Avenue Q

Avenue Q at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts, January 16, 2010 ****

My whole family went to see this performance together. Our section of the audience ranged in age from 72 (my mom) to 24 (my youngest nephew Zach) with cultural tastes as divergent as Sinatra and Sigur Rós. Everyone got something out of the show, though unfortunately the acoustics and sound weren't great, so mom had trouble hearing it.

It's always something of a thrill to partake in a cultural production that captures some kind of essence of what I consider to be "my sensibilities." Having been born in a particular time and place, 1972 in the United States, I straddle the fence between Gen X and Gen Y, not old enough to remember the Vietnam War, but a student marcher against George Bush, Sr.'s invasion of Iraq. Old enough to have written real, paper letters to my friends through high school and college, but also an avid blogger, chatter, texter.



Avenue Q gave me the same sense of, "Yes, that's it, exactly!" as did Douglas Coupland's Generation X, Richard Linklater's Slacker, Roche Troche's Go Fish. These works made me bask in recognition, "This is me, these are my friends, this is my specific experience!" Avenue Q, with its broken fourth wall (floor?) puppeteering, takes on issues both timely and timeless (racism, queerness, internet porn, being unemployed with a humanities degree, finding life's purpose). It eagerly inhabits stereotypes while smashing them at the same time. My only critique is that the major narrative thread (boy meets girl, boy and girl fuck, boy hurts girl, boy tentatively wins girl back), a structure that may hold all the outrageous action in place, is still maddeningly conventional for such an iconoclastic production.

Super Bowl 2010 Commercial Wrap-Up

This year the theme of the Super Bowl commercial spots seemed to be: "Men need to reinscribe our dudeliness because women are threatening our masculinity."

Example 1: A Dodge Charger commercial in which a blank-expressioned (almost lifeless) man lists off the ways in which he compromises himself (presumably for his woman), i.e. "I will take off my socks before bed, I will clean the sink after I shave, I will listen to your opinions of my friends, I will listen to your friends' opinions of my friends, I will put the seat down," etc. as long as this allows him to (animated, forceful language) "drive the car I want to drive!"

Example 2: A FloTV commercial tag line: "Change out of that skirt, Jason" after suggesting that his girlfriend has "removed his spine" !!

Example 3: In the Dockers commercial, a huge group of men are wandering around in their underwear proclaiming, in unison, "I wear no pants!" Then the ad copy and announcer command men to "Wear the pants" again. This was a very tame version of the revolting print ad component of this campaign, which implores men to "step away from the salad bars" and from their lattés, blaming our "genderless society" for the broken state of our civilization. (Click the ad for a larger image.)

The most politically incindiary of the bunch, of course, was the much-publicized spot from the right-wing Christian advocacy group Focus on the Family featuring NFL player Tim Tebow and his mother sweetly recounting the difficulty she had in pregnancy and the "miracle" of his birth, insideously reinforcing the organization's anti-choice stance.




Unfortunately, Planned Parenthood's response to the Tebow ad wasn't funded enough to air during the big game, but it's nicely done, and you can check it out right here, all you miracle children!



What alarms me most about the Tebow ad, and also about the counter ad by Planned Parenthood, is that the word "abortion" is never mentioned. It reminds me of the confusingly tame ads against Prop 8 that didn't discuss the concept of "gay marriage" or "same-sex marriage," only referred vaguely to "equality." The American public needs to be challenged to talk honestly about issues. We don't need to be fucking spoon-fed euphemistic pablum. This is the same sort of short-sighted politicking that allows the "debate" about health care to be hijacked by people who liken a nationalized health plan to Nazism.

PS - I hope Tim Tebow comes out.

Where's Che?

For a good couple years now, Astrid, DJ, and I have been playing a game called "Punch Che," in which we get to hit each other in the arm whenever we come across someone wearing the iconic image of Che Guevara. It's basically like "Slug Bug" 'cept the entire point is mocking people for buying into the unintentionally ironic marketing frenzy around one of history's most notorious leftist revolutionaries. I'm not a Che-hater, though being a pacifist, it's hard to get me behind the tactics of guerilla warfare (okay, a punching game doesn't count as violent; we're all consenting to being slugged.) It's not a criticism of Che, it's a game making fun of the absurdity of all the lily-white hippy kids who have no fucking idea what Che did or what he stood for wearing his image. Extra points for Che-wearing white kids with dreadlocks.

OK, so, on Sunday, during the insanity of Pride on Market Street right outside the posh Zuni Café, where Astrid, Giddy Girl, and I stopped for a very bougie bloody mary, and after running into my high school English teacher, who is a dyke, no less, at the bar, I spotted someone in a run of the mill Che t-shirt, and got to punch Astrid.

Then not five minutes later, another dude walks by with a Che t-shirt, this time the Argentine agitator emblazoned, tattoo-style, on the bicep of the equally recognizable popculture icon Homer Simpson. My brain broke, and I burst out in uncontrolled, tearful laughter at the sight of it. I'm sure many of you have seen Che's image mashed up with Homer before, but I guess I'd been under a rock. The brilliance of that many layers of irony packed together into a gimmicky t-shirt was just overwhelming to me.

Red Turns to Green, Eventually (or) The Map of Bree's Kooky Sex Life, Part One (of Four)

Recently, two events in the Facebook universe have inspired me to do some navel-gazing (even more than the usual level, if it can be imagined) about my relationship to relationshipping. The first was the unexpected communication from Bianca, which you read about in a recent entry. The second was the mistake (or maybe it was a fruitful misstep) of accepting my aunt Rhoda's friend invitation, knowing she was going to make some sort of intrusive comment about my open relationship status on my profile. As predicted, the very first message I get from her on Facebook (thank god she didn't post it on my wall!) is simply:

Title of message: "O.R., hmmm..."
Body of message: "Dangerous territory."

When I responded with a quip that being in an open relationship is better than relationship stagnation, she didn't register the joke (pointing not so subtlety in her direction) and proceeded to claim vast knowledge on this issue from "personal experience" and to grill me about whether Astrid and I are in therapy.

Now, I know that Rhoda is just concerned about me, and granted, she's doing it in a hip, been-there-done-that kinda bohemian artiste way, and not in a prunesy old spinster aunt haven't-had-nothin'-near-my-twat-since-the-Ford-administration way, but the message couldn't be clearer: you don't know what you're doing, and this is wrong.

* * *

This frustrating exchange with Rhoda paired with the more positive (but still quite emotionally provoking) communication I had with Bianca conjured up a lot of rumination for me about my relationship history, and just how far back polyamory goes in my life. While it may be new information to Aunt Rhoda, I've been in some form of nonmonogamous situation in all my significant relationships since the first time I kissed Scarlett back in 1991, when I was all of 19 years old. Of course, I cannot boast the cleanest, most conscientious record devoid of any moral ambiguity or outright impropriety for these last eighteen years; nevertheless, on contemplating this history—and geekily applying it to eleven color-coded charts—I realize that the improprieties began to melt away with the years of experience. I don't have it all figured out by any means, but I (now, at least) know how to be honest with my partners and my lovers, and honor my own desire for more loving connections (or just playfully sexy ones) in my life.

So, over the course of several entries, I'll be guiding you through the sometimes naïve, often messy, and always amusing history of my poly love life, as seen in two-dimensional line-drawn splendor!





* * *


1991. Top row: Me, Scarlett, her husband Norbert; bottom row: Scarlett's other lover D., and his girlfriend R. Drama factor (scale of 1 to 10) 6.5. Notes: As far as I knew, Norbert was vaguely aware that Scarlett had other lovers, but it wasn't go-go-go polyamory. Meanwhile, D., Scarlett's other lover, happened to be my boss at the hippy-dippy café where I worked, and his short-term girlfriend during this hot mess was Scarlett's lifelong best friend. High point: Scarlett literally made my knees weak. Low point: bless her, but she was such a tease.

1992. Top row: Me, Iris; bottom row: a one-night stand crush of mine named Ria, and the multitude of her minions. Drama factor: 2. Notes: Iris and I were each other's first official girlfriends, and this first incarnation of our romantic relationship lasted all of two months. While Iris was away for the holidays, I slept with Ria, who was Mrs. C's housemate. I had somehow thought this was okay with Iris, on account of having discussed nonmonogamy with her, but years later, I found out talking about the issue abstractly did not constitute consent in her eyes. Go figure! Thankfully, our relationship as friends survived the indiscretion. High point: Ria was just plain hot. Low point: This might be the only time I've really "cheated" on someone.

Jump to Part Two
Jump to Part Three
Jump to Part Four

The 12 Poly Days of Christmas

I came across this video several months ago, and pledged to myself to spread it around this holiday season. It's adorable. If you don't catch all the lyrics, they are located here. My favorite verse is Seven. If anyone finds a poly song to the tune of Dreidel let me know! :)



Lots of love and snogs to you this holiday season!

xo
Bree

Vintage Bree: Nagel and Me

My fascination with the gaudy and über-'80s lithographs of Patrick Nagel started in about 1990 when I was known to frequent, frequently, a now-bygone coffee house in San Jose called The Phoenix. I've wanted to write about the Phoenix for years, and I may yet get around to an installment of Vintage Bree about the history of cafés-past in my life, but the thing that is germane to this story is that the upstairs of the Phoenix was lined with dozens of framed Nagel prints. The aesthetic of the café was generally more palatable than that, with minimal décor and ample seating, but for some reason, the upstairs was crowded with Nagels. This prompted B. and I to write a song about them called "Women on the Walls," in which we extolled the eerie omnipresence of Nagel's women in the café and imagined the highly dramatic stories of their lives. The song, earnest only in its minor chords, a total product of our collective early-twenties angst, became a camp classic among our friends for many years. It even utilized Berkeleyan principles (ripped naïvely from the Western philosophy class I was taking at the junior college at the time) in a refrain presenting the Women and then flippantly erasing them from consciousness with the bat of a heavily mascara'd eye. While the song remained a party trick for a number of years, it faded into obscurity just like other songs I'd written with friends from that era, many penned at the Phoenix, until B. and I had a rare opportunity to showcase it in public.

It was November of 1997, and Mag & Ana had organized Nagel Night at Trannyshack, the local irreverent underground drag club. The ode included many fabulous performers lip-synching to Eighties songs, arty send-ups of Nagel's portraits, and even a (very tasteful!) dramatic reenactment (lovingly rendered by our friend Dingo Chan) of Patrick Nagel's tragically ironic death scene (he had died in 1984 of a heart attack after doing 15 minutes of cardiovascular exercise in a charity event for the American Heart Association). Take a moment to absorb that last sentence, please.

B. and I, not in drag, nor Eighties pancake makeup, nor lip-synching, were a bit oddball in this clamour of oddness. It was the two of us on stage, with my acoustic guitar, singing this sort of hippy dirge in our very untrained voices. And now, at long last, for the first time ever at Toothpick Labeling, I present to you the original song, newly recorded in crystal clear digital!



It was quite a happening. But, dear readers, there is so much more to the story, if it can be believed! The very next day, a foggy November day it was, found me canvassing (I worked for the Peace Organization back then) in a modest neighborhood in Pacific Grove, a quaint seaside town just south of Monterey. It was my charge to find new supporters and renew the members of the Org that lived in the neighborhood. I was excited to speak with a gentleman that evening who had given $100 to the canvasser last year, and knocked fervidly at the door of his tiny bungalow apartment. The man of the house answered the door, a pale, gaunt, bespectacled guy, pleasant to talk to. As we discussed the current campaigns of the Organization from his doorway, I caught glimpses of the tiny apartment in the background. Every surface in the place was piled with papers and used dishes and scattered pieces of electronic equipment and half empty bottles of Zima and I'm sure lots of other stuff I can't remember or even fabricate for you now. The one thing that I remember with absolute clarity was perched on the coffee table among all this clutter: a white ceramic Nagel coffee mug.

I said, "Is that a Nagel coffee mug?" He replied with interest that it was, and asked me about my knowledge of Nagel. Right away I could tell that I had to keep my snooty "so bad it's good" attitude about Nagel in check. He regaled me with stories of his avid collecting and his admiration for the artwork of this master lithographer. I relayed to him the story of "Women On The Walls," and my experience of performing it in San Francisco the night before, and he was enthralled. Then, he showed me his Pride and Joy. Rolling up his shirt sleeve, he revealed one of Nagel's Women tattooed on his left bicep.

Full of awe at the synchronicity of the cosmos, I renewed his membership at $250.00 and walked off into the Monterey mist.

Today is Patrick Nagel's birthday. He would have been 63.

___________________________
Women On The Walls ©1990/2008 astrobarry & bree (with many thanks to Cisco for his engineering prowess and to B. for being there. For all of it.)

I love my straight friends.

I have to plug my pal James' recent column at SFgate, Rocchi's Retro Rental. Not only is the review about one of my very favorite films, Todd Haynes' gorgeous and gripping Far From Heaven, it's also a poignant, deeply heartfelt response to the appalling passage of Prop 8. I guess I've outed James as straight here, but he's also bravely outed himself in his column as an atheist and a lover of justice.

Thank you James.
xo
Bree

Sorrow Trumps Elation

It's weirdly alienating to be a queer progressive in California today. I want to be happy about Obama's victory, about the American electorate sending a clear mandate to separate ourselves from the last eight years of endless and causeless warfare and the stripping away of civil rights and human needs programs that has gone along with it. And while I voted not for Obama, but for Green candidate Cynthia McKinney from my safe 24% margin state of California, I was still thrilled that Obama trounced McCain, and that the Democrats, for whom I harbor quite a lot of criticism, swept into an easy majority in the House and Senate.

But my momentary (if ambivalent) euphoria quickly dissolved into grief as I watched the returns come in from my Golden State and began to grapple with the passage of Proposition 8.

Over 5 million of my fellow Californians just told me that my relationship isn't as valid as theirs. That I am a second-class citizen. Even for a person like me, an out queer woman who is loved and supported by her family, who is proud to be part of the vital, brilliant LGBT subculture, who feels secure with herself and her sexuality, even for me, I feel shame. What is perhaps most profound for me as I try to understand my own reaction to this vote is that, even as someone who is critical of marriage as an institution, who has no interest in getting married, the passage of Prop 8 feels incredibly personal: I am wrong, my love is wrong, I am less than. And if this is impacting me so strongly, how is this decision affecting LBGT folks out there who already live with the daily fears and shame of being in the closet, of feeling unsafe in their communities, who have been turned out by their families? To illustrate this indignity further, while Californians voted to take my civil rights away on Tuesday, they handily expanded the rights of chickens. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for the chickens, I really am.

But I'm feeling on the outside of things: outside as a queer mourning the loss of my civil rights. Robbed of my excitement about the changing of the guard in the White House and in Congress. I'm sorry I can't join everyone out there in your joy and celebration about Obama. The bitter is winning out over the sweet.

Good Eats

Been eating pretty healthy the last couple weeks. Lots of veggies, no fried food ('cept tortilla chips, which are mandatory when eating at a taqueria!) and the most important thing: I've been stopping when satisfied instead of busting my gut. If I can just get this one thing down and stick to it: I never have to overeat. Just because food is there doesn't mean I've gotta eat it. It's like listening to really bad lesbian folk music: just because they're dykes doesn't mean I need to support 'em. It's a nasty habit, indeed. So, I dunno how I got up to 224 - maybe it was water weight - but I'm back at 220. Already my pants feel less constricting.

Preach Beyond the Choir: NO on Prop 8

The following is an email I sent to a conservative person in my life who is very dear to me. Please consider writing your own message, or cutting and pasting this message into an email and sharing it with your conservative or religious friends, family, and colleagues--especially those you think might vote in favor of Prop 8. We need the message to reach beyond the converted.

Hi ____________,

The reason I'm emailing you is because I want us to have a conversation about marriage rights for same-gender couples. As you probably know, the California Supreme Court recently made same-gender marriage legal. But now, there is a State Constitutional amendment on the ballot called Proposition 8, which will write into the California Constitution that marriage can only be for a man and a woman. If it passes, it will permanently ban marriage rights for same-gender couples. Most people I know are already committed to voting NO on Prop 8 to protect marriage equality. But I suspect that many people you know will be voting for the proposition.

I'm asking you a favor: will you watch the video below and consider voting NO on Prop 8? And will you pass this message along to your friends and family so that they can hear a humane message from the "other side" as well? The video is a message on same-gender marriage from clergy and faith leaders. I just watched it this evening, and it was so powerful, it made me cry!



A link to the video is here:
http://noonprop8.com/multimedia/video?id=0001

You don't have to tell me how you're voting - I respect your privacy. But I can't in good conscience not make an effort to reach people beyond the little bubble of San Francisco I live in.

Okay, that's enough for now. I really appreciate you taking the time to read this message and watch the video. Please let me know what you think and if you have any questions. I like talking with you! And above all, please know that I love you and respect your decision to vote however you like.

Wishing you the best,

--Bree

The Germans!

Four lovely German dykes are staying with the us this week - a friend and former make-outy person of Astrid's, L., and her three traveling pals. We had a grand night out on the town with them last night which consisted of Indian food at Pakwan and much alcohol at the local dyke watering hole. Then I walked back to the apartment with some of the ladies and Astrid and L. continued to catch up at the bar, and it seems that L. is quickly becoming a current make-outy pal of Astrid's, too! This is really hot and fun for me to hear about and I'm definitely experiencing some nice compersion, picturing Astrid and L. getting down and wondering about how the group dynamics around it will unfold during the week.

Today, the girls are off exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, and Astrid and I are lunching and taking a bike ride. And then later, we'll all convene to watch Astrid perform some smutty poetry at her very first public literary reading! Yay sex! Yay creativity! Yay Germans!

Where Fat Meets Butch

I've always hated shopping for clothes. Even now that I really enjoy dressing up and looking all hot and shit, finding clothes that fit me, particularly button-down shirts, the staple for all my biz casual and dressy wardrobe needs, is elusive and irksome. The experience of finding a great shirt at a vintage store, a western style collar shirt, in worn cotton with mother-of-pearl buttons, say, is more often than not completely demoralizing, as I slide into the sleeves, noticing that the fit of the shoulders and collar and tits are perfect, but the lower two buttons, the ones situated over my distended belly, will not, no matter how I strain, fasten or stay closed. This happens over and over and over again.

My hatred of shopping is perhaps more deeply rooted in my gender nonconformity than it is in my fatness. When my mom and I went to the department store together, I loathed every moment of getting into the changing room with her to try on blouses and dresses and cute little girly shorts with matching flowery tank tops. "Butch" is a shorthand, and not a label I strongly identify with, but it gives you an idea. I've always been a tomboy, ever since before I can remember. I rode bikes on the creek path, played with Star Wars action figures, dug in the dirt, eschewed Barbie and make up and all things pink and purple. My favorite article of clothing when I was a kid was my precious Zoom shirt. A handsomely androgynous striped rugby, I wore it practically every day of my fourth and fifth years. At right, I am receiving the Zoom shirt on my fourth birthday. The eyes in the photo say it all: "I can't wait to get outta this cutsie sundress and into that shirt!"

My mom had a theory about why I didn't like to wear pretty clothes, which she didn't hesitate to share with me during my adolescence. She said she thought I would like wearing dresses if I lost weight. I told her to shove it, but politely. The theory doesn't wash, considering I was a tomboy before I became fat, but it fits nicely into my mom's ideas about my sexuality, and into her self-hating narrative about her own fatness. So much precious life could be lived if fat women could love their bodies instead of being eaten alive by self-hatred.

But being fat certainly contributes to my dread about shopping, my anger that "plus-sized" clothing for women is usually feminine, and often so fucking ugly besides. And the problem with shopping in the men's department is that the cuts are not tailored for womanly curves, not to mention the big ol' belly. There is a fucking gold mine awaiting the clothing designer who will create an inexpensive butch clothing line, with ample size options, and there are rumblings about this online, but scarce proof of anything out there yet. The cutest plus-sized clothes I've seen online are from Torrid, but the products are still overwhelmingly girlie. I have no problem shopping in the men's department, and feel pretty safe and unharassed about it since I live in the Bay Area. But the belly conspires to keep me wearing stretchy polyester for the long haul.

Lisa Lisa, Redux

My dear friend, astro-b, left a comment on the previous blog entry regarding the song Head to Toe, by Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. I thought the comment deserved some particular attention, so I find myself now writing not one but two entries on the subject. He writes:

I'm impressed you know who Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam are. Perhaps the last time you heard them all those years ago was in my car...?

B. actually caught me in an illusion of "finished product," as I didn't immediately remember that the song was Lisa Lisa's, and so fetched the info online in writing the blog entry. I vividly remembered the song and, for brevity's sake, left out the part of the story which involved my reverie about who it was performed by.

As I listened to the boom box, I thought that the voice was Madonna-esque, but knew it wasn't Madge, and wondered whether it was someone like Samantha Fox or, shit, I dunno, Paula Abdul. B's surprise that I could've pulled Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam out of my ass was right on the mark, as he's known me since the '80s (in fact, since June of 1987, which makes our 21st anniversary as friends coincide with the chart-topping anniversary of Head to Toe!) and is quite familiar with this particular blind spot in my popcultural knowledge: I often can't distinguish one '80s pop songstress or girl group from another, with some exceptions, based on areas of personal interest. As an example, I still can't differentiate Bananarama from the Bangles, even though I know they sound totally different.

I never remember which one did Hazy Shade of Winter, which one did Walk Like an Egyptian, and which one did Cruel Summer (Bangles, Bangles, and Bananarama, I'm told by the magical internets. And now that I'm hearing the difference, I will admit I much prefer the Bangles.)
I'm also utterly lost trying to pick out Debbie Gibson from Kylie Minogue from Taylor Dane and so on. To B., this has always been blasphemous, because he has been obsessed with the pop divas since well before he started sucking cock. I think there must be some sort of gender component here between the fag-to-be and dyke-to-be sets, 'cause while B. was car-dancing to the chick singers of the '80s, I was scandalized by how girly they were, and opted to listen mainly to classic rock dude bands at that time in my life.

But let's get back to Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. During the '80s, while I couldn't have told you what songs were theirs, I was certainly aware of LL & CJ. But in an amalgam of my ignorance of both pop divas and hip hop, I always thought that LL & CJ had something to do with LL Cool J, given their initials lined up so nicely. I also remember thinking at the time that Lisa Lisa was the same Lisa of Wendy and Lisa, Prince's sexpot sidekicks, which, again owing to the wonder of the world wide web, I now know to be patently false.

So, yes, all this was swimming in my head yesterday at 4:30am, while I was trying to determine who sang Head to Toe and why it should serve as my personal alarm clock. I guess it was just another manic Wednesday.

Mawwage, Part Two

Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin became the first legally married lesbian couple in San Francisco just about an hour ago. Huzzah! Not only have they been some of the most important activists for LGBT rights in history, these broads have been together for 56 years! Can you imagine being a lesbian in the '50s, with that most complete cultural denial and repression aiming to destroy you and deny your existence, and at the same time, sustaining a relationship for over fifty years? Unbelievable.

Mazel tov to Del and Phyllis!

This is also good: the first gay couple to legally marry in Santa Clara County was
David and Rich Speakman of San Jose.

"The couple is using President Bush's economic stimulus check to pay for their wedding."

"'It paid for everything,' David Speakman said, 'so we should probably send him a thank you note.'"

(quoted from the Merc.)

LMAO!

"Mawwage is what bwings us together today...."

Same-gender marriage is legal in California! (for the moment.)

I don't have a specific desire to get hitched; nevertheless, the news made me well up with tears this morning. Read the SF Chronicle article for more details. Essentially, the state Supreme Court overturned Prop 22, a limitation on marriage passed by voters in 2000. The majority opinion today ruled that denying same-gender partners the right to marry and form a family with the same rights and responsibilities as male-female partners is unconstitutional. It's about fucking time.

The bad news, however, is that there will be an initiative on the California ballot in November attempting to change the state constitution to ban same-gender marriage for good. Take a look at the CitizenLink page, a right-wing political organization's take on the signature drive to qualify for the ballot and "represent God's will" on marriage.

People need to turn out to vote this bullshit down. Hopefully, since the stakes are so high in the Presidential election, progressives and friends and family of LGBT folks will turn out in large numbers to put down this hateful initiative. But there will be more battles to come, no doubt.

What It's About

(The first Ambivalent Fat Girl entry.)

By way of introduction, I am a fat dyke in my mid-30s, living a beautiful life in San Francisco. I'm shacked up with a really swell lady and I'm currently a grad student in clinical psychology. My academic and professional interests swim around such issues as death, sitting with the unknown, existential anxiety, body image issues, fatness, fat positivity, health and well-being, sexuality, queer/GLB identity, gender variance, genderqueer and transgender identity issues, spirituality, finding meaning in life, and yadda yadda. For fun, I like listening to music (mostly of the post-punk, folkie, political, artsy, nerdy-emo indie variety) riding my bike, lazing about, blogging, being social, drinking gorgeous cocktails, and more often than not, eating lots of yummy food.



I've been fat my whole life. I'm 5'4" and I currently weigh around 220 pounds. I've weighed as much as 235, but in the last few years, I've stayed pretty consistently between 210 and 220, most often lingering at exactly 215. I weighed 210 at the end of high school, so my weight's been fairly steady over the last 18 years.

My feelings about my weight yo-yo a bit more than that, to be true, thus with the "ambivalence." After growing up with a lot of anxiety and unhappiness about my weight, in an unforgiving fatphobic culture, with a mom (whom I adore, by the way) who constantly dieted and modeled body self-hatred for me, coming into my own sensibility about my weight involved everything from internalizing the self-hatred to rejecting the paradigm and refusing to get on a scale for more than ten years. Back in high school, I ate like absolute shit. Taco Bell, Denny's, everything fried, crispy and golden brown. I still love me some chicken strips. Moving my body as little as possible was a matter of true slacker pride. In college I went vegetarian for three years and lost a bit of weight that way, but I can't say I was eating much healthier, really. It wasn't until about five years ago that I started exercising, and now I totally dig getting myself around by bike. I actually enjoy working up a sweat, even. So since biking entered my life, and a new consciousness around healthy eating has crept slowly into my routine, things have shifted for me a bit. I'm still a chronic overeater, and tend to indulge my cravings too often, so despite an overall healthier lifestyle, I really haven't experienced a significant net weight loss. Sometimes I feel okay about that, and sometimes I don't.

I experience some health problems which I feel to be related to my weight and to overeating. My knees are stressed and weak, and I had a bad case of patello-femoral syndrome for a couple years, which still affects me, but has lessened some since doing physical therapy and getting more exercise. I can't squat or spend too much time kneeling, or else the knees crack and pop in a very unpleasant way. I've had a low-grade but chronic struggle with acid reflux, which I'm quite sure is caused mainly by overeating, and has diminished some since quitting coffee about four years ago or so. My overall and long-term health would be much improved if I were to dramatically cut back on saturated fats (main culprits: red meat and all things fried) and if I were to make a habit out of eating til satisfied and not until utterly stuffed. Though I'm a fan of salty snacks which carry their own kinds of risks (raising blood pressure and water retention) I will say I'm not much of a sweet tooth. A small square of chocolate is a totally doable limit for me, but get me near a bowl of briny green olives, and the lot of 'em will be gone before you can say "bowl of briny green olives."

It's also noteworthy that since getting into biking, I realize that if I weighed less, I would actually have more endurance and be able to bike faster and farther. Climbing the San Francisco hills is a painful and slow undertaking for me, and if I weighed even twenty pounds less, I think my biking efficiency would be vastly improved, not to mention my stamina and energy for lots of other fun stuff like sex and walking and um, sex.

So I'm inaugurating this here blog with an admission that I'm making quite public. I'm interested in losing some weight. Even as a fat-positive feminist anti-establishment dyke, I have come to understand that for my own body, for my own lifestyle, and for my own long-term health goals, this makes sense for me. I don't know if I'll be successful. I don't know if I'll be any "happier" if I weigh less. I don't know whether, even if I lose a significant amount of weight, I will keep it off or not. I just dunno. But I want to blog the progress, the literal ups & downs, and mostly the fleeting thoughts, feelings, fears, and myopic obsessions that run through this noggin when anything related to these topics floats on through. Welcome to the contradictory journey.

Please feel free to leave comments, but if you flame me for being a "fat hater" I will have to lash you roundly. Also, if you leave inane fatphobic comments like, "Oh my god, you'll look so much better when you're skinny!" I'll also have to lash you. My feelings about this subject are ambivalent for very complex personal, political, cultural and healh-related reasons. In this blog, I am attempting to be as honest as I can about my mixed feelings on weight loss, what is at stake for me emotionally, how I've been conditioned to hate myself and other fat people, and how wanting to lose weight is mired in all kinds of problematic socio-cultural ideologies, prejudices, and power relationships. In other words, I know. Don't judge me for being human, please.

Peace, y'all.

Bree

Xmas in the Mohave

We're leaving tomorrow to visit Astrid's family for Christmas. She asked me the other day if I'm looking forward to it, and the answer is yes, with the caveat that on some level I'm pretty terrified, too. Astrid's parents have been really sweet to me, considering I'm a Jewish dyke and I'm sleeping with their daughter (who, naturally, is just going through a phase or is disappointed with men or is being seduced by the sinful San Franciscan lifestyle). Her dad and her brother are both men of few words, and even little miss chatty cathy me finds it hard to break on through. Her mom has been genuinely kind to me, and I have no rational reason to think that each subsequent visit won't get better and better. But it's weird, is all. At least her four year-old nephew likes to play zombies with me!

It's weird spending time with anybody else's family, really. Even my idiosyncratic Jewish liberal family in the 'burbs becomes an isolated culture in and of itself: I'm sure it's daunting to be an outsider there when we're all talking over each other in a frenetic storm of popculture/smalltalk/obsessive details of family esoteria. Sigh. Oh, and, we haven't bought any xmas gifts yet. There's that, too.

Merry whatever you celebrate, folks!
Peace and Bliss in the New Year!

xo
Bree

Don't let the name fool you.

Oh my god I'm so freaking excited. Little Darlings is playing at the Castro tonight. Suddenly, more and more of my friends are coming out of the woodwork with their obsessions, too.

It is positively the best movie in the "teenage losing your virginity flick" genre, and Ube and I have been enthralled with it since the mid-80s.

Otherwise, a very relaxing day of dusting, vacuuming, making fresh salsa, and generally enjoying my summer freedom. Seriously, today I got, as Astrid put it, tongue-somewhat-in-cheek, "zen" about my house cleaning. It just feels so good to be nearly done with my bookkeeping gigs and on my way to starting a profession I am compelled by. My internship at the queer mental health clinic starts the first week in August. Meanwhile, I've got actual free time in which to live, and, yes, clean.

Breathe

My next nine days:

Tomorrow:
Read for class
Work on papers due for end of term for Child Psychotherapy,
Critical Theory, and Thesis classes
My final Critical Theory class
My final Law & Ethics class; 50-question final exam

Friday:
Penultimate* day at my Friday bookkeeping gig
Train new bookkeeper
Tranny March at Dolores Park
Party and general mayhem

Saturday:
Work on papers in the morning
LGBTQ filmfest local short films program
Dyke March at Dolores Park
Party and much more mayhem
Pink Saturday in the Castro
Even more partying and mayhem

Sunday:
Recover from the weekend
Work on papers
Avoid the Pride Parade
Reward myself with bloody marys

Monday:
Monday bookkeeping gig
Work on papers

Tuesday:
Work on papers
Final Child Psychotherapy class
More work on papers

Wednesday:
Wednesday bookkeeping gig
Final night to work on papers

Thursday:
Last chance to finalize all three papers
Therapy appointment
Turn in papers
Graduate Psychology Symposium on campus

Friday:
Last day at Friday bookkeeping gig
Last day of training with new bookkeeper

Breathe!

*I just learned that word!

My Gripes with the GLBT Movement (or, really, one of the most visible representatives of it)

Some of you out there know that I used to work for Human Rights Campaign. I helped open their San Francisco Action Center Store in the Castro, and, thanks to my background fundraising for Peace Action back in the day, I was able to recruit for them a nice li'l pile of members during the year I worked there.

Ultimately, I think the organization plays an important role in the movement for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender equality--they're well-funded, well-organized, and media-savvy. Their core issues: marriage equality and LGBT family issues, workplace discrimination, health and other human rights issues related specifically to GLBT folks are all crucial issues needing organized advocacy.

But I find that too often, they fall to the right of where I am politically, and I know that I'm not the only one with this complaint. The classic examples are their focus on the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, their disproportionate focus on the marriage issue which many progressive queers have no interest in, and famously, their willingness to endorse conservative candidates, sometimes in "lesser of two evils" strategies and sometimes simply to endorse incumbants so as to appear more in line with their perception of how "most GLBTs might vote" (HRC endorsed Bob Casey in PA, who I've blogged about, Joseph Lieberman, and even GOP candidate Alphonse D'Amato against Charles Schumer in the 1998 senate race in New York).

Any old way, the following is a letter I wrote to HRC this week about the hubub around Ann Coulter calling presidential candidate John Edwards a "faggot." As you'll see, I don't fundamentally disagree with HRC's strategy on this issue, but I am appalled by the language they use to frame this debate. First, I present to you the letter, then HRC's response, then, navel-gazingly, my response to their response. Bonus: I also included a letter to them I sent two years ago about the gays-in-the-military issue, to which they'd never gotten around to responding. HRC's email to me this week addressed both letters. Enjoy, and of course, feel free to add your two or three cents.

xo - Bree

* * * * *

March 6, via email:

Hi there,

I'm contacting you regarding the goal of your message on Ann Coulter. I am shocked and disappointed at the wording of your take-home message:

"It's time to remove Ann Coulter from public discourse!" (emphasized by appearing in your action alert in large, bold, blue font).

There is no question that Coulter's use of the word "faggot" to demean John Edwards was wrong, and that HRC should take action on this issue. I do not disagree with the tactic of alerting HRC members and the public at large and encouraging a consumer boycott of companies who publish her and sponsor her site. But in suggesting that Coulter should be "removed from public discourse," we are playing right into the hands of those who would discredit us: this is the cry of censorship, and, taken out of context (and I promise you, that pull quote will be taken out of context) it is a dangerous sentiment to espouse. Not only will conservatives jump all over HRC as "un-American," this statement will be seen by progressive GLBT folks (myself included) as a telltale sign that HRC does not represent their/our interests. Freedom of speech is a constitutional right, even when the speaker is an inarticulate asshole.

As an HRC member and a former Action Center staffer (San Francisco store), I am invested in the goals of the Human Rights Campaign, and I want to see the organization continue to grow and become a more inclusive, diverse, and effective agent for change on GLBT rights. To that end, I feel that I have an obligation to be critical of the organization when I see it veering in the wrong direction. I also feel that I have a right to a thoughtful response on this issue, and I would appreciate just that (I contacted you on a different issue previously, and received nothing back. Below, please find a copy of that message, which I sent originally in March of 2005, even before I worked at the HRC store in the Castro.)

As always, I appreciate your hard work in the fight for GLBT equality.

Thank you for taking the time to read this message.


Bree
San Francisco, CA


Previous email from March, 2005:

To the program staff at Human Rights Campaign,

Hi. I hope this message finds you well.

I'm a member of HRC and also, myself, a pacifist and a firm opponent
of U.S. military aggression around the world. I understand the
importance of eliminating discrimination against gay, lesbian,
bisexual, and transgendered armed service members, and I support HRC's
policy to work on this issue. But I also feel strongly that GLBT
organizations must come out decisively against U.S. militarism, the
so-called "War on Terror," and against the inherent racism, sexism,
and homophobia embedded in the culture of militarism. We are natural
allies to cause of peace and global justice, and we need to start
treating this issue as the core value it should be in all our work to
combat homophobia.

GLBT Americans share a bond with every innocent Iraqi being targeted
by U.S. armed forces abroad, and we share a bond with every Arab and
Muslim in our own country being subjected to hate crimes, illegal
detentions, and the undue disruption of their lives on a daily basis
as a result of this brutal, endless war. We share a bond with every
human being who has been labeled "The Enemy," and I cannot, in good
conscience, actively take part in a campaign that, while right-minded,
is essentially helping to bolster the ranks of the U.S. military. I
do not want to see my gay, lesbian, bi, and transgendered brothers and
sisters turned into agents of a hateful, murderous foreign policy, not
to mention turned into cannon fodder in the process.

Please respond, and let me know what HRC is planning to do to denounce
U.S. militarism and the racist scapegoating being carried out in our
names as GLBT Americans.

Thank you so very much for your work, it does not go unappreciated.

Sincere regards,


Bree
San Francisco, CA


HRC's response

March 7, 2007

Dear Bree,

Thank you for contacting the Human Rights Campaign regarding censorship and the First Amendment.

We take freedom of speech and First Amendment issues very seriously, and we understand your concerns.

We believe that this is not a question of censorship. There are plenty of other people on the right who share Coulter’s values and views but understand the value of civility and respect.

Ann Coulter is free to spew her vile and hateful speech but as a community we are also free to exercise our collective power. And when Coulter defends herself on Fox News by saying “‘faggot’ isn’t offensive to gays,” it is our responsibility to make sure she, and those who carry her columns, understand that we know otherwise. “Faggot” is a loaded word — a word that too often is used as a weapon to demean and wound our community.

If she had made a racist or anti-Semitic remark, there would not have even been a question of whether a newspaper should continue carrying her columns. We must speak out in order to move the “F word” into that same column of universally understood hate speech.

I also want to address the email you sent us 2 years ago, I truly apologize that you never received a response as member services does attempt to answer all inquiries. As you know HRC’s mission and statement of purpose due to your work experience I’m sure you know that HRC works specifically on GLBT issues and securing equality. The war in Iraq and the atrocities occurring there are certainly sad and difficult for the entire nation to accept however commenting on the status is not within HRC’s domain. However, HRC is working to repeal “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” the U.S. policy on gays in the military that forces people to be dishonest about their personal lives or be fired. You can learn more about our campaign by visiting: http://www.hrc.org/alva/dadt.html

I hope I answered your questions and concerns.

Thank you again for contacting us and if you have any other questions please do not hesitate to contact me directly.

Respectfully,

Lisette

Human Rights Campaign
1640 Rhode Island Ave NW
Washington, DC 20036-3278
Phone 202.216.1525
Fax 202.216.1505
hrc@hrc.org


And here is MY response to THEIR response: (which has, of course, not been responded to)

March 8, 2007

Hi Lisette,

Thank you so much for the quick response. As I had said in my original letter, I support HRC's action on this issue, and agree that Coulter's use of the word "faggot" in this incident should be condemned. I also made clear that I agreed with your tactic of calling for a consumer boycott, a strategy that has been effective time after time in movements for social change. I appreciate your response, and will think more about the implications of language and the responsibility that publications have in shutting down the use of hate speech.

But I still take issue with the conceptualization that informs this phrase, "to remove Coulter (or anyone) from public discourse." Sure, other conservatives are "civilized" (as civilized as, say, a right-wing preacher can be when condemning gays to hell, for example). Is that not "hate speech?" Where do we draw the line, in engaging in this "public discourse," between "hate speech" and "speech" or "beliefs?" And again, your tactics are not what I have issue with, but the way you approach the issue is what alarms me. We can still send a strong message to combat hate speech without calling for the outright elimination of speech we disagree with. I feel that your response failed to capture this subtle distinction. Remember, I'm not arguing with the tactics or goals; I'm at issue with the way the message has been crafted.

Thank you also for responding to my previous letter. I'm well aware of the limitations of the organization's mission, and of course I understand the strategic reasons that HRC won't take positions on issues it defines as beyond its purview. Again, though, I feel my main concern is being glossed over and not really acknowledged. Homophobia (along with racism and sexism) are at the core in a militaristic culture such as ours. Working for the inclusion of GLBT folks into the ranks of the military is, of course, one way to address homophobia. But it seems rather beside the point when we are not asking the question: why are we sending our people to kill and die in the first place?

When I attended the Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender March on Washington in 1993, the issue of gays in the military was first entering into the national consciousness. I saw a sticker on someone's jacket there that read, "Don't join the military - dismantle it!" I loved that moment. Of course we must fight against discrimination in every sector of society, including within the military. I understand that that's your job, and I applaud you for it. But there must be some voice from inside the organization, inside the movement, calling for a reprioritizing of issues. I know I'm not the only one.

Thanks again for your time on this. If there is anyone in the national office who can speak further to these concerns, I would love to hear from them.


Take care,
Bree