A few summers ago, okay like eight summers ago, me and a friend were visiting some her her friends in South Mississippi. There had been a tornado go through this city the previous week (interestingly enough this was one of the cities majorly affected by Katrina) and we were amazed by all the damage. We had gone to eat at a Mexican restaurant and were all bored, so we decided to go home and drink.
Our timing was impeccable as it looked like a storm started brewing just as we were headed back home. So, we're going down the interstate and the lightening starts. Off in the distance we see a cell tower get struck by lightening, complete with sparks flying everywhere. Amazed, we all three lean into the windshield (single cab Ford Ranger) to "whoa'' the cell tower. At that exact moment my friend's windshield is struck by lightening. Now, I'm not quite sure how to describe this but imagine a camera flash magnified about ten times and about six inches from your face. And the sound, hmmm, a few times louder than the kind of thunder than shakes things. My two friends who were sitting on the outside (I was in the middle) said they could feel the electricity course through the vehicle. Yeah I'm glad I don't have that to add to my trauma.
So, we're all temporarily blinded and screaming and apparently swerving all over the road because when we finally could see we had gone from the far left lane to almost running off the right shoulder. Great. Escape death once, shame on death. Eh, nevermind.
Anyway, we hadn't realized when the lightening struck that it actually didn't hit the windshield, but her driver's side wiper blade, completely eliminating it from existance. Now, this is not good since we are on a major interstate and rain is now coming down in sheets. So we're all trying to navigate, scared shitless, to the nearest exit. We make it off the interstate and to a gas station. We run, literally screaming, through the rain as if acid is falling from the sky to melt our skin. Once inside the gas station/truck stop, we just all kind of have nervous breakdowns. I'd left my cigarettes in the truck but wasn't about to go back out and get them, so I bought a new pack and a lighter. (I'd left my ID out in the truck and was only barely 18 but I looked about 15. The guy asked me if I had my ID and had just witnessed my breakdown. So I start crying again going, "Are you KIDDING me?!" "Um, yeah", he says. "I was - Don't worry about the ID." LMAO)
So the friend we were visiting called her parents to tell them what happened and asked them to come get us. Know what they did?! They LAUGHED at us. I am not kidding. They thought we were making it up. Thank the goddess there was a truck driver sitting close by to us who heard us rehashing the experience over and over like the traumatized teenage girls we were and offered to look at my friend's truck. He checked the electrical and switched the passenger wiper blade to the driver's side so she could see to drive. And we made it home safe.
Now, the following week when my friend reported the incident to her insurance company, the agent wouldn't believe her about what happened. He had to come see it himself, as he had just never heard such a story. Never mind the wiper shrapnel embedded in her hood.
It's been eight years and there still isn't a thunderstorm that I don't think about that night. Wonder if there's a word for phobia of lightening?
Friday, July 7, 2006
Sunday, July 2, 2006
Hi, my name is Candice, and I'm a bigot
Recovering that is.
See I've grown up in the South. Never been very far out of it actually. My entire family stems from here. What I am going to share with you is only to give some insight...oh hell, I guess into how twisted life can be down here.
Children come into this world pure. They have no prejudices, no baggage. They are like white t-shirts for us to put our paint covered hand prints all over. Scary thing when you get right down to it.
So, it was when I was still one of these cute little Hanes' V-necks waiting for my first handprints, that my ideas of sociably acceptable race relations began to be formed. I was sitting around with my mom and dad (I was an only child) watching Star Search. The act going on stage was a couple performing a dance routine. The girl was a young petite blonde and her dance partner was a strapping young stallion - a black stallion. Now, I wasn't worried at all about their difference in race, only watching their routine of song and dance in amazement and envy. My parents however, saw this as an opportunity to explain to me why people of different races should not date. I was confused, since dating relationships didn't seem any different than friendships in my six-year-old mind. And I was very good friends with a girl at school who was black.
So I ask:
My grandfather, although I've always adored him, is the true patriarch in my family. I can remember as a kid hanging on every word he said. One day he swore to me he could show me the passage in the bible that stated white people were to be revered above other races. No. I. Am. Not. Kidding. I guess gramps doesn't know Jesus wasn't white.
I've wondered how I'd achieve setting my little v-necks on a different path. I didn't want them ever having to question whether I was teaching them something that made sense or not. Most importantly I don't want them to have to undo anything I teach them. I want to raise them to see all people as equal. When my daughter began to ask me about race I decided to teach her that people are like colors in a crayon box. All colors, all shades. She asked me then what color we are. I told her peach. But she got that confused and for about three years called us 'cheap' instead of peach. Damn that was funny too.
Racial slurs were common place growing up in my family, sadly they still fly at times. That's how it is here. Of course, in these politically correct times racial slurs are less common in the general public. But, I'd be ashamed to tell you how often people will say something sideways to me about other races. I heard just yesterday from a complete stranger in a fast food resturant that the manager probably wouldn't do anything about an employee's attitude problem because there were "the same kind" meaning of the same race. I felt physically sick at her comment, so much so I could only walk away.
I'm proud to say I no longer look at people and notice their race. I do not introduce people as my 'black friend' any more than my 'gay friend', my 'baptist friend', my 'psychic friend', my 'fetish friend', etcetera, etcetera. I am a recovered bigot, which I'm fairly sure isn't like a recovering alcoholic. You know, once an alcoholic always an alcoholic. I don't see myself falling off the bandwagon and leading a rally. But I own my past because it is part of who I am and reminds me of who I never want to become.
See I've grown up in the South. Never been very far out of it actually. My entire family stems from here. What I am going to share with you is only to give some insight...oh hell, I guess into how twisted life can be down here.
Children come into this world pure. They have no prejudices, no baggage. They are like white t-shirts for us to put our paint covered hand prints all over. Scary thing when you get right down to it.
So, it was when I was still one of these cute little Hanes' V-necks waiting for my first handprints, that my ideas of sociably acceptable race relations began to be formed. I was sitting around with my mom and dad (I was an only child) watching Star Search. The act going on stage was a couple performing a dance routine. The girl was a young petite blonde and her dance partner was a strapping young stallion - a black stallion. Now, I wasn't worried at all about their difference in race, only watching their routine of song and dance in amazement and envy. My parents however, saw this as an opportunity to explain to me why people of different races should not date. I was confused, since dating relationships didn't seem any different than friendships in my six-year-old mind. And I was very good friends with a girl at school who was black.
So I ask:
Me ~ What about Tina? Can I be friends with Jane?
Role Models ~ Of course honey, you can be friends with anyone you choose.
Me ~ Really? Can Jane spend the night?
Role Models ~ Um, no. And don't use her hairbrush. (I'm not kidding.)
Me ~ Why? That doesn't make sense.
Role Models ~ Because we said so now watch the TV.
My grandfather, although I've always adored him, is the true patriarch in my family. I can remember as a kid hanging on every word he said. One day he swore to me he could show me the passage in the bible that stated white people were to be revered above other races. No. I. Am. Not. Kidding. I guess gramps doesn't know Jesus wasn't white.
I've wondered how I'd achieve setting my little v-necks on a different path. I didn't want them ever having to question whether I was teaching them something that made sense or not. Most importantly I don't want them to have to undo anything I teach them. I want to raise them to see all people as equal. When my daughter began to ask me about race I decided to teach her that people are like colors in a crayon box. All colors, all shades. She asked me then what color we are. I told her peach. But she got that confused and for about three years called us 'cheap' instead of peach. Damn that was funny too.
Racial slurs were common place growing up in my family, sadly they still fly at times. That's how it is here. Of course, in these politically correct times racial slurs are less common in the general public. But, I'd be ashamed to tell you how often people will say something sideways to me about other races. I heard just yesterday from a complete stranger in a fast food resturant that the manager probably wouldn't do anything about an employee's attitude problem because there were "the same kind" meaning of the same race. I felt physically sick at her comment, so much so I could only walk away.
I'm proud to say I no longer look at people and notice their race. I do not introduce people as my 'black friend' any more than my 'gay friend', my 'baptist friend', my 'psychic friend', my 'fetish friend', etcetera, etcetera. I am a recovered bigot, which I'm fairly sure isn't like a recovering alcoholic. You know, once an alcoholic always an alcoholic. I don't see myself falling off the bandwagon and leading a rally. But I own my past because it is part of who I am and reminds me of who I never want to become.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The sweetest memory
My heart beats in my ears, echoing the beats as they get closer together. My breath speeds, shallow and and fluttering beneath my chest. Words surface but will not enter my mouth, instead linger in my throat.
A hand brushed against mine sends electricity into my body and fire into my cheeks. My body feels more alive, as if every moment before this one it has been void of life.
We move closer together, close enough that the heat of our bodies combines in a red energy between us. Though my mind had been racing only seconds before, I cannot seem to recall a single thought now. I can feel hot breath against my face, then, closer still, on my lips. They tingle with anticipation of the moment. Finally our lips meet. A surge of energy reaches down the pathway deep inside connecting our lips to all things sensual.
My body arches as if any space between us must be consumed. We are more intertwined than we will ever be again, for this moment comes only once. It is a moment to be savored, treasured and tasted like a fine wine. It cannot last forever, such rapture sustained for too long would seem like euphoria but be insanity in disguise. And so it passes and becomes a sweet memory. That of a first kiss.
A hand brushed against mine sends electricity into my body and fire into my cheeks. My body feels more alive, as if every moment before this one it has been void of life.
We move closer together, close enough that the heat of our bodies combines in a red energy between us. Though my mind had been racing only seconds before, I cannot seem to recall a single thought now. I can feel hot breath against my face, then, closer still, on my lips. They tingle with anticipation of the moment. Finally our lips meet. A surge of energy reaches down the pathway deep inside connecting our lips to all things sensual.
My body arches as if any space between us must be consumed. We are more intertwined than we will ever be again, for this moment comes only once. It is a moment to be savored, treasured and tasted like a fine wine. It cannot last forever, such rapture sustained for too long would seem like euphoria but be insanity in disguise. And so it passes and becomes a sweet memory. That of a first kiss.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Wave your flags
This week is Pride Week. Events around the country are being held celebrating pride in the freedom to choose a queer lifestyle. These events celebrate the diversity that is life, love, and family. Feather boas, rainbows, and leather abound. Stereotypes are played out in grandiose ways, but there are much more than just stereotypes. Moms, dads, college kids, accountants, doctors, lawyers, and regular people everywhere get out and support gay rights, strides in the movement, and the promise of equality. This happens this week in particular because it was June 27, 1969, that the first of a series of riots began at the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in Greenwich Village. The patrons were sick of being picked on and they started a revolution. They paved the way for the generations to follow. That's how things get done, that's how change comes about.
As I was contemplating on how to write this blog, I felt torn. I wasn't sure how to convey my thoughts and true pride for the queer community. I cannot honestly say that I have overcome that deficit. I can only say what pride means to me.
Honoring pride week means honoring love, without limitations and expectations. I told a friend the other day my thoughts on unconditional love and trust. We come into this world possessing both of those qualities. The trust fades and we cannot ever recover it, at least not while this world contains people who take advantage of that trust. But the love, while it fades, is not something forever lost. Unconditional love is something we can relearn after the innocence of childhood fades. We can learn to see human beings as what they are and love them where they are at. One day we'll get it. That will be second nature.
Honoring pride week also means honoring families. Families come in all forms, they always have. No one questions whether grandparents raising their grandchild is a family or not. I cannot see how anyone can question two women or men who love each other, and the kids they are raising, as a family. I have never been as proud of serving a family in birth as last year when I served a lesbian couple. They were so much in love and had so much love to give to a child. I knew they would only make our world better by parenting their beautiful son together.
Finally, honoring pride week to me means honoring change. My generation, and the ones just before and after, have been ones to foster great change. We ask questions and do not accept injustices. We incite riots and revolutions. We are evolution in progress. That is certainly something to be proud of.
I am glad the ones before us did not back down. I look forward to the day when little children have to ask their mommies and daddies why we remember Stonewall because equality is commonplace in our world.
As I was contemplating on how to write this blog, I felt torn. I wasn't sure how to convey my thoughts and true pride for the queer community. I cannot honestly say that I have overcome that deficit. I can only say what pride means to me.
Honoring pride week means honoring love, without limitations and expectations. I told a friend the other day my thoughts on unconditional love and trust. We come into this world possessing both of those qualities. The trust fades and we cannot ever recover it, at least not while this world contains people who take advantage of that trust. But the love, while it fades, is not something forever lost. Unconditional love is something we can relearn after the innocence of childhood fades. We can learn to see human beings as what they are and love them where they are at. One day we'll get it. That will be second nature.
Honoring pride week also means honoring families. Families come in all forms, they always have. No one questions whether grandparents raising their grandchild is a family or not. I cannot see how anyone can question two women or men who love each other, and the kids they are raising, as a family. I have never been as proud of serving a family in birth as last year when I served a lesbian couple. They were so much in love and had so much love to give to a child. I knew they would only make our world better by parenting their beautiful son together.
Finally, honoring pride week to me means honoring change. My generation, and the ones just before and after, have been ones to foster great change. We ask questions and do not accept injustices. We incite riots and revolutions. We are evolution in progress. That is certainly something to be proud of.
I am glad the ones before us did not back down. I look forward to the day when little children have to ask their mommies and daddies why we remember Stonewall because equality is commonplace in our world.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Rape not my Cunt
Got your attention? Good. That's what I was going for.
Let me begin by explaining that my title is taken from a book called Cunt by Inga Muscio. Absolutely every woman should read this book. It is hands down the most powerful book I have ever had in my possession. As a matter of fact, every man who loves a woman should read it too. The book is about the power of not only the word cunt, but more importantly the power of being an owner of one. Seriously, buy it. Read it. Give it to your friends, sisters, mothers, wives and daughters.
Long ago cunts were revered. They were mysterious and sacred. Cunts were cherished by their owners and worshipped by their lovers. The temples (of the Goddess) were filled with women. The world, spiritually and physically, was one of feminism. Women were revered for their ability to give life and nurture. They were desired for their eroticism and respected for their...well they were just respected. The time before our world was one filled with patriarchs was a beautiful one. Or so I'm told.
I wonder how we went from a world like that to one where cunts are far from worshipped. The word itself has come to mean something negative, an insult to be spat at its intended target. Such a beautiful word turned into something so ugly. Originally, the word was a derivative of words synonymous with royalty and even the Goddess, like bathing a woman in purple silk.
It is time we stop raping our cunts. They are raped by the patriarchial bias in our society. They are raped by role expectations. They are raped by people who have forgotten how beautiful our cunts actually are. Then there's the saddest of all. They are raped, quite literally, in dark alleyways, in cars, in beds and against walls. They bleed blood from their trauma and cry tears from their heartbreak.
We must own the word and its power. We must own our cunts and their power. Inga says in her book, "All cunts belong to every woman." I can think of no reason we should not protect them as we do our own children.
I'd like to offer these words in dedication to all cunts that have been abused in one way or another, and hope that they can begin to offer beauty and healing.
Let me begin by explaining that my title is taken from a book called Cunt by Inga Muscio. Absolutely every woman should read this book. It is hands down the most powerful book I have ever had in my possession. As a matter of fact, every man who loves a woman should read it too. The book is about the power of not only the word cunt, but more importantly the power of being an owner of one. Seriously, buy it. Read it. Give it to your friends, sisters, mothers, wives and daughters.
Long ago cunts were revered. They were mysterious and sacred. Cunts were cherished by their owners and worshipped by their lovers. The temples (of the Goddess) were filled with women. The world, spiritually and physically, was one of feminism. Women were revered for their ability to give life and nurture. They were desired for their eroticism and respected for their...well they were just respected. The time before our world was one filled with patriarchs was a beautiful one. Or so I'm told.
I wonder how we went from a world like that to one where cunts are far from worshipped. The word itself has come to mean something negative, an insult to be spat at its intended target. Such a beautiful word turned into something so ugly. Originally, the word was a derivative of words synonymous with royalty and even the Goddess, like bathing a woman in purple silk.
It is time we stop raping our cunts. They are raped by the patriarchial bias in our society. They are raped by role expectations. They are raped by people who have forgotten how beautiful our cunts actually are. Then there's the saddest of all. They are raped, quite literally, in dark alleyways, in cars, in beds and against walls. They bleed blood from their trauma and cry tears from their heartbreak.
We must own the word and its power. We must own our cunts and their power. Inga says in her book, "All cunts belong to every woman." I can think of no reason we should not protect them as we do our own children.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Encyclopedias, notebook paper, and a big ass bug
Today I was reminded of a funny story and thought I'd share. When my ex-husband and I were married we lived in a tiny little rental house. Now, he was a paramedic and so I came home most nights alone since he worked graveyard (well, really he worked about 95 percent of the time but that's beside the point). So anyhoo, back to the story.
Most people who have known me a while may notice that I tend to turn on lights in a room before I enter. Yes, this is because I am afraid of the dark. So, I get the door open and the light on inside, then I take a step in the house. It took literally no more than a step for me to realize something was amiss. Hovering above me on the ceiling was a praying mantis.
Now, anyone who knows me at all knows I really do not like bugs of any kind for any reason. So this praying mantis posed quite a problem for me. In order to enter my own house I had to walk under him. Eyeing my enemy, I took a flying leap toward my cordless phone about four feet away from me. I dialed my then husband's pager and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he answered.
Here's the conversation that followed:
Me - Honey! Come home quick! There's a praying mantis on the ceiling!
Him - And?
Me - You have to come get it!
Him - Now I can leave work and come kill a praying mantis for you.
Me - Well shit! What am I supposed to do?! I can't stay here with a bug crawling around above me!
Him - Get a broom and sweep it down then kill it. Sheesh.
Me - Ok, hold on.
So I grab a broom and sweep. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Well, you get it.
Me - Gotta go honey, I can't get this damn bug.
Him - You're an idiot.
Finally after a couple of more sweeps and misses I managed to flick the mother of all praying mantises down to my kitchen floor. Oh shit! I had not thought about him crawling toward me! So, while he was still in shock from being flung through the air I threw a piece of stray notebook paper on top of him. See, I had a plan. On the bookshelf right next to me was the set of encyclopedias I'd had since I was ten. I picked up a couple of them, probably volumns N and O. Then I realized I wanted to make sure I finished to job and grabbed G and H for good measure. Then I stood back, perfected my aim, and dropped the books on the notebook paper. Unphased by the minor earthquake I'd created, I stepped over the book pile and fixed my Ramen noodles (code for dinner when you are young).
The next morning I was awakened by a conversation that went something like this:
Him - Candice, why is there a stack of encyclopedias on the kitchen floor?
Me - I killed the bug.
Him - Awww shit.
Most people who have known me a while may notice that I tend to turn on lights in a room before I enter. Yes, this is because I am afraid of the dark. So, I get the door open and the light on inside, then I take a step in the house. It took literally no more than a step for me to realize something was amiss. Hovering above me on the ceiling was a praying mantis.
Now, anyone who knows me at all knows I really do not like bugs of any kind for any reason. So this praying mantis posed quite a problem for me. In order to enter my own house I had to walk under him. Eyeing my enemy, I took a flying leap toward my cordless phone about four feet away from me. I dialed my then husband's pager and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he answered.
Here's the conversation that followed:
Me - Honey! Come home quick! There's a praying mantis on the ceiling!
Him - And?
Me - You have to come get it!
Him - Now I can leave work and come kill a praying mantis for you.
Me - Well shit! What am I supposed to do?! I can't stay here with a bug crawling around above me!
Him - Get a broom and sweep it down then kill it. Sheesh.
Me - Ok, hold on.
So I grab a broom and sweep. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Well, you get it.
Me - Gotta go honey, I can't get this damn bug.
Him - You're an idiot.
Finally after a couple of more sweeps and misses I managed to flick the mother of all praying mantises down to my kitchen floor. Oh shit! I had not thought about him crawling toward me! So, while he was still in shock from being flung through the air I threw a piece of stray notebook paper on top of him. See, I had a plan. On the bookshelf right next to me was the set of encyclopedias I'd had since I was ten. I picked up a couple of them, probably volumns N and O. Then I realized I wanted to make sure I finished to job and grabbed G and H for good measure. Then I stood back, perfected my aim, and dropped the books on the notebook paper. Unphased by the minor earthquake I'd created, I stepped over the book pile and fixed my Ramen noodles (code for dinner when you are young).
The next morning I was awakened by a conversation that went something like this:
Him - Candice, why is there a stack of encyclopedias on the kitchen floor?
Me - I killed the bug.
Him - Awww shit.
A Poem
A Survivor Is
One who has been through hell and lives to tell about it.
One who has walked over fiery coals and has blackened feet to prove it.
One who has fought wild animals and wears the scars as banners.
One who has been beaten down too many times to count and still stands on their own two feet.
One who soars like an eagle in spite of clipped wings.
One who dances the dance of life to the music of years gone by.
One who refuses to just exist but instead insists..
Insists on fighting to see another day.
Insists on clawing their way back out of hell.
Insists on flapping their wings until they can finally take off.
Insists on living and breathing and dancing and laughing and one day...
One day when they look back and see the flames of hell,
One day when they look down at their blackened feet,
One day when they examine their body for the fights they've wone,
One day when they see their wonderfully sturdy legs,
One day when they soar high above the world,
One day when they dance like never before...
That day...they realize...I am a SURVIVOR.
May 2001
One who has been through hell and lives to tell about it.
One who has walked over fiery coals and has blackened feet to prove it.
One who has fought wild animals and wears the scars as banners.
One who has been beaten down too many times to count and still stands on their own two feet.
One who soars like an eagle in spite of clipped wings.
One who dances the dance of life to the music of years gone by.
One who refuses to just exist but instead insists..
Insists on fighting to see another day.
Insists on clawing their way back out of hell.
Insists on flapping their wings until they can finally take off.
Insists on living and breathing and dancing and laughing and one day...
One day when they look back and see the flames of hell,
One day when they look down at their blackened feet,
One day when they examine their body for the fights they've wone,
One day when they see their wonderfully sturdy legs,
One day when they soar high above the world,
One day when they dance like never before...
That day...they realize...I am a SURVIVOR.
May 2001
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