tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68514849464401347022024-03-21T15:15:33.002-07:00A Dapper Werewolf In San FranciscoCDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-87195136068119448712017-08-31T09:03:00.000-07:002017-08-31T09:03:05.161-07:00On Strength and Weakness.
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">To say that I have a complicated relationship
with religion is the underiest of understatements. It is, and has been, and
will ever remain such a Big and Complex Thing in my life that I’m writing an
extensive and involved piece on it and on my experience with it right now.<br />
<br />
That piece is why I’ve been absent from this space for a bit. Much of what I
would want to be saying here is attached to what I am trying to say there.<br />
<br />
But I can’t hold onto this one. Take that as whatever degree of conceit you wish, here we
are, and here I go.<br />
<br />
I was raised as a person of faith – that specific faith being Roman Catholic.
From kindergarten until the end of college, I was educated in religious
institutions. From age 4 until 21, I took religion classes alongside standard
academic fare. Church history, scripture study, liberation theology,
comparative religions, right on down to “Women in the Hebrew Bible.” Expert I
am not, I can’t name chapters and verses, but I feel no discomfort in saying
that I am very educated in the religion that I practiced for much of my life.<br />
<br />
That entire time, I was also a queer person. But I didn’t know it. I didn’t
understand it. My entire understanding and concept of myself was set through a
religious filter, and my religion made no room for my identity. My religion
condemned my identity. And so I couldn’t see it.<br />
<br />
I won’t link to the Nashville Statement. Perhaps it’s an empty gesture, but
this little slice of digital whatever is my space, and I do not invite those
words nor the people who wrote them and/or saw fit to affirm them into my
space. You can search it, if you’d like. But I read every word, and in the
briefest of summaries let me tell you that if you were to search it, you would
find a “proclamation” in several parts stating that God – as defined by
Christianity – accepts as valid and good only heterosexual cisgender identities.<br />
<br />
That’s the kindest possible bit of paraphrasing.<br />
<br />
I don’t have a theological argument here. I won’t be drawing on my extensive
religious education to offer examples rooted in text and ideology as to why
this is wrong. Unlike the authors of this statement, I don’t presume to speak
for the Christian God nor any other.<br />
<br />
I speak from and for myself.<br />
<br />
Queer people of faith exist. Transgender people of faith exist. And they do not
exist to spite their religious communities, they exist because they <i>believe. </i>They believe so powerfully in
something beyond themselves that they continue to practice and persevere at
great personal risk – a risk that is both physical and psychological. <br />
<br />
To point to a group of people and deny their humanity and existence is hateful.
To claim divine right in doing so is shameful.<br />
<br />
The Nashville Statement is the latest in a long line of hateful, shameful
declarations that in the eyes of authors and supporters are a hammer of
strength, but that drip with weakness and fear.<br />
<br />
It’s the weak and the fearful who close their doors.<br />
<br />
And their eyes.<br />
<br />
And their minds.<br />
<br />
The strongest communities open, and listen, and build, and try to understand.
They disagree, and they are unkind, and they fail, and they try to do better.
They don’t celebrate themselves – they celebrate each other.<br />
<br />
I remain a person of faith, though I do not remain a Catholic. I don’t have a
word for what I consider myself – agnostic, I suppose, is the closest. But I
feel neither compelled nor inclined to name it. I’m happy in that. Secure in
it. I stumble, and I doubt, and I question. I miss some things. I get wildly
angry about others.<br />
<br />
But I see myself.<br />
<br />
Within a religion, or without, we have the power to self-determine without
expectation of punishment or reward. <br />
<br />
We have the power to see each other, to build with each other, to open. Or we
have the power to close – to point to our neighbors and say, “You are not me,
and so you are not allowed.” That’s a choice. It’s not on God, not any god.<br />
<br />
Any power that would endorse, “Me, not you,” over, “Me and you,” is not worthy.<br />
<br />
A power that excludes not on action but on existence is not a power at all.<br />
<br />
Every identity – queer, transgender, beyond – rejected by the Nashville
Statement, rejected by congregations and organizations of all degrees and denominations big and small across this country, exists.
They – we – have always existed.<br />
<br />
To ask us to be other than who we are is to ask us to be less than who we are.
Worse, it’s to ask us to be that which we are not. <br />
<br />
And when people answer, because it’s not as easy as just walking away for so
many, you stop knowing them. If you ever really did.</span><!--EndFragment--> CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-55581819331734799432017-01-12T21:05:00.004-08:002017-01-12T21:05:59.033-08:00On Teaching and Learning.I was a teacher for about seven years, running the drama/acting sections of after school and summer musical theatre programs for kids for a non-profit. It was hard work, and it was good work, and it - as well as the company itself and the really wonderful people I worked with - is something I am very proud of.<br />
<br />
There is, I think, a unique pressure that comes with being an educator and mentor, whether you run a full classroom all day in and day out or spend just a few hours a week with a group of students as I did during the school year, as well as three weeks each summer. As I grew into the role and it became my, "real job," I started to feel eyes and ears on me in a new way.<br />
<br />
I was being watched as both an instructor and a person. What I said, how I said it, the tone in which I answered questions, the way I chose to handle frustration and discipline, even the way I dressed. It made an impact.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I rose to the occasion - maybe even more often than not. But there was one day - not even a day, a moment - where I messed up. Badly.<br />
<br />
I was running a rehearsal at an after school program. The script was one of mine - the first show I'd written on my own for the company, and the one I still feel is the best. It's my love letter to musical theatre, and highlights some of the genre's familiar themes, including romance.<br />
<br />
Due to the ratio of girls to boys who had auditioned, an eighth grade girl had been cast as one of the male leads. I gave her the option of playing the character as a boy or a girl, and she opted for the latter.<br />
<br />
However, it was a Catholic school, and this was one of the characters involved in the "love" act. Before scripts were printed and distributed to the students, I adjusted the language so that the two talked about unseen crushes rather than each other. It didn't feel good.<br />
<br />
I had been out for a year and had just literally scrubbed myself out of my own work.<br />
<br />
My only comfort was that the students would never know. But I had missed one reference, and during this rehearsal, the eighth grader raised her hand, "Were these two in love?"<br />
<br />
It caught me off guard, and the words came out (as it were) before I could even stop to think about them: "When it was still a boy and a girl, yes. When we cast two girls, we had to change it."<br />
<br />
Fuck.<br />
<br />
I told the truth, but I couldn't explain it - couldn't say that because of the rules, this was what we had to do. Couldn't say that relationships - hell, the world for that matter - didn't need to be defined by, "boy," and, "girl." Couldn't say that I was gay.<br />
<br />
The best I could backpedal was a lame, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."<br />
<br />
Fortunately, this kid was one of the best. She paused, then nodded. "I believe that."<br />
<br />
I would have been devastated at her age.<br />
<br />
I stopped teaching in Catholic schools after that.<br />
<br />
It wasn't just this incident - it was the same year the archbishop notoriously proposed adding what amounted to a "morality clause" into the contracts/handbooks for four schools in the archdiocese, and I'd stopped feeling safe. It didn't directly affect where I worked, and I wasn't technically a school employee anyway. In complete fairness to them, I'd always been welcomed and treated warmly by the staff members I worked with. But the rules - written and unwritten - weren't something I could abide by anymore.<br />
<br />
What we say matters. What we do matters. There is a responsibility, and I did not meet it. I won't ever be able to let that go entirely.<br />
<br />
But I did scrape one bit of positivity from it: I learned.<br />
<br />
I started including sensitivity to and inclusivity of orientation and gender expression when I led our drama staff training for summer. The first year went okay. The second went better. I think it will continue to improve.<br />
<br />
I also chose the same show for my last summer camp before leaving to pursue new things, and we had an identical casting scenario. However, this time we were operating as our own program, not a school's, and I was fully in control of the conversation.<br />
<br />
I took the two students aside and presented them with their options: George could remain male and they could play the scene as written, George could be a female character and they could play the scene as written, or the text could be adjusted so the characters could be talking about people we never see. There was no right answer - it was about their comfort.<br />
<br />
They were two of the best kids - mature and sensitive and a beautiful example of what the next generation has the power to be. And we had a conversation and reached a conclusion together.<br />
<br />
It was easy. And while it didn't undo the sting of the first time, it was progress.<br />
<br />
My mistake did not mean I could give myself permission to stop trying.<br />
<br />
My improvement does not mean I get to stop working at being better.<br />
<br />
Though I may not be a teacher in the came capacity right now, I hope I still have eyes and ears on me in the same way while I share - and, hopefully, live - that particular lesson.CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-25123906830782543802017-01-05T07:00:00.000-08:002017-01-05T08:47:52.587-08:00On History.I came out on a Friday in a written post in this very space, and a wave of sweet support started rolling over me almost immediately. My journey along the emotional spectrum of the moment also started pretty immediately: euphoria and elation and liberation, back to dry-mouthed fear as I had to tell a few people in person, forward into anger at myself and the world and the person I'd never gotten the opportunity to be for the first 27 years of my life, over to anxiety that I'd never be accepted by people who had figured themselves out sooner and been brave enough to live authentically in less welcoming places, back to elation, over to...<br />
<br />
By the following Monday, I was overwhelmed. I couldn't settle enough to start thinking about what it now meant to be me. My Out Self and I had only just met, and I wasn't even close to being able to see her clearly yet.<br />
<br />
I got on the bus with every intention of going to my office in the Sunset and instead found myself walking down to 575 Castro Street, once the home of Harvey Milk's Castro Camera and now the central storefront and action center for the Human Rights Campaign.<br />
<br />
It was quieter than I have ever seen it since, but I suppose it was before noon on a Monday in March. Still, there were a couple of people occupying the lone cashier's time, and I walked through the small store, taking in the rainbows on every wall and feeling an immediate punch in the heart because those rainbows were now...not mine, that wasn't the right word for it. Me. They were me.<br />
<br />
In the back, a memorial placard for disco queen and activist Sylvester marked the beginning of the Rainbow Walk - a "Walk of Fame" of LGBT+ icons that was just recently completed. I picked up a pamphlet about the project, happy that it was happening and a little ashamed that I didn't already know about it.<br />
<br />
When I finally made my way to the register, I was the only one left in the store, save for one other man lingering near the front. The cashier was an older gentleman, kind and soft-spoken, and when he asked me if I wanted to become a member, I said yes. As he took my information, he told me to choose a baseball cap or a water bottle as a gift. I made a joke about my head being too big for most caps and opted for the water bottle. We laughed. And then, very suddenly, I told him I had just come out.<br />
<br />
Without hesitation, he stopped, looked me in the eye with a big smile, and said, "Well, welcome to the club!" The other man in the store came over and offered his congratulations, and my new cashier friend let me know that it was his husband.<br />
<br />
"Where are you from?"<br />
<br />
I hesitated at the question. As I've mentioned, an early fear of mine - one that I may never get over entirely - was that I would be judged for being a San Francisco native and still deeply closeted. But I answered, and the man told me we were from the same neighborhood. More than that, we'd gone to the same grade school, albeit many years apart.<br />
<br />
We continued to chat, and as I took my bag, the cashier asked if he could give me a hug.<br />
<br />
"Your official welcome," he said, "And your head's not that big. It's just got to hold your big brain."<br />
<br />
I left, a little dazed, but also a little more centered. It was the first time I had stood as myself with complete strangers, stood to be counted with members of my community, and it had felt so correct. I still had a lot of work to put in, just in terms of figuring out what owning my identity meant to me (honestly, I don't know that I'll ever be done with that work), but I had started.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, the HRC shop had given me an extra gift that would help me immeasurably with that work. At the bottom of each receipt is a coupon for a few dollars off admission at the nearby GLBT History Museum - a museum I, again, am embarrassed to admit I did not know existed. As important as it was to me to be a good ally, I clearly was maintaining some distance. Denial is powerful like that.<br />
<br />
Yet that same sense of having been an ally, and a lifelong San Franciscan on top of that, convinced me before my first visit that the museum would not be all that enlightening. I was up to date on current affairs, and I knew my city's history. I knew about the activism of the 70's, about Harvey Milk's life and murder. I'd grown up during the height of the AIDS crisis, confused and desperately trying to understand why it was a word we only whispered, and why so many people were so angry and sad and afraid and moving away to "climates that were better for their roommates' health," in a very Catholic world that did not want to answer my questions.<br />
<br />
So yeah. I knew a few things, or whatever (oh, my sweet summer child...).<br />
<br />
What I did not know was just how unprepared I was for the impact of the little museum space on 18th Street.<br />
<br />
I don't know that I can properly describe what it is to stand in front of pieces of your history and really recognize and feel them as yours for the very first time, especially when so much of that history is so recent that it feels as though you could just reach out and touch it. In this city, even with everything that has changed, you still can in some instances.<br />
<br />
And I don't have to describe that to a lot of people. Ending segregation and securing more rights for women and...how many things that we'd believe to be so far away really <i>just</i> happened? How many actual years had to pass before we started telling ourselves that we did it, we ended racism and sexism and all the other -isms so it's cool, we don't have to pay attention or try anymore? 10? 20? When does history start to feel so far in the past?<br />
<br />
I've gone back to the space on 18th Street many times, and I never fail to feel the pull and weight and life of what lies within, no matter what the exhibit. That's part of it, I think - life. The museum isn't a monument to the past - that's part of it, but there's also so much dedicated to the present and the future. Our history - the community's history, my history - is alive. The names and the faces of those who fought and risked and often lost everything to be themselves and make things even a little bit easier for those who would come after them are so young and so close, and so many of them would and should still be here were it not for violence and criminally ignored disease.<br />
<br />
Coming out, and stepping in, and stepping up meant letting that in. It meant making that mine, to the degree that it can be mine, and feeling and facing the good, the bad, the ugly, and the hopeful.<br />
<br />
Never was that made more clear than on the visit in which I stood in front of the clothes Harvey Milk was wearing the day he was murdered in City Hall.<br />
<br />
It was a simple and respectful display, a dark box whose contents were illuminated only when the viewer stepped close enough to clearly intend to actively engage with the exhibit. Soft lighting brought the suit into focus - the damage and the stains neither hidden nor glorified - while a piece of the (in)famous recording Milk made in recognition of the strong possibility of his assassination played.<br />
<br />
The good, the bad, the ugly. And the hopeful. I stood there for a good long while, overcome, because a person I had never and would never know had stood up, years before I was even born, and taken action - at the risk and eventual cost of his own life - that had made my life better. He was aware of and accepted that risk and did what he felt he could and should do.<br />
<br />
You don't do that without believing, firmly and unshakably, in the possibility of more. Of better. If not for you, than the next folks. And the next.<br />
<br />
That feeling is not quiet, and it is not complacent, and it does not erase or justify what should not be. But it is one way forward.<br />
<br />
History and hope. It was then, and it's now, and we will make sure that it will be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-3359225817277928532016-11-07T12:14:00.001-08:002016-11-07T14:27:22.097-08:00On Hitting Reset (Or, Showing Up For Me...)I've been having a Hard Time.<br />
<br />
It's been going on for a couple of weeks. And the thing about depression is, it can take all kinds of forms. My particular brand is very sneaky. It starts telling little lies and graying out the edges of the world until it gets all the way in. By the time I realize what's going on, the insomnia and numbness and general sense that nobody really likes me and probably never has are in control.<br />
<br />
Do I think this difficult and personal election cycle is a contributing factor? You bet I do. But there's more to it than that one thing. There always is. And, if I'm being entirely honest, I've been ignoring the activation of some of my self-destructive impulses for a while. I took on a lot of Big Life Changes very quickly this year, some of which I'm in the thick of right now. There was bound to be some backlash.<br />
<br />
So I've been having a moment. A longer one than usual. Why write it down? Why now? A-#1) My m.o. when things get hard and I am operating at less than 100% is to keep it a secret. That's neither good nor helpful. No more of that. B-#2) Last year, Wil Wheaton <a href="http://wilwheaton.net/2015/10/seven-things-i-did-to-reboot-my-life/">very generously shared</a> that he needed to take a year off to hit the reset button on a life that had, in many ways, spiraled away from him. He shared the system of improvement he had created for himself, and checked in throughout the year with progress updates. I've been thinking about that a lot lately.<br />
<br />
"Reset" is a dramatic word. And the thing is, I'm happy with a lot of the things in my life, chief among them the people. But on a basic level, I haven't been able to connect with myself and with all of those good things the way I want to. I've been feeling so inept and timid and tired, and I know that erosion of my confidence has made me moody and distant. If I don't address it head on, it will get worse. I don't want that for myself.<br />
<br />
I need to start taking care of myself again in a Big Picture way, instead of limping along with a pocket full of off-brand band-aids.<br />
<br />
So I'm borrowing from the Wheaton list, with some changes/adjustments that are more specific to me. I'm going to take a year, starting from today, to work on all of these things - even when they're going well - to really cement them as no-brainer habits and set myself up for long term improvement.<br />
<br />
So here's my list of seven things that need to change:<br />
<br />
<b>- Drink less.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>- Get better sleep.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>- Spend more time with family and friends.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>- Exercise more.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>- Eat better food.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>- Write more.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>- Spend less time online.</b><br />
<br />
These are my focal points for the year - a list meant to help and guide, not punish. Because that's the thing about the anxious/depressive brain: as much as lists can set us up for success, they can also be used to point out all the ways in which we've failed. Why these seven things specifically? Again, I stole a lot of them, but they're all things that play into my general well-being almost each day, and they're in need of some repair. Let's take a look:<br />
<br />
<b>Drink less.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
It almost feels like cheating to put this on, since I've already been practicing this one for a while. But it's important for me to keep actively focusing on it, and to remember why. I genuinely enjoy drinking and making drinks. I've studied all kinds of spirits, whisky (more specifically, bourbon) emerging as a favorite, and I love being that friend at the party who you want to turn to for a top shelf cocktail.<br />
<br />
While I've never really been a binge-drinker, and only ever imbibe every couple of weeks if that, I've been meeting a lot of new people over the past year and was starting to feel like I was drinking to ease my social anxiety without even realizing it. My glasses were starting to empty very quickly, and I was refilling them without a second thought. I put in a lot of work to feel more at ease with new folks, and that muscle needs to be exercised, both for me and my friends.<br />
<br />
<b>Get better sleep.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I've been having so much trouble getting solid, productive sleep. More and more, I've been relying on audiobooks to trick my brain out of spiraling so I can fall asleep, and then staying out becomes a whole other thing.<br />
<br />
On top of that, I haven't exactly been setting myself up for success with a good "winding down" period before bedtime and allowing for enough time to get at least 7 hours, if not more, before I have early mornings for work.<br />
<br />
I'm not one of those, "Sleep for 5 min. and I'm ready to go," folks. Never have been. I'm fraying at the edges a little here.<br />
<br />
<b>Spend more time with family and friends.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
This has been a hard one lately because of a packed schedule with school and a new job - I've been on opposite ends of availability with a lot of people, it seems like. But, if I'm being honest, I could try harder. I've never liked, "scheduling," time to see people - in my mind, it makes what should be enjoyable feel like a job, another task to check off. In reality, it's a part of adulthood. I know this, and it's time to stop resisting it.<br />
<br />
The people in my life are important to me, and important to my happiness and health. I want to stop missing people who are right here with me.<br />
<br />
<b>Exercise more.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I love being active. But injury and time management has knocked me off the path of regular exercise. I'm most disappointed in myself for letting this one slide after getting into such a great routine, and I've let that disappointment become paralyzing. Time to break out of that cycle and get back into fighting shape - it feels good, it clears my head, and it's definitely a fulcrum for a lot of the things on this list.<br />
<br />
<b>Eat better food.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I've been up and down about carving out space to cook for myself - when I do, I'm balanced and happy and nutritionally healthy. When I don't, I end up frantically grabbing-and-going or not eating at all. It doesn't take a genius to see how this is a problem, and that part of being run down and restless is tied into this just as much as it is my erratic exercising. Time to re-focus on the nutritional building blocks that I learned so well and make honoring them a main priority again.<br />
<br />
<b>Write more.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
It's almost funny to put this here right now, as I made the hard decision to skip NaNoWriMo for the first time since 2010, I think. Given what I've got going on with work and school and a different writing project, it just would've been pure stress with no enjoyment.<br />
<br />
But I have fallen out of the habit of writing every day. Creating is important to me - again, it clears my brain, but storytelling is also what has made my heart feel the fullest since I was wee. It's me, and I'm it, and not doing it is not an option.<br />
<br />
<b>Spend less time online.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The internet is a beautiful unifier and place to share and connect. It is also a black hole of awfulness and apathy and a fire for procrastination and rage and sadness. I've been living on the destructive side of it - it's been pulling me down, and that means it's time for me to pull back.<br />
<br />
This was a hard one to try and get my head around, as I don't mean to imply that it's socially responsible to stop having or raising an awareness of the world and what is happening in it. But it's also important for my own well-being to maintain a healthy distance from the things that hurt me, and right now, the news cycle - and the comments that come with it - are hurting me.<br />
<br />
As of today, I'm not deactivating any of my social media accounts. But I am going to be closely monitoring how much I use them, as well as re-evaluating how I want to use them. Whether or not they get to stay will depend on how that goes throughout the year.<br />
<br />
So there it is. Just under a week away from my 30th birthday, I figured this was the best gift I could give myself. I'm sharing it because I wanted to, and because talking about struggling with self-care and trying to do better shouldn't be as difficult as it still often is for me. I can't show up for the world in general or the people in my life if I don't show up for me first, and that's a hard thing to remember sometimes.<br />
<br />
I'll give you an update in a few months, pals.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>**Note: Brain stuff and life stuff are complicated, and this is my experience. I'm not at all a believer in the, "Smiling and hiking will solve all your problems, just try harder and you'll feel better," way of thinking - while I'm sure it's well-intentioned, it discourages and shames people from seeking the treatment they as individuals need. Talk to medical professionals about what you need in your life. I do. And if they're not helping or if they make you feel uncomfortable, find new ones. </i>CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-58443676528524135282016-10-11T23:27:00.001-07:002016-10-11T23:27:07.497-07:00On National Coming Out Day.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Ellen Page came out on
February 14, 2014 in her keynote speech opening the Human Rights Campaign’s
“Time to Thrive” conference, which promotes the safety and well-being of LGBTQ+
youth. The speech stood beautifully on its own – while her choice to stand firmly
and say, “Me too,” made it that much more powerful, it wasn’t necessary. I
wonder, often, if that’s maybe one of the things that hit me so hard about it –
she didn’t have to, but she did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/1hlCEIUATzg/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1hlCEIUATzg?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br />
<br />
I watched the video that night. Then I watched it again. It made my heart race
and my palms sweat, and I still couldn’t admit to myself why.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, I got there. I came out. I didn’t have to – I’m not a public
figure, I had no one to inspire, I wasn’t in a relationship – but I did. And I
had the privilege of doing it on my own terms when I felt ready.<br />
<br />
It was the end of one journey and the beginning of another. I had spent the
first twenty-seven years of my life visualizing my place in the world through a
heterosexual lens, one that dictated how I should look and what I could say and
what the future would hold so that I would project Straight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Side note: that’s part of why
I really hate the terms, “girl-crush,” and, “man-crush,” and, “bromance.” For
me, the subtext to all of them is just, “No homo.” Like you’re suddenly going
to think your pal Cindy’s a closet case in a sham marriage because she said she
had just a regular crush on Beyonce.<br />
<br />
Coming out stripped away that lens, and eventually the understanding that I was
gay and not bi added another layer to how I both saw and actually felt myself
in the space that I occupy. <br />
<br />
Another side note, and this is a very important one: </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">the bi
community I found was extremely welcoming and supportive and wonderful, and
remained so even when I came to understand that I was not one of them on a
micro level, though we are brothers and sisters and non-binary siblings in the
larger community. And I also know, through observation and experience, that
said larger community often ignores, marginalizes, or erases the B in LGBTQ+ altogether.
I see you, I celebrate you, and I will always champion you.<br />
<br />
Wearing shirts and ties, having my haircut, and existing in the world as a
reasonably butch gay woman makes me a political statement by default. I don’t
say that to court praise or present my life as the Most Difficult And
Challenging Ever Pray For Me Hashtag Struggle – at the end of the day, I’m a
white cis-woman in San Francisco, so I’m doing all right – but it is not
something I am comfortable with because it’s not my intent. I look the way I do
for purely selfish reasons – it’s what I want.<br />
<br />
But in some ways, it does feel like a full circle moment to have gone from
trying to hard to hide to literally wearing my identity. I feel a certain
measure of responsibility that comes with the right.<br />
<br />
Coming out and being visible has been altogether joyful and painful. More the
former than the latter, because I am extremely fortunate in the family I have
and the company I keep, but I expect life to bring me more of both as I keep
going and keep growing.<br />
<br />
I say all of this now more to record and share than anything else – we are our
stories, and this is another piece of mine. <br />
<br />
I didn’t think of watching the Ellen Page video, nor realize just how close to
the finish line it pushed me, for a long time. My brain had to file it away a
bit, I think, until I had the space to process it. She saw an opportunity to
both own her identity and do something that would open up the world that much
more and make it just a little better.<br />
<br />
That’s the foundation that National Coming Out Day was built on.<br />
<br />
I am not the biggest or the bravest…not even the butchest, really. Mine is not
the loudest voice. But I think I’ve kept my heart open. My ears, too. Being out
has made them better tools, and I hope I use them the right way more often than
not.<br />
<br />
If you came out in some way today, or any other day, I hope you are safe and
with people who care about you. If you are still hidden, either by choice or
necessity, you are no less real or valid or loved.<br />
<br />
We will do our best to open up the world and make it just a little better for
you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-55752783759165495012016-08-04T11:28:00.001-07:002016-08-04T11:28:29.819-07:00On Doing Better.
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I don’t talk politics or religion, really. When
I do, it’s typically with a million disclaimers. I recognize that my opinions
are not everyone’s. I recognize and respect a person’s right to believe what
they choose. I don’t judge the intelligence of others based on whether they
agree with me or not. I don’t make assumptions about education.<br />
<br />
Do, don’t. Recognize, respect.<br />
<br />
Every so often, I get tired. Tired of extending courtesies that I do not
receive. I wonder when it will be my turn to speak without having to listen or
regard, to shout over whoever would oppose, to hit back – hurt back.<br />
<br />
The answer, of course, is never. That’s the shitty part about trying to be even
a reasonably okay person – it’s not a trade system. You don’t give some good
with the guarantee of getting it back.<br />
<br />
My exhaustion is a gentler kind than most, the kind felt by a visibly gay
person who is also reasonably well off. And white. And in San Francisco. When I
think about the fear that tempered my joy when I cut my hair short and pulled
the last dress I owned off the hanger and put it in the donation bin, I have to
think about every person who was – and is – born afraid, already wearing an
identity that much of the world will hate them for.<br />
<br />
The day of the shooting in Orlando, I wanted to be gay somewhere. I wanted to
button my shirt and slick back my hair and kiss a woman and do it all in open
space surrounded by people because that was enough to have cost almost fifty
people their lives hours before, and that was wrong. <br />
<br />
Almost fifty people. Who already automatically had the odds stacked against
them because they were people of color. Queer people of color trying to claim a
small piece of space to exist who were told, in the most violent and final of
ways, “No.”<br />
<br />
I got to do all of those things that I wanted, full of sadness and fury and the
terrifying joy of still breathing, while their stories were already being
stolen and rewritten.<br />
<br />
These are the events that are supposed to give us pause – historical fulcrums that
force us to take notice, rethink, change direction.<br />
<br />
Instead, we root ourselves deeper.<br />
<br />
We hate and we diminish and we refuse to believe it. Proof plays out before our
eyes and ears – black people, Latinxs, trans people, etc. – beaten, belittled,
restricted, restrained, killed. Murdered. We see it and we say it is not real.<br />
<br />
I don’t want to hear about the Party of Lincoln. You do not get to coast on the
name and the accomplishments of a man who died two centuries ago.<br />
<br />
I do not want to hear about defending the traditions and explicit intent of the
nation’s founders when those were set three centuries ago, back when
heterosexual white men <i>were</i> tradition
and intent.<br />
<br />
If you do not want me to exist, have the decency to say so. Don’t pretend that
delivering a pizza is the same as officiating and blessing a wedding in the
name of God, don’t say it’s for the children, don’t say you’re “cool with it,
but just don’t want it in your face.” Tell me you think I am less than you
because I am different from you. Admit it to yourself. I already know.<br />
<br />
Admit that you are afraid of having to live in a world that is different, a
world where you do not always win, where you have to share – and yes, sometimes
even cede – space to people you do not agree with. Then take a breath, put your
grown-up pants on, and deal with that fear instead of clinging to it.<br />
<br />
That’s all I’ve got. It’s not my funniest post. Not my most articulate,
pointed, gracious, or inspiring (I don’t know that any of them are that, though
some are clearly trying). It doesn’t solve any problems or answer any questions
about how to be a better ally to those who need your alliance and dismantle the system. I don’t have those
answers.<br />
<br />
I just try to do better. All the time. Not in the interest of getting, but in
giving. That’s not to elevate me, or paint me as Johnny Bestattheworld. I fail
at doing better. All the time. All. The.
Time. But I try. I have no problem asserting that I honestly, truly try.<br />
<br />
It’s the trying that makes it easy to look around and identify the people who
are not. Why don’t they think it’s their turn?<br />
<br />
It’s our collective turn.<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
Now.</span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
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CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-64060642996389766032016-02-27T21:17:00.004-08:002016-02-27T21:17:57.964-08:00On Not Reading the Comments (Or, For Real, I Shouldn't Have)You're not supposed to write angry. It's pretty much the first rule of writing, right after your teacher tells you that there are no rules and right before he/she lists several. Don't write angry. Doesn't mean you can't write about the things that make you angry, just that...if you're fired up in the wrong way, you'll lose your objectivity and probably make your point less effectively.<br />
<br />
I've had waves of anger about this particular issue on and off for quite some time, the most recent of which happened maybe an hour ago. Let's see if enough time has passed.<br />
<br />
Recently, when asked about the possibility of LGBT characters in the <i>Star Wars </i>universe, <i>The Force Awakens </i>director J.J. Abrams offered his enthusiastic endorsement of the idea. Let's be clear: this wasn't an announcement of an LGBT character, nor even a statement of intent to include one on screen. Rather, it was a statement of support of the <i>possibility </i>of non-heterosexual characters existing. In a fictional universe.<br />
<br />
Right away, the comments on the piece I was reading started populating with rage. I shouldn't have read the comments. Nobody should ever read the comments. But I did, so here we are.<br />
<br />
Filtering out the blatant and purposeful homophobia, which isn't worth addressing because nobody here has time now or ever, there was a lot of this (paraphrased, because to directly quote would mean going back into the comments):<br />
<br />
"And we should care why?"<br />
<br />
"What does sexual preference matter, it's STAR WARS"<br />
<br />
"Why? How often is sex a motivator in the plot? We don't know about it because it's not pertinent. Will this character blurt it out in a fight? Making sexuality a device to appease a community? Really?"<br />
<br />
Let's take that last one first.<br />
<br />
Open depictions of heterosexual attraction run rampant throughout the Star Wars universe and media in general. Most of us just don't think about it because it is the societal norm. Han Solo didn't blurt out, "I'm attracted to ladies," in a fight. Instead, he openly flirted with Princess Leia and then just straight up smooched her before they directly declared their romantic love for each other over the course of two movies. Message delivered. And that became a big motivator. It's still driving parts of the narrative.<br />
<br />
So. Don't tell me character orientation shouldn't be a part of movies unless you're going to argue that every straight or straight-presenting couple's presence is superfluous to the story and should be kept out of your face.<br />
<br />
Now, let's take the other two comments, which are branches on the same tree, as it were.<br />
<br />
When we ask, "Why should I care," or, "What does it matter," often what we are really saying is, "I do not care," or, "This does not matter to me." And you know what? That's okay. Really. It's okay to not care about stuff when other people do, just as it's okay to like/dislike something that others feel the opposite about.<br />
<br />
The problem lies in the attitude that, because something does not matter to you, it shouldn't matter to anybody else either.<br />
<br />
'Cause here's the thing: the subtext of, "This does not matter to me," particularly in this scenario, is, "This is not me."<br />
<br />
I am a not a straight person. When I get to see my orientation fairly represented in the stories I love, it means the world to me. It makes me feel a little more seen, a little more recognized. A little more understood within the framework of the world at large.<br />
<br />
There are so many types of people in this world, all of whom are real and valid and deserving of a place in our stories - not as tokens, but as heroes and villains and leaders and lovers, because that's who we all can be.<br />
<br />
Media representation is something that gets taken for granted by the majority of us because we are fortunate enough to see ourselves on the page and screen all the time. It's why so much confusion arises when the whiteness or straightness or maleness of anything gets questioned - what's the problem? Good stories are good stories, right? What does it matter?<br />
<br />
It matters when that story is not, "you."<br />
<br />
And it's beyond time we start making space for each other.<br />
<br />
Don't tell me the idea of a Resistance pilot turning his charm on another man at the bar or two gals holding hands in the background of a scene is an impossible and ridiculous concept in a world where a wee CGI alien fondly calls a Wookiee her, "boyfriend."<br />
<br />
Let go. Open up. Consider the fact that just because it's not about you doesn't mean it isn't important.<br />
<br />
And take a minute to think about why you're so upset about an answer to an award season question about something that hasn't even happened yet and, hell, possibly never will.<br />
<br />
Try being upset that it's a question that still has to be asked at all.CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-54952002983387428562016-02-06T22:47:00.000-08:002016-02-10T09:25:17.257-08:00On The Look of Agent Carter (Or, How to Send a Tie Message)Pals, I'm going to take a moment here to talk about two things I love: Marvel's <i>Agent Carter </i>and menswear.<br />
<br />
Be warned: Mild spoilers for the show and a few Marvel Universe movies ahead.<br />
<br />
We're four episodes into the sophomore season of the <i>Captain America </i>spinoff featuring the post-WWII adventures of Hayley Atwell's Peggy Carter, and it remains everything that is good in this world. If you, like me, were deeply disappointed that poor Cap's chilly fate meant that we'd only get one movie's worth of time with the wonderfully strong and charismatic Peggy, then Marvel's original <i>Agent Carter </i>short was a lovely little gift. The vignette - one of a series of expanded universe shorts made before the company began flexing its TV muscles - showed Carter relegated to desk work at the Strategic Scientific Reserve while her male colleagues are sent out into the field. But nobody keeps Peggy in a corner - by the short's end, she has saved the day and is tapped to head the nascent S.H.I.E.L.D.<br />
<br />
Little did any of us know that the one-shot would be the gift that kept on giving: not only did it further entrench the character in the on-screen universe's lore - she has since become one of the most consistent through lines in the films, with cameos in <i>Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Ant-Man, </i>and, <i>Avengers: Age of Ultron</i> - it gave way to the series that is currently filling in the gaps following the first Cap film.<br />
<br />
<i>Agent Carter </i>is an important show for so many reasons, not the least of which is that the very title is the name of a woman, and that woman is shown fighting and losing almost as often as she wins - not for lack of skill or intelligence, but because sometimes we lose and have to keep going anyway.<br />
<br />
One of the things I love so much about the structure of the show is that it retains the feel and spirit of an old comic book serial, albeit with a little more gentle self-awareness. At its core, <i>Carter </i>is a period piece with a universal message, and that means it has the aesthetic to match. The look of the show is beautiful, with the costumes speaking just as much about the characters as their actions.<br />
<br />
1940's fashion continues to influence modern style, but I think more of that has carried over for women than men, so rather than tread on familiar ground by looking at the ladies, I thought I'd take a moment to celebrate the duds on the dudes of <i>Agent Carter </i>(no more alliteration, I promise - not intentionally, anyway).<br />
<br />
During World War II, fabric was strictly rationed on the homefront, and this obviously had an effect on the fashion industry. Flaps disappeared from pockets, pants were straight-hemmed (though some men still preferred cuffs and would simply buy longer pants and have them adjusted to get around this), and vests were nixed entirely as a wasteful luxury - to be seen wearing one, unless you could prove it was made before the war, was unpatriotic.<br />
<br />
The conclusion of the war meant relaxing on the restrictions, though some of them stuck - many men kept the two-piece suits, for example. Pants were typically high-waisted, flat front or single-pleated, and held up with suspenders, though belts were starting to become more popular. They also featured a wider leg and ankle than you see on most suit pants now as modern trends lean toward slimmer fits. The opportunistic Agent-now-Director Thompson, played by Chad Michael Murray, typifies the basic look of the mid-40's, which makes sense, given his character's unwillingness to make waves as he seeks approval.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5D1O44QjGKX0LnCdzNOIj6EnUHfs3mecI1Axn76VZ-cB7w15dgRUkYXy74tZYO_U0WpqsB8nGf8ZXfalE-VBrENN9QiTs40-q9LJoTNZgJ0B4_TuiCd1qWP5yF1lIYRJrBctRQADXWA/s1600/Thompson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5D1O44QjGKX0LnCdzNOIj6EnUHfs3mecI1Axn76VZ-cB7w15dgRUkYXy74tZYO_U0WpqsB8nGf8ZXfalE-VBrENN9QiTs40-q9LJoTNZgJ0B4_TuiCd1qWP5yF1lIYRJrBctRQADXWA/s320/Thompson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Agent Thompson. Photo: <a href="http://www.comicbookmovie.com/agent_carter/new-promotional-stills-from-agent-carter-season-2-episode-4-smoke-a130214">comicbookmovie.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Neckties were worn wide and short. It was neckwear that provided men the greatest avenue of individual expression at the time, allowing one of the greatest departures from the drab regulation military uniforms of the preceding years. Patterns were often chosen that highlighted the interests or personalities of the wearer - the louder the tie, the louder the guy. Though it wounds me to say it, bow ties were largely out of fashion and were rare for non-formal occasions.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXvaRRORu1KCnGzRO1StJXkUfMKtVkCAVnyTozAsqz3Qte9G87N4QouyBLt2CupRx5uQVQ9CtUNLGNOoqzL_zS__RFUEvVmoI_-FbRdCRqWuCeSYdJLNBaTDGJO2xTeel96-caTWW4aA/s1600/HowardDoc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXvaRRORu1KCnGzRO1StJXkUfMKtVkCAVnyTozAsqz3Qte9G87N4QouyBLt2CupRx5uQVQ9CtUNLGNOoqzL_zS__RFUEvVmoI_-FbRdCRqWuCeSYdJLNBaTDGJO2xTeel96-caTWW4aA/s320/HowardDoc.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilkes and Stark. Photo: <a href="http://www.comicbookmovie.com/agent_carter/new-promotional-stills-from-agent-carter-season-2-episode-4-smoke-a130214">comicbookmovie.com</a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This season, the story has taken our characters from New York to the SSR's new west coast office in Los Angeles. The location change has not only spurred a great shift in tone that has kept the forward momentum of the show going, but has also been a fantastic opportunity to feature new looks. Different environments and climates mean different fabrics and colors. However, the Hollywood backdrop has also highlighted the emergence of more casual everyday looks.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Howard Stark (above) and Daniel Sousa (below) have been the best models so far, with the latter having undergone the most dramatic transformation, eschewing the traditional suits and ties of last season for Hawaiian shirts and other looser-fitting, often short-sleeved button downs. Not necessarily attire befitting the director of a branch of a major government espionage agency, but that's part of the point - Daniel's loosened up. Not only that, he refuses to play the political game, backing Peggy rather than worrying about his career - a far cry from Thompson. The visual just reinforces that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xN6tjpmcgOS8RVlpokIVHcNq1tdPesCxhOM5Grb9UFqsXXoMa2ErGhS-LDrWGXNCaxZENaSlRq1WjnrZocdj1FpeeEwmQ0pDMR_U9L_d92z1M0OAnZvl55SNspZdmITTl-C7KDhIFNY/s1600/Daniel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xN6tjpmcgOS8RVlpokIVHcNq1tdPesCxhOM5Grb9UFqsXXoMa2ErGhS-LDrWGXNCaxZENaSlRq1WjnrZocdj1FpeeEwmQ0pDMR_U9L_d92z1M0OAnZvl55SNspZdmITTl-C7KDhIFNY/s320/Daniel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sousa and Peggy. Photo: <a href="http://www.comicbookmovie.com/agent_carter/new-promotional-stills-from-agent-carter-season-2-episode-4-smoke-a130214">comicbookmovie.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The one wild-card is British butler Edwin Jarvis, who is more often than not impeccably put together in a three-piece suit and complementary - if quiet - tie. One gets the impression that Jarvis is not the sort of man who would busy himself with the evolving landscape of American fashion. Proper and presentable - sometimes comically so - his attire also makes him the perfect visual foil to his eccentric employer.</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe8wF2JRyUHqdrp13WpT4RcDfASY3jlAOlu9zpogQmFPhIJvbGVzOpARupdNjXpIaS57UwhmDp50RGb5BGnyD6nBAi79WUTGPgFqPabpyShCK7aXufwTBEz84QnOUldkPecnZxKGzvno/s1600/Jarvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe8wF2JRyUHqdrp13WpT4RcDfASY3jlAOlu9zpogQmFPhIJvbGVzOpARupdNjXpIaS57UwhmDp50RGb5BGnyD6nBAi79WUTGPgFqPabpyShCK7aXufwTBEz84QnOUldkPecnZxKGzvno/s320/Jarvis.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jarvis. Photo: <a href="http://www.comicbookmovie.com/agent_carter/new-promotional-stills-from-agent-carter-season-2-episode-4-smoke-a130214">comicbookmovie.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Check the wide lapels on that jacket.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You can also see that this was before the popularization of button-down collars, which I use so often that I can't imagine a world without them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There you have it. Just a little taste, but a fun one. Take note of the ties on all the supporting male characters and extras as you watch - they really are insanely expressive. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And how much do we love that a lapel pin has been such an integral part of this season's story?<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-64530461546914002162016-01-30T12:28:00.000-08:002016-01-30T12:28:07.711-08:00On Asking Why.A few weeks back, I was verbally harassed on a MUNI train. I was a woman in a suit and he took issue with that. Names were called, slurs were used, and it was an unpleasant few minutes.<br />
<br />
Just had to get that out there up top. I've been trying to write about this in a way that would do what I'm trying to say justice for a while, with little success. I think part of the reason why I haven't been able to get into it is that...well, I wasn't allowing myself to get into it. I danced through some preambles, trying to introduce things a little more gently - why, I don't know. It was not a gentle thing. So forget the dance. There it is. That's what happened.<br />
<br />
I'm a woman who loves menswear. I'm also a woman who loves women. And men - with less frequency at this particular point in my life, but certainly often enough to mention. All of these things are not mutually exclusive, but they are all true. I mention them in the same breath because, within the confines of my own personal story, I wasn't able to embrace one until I was honest about the other.<br />
<br />
The guy on the train was part of the reason why.<br />
<br />
For better or for worse, style can affect how a person is defined. We (in the general sense of "we") rarely expect traditionally feminine women to be gay, for example. A whole new term was created - metrosexual - to reframe the perception of fashion forward straight men.<br />
<br />
Because of this, I knew - both subconsciously and, in that last little stretch of time before I came out, consciously - that if I looked the way I wanted to, dressed the way I wanted to, my orientation would be questioned by some people. Probably not as many as I thought - that was what I like to call Closet Logic. But. I wasn't ready for that.<br />
<br />
About three months before I came out, I started tentatively pushing at the edges of my interest in menswear. It was bow ties that did it - I wanted so much to learn how to tie them and wear them. Once I did, I couldn't stop. I'd found my gateway to style, and the rest of my look slowly began to take shape - clumsily, at first. I was learning. That I had friends old and new who were being so supportive of the choices I was making counted for a lot - it was a shot of confidence that kept me going when I got nervous about trying some new things.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure, I love learning new things. I don't love acknowledging that I don't know everything, nor that there are people around me who know better. Yeah. It's a process.<br />
<br />
Coming out and getting settled in that really stepped things up. Without the paranoia-laced hindrance of Closet Logic, I don't second (third and fourth) guess my choices. How I present myself is up to me and me alone, and as such, I've had more fun playing with clothes and hair and make up than I ever thought I would. Because, turns out, I <i>love </i>clothes, guys. Love them. I take actual joy in them. I just didn't love the traditionally feminine options I'd been presented with for so long.<br />
<br />
Now, here's the thing: I'm incredibly lucky for so many reasons, not the least of which is that I live in the bastion of freedom and self-expression that is San Francisco. While I had a lot of personal identity struggles, it would be hard to name many safer places for a young white cis woman to figure herself out and ultimately look the way I do. I just cited a lot of privilege, and that's not something I lose sight of. Ever.<br />
<br />
The guy who took issue with me on the train was not the first to have something to say about how I look, but he was the most aggressive. Still, because of who and where I am, he was an anomaly. I'm privileged as hell that I get to say that. There are places in this country, in this state even, where it would not be safe for me to look the way I do. Where it's even less safe to be another race, to be trans, to be anything or anybody outside of the norm. Where the options are either deny yourself, risk abuse, or leave.<br />
<br />
The point of me talking about this isn't to say poor me - I'm fine. 100%. In the time that's passed, I've cut my hair shorter and decided to try some new suspenders. The point is to ask why.<br />
<br />
Why, in 2016, do we feel it is still acceptable to view others as, "less than," so much so that we would deny them the space to exist? Why do we feel comfortable equating discrimination with protection? What, exactly, are we protecting? Why is inflexibility and closed-mindedness so noble?<br />
<br />
Why is being different the worst possible offense?<br />
<br />
The short answer is, of course, power and fear. Dress it up however you'd like, but that's the only explanation for someone looking to actively restrict the rights of another person rather than saying, "Hey, no thank you," and moving on if they get asked out by someone they're not interested in.<br />
<br />
The long answer? I don't have it.<br />
<br />
There is so much ugliness in the air right now, and that ugliness is empowering fearful people. Suddenly, it's more acceptable than ever to spit venom and call it freedom. I want to react. I want to shoot from the hip and shout people down and demean and disempower because I am tired and I am frustrated and I am hurt and it feels like it should finally be my turn to do all of those things.<br />
<br />
But it's not my turn. It will never be my turn. That's not how empathy works. I have to consider where other people are coming from, not at the expense of my own voice and values, but to try and affect change (and, honestly, to decide who is and is not worth my time). I'm not perfect at it. But I try. And I'm ready to try harder.<br />
<br />
I'm also ready to use my voice more - not to shout down, but to raise up. Even more so, I'm ready to listen and to learn.<br />
<br />
There is ugliness in the air, but I'm not going to let that stand. I'm going to tie my tie, button my vest, and do my part to make something beautiful. Or handsome.<br />
<br />
I'll let you know about it when I do.<br />
<br />
<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-33456698361213286572015-12-31T10:38:00.000-08:002015-12-31T10:54:33.535-08:00On Years Old and New (Or, Here We Go, 2016...)I am the New Year stereotype. Every December 31, like clockwork, I get nostalgic and reflective. I write something down - sometimes it's short, other times not so much - about the year that was and resolve to be a better version of myself in the year that will be.<br />
<br />
None of this is leading into a, "Not this time, though..." transition. I'm going to do everything I just said. I don't mind being a stereotype. Just wanted to let you know what you were in for.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I like having these written records. They keep things in perspective, keep me from remembering the past as being all good or all bad. And they help me learn.<br />
<br />
Many years ago, as I was emerging from one of my worst bouts of anxiety and depression that I didn't have the language or awareness to describe as anxiety or depression yet, I very much felt the need to assert some measure of control over a life that felt like it was spiraling away from me (which made no sense, because it was mine). As I was falling asleep one night, I decided that the next day was going to be a Good Day. Not, "good," in the sense that it would be the best. Not even, "good," in that nothing bad would happen. It would be a Good Day because that's how I would approach it and all that came with it.<br />
<br />
So often, I would let one unfortunate thing - waking up late, missing a bus, a rude cashier, whatever - set my tone. I'd write off entire days, weeks, months, years as awful. Wasted. The product of a vengeful universe. The ease of it felt good. It soothed the frustration of dealing with the people and circumstances I couldn't control and absolved me of the responsibility of taking ownership of things I could if I weren't so afraid. Nothing you can do if the universe is against you, right? No point in trying if you're already guaranteed to fail.<br />
<br />
What I learned fairly quickly - or, at the very least, was finally forced to acknowledge - through practicing this aggressive optimism was that there is no such thing as the universe being against you. Or even for you. Things happen. We handle them. Sometimes well, sometimes not so much. Ultimately, at the end of each day, we're all given an opportunity to decide what we think about the world and ourselves in it.<br />
<br />
2015 sucked royally in many ways (poetry). I lost family. I lost track of me for a little bit. I struggled through one of the worst depressive periods I've had in a while, and I did not talk about it or reach out until it was over because I was too ashamed and embarrassed. My self-care toolbox got dusty and, in some cases, left behind completely.<br />
<br />
But 2015 was also the year I learned that, while I can still get lost, there is no limit to the number of times I can find myself again. I met new people. I made new things. There were big changes and challenges and accomplishments, and at the end of it all, now, on December 31, I am here. And I think the world and I are worthwhile. We are not perfect, and parts of us are dark and ugly and in need of some serious maintenance, but we deserve the work. We are worthy.<br />
<br />
I'm not entirely naive. I know that not every day can be a good day. Not every year can be a good year. But I don't believe in writing any of it off. My time is not a waste, no matter what I do with it. That, for me, is the difference between good and Good.<br />
<br />
So here we go. 2016. I'm going to help write an opera. You'll be hearing about that soon. I'm going to ride my bike from here to L.A. You'll hear about that too. I'm going to try new things, push new boundaries, make some changes. And that's just the stuff I'm planning - who knows what else will come along? It's all very exciting and horrifying, but I'm getting used to that feeling.<br />
<br />
There will be rough things too. I can't know what they will be or where they will come from. Nor can I spend my time living in fear of their arrival. I just have to trust that I can take what comes my way, and remember that I don't have to do it all alone.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow is a brand new thing. Be the stereotype, if that's what you want: join a gym, go for a hike, buy a bunch of vegetables, get a shiny new dayplanner, ask someone out. Whatever feels right. Just don't use the year that will be to punish yourself for the year that was.<br />
<br />
No wasted time.<br />
<br />
<i>Note: I can't end that serious, so hey, didja notice? New title! I've had a dietary shift over the last few months. After about five years of living a predominately vegan lifestyle, I've reincorporated some dairy, fish, and eggs. I initially started eating vegan because I had major food-related problems that I won't get into here and needed the nutritional education and appreciation. My health, my relationship with food and with my body, and just my overall well being improved dramatically. Now that I have that foundation, this felt like a natural next step for me personally. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I still eat predominately vegan, and I don't believe I'll ever start eating red meat or poultry again - I've lost my taste and desire for it - but bottom line is the label just isn't accurate anymore. New year, new title, same blog!</i><br />
<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-56160647432935063192015-11-18T08:52:00.000-08:002015-11-18T08:52:01.909-08:00On HIVHey, pals.<br />
<br />
Another November post. I know. What's next, lakes of fire?<br />
<br />
Don't worry. The world isn't ending - despite how jacked up things are right now, which is putting it lightly - and this is just going to be a short one.<br />
<br />
But first, a note: aside from my passing reference above, I'm not going to be discussing the attacks in Paris or anywhere else - at least not in digital space. On a practical level, I have nothing to add to the already exhaustive and largely irresponsible news cycle. On a personal level, that news cycle is damaging to me. Self-care right now means keeping myself at a distance, keeping the world in my heart and mind, and holding the people in my life a little closer. Please don't mistake my silence for apathy.<br />
<br />
I will just say this: there's a difference between acting in self-defense and reacting out of fear.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
The other thing pulling media attention at the moment is Charlie Sheen's disclosure that he is HIV positive. We're not going to talk about Charlie Sheen - I don't know him. But his announcement has put HIV back in the news and has exposed the fact that there is still a stunning lack of education about and understanding of the virus. And again, I never know who's reading this and who isn't, but because this is something that matters to me - and because I hate that it's so easy to spread misinformation via clickbait and sensationalism - I wanted to do something.<br />
<br />
So here are some quick bullets to get you started on a larger journey.<br />
<br />
<b>1) HIV is not AIDS.</b><br />
<br />
HIV and AIDS are often mentioned in the same breath, but they are not the same thing. You'd be surprised at how many people - reporters included - do not know this. One can be HIV positive without contracting AIDS (not vice versa, though). They are two different things and should be discussed as such.<br />
<br />
<b>2) Both HIV and AIDS are incurable.</b><br />
<br />
This is where language can be the most confusing/misleading for laypeople. Treatment for HIV and AIDS has come a long, long way since the 80's and 90's when infection was essentially an instant death sentence. HIV regimens and antiretroviral therapies have increased lifespans and reduced the possibility of transmitting infection so, so dramatically. However, do not mistake the term, "undetectable viral load," for, "cure." As of right now, there is no cure. That's why knowing your status, getting treated, and staying on that treatment is so important.<br />
<br />
<b>3) Many people do not know their HIV status.</b><br />
<br />
This bullet point (this whole post, really) is not meant to scare or shame anyone. If anything, it's meant to highlight one of the worst side effects of a lack of education about HIV. Once the most immediate threat passed, getting tested stopped being a priority for a lot of people. Knowing the status of a partner stopped being as much of a priority.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing: if you're going to have sex with someone, you should know their status and yours. Have that conversation. Even more so if you're having unprotected sex. Get tested. Get tested again if and when you have sex with a new partner. Get tested again if and when your partner has sex with a new partner. Tons of places provide free access to quick tests now, and early detection could 100% save your life and possibly someone else's.<br />
<br />
<b>4) There is no way to 100% guarantee you will not transmit HIV.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
This sort of goes hand-in-hand with, "undetectable viral load," not being the same thing as, "cure." The terms, "virtually impossible," and, "impossible," are also very, very different.<br />
<br />
Now, you may be thinking, "Duh," and wanting to punch me in the face, but I'm not trying to condescend. I'm trying to remind.<br />
<br />
I'm also not trying to say don't have sex. Just have communicative sex - the chance, however minuscule, that you could transmit infection means that it is always your responsibility to disclose your status to any partner if you are positive. I don't mean to suggest that this is an inherently easy thing to do when there's an actual cargo ship of absolutely unfair stigma still attached, but not doing so robs your partner of informed consent.<br />
<br />
<b>5) HIV doesn't discriminate. Don't be an ass about it.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Some subgroups of society have higher infection rates than others. Great stat.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing: to say that somebody, "asked for," infection or, "deserves it," because they're LGBT or promiscuous or used drugs or had unprotected sex or felt too uncomfortable to ask about a partner's status or just straight up didn't think is a 100% dick move. Shit happens to the careless. Shit happens to the careful. We're all people, and thus we're all deserving of compassion, love, respect, and a recognition of dignity. Nothing changes that.<br />
<br />
Continue to get yourself informed by people way more pro-status than I am. I recommend the <a href="http://www.sfaf.org/">San Francisco AIDS Foundation</a>, but no matter what, just make sure you're engaging with a reputable source.<br />
<br />
See ya in December (for real this time)!<br />
<b><br /></b>CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-58168392062174698232015-11-12T20:22:00.003-08:002015-11-12T20:22:50.205-08:00On Journeys (Or; Go, Guy, Go...)It's November.<br />
<br />
That means it's National Novel Writing Month, and due to the glorious torture that is committing to NaNoWriMo, I don't usually blog much/at all during November. Because if I'm going to spend my time putting words together in a way that makes sense, I'm going to make sure they count toward that 50,000, damn it.<br />
<br />
But I'm having a moment. Naturally, that means all planning and logic have gone out the proverbial window, and here we are.<br />
<br />
See, this also happens to be my last evening as a 28 year-old.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure, I'm 100% obsessed with my birthday. Not in a gross everybody-pay-attention-to-me-and-shower-me-with-gifts-all-day-yes-thnx way. I just really, really dig being alive. It's pretty much my favorite. I love having a reason to get friends together in one place and just celebrate being, and I'm going to stand by that forever, no matter how much of an internet hippie it makes me.<br />
<br />
I also love the ritual - the bowing out of the year that was and the ushering in of the year that will be. I try to go out with a few new things and adventures. Ditto for kicking things off.<br />
<br />
As it happens, I'm kicking 29 off in Disneyland, where I'll be spending the weekend running two races. On purpose. For fun?<br />
<br />
Take a minute for that. I still am, and I signed up for this months ago. I'm not sure when I decided birthday meant, "Physical Challenge!" (bummed already that there are probably those amongst you too young for the reference), but there it is. A friend of mine sent a message of encouragement this morning that was simply, "Go, guy, go!" What else is there to say, besides, "Don't destroy your bod, crazy!"<br />
<br />
I've been saying, "I really don't do things like this," except I guess I do now. With increasing regularity, actually.<br />
<br />
If you've lurked around this digital space of mine even a little bit over the past three years or so, then you know that I've been on a journey of sorts. There have been major highs, crushing lows, and a lot of little victories and setbacks that haven't necessarily warranted documentation. Not here, anyway.<br />
<br />
And this...man, I hate the word journey. Really, I do. It feels so lofty. This, let's say, "ongoing whatever," of mine...it's changed me. In every way possible. I'm stronger and braver and smarter. I don't spray anger everywhere they way that I did for a while - which is not to say that I have the perfect temper, but I'm doing my best while striving for better. I'm not owned by fear - not all the time, anyway. Not in the same way. I'm still working on that too.<br />
<br />
That's the thing of it, you know. I don't think I realized it when I started, not really, but the ongoing whatever...it's always going to be ongoing. I'll always be working. And it is bitter work sometimes - soulless, joyless, painful, and so very far from fair.<br />
<br />
But the idea of stopping now that I've got momentum...it's not an option. If I'm being honest, the idea of giving up and holding still again is actually more frightening than any unknown challenge that most assuredly lies ahead. Because now I know how much better things can get. That's not to say that I can't be present and happy with what is. Far from it - but, "what is," has to be looked after, then built upon as it becomes, "what was." We are the sum of our parts and experiences, right? Puzzle pieces.<br />
<br />
Last day of 28, and when I look in the mirror, I see a version of myself that is puzzle pieces finally come together: the love of family and friends, the support and advice of teachers and mentors, the foundation of self-care, the messy bits - failures and frustrations and heartbreaks. The process - the assembly - makes more and more sense all the time. All of that...it made a thing. A me.<br />
<br />
And she never wants to stop going, to stop working, to stop moving.<br />
<br />
Guess that's growing up.<br />
<br />
Go, guy.<br />
<br />
Go.CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-68804468764883174782015-10-04T17:26:00.001-07:002015-10-05T08:54:28.953-07:00On the Cult of Pumpkin, Pt. 1 (Or, Pumpkin Things I Have Known, Pt. 1)Hey, pals! I've been blog-absent for quite some time. The reasons are varied and predominately boring. Suffice to say, my head and my heart have been other places for the past few months. But I love this space. I love what I've been able to use it for, and I hope you fine folks who sometimes stumble across it do too. So here's me hopefully easing back into at least a semi-regular posting routine with a good ol' fashioned recipe.<br />
<br />
Unless you're reading this long after I posted it (or unless you traveled back in time and are reading it before I posted it), it's October! If you're in a place with real weather, that probably means the air is getting colder, the leaves are changing, and the whole world is autumnal as hell. I say, "probably," because I'm in glorious San Francisco, where, "October," generally means, "layering in the morning, desperately stripping down in the afternoon, and keeping a hat and scarf in your bag for evening so you don't have to face living a life of regret."<br />
<br />
But the great uniter for us all this month/season is: pumpkin. Apparently, it's really become a thing - pumpkin spice is the new [insert cultish food reference]. And I get it. All hipster trendiness aside, pumpkin and pumpkin-spice things are evocative - they create a full sensory experience. One that says, "Hey, get ready for shorter days, darker nights, and a bevy of gorgeous opportunities to bust out your favorite sweater/tie combos." Or maybe that's just me.<br />
<br />
Part of the problem nowadays, though, is that the market is <i>so </i>oversaturated with products that are meant to harness our squasheriffic love. In all the excitement, it can be hard to separate the yays from the nays. That's why I'm going to spend a little bit of time this month highlighting some of my favorite things that feature pumpkins in a starring role - starting with the recipe after the jump!<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><b><u>Walnut Chocolate Chip Pumpkin Bread</u></b><br />
<br />
Fun fact, friends: pumpkin purees are generally super high in fiber and make a great addition to your baked goods, which is part of why recipes that utilize actual 100% pumpkin are way preferable to those that only call for pumpkin spices and flavorings.<br />
<br />
This recipe was adapted from Candice Kumai's, "Chocolate Chip Pumpkin Loaf," which can be found in her book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0062388738?keywords=clean%20green%20eats&qid=1444060441&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1">Clean Green Eats</a>. I made a few baby changes, most notably adding walnuts and swapping out the butter for soy-free Earth Balance vegan butter to keep it dairy-free.<br />
<br />
Please do note, however, that this recipe is not vegan - it does call for two eggs. I don't have an oil/egg substitute ratio for this guy yet, which is why I haven't included a vegan alternative option on the ingredient list. If you find one, let me know and I'll add it in.<br />
<br />
But rejoice - there are gluten free, soy free, and nut free notes on the list!<br />
<br />
<b><u>Ingredients</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
<i>3 Tbsp. unsalted butter/vegan butter, softened </i><br />
<i>1/2 cup packed organic light or dark brown sugar</i><br />
<i>2 large eggs</i><br />
<i>1 3/4 cups (15 oz.) pure pumpkin puree</i><br />
<i>2 Tbsp. unsweetened almond or other non-dairy milk</i><br />
<i>1 3/4 cups all purpose or gluten free flour</i><br />
<i>1 tsp. baking soda</i><br />
<i>1 tsp. aluminum-free baking powder</i><br />
<i>2 tsp. pumpkin pie spice</i><br />
<i>1/4 tsp sea salt</i><br />
<i>1 cup semisweet chocolate chips*</i><br />
<i>Optional: About 1/2cup-1cup roughly chopped walnut pieces (I eyeballed it)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*If you're a soy free pal, then you probably know it's sadly borderline impossible to find chocolate chips that don't contain some kind of soy-based emulsifier. There are a few options out there, but if you can't get ahold of any, skip the chips. The bread is still great and will not suffer.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Pre-heat your oven to that magical baking temperature of 350 degrees F. If you're a fancy person, line an 8x4 loaf pan with parchment paper and spray it with cooking spray. If you're a heathen like me, skip the parchment paper and just grease or spray your pan directly.<br />
<br />
In a large bowl, whisk together your brown sugar and butter, then add the eggs in one at a time. When those buddies are all combined, add the pumpkin puree and almond milk. Set aside.<br />
<br />
Take a medium bowl and stir together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and pumpkin pie spice. Fold your dry ingredients into the wet ingredients a portion at a time using a rubber spatula until everybody has been well integrated into the party. Once you've done that, repeat the folding process with your chocolate chips and/or walnuts. The end result should have the consistency of batter, not dough.<br />
<br />
Pour your batter into the 8x4 pan. Smooth the top with your spatula or the flat of a butter knife and pop it in the oven for about 40 minutes. Check the center with a knife or toothpick - if it comes out clean, you're good.<br />
<br />
Pro-tip: it can take a little longer for all that pumpkin to bake through - my first go on this, I followed the time given in the recipe exactly and, even though my toothpick came out clean, there was a spot a bit left of center that was still very underdone. Fortunately, I was able to pop it back in for another 15 minutes or so and it all worked out. Test a couple spots with your knife/toothpick instead of just the center and add on to your bake time in 5-10 minute increments if need be until you find what works for you.<br />
<br />
Your end result will be a dark on the outside, slightly fluffy on the inside loaf of pure autumnal delight. Spread a wee bit of butter - vegan, pumpkin, or otherwise - on a slice if you're feeling extra crazy, cozy up with your favorite werewolf movie (just me?), and fall it up, my friends!<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-87922895924929423492015-04-27T22:59:00.000-07:002015-04-28T08:57:47.474-07:00On Assumptions (Or, Aw...Bro...)I was on a mission yesterday.<br />
<br />
Before we get into that, some background: I love comic books. Not exclusively hero comics, but they were my gateway and I still read plenty. One of my favorites is Matt Fraction and David Aja's run on Marvel's <a href="http://www.midtowncomics.com/store/dp.asp?PRID=Hawkeye+Vol+1+My+Life+As+_1241923"><i>Hawkeye</i>.</a> The book follows the titular character's day-to-day when he is out of uniform, when he is Clint Barton rather than Hawkeye. It is a book that, by Fraction's own admission in interviews, should not have worked. But it did. Its sincerity and humor connected with readers on an epic scale, and I am one of them.<br />
<br />
In fact, due to my apparent penchant for falling and his tendency to be busted, I've assumed the mantle of, "the Clint Barton of cycling." I think I wear it well, albeit painfully. More often than not, I ride in one of my myriad purple Hawkeye shirts (all from the collection Fraction curates for <a href="http://community.welovefine.com/profile/163420">WeLoveFine</a> to benefit Futures Without Violence). If you see me, say hi. Just be prepared for me to possibly do myself harm in trying to return the greeting.<br />
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So, naturally, when I discovered that Marvel Select had just released a Hawkeye figure from the Fraction/Aja run, complete with Lucky the Pizza Dog and alternate bandaged head, I had to make it happen. </div>
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I'm a toy person, but this was my first action figure purchase in a while. Budget/space concerns and an irritating but growing sense of practicality have made me much more selective over the past couple years. I don't like the way most are designed these days, and the high end figures - while beautiful works of art - are way out of my price range. So this was kind of a big deal. And you cannot imagine my delight when I laid eyes on this magnificent, lovingly detailed bastard.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmrWwtxL9L-KmupykBgHp4T804mbY8NDldmIqN6x2dEwYI8tpWyYghUAStRqzQTca4biAWkmVOmffDYCFF4sr3PO_akM86i9oKDq5sXMnO6bJXkPBlR29jFLwgfbCuXcQAaUcoLwjwwY/s1600/IMG_7350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmrWwtxL9L-KmupykBgHp4T804mbY8NDldmIqN6x2dEwYI8tpWyYghUAStRqzQTca4biAWkmVOmffDYCFF4sr3PO_akM86i9oKDq5sXMnO6bJXkPBlR29jFLwgfbCuXcQAaUcoLwjwwY/s1600/IMG_7350.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Side note: Yes, that is my very professional grown-up workspace. You can also see some of my Avengers Minimates, a Rocket Raccoon Pop vinyl, the Manchester United door poster that traveled from Ireland to San Francisco to Seattle and back to San Francisco (there is a hole in it that I'm in denial about), the Tim Lincecum jersey I got signed at Spring Training in 2010 that I still have not framed, and two bottles of my favorite bourbon. Don't worry. They don't make it anymore. I opened one of those bottles in December and toasted the end of <i>The Legend of Korra </i>with my best friend. It's for special occasions only, obviously.</div>
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That should be it, right? Just a fun story about one grown-up lady buying an action figure with her grown-up lady money to put on her grown-up lady desk. But it's a little more complicated than that.</div>
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When it was my turn to check out, I handed the package to the cashier. He smiled and cheerfully asked me if I was excited about <i>Age of Ultron</i>. I said I was, and we chatted a little. Then, he asked, "So, you're a big Hawkeye girl? Jeremy Renner and his bow and arrows are your thing?"</div>
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I was taken aback for a minute. I hadn't been asked a question like that in a really long time.</div>
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"I'm a fan of the comics," I responded, "And Black Widow is really more my type."</div>
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I said it kindly and made sure it was clear that I wasn't mad - because I wasn't. This guy obviously had no ill intent - he was trying to make friendly conversation, which is what retail requires of us all. He'd just gone about it the wrong way, and I let him know it.</div>
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For the record, my answer to his accidentally leading questions was honest - I was buying the figure specifically because it was comic book Clint, not movie Clint - not knocking him, we just don't have the same connection. And I'm 100% more attracted to the Widow. </div>
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The cashier looked at me and made an assumption. Female customer, male character, she must think he's hot.* Let's agree that if the character were female, or if I were male, the conversation would've been different. That, ladies and gentlemen, is sexism. Gentle, non-threatening, probably accidental sexism. But.</div>
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We do this everyday - I'm just as guilty of it as anyone. We look at people and we try to sort them, place them, categorize them. We make assumptions and judgments about race, gender, orientation, and so many other things. We impose our own perceptions on other people based on information we think we have, and we miss opportunities to really see them.</div>
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Sometimes, we do it on purpose. That sucks.</div>
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Most of the time, we do it without even realizing it, usually with little things. That might be worse. It's easier to let ourselves off the hook for these small, seemingly harmless transgressions. </div>
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Learning to ask people who they are and really let them tell us is a process. We need to have patience when others make mistakes, but we also need to play some part in correcting them. We need to own that we ourselves makes mistakes and that we can learn from them.</div>
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I let my cashier know that I existed outside of the box he assigned me, and he responded in kind. We talked about the comics I loved and his own Widow crush. It was great.</div>
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How could we have arrived at the same awesome place with less sexist beginnings? He could have led with, "Is Hawkeye your favorite?" Same friendly interest, no accidental assumptions about my motives or orientation based on my gender.</div>
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Easy fix, but it can be hard to get into the habit of resetting your defaults.</div>
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I think we're all up to the challenge, though.</div>
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*To clarify, there is absolutely nothing wrong with loving a character and buying said character's merch because you find him/her attractive.</div>
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<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-56136110224378557532015-04-08T18:42:00.000-07:002015-04-10T15:08:51.933-07:00On Little Victories (Or, Pictures of You - But Actually Me...)Strap yourself in, dear reader, because I have a confession to make.<br />
<br />
Remember my post about my first tattoo? Not to brag or anything, but it's my most read piece, which makes what I'm about to say that much worse. You may recall that said post was punctuated with a photo of myself with Janet Varney, performer/producer/podcaster extraordinaire and creator of the content that led to my wrist buddy. It's a cute picture. A cute picture that harbors a terrible secret.<br />
<br />
Are you ready for it?<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
I have food on my face.<br />
<br />
Man. It feels good to let that go.<br />
<br />
I realized it almost immediately, of course - it was just a wee bit of curry ketchup (all that remained of the top notch vegan hot dog I'd consumed about 10 minutes prior, thanks, Outside Lands), barely noticeable. Virtually impossible to notice, in fact, unless you were looking for it. But I knew it was there, and had to face the grim reality that it would always be there, haunting me. The question was, would I be able to suffer in silence?<br />
<br />
Now, I say, "suffer," like I didn't immediately put it in a blog post less than 24 hours later and use it as my Facebook profile picture for months. Perspective, guys. I do sort of have it.<br />
<br />
I did keep the secret for well over a year, though I finally told my best friend and one or two other trusteds when I couldn't take it anymore. Who knew this baby spot of ketchup would become my way less murdery Tell-tale Heart?<br />
<br />
I didn't know Janet very well then. I know her better now, and trust her pretty implicitly based on how that's gone. What I'm saying is, in the time between those two points, I probably definitely could've explained the situation and asked for another picture to eradicate the shame. Friends do that. Unless your friend is me, because I am a ridiculous person.<br />
<br />
Cut to the last weekend in March. I was in Seattle for a long overdue visit, prompted in part because my favorite places from when I used to live up there keep closing (R.I.P, Piecora's and the Easy Street on Mercer). It was a visit I'd planned to coincide with Emerald City Comic Con, which I'd loved and always regretted not attending every year I was in school. It was a special con for a lot of reasons. It was an emotional con for a lot of reasons. Partway through, I had to start wrestling with the reality that I was losing a family member back home. It was a much more overwhelming and raw trip than I ever could've known when I bought my tickets last fall. That's life, you know? I don't believe the universe punishes you, but it's a little harder to remember that it also doesn't play by your rules.<br />
<br />
I'm letting you know all this because I want to make it clear that on the last day of the con, when I placed myself squarely at the back of Janet's last signing line, it was with a serious mission. She was a guest, obviously, and we'd gotten to see each other already. I'd even asked my first question ever at a convention during her panel the day before, as it had seemed like the safest place to do it (also probably my last question at a convention, because it was still horrifying). Under other circumstances, I probably would've texted, "Bye," and gone on living my life. But, like I said, I was a little raw and a little overwhelmed. So sure, I wanted to say a proper goodbye to a friend that I don't see very often, but more than that, I wanted a victory. I wanted to make up for Foodgate '13.<br />
<br />
Janet checked in with me about what was going on in my life, because she is a good person. I lost my composure and cried for a minute, because I am a human person. After that, we got down to business. I laid out the tragic story of our only existing picture together, and she agreed that we needed to rectify the matter. Then, to my surprise, I added this: "Also, I don't even look like myself in that picture." It was not a thought I'd shared, publicly or privately, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was true. Take a look at this (I'm the brunette, duh).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71l2OQa8bty4_rYS1gQb8ka_uXa87likMaQ6yQg5B0HPT4kg1Rdtwgct7QIK6C_wLgugYVdzzF1TukKnBWxkPrm_vq1y_NyslmQHDXbQKvEXbEs_tQxVI_BOBXd6UmUtqDf1-qOAjSZQ/s1600/IMG_4165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71l2OQa8bty4_rYS1gQb8ka_uXa87likMaQ6yQg5B0HPT4kg1Rdtwgct7QIK6C_wLgugYVdzzF1TukKnBWxkPrm_vq1y_NyslmQHDXbQKvEXbEs_tQxVI_BOBXd6UmUtqDf1-qOAjSZQ/s1600/IMG_4165.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
That girl is six months away from coming out, and that honesty is going to finally let her settle into her life. She's stiff and she's nervous. You can't tell, but she's wearing a dress, and while she knows how to do it, it doesn't feel quite right - it's a style, not her style. Soon she's going to learn how to tie a bow tie, and that's going to change everything. Almost a year to the day later, she's going to sit in a salon with the hair she'd been growing out for lack of a better idea and say, "I want something different, but I don't know what," and because her stylist is a genius, she's going to walk out looking exactly the way she didn't even know she wanted to (one of her favorite fictional characters will follow suit soon after, and she will be unabashedly smug about it). She's going to start running and she'll learn how to ride a bike and just start doing a whole mess of stuff that terrifies her. That girl is going to remake herself, not to spite who she is, but <i>because </i>of who she is.<br />
<br />
And the thing is, I love that picture. Food (can you see it?!?!?!) be damned, it's kind of the beginning of a friendship that I value very much, and it's a stop on a big journey that's gotten me to a place where I feel more like myself - physically, mentally, artistically - than I ever have. The girl in that picture has a lot of work ahead of her, but she fucking did it, you know? She took that on.<br />
<br />
The result of that work is that I feel so at <i>home </i>in my body now. I'm nesting within myself, building better foundations and hanging art and decorating exactly the way I want to. Boys and girls are allowed here now. My outside matches my inside, and it's so much easier to move and breathe and be. Because of that, while I do feel total affection for the photo above, I can't look at it and say, "Hey, there's CDog being CDog."<br />
<br />
Suddenly, my little victory wasn't about pure vanity anymore. It was about the fact that I had gotten up that morning after a rough night and still put on a shirt and tie because it made me happy. It was about the fact that I stood in line and engaged strangers in conversation. It was about the fact that I let myself feel my feels for a second and be supported by a friend, and despite all of that, still wanted to take a picture. And not the super posed awkward prom picture that I take with strangers. A good, proper, here's-me-making-the-face-I-make-when-I'm-relaxed-because-pictures-are-ridiculous picture.<br />
<br />
...and it was about vanity. A little bit.<br />
<br />
The girl below? She looks like me. And she's got a lot more stuff ahead of her. Some of it's going to suck royally. Some of it's going to be totally rad. But check it out. I think she's going to be okay, don't you?<br />
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CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-30737503711639642472015-03-19T15:54:00.001-07:002015-03-22T12:10:01.272-07:00On Teaching Acceptance (Or, No More Hiding...)<div class="MsoNormal">
There's a thing I've been trying to talk about, and I don't know how. So I'm going to talk about me for a little while.</div>
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I learned what it meant to be gay in school.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was maybe around 1996. I was about ten years old. We were
in music class. It was December, and we were singing, “Deck the Halls.” One of the boys raised
his hand and asked what, “gay apparel,” meant, not because he was curious, but
because ten is the age when kids really start figuring out how to be snarky.
The old-school nun behind the piano looked at him sharply and said, “In this song, it
means happy. It also means something very inappropriate that we don’t talk
about. But in this song, it means happy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d heard, “gay,” used the other way before, but not with
enough context to understand what it meant. This was pre-Google, and I wasn't going to ask my parents, so I didn't really have a lot to go on. Now I knew – sort of. It meant something bad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s how easy it is to plant an idea in the mind of a
trusting child. I still get upset about it, about the months I spent genuinely
believing it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was my older sister who eventually set me straight, as it
were. Six years my senior, she’d often pick me up and bring me back to her high
school if she had meetings and both of my parents were working too late to pick
me up from extended care on time. We had a good relationship – I was never
treated like a cumbersome little sister, never banished to a corner or told to
stay away from her friends. I knew her friends, and liked them. One of them, I
learned, was gay, and I whispered a question about him once. Maybe she didn’t
know?<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah,” she said firmly, “It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong
with it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s all it really took to reverse the damage that had been
done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had wanted, since learning its
true definition, to believe that being gay was fine, because it seemed a silly
thing to think otherwise. It’s equally silly that I needed somebody else to
give me permission to trust my own feelings about the matter, but I was ten.
I’m willing to forgive kid me for not being better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was raised Catholic, and I received an exclusively
Catholic education, from kindergarten right on through to college graduation.
During this massive chunk of my life, I learned a lot. When I hit high school,
my personal value system really started to form, and I was so lucky to have
teachers who encouraged me to trust myself. A few of those teachers really
stepped up and acted as mentors, patiently helping me navigate the challenges
and curveballs that got thrown my way while I tried to carve out my path. They
never judged. They always listened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I think of the eighteen year-old kid in her college
dorm who had just experienced conscious feelings for a woman for the first
time, I think of how much harder it could’ve been for her if she’d been born to
a different family in a different city. I know it would’ve been harder if she’d
had different teachers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was still hard. It would be another two years or so – two
years of quiet denial and confusion – before I fully understood and accepted
that I was bisexual. It would be another eight years before I said it out loud.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Full disclosure: my master plan was to only indulge the
attraction I felt toward men so that I would just never have to talk about it.
It was a really dumb plan. Like, it was always a dumb plan, because feelings
are feelings and we should really just go with them, but it was especially dumb
because wherever I fall on the wider and much debated spectrum, I’m for sure attracted
to women more often. Not exclusively. But more often. If you're thinking of adopting a similar plan, maybe don't. Just some friendly advice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Saying it out loud? Best ever. There was so much of me that
I was holding back because ridiculous, paranoid closet logic told me that
letting it out would let everyone know. You know how sometimes you’re playing
hide and seek, and you’ve got the best hiding spot, but after a while you kind
of just want to be found so that you can go back to having fun being loud and
visible and a part of the world? That’s how I felt at the end of that gross and
complicated decade.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know that I hid all that well. There were
people who definitely knew, or suspected. Toward the end, the closet door was
cracking like crazy, I was so sick of keeping it closed. But it was a punishing way to live all the same, and I want to go back to that me and let her know that it's all going to work out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once I did it and the initial wave of euphoria passed, I
spent a lot of time being irritated with myself. It was upsetting to
acknowledge that I spent such a long time denying a huge part of my identity,
not because I thought it was wrong, but because I thought it was wrong for me. I
had gotten so worried about what people would think that it felt like I had
arrested my development – like I had wasted time in understanding myself, and
was now behind everyone in the race to be a person.<o:p></o:p></div>
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People who were much younger than I was with much more to lose
came out everyday. I felt like a coward and a hypocrite.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Last November, I got to see <a href="http://www.rheabutcher.com/">Rhea Butcher</a> and <a href="http://cameronesposito.com/">Cameron Esposito</a> live for the first time. I was a week off my first bike accident. I
was tired, my ribs were kind of busted, and I needed the laughs. I got much
more. Rhea and Cameron are stand-ups and fiancées. They talk about their lives
without apology. Their sets touched me and made me happy in a way that I don’t
think they could have if I hadn’t stepped up and taken ownership of who I am.
Post-show, after receiving compliments from them on my tie (always makes me
proud), I said, “Listen, I came out this year, and what you said – what you do
– really means a lot.” I mean, I probably said it way worse than that because I
was nervous and being nervous makes me a jackass, but that’s what I meant to
say. And immediately, Cameron pulled me in for a hug, then looked me in the eye
with a big smile and said, “Hey! You’re doing it!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That stuck with me in a big way. I have no problem admitting
that I repeat it to myself when I hit rougher patches, when I start to get mad
at myself or do something that scares me. It was a nice thing for one stranger
to say to another stranger because she knew, and I’m grateful for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The way we treat each other matters. The things we say to
each other matter. Words carry weight, whether we want them to or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ugly words have been thrown around recently by powerful
people in my city. It’s upsetting, disturbing language designed to denounce and
condemn. It can call itself whatever it wants, but that is what it is. And it
is wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These words, and worse, have existed for a long time. But
now it feels like they’re in my home, in my safe space. I’ve been trying to
write about it for weeks and I haven’t been able to. I get too angry to do it
right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know that this is doing it right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So yeah, rather than talking about it, I decided to talk about me.
Because there wasn’t some <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Divergent</i>-y
ceremony when I turned eighteen where I stood up in front of my peers and sliced
my hand open over the bowl of bisexuality, making my choice. It’s who I’ve always been. I started
writing stories when I was in grade school, guys. It is not that difficult to
read between the lines and see that I was a little bi kid with gently romantic
feelings for a pretty diverse range of people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents didn’t get weird when I didn’t want to play with
dolls and begged for a poster of Jennifer Love Hewitt to put above my dresser,
where she remained for years, looking amazing. When I came out to them, they
said okay, and kept right on loving me. I’m so, so lucky for all of that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite what some of the textbooks and official party lines
may have said, my teachers taught me to honor myself exactly as I was, because
that was more than enough. I don’t know that I believe in a higher power – and I’m
so happy in the not knowing, so don’t worry about me – but if I did, the one
with that message is the one I’d get behind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a teacher now. I’ve had chances to be the mentor,
advisor, and non-judgmental ear that my teachers were to me, and I hope that
I’ve done even half as well as they did. Standing up and being myself – loving
who and what I love, wearing what I wear, doing what I do – feels like a
responsibility now as much as a right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no rule, no word, no power that will make me go
back to hiding any part of who I am, nor tell anybody else to do so. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will do my best to lead by example, because I’m in a
position right now to do that. I will continue to try and be a good person, who
surrounds herself with others who are trying to be good people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good,” is not who you love or do not love. It is not who or
if you marry, how or if you have kids, who or what you believe in. It’s not
what you look like or where you came from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is how you are. To yourself. To others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will teach acceptance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I stand proudly with teachers and students and parents
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people </i>who are doing the same.<br />
<br /></div>
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Hey. We’re doing it.<o:p></o:p></div>
CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-74770520911443764072015-01-04T09:11:00.001-08:002015-01-05T11:06:25.037-08:00On Breakfasting in the New Year (Or, Here's a Porridge Recipe...)I holidayed hard, guys.<br />
<br />
With a vengeance.<br />
<br />
It's not an uncommon story. Equal parts revelry and lack of time lead to sustaining oneself on hors d'oeuvres, candy canes, and whiskey for a month (note: I don't think I actually had any candy canes)(for sure the rest, though). I was more vegetarian than vegan, and I have no regrets. It was a fun month. A fun month that ended with me being not entirely sure when I'd last had a vegetable and reasonably certain that I was suffering from a mild amount of self-inflicted malnutrition.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, when the tinsel settled, it was time to detox.<br />
<br />
Now, "detox," is a very strong word. When some people use it, they mean they're going to embark on some kind of magic juice cleanse or fast. Good luck to them. When I use it, all I really mean is that I start paying attention to what I'm doing again. It only took about two days for my blood to stop hurting, so I have faith in my system.<br />
<br />
For me, a decent breakfast is key to making good choices for the rest of the day. However, I'm not going to get up any earlier to make it, so breakfasts that are quick and easy - or that I can prepare in advance on the day I set aside to do my cooking for the week - are also my friend.<br />
<br />
I kicked off 2015 with a nifty little dish I found on Pinterest last summer that happens to meet both requirements, a raw buckwheat chia porridge that is super easy and satisfying. It's also vegan and gluten free, so extra snaps if either of those things apply to you or you're having friends over for breakfast that you don't want to poison. Recipe after the jump.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<b><u>Raw Buckwheat Chia Porridge</u></b><br />
<i>First and foremost, I love the word porridge, so this is very satisfying to me on that level.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Second, this is a really versatile recipe - once you make the base, you can top it with pretty much anything you want to make it a little more robust. Add more fruit, seeds, chopped nuts, whatever suits your fancy - just be mindful of the nutritional value and serving sizes, if health is your goal. Lately I've been using raw pumpkin seeds and about a tablespoon of homemade persimmon jam that my cousin Erin gave me for Christmas - so good! Check out the original recipe <a href="http://talesofakitchen.com/breakfast/raw-buckwheat-chia-porridge-with-apple-pineapple-and-papaya/">here</a> for some ideas. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also, keep in mind that you're going to want to soak your buckwheat groats for at least 8 hours, so factor that in to your plans. You can do it overnight, or just toss them in a bowl with some water first thing in the morning so they'll be ready to use when you get home. Just don't forget, because there's really no quick fix.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Final note: if you're making this when pineapple is not in season (like right now), you can swap it for most other fruits or berries. Try pears. Pears are great. You can go the frozen or canned pineapple route if you want, but technically, seasonal eating is better. It's also fun.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><u>Ingredients</u></b><br />
<i>- 1 cup buckwheat groats, soaked in water for at least 8 hours</i><br />
<i>- 1/3 cup almond meal</i><br />
<i>- 1/4 cup chia seeds</i><br />
<i>- 2 green apples, cored and sliced (any apples work, but green has worked the best for me)</i><br />
<i>- 1/2 cup pineapple, cubed</i><br />
<i>- 1/3 tsp ground green cardamom</i><br />
<i>- 1/3 tsp ground cinnamon</i><br />
<i>- pinch of ground nutmeg</i><br />
<i>- 1 Tbsp sweetener (I opt for maple syrup)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Drain and rinse your buckwheat groats.<br />
<br />
Have you done that? Grand.<br />
<br />
Now, here's the beautiful part of this recipe: take all of the above, place it in your food processor or hi-speed blender, and blend/pulse until everything is well-incorporated and smooth. That's it. That's all you have to do.<br />
<br />
Now, that's going to take a couple minutes - there's a lot of stuff for your machine to work through. This is where the Vitamix I got for my birthday a couple years ago continues to be the gift that keeps on giving. If you have a smaller machine, you may need to blend in batches. Use your best judgment. By the end, you should have a nice, smooth, pudding-like consistency. If it's took thick for your liking, add some water a little at a time until you're satisfied.<br />
<br />
Once your porridge is ready, you can serve it hot or cold. Personally, I think it works better cold, so I generally prep it the night before and put it in the fridge. Assembly in the morning is a no-brainer: dish out between 3/4 cup - 1 cup porridge, add your toppings, and enjoy!<br />
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<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-89909365269452730842014-12-22T23:40:00.000-08:002015-01-23T15:10:54.244-08:00On Being Known (Or, Korra Feelings Forever)I had to write about this.<br />
<br />
I had to.<br />
<br />
Before we begin, let me post an appropriate warning: this post will contain spoilers for the series finale of <i>The Legend of Korra.</i> Just one, really, but that "one" does happen to be the very last scene of the show. Now, here's the thing: I never spoil people with stuff. Not even when they ask me to. But this is too big. It's too important to me for me to be politely vague about the details.<br />
<br />
I don't think your viewing experience will be ruined if you keep reading. But I understand wanting to stay 100% in the dark about something, so jump off now, if that's how you feel.<br />
<br />
Okay.<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
If you know me, then it's no secret that I love <i><a href="http://www.nick.com/legend-of-korra/">The Legend of Korra</a></i>. Love it. I give it top priority at Comic-Con. I got up early every morning for a week to play the video game before work because that was the only time I could - and I am neither a huge gamer nor a morning person. My third tattoo is Naga, Korra's polar bear dog (also named my bike after her). I love it.<br />
<br />
Korra is a character I felt a kinship with immediately. I would've killed to have had her around when I was growing up. As a kid, I had a very hard time connecting with the girls on the shows I watched. They were often outnumbered and overshadowed by the boys - boys who got to be the team leaders, the fiercest fighters, the most completely and complexly developed. I loved losing myself in fiction, but I resented being a girl for a very long time because none of the characters in the stuff I was consuming felt like me.<br />
<br />
That changed, albeit gradually. For me, it started with <i>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</i> and kept going. It's still a process, though. I still have trouble fully finding myself in characters, and I still want to - that's not something that has changed for me between the ages of 8 and 28.<br />
<br />
And that's part of why I connected with Korra so hard. Since the series began, she has been fierce and flawed and full of heart. She has defined her own femininity. She has grown and matured and struggled, and I could relate to it all, in my own way. It meant, and will forever mean, so much. As the end of the series approached, I was profoundly sad - while I knew I'd always have my Blu-rays (all the special features, guys), it felt like I was about to lose a friend. A kindred spirit.<br />
<br />
But then the finale arrived. And whatever I was expecting, it was wildly eclipsed by what I actually got.<br />
<br />
Korra began the series with a friendship that turned into a romance with a male character. She ended it with a friendship that turned into a romance with a female character.<br />
<br />
I'm not a big, "shipper," - that is to say, I don't really attach myself to specific romantic couplings if I can help it. I try to surrender to the narrative when I watch or read something, at least on the first go around. But I had to admit, this particular lady-pairing (I'm standing by my use of this term, you're welcome) - initially something of a dark horse in the fandom, especially given that heterosexuality is pretty pervasive in American children's programming - was really fun to think about. As the series progressed, "dark horse," evolved into, "Wait...this seems like a legitimate thing." Just seeing two women with a close, healthy friendship was refreshing and wonderful, and possibility of getting more suddenly felt much closer than ever before.<br />
<br />
Then, it happened. And it meant everything to me. It means everything to me. When people say, "Media representation matters," they are not lying. There is no denying it. I have not been able to stop smiling, to stop feeling so full and happy and...<i>acknowledged...</i>since watching. I was already pretty emotional about Korra's recent PTSD struggles, but this...this...I could never have imagined, when I started, that I would get this.<br />
<br />
That series co-creators <a href="http://bryankonietzko.tumblr.com/post/105916338157/korrasami-is-canon-you-can-celebrate-it-embrace">Bryan Konietzko</a> and <a href="http://michaeldantedimartino.tumblr.com/post/105916326500/korrasami-confirmed-now-that-korra-and-asamis">Michael Dante DiMartino</a> both released statements obliterating any argument for a platonic or ambiguous reading of their final scenes by declaring that they were 100% romantic and that this end result had been their intent for quite some time, made a great thing even greater. That Konietzko included the line, "Despite what you might have heard, bisexual people are real!" in his statement, for me, made a greater thing the greatest.<br />
<br />
As it happens, it was a similar feeling of acknowledgement that helped me finally come out at the beginning of this year. That came from <a href="http://www.nerdist.com/podcast_channel/the-jv-club-channel/">The JV Club podcast</a> (again, I will never shut up about it), which happens to be hosted by the voice of Korra, <a href="http://www.janetvarney.com/">Janet Varney</a>. She often acknowledges that some situations that arise in discussions would be similar (or different, depending) if the parties involved were gay or trans or bisexual, etc. To have my orientation, which is often erased or ridiculed (and we're not the only ones, I'm well aware), acknowledged and included so naturally and automatically finally helped me feel safe and ready.<br />
<br />
To begin the year with a moment like that, and to end it with a moment like this - with a character I love on a show that I adore challenging heteronormativity in such a beautiful and authentic way just. Means. Everything. I feel known. I feel like this is an opportunity for so many people - older than me, younger than me, whatever - to see themselves or their friends or their families reflected back at them in the characters they love and identify with.<br />
<br />
I'm so happy and hopeful and proud.<br />
<br />
Note: I am not the boss of you, but Mike and Bryan's names in the body of this post link directly to their statements on their Tumblr pages, both of which are really quite incredible and which I highly recommend reading.<br />
<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-76406333101171292442014-10-19T11:29:00.002-07:002015-04-08T23:28:21.578-07:00On High School, Kind Of (Or, Ten Years Later...)Last night was my 10 year high school reunion.<br />
<br />
I didn't go.<br />
<br />
That I did not go was no statement on my part. In all honesty, 10 years just didn't feel like enough time or distance to make me want to pay to hang out with people I didn't know very well then and don't know very well now. Small talk makes me anxious, I had no revenge fantasy or need to prove how awesome I turned out to anybody, and I still see and/or keep in touch with a lot of the people I was close to in high school (for free). Most of them weren't going to be there anyway.<br />
<br />
So yeah, I didn't go. I hope everyone who did had a great time. Maybe I'll catch you at the next one.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the magic of Facebook, however, I did get to read a lot of people's thoughts about our 10 year reunion, about why they were or were not going, and what high school did (or, I guess, did not) mean to them. It got me thinking about my own experience, about who I was then and who I am now.<br />
<br />
I had a pretty good time in high school. They weren't the best years of my life, but they certainly were not the worst. I met great people who became friends, both casual and close. I met awful people who I did not care to keep on knowing. I like to think they're doing better now, if I think of them at all.<br />
<br />
None of this is terribly unique to the high school experience. It's life, you know?<br />
<br />
My time in high school would've made for a boring after school special - I was pretty well-liked, neither traditionally popular nor unpopular, I don't think. I didn't get bullied or picked on, and if I was getting made fun of, it wasn't happening to my face. I was just there, being me, and spending my time with the people who were on board with that. Most of them did theatre with me.<br />
<br />
As I've mentioned before, I was born and raised Catholic. I went to a Catholic high school, and I was pretty involved in religion at the time. I'm not anymore - on a human level, the politics and a lot of church doctrine did a fantastic job of alienating me, but on a personal and spiritual level, I don't connect with Catholicism. Letting go of that was hard - it was a big part of my life for a very long time - but I'm much more at peace now. To clarify, as I have before: I'm not saying what I believe is right or wrong, nor do I have any disrespect for religion or religious people, but I expect the same respect in return. And it should be on record that I was respected, in every possible way, by the Campus Ministry staff at my high school. I could not have asked for more inclusive, loving, and welcoming people to work with and learn from.<br />
<br />
In addition to the friends I made, I think the best part of high school (for me) was probably my teachers. Across the board, with very few exceptions that aren't worth mentioning, I had fantastic teachers. They not only educated me, they supported me and encouraged me to think for myself. My English and History teachers, in particular, helped foster my interest in the world around me - in the stories of others and my own ability to create and record them. My director/acting teacher found things in me that I didn't even know existed - she changed my life. To be so <i>seen </i>by my teachers was the greatest gift. If I've given even a small part of that back to the students I've had, then I'm doing okay.<br />
<br />
There were rough times full of challenging, painful stuff too. Those aren't the first things I think of, though, and I don't even feel like mentioning them right now, except to say that the people in my life stepped up so much to help me get through it all.<br />
<br />
High school is...high school, you know? It's a structured place to be during one of the weirdest, messiest times of your life. It brings with it good stuff and bad stuff - hopefully the bad outweighs the good, but it doesn't always. Either way, it happens, and then you keep going. You take that momentum and you keep changing and growing.<br />
<br />
I've been working on myself a lot recently, as several of my posts here can attest, and I've been thinking about high school me a lot. I think I can be kinder to her now than I was before, and I think I can appreciate more of what she had going for her. I was talking to a friend recently about how much we end up becoming the stories we tell ourselves. I wonder what this story will look like another 10 years down the line?<br />
<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-30288557277133543652014-10-09T07:50:00.000-07:002014-10-09T09:21:06.498-07:00On Pop Tarts (Or, I Assembled These and They Weren't Poison)So, full disclosure: I love Pop Tarts.<br />
<br />
Not all of them - the fruit ones never really did it for me. Did this preclude me from eating them? No. When you're bouncing from vending machine to vending machine, you're forced to accept very quickly that you'll have to settle for strawberry. Such is life.<br />
<br />
But when I had a choice? Three words: Brown. Sugar. Cinnamon. S'mores were a fair back-up, but it was all about the BSC (nobody called them that)(that's what we called the Baby-Sitters Club)(parentheticals).<br />
<br />
I didn't even toast them, you guys. Didn't need it. I'd just tear open that silver plastic and live the dream. Hot or cold, that brown sugary goo in the middle with its hint of cinammony goodness evoked a feeling of warmth. Maybe that's why it felt so appropriate to have them in autumn. Or winter. Or all the time.<br />
<br />
Now, when I made the transition to a predominately vegan lifestyle, these rectangles of frosted glory quietly exited my life. Over four years later, I'd largely forgotten about them, until - without warning - they came up on an episode of my beloved <a href="http://www.nerdist.com/pepisode/the-jv-club-128-live-from-la-podfest-with-kether-donohue-and-honeyhoney/">JV Club podcast</a>.<br />
<br />
Would that I could describe the sense memory that came rushing back. The craving took hold, so hard that it made my blood hurt.<br />
<br />
Could I have satisfied it the easy way and shelled out $3 for a box of my old guilty pleasure (it's possible I don't know what things actually cost)? Yes. But I chose a different path, my friends. Surely there was a way to craft a satisfying vegan substitute that would retain all the deliciousness while ditching the ingredients that I couldn't pronounce and thus could not really recognize as being food?<br />
<br />
After much research and hours of baking and baseball (Go Giants!), I can now say, with confidence: yes. Yes, there is a way, and I have found it. Behold, my recipe for vegan brown sugar cinnamon "pop tarts" - just as good as, and dare I say better than, the real thing.<br />
<a name='more'></a><b><u>Vegan Brown Sugar Cinnamon "Pop Tarts"</u></b><br />
<i>Now, obviously, these are not legit pop tarts for two reasons: 1) Copyright infringement, 2) they are not toaster pastries. Seriously. Don't toast them. Your icing will melt and they'll probably just fall apart.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As I mentioned, this doesn't bum me out, because I used to eat these cold as a rule. If this feels blasphemous to you and heat is really a necessary part of the equation, plan on eating them fresh from the oven - but be aware that your icing won't be able to set (not necessarily a bad thing).</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*Note: "Vegan" does not automatically equate to "healthy." While it can be argued that this recipe is certainly better for you than the store-bought variety, as it uses real food, has no additives, and can be made totally organic, it's still essentially a pastry and is by no means sugar free. I would never claim otherwise.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><u>Ingredients</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
<i><u>Pastry</u></i><br />
<i>2 cups whole wheat pastry flour</i><br />
<i>6 Tbsp. Earth Balance vegan butter, or roughly one stick (shortening or coconut oil work, if you prefer)</i><br />
<i>2 tsp. baking powder</i><br />
<i>1 tsp. salt</i><br />
<i>1/2 cup non-dairy milk (I use unsweetened almond milk)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><u>Filling</u></i><br />
<i>5 Tbsp. brown sugar (light or dark)</i><br />
<i>5 tsp. sugar</i><br />
<i>1 Tbsp. all-purpose flour</i><br />
<i>3/4 tsp. - 1 tsp. ground cinnamon</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><u>Icing</u></i><br />
<i>3/4 cup powdered sugar</i><br />
<i>1-1 1/2 Tbsp non-dairy milk</i><br />
<i>1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon</i><br />
<i>1/4 tsp. vanilla extract</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<u><b>Step 1: Pastry:</b></u> This is the most involved part of the process. Sift your flour, baking soda, and salt into a large mixing bowl. Cube your butter, then mix it in with a fork or pastry cutter. You want things to stay a little lumpy at this point, so that you've got crumbs of flour and butter roughly the size of a pea (if they're a tiny bit bigger, that's okay). Mix in whatever milk you use with a wooden spoon, stir until you've got a ball of dough. If your ingredients aren't coming together, add more milk, but only do so a little at a time - too much will make it too tacky, and it won't roll out.<br />
<i><br /></i>
One of my favorite things about this recipe, which is essentially just a vegan pie crust, is that you don't have to chill it. This works perfectly when you plan on baking vegan pop tarts without giving much forethought to the process. Place your newly formed ball of dough on a well-floured surface and roll it out into a large rectangle, or the closest thing to a rectangle that you can manage. Once you've done this, fold the dough in on itself over and over until you've got a nice little square tower of excellence. Roll it out and repeat about six times. I know. But remember when I said this was the most involved part?<br />
<br />
If, at any part in the process, your dough starts to become sticky, just flour it up and you should be fine.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Now would be a good time to pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees (F).<br />
<br />
Once you've done your final roll-out, cut your dough into several rectangles. Size is up to you - I eyeball it. Remember to give yourself an even number - you'll need tops and bottoms.<br />
<br />
Lay your bottom pieces out on a cookie sheet.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Step 2: Filling:</u> </b>Stir together all ingredients until thoroughly mixed in a small bowl. Spoon the filling onto your bottom pieces of pastry. Don't overdo it - you want to leave at least a half inch or so around the edges so you can join your tops and bottoms (cue me giggling, because I am a child).<br />
<br />
<b><u>Step 3: Assembly:</u> </b>Carefully place your top pieces of dough onto your filled bottom pieces. Using the tines of a fork, press down on the outer edges to pinch the two pieces together. You can also use your fingers, but this way looks cooler. Make sure the seams close all the way, or you run the risk of your filling oozing out in the oven. Using a toothpick, poke a few small holes down the center of your top pieces - I did eight, four on each side. Symmetry!<br />
<br />
If you want to get super fancy, brush your pastries with an egg-wash substitute. Some people use sugar water, some a mix of cornstarch and water. Some just use non-dairy milk. This can give your pastry more of a golden finish (I am not that fancy - also, turns out my brush is missing).<br />
<br />
Pop your pastries in the oven for about 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
When they're done, they'll look something like this, but probably prettier because you have better spatial reasoning than I do when you cut dough.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFmPSy6E1F9unhpgfnCwQUyWJQyn4fLLbFDbabX3zgmVTcLyP29c09UgYZCPjUd2N0Xzd_UGm7xj9Rk7wPOahdRle4N2Ig9OJcc1_IYM36a2_rYtqyh45DYhzuEFDOAJRKM-Los1QmJ8/s1600/Photo+Oct+07,+9+46+52+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFmPSy6E1F9unhpgfnCwQUyWJQyn4fLLbFDbabX3zgmVTcLyP29c09UgYZCPjUd2N0Xzd_UGm7xj9Rk7wPOahdRle4N2Ig9OJcc1_IYM36a2_rYtqyh45DYhzuEFDOAJRKM-Los1QmJ8/s1600/Photo+Oct+07,+9+46+52+PM.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even if some look a little less than pro-status, they will taste delicious. Everybody wins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Allow your rectangles of excellence to cool on a wire rack for at least 20 minutes (unless you're really going fresh from the oven, in which case wait about 5 or 10 minutes and go to Step 4).<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Step 4: Icing:</u> </b>Some people refer to this as a glaze. Go where the spirit moves you on that one.<br />
<br />
Combine your dry ingredients in a small mixing bowl. Add the milk and whisk together. Use additional milk as needed to get to a spreadable consistency, but remember that you want this icing to be thick.<br />
<br />
Using a knife or spoon, spread icing over the tops of your pastries. Now, is there anything preventing you from consuming your glorious creation right away? No. Will it taste fabulous? Absolutely. But if you have patience, wait at least an hour for your icing to set.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Step 5: Enjoy</u></b><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOd2-TxdS8gmFmbCTFOJbxxz7FNSlrT1kjuGHVNVCTR1DiIyqW71gDJnG224WVdmz3yamucormwTwch0IZJaxq4H4AAJC8v7TmeHlkWfVQ7Tblzq5n18qONFS1diB_1GRkRo_QqndPa5M/s1600/Photo+Oct+08,+7+17+21+AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOd2-TxdS8gmFmbCTFOJbxxz7FNSlrT1kjuGHVNVCTR1DiIyqW71gDJnG224WVdmz3yamucormwTwch0IZJaxq4H4AAJC8v7TmeHlkWfVQ7Tblzq5n18qONFS1diB_1GRkRo_QqndPa5M/s1600/Photo+Oct+08,+7+17+21+AM.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIt-P1fUTWgMG4lk2lS72lfkjWwO-5E2NFFaZmPYXPPvgUR_vS1VR7ooL4i_wPnHiCtOMjVBtnxXTlhoT77_Qo4Rt4veIx8TFCasxXIlbQVbCP9cUefZZpUnkvX0FS96X2rX99V1wDj1A/s1600/Photo+Oct+08,+7+23+14+AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIt-P1fUTWgMG4lk2lS72lfkjWwO-5E2NFFaZmPYXPPvgUR_vS1VR7ooL4i_wPnHiCtOMjVBtnxXTlhoT77_Qo4Rt4veIx8TFCasxXIlbQVbCP9cUefZZpUnkvX0FS96X2rX99V1wDj1A/s1600/Photo+Oct+08,+7+23+14+AM.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...yes!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><u><br /></u></b>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
Next on my list: working out a vegan version of the s'mores variety. This may be a little more involved, but I'm in it to win it, dear reader. In it to win it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Big ups to these folks, all of whom provided recipes from which I borrowed to assemble my own: <a href="http://www.inhabitots.com/how-to-make-homemade-organic-vegan-apple-cinnamon-pop-tarts/">Inhabitots</a>, <a href="http://www.chow.com/recipes/29473-brown-sugarcinnamon-pop-tarts">Chow</a>, <a href="http://sallysbakingaddiction.com/2014/09/03/homemade-frosted-brown-sugar-cinnamon-pop-tarts/">Sally's Baking Addiction</a>. </div>
</div>
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<br />CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-61896592491283861762014-10-03T15:54:00.002-07:002016-01-08T10:28:44.094-08:00On the Run (Or, All of the Pasta...)I've been running.<br />
<br />
Literally. I run now. It's a key component of a couple items on my list - "Finish a race," and, "Finish a half-marathon." Wait, you don't know about The List? Don't worry, it's only one post back. <a href="http://nerddog.blogspot.com/2014/08/on-touring-fears-or-what-do-i-call-this.html">Check it out</a>. I'll wait.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Anyway, I know what you're thinking: running is a weird thing to be afraid of. It's not that simple. The thing is, I'm not a great runner. Never have been. I have just enough form to not hurt myself, but not quite enough to look functional. I was always the last one picked for relay teams in grade school. "We like you," the other kids assured me, "But you're slow." I almost - <i>almost </i>- would've preferred that they just not like me.<br />
<br />
So the running stuff...it got onto The List not so much because I was too afraid to try it, but because I had told myself I couldn't do it. Sometimes moving past your fears means reminding yourself that you are, in fact, capable - even if you'll never be anywhere near the best.<br />
<br />
Which is all well and good, except that I do not like running. The joy that I find in cycling, that I've started to find in hiking and (indoor) rock climbing, isn't there. I get bored. Sometimes I get angry. Turns out, when I'm around other people, I get competitive. Kind of viciously. Only in my mind, of course, but I discovered during my first 10K that Mind Me can get mean. Please forgive me - it's the Call of the Wild, guys. We do what we must to survive.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to learn to love it. Well, I say, "love"...I probably mean, "like." Well, I say, "like"...I probably mean, "mostly not hate." Because 13.1 is a lot of miles, and I've got a little over a month of training left.<br />
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Let's transition into the kitchen-y bit. A side effect of training for the race I've committed to running in the nearish future that it's way too late to back out of now what was I even thinking has been a change in metabolism. Or something. Look, I'm not a doctor, I just know that now I'm hungry basically all the time. Which is fine - I've hit a point where I'm more active now than I've been since I played sports. I'm trying to respond by staying nutritionally balanced and surrounding myself with a myriad of healthy but exciting snacks so that I don't end up hangry and confused and eating pizza all day, everyday for a week. <i>Note: That actually kind of happened once, though, and you know what? The world didn't end. </i><br />
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Sometimes, though, all your life force wants is something quick and cheap and filling. <i>"Pasta," </i>the wind whispers to you, <i>"Make pasta."</i><br />
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Pasta is great for all the reasons I just listed, especially if you've added a new rigorous activity to your routine that makes you borderline ravenous during most of your waking hours. A medical professional could probably list some reasons why you shouldn't have it all the time, and that medical professional is probably right. But that doesn't mean we can't want it all of the time and have it some of the time, am I right? (Yes.)<br />
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Another great thing about pasta is that it's basically a glorious foundation for whatever you decide to put on it. I like to toss big, bright veggies into the mix - broccoli is a favorite - and improvise a not-quite-sauce to pull it all together.<br />
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I say not-quite-sauce (a very professional term) because, while it serves the purpose of a sauce, I feel like it doesn't really count. It's not quite as...saucy. You'll see, if you try it out.<br />
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This recipe works with pretty much any kind of noodle. I usually opt for a long, thin noodle - an angel hair or a capellini works great - so that's what I'll be listing in the ingredients here. But I am not the boss of you. If you buy/make your own fresh pasta, congratulations. You are fancier than I am. Want to use spaghetti squash? Great idea! Now your dish is a littler healthier and gluten free.<br />
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<b><u>Ingredients</u></b><br />
<i>1 16 oz. package angel hair pasta</i><br />
<i>5-6 medium Roma tomatoes (this will serve approx. 4 people)</i><br />
<i>1/2-2 lbs. broccoli</i><br />
<i>3 cloves garlic</i><br />
<i>1 medium yellow onion</i><br />
<i>Handful of fresh basil (optional)</i><br />
<i>1 Tbsp. olive oil</i><br />
<i>Salt</i><br />
<i>Pepper</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Let's start with a pro-tip from me to you: pasta cooks quickly, so leave that for last. Put your water on to boil at the very beginning and it'll be ready when you are.<br />
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Mince your garlic, chop your onion, and saute together in a pan with your olive oil over medium heat (lower the heat if necessary - as always, you don't want your oil to smoke) until the garlic is fragrant and the onion is translucent - about 1 to 2 minutes. With a serrated knife, roughly chop your tomatoes and add them - seeds and all - to the pan. If you prefer a more traditional sauce, I can't hold that against you. Just give your tomatoes a quick spin in a food processor.<br />
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Now, it's going to look like there's a lot going on at first, but those tomatoes are going to cook down. For reference, check out these photos (I was just cooking for myself, so you're seeing about half the amount listed above).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After!<br />
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If you're adding basil, chop it and stir it in, along with any spices. Salt and pepper to taste. Lower your heat to a simmer. Boom, Sauce is done.<br />
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Now, you can prepare your broccoli however you like - roast it, saute it with the onion and garlic at the beginning and incorporate it into your sort-of-sauce, whatever makes you happy. Just adjust your time for that. I like to steam it. Cut the broccoli into florets - I also slice up some of the stem. Place it in a steamer basket and steam for about seven minutes. Any longer and it will start to get mushy. It should be bright green and awesome when you're done. Set it aside.</div>
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Cook your pasta according to the instructions (or rebel against them if you know better). Another pro-tip from me to you: if you drain your pasta and see that it's sticking or clumping, just run some cold water over it.</div>
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Put your nourishing puzzle pieces together. Celebrate.</div>
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Other awesome thing about pasta: even if you plate it horribly, it still looks pretty appealing, because pasta.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIh9Euef2fqqIrFtFRo4fiuNTHo5iD7pXZshb9hb0Sindi3UZf9PjJvtTdcCG6awSyCWSu3oWZbh2gwQEi22yBzhWWMXmaE4zxduOkoKKyJIR0hIG5yxUf3R9MHFIpHtuATY2a-lpHF8U/s1600/Pasta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIh9Euef2fqqIrFtFRo4fiuNTHo5iD7pXZshb9hb0Sindi3UZf9PjJvtTdcCG6awSyCWSu3oWZbh2gwQEi22yBzhWWMXmaE4zxduOkoKKyJIR0hIG5yxUf3R9MHFIpHtuATY2a-lpHF8U/s1600/Pasta.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the most hideous thing I have ever made.</td></tr>
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Not a fan of broccoli? Use whatever veggies you want - zucchini and yellow crookneck squash work really well too, and the colors keep it looking awesome. Love 'em all? Use 'em all! Go nuts! Enjoy!</div>
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CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-87532446658448908802014-08-29T21:21:00.002-07:002014-08-29T21:21:36.543-07:00On Touring Fears (Or, What Do I Call This List?)I didn't always want to ride a bike.<br />
<br />
I mean, I don't think I did. That's certainly what I told myself for a very long time, so long that I can't remember if it was ever really the truth or just a convenient excuse. Likely, it was a little bit of both. However, for the purposes of this story, let's just go ahead and assume that it was (mostly) true.<br />
<br />
Attempts were made to teach me. They did not go well. Even now, in my mind, I can very clearly see the white seat and long handlebars of my sister's bicycle and remember the instant dread. I didn't like the sensation of going over - the second I started to list or tip, my stomach dropped and my feet went down. Every. Time. There was no self-confidence that kicked in, no trust that I could exert any control over the foreign object upon which I was seated - just the extremely uncomfortable feeling that it was controlling me.<br />
<br />
My parents - my dad, in particular - were determined. I was the youngest of three, after all, and the other two had learned. Eventually, I wore them down. In one last-ditch effort, when I was maybe eleven or twelve, they tossed some training wheels on the bike with the hope of tricking me into relaxing long enough to find my balance and sent my teenaged sister and me up to my grandma's house. But I'd almost hit my full height by then, and $5 training wheels were not meant for 5'9" kids. They bent, I started to tip, and my feet went down. Again and again and again until I lost it and started to cry. My aunt was visiting that afternoon, and she came out to save both me and my poor frustrated sister.<br />
<br />
"Honey," she said, "This is supposed to be fun. Are you having fun?"<br />
<br />
Tearfully, I shook my head.<br />
<br />
"Then get off the bike."<br />
<br />
And I got off the bike. For fifteen years.<br />
<br />
I never had the sense that I was missing out on anything, but every once in awhile, I'd feel a little bit of shame about it - a sense that I had failed at doing something I should've been able to do, and was thus less of a functional person. Which, by the way, is ridiculous. Plenty of people can't ride bikes - I know, because every time I met one, I was thrilled - and they're every bit as awesome as people who can.<br />
<br />
What started to bother me was the feeling that I hadn't even really failed properly. It wasn't that I straight up <i>could not </i>ride a bike, it was that I was afraid to really try. That didn't sit right.<br />
<br />
<i>"But," </i>I reasoned, <i>"It's a moot point now. You're too old. You've missed your window to learn."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Yeah, I know. It's one of the worst excuses ever, right up there with, "I'm just too busy." And it's so easy to lean on, because science and psychology and stuff.<br />
<br />
In spite of all that, a few years ago, something major changed: I started to <i>want </i>to learn. Unfortunately, the little bits of shame I'd been feeling had joined forces to become a Great Big Shame, which not all people were sensitive to (pro tip: If somebody asks you for advice on learning something - anything - maybe don't respond with, "You seriously can't do that?" Jackass.). My cause, though noble, was in danger of being relegated to the land of Unrealized Dreams.<br />
<br />
Then my Big Life Renaissance started. I've written about it a bunch here, so dig through the archives if this is your first visit. Long story short, I started working through some stuff, and one of the byproducts of the whole process (which is ongoing, by the way - this is not my announcement that I've figured life out and have become the Perfect Person) has been an absolute unwillingness to be owned by my fears anymore.<br />
<br />
So I did some research. I found a learn-to-ride class for adults through the ridiculously amazing <a href="https://www.sfbike.org/"> SF Bicycle Coalition</a>. I signed up. I lost my nerve and missed out. I got it together and signed up again. I showed up.<br />
<br />
The first step? Gliding down an incline with no pedals. Heart in my throat, I got myself going, started to tip and...turned into it, as my instructor had suggested. I didn't get far, but I didn't go over. On the walk back to my starting point, I felt something new. Self-confidence. On the next go, I lifted my feet and told myself that I would keep them up and that everything would be okay. I trusted myself. I found my balance.<br />
<br />
An hour later, I had earned both pedals back. I was riding a bike.<br />
<br />
That was a little over four months ago. Not only can I ride a bike now, it's become one of my favorite things. It's also got me thinking long and hard about all of the things I've avoided doing or, worse, convinced myself that I couldn't do because I've been too afraid. I've tried a couple - rock climbing, donating platelets at the blood center. Driving is still an ongoing process, but I haven't given up. I started calling this series of mini-adventures my, "Fear Tour." After awhile, it occurred to me that I should start making a list of things I've been too afraid to do but would like to - big, small, realistic or otherwise. So I pulled out the fabulous Hobbit Moleskine notebook that I received for my birthday last year, happy that it finally had a glorious purpose, and I started writing.<br />
<br />
I keep that notebook with me all the time now, just in case I think of something new (latest addition: "Ride a ferris wheel every chance you get"). Now, when I refer to something being, "on the list," I can back it up. "Like a Bucket List," a few people have asked. Not really. That's no slight on Bucket Lists, and I guess it is a similar concept, but...it doesn't feel like the right sentiment. This is not a list of things that I want to do before the looming specter of death robs me of the chance. It's a list of things that I think will help me feel like I'm finally taking proper advantage of living.<br />
<br />
It's a list of things I might love or loathe. Either way, I'm not going to let fear keep me from finding out.<br />
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I'll keep you posted.CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-89790596496299052412014-07-06T11:18:00.000-07:002016-01-08T10:33:49.647-08:00On Quick and Easy Dishes (Or, Sorry, I Was Supposed to Do This Weeks Ago...)I'm a jerk.<br />
<br />
Having a multipurpose blog means that when someone says, "Hey, saw your Instagram photo of your dinner 'cause you're one of those people, can I get the recipe," I tend to answer with, "Sure! I'm going to put it up on my blog this week." Which is a great response, in theory, because then I can direct anybody else who asks to one place and hey, new blog post!<br />
<br />
However, sometimes, "I'll put it up on my blog this week," really means, "Next week," or, "In a couple months," or, "Never."<br />
<br />
Sorry. If you're one of the people I've inadvertently fibbed to, do know that I always start with honest intentions.<br />
<br />
As penance, I'm finally providing you with one of my favorite recipes, and I've another post in the works that will feature a new summer favorite. I hope we can still be friends.<br />
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Cooking is my favorite. I genuinely enjoy it, and on the health front, the best way to know exactly where your food came from and what went into it is to make it yourself.<br />
<br />
However, cooking can also be a major time suck, especially if you're working late or if you have a long commute. I try to plan for the week and reserve some time on Sundays to prep things so that I can just reheat when I get home, but it doesn't always work out that way. This is when it helps to have a couple of super quick and filling dishes in your back pocket - they'll keep you from leaning on takeout, which will rob you blind and probably leave you nutritionally unsatisfied, while still allowing you to eat dinner before 10:00.<br />
<br />
After the jump, you'll find one of my go-to's.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><b><u>Cornmeal and Herb Encrusted Tofu</u></b><br />
<i>I've mentioned before that I'm not big on most soy products as a personal preference, mostly related to taste and digestion. Tofu is one of the exceptions. It's not a staple of mine, but I do enjoy it on occasion, especially in this recipe! I adapted it from an original post made by Matt Maggiacomo during his brief but highly enjoyable stint as a food blogger on the Fitting It In web site. You can find that post, which is full of other fabulous recipes that I totally recommend, <a href="http://www.fittingitin.com/wordpress/2013/06/22/summer-recipe-explosion/">here</a>. Bookmark it. I certainly did.</i><br />
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<i><b><u>A Note About Tofu</u></b></i><br />
<i>1) I am not a doctor or a scientist.</i><br />
<i>2) Soy is a big time mass-produced GMO crop - processed derivatives and additives like soy lecithin are used as cheap emulsifiers in all sorts of stuff. However, great non-GMO verified brands do exist, and are still totally affordable. Look for either a USDA Organic label or a seal of verification from the Non-GMO Project.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Tofu is sold in blocks of various sizes. A 14 oz. pack will serve maybe 2-3 people. If you're worried, pick up a few - they're inexpensive, and you can always toss the leftovers into a breakfast scramble or salad. Just make sure you pay attention to the firmness - it matters, and it's the easiest mistake that tofu newbs make. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><u>Ingredients</u></b><br />
<i>1 block firm or super firm tofu, sliced into 1 inch thick cutlets</i><br />
<i>1/4 cup to 1/2 cup cornmeal or corn flour</i><br />
<i>Herbs and spices (suggestions: garlic salt, basil, thyme, cayenne, paprika, rosemary)</i><br />
<i>1 Tbsp. olive oil</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><u>Sauce (Optional)</u></i><br />
<i>1-2 cloves garlic, chopped</i><br />
<i>1/2 large onion, diced</i><br />
<i>3-4 medium roma or heirloom tomatoes, chopped and seeded (or 1 large can crushed tomatoes)</i><br />
<i>Generous handful of fresh basil, chopped</i><br />
<i>1 Tbsp. olive oil</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
On a plate or in a small bowl, measure out your cornmeal and herb mixture. Play around until you find the spice blend that works best for you. A little cornmeal goes a long way, so start with a small amount. Side note: if you want your tofu a little crunchier, try a more coarse, stoneground cornmeal. For crispier tofu, go with a finely ground cornmeal or corn flour.<br />
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Heat your oil in a non-stick frying pan. Keep it on low-to-medium heat so the olive oil doesn't smoke - you're only using a wee bit, so that could happen fast. Dredge your tofu cutlets in the cornmeal mixture and place them in the pan. They'll fry up pretty quickly, so be ready to flip them over after about 2-3 minutes. Once both sides are golden and crisp, remove them from the pan and transfer them to a plate covered with a paper towel to soak up any extra oil.<br />
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I like to pair the tofu with a side of steamed or roasted veggies - broccoli, asparagus, and kale with carrots are a few favorites. Most vegetables take between 8-12 minutes to cook through, so throw them in the steamer or drizzle them with a little olive oil with salt and pepper and stick them in the oven before you get started on the tofu and they'll be done by the time you finish.<br />
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If you've got a little extra time to play with, top your tofu with tomato sauce. Sauté your onion and garlic in the olive oil until fragrant and translucent. Stir in the tomatoes until they cook down - about 5 minutes, give or take. Add the fresh basil, stir for another minute. Spoon over your tofu.<br />
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<i>Tofu with a side of yukon gold potatoes and roasted asparagus. </i></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-46840997835173963422014-04-21T15:25:00.000-07:002014-04-21T16:34:52.051-07:00On Driving, Part 3 (Or, Smash...)Well. Took a bit of a break, didn't I?<br />
<br />
It's my own fault that it's taken so long for me to get this out and up. You see, I cheated - instead of keeping the story going in spite of hitting a few rough spots, I tried to hold out for a happier end point. And I got one, but then I lost it. Serves me right.<br />
<br />
But I'm getting ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I've been driving since February. Blind terror has evolved into less pervasive discomfort and surface anxiety, and while that may still sound like a bummer, it's actually pretty great. There have been moments when being behind the wheel has felt kind of natural - I even had one lesson where I didn't sweat through my entire life (it's the little victories, guys).<br />
<br />
I'm not comfortable with speed, though. Going above 30 makes my stomach drop, and then my brain sidles over and is all, "Hey, you know that thing that's making you feel queasy? You're in control of that. So don't eff it up, or we'll probably all die." And I don't find that helpful or reassuring and what's breathing again do I need to do that?<br />
<br />
Speed. It's a problem.<br />
<br />
My instructor identified it as a problem, and after talking it over with me, we decided to try out the highway. Here's what I liked about that: she talked about it with me. It wasn't a surprise - there was no pushing me out of the nest to see if I'd fly.<br />
<br />
Here's what I didn't like about it: driving on the highway.<br />
<br />
I thought I had a grip on what I'd agreed to, but as soon as my instructor sped me up and it was all happening, I was barely holding it together. It didn't take her long to figure that out - a good indicator might have been my actual inability to say words when she asked if I was okay - but she carefully let me know that I was doing fine. "It's easy," she said, before catching herself and saying, "It's easy for me. It's okay if it's not easy for you."<br />
<br />
That was helpful, both in the moment and after. We do that a lot, don't we? We describe things as easy in an effort to make other people feel less afraid of trying them - I know I have. But that can translate so quickly into a sense of inadequacy if the thing that was supposed to be easy ends up making you want to hyperventilate and cry.<br />
<br />
I got through it - we drove to San Bruno and back. As soon as I got back to my office, I sat down on the floor and cried for a few minutes - lesson concluded, it seemed like a safe time and place to release all the residual adrenaline and panic that I'd been holding back. Once I pulled myself together, the reality of the situation became pretty clear: I had survived driving on the highway, I hated driving on the highway, and I had to drive on the highway again as soon as possible in order to keep it from growing into some kind of unnameable monster that I couldn't deal with.<br />
<br />
So when my next lesson rolled around, not only did I agree to face my newly minted nemesis again, but I also said yes to stepping it up and trying out the freeway.<br />
<br />
Story within a story: when I was about fifteen, I hated having my blood drawn. Making this extra unfortunate was the fact that I'd been diagnosed with a thyroid condition that would involve regular blood tests for the rest of my life. I took quite a few trips to the lab that year, and every time we turned into the parking lot, my stomach would roll, the cold sweat would start, and it would just be a bad time. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I sat with myself and had a moment: "Listen, you're going to have to do this for forever, so it's just not going to bother you anymore. Let's try that." I did try that. And it went pretty well. Employing the, "You've Done This Before, It's Not Your Favorite, But Nobody Died, So Let's All Calm Down," methodology helped me eventually eliminate the fear altogether. Now I just give my blood away at will to whoever wants it.<br />
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I've probably mentioned before that my willpower has failed me with my driving fears, and that it's been a very frustrating part of the process. But I decided to give it a try again, and as we approached the point where I'd have to start speeding up, I took a deep breath and thought back to the first time. I remembered panicking, but I also remembered getting through it. My stomach dropped again, but I kept breathing this time. After a few minutes, I felt okay. Even borderline comfortable. When we stepped it up and hit the freeway, I waited for panic to set in, only to realize that it wasn't even lurking nearby. I kept my speed up. I changed lanes. Everybody lived.<br />
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It was the triumphant moment I wanted to end this post on.<br />
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Then I got into my first accident on Wednesday.<br />
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And by, "got into," I mean, "got confused with my dad, panicked, jumped a curb, and broke his radiator."<br />
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Victory is fleeting, guys.<br />
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I'm okay. No other cars or people were involved, so the world's okay. The car needed some fixing, but it's okay. And I went out driving with my friend Jennie later that afternoon to keep from retreating back into the blind terror zone.<br />
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But it's one more thing I'm going to have to sit with and talk to myself about for awhile to keep it from taking over. I'm pretty determined not to let one bummer of a moment undo close to three months of hard work, and that's a good start.<br />
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Let's see how it goes.CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851484946440134702.post-34357643526930338932014-02-28T16:28:00.000-08:002015-04-08T23:34:43.631-07:00On Secrets (Or, I Am Not In The Illuminati...)So a new post about the ongoing saga of CDog vs. Raging Driving Anxiety is in the works. It's very thrilling. There are jaywalking old ladies and billions of cyclists and lots of hills. And bison. Seriously. Golden Gate Park's bison have been weaving their way into my life with startling regularity lately.<br />
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But all that's going to have to wait, because I have a thing to say.<br />
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I began the month with a deeply personal post, and I'm going to end it the same way. There's no significance to the day outside of that. Just...I'm feeling determined, and I'm wearing a fabulous bow tie, so why not sit down and let you in on my last big secret?<br />
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That was a big set-up. It shouldn't have been. I'm not about to drop some Illuminati surprises on you or anything. Look, if you know me personally, you know I kind of just put it all out there. I do my best to live a good life in a way that feels right and authentic to me, and I don't really make space for anyone who feels like telling me I'm doing it wrong. That was one of the best pieces of advice I ever picked up at a comic book convention - the panelist, without malice, said, "If there's anybody in your life who doubts you, who tries to convince you that you should give up and do something else, you need to cut them out, because that's not going to work." It was a response to a question about writing, but it kind of applies to everything.<br />
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I haven't been living authentically, though. Not completely - not the way I want and need to, and it feels like the only reason is because I've been worried about what other people would think. I don't like that. It's a bad habit to get into, and I'm not going to let that be a thing.<br />
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So let's not have it be a thing: I'm bisexual.<br />
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Right? It really didn't need a big set-up. It's probably not even that surprising - I've known for a long time. I've even sort of said it to a few people, but in a pretend, non-committal, I-didn't-really-say-it-so-what-just-happened-probably-nothing kind of way. All of that amounted to just building a custom closet for myself to hide this piece of my identity in - roomy, sure, and full of fun stuff, but a closet nonetheless.<br />
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It wasn't an earth-shattering revelation when I figured it out. I was irritated, more than anything, because I felt like I was suddenly in a category that didn't fit anywhere - not straight, not gay, just there. Growing up, even in San Francisco, I remember the idea of bisexuality being met with derision and scorn - at best, you were in denial; at worst, you were hypersexual and untrustworthy. I absorbed these things that eventually turned into the message that who I was - who I knew myself to be - was not real and would not be accepted.<br />
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Instead of saying, "Whatever. That's not me, and if people don't realize that's not me, that's their problem," I got scared. And I stayed scared, and silent, for a very long time. Friends in situations similar to mine came to me for advice, and I told them exactly what I myself would've wanted to hear - you're you, and that's 100% rad, fuck anybody who says otherwise, and tell them I said so. But I couldn't find a way to apply that to my own life.<br />
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I didn't want to be the bi, vegan writer from San Francisco who dresses like a hipster professor and is in therapy for chronic anxiety and depression. Say all those things together and tell me it doesn't feel just a little bit ridiculous.<br />
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But the longer I sat with those things, feeling like a raging stereotype of the west coast lifestyle, the more it occurred to me that I was absolutely unwilling to change any of them. I love my bow ties and cardigans - wearing them makes me feel fantastic. Going veg is one of the best decisions I ever could have made for my life. Writing is the only thing that has always made sense to me. And I can't change who I'm attracted to any more than I can change the way my brain is wired or where I was born.<br />
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I've spent far too much time being a hypocrite over the past few years, encouraging the people around me to live fully while refusing to do so myself.<br />
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This is me undoing that, the only way I know how: clumsily, via the written word, in a vaguely public way. It's one of those things that changes nothing and everything - it's already who I was, but I'm finally free from the silence of it.<br />
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I'm not in denial. I'm not confused. I like guys. I like girls. That's it. That's my truth.<br />
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I'm me, and that's 100% rad. Fuck anybody who says otherwise, and tell them I said so.CDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05372377590825103503noreply@blogger.com0