“Then said Jesus unto them, Be not afraid…”


“Die in a fire, faggot!” “Kill yourself!” I laugh with them as they read through the comments on their videos.  Peppered into the laughter are statements of disregard for those who say these things. Disregard certainly painted on as armor; layer-by-layer, with each comment, each look of disgust, each rejection.

But why? How does Jeffree Starr’s pink hair and outrageous behavior affect someone’s sense-of-being so much that they want him to die?  How does Manny MUA’s winged eyeliner and just-a-little-too-orange foundation make someone tell him to hang himself? I know people who think this way. Feel this way. I have disassociated myself from most of them, but the nature of my job as a crisis worker often puts me eye-to-eye with statements like those above. I have asked the question; Why? I have never gotten a real answer. “The bible says so!” “It’s not natural!” “It’s just creepy.” I take particular exception to those who wave the bible while spewing their bullshit. I {unfortunately-but that is a blog for another day} went to a Christian school and Sunday school for many years. I even went to church camp. I know what the bible says, and doesn’t say. I also know those same people wave that bible, don’t live the teachings of the book. None of them are spewing their venom at divorced people, or people who didn’t wait until marriage for sex, or cheaters.

I believe everyone does everything for a reason. Why does one person just think, “Ok, too weird for me.” and change the channel, or pray for Jeffree Starr’s soul, while another takes the time to type something hateful, or even threatening? My opinion; anger is their armor. Armor built of fear of things that are weird or different, causing feelings of discomfort. “Fucking Faggot,” gets out that discomfort. Puts you on the offense. Quickly dismisses any actual consideration of that person as a fellow human with a life, a story. Quickly dismisses the possibility that maybe you share similarities. Quickly dismisses your mind from wandering to places you fear.

 

Xena, Make Feminism Great Again!

So I am sitting here watching Xena reruns.  Xena and Gabrielle are visiting India and come across a woman about to be thrown into a fire because her husband has died and it is custom that she join him.

Sati (also called suttee) is the practice among some Hindu communities by which a recently widowed woman either voluntarily or by use of force or coercion commits suicide as a result of her husband’s death. The best known form of sati is when a woman burns to death on her husband’s funeral pyre.

Just when you think women have come a long way… here comes Trump to remind us that we still belong slim, pretty,  and quiet, with easy-to-grab pussies.

Do the words “feminist” and “feminism” raise your hackles, or even worse, make you chuckle or scoff?   Have you ever thought about why?  Not gonna lie, those words used to piss me the fuck off. I thought I was an anti-feminist because I DO think mothers should be home with their babies. I DO think women should create a happy, warm home for their families.  And I believe that humans are more content when traditional gender roles are respected.

But guess what?  I AM A FEMINIST! Because I ALSO believe that women should make the same pay as men. Women should be able to walk down a street without being harassed (Catcalls are NOT compliments! They are displays of dominance!).  Women should be able to have a couple drinks and wear a short skirt without worrying about being raped, and then blamed for it.

“Just grab her by the pussy.”  Words that I keep seeing people defend as “just words,” “locker room talk,” “not any different from 50 Shades of Grey.”  Let’s pretend they were just words and not bragging about actions that actually happen (Because Trump supporters seem to hate that whole “reality” thing).  You want the leader of your country to talk like that?  You want your children to look up to, and admire him?  You want your little boys to grow up and say, “Look at that at pig.  That other one is pretty hot, though. I’ll just grab her by the pussy and let her know what’s up?”  You want your little girls to grow up and say, “Well, I mean, he’s super rich. Maybe if I  let him grab me by the pussy, I can be rich too!!??”

Is that what you really want? I want my son to love, respect, cherish, and defend women from pricks who go around grabbing pussies and calling women bitches and pigs.  And I want my daughter to be able to go out there and make her own damn money.  I want her to walk around her city without fear.  I want her to go to parties without bringing her own special cup with a lid to avoid being roofied from the locker-room-talk guys.

I’m happy that if my husband dies, I won’t get thrown into a fire.  But I’d be even happier

 

 

 

Disarray

Sometimes there is just a perfect word to describe something.

This is the first quarter of grad school where I have realized that grad school is no joke.  I am certain that’s how they get ya. It starts out all nice and kinda fun and easier than you expected, and then BLAM!!!!!!!, you are in too deep to get out and it’s taking over your life. Welcome to crack… I mean… grad school. In addition to my mountain of papers and discussion posts, our fridge died (which has somehow caused our entire house to be torn apart and our healthy eating has gone to shit), my mother is up visiting from Nashville, and work cases have been far more intense and heartbreaking than usual,  and to top it all off we had to put my husband’s beloved elderly dog to sleep.  Everything really needs to just PIPE THE FUCK DOWN for a bit.

Heading over to visit with Mom (who is staying on the coast in a cute little cottage) tomorrow. and while I can’t completely relax because I have school work to do, I don’t have to be in this house of horrors or deal with any crises, so I am calling it a vacation.  It’s all in the words.

Angergy

I was warned.

Before my 4-day intensive residency program for my MSW program, my friend and co-worker, Emily, told me that it would get me all fired up and excited about social work.  I rolled my eyes and assured her that it would be painful and the longest 4 days of my life.  Emily is just good people. One of those positive, ‘rah-rah- GO TEAM!!’ people that we all wish we could be instead of the snarky, eye-rolling bitches that we mostly are. And by we, I obviously mean me 😉  So Emily telling me that I was going to love it, really didn’t hold a lot of water. Sorry, Emily.  lol

Well damnit, she was right.

Every class for those 4 days left me feeling like I need to DO SOMETHING!!  MAKE A CHANGE!! Opening day we had speakers talking about the importance of social work on the macro-level.  BIG CHANGES…. LAW changes…. POLICY changes… FIGHTING FOR CIVIL RIGHTS CHANGES!  I barely waited until the break before texting Jessi to tell her that I believe she is a social worker at heart.  She LIVES to argue for change and, while right now it’s just limited to social media and in-person stuff, I KNOW she has it in her to change the world.

By the end of the 4 days, I had decided that in the interest of personal growth, I needed to do some work, and perhaps my field experience, working with those victims of domestic violence.  The reason?  Well… there was a long pause just now before I could bring myself to type the word “victims,” because, I don’t see women as victims. I see destructive choices that hurt children, and themselves.  I have done a lot of soul-searching since I made that

decision, and while this is something I need to continue thinking about, I don’t think I can do my field experience in that type of situation at this time in my life.  I do work with people from time-to-time as a crisis worker who are in domestic violence situations, and I honestly have no trouble with it.  I have empathy for them, and am fully there with them in that moment.  But when I don’t have a person in front of me living that life, I have a pretty strong bias.

Our final small-group project was to pick an issue and do a 15 minute PowerPoint presentation.  We chose to present on veteran suicide because of all the recent press with the 22 pushups a day challenges to represent the 22 veterans a day who commit suicide.  We slayed our presentation, and I learned a lot from a veteran in our group about military culture and the struggles they face when they come home, and it has me sooooooooo pissed off.  One odd fact that I didn’t know is that the suicide rate is higher for veteran’s who DON’T get sent to fight!  And there doesn’t seem to be an explanation for this anywhere?

OK… I will stop rambling now, because I could easily continue, and talk about rape culture…. elder abuse…. sex trafficking….  racism….  SO MANY THINGS BOUNCING AROUND IN MY HEAD!!

Good thing I am back to exercising to burn off some of this angergy.  <—– HAHA New word!!