Bags of Urine

The cultural exchange in my family is something I love. We tell stories and surprise each other with our varied experiences and perspectives. Some stories are far more entertaining than others. Jorge-Mario is my sister's domestic-partner-husbandish-person, who is called Jorge-Mario because there were so many Jorges in his family that they had to distinguish them somehow. I don't even think Mario is his middle name; it was just made up so they could quit calling him Jorge Number Seventeen. My favorite story thus far from Jorge-Mario about life in Guatemala? The Bags of Urine story. He gave me permission to recount that story here and prove how much my sense of humor revolves around the toilet. You know, in case that wasn't already self-evident.

Jorge-Mario:

Where I grew up, people were crazy about soccer. Loco. Totally nuts. You think I get passionate during my soccer games when I tell the goalie he's a worthless piece of shit? That's nothing. Nothing.

When I was eight years old, two years after I moved back to Guatemala from L.A., I went to a soccer game at a big stadium with my cousin Beto. He got us what I thought were really good seats, right down next to the field. But Beto was nervous about the seats. He'd had gone to a game before, and warned me that when he said to move, I should move. He didn't tell me where to move, just that I should move.

At this stadium, there was barbed wire along the top of the fence separating the stands from the players. See, people get so into the game that they've been known to climb the fence and get onto the field. They put up barbed wire to keep everybody in the stands.

So we were watching the game, and all of a sudden, after one side made a goal, fireworks started going off. In the stands. It sounded like gunfire, and I was pretty scared until I figured out it was fireworks. After a quick glance over his shoulder, Beto suddenly shoved me. "Move!" he said. I was staring at the fireworks, wondering if the stadium was going to catch on fire. "Move!" he said again, but I was mesmerized.

And then I found out why I should have moved. Okay, you're not going to believe me, but I'm not kidding: there were BAGS OF URINE, raining down from the seats above us. They were trying to hit the players, but the pissed off (ha ha!) spectators were already so piss-drunk (ha ha!) that they had terrible aim. They would pee into plastic grocery bags, tie them off, and throw them at the field. But they kept getting caught on the barbed wire and it was suddenly raining urine on me.

That was my first experience at a professional soccer game, and I've been hooked ever since.

If you ask me really nicely in the comments, I will recount the Second Floating Turd Story from a Surf-n-Swim outing when I was a kid. That particular version had to replace the Original Floating Turd Story because the Original version would only embarrass the parties involved, and I am above embarrassing other people. Embarrassing myself, however, is clearly not a concern.

In Case You Hadn't Heard

One of the things I really enjoy about living in Oregon is the spectrum. Right here, in this one state, we have legislators who tell gay folks to shut up and compare Oregon to Nazi Germany by virtue of its anti-discrimination law. There are fierce and ongoing legal battles about the afore-mentioned anti-discrimination law and statewide domestic partnership rights. And now, Oregon is home to a widely publicized transgender pregnancy, the original story appearing in the 4/8/08 Advocate. [I've fixed the link that apparently wasn't working when I first made this post.]

Blogs I follow that have commented:
* Recovering Straight Girl on 3/25/08
* Stumptown Girl on 3/26/08
* Firecracker! on Lesbiatopia on 3/27/08
* More from Recovering Straight Girl on 3/28/08

What I find most striking is not that a transmale is pregnant, nor that he and his wife are afforded federal protections because they are legally married. Nor am I surprised that they have encountered significant discrimination and lack of support.

What is interesting to me is that legal gender identity, personal sexual and gender identities, and interpersonal identities intersect in interesting and unique ways. This situation, and the resulting discussions, cause me to reflect on the importance and relevance of my undergraduate degree in Women's/Gender Studies. I spent much of my early- to mid-twenties unpacking and assessing matters of gender, social "reading" of bodies, identification, and meaning.

In both my undergraduate program and in law school, the greatest lessons I gained with my diplomas was that THERE IS SO DAMN MUCH THAT I JUST DON'T KNOW. Gaining comfort with that level of ignorance, without settling into complacency, is an ongoing and humbling experience that has provided an entry into connection and compassion with my fellow beings whose life experiences differ from or parallel my own. It's an imperfect comfort, and is often more riddled with fits and starts than endowed with a smooth glide into true connection. But ultimately, I consider the journey one of the most precious aspects of my life thus far. One teacher in particular, S.Pace, is and was a key catalyst for that journey. To her, I am deeply and eternally grateful.

Kudos to the parents-to-be in Bend for their candor, and best wishes for a smooth birth experience for their child, expected in July 08.

Stretching our concepts of reality to include the experiences of others is one of the most blessed opportunities of being human.

Not About Courage

So I really set myself up, making my last blog post about courage and then saying I'd dig deeper in my next post. The result? Waiting 16 days to post again.

The only way I could compel myself to compose today was by giving myself permission to break with the whole courage bit (how cowardly!) and just put something, anything, up. I'll get back to courage when I can stomach the thought of going there. My reticence shows me how I'm not ready to really explore what I had intended and that itself is further food for courageous thought and action.

In the mean time, enjoy this important piece about the Christian Gene. What do these findings mean to you? Should a person be held responsible for something that is genetic? What kinds of religio-engineering processes should be ethically permitted?



Yeah. This one's definitely NOT about courage. Au contraire.

Courage Part One

Eleven years ago I told my then-partner that I wanted to get a pet snake and overcome my intense fear of slithery creatures. What did I get for Solstice that year? You guessed it. I didn't mean I wanted to get a pet snake quite so soon. It was more of an in-the-future idea and one that I expected to tackle myself, not through a holiday gift. At the time, I felt freaked out and slightly resentful, although simultaneously invigorated with what was probably adrenaline. All of a sudden I was responsible for this living being whose mere existence caused me heart palpitations and sweaty palms.

I named my snake Hygeiea and she was a wonderful companion. After about a year, she went many places with me, wrapped around my neck for warmth. She and I were connected, and I continued to explore my own associations with snakes and serpents as "male" in juxtaposition to ancient traditions of snakes representing femininity. During Hygeiea's growth spurts she would shed her skin once a month, during the same time I was menstruating. I felt a profound systerhood and strong Knowing during those times.

Additionally, the life-death cycle played out in my tiny one-bedroom apartment when my partner acquired another snake and we began breeding rats rather than buy pinky rats to feed our snakes from the pet store. Now, years later, I revisit the conflicting emotions of seeing the mama rat frantic, pressed against the glass, whiskers quivering, as we fed her babies to our snakes in the other room. It is an image that haunts me. Life-death-life-death-life. It was intense.

What ended up happening to Hygeiea, some time after that partnership ended, is another story entirely, and ultimately one of liberation and joy. But the experience of caring for her was perhaps the first time I realized that my inner strength and ability to delve into new, terrifying realms is deep, wide, and mysterious.

Where am I going with this? I'm not sure. But I'll dig deeper in the next post.

Random Peeps

One of my favorite things about blogging is to watch what search engine queries lead the poor unsuspecting searcher to my ever-random and undeniably self-indulgent webspot. Ah, sitemeter, thank you for feeding my voyeurism.

Dirty Eggs gets the most hits because somebody tagged it "cock" on a del.icio.us page, and apparently google sends people there for "how roosters fertilize eggs" and "chickens don't have penis" and "chicken eggs vagina or ass." Internet rovers are so curious! Just a few months ago, I ran the same searches trying to find out how to spell cloacae. The cycle of internet life continues.

S*x Reading and Mainstream S*x Stories also get hit, usually from ISPs in India and Indonesia and Ithaca, probably because people living in places with names beginning in the letter I are more prone to search for sex stories on the internet than people from Latvia or Liberia or Lafayette. Or so goes my theory of the moment.

Those who accidentally stumble across me don't usually stay long. Their desires for hot erotica unsatisfied, clickity-click, and off they go. I'm not sure what the chicken-seekers think.
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Moved Me

When I watched this video today, I felt so much. My reaction was visceral and more profound than anything I've felt for an exceptionally long time. Perhaps ever. Sitting with my love at our dining room table, bearing witness via YouTube, tears streaming down our cheeks - it made for an incredible Sunday morning. I may write more about my reaction later, but for now, I'll simply hold this out as a humble offering. Maybe it will move you too.



Something else that moved me: Waking up early on Tuesday morning, the first day of the bar exam, padding into the kitchen to turn on the gas fireplace and make coffee, glancing out the sliding glass door, and seeing a beautiful bouquet of flowers, left for me by an incredible friend at 5am. I love to feel love.