Women With Their Tongues Cut Out

Warning: this post has no paragraph breaks. I put them in. Twice. Once regularly, once in HTML code, but neither time would this program let me save them, so…my deepest apologies, and when I’m not so tired, I’ll come back and attempt to figure this out.<p>The woman who speaks is a traitor… One of my good friends said this.  She was speaking of Malinche, the ones some Mexicans call La Chingada (the fucked one), and how it was that Malinche’s ability to speak several languages not only made her a valuable slave to Cortez and the Spanish invaders, but made her go down in history as the betrayer of the Mexican people (never mind that often the same people who say this are Mestizo, not, say, pure Mayan, and who would not in fact exist without the complicated history of conquest). The fact is, Malinche has long been considered a betrayer simply because she could speak.  Thankfully, Malinche’s complicated history–which is the complicated history of the new world–is being reevaluated by many, especially by many women.  Women like my friend. And like a myriad of other thoughtful women (and men) who are artists, writers, thinkers.Still,  my friend’s phrase “the woman who speaks is a traitor” struck me quite hard, quite deeply, because I was in a position in which I was literally told not to speak. And that doesn’t sit well with Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant. Still, there were good–even legal–reasons for my silence to be prudent.  So I was. And I was.  Finally silence began to wear on me, and I realized that, to paraphrase the warrior Audre Lorde, my silence was not protecting me. Before I break my silence, and let my wild tongue (to paraphrase another strong woman, Gloria Anzaldua) get me into even more trouble, let me say that I am too often confronted, right now, with the image of women who are made silent.  Gagged.  Or even worse, have their tongues ripped out. I’ve already spoken of my interest in Vodou.  I’m particularly drawn to two lwa, Maman Brigitte and Erzulie Dantor.  Both are silent.  Isn’t that interesting?  Maman Brigitte is the great judge (and, interestingly, the patroness of sex workers), but she is also dead.  In representations of her, she is sometimes seen either as a decaying corpse or a complete skeleton, and sometimes she has her jaw bound to her head so it won’t fall open as the jaw on a corpse might, and she has cotton stuffed in her ears and nose.  And yet, she has great power.  She is the mother of the dead, and the great judge.  She sits in silence and will help those who petition her, if their cause is just. Erzulie Dantor is synchronized with the Virgin of Czestohowa, and she has a scarred face.  She is a single mother, a patroness of lesbians, and she is very fierce and quick to anger, though she is also fiercely protective of her children.  She also cannot speak, and when she manifests herself in ritual (and I’ve seen this) she stutters da-da-da over and over. Why? Because she cannot speak either.  Dantor is a lwa who was supposedly a slave who rebelled during the Haitian revolution and went into the mountains to fight alongside the men.  But someone–and here stories vary–didn’t trust her.  Was it the very men she went to join, the Maroon rebels in the woods?  Was it a slave-owner who caught her?  Someone likely knows this story better than me–I only know the vaguest outlines of it, as I am still very much a student of Vodou.  What I do know is that someone cut out her tongue.So Dantor cannot speak.  But yet she fought.  And in her ferocity, in her strength, she has become a petro lwa to be feared and honored.  And loved.  She is very loved by the strong women of Haiti.  And strong women everywhere.  Like Brigitte, she despises hypocrisy, but she will protect those who come to her honestly, and with a just cause.  She is particularly fierce in protecting women who have been battered and abused.There is much in the world that conspires against women.  There is much in the world that conspires to silence women.  There is much…or I should say there are many…in the world who conspire to silence anyone who speaks the truth.I am inspired by those who continued speaking anyway.  By those who went on and fought and told the truth anyway, even when to do seemed insane, impossible.   They spoke in other languages.  They spoke beyond the grave.  They spoke with fists and knives when they could not speak at all.  But they were not silenced. So such figures are, for me, quite inspirational.  Because to remain silent is most often the easiest way.  I refuse to be silenced.  I think I’ve finally learned when keeping quiet might benefit me, and I think I’ve done that, but I also refuse to give up who I am:  A woman who speaks.  I will be the traitor, if necessary, though I’m very far from betraying anyone I respect. * * *Earlier this evening, I was lured from one of my regular forums to another which is dedicated to the issues of belief and morality, but from the point of view of those who are mostly athiests and agnostics.  I went over to see what it was all about, and I was impressed by the civil, intelligent discussions I saw.  I wasn’t much interested in debates on “does God exist?” because I think the belief in God, that very personal act of faith, is really undebatable.  Certainly I have no interest in it–I’ve had no faith at all, and I’ve also had faith, and I know in either case, my position was something that could not be explained.  I was, however, quite curious to see how so-called moral issues were debated when the idea of a religious underpinning was taken away.  And lo and behold, what I saw immediately was the top thread in the “morality” category:  can prostitution ever be celebrated?I wondered what I was in for. Would this include discussions of sacred prostitution?  Or would everyone rationally discuss the real and complex issues of oldest profession?What I discovered dismayed me. (I don’t know why–the cynical part of me says well of course you’d be disappointed–you always are–but there is the eternal optimist in me that always has a moment of hope for the best).  A few people were valiantly arguing that prostitution could be a choice to not only be tolerated, but to be celebrated.  But the tired old majority ruled.  (How I hate this, and how familiar I am with those that really seem to believe they have a right to impose their morals on others).First the expected anti-prostitution arguments were trotted out.  What about sex slaves (and, dear readers, I don’t mean BDSM slaves here, I mean people genuinely forced into prostitution). What about children sold as prostitutes?  Of course, some of the smarter posters immediately pointed out that forced prostitution was entirely different than choosing it, and they pointed out they were against both slavery and pedophilia.  But that didn’t stop the morality police.  One woman in particular argued that prostitution was always wrong because it was “degrading” because women became “masturbatory holes” for men to “jerk off” into (make you wonder about her sex life, doesn’t it?)  What about women who chose the life because it paid well?  They were misguided, she and a few other women answered.  What about those that really enjoyed sex and thought of it as simply a good job?  That simply couldn’t be.  And while perhaps some “fetish women” (this term was never defined) might like it, 99 percent of prostitutes were simply abused.Someone asked about pro-dommes, and of course, these enlighted ladies said women like that were  ”fetish women” (ie not women?) but probably didn’t like it either.  Who wouldn’t be degraded if someone did “unnatural” things to them, like peed on them, even if it was for $2000?  Now I can’t post on that forum yet (but when I’m approved, believe me, I will!), but if I could have, I would have pointed out a few things.  First, if the woman is a domme, she’s likely peeing on someone else! And I was delighted to see the number of other women (ok, two) who said they’d let someone pee on them for that price.  (And I was also puzzled by the price.  Why $2000?  It just seemed an odd number to pick).But of course, I was disturbed by this tired old argument.  First, I hate the (non) argument about what is or isn’t “natural.” Some people like golden showers, some do not, but it is hardly “unnatural.” (Hey, I’ve seen my dogs pee on one another, and while I’m pretty sure they weren’t sexually aroused by it–no evidence of that at least–they did it, which hardly makes it “unnatural.”)  Degrading?  Maybe, maybe not, but the fact is, some people enjoy being degraded during sexual play, and some enjoy degrading others, and that does not make them unnatural.  Nor, I wanted to tell this woman, does it break down along gender lines.  Both men and women are capable of both roles, and what I found offensive about her argument, which is so very very typical, is the idea that women are naturally degraded by sex or at least by certain acts of sex. Or by the act of exchanging sex for money.  One of the arguments this woman put forth was that she had worked somewhere in which many prostitutes came in (health care I wonder?) and they were broken down, unhappy, physically worn down, etc.  They needed options, she said, and legalizing prostitution wasn’t it, because sex work is inherently degrading.  A poster or two pointed out that the physical effects of “prostitution” that she saw were more like the physical effects of poverty and drug addiction, because clearly she was working with street prostitutes, many of whom were addicted to drugs.  And a few others posted that wherever prostitutes met, they’d seen syringes, crack pipes, what have you.  The thing I kept thinking of was why do you mistake some prostitutes with all?  In a later example, the woman who said that someone who takes $50 for a fuck was obviously in a degrading situation.  What happened to the $2,000 for the golden shower, I wondered?  And why couldn’t she see the obvious, that while some people are turning tricks for $50 (or less!) some are getting paid much, much more, and it seems to me there is a huge difference between a woman on the street in third world who gets paid $1 or less and the legal prostitute in a luxury hotel (or brothel) who gets paid a hell of a lot.Here is the obvious fallacy in this argument:  not all prostitutes are the same.  Yes, some are forced into it, literally.   This is tragic; this is wrong.  But to equate what is really a form of slavery with all types of sex work is also wrong.   Some people enter sex work through lack of other options.  This is a complicated discussion, and one I know I can’t even begin to explore thoroughly here.  If a person must sell themselves to eat, to literally survive, then much of their choice has been taken away.  They may not literally be slaves, but they are in another mode, the utter survival mode, and in that case, I think the question is not whether sex work is ok or not, but the real issue is shouldn’t we care about those most vulnerable in our community, shouldn’t we care about them enough so they have options, so they can have the basic necessities (including drug treatment if they need it) so they are actually making a choice, rather than acting out of desperation?  I think so, and I think that conversation is not really about prostitution at all, but the value that we  put on human life.But to argue that sex work is immoral on such a basis is ridiculous, and to argue that all prostitution is equal to street walkers is absurd.  And the reason these people can continue to make such an ill-informed argument is because they likely know no sex workers at all, and if they do, it is likely only a certain type–the street level prostitute.What about the women who choose what they do?  They (and at this point I’m beginning to mean anyone who makes that sweeping moral judgement) argue that women degrade themselves by not getting to choose who they fuck and how they fuck them, but I know that there are prostitutes who are not on the street who really do those very things.  Granted, while I know sex workers, I have known very few prostitutes, but I have known some, and I have read a lot, and I know that there are plenty of women (and men!) who choose this field and continue to choose, meaning they have rules about what they will and won’t do, and who with.  I’ve been careful to separate out people who literally fuck for money from other types of sex workers, because that was the argument put forward–someone said strippers and dommes weren’t the same at all as prostitutes.  This is just an attempt not to sound reactionary.  Of course, people like this really think we’re all whores, whether we’re spreading it on a stage or for a camera, or whether we’re spreading it for some john.  We’re all degraded by our choice, according to this world view, and even more galling some of them really seem to believe that we’re victims, but too stupid (apparently) to know it.   So let me make this very very clear:  not all sex workers are victims.  Because I tend to look at things globally, I won’t try to quantify it–I won’t say most of us aren’t victims or some of us aren’t or whatever, because I don’t know the situation of every man or woman who ends up under the huge umbrella called sex work.  For all I know, if we had accurate statistics, perhaps it really would be that world-wide, the majority of people who are sex workers are doing it because of lack of other options, and perhaps it simply is that I have been privileged enough to only know those who chose their work.   I do know sometimes sex work can be very very bad.   Sometimes it can be dangerous (but really, all encounters can have that kind of danger–we rarely know what another human being is capable of).  Sometimes it can be very very good.  And I know there are huge differences between the stripper, the porn star, the peep show artist, the phone sex counselor, the high-priced call girl, the domme, the massage parlour worker, the street prostitute in a developed country and the street prostitute in the third world. The thing we share?  We’re all whores to a great population of the “moral” world.  Even, disappointingly, the non-religious morally driven people.  And that judgement is not only demoralizing (at least at times) but it also puts us in danger, because by that judgement, some of us become disposable (as in the difference in which rape, even murder, is prosecuted if the victim is an “upstanding” citizen or simply a “whore.”)So let me say this:  my experience in sex work is limited and narrow.  I’ve never had sex for money (oh, maybe I have, but I should save that for an entry on marriage, which even at its best, was the time I felt most like a “whore”).   I’ve only been a phone sex counselor, and even then, only a domme.  And I know we all have our boundaries, and perhaps part of my reason for only playing the domme on the phone had to do with what I thought of as a sort of personal degradation:  I wasn’t willing to ever have someone I didn’t know order me around.   It’s not that I think being ordered is necessarily degrading; it’s just that I’m a rebellious sort (and thus find all sorts of other jobs degrading–anything in service, basically) and when I do feel like submitting, I tend to want to keep that private.But the rest?  I actually find it quite empowering to order men to do things, and have them do it with alacrity.  I find it empowering to know that I can ask anything of a sub, regardless of how “degrading” some might find it, and that sub will do it.  Was I “forced” into sex work?  No.  I chose it.  I chose it because I was intrigued by it, and wanted to explore the possibilities, and I chose it even more because I needed money and it pays really well.  I suppose some would think of this as economic necessity, and I suppose if I had unlimited sums of money I wouldn’t do it (but I wouldn’t do any job if I didn’t have to!), but the fact is, I also enjoyed it.And no, what I did was not the same as being a prostitute.  But I hope I can claim a little solidarity with those who do engage in other types of sex work, with those that choose it. Because in the end, I don’t think we’re offering anything different than any other kind of service. At least from my experience, a lot of what we do is counseling and comforting and listening, and from what I understand it is not always so different in other aspects of sex work.What is really important here, is that a human being has the right to choose what do with her/his body, and s/he does not have the right to impose his/her morals on others, within certain boundaries of course (meaning don’t trot out the specious arguments like if this is ok is murder ok? If this is ok, is child prostitution ok?  Of course I mean consenting adults have the right to make consensual choices….duh!).   If you think sex work is wrong, then don’t do it, and don’t participate in it.  And fight to make it legal and safe. But leave the moral judgements to those involved.And while it may seem this has come a long way from my original topic, let me assure you, it hasn’t.  For reasons that I won’t go into here, I haven’t been able to say what I think on this topic for a long time, but now I’ve broken my own silence. This woman, who only spoke about sex on the phone, has certainly been considered a traitor (0r a whore at least, which frankly, I take as a compliment), and I continue to be punished for it.  Guess what?  My tongue is still intact.  And I can still type too.(And I beg forgiveness from all those who are not antagonistic to my message; I know you may well be my only readers.  But I also know some people are trying to seek out my writing as “evidence” of my supposed bad behavior, so I indulged myself by pretending for a moment they might find this.  If they do, I say to them Fuck you….The US Constitution supports my right to say whatever I fucking please.  And I have a good attorney too!)    

Standing in the Crossroads

To stand in the crossroads is to stand between the worlds. This is place where the spirit world and physical world (or the world-as-it-is, as author Charles de Lint calls it) meet. It is powerful, magical. It is liminal space. And it is the place of Papa Legba, my met tet.

I also think of the crossroads as a threshold–a threshold to change. It is a maelstrom, a whirlpool, a vortex. It is utter chaos. And new clarity. It is the door we walk through to a new life.

I stand in that threshold, like someone seeking strength of a doorway as refuge during an earthquake (those who lived on the west coast likely learned this as a child–it is supposedly the safest place in the house during tremors). I stand in that doorway now, and while my world shakes around me, I am calm for the moment.

Perhaps I have the faith of the newly converted, or perhaps it simply the Sagitarius optimism that has ruled my life (with a dose of cynicism too!), but I believe that when I finally step through the door to the other side, I will in a new and better situation. For awhile now, a part of me has wanted a change in my life, and though I imagined it happening it much more quietly, it is happening now. One life is ending, and a new one will begin. Papa Legba has opened a door for me, and I don’t yet know what will happen when I cross the threshhold.

Right now controversy rages around me. I’ve had to be silent and have not had the opportunity to control the narrative of my life, but that will change eventually. This is not a bad time to be silent, quiet, fallow. It is winter and perhaps now it is time to think and meditate on what I want to have happen next. Perhaps I am now in the eye of the storm, because I know there will be much more to endure before I can truly have a new life. There is no way through except through as a therapist once told me, so I try to be as graceful under pressure as I can, and try to look at each new difficulty as another step closer to when I will finally be done with all this.

I know I’m being vague. I know I’m dealing in metaphor and perhaps platitudes. But perhaps there is some truth to some of the vaguely comforting things we tell ourselves or our loved ones. Things will get better.

I had a talk with a friend not too long ago, and I said though my life is difficult right now, I keep reminding myself I have been through worse. My heart is not breaking, not like it did when I got a second divorce, when the pain felt like a literal ache deep in my ribcage. I am not in danger of my life: I am not being raped or beaten as I have been in earlier times. What we talked about was if you’ve survived those sorts of things, terrible trauma, it makes everything else easier, because you have known worse. It also makes you trust in your ability for survival. I believe that.

I wish you all strength too.

A Conversion Narrative: You might want to skip this one…

…if you’re not of a religious persuasion. Or if you have a low tolerance for issues of faith. Or if you have a hard time with the supernatural.

So be forewarned.

But part of the reason I started this blog was to write what I felt I couldn’t write other places. I knew from the beginning I’d talk about sex and relationships.

And Vodou.

To paraphrase one of my friends, this is a blog, not an essay, so I don’t feel like I have to give much background information, but I do want to say this: if you think Voodoo when I say Vodou and that conjures up pins in dolls and zombies and human sacrifice, then you better stop reading or at least take some time to figure out what Vodou really is. I’ll give you this very brief intro: Vodou (or Vodun) is a religion, practiced most famously in Haiti, and it has its basis in west Africa.

It is not something I would have ever expected to find myself involved in, but that is more because I never thought I’d find ANY religion tolerable. I knew myself to be spiritual. I knew myself to believe in the supernatural, even in some magical practices. But religion? Nah. I wasn’t even much for joining groups.

But in Vodou, they say that you don’t choose it, the lwas (spirits something like Catholic saints) choose you. And that happened to me more than a year ago, and I haven’t looked back since.

I’ve learned there are some similiarities between those chosen. You’re drawn to Vodou. Then a lwa appears (sometimes in a dream, sometimes, more dramatically, in real life). You may or may not try to ignore the calling. But if the lwa choose you….well, eventually you must pay attention to their call.

My own call was during a dream, but I realize it started before that. I have always loved Tarot cards, and I suddenly had a powerful desire to own the Voodoo Tarot of New Orleans, by the very talented artist and Mambo (priestess) Sallie Anne Glassman of New Orleans. I went to every store in my city that carried Tarot cards, but no one had them. Finally, I ordered them online.

They are beautiful cards, evocative and dreamlike, but because they use lwa and other tenets of Vodou instead of the more familiar figures of the Tarot, I found them puzzling, and some of the images were so startling as to be almost frightening. What to make of the card “Possession” which is beautiful red, but shows a figure ridden by another figure? Or one of the Mambo cards which shows a woman holding a decapitated head? And the book seemed more a guide to what I now know is New Orleans Voodoo than anything else. I didn’t even know what lwa were then, and certainly couldn’t make sense of the different nachons (nations). I admired the cards, and tucked the book and deck away.

Then Papa Legba came to me. I remember the dream very clearly, and the day of the dream, because of its irony. June 6, 2006. In my dream, I went to a sort of fair, and there were people selling crafts. I entered a tent in which there were a number of people who looked African. The women wore beautiful head scarves, and they were selling drums and cloth and masks. And henna tattoos. I asked for one, and I said I wanted a tattoo of a veve (the drawing through which the lwa are drawn to earth) for Maman Brigitte. I insisted on, but the people in the tent refused. It must be Papa Legba, they said. I shook my head and asked for Mama Brigitte’s veve again. Again, they said no, Papa Legba, and it should be a real tattoo.

I woke puzzled. I had the vaguest memory of someone called Mama Brigitte. When I went to read about her, I discovered she was a lwa of the cemetary (and judgement and magic and sex work). But I couldn’t find out much more about her, so I posted in a thread on Vodou in a forum I visit frequently, and the answer came back immediately from people familiar with Vodou–of course it had to be Papa Legba first, because he is the one who opens the gate and lets all the lwa through. He is the lord of the crossroads, the great communicator and translator and trickster.

I pondered this. I read about Vodou and was intrigued, but I too had been infected by the way American society views it and was a bit afraid. I was also worried about issues of appropriation–I’ve always been suspicious of people adopting a religion/spiritual practice that has orgins outside their own culture.

Then I had another dream–this one far to clear to ignore. I was in a house and realized someone was doing something to the front door. He was a smallish old man, with dark skin and trickster smile, and he was busily taking off the lock and knob and bell on my door. With him was a young woman, also darkskinned (I think she might be Dantor, but I’m not sure). I was quite disturbed by this door work, and finally said “well, if you do that, how will I close the door? How will I know if someone is even at the door?”

The old man laughed merrily. “Oh girl,” he said, “You’ll know when the door is open.”

And I did. Of course he was Legba, and he left that door wide open. After that, I read everything I could on Vodou, good, bad or in between. I read all the books I could find (many of which were hard to find). I read about Santeria too (just in case!) I read webpages, good and bad.

And I followed the first steps in the first good books I found–Louisa Tiesch’s Jambalaya and, rather ironically, Voodoo for Dummies. I set up an altar for my ancestors, which was easy, since I’d set up altars since grad school (and had jokingly called them my “Voodoo altars.” I gathered things for the lwas, especially the two that most drew me, Papa Legba and Mama Brigitte and the other Gede. As my dream instructed, I got a tattoo of Legba’s veve. I knew, then, that someday I wanted to go to Haiti to undergo initiation. And I began to look for other servitors (as in those who serve the lwas), because Vodou cannot be practiced alone.

This was difficult. I live in the Southwest, hardly a bastion of practioners of Afro-Caribbean religion. Add this to the fact that Vodou is a much-maligned religion, so most people don’t volunteer information about it. I found websites that offered initiation for thousands of dollars, but I was dubious about them, even the most famous of them. I later discovered that there is a group of people who practice Santeria here–I even went to a dance class where I learned some of the very complicated steps to dance to the Orishas. But I had a feeling it was Vodou–Haitian Vodou–not Santeria or Palo or even New Orleans Voodoo that I was being called to.

This summer, I made a more concentrated effort to find a sosyete to join. I felt I’d done as much as I could on my own. I found a few possibilities–a woman practicing New Orleans Voodoo in the city I live in (though she did not appear to have regular services), a handsome young Houngan in New Jersey who had a cocky attitude I found appealing. I spoke with them both, and thought of joining the New Jersey sosyete–actually planned on it and was going to go out for a lave tet (a cleansing ceremony). I got a reading from the Mambo in my city, and though I didn’t like her website and some of her practices, I found her caring and funny on the phone. What to do?

I believe Papa Legba decided for me. Suddenly the ceremony in NJ had a change of date, and I couldn’t go, and the woman here was having a conference so many months ahead it seemed pointless to concentrate on it. I began to think I would wait another year before really being able to practice.

Then another dream, which has always been the primary way any issues of spirituality are communicated to me. This dream had some bad parts–worry for my mother–but it had a beautiful part, too, in which I came upon a Vodou ceremony in New Orleans, a ceremony meant to heal the city. I met the famous Sallie Ann Glassman, and she told me she had a Mambo she wanted me to meet, but I had to leave before I met her.

Two days later I found Sosyete du Marche. They were offering a lave tet on a date I could attend, and the Mambo there knew Mambo Glassman.

No conversion narrative would be complete without telling of the joy of the conversion, and I am not immune to that magic. I went to the lave tet. It was one of the most amazing spiritual events of my life. I loved the people I met, the members of the Sosyete, and was impressed by their diversity: they were white and Latino and yes, even Haitian. They were quite young to much older than me. They had a variety of jobs, though most were professional. Most of all, they were generous and welcoming and joyful. The sosyete gives back both in this country and in Haiti, and both the Mambo and the Houngan were warm generous and knowledgeable people. There was nothing new agey about this group: the Mambo and Houngan who lead the Sosyete follow traditional Haitian Vodou. Finally, I saw the altars correctly set up. I danced for hours to the drums. I saw people possessed, and watched that in awe, because it is one of the most magical and misunderstood phenomenons of Vodou (well, that and sacrifice), and I wondered, really wondered if I would see it, if it would be real. I did; it was. I even felt it myself, in what I learned was called a “passe” when the lwa brush close, but do not possess a practioner. What I felt was the hair raise on the back of my neck and a sort of dizziness/lightheadedness come over me. My mind started to go blank, and I felt as if one leg were firmly stuck to the ground. I could feel myself start to fall, and then in a moment of panic, I shook it off. (While possession is one of the sacred tenets of Vodou, while I had read much about it and wanted it even, it was also too hard to give up control, to know that I would fall and not even know what happened to me unless someone told me, because the possessed–the chevals or horses–have no memory of the possession. I know it will happen at some point, and that will be magic, but I was too new yet to go easily). I also learned, when I told others of my experience, that it was Papa Legba that had brushed by me so closely, because he limps (hence my “frozen” leg).

I know this may sound crazy to some, but what religion doesn’t? The body and the blood of Christ? The virgin birth? Moses parting the Red Sea? And the fact remains: I saw it. I saw the body of a cheval shiver from head to toe slowly, in a way I’ve never saw a human shake, and I heard that different voice come out of him when he spoke. I don’t know how it happens or if science would call it hypnosis or mass hysteria or what have you. I don’t care.

I went home dazed, refreshed, head covered in a white cloth (which made people in the airport give me a wide berth. God knows, I could have been Muslim!). I went home knowing that I was taking the first very small step toward something that would utterly transform my life. I went home as a member of the sosyete, with a new family, and amazing “mama and papa” (as we refer to the Mambo and Houngan).

This is a first small step for me. The sosyete is a cross-country flight away from me, and I don’t know how often I will be able to be there for ceremonies. It will be quite awhile before I am elegible for initiation, if I choose to do that, for now I know that is a very large responsibility. I have to earn that, to prove that I am committed to the sosyete, to the lwas. I have SO much to learn.

But Vodou has been an enormous comfort to me. It makes so much sense to me on so many levels–far too many to name here. Now I have new altars–one for the lwa, one for my ancestors, one for the Gede (the unnamed dead). I perform small sacrifices: I offer food and drink and things I think the lwa might like.

And I dream of the lwa. And my ancestors. The dreams I consider true dreaming, spiritual dreams, come much more often. (For example, I had a dream recently about Ogoun, the warrior, who I felt I was having a hard time connecting with. Then I dreamed he was Omar, a favorite character of mine on The Wire, and suddenly I felt a much better understand of Ogoun) And on my hardest days, I see small reminders of the lwa in mysterious ways: in an elevator on my way to a dreaded meeting, I saw a man unfold a piece of paper which appeared to say Ogoun Auto Repair. It probably didn’t say that, of course, but my (mis)reading of that paper made me feel stronger. I see a halloween decoration of a skeleton in a top hat and think of Baron Samedi. Tiny things to give me strength, and how I need that now.

I suppose there is nothing particularly unique about my conversion, or at least not if we consider generic religion rather than the specific Vodou. And it is not unique even in that way–Afro-Caribbean religions are some of the fastest growing religions in the world. (Aside for Mormonism I bet!) And lots of people “find” religion in middle age. Still, it surprises me, because I am walking down a path I never expected to follow. I never expected I would ever be religious, at least not of the joining-a-group sort.

But I am. And I thank my ancestors and the lwa (esp. Papa Legba) for opening the door for me.

Love, Honor and Respect to you all.

(Here are a few links if anyone is interested. I should also add there is an awful lot of BAD info on Vodou/Voodoo on the web–sometimes the spelling of the word tells all! Lots of people are drawn to it for all the wrong reasons. But the real thing is pretty amazing.)

sosyete du marche
veves
veves and the lwa

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Ms. UU has had a rough fall, something she doesn’t particularly feel like going into here. However, this, and a recent movie she saw, has got her thinking about changes and about middle age, and–why not?–about life and death, which is related to the movie.

First, the film. It was Into the Wild, based on the book by the same name by Jon Krakauer. The movie is about a young man who starved to death in the wilderness in Alaska. Now I was in Alaska when this happened–or rather when his body was discovered–and I, like many Alaskans, felt that young man was hopelessly naive and fucked up to have done this. He left behind a diary and pictures, and it was clear he went into the wild hopelessly unprepared. It wasn’t so much that I thought he deserved what the got–I didn’t–but I was annoyed that the book made him a hero, because I figured that would just bring up another slew of idealistic but incompetent young people up to Alaska to either die in the wilderness or to have to be rescued by Alaskans. This annoyed me.

And the book annoyed me at the same time it fascinated me. I much admire Krakauer as a writer and this book was no exception. He did a beautiful job of recreating this young man’s troubled life, but I was disturbed by the way Krakauer seemed to valorize Chris McCandless’ journey to what was ultimately his death. Let’s face it, McCandless (or Alexander Supertramp as he renamed himself), was profoundly disturbed. He burned the last of his money in the desert. He refused to believe he couldn’t simply live in the interior of Alaska “off the land” when the Interior is one very hostile and dangerous environment. He made stupid mistakes.

Of course, Sean Penn’s version of things played up McCandless’ heroics even more. There was even the required “Jesus” shot with McCandless floating in the water in the Christ-on-the-cross position. McCandless was portrayed as a sort of hero who did amazing things and died because he made a simple mistake–he mistook an edible food for a poisonous one. In fact, he simply starved to death–what he ate was tested at UAF and was not, in fact, poisonous. (And I wonder why Krakauer never decided to correct that in the subsequent printing of his books).

That said, the movie is beautiful. And it softened me on the story. Now I see McCandless as a sort of holy fool–the adventurer with good intentions and too much idealism who mostly is lucky. Until the end.

What touched me–and annoyed me–about this holy fool is that he was so idealistic as to be unrealistic. He didn’t believe in money, so he got rid of all his. I remember feeling this myself, though I was 11 then and not 20-something. But I suppose it is easier to want to get rid of money when you’ve always had it.

But what I mostly thought about him–what was really powerful in the movie and this young man’s story–is that he left everything behind, including his identity, to start all over again on a grand adventure. That I admired. And I thought of the times I’ve done it as a younger woman–leaving Alaska to go to Florida at 20, leaving Alaska to go to Japan at 30, going to the Peace Corps, etc. I didn’t leave my identity behind, but I gave everything up to go somewhere else, and yes, become someone else to a certain degree. I remember all those times I stood on the edge of a big change–that flutter of fear, but more anticipation, and the dizzying surrender of knowing that I had no idea what was going to happen to me, or in some cases, not even knowing where I was going to end up.

Now I find myself in a similiar situation–or I likely will find myself in a similiar situation–and I think about how very hard it is now. I am middle-aged now, and just up and leaving would be so hard. I have a house, dogs, a car, a motorcycle, and so many things. What if I lost everything? I could survive that (well, maybe not losing the dogs), and I know it. I don’t want to do it, though. I want the things I have, for the most part. I’ve worked for them (and gone in debt for them!) I miss the ability to go on long trips or simply move away if I feel like it, but I also think my day to day life is so much better because of the house, the dogs, the bike. Let’s face it–life is much more complicated that it was when I was young.

When I was young, I loved my freedom, but I also was more practical than some of the young people who came to Alaska (like McCandless) for a big adventure. They were ok with living in tents all winter. Or treehouses (I’m not making this up). Or giving up everything to live out of a backpack. I was not. Mostly because I’d been poor, and I didn’t see the point of giving up everything to reject my parents–my mother had nothing much to give up and neither did I. She sought a certain degree of security, and I realize now I sought it too, though I have a higher tolerance for risk than she does (probably than most people do).

Still I admire that fire for adventure and change that many young people had–that I had. It was easy to go–why not? Now I am hemmed in by bills and jobs and….all of it. All of the things that the younger version of myself would have scoffed out (well, she’d of liked the house and bike and dogs!). And sometimes I too feel that familiar old restlessness that says go, go, go, change, change, change. I just can’t do it so easily.

And now when I think that I might lose it all, I’m both truly upset and also somewhat philosophical. I’ve had nothing before–I’ll survive–though I certainly won’t enjoy it if it comes to that. I watch a movie like this and think of youth, of that sense of endless possibility, of endless infallability, and I’m sad and relieved that I lost that. No, I don’t have endless possibilities in front of me anymore (if I ever really did), but I also know my life will change in ways I didn’t expect, and in those changes will come blessings and pain. And I’m not simply echoing some optimistic bullshit there–I really believe that.

In the end of the movie, McCandless dies of course. Starves to death, and the movie does a mostly beautiful job of showing that, both the ugly and the beautiful. In the end, this young man stares at the Alaskan sky, blue and vast, as he takes his last breath.

I don’t want to starve to death–who would?–but the idea of dying staring into a blue sky was beautiful. Of course it made me think of my dear friend, whose father is dying, whose father watches the sky now in ways he didn’t before. And I think as awful as his going is, at least he is at home (with the help of hospice) where he may be able to look at the sky as much as he likes.

And I thought of how I would want to die. In my home–wherever that may be. I always hoped it would be here, in the southwestern mountains. This is the land of my ancestors, generations back beyond count, and it hurts me and angers me to think that I might be forced out of this place. But if I could choose my own death, I’d choose this: being at home surrounded by those I loved. Looking out at the blue blue sky of the west. And I have to think that though McCandless never meant to die in the wilderness (at least I don’t think he did), it was an honorable death (if preventable) and that he would have wanted something like that for himself.

Changes. Our lives are full of changes, and the best we can do is to is to learn when to fight and when to surrender. And look toward each change as a transformation. Even that final one.

Exes ad nauseum

Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant has recently returned from a trip to visit her family. Yes, she has one, and of course, as a child, she was always accused of being “sassy,” which meant uppity in the context of her family. And yes, she was unrepentant then too.

Well, in this trip, Ms. UU saw her first husband. For the record, Ms. UU has been twice married, and doesn’t plan on doing it again. (Though god knows I’m nothing if not inconsistent. Or fickle, as my mother used to say). A little history here: I met him at 18. Had some other relationships–or quick fucks–slut that I am. Then married him at 25. Divorced him at 30, though I’d been involved with some other people by then. Still, Ms. UU admits he’s a good looking man, if not her usual type. (And for you readers out there that don’t know, that type is small dark handsome. Specifically shaved head, goatee, hazel eyes, though of course I have a little flexibility here).

Ms. UU really enjoyed her ex. on this trip. Perhaps more than she should have. But what I really was struck by was the romance of distance. Lately I’d been thinking about him. Thinking about he was not puritanical like husband number two. How he would not be shocked by Ms. UU’s behavior (he called me a free-spirit, which is rather too hippyish for my taste, but you get the picture). I was thinking all this and wondered how it all went bad. Well, I remembered when I saw him, even as I was charmed by his flirting and looks, just as I had been all those years ago. All the talking he did with my mother made me sulky (Ms. UU likes to be the center of attention at least sometimes!) And really, his political views appalled me. How could someone not believe in global warming, especially if said person lives in Alaska where evidence is all around? (Of course if said person works for the oil companies, perhaps they are paid to not believe in it?) And there were some other things I’d felt he should have learned over the years that he had apparently not. Ahem.

Still, I admit that I still feel a deep fond spot for him. I just am over any tiny reconciliation fantasies I’ve had about him. I’d love to be friends though, and bet we could get in a lot of trouble if we lived near one another. Probably best that we’re four thousand miles apart.

This is all in contrast to husband number two. Now Ms. UU loved husband number two very much, and was with him for 12 years, and though he accused her of it, was not unfaithful to him. (And now, I wonder how and more importantly why I ever did that or thought it was important). But H2, let’s call him, does not speak to Ms. UU. He does not answer emails. He wants no contact whatsoever.

And I’ve gotten used to that. But unfortunately, this trip brought out a bit of hostility. I learned from a mutual friend that he was remarried. And I know to who–I’d met the woman. This is bad enough (more on this later) but what really burns my ass is that H2 is in a Phd program in composition and rhetoric!

First there is the simple distastefulness of that as a field. Really, don’t all college level teachers want to escape teaching comp rather than do more of it? I can’t think of a more boring field. But the really galling thing is this: when H2 was married to Ms UU, he resolutely refused to go back to school. He said he hated comp./rhet. in particular. He mocked it. He said he would never go back to school because he didn’t want to be an academic.

And he said he hated the midwest, but now of course, he’s sequestered with his little midwestern wife and loves it. Ms. UU finds this galling in the extreme. And perhaps this is something some readers might be able to relate to: what really makes me cranky is that he married a blonde white woman (I suppose white goes without saying). Now H2 was white himself, but he’d rarely been involved with white women. And he was, at one point, truly one of the most progressive white people I’ve ever met. He just seemed to get it about race. He said he never even liked blondes, and of course his previous history proved that. (Not like another ex–a boyfriend this time–of Ms. UU who only dated blondes, but more on that later).

This may sound petty to some. Or some may think I’m being “racist” (and if so, stop reading this blog right now and go away and figure out what racism really means. I might be prejudiced, but I don’t have the power to be racist). But I think women of color are going to get this: it really eats away at our hard-won self-esteem to see white people go back to their own kind, as if we were just an exotic little fling. Because everything in American society posits thin blondes as beautiful, and we are always left out of that.

Perhaps I have a negative view of race relations, but really, people do not come together apart from their histories. This is what I used to tell H2. We were not only us, but we were also connected to the entire history of women of color and white men, whether we liked it or not. Playing out old roles or acting out against them, the history was there. And so I couldn’t help but feel slapped in the face when I heard he married a nice blonde. (And she is nice. I remember that about her. And that made me dislike her more. Nice people are insipid). Of course, H2 lost all his hipper-than-thou non-racism when he discoved Ms. UU was in love with a black man. I suppose that’s also part of the problem: how easily he slipped into playing “the race card” when he was threatened. (In this case, the race card is that he accused Ms. UU of being racist against white people. I guess all my training of him was for naught. And I do like to leave men better off than they were before I met them).

Ms. UU has a bit of fantasy. There is a peace corps reunion happening soon (yes, hold back your astonishment. Ms. UU was in the Peace Corps, which she will deign to capitalize this time). It’s held in the same city that D., the man Ms. UU was in love with, lives in. She likes the idea of going to the reunion, seeing H2 and the Nice Blonde. If they didn’t run away in horror immediately, she could tell them she is staying with D. And I’d tell them I no longer believe in monogamy. Marriage is for suckers! And I’d tell them about my life as a phone courtesan, as a client once graciously called me.

That would shock the puritanical pants off H2 (who really was a puritan, both in thought/deed and ancestery). And why, you wonder, did Ms. UU marry him? Because he seemed edgy and wild when she met him. It just quickly faded once he thought he owned me…..er…was married.

Do you see my problem with marriage yet? A long time ago I read a fairy tale-esque story, probably in Ms., about a woman who is captured by a dragon and owned by him. To signify his ownership, he takes a link out of a golden chain and places it on her ring finger. Obvious, yes. The ring as symbol of ownership. And of course, some people pick their own, but what is it really but a sign to the world that someone is “taken.” Ie. owned. And why is it so necessary for everyone to know that?

Ms. UU has had other exes (and hopes to have more, though she doesn’t want them to be ex-husbands! We’re talking ex-boyfriends now). There was West Texas. Rich. White. Older looking that he was. Once on a date, we’d seen an excruciatingly stupid big-haired blonde. How stupid? She was talking about the movie Capote, and somone else said what was that woman writer friend he had? Ms. Big hair scrinched her eyes together in concentration, then said, “I know, I know! Jane Austin!” Ms. UU related that to West Texas, who had not heard it. He looked over at the women, recognized the Dallas accent, then said “those are the kind of women I usually date.” Now why did Ms. UU think HE would work out? Answer: she didn’t. She was experimenting–how long can you go on having pretty good sex with a person you neither like nor are attracted to? Answer: longer than you think, unless the person is out and out repulsive.

There was the Gigolo, the one Ms. UU dreamed about just last night. (And in my dream, I was getting rid of him!). The Gigolo was gorgeous in a blonde sort of way. Edgy, or at least wanted to be. But dumb. Or more unforgiveably, wasn’t really that dumb but pretended to be. And more annoyingly, decided becoming a gigolo was better than getting a job. (Of course, he became a gigolo after Ms. UU. And now I admit both an understanding of and more scorn for his choice: it wasn’t that I thought doing it was so bad, it was that I thought he should be honest about what he was doing. He wouldn’t. Ms. UU much prefers an honest whore).

And of course, of the most recent exes, there was TLove, who gets to be called by name. Of course he was badly behaved, including to Ms. UU. Of course he is much more appealing in retrospect than at the time–though Ms. UU certainly was crazy for that boy. Dark, small, hazel-eyed, edgy as hell. Too edgy in fact, but he acted out some bad behavior that Ms. UU only dreamed about. If Ms. UU were a man, she’d be him (but likely more honest). If he were a woman he’d be me, or so he says. Perhaps he says that to all the girls….

But now Ms. UU has a Shiba that is very like him. And finds the Shiba a much better partner. Though god knows it would be nice to have a human in her bed every now and then.

So what is the point of all these ramblings? Ms. UU is uncertain (just like I’m uncertain about speaking about myself in third person, so I keep switching off).

I suppose it is this: sometimes I think of being in love again. Sometimes I long for it. But in end, I like my life. I don’t mind having two Shibas in my bed and a German Shepherd at the foot of the bed–if the Shibas allow him in the room. I love living alone, and who else would put up with Ms. UU’s messy house, crazy dogs, and her job, which involves getting men off over the phone while talking about castrating them. Or at least collaring them.

I don’t envy my friends who are in solid partnerships. I’m happy for them. I remember it fondly. And as long as they don’t become totally conventional and thus boring, I love seeing the little details of partnership–the “I-love-you’s” at the end of the calls, or even the bringing up of old arguments in a fond, not angry, way.

But at the moment, Ms. UU is happy to have only exes.

Except for Dr. Crankypants, of course, but that is something different altogether.

Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant Acknowledges a Small Error, and Speculates about Soft-core Porn

Yes, dears, it’s true. Occasionally even Ms. UU makes errors. But really they are so rare that I can afford to admit them.

So as my dear friend Sera has pointed out, I did misquote the song in my last blog. I suppose I was so fixed on exposing the horrors of heteronormativity that I got ahead of myself, because of course we all know that baby carriage is implied. Or perhaps I just got it confused with the childhood rhyme that my friend Dr. Crankypants reminded me of:

First comes love
then comes marriage
then comes _____ in a baby carriage!

In any case, I admit my tiny little error, and will move on.

What I’d like to move on to is faux porn, aka soft-porn, aka Playboy and other such magazines.

Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant asks really, what IS the point? One of my friends told me about how when she lived in Oklahoma, only soft porn was ok for rental. Soft porn? Without penetration, my informant told me. And I said exactly what I said above. Really, what is the point? Porn without penetration is not porn at all in Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant’s lascivious mind.

I was recently reading an article in Elle about the series “The Girls Next Door” which is about some Playboy Bunnies who live with “Hef.” (Note: yes, Ms. UU reads fashion magazines, and no doubt I would also watch said show if I had cable. It would join in my guilty pleasures). I can’t really comment on the show, as I haven’t watched it, but I certainly was interested in some of the things the writer had to say about Playboy the magazine. There were a couple of interesting points, including the fact that of course, the Playboy symbol is an example of an extremely successful “brand” in that it is recognizable worldwide. And that odd little bunny symbol is synonymous with sex.

And yet, the writer noted, the magazine itself is actually very modest.

This was the part that interested me most. Here is this magazine–the entire phenomenon which is Hugh Hefner and Playboy–which is supposed to symbolize sex itself. And yet it is curiously tame. I hadn’t looked at Playboy in years before I took a look at the issue which listed the fiction contest winners when Sera won Honorable Mention for one of her stories. After noting that annoyingly they did not list the honorable mentions, I went straight to the centerfolds. And really, these photos seem little more explicit than some Victoria’s Secret catalogs. So ok, they get to show pubic hair, but it is tastefully arranged. The breasts are firm, large and fake. The stomachs tight and faces flawless either through makeup or photoshop. Most of the girls are interchangeably blonde girls next door (even if they aren’t blonde). Most white. Really, they look as if they all came from an Aryan breeding farm for the healthy outofdoors look.

Not a fetish or a pussy shot anywhere to be seen. And god knows there are no cocks or dildos or so there is absolutely no penetration. I suppose part of the appeal might be that they are untouched, that nothing interrupts the idea that they are there, waiting for you! But for what?

It’s not that I have any problem with Playboy, really. It seems sort of quaint. And genuinely American. It plays into the national mystique (or should I call it agenda?): here we are, healthy, young, ready to play at being sexy. But in the end, almost puritanical: flirting with the idea of sex is ok, actually showing it (or having it?) is a problem.

This is why I’m so puzzled by those who feel the US is increasingly sexualized. Sure, there is plenty of pretend sex: from Playboy to panty-less pop singers. And it all feels so tame, and somehow so ludicrously adolescent. These are the fantasies of 14 year olds, not adults. It’s not that I think the whole world needs to see real sex or real porn, it’s just that when I hear people rail against some of the faux sexuality like this, I think, really? This is really a problem? This is nothing. This is just a tease.

So I look at Playboy, and I see an empire made out of adolescent fantasies. And I don’t blame Hefner–hey, it was a great business move. I just wish he’d go further.

And I also wish that America was really honest about sexuality. Because it is not all about beautiful young bodies and heterosexual vanilla sex. It is much more than that. And that’s why Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant finds the fetish world so appealing: because there is more honesty there, more attention paid to boundaries and consent than there is anywhere else. It is refreshing to find a place that celebrates real adult sexuality that is not intrinsically tied to a heteronormative agenda. And it is a place where difference is respected.

And, let’s face it, it’s really fun!

And on a slightly sentimental note, Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant wants to thank her friend Sera who helped educate her and draw her into the world of BDSM and fetishes. My life is richer for it.

Now Ms. UU will sign off. She is going to visit her mother. She is sure she’ll have more tales to tell when she returns.

Love and Marriage

“Love and Marriage/love and marriage/go together like a baby and carriage”

Those are song lyrics from some old song, from some crooner like Sinatra.

Aren’t they about the mostfuckingoffensive lyrics ever? Besides the clear heterosexual agenda (hello! Gay people can’t get married!), they assume that love should automatically lead to the whole tired agenda–marriage then babies. (Of course, after that comes divorce, but there don’t seem to be so many songs celebrating that next step.)

Now Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant has already railed against monogamy some (though don’t worry, I have plenty more to say on that issue). Now it is time for babies.

Because I’m fucking sick of everyone having babies and expecting me to care. I don’t! I care about puppies! I care about motorcycles! I care about books! I may care about your child if I like you and if you aren’t a lame-ass googly-eyed “all I want to talk about is my child” parent, AND when your child is old enough to look like a human being not a larvae and can actually form sentences.

Otherwise, I don’t like babies. They are boring. They are smelly. They are loud. They are demanding, and frankly I have enough demands in my life.

But more to the point, they make otherwise intelligent people turn into stupid cooing idiots. And people act like having a baby is the most important thing they could do/have done/will do. That having a baby is the ultimate fulfillment.

Guess what? Virtually anyone can have a baby. Plenty of people do who really shouldn’t. It is not an impressive achievement.

Write a book instead. Now there’s something original.

Having a baby does often seem to be an outgrowth of getting married, and I note they both engender the same sort of really obnoxious behavior–acting incredibly self-absorbed and thinking your non-parent or non-married friends really care about the colors of the bassinet or the colors of the tableclothes at your wedding. Both also are really a natural outgrowth not only of the heterosexual agenda, but also of the capitalist one. Note how much useless purchases must be made in both cases. Note how people fawn over their choices of colors and accessories. Note how much money must be spent.

And worst of all, often people like me, Ms. UU, are forced to participate by buying presents for said wedding or baby.

No one gave me presents for my new puppies. Or my new house. Or my divorce, though one friend did buy me a drink for the latter.

I know there are other options. I’ve had friends who got married and didn’t draw me into trivial details I had no interest in. I even have a very few friends who have kids and are still cool. But what I hate most about babies and marriage are that sometimes my friends become people I really would never have become friends with. Sometimes they become soccer moms. Or monogamous conservatives, who used to be amused by my adventures, and now are suddenly moralistic, as if I’m going to grab there husband right there and fuck him. (Uh, no. I don’t WANT your husband. If I did, I’d have already had him). Or they’re worried I’ll corrupt the baby by my very presence.

They become the kind of adult I never wanted to be. And have, for the most part, avoided, though I had some bad patches in my 30’s when I too tried to fit into the married model. (Note to readers: Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant wasn’t really cut out for marriage).

When people decide to marry and have children, they make a choice. If they decide to change to become the “expected” wife/husband/mother/father, that is their choice. But remember it is a choice. And their friends who knew them before, well they didn’t become friends with soccer mom or sappy dad. And they may not come along for the ride.

What Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant doesn’t like is that too many people subsume their own personality to marriage or parenthood. They begin to live for an institution rather than for themselves. They are no longer unique, but simply a portion of a couple or family. And I don’t like the idea of giving up identity in that way.

And frankly, I also think there are plenty of children in the world. Many of whom need homes. Why do we need more? I actually care quite deeply about children, and am very very aware that many need protection and love. I never felt the parental urge myself, but if I did, I was (and am) very committed to adoption, because too many children need loving families.

I suppose part of the reason I never wanted a child was because I had a fucked up childhood, like so many of us have had. And I know so many people who also were terribly hurt as children. I didn’t know that I could protect a child from the dangers of the world. I was worried that I too might turn into a bad parent–I know I wouldn’t have been abusive, but likely I would have been distracted and neglectful. So I chose not to have children. I know other people from seriously dysfunctional families who have had children and are fierce in their protection of their kids, and they’ve done well. I just knew I didn’t want to sacrifice my own life and whims and desires for that of a child, and I do believe if you are going to be a parent, you have to be ready to do that.

Am I selfish? Hell, yeah! But at least I know that. At least I’m honest. And at least I’m not going to have a child just because it is the thing to do, then realize (or not realize!) that I don’t really have the ability to give all to my child.

Which would also, likely, mean giving up my child-free friends.

The mysteries of monogamy, or why I’m not married anymore

So here’s the story, and those of you who have heard this–probably most if not all of my readers–can skip the backstory and go straight to my musings if you like.  Really.  I won’t punish you for it.

So I have a friend.  Let’s call him Mr. Politico.  Now Mr. Politico and I met when he was married and also in a serious relationship with another woman.  That would have made me mistress number two (and no, we’re not talking Mistress with a capital M).  There was a bit of trauma until I figured out what was going on, because frankly, Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant has a bit of an ego and she doesn’t like to be dumped.  But I was.  And I’d only fucked him twice.

Sigh.

But now, several years later, I’m pretty good friends with said man.  And he’s gotten a divorce and settled in with his woman, who we’ll call the Judge.  Or sort of settled in–they live in different cities, and while he goes to her city, she doesn’t come to his that often.  Still overall everything works.

But Mr. Politico is a bad boy, or at least wants to be one, and can’t quite settle on one woman.  I get to be the primary mistress now, even though the closest we come to sex is an occasional good night kiss.  I think he just likes the idea of a secret intimate relationship, even if that intimacy is emotional rather than sexual.  Perhaps he needs that. In any case, I know he’s a bad boy, and one would think the Judge would also know this, given she’s been with him for more than a few years.

So here’s what puzzles me:  she leaves him alone a lot, even on days I’d think were important, like his birthday.  And yet, she’s highly suspicious about what he does, and gets upset if she thinks he’s not being faithful (or if he’s taken her pictures down–Mr. Politico is fairly transparent in a lot of ways).

This is what I don’t get:  if you marry  (or are partners with) someone who has a long history of fucking around on a partner, and in fact said person was involved with you while still married, well, is it realistic to expect fidelity?  My thought is you either are with said person as much as possible if you’re the jealous type (and frankly, doesn’t that sound tiresome?) or you turn a blind eye to it.

I’m in favor of the latter, especially in this case.  Of course he fucks around, so if she can’t deal, she ought to just say, please don’t make me have to see it.  That’s what I’d do.  What do I care what someone is doing when I’m not around?

Why this wierd hypocrisy?

More to the point, why do we expect monogamy?  It’s all well and good when you’re in the early stages of a relationship, and here I don’t mean those first few months when you fuck like bunnies.  No, what I mean is, say, the first 5,6,7, even 10 years.  Eventually the sex will start to slip, and then what are you going to do?

You’re either going to suffer bad sex or no sex, and think my god, I can’t do this for the rest of my life.  Or you’re going to cheat and lie about it.  But my point is, why not just be honest?  Isn’t that easier?  After all, then you don’t have to remember lies.

Sure, in the first couple of years, I’d probably have some problems with my partner seeing other people.  it would be hard.  It would make me feel inadequate, even though I know intellectually that it is ridiculous to think one person can fill all our needs.  And this is all true even though I’m not a very jealous person (though I used to be….more on that later).  But I wonder if we’re not conditioned to be jealous.  If it isn’t part of the huge conspiracy against any sort of non-traditional heterosexual relationships.  When I say I’m not terribly sexually jealous, sometimes the response is that either there is something wrong with me or I’m not terribly crazy about the person in question.  Perhaps either of those are true.  But even when I do feel jealousy, I think I need to work through it rather than act on it.

Because in the end, what does it matter?  As long as I don’t have to deal with the drama of possessiveness I’m fine with whatever.

Which brings me back to this story.  So the politico doesn’t think I can ever meet the judge because she’s jealous and it would just be problematic.  Probably true, though the fact is I’m interested, and I also wonder why 40-50 somethings can’t get over this shit and act like civilized human beings.  I think it’s also him–he wants to keep me secret, his faux-mistress so he has a secret.  And I’m just edgy enough to make that interesting for him.

And unsurprisingly, I kind of like being the other woman.  I like my boy, but the fact is, he’d be annoying as hell to have around full-time.  I’d get tired of his shit right away.  I don’t want him full-time, and while I kind of wish I was the real mistress (more because I like the idea of it than because I want him), I’m pretty happy with our odd relationship.

I don’t want all that domesticity.  I certainly don’t want to play the game of monogamy; I did it for years and now I’m done.  I don’t want anyone to tell me what to do.  When I get home at the end of the night, sure, there are times I wish I was getting in bed with someone I was really crazy about.

But you know, I do.  I get in bed with my crazy dogs every night, and they are certainly less demanding than a partner. Ok, they’re demanding and they take up a lot of space.  But I don’t have to talk to them about it.

Let’s face it:  marriage=possession.  And I don’t like that.

Plus it’s all part of the heterosexual agenda.

And I was a good girl for years, and now it’s time to go back to the bad girl I’ve always really been, when I haven’t let myself be tamed by love.

But I’ll leave those issues for another post.

Now we’re really rolling

I’m back. With a new header and a new subtitle.

And yeah, what’s all that about, you might ask? Well, here it is: this blog is a place for an uppity and unrepentant woman of color (of Chicana/Native ancestry) to speak out. And I’m not censoring or tempering what I have to say.

So as the subtitle says, you can kiss my ass if you don’t like it.

I have a lot of things to say, from my musings on love, sex, and relationships, to my thoughts about race, class and all the other things that make identity. And to my thoughts on being a pro-domme, a new enterprise for Ms. Uppity and Unrepentant, but one that suits her personality just fine.

So enjoy the ride. Or don’t. And if you don’t, I don’t really care.

Some things to know from the get-go

First, you might want some things about me, Ms. Uppity & Unrepentant.  I’m a 40-something Chicana/Native writer.  Over-educated no doubt, but with a strong working-class background.  Some things I like:  dogs, motorcycles, mysticism, edgy people, good beer and wine.  Sex, but doesn’t that go without saying?  Some things I don’t like:  racism, sexism, homophobism–ok, any of the big -isms.  Passive-aggressive behavior.  People with too much money.  Ass-kissing.  There are more, as no doubt you’ll learn.

One of my obsessions has to do with race and class.  Or all forms of privelege and the way it plays out.  I’ve spent a long long time studying this:  both all my life (as a woman of color in a white-dominated society) and more academically–I’ve done a lot of reading on the topic.  And I talk about it.  A lot.

In fact, that’s one of the reasons I started this blog.  Because I have some things to say on these issues.  And while I’m often willing to talk about them quite publicly and with my name attached, there are times when it would be wiser to be, shall we say, a little more anonymous?

So I talk about race, class, etc. a lot. And one of the things I get from a lot of white people is that I’m “racist” for even mentioning race.  Hey, some of my best friends (and lovers) have been white!  So what I’m saying here, to start this all off, is that I am not racist because I talk about race.  I’m not a man-hating femi-nazi because I may talk about problems with men (I’ve found a lot of men very very enjoyable in fact).  If you don’t like what I have to say, don’t read it.

What I am is a woman of complexities and (mostly) compassion, who needs a place to sound off.  What I am is someone who wants a place to do non-professional writing on topics that I am interested in.

What I am is uppity and unrepentant.  Welcome to my blog.