Congress Talks Without A Uterus

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

In the weeks like this where I have no spent much time on my blog, it’s usually because of 1 of 2 reasons:

1) I’m sick and the glow of the screen makes me ill.

or it’s usually

2) There is so much going on in the world that I find it hard to pick one.  Become paralyzed by my multi facet and connected reactions and subsequently find myself not writing ANYTHING purely because I am so overwhelmed.

It’s hard to be a catholic woman these days.  I find myself either defending my religion, explaining my feminism, or hypothesizing impossible solutions in frustrated conversations the past several weeks.  The air feels sickeningly thick as a catholic feminist.  On one hand I agree and on the opposite hand, I can argue the opposition.

But there is one thing that i have no confusion about:  the church’s most oppressive problems lie in their lack of comprehensive knowledge or acceptance of women, gender, and sexuality.

Kinda like Congress today.

Regardless of how one person feels about contraception, doesn’t it strike you as slightly ODD that men are lined up, trying to look like authorities on BIRTH CONTROL with no women present whatsoever?

The 52& of humanity who menstruate, ovulate, germinate, terminate, and menopause-ate were not represented in this critical discussion.

It’s kinda like if I gathered a whole bunch of my friends who identified as women and said it’s our responsibility to discuss the overall experience of vasectomies. Yeah, something’s missing.

This week in the RCIA class I teach, it was an open forum for folks to ask questions and at the heart of it was the church’s teaching on – I’ll give you 3 guesses, but you’ll only need 1 – sex & contraception.

I could go on and on about the beautiful theology of sex and how I truly believe that God is wondering why the eff we fight and fight over an act that, ultimately, is designed to give us joy, pleasure, and a means of communicating desire and love, but HEY, what do I know?  I’m just a woman with a uterus.

When We Thought Men Could Have Abortions and Other Problems with Outdated Biology

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

One of the reasons that masturbation was seen as uh, problematic, in the Catholic Church is based in outdated biology.

Back in the good ol’ days where the medical world thought women were simply incubators for fetuses, it was a widely understood truth that men carried the life.  Men were seen as the carriers of the human embryo and women were simply airports and incubators for deposit and growth.

Because the fertilization process was not understood, masturbation was seen as the equivalent to having an abortion, thus the strong teachings against it.  Once the sperm left the shaft, it was seen as human life hitting the ground.  Or temple floor.  Or pillow.  And it died.  LIFE died with masturbation.

Even though it’s 2012 and our medical advancements have clearly surpassed the black and white facts of the birds and the bees, including the joining of the egg and sperm, not all of religious teaching and legislation reflect these medical breakthroughs.  Now that we know that there is such a thing called fertilization, and women are much more than just warm containers for zygotes, it would behoove our society to think before we put addendums and amendments which date us back to the time where men’s sperm was seen as the mailman for new life.

And, hey, I’m not advocating for your teenage son to masturbate without delay or conscience.  Nor am I saying that sperm isn’t important, but let’s reserve the word “sacred” for the actuality and fullness of life, not just body fluids.  To reject common biology and reducing/twisting the definition of humanity to just men’s sperm or just women’s eggs leads us down paths that often result in feverish gender essentialism and dangerous mentalities regarding reproductive health.  Or, simply put: misinformed or uneducated opinion regarding health and sexuality that makes its way into law harms reduces, oppresses, and harms women.

We can do better than this.

Marriage Means Love, Not Maintenance and Other Truths About Married Life

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

I want nothing more than to go to bed.

It’s late.  I woke up nearly 24 hours ago in South Beach, Miami boarded a plane to Chicago, endured a 3 hr layover with NO FREE WIRELESS in O’Hare, flew to Dayton, found our car in the economy lot, drove to Russia, picked up my baby, drove home, put Isaiah to bed and made myself a late night snack while I checked in with my email and social media outlets from which I had been mostly away from for four days.

I want nothing more than to go to bed.

But I can’t.  I am worried that if I don’t write this now, I won’t feel it in the morning.  I’m scared that this clarity (in the form of advice I’m about to impart) will dissipate between now and dreamland and when I wake up, I’ll be all selfish with my time and make breakfast and say, “The world can do without my words.”

But right now, I know that I should pass on a little piece of goodness that I know with my whole tired body, mind, and soul: prioritize love.

Since Nick and I went on this little weekend getaway, small mirrors keep popping up in our faces, reflecting back at us what we look like as a married couple.  We had a gift: Time together, time away with no agenda that to simply BE with one another.  Talk, explore, try, eat, sit, laugh, muse, remember, and hold hands on a overcast day and sip drinks from a 7-11 corner store.  I couldn’t remember that last time that Nothingness could feel so precise and purposeful.

On our plane ride, we tried to think of the last time that he and I traveled together, alone, with no other purpose than to just be together.  Not for a wedding, family reunion, funeral, or friends’ gathering.  It had been years.  Many years.

I suppose that neither of us noticed how long it had been since it had just been us too because our life, our kid is so great.  Isaiah’s this amazing ball of wonder who makes us laugh and enjoy life.  But, like many parents know, your joy is filtered through the lens of your child.  A child IS the joy, can be the joy.  So much so that one parent can forget that joy can come from other areas of life, like a life partner, or spouse, or lover.  Joy is meant to be a multi-located entity.  A healthy parent, a healthy marriage must have a map of where joy can be found and it should have many X’s to mark that spot.  Isaiah is, by far, the largest, but on Nick’s map, I am a large X and on my map, Nick is just as large.

I had time to do and remember what I love when I’m with Nick: watch him.  Watching his face as he reads, listening to him choose his words carefully when retelling a story of what happened to him when he walked to the store while I lay on the beach, watching him read a menu and look around, a sign that he’s unsure of what he wants.  We had time to read and share passages aloud that resonated with us. We would put our heads close to talk about the four men a few feet from us who starting arguing politics, and we discussed who we agreed with and why.  We had our arms around each other, poking each other in the arms during a joke, smoothing our hands over the other’s arm, him putting his hand on the small of my back to lead me into a room, me resting my hand on the back of his neck when we hugged. — all these little moments felt like small bridges, building new ways to connect and be in love.

None of this was forecasted.  I just thought we would kick it and enjoy much needed down time.  I did not anticipate the energy erupted from just being together without our son crawling on us, crying for more crackers, asking us to dance with him, or making us break our gaze so to look at him.  I didn’t anticipate that because I didn’t realize something was missing.

Love is never a one time thing.  It’s not like you fall in love and then Poof! you maintain that depth, intimacy, and understanding everyday all day.  It fluctuates with life’s demands, children, and career.  But I think that many of us figure that in the absence of fighting, in the quiet busyness of making life work, marriage can be in maintenance mode and still be functional.  It CAN be, but unlike other relationships, your primary relationship deserves more than just maintenance mode.  We’re all changing, breathing creatures who adapt with time and experience.   We all need time to show we are becoming to the one we most cherish.  That takes time, space, and intentionality.

Being married should never be maintenance, but constant chiseling.  However, from time to time, the tools need to be put down to admire the work of art in one another.

An Unlikely Baptism: A Spiritual Retreat at Miami Beach

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

Nick and I are on a private weekend getaway and we’re resting up before we go out on the town.

For years I got flack and ridicule because I wanted to see Miami Beach.  I had the impression that unless you’re 21 years old and looking for club hopping, music thumping nights, it’s not really the place to be.

But your heart wants what it wants.

And I wanted to see Miami.

Just like that, years of want came to an end.  Nick surprised me with an early Valentine’s Day and birthday gift – a long weekend to Miami Beach.  While Isaiah frolics with his grandparents, he and I had the opportunity to travel together – alone – for no other purpose than to relax and be together for the first time in  YEARS.  And, oh, it’s amazing.

A change in geography can save your soul.  Even though it’s been one of the warmest winters in Ohio’s history books, it’s still winter and entrapping.  Gray.  Cabin fever.  NO VIBRANT COLOR.  No human movement outside.  It can take its toll.  And here we are, with a simple plane ticket and openness to do “whatever” we find ourselves walking in near 80 degree weather, with small colds from the temperature change, down Espanola Way deciding whether to try the Brazilian tapas restaurant or give the Cuban restaurant a whirl.

A smile as big as the shore is on my face as I write this.

And to add to this gorgeous little nook of a weekend, I’ve begun Paulo Coehlo’s latest book, “Aleph.”  To put it mildly, it is PRECISELY where I am right now: in a spiritual struggle for identity and clarity.  I had no idea what the book was about, but I had to put the book down after the second page, stare at the front cover and converse with Nick about the possibility that I read the book before because it was describing my life with a frightening accuracy.  And it’s fiction.  Since it just came out, I came to the reality that it was not de ja vu, and instead something mystical that drove me to pick up this book and take comfort and challenge from the pages fraught with spiritual crisis.

As a minister, it’s difficult to articulate what spiritual struggle looks like.  So often I am asked questions about faith that seek ANSWERS when faith itself is about struggle, unknowing, and unlearning.  Faith is about leaping, all the time, from mountain top to the next mountain top, until we are comfortable with the air.  The problem is our bodies are made for the concrete ground and we never, ever get used to the air beneath our feet when they need ground to feel progress and movement.  I struggle not with God, but with all the aspects of human faith, human frailty, and leadership.  Decisions on how to move forward in faith are some of the most frustrating and consuming questions one can ask.

Religion matters to me and it’s never been black and white.  It is marred with history and sin, wars and oppression.  The more I evolve as a mature person of faith, the harder it becomes to understand what I am about since it’s always evolving.

This trip, unexpectedly has become an unexpected but welcome place to sit with that uncertainty.  As a minister for others, it’s never about MY faith, or MY questions.  I’m fairly transparent and let others know what my journey is, but it’s not really appropriate to centralize my own anything when serving others.  A routine of serving others can create distance between me and my own spirituality.  I can’t remember the last time I sat with my own self and just let myself listen to what came up.  I sit at work and wonder about what I should say or lecture about to and for others, but that’s hardly the same as cultivating my own relationship with God.

Nick and I often talk about God, heaven, and take our best shots at hypothesizing the greatest philosophical question of all time, as ageless as the sky: Why are we here?

And it’s funny that we’re doing it here in Miami Beach, surrounding by loud music, glitzy tank tops, and strong cologne.  But beyond those details lays a seagreen ocean of renewal and promise, welcoming me to a place I’ve dreamed about for many years.  It has not disappointed.

Bienvenido a Miami.

Where are We Without Transformative Justice?: An Update for the Dear Sister Anthology

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

The manuscript was ready.  The pieces were tightened, the writers were satisfied.  I was eager to move on.

The bones were solidified and the pitch – oh, the tedious and pain inflicted pitch – to select presses was finished.

And then two things happened.  1. I got feedback and 2. I had a feeling

My vision for Dear Sister was to offer the world a piece of literature of survivors to take on their journey.  And, metaphorically, when they reach one of the many summits of their hike they will be equipped to breathe; to have the knowledge, trust, and belief in themselves, their lives and community to fly again.

The anthology had a hole.  The hole was transformative justice.  The glaring hole that would not cease its relentless burning until I acknowledged that it was not finished after all and, incredibly, I had more work to do.

It was NOT back to drawing board.  It was more like, “I have to add another canvas to this work.”

The canvas is justice, and what it looks like outside the judicial system.  What does justice look like for those survivors who choose NOT to report, who do NOT find justice through the legal system that so often fails survivors of trauma?  What IS justice for those who previously thought incarceration for the perpetrator was the only way to feel free again?  What does sexual violence look like when you take a step back and see that processes and legality do NOT address healing?  What does it mean to say that justice IS and can be healing for all of us in community with one another?

Vision.  Justice.  Transformation.

This canvas is being painted with those ideas and so I am working with a handful of essayists who are drawing this out.  These voices are closing the anthology.

This book is not and would not be complete without transformative justice.  WE are not complete without it either.

Without transformation, without justice, where would our paths lead us to?

The Kid’s Alright

Published on by Lisa Category: Isaiah, Parenthood

Isaiah keeps bumping his head.  And he’s ready to get out of his crib.

When he sees something that spilled he says, “AIGH NAKU,” which in Tagalog is equivalent to Oh My Goodness.

He’s talking in English, but uses Spanish and Tagalog words smoothly in his language development.

During dinner when I was belting out Journey songs he says from the other room, “Excuse me, Mama.  Please be quiet.”

When he cries it’s because he can’t reach the iPod to play more songs that he likes to dance to.

When he empties his bottle and asks for more milk I say, “We’re out of milk” he responds, “Oh. Sorry.”

When I’m feeling low while I watch the news and the sad things happening in the world, he wanders in my periphery, holds up an empty plastic bottle and cheerfully says, “RECYCLE!”

Before meals we pray, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he clasps his chubby hands together and says very loudly, “GOD.”  Nothing more.  That’s the prayer.

When he sees my epipen in my medicine basket, he sticks out his index finger at me and says very matter of factly, “NOT A TOY!”

And the thing that most recently captures my heart is his very sleepy kiss and soft words, “Loff you, Mama.”

I loff you too, Baby.

Isaiah and the Gift of Today

Published on by Lisa Category: Isaiah, Parenthood

It’s Friday and there’s no better picture to accurately depict the Friday relief and excitement than this cartoony picture of Isaiah.

A few nights ago, we were playing with the different features of my Christmas gift – our new computer – and Isaiah got pretty excited over the different scenes and tones the pictures can be set in.  This overly exposed scene was his favorite.  He looks how I feel inside: YES!  I got through another week of work, parenting, surviving another week of winter, and listening to the Republican debates!  I DID IT!  GO ME!

Watching Isaiah grow into his own person is such a paradoxical experience.  He is most certainly his own self, that is clear.  And he says things like, “Isaiah do it.” Meaning, “HANDS OFF MOM.  I CAN BRUSH MY OWN TEETH.” Or “Forget your hand, Dad, I know what a railing is!”

But the majority of things he says are mimicking what’s around him, especially language.  Just yesterday, he asked to watch a Muppet video on YouTube and when the link was a little slow, I fussed around with the mouse and before the electricity from my brain sent the message to move my tongue to say the words, Isaiah sighs, “Come on, come on, COME ON!” I looked at him strangely.  Yeah, I guess I say that a lot when the internet takes forever.  (Forever: 39 seconds)

Toddlers are walking mirrors and sponges and it FREAKS ME OUT that they learn instantaneously when and how to repeat something in an appropriate situation.  They can read the emotional situation and deliver the comment they heard, just like it was originally spoken.  So, yeah, he’s his own person – he’s got his organs, preferences, room – but everything he DOES reflects me or Nick to some extent.  Now that’s some scary shit right there.  Seeing myself in a 2 year old?  S-C-A-R-Y.

But it’s a joy.  JOY.  And that’s an unexpected part of parenting that I wasn’t counting on: the joy!  The little things.  I was changing him after a nap and I asked how his day was going thus far at 5pm and he goes, “Oh, I just love it.”  A few hours later, he picked up an empty gatorade bottle and says, “Recycle.”  And then he wore my high heels for 15 minutes while I cooked dinner.

JOY.

*D my therapist says to look into our current moment with as much passion and intensity as we look to the past and future.  If we all did this, we would relinquish control over the things we do not have power over or cannot change.  Be present, she says, to only what you can presently know and see.

What I know and see is how fast 2 years of my life has gone with Isaiah.  In the blink of an eye and in the swift move of parenting amnesia (I can’t remember what it was like to breastfeed or put him in a carrier), he’s a little human asking for juice and crackers at night, wailing when I turn off the radio because it’s time to say goodnight.  Just like that (snap of the fingers) his onuses are too tight, his pants are too short, and he’s feeding himself with a fork and spoon.

Nick took the opportunity to clean out the basement this week (what a great guy, I’d never think to do that on my day off), and I was admiring his work, I saw all these baby toys, bottles, and paraphernalia were outgrew.  No more boppy pillow, no crib bumper, no walker.  Being a parent is so reactionary and immediate that it’s hard to retain any memory of what you did before.  All you really know is how to do NOW.  And given D*’s advice about staying in the present, that relationship seems perfectly complimentary.

Be present.  In the blink of an eye, it’ll be ten years from now with no memory of today.

Things My Therapist Said: Light Your Damn Lamp

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’m going to be afraid my whole life. I don’t want to be.

It’s natural to be a afraid. It means you’re alive. If you’re not afraid, you’re in a blissful state of ignorance. That or you’re drunk.

pause

The only thing we have control over is what we have in front of us: today. All you can do is be fully, absolutely present to your day. I’m not saying not to save money or plan for the future, but you cannot have or enjoy those things if you are not present to your current self. Not the past. Not the future.

silence

What are you thinking?

No words really, just more of an image.

Ok.

I thought of a long row of lamps. I want to make sure the ones down the line are lit. Ideally I want all of them lit, but I’m obsessed with making sure the ones up there, the ones for later are going to be lit.

If the lamps are all connected, the only way for those lamps to be lit is if there is energy in your lamp today. And with your faulty wiring, you aren’t lighting up the lamp in front of you.

If I don’t light up the lamp in front of me…

…then there’s no light or energy to spill onto tomorrow’s lamp. Cause it’s sure not going to light itself.

Memo to Rick Santorum: Gifts from God Do Not Include Pregnancy Through Rape

Published on by Lisa Category: Reproductive Rights

These days I can’t seem to shake a stomach bug in which have caused me to forego two Cleveland Orchestra tickets, miss hours of work, watch Isaiah learn to say “Mama needs rest,” and feel sorry for myself for these and other mishaps.

However, when it comes to Rick Santorum’s latest comments on how raped women should “accept” a pregnancy committed through rape as a gift from God, my stomach issues vanish and suddenly the few coherent marbles rolling around in my head collide to forge a march against Santorum’s utterances.

SANTORUM: Well, you can make the argument that if she doesn’t have this baby, if she kills her child, that that, too, could ruin her life. And this is not an easy choice. I understand that. As horrible as the way that that son or daughter and son was created, it still is her child. And whether she has that child or doesn’t, it will always be her child. And she will always know that. And so to embrace her and to love her and to support her and get her through this very difficult time, I’ve always, you know, I believe and I think the right approach is to accept this horribly created — in the sense of rape — but nevertheless a gift in a very broken way, the gift of human life, and accept what God has given to you. As you know, we have to, in lots of different aspects of our life. We have horrible things happen. I can’t think of anything more horrible. But, nevertheless, we have to make the best out of a bad situation.

Please note the language, description, and advice heaped upon the rape survivor… “She kills her child” “…accept what God has given to you.”

And when Rick Santorum says “we have to make the best out of a bad situation,” what he really means is “let’s just guarantee that kid gets birthed” because I’m pretty sure that Rick Santorum is not going to be by the side of every woman who is raped and ends up pregnant and left with the trauma and decisions of how to move forward. I’m also somewhat confident that Santorum has no idea what it’s like to be either raped or pregnant and inflicting both upon a woman and even suggesting or that it’s a gift from God may be one of the greatest distortions of God’s “gifts” I’ve heard in 2012.

I just lectured last night on the sacramental of confirmation and the gifts of the Holy Spirit, which include wisdom, right judgment, courage, awe and wonder, understanding, knowledge, and reverence. SHOOT! I must have missed that passage where St. Paul referenced “pregnancy through rape” as one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Maybe I should send my students an addendum to update that list.

Women who choose to birth their child after rape should have every possible support and resource available to them to cope and heal, physically, emotionally, and psychologically throughout every turn of their journey. Is it possible, too though, to stop demonizing women who do not choose this? Even if their decision is one you don’t agree with? Why is it more plausible to criminalize the abortion of a raped women than to increase the funding of non profits and social services who provide treatment and services to survivors?

I’d challenge and welcome any politician at any local, state, or federal level to speak intelligently to the social and societal norms that contribute to rape culture and gendered violence instead of pressing Santorum’s translation of God’s grace to raped women.
h/t to Feministe

Are You There, Margaret? It’s Me, God: On Body, Profanity, and Anger

Published on by Lisa Category: Body Image, Creative Writing, Identity, Uncategorized

January is a war on our bodies. It’s a war in so many ways. It’s nestled right after a holiday speckled December, full of drink and food sprees, exit fall/begrudgingly hello winter, and January is there. Waiting. Regardless of the bleak gray sky, we wipe our mental boards clean and vow better habits, more living, less poor choices. And some take January and the promise of more living to declare war on their bodies. The dieting, restricting, cold turkey, no holds barred workouts.

It’s no wonder the war is conceded by Valentine’s Day. It’s never sustainable.

Body consciousness is taking center stage.

I’ve been thinking about my body. A lot. Experience has told me that while there’s a temptation to generalize that most women suffer from body hyper vigilance, I know that while the stressors are different, this vigilance very much includes men. Who DOESN’T think, criminalize, criticize, and punish their bodies in January? At the very least, most people take a hard look in the mirror and pick ourselves apart, one limb at a time.

So when I read THIS, a jarring response essay by the profane yet sensitive Margaret Cho about her history of body issues after she received horrid comments about her body and recently inked tattoos, I paused. She goes ape shit on two readers.

Things I could say should be left unheard and unsaid because I am not willing to be the bigger person. I do not take the high road. I take the low road and blows below the belt are my absolute favorite. The best revenge is not living well. The best revenge is revenge.

About 2% of me, all raised-eye brow and all, thinks, “Oh, Cho – c’mon. Don’t take the low road.”

And the 98% of me rejoiced. It was so refreshing, and honest. It was like the part of me that I am in a room with only the closest people I know; where you laugh too loudly at inappropriate things; where you say what needs to be said in whatever words find their way to your tongue without censoring. Dammit, she’s honest. She’s so honest about NOT taking the high road. Cho received staggering points from my respect bank simply because she’s not one of these faux reputation, Tiger Woods family man/I’m actually “addicted” to sexing White women in dirty places facade. Cho claims nothing but herself, which includes CHOOSING to go below the belt.

I couldn’t help but feel ghosts around me. Misty, clammy ghosts that appeared in the room and gently licked my skin, bringing me back to my 10, 14, 17, 23, year old self when words, hate, eye daggers and jokes were thrown at me because of my weight, my skin color, my heritage, my hair, my hairiness, my almond eyes. The ghosts were as real as ever. My breath caught and I suddenly was a little girl being told to go back to my own country. Being called every kind of word used to describe round and full. Then I was a teenager being told to only date my own. Own what? “YOUR own.” Then a running, young woman with a car full of teenage boys speeding by yelling derogatory slurs. Then there was the eroticizing of my racial make up. And then, always, there is teasing. Relentless, torrential, acid rain on the tender skin of growing up girl.

I fly my flag of self-esteem for all those who have been told they were ugly and fat and hurt and shamed and violated and abused for the way they look and told time and time again that they were “different” and therefore unlovable.

The body is a war zone we grow up in. For those who are accepted as “normal” and capable, light skinned and perky, demure or graceful, it’s a playground. But for those of us on the other side of the fence, it’s a battleground. I was never beat as a POW, but there are scars reminding me that Cho is right. When those around you patrol and use your body for shooting practice, how are we not suppose to grow up defensive and use what we can for survival? I dismiss Cho’s critics (or her lone “lost a fan” fan) who call her words too harsh and unnecessary.

How does one measure abrasive behavior when bound in a triggering and defensive situation? Why are we so quick to jump on those who defiantly take below the belt shots in defense when its clear the attack was unjustified? I think those who did not undergo hard times are quick with their high road lectures and low on understanding human psychology.

Being called ugly and fat and disgusting to look at from the time I could barely understand what the words meant has scarred me so deep inside that I have learned to hunt, stalk, claim, own and defend my own loveliness and my image of myself as stunningly gorgeous with a ruthlessness and a defensiveness that I fear for anyone who casually or jokingly questions it, as my anger and rage combined with my intense and fearsome command of words create insults meant to maim, kill and destroy.

If words are used to kill someone’s spiritual and mental livelihood, it makes sense that their vitreous ego’s defense is made of the same ammunition: words.

And call me a crazy Catholic, but I hear a spiritual knock on the door of Margaret Cho. There’s something familiar about her beckoning injured birds to come to her for comfort.

I want to defend the children that we still are inside, the fragile sensitive souls who no matter how much we tried were still told we were not good enough. I want to make the world safe and better and happy for us. We deserve beauty, love, respect, admiration, kindness and compassion. If we don’t get it, there will be hell to pay. I am no saint, but I am here for you and me. I am here for us, and I am doing the best I can.

I think there’s a God, or Buddha, or Spirit, or Life, or Universe, or WHATEVER you want to call the deeper Source of our existence, there in her words; rising up to defend what she knows is rightfully true: our inner selves, fragile and uncertain, still need assurance and community.

I think that when we rise to defend ourselves, what was ugly turns into something divine. Perhaps divine, for some, is equated to some pristine, soft green mountain side with Julie Andrews twirling in mother nature. But for me, rising up to defend our humanity IS divinity. Cho self-stamps herself as damaged and gorgeous, not saintly. And there’s something spring water refreshing about that. There’s something cathartic and necessary about her uproarious defensiveness. It reminds me how acutely human we are at any time, whether on Twitter or working in a factory, or writing in a library. We, at any time, are so vulnerable to the thoughts and words of others that we cannot take each other for granted. We can no longer afford to assume that those around us are not tender. We cannot afford to assume that the memories of those we encounter are blemish-free. And we can no longer mislabel aggressive defense as aggression. Not for those who have been the cork board for thousands of pin jokes. Rising up for ourselves is not rude. It is not unstable. It is not crazy. You haven’t truly lived until you defended yourself against pure spite. As
each one of us designs our path of connection to others, we also design our individualized plan of defense for self-preservation.

There’s a time and a place for healthy and healing and bomb-like anger – which is different from the foul breath of negativity – just as there’s a time and a place for the high road. When you learn the difference and know when to practice the former, it’s become a rite of passage.

If you haven’t yet defended yourself against unwarranted hatred, don’t explain to others to take the high road.
If your body has not undergone physical violation or emotional trauma of harassment, do not assume you can locate and point to the high road.
If your life has not been used as a target for cheap funnies, hasty attempts for laughter at your expense, don’t judge the response of the humiliated.
.

January is a declared war on our bodies. Let’s start a revolution and wave a white flag. Wave it high, unfettered, and free. We surrender to no one but ourselves.

I grew up hard and am still hard and I don’t care. I did not choose this face or this body and I have learned to live with it and love it and celebrate it and adorn it with tremendous drawings from the greatest artists in the world and I feel good and powerful like a nation that has never been free and now after many hard won victories is finally fucking free. I am beautiful and I am finally fucking free.