climate that criminalizes black bodies changes quickly and drastically, my little black nephew will have to one day be told that, when faced with a cop, he needs to "be strong. Be smart. Be kind, and polite. Know your laws. Be aware of how quickly your hands move to pocket for wallet or ID, be more aware of how quickly the officer's hand moves to holster, for gun. Be black. Be a boy. Have fun. Because this world will force you to become a man far more quickly than you'll ever have the need to."
One month ago in South Carolina, a state trooper pulled up behind a young black man, Levar Jones, in a gas station. The trooper claims that he saw Jones driving without his seat belt. The trooper asked Levar Jones for his ID. Jones, who had already parked and exited the vehicle when the trooper approached him, immediately reached into his vehicle for his ID. This young black man was doing everything in his power to comply with the officer's instructions. When Jones reached into his truck, the trooper shot him. Because the culture we live in today tells everyone, cops included, that young black men quickly reaching into an unseen area probably means that they are reaching for a gun.
This whole incident was caught on the officer's dash cam. The most haunting part of the whole exchange to me was that even when Jones is lying on the ground, bleeding, trying to figure out what happened, he's still saying "yes, sir" every other word, being as polite as humanly possible, and complying with every single order and instruction of the Officer who just shot him.
It terrifies me to know that my future nephew could be Levar Jones. One day he could be doing his job, stopping for a snack at a gas station, only to have a cop pull up behind him and ask for his license. My nephew could be strong, smart, polite, and kind. He could be perfectly compliant, say "yes, sir" with every other word. He could lean into his vehicle to grab his license. And, still, his quick, compliant actions could be misinterpreted by the cop as a dangerous attempt by an inherently dangerous person to get a weapon, to endanger the officer and the public. And that cop could shoot my future nephew.
My future nephew could be Trayvon Martin, walking down the street in his comfy, mostly white neighbourhood with his hood up, headphones in, talking to a friend on the phone. And some random vigilante could see this black boy, not fully fitting in in the neighbourhood, and call the 911. Or follow him. Or shoot and kill him.
My future nephew could be spotted by neighbours in his own home, and those neighbours could call the police, thinking that this black boy doesn't belong in this white home, in this white neighbourhood. The police could arrest and pepper spray my nephew, thinking he was burglarizing his own home. That's exactly what happened to DeShawn Currie, a black teenager, when he walked into his home, where his white foster parents lived.
When they were teenagers, my brothers had airsoft guns, and sometimes they carried them around. I'm terrified that if my future nephew does the same thing, and a cop sees him with it, he will be shot. I doubt my brothers every faced that fear. But my future nephew will. Tamir Rice, a twelve year old black boy was shot and killed by police in this exact situation.
These are just a few of the stories, a few of the realities of black boys in America today. I hope and pray that these realities change long before my future nephew arrives in this country, long before my future nephew becomes a teenager, a young black man assumed by far too many people to be a danger, to be a criminal, to be "up to no good" simply because of the colour of his skin.
I don't know how to live in this world. I don't know how to fix this. And I don't know how to make this treacherous, oppressive world safe for my future nephew to come into.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Blessing versus Privilege
I grew up in very religious family. Even today when I have dinner at home, my family regularly prays and thanks God for the "blessings that He has provided us." I'm not writing this to dispute the idea of being grateful and praising God for things that we have every right to be thankful for, and especially those things for which we do nothing to deserve. But as I've grown up and become immersed in the world of feminist philosophy, I have, in my own life, begun to recognize my "privilege" much more often than I recognize God's "blessings." And it's not that I think that the two concepts are in direct contrast or competition with each other, but I do believe that talking only about blessings can lead to a form of apathy and even smug indifference to the plight of those around us that is exceedingly dangerous.
Talking about and acknowledging privilege, in the feminist and progressive movements, is an active process. It's about recognizing those things that we have simply by nature of our economic, social, political, racial, or gendered place in life that those who are oppressed in those same areas do not have. It's also (and this is, in my opinion, a far more difficult and important process) recognizing and combatting those systems that allow the privilege to remain.
Talking about blessings, specifically in a religious or spiritual context, doesn't ever call the acknowledger to action. I can acknowledge the great blessing that I have because I was born in and now live in two countries which both, respectively, allow me to practice my religion without condemnation or any real constraint. This is a frequent refrain in both Canadian and American church prayers. But this acknowledgement is passive. I can acknowledge this religious freedom, thank my God for it, and then move on with my life. But if, instead, I acknowledge that this religious freedom is a privilege that originates in my socio-economic, national, and racial status, I must then also realize that there are oppressive systems (whether political, social, or cultural) at play in countries across the world that deny other people this same privilege. When I acknowledge this hard truth, I must also commit myself to changing these oppressive systems in any way that I can.
This same thought process is true for countless other hard truths. And I think this difference between passively acknowledging and being grateful for undeserved blessings and actively recognizing, checking, and committing to changing systems of privilege and oppression is one of the major reasons why churches in the Western world are plagued by apathy.
I think we Christians do ourselves and our God a disservice when we acknowledge these same truths using the language of blessing and gratitude.
How can I thank God for my whiteness? Or my wealth? Not only did I not do anything for these attributes, but God didn't give them to me as a positive thing to be grateful for. To think that way is to place the different races and socio-economic statuses on a scale of good to bad, blessing to curse. If I were to thank God for my whiteness, then doesn't that mean that being black would somehow be a negative? A non-blessing? A burden? A curse?
How could I think this way? How could anyone (or at least anyone who doesn't openly and joyfully embrace racist ideology)? But if I call my place in this country, my freedom from the tensions embroiling Ferguson a "God-given blessing," isn't that exactly what I'm doing?
I think churches and religious people across the Western world need to move beyond this passive gratitude. There's nothing wrong with thanking God, but I think we need to critically analyzing the thing which we thank God for. We need to ask ourselves, is this really something to be grateful for? Is it a blessing? Or is it just me enjoying the benefits of being on the winning side of an injustice? And if that's what it is, then I will not be grateful. And neither should you. We should all commit ourselves to analyzing and acknowledging when we are on the winning side of such an injustice, and instead of thanking our Deity for the win, we should commit ourselves to fighting to end the injustice that allows for someone else to be on the losing end of the equation.
I am not grateful for my whiteness. Instead, I recognize it, acknowledge it, and commit myself to the lifelong process of checking my privilege at the door, seeking out the voices of those who are not white, so I can come to know the best, the most effective ways for me to engage in the struggle to end the racial injustice that allows the colour of my skin to be a privilege at all.
I know a lot of people who strive to view themselves and to be what they label "colour-blind." I know my Dad will always answer the question of what race he is with the answer, "human." And while for a long time I loved this response, and even used it a few times myself, we can't whitewash the systems of racial injustice away simply by pretending that we don't see them. We can't pretend that I would've faced the same treatment walking down the street in my Naperville, IL next to a cop car that Michael Brown faced in Ferguson, MO. Calling yourself colour-blind or labeling yourself human instead of white doesn't change the vastly different treatment that Michael Brown and young black men across this country face every time they encounter a member of law enforcement.
If I went to any number of local churches this coming Sunday, I could no doubt hear many a pastor include in a prayer a message of gratitude for the supposedly God-given blessing of living in an area that is not plagued by the racial violence and unrest that is facing Ferguson, Missouri right now. But what good does such an acknowledgment of supposed blessing actually do? It allows for and even enables our own innate inclinations towards apathy. I can easily sit idly by and simply acknowledge that I am blessed to live in a majority upper middle class, white area of the county. But if, instead, I recognize and proclaim the hard truth that I am not faced with the violence and unrest here in DuPage County precisely because of the privilege I have because of the systems of privilege I enjoy due to my skin colour and my socio-economic status, I must then also recognize that other people, through just the same non-existent effort as my own, do not have this same privilege. Instead these people are oppressed by these same systems because they live in poorer areas and/or were born with brown or black skin.
And this isn't just about race. There are so many other hard truths in the world, so many injustices that can just as easily be viewed as "God-given blessings." We have got to stop being passive. Stop being grateful. We have got to "ready our heart's teeth. Chew through the etiquette leash," to begin fighting injustice everywhere we see it, every time we contribute to it or benefit from it.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Apathy and Ellen Page
Like so much of the queer world, I freaked the fuck out when Ellen Page came out this past Friday. And not because I was in any way surprised that Ellen Page is gay. I wasn't. Like so many other people, gay or straight (or anywhere else on any spectrum), I was about 99.999% sure that Ellen Page is gay. And yet, as much as there may be a decent sized list of people who the queer community (especially the online queer feminist community to which I belong) "knows" is queer, every single time one of them actually takes their own affirmative steps to come out of their closets, to declare their own truths, we all cheer and freak out so loud and for so long that we start to forget there was ever a time when that person actually wasn't out.
For days after I saw the internet explode with Ellen Page's announcement, I carried on my life with a huge, probably incredibly goofy-looking grin on my face. And at first I couldn't figure out why this one person's coming out was making me so incredibly happy. I mean, I cheered and celebrated when Raven-Symone and Michelle Rodriguez came out last year. I was happy. But neither Raven's gay marriage celebrating tweet nor M-Rod's bisexual rumour confirming interview made me this ecstatic for days on end. At first I thought it was just because of how much I love Ellen Page's movies or how much I crush on her, but, let's be honest, Michelle Rodriguez definitely falls more into the latter category for me than Ellen Page does.
And then I thought maybe it's because Raven and Michelle Rodriguez both have histories of awkwardly, defensively, and at times destructively denying rumours of their respective queerness. And Ellen Page just avoided the subject (or even tongue-in-cheek poked fun at in that 2008 SNL skit). Or it could be because Ellen Page is still a huge, and likely still rising star, while M-Rod has a long-term and at times messy career of always playing the same bad-ass type of character and Raven's claim to fame rises mostly out her career as a kid on the "Cosby Show" and a teen in Disney's "That's So Raven."
But I think the real reason behind my joyous reaction to Ellen Page coming out is simply because of the way that she came out. As the icon of gay Ellens would put it, she owned her own truth. Ellen Page got on that stage and didn't just say, "hey world, I'm gay, now explode!" (even though that's pretty much all that got reported/tweeted in the immediate aftermath). Instead, she stood up there and slowly built up to her announcement through an exposition of Hollywood culture and societal pressure, both on gender presentation and sexuality. And, yeah, Ellen Page said those three words "I am gay," and those may forever be the most memorable words from her speech (and after those seemingly simple words, you could see her entire body sigh). But I truly hope that those words are not the only ones remembered from her speech on Friday. Because that wasn't the pinnacle of her speech, not by a long shot. Instead, she went on to explain her own coming out (and why she hadn't until this point), acknowledged her own privilege in being able to come out in such an accepting setting, and ended by saying "thank you" to everyone who enables young people to find the strength to claim their own truth.
Now, while most of the response to Ellen Page coming out was positive and supportive, and I honestly didn't see much hateful or negative backlash, I did see way too many dismissive comments, as Riese over at Autostraddle so beautifully dissects:
Ellen Page said she’d been scared to reveal her truth, and in response way too many people responded with, ”In other news, the sky is blue.” The fact that so many felt comfortable being that rude to someone who’d just publicly shared a private struggle speaks volumes about how important they consider the issues of gay women to be. We should be wary of these people. People like them are why so many believe this country is post-racial or post-feminist when this country is racist as fuck and hates women. This country loves to pass a few laws and then declare everything officially fixed forever. This country has a short memory.When people respond to a high profile celebrity coming out with some variation of "so what?" or "well duh! who cares?" they perpetuate the notion that the fight is over. That gay youth don't still face rejection, homelessness, drug addictions, depression, and suicide at exponentially higher rates than non-queer youth. And the vast majority of these issues stem from familial or communal rejection of them once they come out or are outed.
It can be soul-crushing for a queer person who is struggling with the possibility of coming out of the closet to less than supportive family and friends to see those types of responses to the beautifully eloquent coming out of someone like Ellen Page. When you are sitting in the darkness of your own closet, having just felt a little bit of warmth and light shine on you because of the encouragement of Ellen Page, and then you see so many self-proclaimed "allies" shun the idea that there is any bravery at all (or even any point for that matter) in someone like Ellen Page ever publicly declaring her label, her truth, you want to slam yourself so tightly back into that closet, nearly forgetting to take note of the incredible support that Ellen Page and her true supporters and community have to offer.
I know what it's like to live for years in a closet. I've been there. I spent so much of my life refusing to even let myself face my own truth, the reality of my own attractions and desires. I wouldn't even acknowledge it in my head because I knew (or thought I knew) that as long as I never faced it myself, I would never have to face even the slightest possibility of sharing that truth with anyone around me. And I had the vast majority of these frightened and denial-ridden conversations with myself while attending American University, a place so imbued with support and pride for LGBT issues that Westboro Baptist Church (ahem...cult, not church) came to protest us. And while I felt (and still feel) so much pride at how incredible my school was at embracing and encouraging queers, I still engaged in this circular, internalized-homophobic thought process. I didn't come out to myself until a good year after I left American. And, yes, there are many other personal reasons behind the timing of my own journey, but what I know is this: having an immediately supportive community doesn't make it somehow magically easy to come out of the closet. Sure, on some surface level, would it have been easier for me to face my own truth, to come out as queer, while still at AU? Of course, without a doubt. But I also know that if I had come out publicly while at AU, chances are I never would've moved home, never would've put in the work, the sweat and tears, to rebuild my relationship with my family. Instead, I waited until my family and I were on solid ground for the first time in years before I felt I could even face my own truth for myself. And then I came out to my family. And then to the rest of my world. Now, from a distance, this might seem like I waited until my family and I were on solid ground only to rip the metaphorical rug out from under us by coming out. I've had people, family members even, say this very thing to me. But what I know is that I put far too much blood, sweat, and tears into rebuilding my relationship with my parents to allow even a portion of that relationship to be built on the lie that I was perpetuating, by omission if nothing else, that I was straight. I needed to rebuild that relationship, and then I had to reveal my whole truth, before we could ever be on truly solid ground. That's my journey. That's my story.
So when people try to make the argument that coming out in front of an overwhelmingly supportive community like the Human Rights Campaign isn't brave at all, they are flat out wrong. Because coming out, declaring the truth of your queerness, involves so much more than just needing an immediate pat on the back by those in close proximity to you. Coming out is a process of finally facing yourself, acknowledging your own truth, and then figuring out where that leaves you in the many different worlds that you navigate.
Some people think that, because they aren't actively spewing hate at a gay person, they don't pull the trigger when a black person makes them nervous (or do but justify it by claiming stand-your-ground), and they don't intentionally try to treat the women in their workplace as less important/intelligent/etc. than their male colleagues, they are not in any way perpetuating the institutions of homophobia, racism, and sexism, respectively. But for anyone who really takes the time to dig into any of these issues, they have to at some point come to the realization that these oppressive institutions are still very much alive and well. And once you reach that conclusion, but look around and don't see public lynchings, anti-sodomy laws, or lack of women's suffrage, at some point you also have to realize that it's not just the faceless, nameless "other" that perpetuates these institutions. It's us. It's you and me. Every day we let our own apathy lull us into contentment, every time we let ourselves believe that we don't play a role in perpetuating these oppressive institutions, we are, by that very act of apathy, perpetuating them.
For the past couple months I've been wrestling with the idea of how to fight against the pull of my own apathy, to truly fight for the things for which my heart breaks. There's this poem, "Etiquette Leash," by the amazing queer spoken word artist and activist, Andrea Gibson, that has opened my eyes and challenged me so much that I find myself repeating it to myself over and over again each day. As I was editing this post, I kept trying to figure out which section of the poem I wanted to include, but I don't think it carries nearly the same weight in snippets. So here's the whole thing:
It's so very easy for me to rest in my own privileged apathy, to not do that hard work of opening the eyes of those around me. To know and feel the pain and the heartache caused by so many different problems in the world, but to justify my own silence, my own lack of action by claiming that I'm not actively perpetuating any of these institutions (at least not purposefully). But this shuffling of blame and responsibility is precisely what allows these institutions to remain so active.
Every time a celebrity comes our or there's a story of a young gay kid committing suicide, and so many self-proclaimed "allies" respond with "so what?" to the former and "I would never bully a gay kid" to the latter, the institution of homophobia rolls on. Every time we see stories of black boys like Trayvon Martin and Jordan Davis being killed and either refuse to acknowledge the role racism plays in their deaths or separate ourselves from it by saying that we don't shoot every black kid we see walking down the street in a hoodie, we are turning our eyes from the overwhelming racism that is ravaging this supposedly great nation.
How do we not see that I, a cisgender, upper class, well-educated white woman, will never have to justify wearing a hoodie, listening to headphones and walking home alone at night to the man with a gun. That man with a gun isn't going to assume that I'm casing every house I walk by trying to figure out which one I should break into. But if I were a young black man walking home alone with my hood up and my headphones in, that's what people assume. That's what George Zimmerman assumed.
I drive around in my economy car blaring my music, mostly alternative but sometimes hip hop, and even at gas stations, sometimes I'll let it blare while I run inside to grab a snack. I have never once had to worry that if I don't turn my music down when someone asks, that person may pull a gun on me because my music in combination with my skin tone made him "justifiably" afraid. But that's exactly what happened when Michael Dunn saw Jordan Davis blaring his music at a gas station. I'll never have to face that.
My parents have never once had to instruct me on how to act when I'm around a police officer. They've never had to tell me to be constantly aware of how fast my hands move to my pocket for ID in connection with how quickly the cop's hand can move to unbuckle his gun holster. I've never had those conversations. I never will. Because I am white.
My criminal procedure professor from last semester told us that her African-American husband, an Ivy-educated, powerful attorney, would never feel comfortable saying "no" to a cop who asks to search his car. Not because of the law. This man knows the law and knows he has every right to deny a consent-search. But because his skin colour immediately makes most cops suspicious. It doesn't matter that this man drives a really nice car, is well-educated, articulate and upper class. His skin is black, so he does not feel safe exercising his full Constitutional rights.
That is the world that we live in. That is a society that we perpetuate.
For years, I've wanted to be a prosecutor. I still do. I clerk at a local State's Attorney's Office and I'm earning my Criminal Litigation certificate along with my J.D. But increasingly I find myself wondering how I'm going to operate within the modern criminal justice system when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the modern criminal justice system operates as a new slave system, a modern Jim Crow. Is it my own apathy towards these heart-wrenching truths that keeps me on this path? Or am I simply allowing myself to prioritize the feminist struggle over the anti-racist struggle? Is that prioritization in itself a form of apathy?
These are my digressions, my internal struggles. And I will likely wrestle with these issues for years to come. Finding intersectional answers to the intertwining problems of this worlds is never easy. But what I do know is that I refuse to remain silent about these issues. I won't stand by and let people claim that Ellen Page's courage doesn't matter. I won't stand still when I hear those around me, subtly or otherwise, perpetuating racism and sexism. I have to speak up. I have to give voice to the screams inside my chest.
Right before Ellen Page uttered those simple words "I'm here today because I am gay," those words that shattered the internet for a little while, she said that she drew on the "strength and support" of the people at the conference. Likewise, people like me and other queer youth, whether out or still in the closet, draw on the strength of high profile and courageous people like Ellen Page. And like Ellen Page, "maybe I can make a difference. To help others have an easier and more hopeful time. Regardless, for me, I feel a personal obligation and a social responsibility." This blog is a part of that speaking up and fighting back. But I know that I have to do more. I'm constantly learning and trying to figure out how to keep fighting, to figure out the balance. What I've realized over the last couple years though, what has become increasingly clear to me, is that I cannot afford, this world cannot afford, for me or anyone else to remain politely silent, waiting our turn to speak or holding our tongues to allow those around us to remain apathetic and comfortable. We must speak up. We must fight back. We must do the work to make each other see, to not rest, to not be afraid.
To end, I will quote Andrea Gibson once more:
I don't believe we're hateful
I think mostly we're just asleep
But the math adds up the same
You can't call up the dead and say,
"Sorry, we were looking the other way."
There are names and faces behind our apathy
eulogies beneath our choices
There are voices deep as roots
thundering unquestionable truth
through the white noise that pacifies our ears.
Don't tell me we don't hear
Don't tell me we don't hear
When the moon is slain
when the constellations disperse like shrapnel
don't you think it's time
something changed?
Monday, December 2, 2013
Facing Slavery
I watch in horror as
the images splay across the big screen.
The kidnappers not caring about the man and family they were
destroying. The sadistic slaveholder
forcing Solomon to whip Patsy, a fellow slave, until her back is ravaged beyond
repair. The slaver with, seemingly, some semblance
of a heart admitting to Solomon that he doesn't want to know the truth because simply knowing would cost too much.
I could go on and explain just how deeply the movie 12 Years a Slave affected me. It's one of those movies that was so incredibly painful to watch that, although I will never regret seeing it, I doubt I'll ever watch it again. It makes me question humanity and God and everything I know and love about the world, about humanity, about myself.
It's easy for me to attempt to relieve myself, my culture, the only world that I have ever lived in, of the guilt of these horrible historical wrongs. And as much as the scourge of slavery and racism and hate have seeped into and stained this country for eternity, it is easy to try and separate ourselves from it.
So very easy.
It's easy to say that this doesn't happen now, not here. That we're somehow better than them. More evolved. More compassionate. More willing to see the image of God in every person, no matter our demographic differences.
But there are more slaves in the world today than ever existed throughout the history of the "legal" slave trade.
And again, it's easy to imagine and believe that the modern slave trade is a "third world" problem. I follow and love and support organizations like IJM and the A21 campaign whose entire mission is to rescue people from the international slave trade.
It's so easy to just donate money to organizations such as these, and still remain blissfully and willfully ignorant.
Here's the truth: the slave trade is alive and well in America.
Here's an even harder truth: the slave trade exists in America because there is a demand for it, here and now.
Every year in every city that hosts the Superbowl or any other major sporting event, the rates of sex trafficking skyrockets in the days before and after the event. There are always women and children being trafficked blocks from the White House and the Capital, especially during national events such as the a Presidential Inauguration. Florida has some of the highest rates of child sex slavery due, at least in part, to the perpetual interstate tourist demand. Demand is especially high during Spring Break season.
This is the stinging indictment that a former child prostitute laid at the feet of Georgetown Law School:
"With conviction and irreverence, Frundt tells the story her staff told her she shouldn’t — one she agreed not to tell — about the time she was walking the streets at night near D.C. She was approached by two johns who mistook her for a prostitute. Frundt told the men they had the wrong idea. She asked where they were from. 'They said Georgetown Law,' Frundt says. 'Yeah, they go to Georgetown Law.' She doesn’t let it sink in. She jams it in. 'That’s right. They’re right next to you.' In the crowd, there is a look these speakers know well. It’s not fear, nor compassion, nor grief. It is shame."
So, no, those who keep up the demand for the slave trade in America are not some faceless monsters. Sex slavery isn't perpetrated by clusters of evil people in far away places devoid of human connections and emotions. It's an economy trafficked in by our friends, our acquaintances, our classmates, our neighbours. It's us.
It's the good looking guy not much older than me in a downtown Naperville bar. The one with the flash of recognition and the gall to say "hello." A nonchalant greeting from a "client" she wished was long forgotten.
I have lived in Naperville, IL nearly my entire life. It's known as a great place to raise kids, as the home of a fantastic library, and as a bustling, friendly, and fun downtown.
It's also the home to that john who said "hello" like he was bumping into an old high school classmate. And it's the home to former and current slaves. I don't know how many. So often, it's easier for me to just not think about them at all. To pretend that Naperville is just this privileged, elite home to so many things about the capitalist society that I hate.
It's also easy for my feelings to flash towards revulsion when I see a prostitute crossing the street in the shitty part of Chicago that I drove through, not realizing that this more "direct" route to the airport would bring me face-to-face with my own privileged assumptions I thought I had long rejected.
As much as I know that I'm going to spend the rest of my life actively fighting the horrors of sex crimes, I have no clue how I will survive. I don't know how I'll muster the courage to not break down and lash out, not just against the men I will try to convict, but against the society that, with blissful, conceited, and too often willful ignorance, allows the demand for sex slaves to continue.
How am I supposed to live in a world where the horrors depicted so brutally in 12 Years a Slave have not ended? How do I keep my faith in the beauty of humanity when humanity is so damn good at justifying and perpetuating and, perhaps more heartwrenchingly, ignoring its own brutality.
How will I face this brutality day in and day out for the rest of my life and still keep my faith?
I could go on and explain just how deeply the movie 12 Years a Slave affected me. It's one of those movies that was so incredibly painful to watch that, although I will never regret seeing it, I doubt I'll ever watch it again. It makes me question humanity and God and everything I know and love about the world, about humanity, about myself.
It's easy for me to attempt to relieve myself, my culture, the only world that I have ever lived in, of the guilt of these horrible historical wrongs. And as much as the scourge of slavery and racism and hate have seeped into and stained this country for eternity, it is easy to try and separate ourselves from it.
So very easy.
It's easy to say that this doesn't happen now, not here. That we're somehow better than them. More evolved. More compassionate. More willing to see the image of God in every person, no matter our demographic differences.
But there are more slaves in the world today than ever existed throughout the history of the "legal" slave trade.
And again, it's easy to imagine and believe that the modern slave trade is a "third world" problem. I follow and love and support organizations like IJM and the A21 campaign whose entire mission is to rescue people from the international slave trade.
It's so easy to just donate money to organizations such as these, and still remain blissfully and willfully ignorant.
Here's the truth: the slave trade is alive and well in America.
Here's an even harder truth: the slave trade exists in America because there is a demand for it, here and now.
Every year in every city that hosts the Superbowl or any other major sporting event, the rates of sex trafficking skyrockets in the days before and after the event. There are always women and children being trafficked blocks from the White House and the Capital, especially during national events such as the a Presidential Inauguration. Florida has some of the highest rates of child sex slavery due, at least in part, to the perpetual interstate tourist demand. Demand is especially high during Spring Break season.
This is the stinging indictment that a former child prostitute laid at the feet of Georgetown Law School:
"With conviction and irreverence, Frundt tells the story her staff told her she shouldn’t — one she agreed not to tell — about the time she was walking the streets at night near D.C. She was approached by two johns who mistook her for a prostitute. Frundt told the men they had the wrong idea. She asked where they were from. 'They said Georgetown Law,' Frundt says. 'Yeah, they go to Georgetown Law.' She doesn’t let it sink in. She jams it in. 'That’s right. They’re right next to you.' In the crowd, there is a look these speakers know well. It’s not fear, nor compassion, nor grief. It is shame."
So, no, those who keep up the demand for the slave trade in America are not some faceless monsters. Sex slavery isn't perpetrated by clusters of evil people in far away places devoid of human connections and emotions. It's an economy trafficked in by our friends, our acquaintances, our classmates, our neighbours. It's us.
It's the good looking guy not much older than me in a downtown Naperville bar. The one with the flash of recognition and the gall to say "hello." A nonchalant greeting from a "client" she wished was long forgotten.
I have lived in Naperville, IL nearly my entire life. It's known as a great place to raise kids, as the home of a fantastic library, and as a bustling, friendly, and fun downtown.
It's also the home to that john who said "hello" like he was bumping into an old high school classmate. And it's the home to former and current slaves. I don't know how many. So often, it's easier for me to just not think about them at all. To pretend that Naperville is just this privileged, elite home to so many things about the capitalist society that I hate.
It's also easy for my feelings to flash towards revulsion when I see a prostitute crossing the street in the shitty part of Chicago that I drove through, not realizing that this more "direct" route to the airport would bring me face-to-face with my own privileged assumptions I thought I had long rejected.
As much as I know that I'm going to spend the rest of my life actively fighting the horrors of sex crimes, I have no clue how I will survive. I don't know how I'll muster the courage to not break down and lash out, not just against the men I will try to convict, but against the society that, with blissful, conceited, and too often willful ignorance, allows the demand for sex slaves to continue.
How am I supposed to live in a world where the horrors depicted so brutally in 12 Years a Slave have not ended? How do I keep my faith in the beauty of humanity when humanity is so damn good at justifying and perpetuating and, perhaps more heartwrenchingly, ignoring its own brutality.
How will I face this brutality day in and day out for the rest of my life and still keep my faith?
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