Important Disclaimer

Since I currently have several employers/supervisors/churches/etc., please know that none of the words on my blog represent them or their beliefs. This blog is my own creation.

It also does not represent my children's perspective, nor my mother's; they think I am funny, but misguided.
(Quick update: only my mother thinks I'm funny now.)

Sunday, July 24, 2011

The McFlurry


Somewhat frazzled, on vacation with my children, I stopped in at McDonald's to satisfy the boys' ice cream cravings. I thought I understood my youngest's instructions, so I began our order:


Me: We would like an ice cream in a cup. (I was deliberately avoiding the word "cone" because we didn't want one of those. But we didn't want a Sundae, so it felt like I needed to preface ice cream with "an".)

Poor Guy at Counter (PGC): You want an ice cream cone in a cup?

Me: No. Just ice cream in a cup.

PGC: Oh. You mean a sundae?

Me: Yes, but with nothing on it.

PGC: (nods) Would you like nuts?


--This question catches me off guard, as I'm sort of astonished we haven't reached an understanding yet.


Me: No. No nuts. Just ice cream in a cup.

PGC: oh, okay. A sundae with no toppings. Got it.

Youngest Son (YS): Mooooooommmm! I said I wanted m&m's!!!!

Me: You mean you want a McFlurry?

Youngest Son: YES!!

PGC: (rolls eyes ever so slightly) oh. a McFlurry. Got it.


I stood there feeling a bit foolish, until the next guy walked up to the register and said, "I'd like an ice cream in a cup." And the server said, "You mean an ice cream cone in a cup?"

Well, at least it's not just me.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Safe Space

As they were going along the road, someone said to him, ‘I will follow you wherever you go.’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’ ~Luke 9:57-58

I've been thinking about "safe space" for most of my life. A few years ago I wrote this poem as part of a paper for grad school:
 
"A Reverie"

Once when I was small,
I stumbled home 
broken and bruised and weeping.
It was not the first time nor the last.

At a moment, 
perfectly balanced 
between him and home,
I stopped and began to laugh.
At that moment, perfectly balanced,
I perceived with my six-year-old mind that I could think.

A space big enough for me, 
but too small for him,
opened in my body and I crawled in.
I stayed there for twenty years
until I was sure he was gone.

I was six when I realized there was no such thing as safe space. People have a habit of confirming this insight on a fairly regular basis. The spaces that are supposed to be safest often turn out to be the most dangerous. While I was sexually assaulted once by a stranger, the most egregious offenses have come from a family member, a lover, a friend. Even the stranger was a friend of a friend. This is not to say that there is no stranger danger, just that we are more often betrayed within what we consider to be safe spaces.

A few years ago, before I decided to live openly as a queer woman, I was part of an email group for queer seminarians. This group was private. It was to be a safe space. Nobody was part of the email group unless they were queer. All agreed that our emails would stay within the group, never to be shared beyond the group. We agreed not to share who else was in the group. Private. Safe. Space. 

About five weeks before my ordination an email thread started about clergy robes. Caught up in this safe space I overshared a bit in an email. The story I shared was humorous, and one of the women in the group replied all and then forwarded her reply (with my original text) to two other email groups she was part of. Both of those groups were connected to lgbtq activism in some way, but not all of the people in those groups were queer. More to the point, according to our group covenant my email was never to be shared beyond our original group. Five weeks before ordination in a denomination that is hostile to queer folk, and I had been outed by another queer woman who thought nothing of her actions. She reassured me that all of her contacts were trustworthy and I needn't worry. Two women from the outside groups rushed in with their own emails informing me that they were trustworthy and so was everyone in their extended groups. All I knew was that I had been outed--by someone who promised they wouldn't do that.

I reflected hard that weekend on the concept of safe space. I was furious, frankly. But at about the same time I met a few trans women on twitter. We began a conversation about "women only space" which typically means "cis women only" space. Many groups set up for women only exclude trans women (although interesting, often trans men are welcome). This gave me pause, as the women I met on twitter are women I would want in any women only space I inhabited. These women had my back on a no good lousy day. These women struggled with many of the same issues I do. When I learned they were routinely excluded from "safe spaces," I was forced again to think through the concept of safe space.

Last year the Outlaw Preachers held a reunion weekend at which a speaker who is anti-lgbtq was invited to speak. We are still arguing over whether that reunion was therefore still safe space, if he should have been welcomed, if the queer folk who objected are overly sensitive, if the people who invited the guy place certain abstract Christian ideals over the physical and emotional safety and comfort of queer folk, etc. 

Safe space comes at a cost.We know that--even we liberal/progressive/bleeding heart/commie-pinko/pie-in-the-sky/dreamers know that. We have invasive airport security because we have decided as a nation/culture that the creation of safe space is worth the invasion of people's bodies, racial profiling, a ton of money, and boatloads of time. I'm not saying airport security is right or wrong (conservative blog trolls may stand down). I'm saying that the creation of safe space costs and it is very difficult to maintain. I'm saying that the creation of safe space requires one to wield power and privilege. I'm saying that the creation of safe space requires "othering" and sometimes spiritual or physical violence to the other in order to maintain.

Sometimes the creation of safe spaces is essential to life. Domestic violence shelters are very careful about who they let in the door. They are very careful about who even knows where the door is. No doubt that these shelters are essential and that their boundaries are necessary. Yet many of the shelters will not provide services to men. Further, many women's programs refuse to shelter trans women, who are some of the most vulnerable women on the planet. What is the cost of this refusal? What further violence do we perpetrate by the creation of safe space for some at the expense of other vulnerable individuals? What should we expect from such spaces? If we shelter our own bodies and souls while others around us lack safety, what have we become?

I acknowledge the right of individuals and groups to create limited spaces for themselves. Such groups provide desperately needed space for healing, organizing, and strengthening for vulnerable individuals and groups. At my seminary a group of queer folk gathered deliberately without straight folk twice a month, in addition to our regular joint meetings. This was essential to our growth as individuals. Not all queer folk wanted the space. But some of us needed it. A group of women of color gathered periodically for fellowship, literary discussion, organizing, sharing. I was not welcome and never would have asked. That circle overlapped with a group which met periodically to discuss intimate violence, which overlapped with a literary discussion group where men were also welcome...and on it goes with circle after circle attempting to provide safety and space outside of the gaze of power where the vulnerable might find strength to push back. These spaces matter.

Yet I've come to question the word "safe," because the circles are only safe around certain axes. A women's group may be "safe" from the presence of men, but it may be rife with deep-seated racism, cissexism, and heterosexism. A queer group may pledge to be anti-racist and completely miss the fact that its leadership structure is patriarchal.

More intimately, while a group may claim itself as safe space, individuals within the group can and do perpetrate against one another. I remember many thanksgiving dinners where the man who raped me as a child pontificated for hours on the need to protect women and children. In the places we consider safest, we are most vulnerable, and therefore exposed more fully to the violence of others when they choose to betray our trust. Safe spaces have great difficulty maintaining themselves as safe spaces, and often are unable to see the abuses which take place.

I suppose that could lead pretty quickly to the X-Files' maxim: "Trust no one." But that leads one to a very lonely life. We are wired for interdependence and trust--we need human contact. We all need the places and people with whom we can lay down our guard. While I believe efforts to make the world safer need to continue (although I disagree with many on the extent of those efforts and the means used), I believe we need to simultaneously cultivate two other characteristics: the ability to function well in situations we do not fully trust and the resilience to survive and thrive when our trust is betrayed. 

Safe space is not always possible and is not always offered. I attended the Early Ministry Institute the last two years. EMI is a three year training program for new Presbyterian pastors in the Synod of the Northeast. It is intended as a safe place for newly minted pastors to share with one another, build friendships, speak deeply of our struggles, etc. It is not, however, a particularly safe space for queer folk. I lost track of the number of times I shared meals with pastors who believed homosexuality is a sin and felt comfortable dishing that out with the oatmeal breakfast. I still go, but I know the limitations of that space. I know the energy it costs me to be there. I set my boundaries accordingly. One of those boundaries is limiting the number of other conferences I attend that are not queer friendly. I can only take so much. Still, it is important to thrive in that space, even though it is not safe.

Lastly, the temptation to crawl back into that space in my mind created by six-year-old me is sometimes unbearably strong. I am exhausted by the lack of safe space in this world, by the need to constantly be on guard. When I find what I think is safe space, only to discover that I am betrayed, I am tempted to never trust again.

But more and more I find myself unwilling to close off from others for the sake of safety. I long for connection and understanding--is there anything more wonderful than naked vulnerability with a lover you trust? What is better than a glass of wine and good food with a friend who understands you? How much joy can be found in a moment of reconciliation between individuals who have been at odds? These things are worth the risk of vulnerability. They are worth the risk of death even. We cannot be fully human if we are fully safe (for an excellent analysis of how far we will go to secure safety at other's expense, see Jasbir Puar's book, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times).

This means to me that the pursuit of safe space is not my ultimate goal. But while that may be true, know that if the space you provide is clearly not safe, I may choose to avoid it. And if you claim that your space is safe when it obviously isn't, I will be thinking of those Thanksgiving dinners as I decline the opportunity to be skewered within your walls. If I show up anyway, despite the risk, it's because I decided that you were worth the cost. Act accordingly.

Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; 
but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’

Monday, July 11, 2011

The Solace of Charles Bukowski

My Grandpa Jim, James G. Ewer
I was in a mood tonight for fifty-eleven reasons, so I stared at my bookshelves for a while, waiting for one of my friends to speak to me. Charles Bukowski's collection of poems and stories, Betting on the Muse, caught my eye. Charles Bukowski is not to everybody's taste, which he wrote about extensively and in rather crude terms, telling most of the world just where to go. He lived, astonishingly, from 1920 to 1994, a full 74 years, running full tilt into booze and women, homelessness, addiction, and lousy eating habits. Curmudgeon doesn't even come close. But at moments his crudity, anger, and self-indulgent angst hit a chord with me. Sometimes one needs the company of friends who know what it is to be a mess. It's why my Grandpa Jim used to get wasted on Friday nights and call everybody in his phone book, slurring his greetings, which were nonetheless filled with love for my mother.


So on nights when I can imagine losing myself to madness, abandoning all responsibilities and obligations (despite the joy to be found in such things), I pull out Bukowski and his grunge. And I guess he knew about that too, cuz he wrote this poem:


the luck of the word                

throughout the years
I have gotten letters
from men
who say
that reading my
books
has helped them
get through,
go on.

this is high praise
indeed
and I know what
they mean:
my nerve to go
on was helped
by reading
Fante, Dostoevsky,
Lawrence, Celine, Hamsun
and others

the word
raw on the page,
the simliarities of
our hells,
when it all comes
through with
special
force,
those words and
what they speak
of
do help
get our asses
through the
fire.

a good book
can make an almost
impossible
existence,
liveable

for the reader
and
the writer.