Voices of the Year - BlogHer 2012

Blogging affords me a certain level of comfort. I can tell you a personal story and string words together to make you feel something while keeping myself at a safe distance. I might be overcome with emotion when writing and might even cry but those of you reading won't know because the only gauge you have are the words I give you. You can't peer through the screen while I'm writing and see what I'm feeling. I was selected to read Ministrations at BlogHer's Voices of the Year.

When I wrote that post in April...I cried.

I cried because I still have moments when I am tired of being different, moments when I wish I could blend, moments when I judge myself too harshly. But, I also shed tears because I am so relieved that I have the insight to recognize those moments and dare myself to be braver.

Writing words on a page and reading those words to a roomful of people are very different things.

When I stepped onto the stage to read, I was visible in a way that I have not been since I began blogging. I stood there looking so very queer and read a piece about coming to terms with that.

I wasn't nervous about reading the words.

I was nervous about feeling them.

And I did feel them and the earth didn't swallow me whole.

I can't imagine a better audience than the one at Voices of the Year. A roomful of bloggers cheering for you? I'll take it.

I appreciate every single person who came up to me afterwards with kind words and all those who tweeted their support. I'm still high days later.

Thank you to Deborah, the best blog wife ever, for recording this and sending it to me to post.

Also, thank you to Polly who introduced me. I was struck by the fact that Polly and I met and became friends in Minneapolis in 1993 but lost touch after she moved to California. We met again through blogging and, last Friday, shared the stage.

http://youtu.be/oLNM8aDVdxk

Check out the rest of the readers at Voices of the Year (links to the original posts unless otherwise noted):

Elizabeth Jayne Liu: To the Person who Stole My Gordita Fund

Lori Volkman: Fish-Infested Waters

Jenny Feldon: Life Lessons in the Seafood Section

Arnebya Herndon: Walk This Way

Liz McGuire: On Being Nine

Neil Kramer: The Poet at the Genius Bar

Issa Mas: The Horror of Mealtime

Susan Goldberg: It's Always Something

Dresden Shumaker: Welfare Queen (Video taken at Voices of the Year)

Jane Byers Goodwin: Dick Clark and Our Sofa

Suzanne Barston: You've (not) Come a Long Way, Baby

Barbara Becker: The Swastika in the Neighborhood

Varda Steinhardt: Holding Hands

Shari Simpson: The Best/Worst "Female" Story You Will Ever Read

STILL TO COME: The wacky BlogHer recap! You know I have stories to tell!

Ministrations

The beveled edges of the mirror frame my face. I stare at my reflection and notice the slight wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, a few freckles sprinkled across my nose. This is the mingling of youth and maturity, of past and present.

I rub a small amount of gel between my hands and run them through my short grey hair. I close my eyes, giving myself over to the feel of soft hair beneath my fingers. When I open my eyes a minute later, every hair is in place and I am grateful for such simplicity.

As I’ve grown older, I have developed a fondness for black. It contrasts with my grey hair and fair skin. It strengthens my presence, makes me feel visible. When I slip into a tailored black dress shirt, I revel in the feel of the soft cotton on my skin as I slide my arms through the sleeves. I appreciate the way the cuffs hit my wrists at just the right place.  My fingers march up the row of buttons, leaving a couple undone so the neckline opens enough to expose part of my chest.

I choose a pair of dark jeans that ride low on my waist. They fit, hugging my curves and my thighs. I tuck in my shirt before slowly threading a black belt through the loops and through the silver buckle centered at the front.

I pull on a favorite pair of black socks. They are soft and my freshly shaved legs tingle at their touch. I run my hand over the blood red and grey swirls of my shoes, the leather smooth and cool as water beneath my hand. The shoes are bold and make me feel bold. I slip my feet into the soft leather and pull the black laces taught.

I wear few accessories – silver earrings, a black and silver watch, and glasses with dark, chunky frames.

Everything I do, I do with intention.

Confidence.

Femininity.

Difference.

These are the brightly colored strands that I forever try to braid.

I stand before the full-length mirror in my foyer and take in my appearance. In that moment, I hold the strands tightly in my hands but when I step out into the world, they are picked loose and unraveled.

There have been many moments when I have felt the schism between who I am and who the world expects me to be. So many that they blend together and lose distinction. The edges of each individual experience are worn away until they cease to be memorable incidents and simply become my life. People call me “sir” until they notice my breasts or the high pitch of my voice. People define me as “butch” without ever asking how I define myself.

For years, I had long hair.  I permed it and curled it and spent hours trying to style it. I wanted to look like all the other girls and didn’t want to be different. After coming out, I went to a barbershop and got a flattop - an act of rebellion against my past, an act of conformity to what I thought a lesbian had to be.

Now, the days of perms and flat tops are gone. I keep my hair short because it fits me.

For years, I shaved my legs because that’s what I was told to do. Then, I stopped shaving because I was told that I was conforming to traditional femininity though my hairy legs never did bring down the patriarchy.

Now, I shave because I want to, because the act of doing so connects me to my body and, when I finish, I run my hands over my legs simply because I enjoy the feel of my own skin.

For years, I was at war with my body. My shoulders were too broad, my arms too long, my breasts too big, my stomach too soft, my thighs too thick. Every part of me was just too much. I tried to change the things I could and hated the things I couldn’t. I starved myself. I wore clothes that were too big so that I could hide.

Now, my tailored shirt, the bra that accentuates my rack, my fitted jeans – these are the peace offerings I make to my self after years spent trying to look like someone I’m not.

This is the real me. I am recreating femininity in my own image.

Confidence.

Femininity.

Difference.

These are the brightly colored strands that I forever try to braid.

Each day before leaving the house, I stand before that full-length mirror and whisper, “Be yourself.”

I take a deep breath and add,  “I dare you.”

The Days Are Paper Thin

How many questions are we asked each day? How many decisions must we make? When we are worn down by constant demands, it is easy to become rigid, to set strict limits and withhold explanations.

The days are sometimes paper thin, easily torn by shifting moods and impatience.

Today was such a day.

Miguel wanted to do something and we told him that he couldn't and, after his incessant questioning, we refused to discuss it further. He went to his room angry. We were frustrated and let him go without another word.

Later, I went into his room to tuck him in and he was lying in bed looking at the ceiling. I sat on his bed and put my hand on his leg but said nothing. After a few moments, he sat up and spoke.

"I will always question authority. I will fight authority until I die. I see at as chains that hold me back from endless possibility."

He was calm and earnest in his attempt to make me understand.

And I do understand. After all, I have watched him from the moment he took his first breath. I have born witness to his persistence and fearlessness again and again.

I nodded as he spoke. I told him that we don't want to control him, that we set limits to help him learn to set his own, that we are imperfect people with his best interests at heart.

He took a breath as his eyes met mine. He stretched his palm out into the space between us and then curved his hand as if he were holding a ball.

"It's like this. If you hold a bubble too tight, it will pop. If you loosen your grasp, the bubble stays whole. And sometimes, if you let it go completely, it will hover right in front of you without you having to hold it at all. Sometimes, if you let go, you may be surprised that good things happen."

I sat there in awe as he explained the essential struggle of our relationship. We want to hold on but we have to let go. We have to let our children take risks and make their own mistakes. As tears rolled down my face, I swallowed hard and told him that bubbles are fragile, that sometimes we simply want to protect them.

He reached out and put his hand on my leg and said, "If you stay close, you can take the bubble in your hand and hold it when you need to."

I pulled him into a hug and held him tight. I'm not ready to let go.