On Teaching Acceptance (Or, No More Hiding...)

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.

I learned what it meant to be gay in school.

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.”

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.

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.

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?

“Yeah,” she said firmly, “It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

That’s all it really took to reverse the damage that had been done.  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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

People who were much younger than I was with much more to lose came out everyday. I felt like a coward and a hypocrite.

Last November, I got to see Rhea Butcher and Cameron Esposito 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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

I don’t know that this is doing it right.

So yeah, rather than talking about it, I decided to talk about me. Because there wasn’t some Divergent-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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.

“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.

It is how you are. To yourself. To others.

I will teach acceptance.

And I stand proudly with teachers and students and parents and people who are doing the same.

Hey. We’re doing it.

On Breakfasting in the New Year (Or, Here's a Porridge Recipe...)

I holidayed hard, guys.

With a vengeance.

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.

Needless to say, when the tinsel settled, it was time to detox.

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.

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.

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.

On Being Known (Or, Korra Feelings Forever)

I had to write about this.

I had to.

Before we begin, let me post an appropriate warning: this post will contain spoilers for the series finale of The Legend of Korra. 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.

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.

Okay.

So.

If you know me, then it's no secret that I love The Legend of Korra. 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.

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.

That changed, albeit gradually. For me, it started with Buffy the Vampire Slayer 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.

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.

But then the finale arrived. And whatever I was expecting, it was wildly eclipsed by what I actually got.

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.

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.

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...acknowledged...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.

That series co-creators Bryan Konietzko and Michael Dante DiMartino 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.

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 The JV Club podcast (again, I will never shut up about it), which happens to be hosted by the voice of Korra, Janet Varney. 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.

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.

I'm so happy and hopeful and proud.

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.

On High School, Kind Of (Or, Ten Years Later...)

Last night was my 10 year high school reunion.

I didn't go.

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.

So yeah, I didn't go. I hope everyone who did had a great time. Maybe I'll catch you at the next one.

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.

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.

None of this is terribly unique to the high school experience. It's life, you know?

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.

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.

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 seen 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.

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.

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.

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?

On Pop Tarts (Or, I Assembled These and They Weren't Poison)

So, full disclosure: I love Pop Tarts.

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.

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).

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.

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 JV Club podcast.

Would that I could describe the sense memory that came rushing back. The craving took hold, so hard that it made my blood hurt.

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?

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.

On the Run (Or, All of the Pasta...)

I've been running.

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. Check it out. I'll wait.

...

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 - almost - would've preferred that they just not like me.

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.

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.

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.

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. Note: That actually kind of happened once, though, and you know what? The world didn't end. 

Sometimes, though, all your life force wants is something quick and cheap and filling. "Pasta," the wind whispers to you, "Make pasta."

On Touring Fears (Or, What Do I Call This List?)

I didn't always want to ride a bike.

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.

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.

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.

"Honey," she said, "This is supposed to be fun. Are you having fun?"

Tearfully, I shook my head.

"Then get off the bike."

And I got off the bike. For fifteen years.

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.

What started to bother me was the feeling that I hadn't even really failed properly. It wasn't that I straight up could not ride a bike, it was that I was afraid to really try. That didn't sit right.

"But," I reasoned, "It's a moot point now. You're too old. You've missed your window to learn."

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.

In spite of all that, a few years ago, something major changed: I started to want 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.

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.

So I did some research. I found a learn-to-ride class for adults through the ridiculously amazing  SF Bicycle Coalition. I signed up. I lost my nerve and missed out. I got it together and signed up again. I showed up.

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.

An hour later, I had earned both pedals back. I was riding a bike.

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.

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.

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.

I'll keep you posted.