A new year.

The beginning of November feels like a new year for me.

A lot has happened in my life since I have been writing steadily.

We moved. We moved into a bigger house, and the space for my computer moved to a central spot. More exposed to the entire house. And writing, even these dumb blog posts, seems like such a private and personal act, it felt so odd to have my space be in the middle of my family's living space. And so, I stopped writing. The time was never right, or the desk became a landing zone for mail that built up and built up, or. Or I had so many excuses at the ready.

A very dear friend moved back to the area. A very dear friend who means a great deal to me.
I am not ready to write about that.

Spring came. It was marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. So, normal.
Summer was good. And marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. Also normal.
And then my cat was injured. And never fully recovered. He died in my arms, a Monday night at the end of August. He wasted away to nothing but skin and bones. As he rattled out his last breath, I was in the arms of someone who cared for me. In a house with a solid roof and food and heat and toys and computers and clothes. I can count all of these things, yes. I am lucky. I am so lucky. And my darling little cat still wasted away to nothing but fur and skin and bones and I did not do enough, spend enough money to save his short life.

That night the three of us buried him in the back yard. Nick managed to find a place clear enough for a little grave, and by torchlight, I let go of my little black cat for the last time. Limp and dead in my arms, and I did not want to believe that he was really gone. I wanted to think that he was just asleep, and have it be true. I wanted him to wake up when I shoveled the first bit of dirt and sand on top of him, and be angry with us and go sulk on the fence.

Wanting a thing will not make it so. No matter how hard or fiercely you want a thing.

The three of us sat around the fire pit, and mourned the cat's death. Comfort through beer and fire and a certain kind of closeness that only happens around a small fire at night.

A week later, I found out about a friend's passing. The following week, a family member went into hospice.

I cried a little for my cat. I cried a lot for my friend. I did not cry for my grandfather.

I broke. I broke into many little pieces, over and over again. I could not stop breaking, and I could barely find enough hands to hold all the pieces. So, I gathered them up as best I could, and I contracted. Into my shell, me and my pieces. I hid them away, hid myself away, and I think that the wounds have scabbed over now. I am not healed, I am not better. But my armor is returning.

Happy new year.

I'm still here.

I thought I was going to sleep, but I had a thought. I wanted to say that I'm still here, and hoo boy, do I have a doozy. I'm not going into it now, but I'm still here.

<3

Gender Performance II: This time we mean business

Last time, I pretty much just stuck with my past experiences, and how I came around to my understanding of gender performance—maybe not even that far. Well, let’s do that now.

(A disclaimer—I don’t have any education in this area. All of the following comes from my own experiences and reflection on those experiences. Please excuse any ignorance that may be apparent.)

What is my understanding of gender performance? To me, it’s really all about communication—when it is all boiled down, clothing really is the first and most immediate form of communication, albeit one-sided communication. I have to fess up and acknowledge that this has really come into focus thanks to television—namely the shows What Not To Wear and RuPaul’s Drag Race. For serious. With What Not to Wear, the stylists stress the importance of acknowledging that clothing is communication—how quicker to communicate what you value than through your choice in clothing? Nearly everything about a person could be known by careful examination of one’s garb—with a fair amount of assumption.

When watching Drag Race, or really, any amount of drag entertainment, I found myself really thinking about what traits of general female gender performance were chosen to perform, what traits were heighten, and why those traits were chosen above others. In all honesty, the after I watched my first season (which was the second season) of Drag Race, I had a small existential crisis—these men were better at being a woman than I was. What did that say about me? What kind of woman did I want to be? What kind of woman did I want others to see? What happens when you dress the outside to reflect what’s on the inside? Turns out, dressing the outside like the inside feels is rather freeing. I’ve written about this before, but I’ve had an uneasy relationship with my body, and really, not until I encountered this show and had a small crisis of identity, did I really come around to wanting to love my body. I’ve always known that I’ve needed to love my body, but there can be an immense chasm between knowing that one should do something and doing that thing. And, in the words of the wise RuPaul, “if you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?”

So. Connecting these dots, knowing that gender is a performance leads to self love? Well, yes, that can be true. And knowledge is power. And in a society that is set up to systematically marginalize women who don’t make a concerted effort to fight back, I want to equip my daughter with as much power as I can.

When my Darling Monster was first learning body parts, I thought about what to teach her about her genitalia. After waffling a bit with euphemisms, we settled on the correct anatomical names. Vulva, vagina. At bath time, she washes her own vulva--Mom and Dad make sure that she is the one in control when it comes to regular maintenance. We say, often, that it’s okay to play with your vulva! When navigating this idea with my husband, I wanted desperately to get across was that my daughter, at the tender age of three, needs to know that her body is her own, because my fear is that if she doesn't have ownership of her body, someone else could.

So. Two fundamental basics: a person must take ownership of their body, if only at least to prevent others from doing so, and any body is amazing and worthy of love. A good foundation for life, let alone learning how one can express one's self.

How do I tie that in with gender performance? Gently, I believe. Here's something to start, at the very, very least:

To my Darling Monster,
It's vital to dress and behave in a way that makes you happy, and that doesn't hurt others around you. Everyone has a right to feel happy and safe, especially you. It is also important to understand what ideas one communicates thought one's clothing. People will always make decisions about how they can and can't treat you based on your appearance, and it's important to understand what your appearance says to other people. It's more important that you are happy and safe. If you choose to dress or behave in a way that will illicit a certain type of response, it's important that you are prepared for it. You can change how you look and you can change how you act, and you can even change what may or may not affect you on the surface, but you can't ever change another person. I want to protect and shelter you for your whole life, but I can't do that. I can help you to be confident in who you are and confident in the world around you, and I can hope that that is enough.
     XOXO
        Your Darling Mother


I may refine this a bit before we dive in.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon.

Well, not that soon. Also, that song is freakin' creep-tastic.

I've been thinking on how to explain gender and gender performance to my darling Monster. She came at me with 'boys say "poop"; girls don't say "poop"' in the car on the way home from school the other day. We then had a conversation consisting nearly entirely of the word poop, and how yes, girls can say poop, and how really, as long as one is reasonably polite and well-informed, one should be able to say what one would like. The conversation turned to the subject of snacks before we really had a chance to delve.

I've been personally contemplating gender and gender performance lately, as well. I came of age in the 'Grrls ruuule!" time, which really seems to be a backlash against the hyper-femininity of the eighties, which came as a backlash against the androgyny of the seventies, which arose out of the women's movement in backlash to the sudden change in the social dynamic when the boys came home from WW2 and the women had to move on over, Johnny here needs that job. So get back in the kitchen, and look, Hollywood will make it all look fabulous. In a nutshell. It really seems that attitudes towards women and the roles that women play (painting large strokes here, I know) are all reaction to what transpired the generation before.

Anyhow, I seemed to go off on a tangent. I was saying that I came of age in the 90s and for much of my teenage years (oh gawd, teenage years) both tried to eschew and embrace all things feminine and girly. To paint a clearer picture, the icon that I looked up to was Marilyn Manson. Makeup wise, as well. (Yes, I looked ridiculous.)

I didn't really have an understanding of gender performance. I sort of thought that you were what you displayed--there was no option for playing a part. Also, my passions and hobbies all required a certain style of dress--paint clothes! Jeans and work boots! Getting dirty clothes! I wore those clothes for so long, I think I had forgotten that I could dress any other way, and I think that I came to view dressing "girly" was a sign of weakness. I needed to communicate my strength and ability to everyone, in as plain a way as possible, and that did not involve skirts. Or heels.

Heels. That's another tangent, and we are exploring that one. I'm tall. Just kissing six feet. My best friends in school were 5' 8" at best, putting me a good 2 or three inches above most everyone--and let me tell you, that when you're a teenager who wants nothing more than to be able to fit  in to a group, always looming above anyone doesn't do a whole lot for self-confidence. A good portion of the crushes I had were on people who were merely taller than I, and height isn't the best indicator of what kind of a person someone is. Hence, I stayed away from heels, mostly. I'd wear a pair or two, and feel super awkward, and then retreat to my work boots or sneakers until the next blue moon. I have just now discovered that I can wear heels that are "comfortable" (come on, what heel is actually comfortable?) and that I feel secure in holding the perceived power that comes with added stature.

Due to the nature of where I work now--a relaxed office environment--I've now really started branching out. I've always admired styles or trends, while not really changing what my personal style is. I've sort of had the 'well, that looks great, but I couldn't wear that because I'm too big/tall/whathaveyou" mentality. I've just now empowered myself to change how I present myself to reflect what I want to communicate.

And that brings me back: how do I teach my darling Monster about communication through gender performance? I guess, in a word: carefully.

Candy Crush is killing my creativity.

I get sucked into Candy Crush, that addictive little match-three Facebook game. Well, Candy Crush, and the rest of the internet. I get home, feed the Monster, (usually) clean the dishes (and if I'm really gung-ho, some other chores as well, but only once in a great while, I will readily admit), and do bedtime stuff--bathing, teeth brushing, hair braiding--with the Monster. Then the real fun of Let's See How Many Books Mom Can Read and Still Maintain Patience and Sanity Before the Monster Falls Asleep begins. Seriously, I've been reading for an hour before the little terror darling child will go to sleep. When I finally emerge, the glorious victor, there is nothing I want more than flashing lights and rewarding little melodies to lull me into a sense of accomplishment, all while enjoying the singular joy of only being concerned about how I am going to wipe out that stupid chocolate that's taking up all my moves, dammit.

I would love nothing more than to move on with all these projects in my head. I have some really neat ideas, but my only problem is that of time. Boo hoo, everyone has a time crunch, everyone has responsibilities, everyone has to negotiate limited time and limited resources--is what I think when I start feeling down about it. Which, if anyone out there has dealt with depression just a teeny tiny bit, knows that that's the kind of thinking that really doesn't help to motivate. At least, not in my case. Boo hoo, I'm not a special case, I might as well give up. And then I click the little pink 'try again' button, and the board fills up with those cute little candies.

I would love to be productive in my creativity. I would love to add more to my 'done' stack. And this is a running theme in this blog. My struggles with time, creative space, mothering, and basically, living as an adult. WAH.

I think I just need to go on a Candy Crush diet. Not cold turkey, mind you. Sometimes mama needs a little sugar. Er, aesthetically pleasing, sugar-themed match three game, that is. But I think I need to make my limited time on the internet more limited, and definitely more meaningful. Plenty of people are consuming awesome content--someone else can take my place there. I need to spend more time creating general awesome.

Seeing some changes

Not big changes, but noticeable changes. Like, the towel that I take to the gym: it used to just barely overlap--just enough overlap so I wouldn't be parading my rolls all over the changing room. Yesterday, I noticed that it overlapped a bit more, and all the way down, over my hips. My winter jacket had been edging toward a tad snug, over my hips again, and now there's a lot more room when I close it.

I've tried to make changes to my body before, but something just wouldn't work out, and back to the old habits I'd go, gleefully at times. Something's different this time. Aside from the odd moment few and far between, I haven't felt ashamed to be eating something. I can't say why I've been ashamed, or why I don't feel that way now, but why ask why? At this stage, I'll be glad to feel good, and feel good about feeling good.

I've spent some time thinking about why I've wanted to make these changes, and this time it's different from before (which may be why the changes are sticking a bit better). When feeling uncomfortable in my body, I've asked why, and kept asking why: I want to wear a thing, but I can't. Why do I want to wear that thing? Because this thing looks like how I feel inside (cute, flirty, silly, sexy, or what-have-you). Why can't I wear it? Because I don't feel comfortable in it. Why don't I feel comfortable. Because I don't like the way that I look. Why don't I like it? Because I don't think that I look attractive. Who don't I look attractive to? Myself. Does that mean that I'm not attractive? No. Can I change how I feel about myself? Yes, with work. Can I change how I look? Yes, with work. Can I love myself, no matter what I look like? Absolutely. Do I love myself, no matter what I look like? I try, and I think I'm getting there.

Why am I trying to change how I look? Because I want to look good.What does good look like? What metric will I use to determine good?

We shall see.

Small struggles

Stop.

Why are you eating? Are you hungry, or are you bored? Are you lonely? Are you sad? Are you happy? Are you angry? Are you angry because you keep eating? Which ones are reasons to eat?

What are you eating? Are you going to secretly wish that you could throw up after eating that because whatever you've decided to eat is terrible? When you feel shame looking at food that you really shouldn't eat, why do you eat it? Because of the shame?

If it's a problem, can you recognize it as a problem?

Yes.

Are you powerless to stop yourself?

No.

Will you change this behavior?

I will try.