Yesterday, Starr Ann got so stirred up about all the obstructionist conservatives in Congress, she had to let off steam somehow. So right around noon she said, “Margo, we need to go taunt some Republicans.”

That sounded good to me, but these days, with so many conservatives wanting to distance themselves from the wingnut Tea Partiers, you can barely find two out-and-out Republicans to rub together. Sorry about the imagery there.

Then Starr Ann had herself an idea…

We weren’t trying to be nice – Part 1 originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 13, 2010.

His eyes light up when they land on me. He walks toward me quickly and then abruptly halts when he is six feet in front of me. His eyes dim to doubt. He’s just not sure.

I smile at him reassuringly. “Hi, Uncle Lenny,” I say. “It’s me. Maria. Jack and Fiona’s girl.”

He beams, shakes his finger at me. “I know that,” he says as if this was all a joke. “You’re Maria. Jack and Fi’s girl.”

He hugs me, pats at my hair. We move to a leather sofa. We sit down. He holds my hand and looks deeply into my eyes.

“So,” he says, with finality. “So, I guess I’ll just follow you home then. Yes. That’ll work,” he says, snapping his fingers as if acknowledging a good idea.

“No, Uncle Lenny,” I say as gently as I can. “You need to stay here and take your medicine.”

“Maybe in two weeks?” he asks, looking hopeful.

Yes, I tell him. Maybe then. I lie like a rug, knowing that he will forget everything and ask the same question in twenty minutes.

My Uncle Lenny has Alzheimer’s disease. He’s had it for the last three years but my Aunt Dottie has been able to care for him at their home until last month when I was visiting and noticed that their whole house smelled like shit. Aunt Dottie admitted, tearfully, that he’d been defecating and urinating in his pants and then swatting at her when she tried to clean him up.

Uncle Lenny is a small man, only about 5’3 and weighing in at 110 pounds. Aunt Dottie is even smaller than he is and no match for him when he gets combative. So, she reluctantly agreed that it was time for him to go live in a nursing home that specializes in caring for Alzheimer’s patients.

This man, my Uncle Lenny, saw my Aunt Dottie at a dance when she was 20 years old and engaged to another man. He courted her persistently and with great passion until she consented to call off her engagement. They married four months after their first kiss. Days later, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and he joined up to fight with all the other men in the city. Dottie was pregnant but didn’t know it yet when he left her at the train station downtown. She moved home with her mother and had the first of their four daughters while he was in Italy, fighting.

Lenny came back in one piece, thank god, as Dottie says whenever she tells their story. He took a job as a janitor at the med school and they bought the house that they raised their family in and that Dottie still lives in today. Their house was the fun house in our family. They had the best barbeques, the best tooth cracking cold beer, and the best homemade pies. When Lenny retired from his job forty years later, he was the head engineer at the school and the only human who could coax the furnace to behave on bitter cold winter days.

I just knew him as my favorite Uncle Lenny. He smoked incessantly and bought Aunt Dottie such risqué Christmas and birthday gifts that she refused to open them in public.

Aunt Dottie worked at an ice cream parlor for their entire marriage. Uncle Lenny swore that they’d never divorce because she never failed to bring him home a carton of black walnut ice cream every Friday night. He swore that this alone was enough to keep them together forever.

Uncle Lenny was a butt pincher and a smacky neck smoocher with Aunt Dottie. She spent lots of time swatting at him with kitchen towels and telling him to go jump in the lake and leave her be already.

“Oh, woman, you know you love my sweet kisses,” he’d croon at her and dance her around the kitchen, dipping her expertly in a doorway.

Now, he sits alone in his room and holds my hand. He shares a room with a man who doesn’t speak; his face remains motionless all day long. It smells faintly of urine in this room. His closet is full of jumbo boxes of pull up diapers.

He talks randomly about churches he likes, how the gravy at dinner gave him a bellyache. He points to a photo in a dark walnut picture frame. It is a photo of him and Aunt Dottie, their arms wrapped around each other, standing in front of their 50th wedding anniversary cake. Candles flicker across their faces. In the photo, he is not looking at the camera but smiling adoringly at his wife.

“That’s my sister,” he tells me, bobbing his head up and down.

I tell him, no, that that is his wife, his Dottie bird. Doesn’t he remember that this is what he used to call her?

No, he says firmly, frowning at me. He’s never married, been a bachelor his whole life. He mugs flirtatiously at me and I fight the urge to stand up. Before I can think of a proper answer, he reaches over and hands me my coat.

“You go first and I’ll follow you,” he tells me. “Just go up that hill and then turn left. It’s time we went home, Mama.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I gently stroke his arm until he calms like a kitten under my fingers, his eyes drooping as he succumbs to his urge to sleep.

I look down absently at his arm, the same arm that I used to swing on during our big family vacations to the cabin in Minnesota. His head lolls back and he is deeply asleep, his mouth wide open, his whole face slack. I settle a blanket around him and sneak out of his room.

I meet Aunt Dottie in the elevator going down to my car as she is coming up. “How’s my feller doin’ today?” she asks me after planting a big wet kiss right on my lips. I tell her that he’s fine, resting comfortably. She thanks me for visiting him so often and we hug goodbye. She squares her shoulders, pastes a smile on her bright red lipsticky lips and heads off to find him. I go out to my car and get in, smiling as I look in the rear view mirror at my lips, which are now as red as hers. When I was little, I used to beg her to give me a kiss so that I could share her lipstick.

I sit for a long time in the car before starting the engine, my head against the steering wheel. And then I turn the key and head home. Without Uncle Lenny.

Uncle Lenny doesn’t live here anymore originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 12, 2010.

For a couple of reasons, I tend to write quite a bit about both feminism and LGBT rights. One, as a woman and a lesbian, both movements have been incredibly important in helping me put words to my lived experiences in a patriarchal, heterosexist society.

Adam & Steve

Two, I see feminism and LGBT advocacy, neither of which is a monolithic movement of course, as linked. Much of the homophobia directed at gay and bisexual men is based in the stereotype that gay and bi men are effeminate and, of course, many consider effeminacy to be a status downgrade from masculinity, which is the superior gender identity.

Much of the homophobia directed at lesbians, bisexual women, and transgender folks involves similar gender policing. To be a woman, for instance, is “supposed” to mean certain things, one of the most important- according to some- is wife to a man and mother to his children. Lesbian and bisexual women upset this gender expectation and effectively demonstrate that multiple ways of being a real woman exist. And, while feminism- especially radical feminism- has a complicated history with transgenderism, feminism for me means supporting a person’s right and choice to present as whatever gender one wishes.

Because of these intersections, I would like to see greater cooperation between feminists and the male-dominated LGBT movement. By framing some LGBT issues as the feminist issues they also are, there lies the potential of reaching more sympathetic people. Women are, after all, half of the human population. And, I suspect that at least half of the human population might take issue with the prisons some of the “marriage defenders” are peddling in their defense of the sacred institution.

Indeed, at the very top of one of the National Organization for [Heterosexual] Marriage’s documents “that lays out the social scientific reasons why marriage between one man and one woman is best for children and society” is the Genesis 2:18 quotation wherein god granted man, the first and default human being, his female “help mate.”

Although I’d wager most Americans no longer hold such an archaic view of gender relations and proper roles within marriage, that the debate over same-sex marriage is framed as a gay rights issue obfuscates how the battle for same-sex marriage is also a significant gender rights issue. The idea that marriage requires one man and one woman is grounded in the biblical myth that males and females are “complementary” to one another. That is, what one gender lacks, the other fulfills and, together, the two become one whole in marriage.

It’s all quite magical really. Yet, a tremendous amount of implications- implications that “marriage defenders” understandably rarely articulate these days- follow from the belief that men and women have a complementary relationship to one another. For instance, if one gender is inherently strong, the other is weak. If one gender is inherently dominant, the other is submissive. If one gender is active, the other is passive. I bet you can guess which gender, theoretically, fulfills each role here.

While some believe these gender roles to be commonsensically inherent to all people, many feminists, LGBT people, and other gender outlaws know that reality is much more nuanced than the cartoon characters that “marriage defenders” turn men and women into. By using feminism to advance LGBT rights, the ridiculousness of the “marriage defense” position just might be revealed.

At the intersection of feminism and LGBT advocacy originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 11, 2010.

Being a certain kind of girl  (no not that kind), I realize that I’m treated like a wandering and confused straight girl at even the gayest of events. A gaggle of butches try to help me: “Ma’am, are you lost? Do you know where your fag is?”

The only recourse is to throw the cutest one up against the wall and show them how it’s done. Of course, by “it” I mean a Taekwondo takedown. I show them where their kata is. What did you think I meant? We already covered that I’m not that kind of girl. Keep up.

See my issue, Lover Pants, isn’t the term “femme invisibility.” It’s the fact that we queers have a visual “Is she or isn’t she?” inspection that rivals the U.S Army. Without the haircut, no one knows you’re a soldier. And Sweetcheeks, I tried the haircut. I looked like a quasi-butch reject from Miami Vice. I just couldn’t stay away from pastels. Don’t judge me.

What we need, my little tattletale, is a kick in the gaydar. Just because I wear a dress and more make-up than Hedda Lettuce doesn’t mean I can’t throw you around and make you call me Daddy. I have references. The question becomes: “Is she looking you up and down because she likes your shoes, or is she checking your credit to make sure you can afford her goods?”

Now, my dykeness, the inclination is to assume if she’s in a gay bar or at a gay event then she’s probably, at the least, looking to expand her horizons – or at the best, she’s about to expand yours. I’ve had many people say that they don’t want to approach the devastatingly beautiful siren (DBS) in the corner because they don’t want to offend. Well, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, I always say. Plus, your DBS probably spent an hour to look like that and her feet are killing her. If you don’t approach her, she’s going to try the haircut. You don’t want that kind of guilt on your conscious.

But you say, “I don’t go to gay bars, Momma, I’m a Buddhist monk.” Well, even if you are trying to let your DBS know that she’s the love of your life at an AA meeting, or a bookstore, if you’re into that sort of thing; there are certain clues you can look for to reduce the chances of a restraining order.

We queers are like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike. Well, unless they are on the same softball team, but let’s not muddy the waters. But just as all snowflakes are white when they fall, there are things that we do carry in common. The ability to mate for life on the second date, you say? Well yes, that is a commonality. Now stop interrupting Twinkletoes.

When looking for your very own DBS, I suggest you begin at the skin. No don’t touch her without permission, although I do admire your go-get-her attitude.  Does she have any tell-tale signs; a rainbow flag pin, a pink triangle patch, a tattoo that says “I (heart) sex with femaled bodied people, and sometimes male bodied people if they identify as female’? That last one was a little long perhaps, but you get the point.

For example, Yours Truly has two women signs joined on her upper arm to let people know what team I’m batting for. Who could have foreseen in the early 90’s that my sex life was going to get so convoluted that my pickup line was to become “What pronoun do you prefer, Kumquat?” Now, I just keep it as a Queer Warning Signal. Thank God I didn’t get something horrifying, like a labrys or an homage to Melissa Etheridge.

If she’s missing the oh-so-subtle clues that a carving of Sappho on her forehead would provide, you could do something revolutionary by not assuming and simply talk to her. Even if she’s as straight as Donna Reed (although the validity of that theory is contested), she may appreciate the company. If she drops no hint as to her libidinous tendencies, take the plunge and ask. If she’s offended, then good. She needs the gay in her life. You may make her think, and there could be a toaster oven in it for you. Who doesn’t like door prizes?

So, my little perishable, please take a chance that the girl in the high-heels and eyeliner is queer. Even at the grocery store. She’s not only being friendly, she’s checking out your produce.

How to get laid by a girl in high heels originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 10, 2010.

In my car I keep a roadside emergency kit, first aid kit, and 7-day survival pack for my dogs and me. (I should have been a Girl Scout but the sash would have over accentuated my “extra-medium” waistline.) I try to be prepared to the point that I also carry at least 1/2 dozen roadside flares. They have come in handy several times.

In the past few weeks I have had to use them twice as I happened upon people who were in need. As I came upon the accident, I saw two co-workers standing near one of the cars on the shoulder of the freeway on ramp and a second car down the embankment about 30 feet away. I stopped to help; thankfully everyone seemed shaken but okay. My co-workers were not part of the accident but saw what happened. Concerned for their safety on that curved road, I laid three lit flares several yards from the accident so oncoming traffic would be alerted as they rounded the bend. A third co-worker in her truck (yes, she is “family” too) pulled over to see if she could offer aid. Eventually, emergency services arrived and I left. The next day the two co-workers who saw the accident thanked me separately and said that I and the other “sister” were the only two people who stopped to help. As both my co-workers are devout Christians who were not silent about their efforts to pass Prop 8, I politely responded to them, “Isn’t it interesting that the only two people who offered to help were gay. I am hoping the next time there is a vote to take my rights away you will remember that.”

The second accident involved a disabled truck on a city street less than a half block from the freeway off-ramp. The setting sun made it difficult to see the man at the back of his truck waving his arms trying to direct drivers around his vehicle. Once again I found myself pulling over, digging out three roadside flares and placing them several yards behind the car. As I walked back to the truck I noticed a “Yes on 8” bumper sticker on his truck. He was genuinely thankful as he told me the tow truck said they would arrive in about 15 minutes. He said he wanted to pay me for the flares and I told him it was not necessary. I mustered up enough courage, looked him in the eye and said if he really wanted to repay me the next time he had to vote for another Prop 8 he would think of the lesbian who helped him. It was at that time he noticed my HRC hat with equality logo. I told him to be safe and drove away.

That weekend I went to my local automotive chain for flare replenishment. Standing at the stockroom counter, I asked the attendant for six 20-minute roadside flares. The man at the counter could not fathom what a woman would want with such an item. He actually asked me what I wanted them for.

I was so tempted to say I was making an elaborate cake and the flares would give me the over-the-top effect I was going for.

When we are finally given all our rights, perhaps I will make that cake, flares and all.

Always Call Family in an Emergency originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 9, 2010.

So, what’s with the hair?

The simple query posed with a bit of a smirk from a former co-worker who knew me way back when, whom I haven’t seen in several years, called for a simple response. But this is hair and hair is not simple. Hair is a pile of kinky twists steeped in tradition, political, and cultural mores. Hair is about weekly trips to The Beauty Shop or hours spent pressing or curling unless you are blessed with good hair. Hair is about the constant argument as to what is pretty and more importantly, acceptable. Hair is about identity. Hair is big. And way back when, I had big hair with the big, complicated, twisty acceptance issues to match.

Though I had a full bounty of soft, relatively straight and manageable hair, the so called, good hair and was constantly reminded of the blessedness of such a state, I didn’t feel blessed. I felt burdened. From very early on my hair generated much attention. There was the weekly washing and drying combined with the daily combing, brushing, oiling, parting, banding, and festooning with ribbons and barrettes. As the only daughter I was the sole sufferer of the arduous regime. From very early on my mom adored prettying up her little girl with all the ribbons and such. As I matured, the reliance on ribbons and barrettes to achieve a prettified look waned some, but the ardor over what constituted pretty or acceptable continued unabated. Our first mother-daughter battles over my hair began in my pre-teen years. I was of the opinion that she should and could cease her ministrations, while she begged to differ. Eventually, she did relinquish the day-to-day labor but that just paved the way for battles yet to come.

So, what’s with the hair?

Though I was given the go-ahead to dispense with the rubber-bands, ribbons, barrettes and ponytails, I was schooled in wash and set. Since I did have a grade of hair that did not require hot combs or chemical relaxers to achieve a coiffed style, my hair torture involved curlers and sometimes sitting under a dryer for hours. Saturday was hair day. There was washing, rolling, drying, removing rollers, oiling, and styling. To maintain the curl my hair had to be rolled nightly. We didn’t have the money for mom and daughter trips to the beauty shop on a weekly basis. My trips were reserved for special occasions only. Thankfully, those were few and far between, for I dreaded trips to the beauty shop. Under my own ministrations, the wash and set days were numbered. I pulled way back and experimented with a number of other styling options.

I couldn’t retire the wash and set fully, because my mom still wielded much influence and to her way of thinking, this was the only acceptable option. Still, it was the seventies and folks were saying it loud about being black and proud. Back to Africa and cultural awareness movements and empowerments gave way for the popularization of natural hair styles and natural hair care. Folks all over were seen in afros. My hair was much too soft to pull off a righteous afro, but that didn’t stop me from trying. Mom thought it was sloppy, which was probably true. She wouldn’t let me cut my hair, which would have helped I think. Of course, more to the point, she wasn’t a big fan of afros on anyone. I grew weary of working to maintain my afro as well as the constant battles with mom. I sought other styling options that would keep me out of those blasted curlers.

Enter braids, plaits, or cornrows. Mom never learned how to braid and as you might imagine, she was not a fan of braiding as an acceptable hairstyle. In her view, and she wasn’t in the minority, braids were like curlers in that you were never to be caught outside with your hair in them. I learned to braid. I learned to braid very, very well. And even after they were popularized globally by the likes of Bo Derek, braids were still cause for battles between mother and daughter. Never-the-less, I clung to the braids. I loved the look, the feel, and the relatively low maintenance aspect of braids. The elaborate styles needed tending only once a week. Eventually, the styles became less elaborate, requiring daily tending, but 5 minutes, tops, was all the time needed.

My battles over my hair continued right through to my marriage. My husband, more my mother’s generation than mine, was even less enamored of my braiding tendencies. He nagged me constantly about going to get my hair done. He voiced his disapproval each time I reverted to my around the crown French braid. He was adamant about my wearing a hairstyle befitting my age, my business environment, and my feminine status. Of course his opinions weren’t limited to my hair, but it all started up top.

To keep the peace I went along to keep along, mostly. However, now and again I’d assert my independence. A few years into our togetherness I cut my hair. A deep cut. The wrath that rained down on me over this scurrilous act was nothing compared to that I experienced over the afro or the braiding. Everyone was up in arms over the cutting of all that blessed hair. The husband’s voice bellowed over all the others, “WHY’D YOU CUT YOUR HAIR?” A simple query posed with venom and heat called for a simple response. But this was hair, a complicated pile of weaves and extensions, of hot curling and flat-irons, of blow drying madness. He wasn’t really interested in why anyway.

While I didn’t cut it often during our many years together, that choice wasn’t so much about compliance as it was about not possessing the skill set to cut it in the ways I found most attractive or the gumption to walk into a barber shop for service. Still, when I did clip it or revert to the braids, I got the looks and the barrage of berating comments. Still in the throes of denial and inching my way toward self-discovery and assurance, it hadn’t occurred to me much way back then that I was making some kind of statement. Looking back, I could see I was asserting some authority and carving out some independence. I was taking a stand for my own ideas about what was pretty and moreover, acceptable.

Our divorce wasn’t over my hair any more than it was over any other single issue. We parted ways over a myriad of complicated life issues. His departure created a certain kind of silence. In the space of that silence, reflection ensued. In the space of those reflections I wrestled with understanding the ramifications of what was becoming increasingly clear. During that space of time and relative silence I was granted the grace to uncover some truths that shattered so many epochs of my past and put so many others in proper perspective.

So, what’s with the hair?

For a few years after my divorce I tried on a few looks. Nearly three years ago I settled on the very close crop. I walked into a barber shop and after a few attempts over several trips he finally got it to where I needed it to be. I am as comfortable with this hair style as I am with any of the choices made during this journey. So, what’s with the hair? A complicated issue to be sure, steeped in tradition, mired in political and social mores; kinky or relaxed, braids or coiffed, long or short, masculine or feminine, pretty or not, in or out, it is an identity.

The long and short of it, this is who I am, period. Love or hate, praise or berate, stay or go, this is who I am.

Hair: Not the Musical originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 8, 2010.

So the latest news out of the Vatican concerns a gay prostitution ring organized by one of the pope’s elite group of ceremonial ushers. According to Reuters, “among four people arrested last month in the corruption probe was Angelo Balducci, a member of an elite group called ‘Gentlemen of His Holiness’, ushers who are called to serve in the Vatican’s Apostolic Palace on major occasions such as when the pope receives heads of state.”

I’m just going to put my pen down now, because the comedy writes itself. It’s too easy. As easy as a Vatican usher, apparently, but…. OK, seriously, I’m done.

I suppose I have a love-hate relationship with the Catholic Church. Maybe that’s a little strong, on both counts. I never really hated it that much, just didn’t agree with much of it and felt it had nothing to say to me. But I only recently realized that I might love it, just a little bit.

As far as the great big family of Christian denominations goes, the Catholic Church seems more “normal” than most family members (men wearing dresses notwithstanding), when you consider the nutty cousins, some of whom speak in tongues or forgo alcohol and Bingo. My background in the Catholic education system has led me to believe that Catholicism, more than many other faiths, has thrived within a tradition of logic and reason. St. Thomas Aquinas, after all, tried to mathematically prove the existence of God. Odd, then, how this background of rationality led me to become a born-again atheist.

I’ve been thinking a lot about religion since right before my mother passed away last month. While she was in a coma in the hospital, my older brother, a lapsed Catholic as well, read to her from her collection of prayer cards that she saved from funerals over the years. It struck me how something that meant nothing to him acquired meaning by doing it for someone else. That is, I suppose, the nature of all religions, and I don’t mean this in a sinister way, but the Catholic faith harnesses that symbolism to greater effect. Plus, our spiritual head wears ruby slippers. Could Pat Robertson pull that off?

Still, it had been a long time since I was in church. I dabbled in religion a few years ago in the middle of some trying times with one of my brothers. You might remember the United Church of Christ and their well-publicized “bouncer” ads—the ones the networks refused to air. I went to two very different UCC churches, one in a beautiful old structure that smelled of equally old money, the other in a much smaller, less ostentatious church that struck me as more vibrant. I also tried a Unitarian Church (the religion of choice for those who don’t necessarily believe in anything).

All had their merits, but in the end none resonated with me. Is it this hard for everyone, I wondered, to make that leap of faith? I do (did, anyway) want to believe in something, but could not bring myself to do so.

So I found my cynical self again in the bosom of Holy Mother Church (that one’s for you, Margo). Mom was on a respirator, and the prognosis was not good. I remembered one of her favorite priests, an assistant pastor from the parish where I grew up, and thought to find him so he could come and give her last rites. After Mom died, I didn’t think twice about picking out the readings for her funeral mass; I was even one of the lectors. The gay, atheist son thought of all those things because he was a son first, and a gay atheist after the fact. Though part of me felt like a hypocrite, another thought there was no harm in doing it, and just maybe Mom would be looking down at me—once again in the church where I received my First Communion, Confession, and Confirmation—and know her part in my spiritual journey was done.

Gays and religion mix about as well as oil and vinegar (I’ll leave it to the reader to decide which is which). And yet, we are often more in need of that spiritual connection than the typical straight person, if there is such a creature. As wounded youths and young adults, learning to accept ourselves as God made us; or living with the stigma of HIV/AIDS and wondering why me, we know what real persecution feels like. We also know the feeling of belonging that can be found in a group that embraces us.

Some churches have caught on to this. Mostly in the dwindling mainline Protestant denominations—Presbyterians, Methodists, Episcopalians, UCC—this is where the battles for acceptance within communities of faith are being waged. We also have our “separate but equal” churches, like the Metropolitan Community Church, that are mostly gay & lesbian.

I’m not saying I’ll go back to church any time soon. Nostalgia is not a good enough reason to commit to something that demands more than the most hardened BD/SM master. Still, the sense of belonging, the transcendent moments when you feel the presence of something greater than yourself, if only a collective mirage, is tantalizing, even more so than Ryan Reynolds in a towel asking if you would rub some lotion on his back. Maybe I’ll give it another try as my own time on this earth grows longer and I wonder more urgently what my life has meant. Until then, I’m still sorting out what it all means to me right now, and wondering how something that offers such comfort to so many people can inflict such anguish on so many others.

A Reading From the Book of Irony originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 7, 2010.

I came roaring into town, Heteroburbiaville a bland, but now distant memory.  I slammed on my brakes with all my might as the blinding bright colors before me shimmered in reflection off my windshield just as the stoplight turned from yellow to red.  As I idled, anxious to continue, I noticed the long row of rainbow flags waving proudly in front of each building down the boulevard, like a row of fabulous and stylish swishing and swaying sentinels just waiting for my arrival.  I gave a sigh of relief.  I’d finally returned to the Gayborhood.

As the car rolled a few miles through the ‘hood, I felt an overwhelming urge to pull up in front of a very lovely homoburbian house.  Subtle, understated, but with an immaculately maintained exterior: “Must be lesbians,” I thought.  I pulled the Gaymobile over and stepped out.  I stood watching, somehow unseen, as events unfolded around me.

A car honked and pulled into the driveway.  Slowly, the 2-car garage door opened, and I could see that the owner of the car safely tucked into the garage had once again parked too far over to fit another car.  Out came a woman, it matters not her appearance, who started the conversation with, “Boy, howdy, I thought you’d never get here.”  Trailing behind her was a little girl who, judging by her size, was in grade school.  The woman in the car jumped out and said with exasperation, “Maria, if you’d park just a little farther over, I could get in the garage.”

Like the Invisible Lesbian, I followed them into the house where they were met by Socks, their dog.  They went about their business, eating dinner, watching a movie on TV, had a brief discussion in the kitchen about garage parking, and finally all of them went to bed, except Maria.  This was the time Maria was left alone to go to her computer.  She wrote about the day’s events – about the spat she had with Bing, her partner, over finances.  About the maddening woman in her office.  About the quiet moment of understanding she and her daughter shared in the garden.

Standing over her, reading her story, I was moved by the simple eloquence.  The words flowed like silk from one sentence to the next.  They weren’t all pretty thoughts. Some were angry and annoyed. Some expressed awe at the special creature she had somehow produced who brought out those maternal instincts in ways that surprised her.  Some were tinged with sweet regret for her seeming imperfections as a partner to the woman she loves.

When I finished reading, I walked through the door back to my car, still a bit confused about my invisible day.  I realized then that reading Maria was just like my spectral visit – I was given the gift of invisibly peering into just how unmundane any life is if you look at it with true honesty, as Maria does every time she writes.

Smiling and satisfied, I fired up the Gaymobile and headed to my next stop at the other side of the rainbow in Our Big Gayborhood.  I needed to get back quick and toss the keys to Margo Moon so she can take it for a spin.

A Trip to Homoburbia to Meet Maria originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 6, 2010.

If you’re nosy like me, sometimes you meet someone at work or in a social situation where there is something unusual about them, something that you don’t know much about but would like to.  And then you want to ask a lot of personal questions to help you better understand this person.  (Ok, so maybe you just want to ask because you’re nosy, like me.  But work with me here.)

As an example, the first time I met someone with AIDS I wanted to ask things like “How do you think you got it?” and “How did you feel when you got the test results?”  Luckily I do possess just the tiniest shred of tact, and I usually refrain from probing too deeply – at least until I’ve had a chance to know the person long enough to form some sort of bond.  At which point I get comfortable enough to pull out the thumbscrews and start my own little Spanish Inquisition.

Despite my fondness for posing personal questions, I am sometimes less fond of answering them.  For instance, I am always taken a little by surprise when I become friends with a straight person and they start asking me questions about my oh-so-exotic gayness.  I don’t know why these questions would bother or even surprise me, considering how damn nosy I am about everyone else’s private information.  My discomfort may stem from the fact that my life seems normal to me — and it’s jarring to realize suddenly that someone I know finds my situation odd or difficult.

At work I end up meeting a lot of straight people who don’t know many gay people, if they know any at all.  They are usually the ones with the questions – the first one always being “When did you realize you were gay?”

I always struggle with this question because I don’t have a clear answer.  And why should I?  Sexual orientation – and I’m talking overall orientation, not just gay, straight or bi – is something that is unique to each individual, and, when you get down to it, cannot be placed neatly into a little box with a label stuck on it.  How am I supposed to know when I “realized” what I was, when the “what” is not even all that easy to define?

Occasionally I’ve heard that the suggested retort to such a question should be “Well, when did you know you were straight?”  Although I wholly appreciate the spirit of this response, being a lover of all things sarcastic, I don’t find the response entirely fitting – because when discussing growing up gay vs. growing up straight we’re comparing apples to oranges.

But just to amuse ourselves, let’s start there anyway.  When do most people realize they are straight?

Maybe they realize it from the minute they are born, when their parents, families, friends and entire communities start imprinting upon them the notion that their lives will consist of growing into adolescence, finding mates of the opposite gender, falling deeply in love with said mates, marrying them and making babies.

People who in their hearts want to follow the formula outlined above never have their orientation put into question.  There is no AHA! moment for these people, no sudden realization of what their general sexual orientation is.  They are born with their default “straight” buttons already activated and no one has to ask them when this all occurred.  The question is meaningless.

Just as the question so often posed to me seems meaningless.  Or if not meaningless, so fraught with complications and nuances that the question becomes unanswerable.  And therefore meaningless – at least to me.

If we gays of a certain generation (meaning those of us born before the early 1980s) had been given the information we needed – which is that some people are gay, some are straight, and some are somewhere in-between – we might have grown up better equipped to answer the “When did you realize you were gay?” question.  But that’s not the way it happened.

What we have instead are the generations of gay people, those of us born any time before the early 1980s, who had to negotiate the usual torture and confusion of adolescence with the added burden of having no validation or acknowledgment of who we were.

A bit much to throw at a 13-year-old kid, if you ask me.  Which is why I find the “When did you realize you were gay?” question particularly troublesome and complicated, if not downright offensive when you really start to think about it.

When did I realize I was gay?  Which of the terrifying moments of my childhood and adolescence should I pinpoint and mark as the final AHA! moment that seems so important to you?  Was it the moment my older brother started calling me “fag” before I even knew what that was?  Was it the moment I noticed Tom B. in the hallway of my junior high and was inexplicably drawn to want to be his friend?  Was it the moment I rode an elevator with my schoolmates and members of a gay men’s chorus, who upon exiting were mocked by my classmates?  (“Don’t scratch your butts anyone, you’ll get AIDS!”)  Was it the moment I thought for the first time there might be no future to my life except AIDS, discrimination and loneliness?  Or was it the moment I realized everyone in the entire world was probably going to hate me?

The short answer is, I don’t know and I don’t really give a shit.  Just leave me the fuck alone and quit asking about it as if it’s a question you could even begin to understand.  And now that I’ve thought this through, maybe I’ll think twice before launching any future Spanish Inquisitions of my own.

Love and coasters,

CP

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on March 1, 2010.

My favorite sport is shopping. I dare not go anywhere near a shopping center unless I have at least two hours to spend. I can shop for hours, thoroughly enjoying myself the whole time, and not spend a dime. Of course, it’s best when I find a gorgeous item on the clearance rack, it is 90% off, and it fits. I call that “winning the lottery.” I win the lottery quite often because I am a good shopper.

The one curiosity I have discovered is that there are articles of clothing marked “one size fits all.” What I have found is that these items really do not fit anyone well. What they say, and what the reality is are two entirely different things. I currently have three items in my closet that are one size fits all. One is a night gown that I love, not because it fits, but because it is much larger than me and is made from a heavenly blend of fabrics.

I have been doing some other kinds of shopping lately too. I was divorced last August and was thoroughly enjoying my newfound status as a single girl. But as has been my pattern, within a few months I was thinking how nice it would be to have someone who wanted to share their life with me and who wanted to be a part of mine. So I did what you are supposed to do. I went online and started shopping for a girlfriend. My user ID was transgrrl and I told the truth of who I am in neatly organized paragraphs, uploaded my most flattering photos, and I answered hundreds of profile questions. I never once hid the fact that I am a transsexual woman.

On the first site I was matched with five women, so I wrote to them all. Some didn’t respond for weeks, a couple responded right away. They were all good people, as far as I could tell. But it all seemed so backwards to me. It seemed to me you should meet first, get to know each other, and then come to a decision on whether to enter into a serious relationship. Instead we emailed back and forth, occasionally talked on the phone, and only once did I actually meet the girl. I was frustrated by the whole experience because as I browsed profiles, I found out that everyone was just like me, except not trans. They like reading, walks on the beach, romantic dinners by the fireplace, and on and on. One size seemed to fit all, but not me.

One of my girlfriends who loves going to movies and hanging out recommended I try a site she found helpful, and it was totally free. I got home late that night, but decided to check out the site, and ended up going to bed around midnight, having only setup a user ID and password. The next morning I already had a message from a woman. I was impressed! She must be a woman of discerning tastes to write me with nothing to go on except the user name transgrrl. And she lived much closer to me!

I wrote her back, and after a few thousand messages back and forth, we eventually talked on the phone. After a couple of weeks of talking on the phone for about a gazillion hours, we met in person. My girlfriends told me that once you meet in person, not matter how much you may have learned about each other, you will know right away if this is a relationship you want to pursue or not. That little tidbit made our first meeting so much more stressful! It was like it all hinged on this first face to face meeting.

We talked about possible meeting places; the coffee shop, a café, a local park, and even a winery were possibilities. I wanted her to know that I trusted her, so I invited her to come to my place for our first meeting. If she didn’t like the way I lived, at least she would know right away and could still get out of this gracefully.

The day of our meeting came and I was nervous, bordering on panic. What if she didn’t like me? I decided to talk to one of my most trusted friends who told me how stupid it is to give a stranger your home address and have her come there for the first meeting. That had never once occurred to me, but it was too late to change now. Chances were that she was already on her way over.

Dating is extra hard when you haven’t done it in so long that you haven’t kept up with the rules. But my worries were all unnecessary. We connected right away, chatting like old friends and feeling like we had always known each other. It was the best first date that either of us had ever had.

And I’m sure that what we did would not necessarily be the best for everyone reading this because one size rarely fits anyone. But for me, it was a perfect fit. Definitely a perfect fit.

A Perfect Fit originally appeared on A World of Progress TeamZine on February 28, 2010.