I've been having more "I love New York" moments than not in recent weeks, largely due to the full knowledge of my leaving, and the electricity that has brought to my life. But suddenly the past 2 days have been more in the vein of "get out" than before. The clearest moment of this was Sunday night, at Miss Lez. Might I say that the performances were amazing and hysterical; it was spectacularly wonderful entertainment. But the evening's merits end there. There was something emblematic of the evening, the side of the city that you remember has been carving scars into you and those you love since the day you arrived. While the pageant was its own showcase of "lez" absurdity and hyper-sexuality in the city, there was a more tragic piece of the city on display, at least for me.
There's a lot of people's personal shit that is not my right to call out in any detailed form, but there were certain tension points in the evening that were undeniably harsh. The best way for me to speak of it in sum is to note that the night had a whole lot of gay scene, with almost no single strand of queer community (barring the crowd-sourced "it gets better" video murray hill solicited from the audience, will be looking forward to that one on youtube, as well as a couple shining moments from contestants). On the darker side of the evening though, there were instances of such serious sadness that I was fucking overwhelmed. For one, when the show was over, it was nowhere near over. There's something about the queer performance space that always jars me a bit, and maybe it's a little bit more like New York. I can get through movies without hating the actor that portrays the villain because in some way I have the hope or belief that in reality, they're a decent person who could probably level with you. To see the intense flocking post-show end of self-congratulating, perpetuated egoism and ass-kissing made my skin crawl. Too many people were not "turning it off" because this is what they've actually become in this city; there's a reason why queers have so many performance names, because social interactions have become a stage.
There was also dramatic tensions from bad blood. The implications of a masculine-presenting person threatening past violence putting others in very bad headspaces, the presence of past lovers, not just stressful due to awkward nearness, but outright directly impeding on people because some people thought this was the perfect night for confrontation. Nasty statements heard here and there, expectant glances from people who thought you owed them something, or looked at you with some great hope you had felt them place on you years before. Gossip, and worry, and vanity. Violence, and sexual baggage, and addiction.
And I think all the awkwardness, and the terribleness, and the sad angry tears that some were hiding would just be a proto-typical bad night, if it weren't for the remarkable reflection of what was happening on stage. There was a level of celebrating this terribly unhealthy way of being in the performances. Alcoholism was given a wink and nod by the host and part of performance pieces while people near you, touchable, were launching into deep dark drinking corners. Self-obsession was touted as a gimmick by multiple contestants while persons around launched into bouts of egoism and self-gain, conveying minimal warmth and love to those who supposedly "mattered." A worship of the masculine and the immense entitlement that goes with it crowned the winner, while certain butches and transguys hung around smirking with bravado and emboldened with entitled rage mistaken as power. Jokes about u-hauls, and co-dependency and body image issues and gender exploratory issues were dished out often without any self-aware tone, and after looking to those around you with those same struggles, I wondered who are these jokes for, who am I supposedly "laughing with?"
I cannot stress enough how important humor is to me, and that I really can't take people seriously who don't know how to laugh at themselves. But the premise behind that humor has been a lot of the times a means of stepping away and really having some better understanding of what the hell is going on, and why it may actually be fucked up, and hell, may even need to CHANGE. George Bush jokes are FUNNY because we needed that mother fucker OUT of the white house, not because we wanted him there forever to tickle our funny bone. And that's where I got kind of sad, because as entertaining as the night was, that's all it was. No real called out masculine entitlement, no real call for better lives without addiciton and co-dependency, no real warmth and connection once the curtain came down, just more show-stopping gimmick, and costume, and self-congratulation, and ego inflation and boozing and worry and avoidance and social climbing and lovers' guilt and desperate want and violence and dare I say, the theme of the evening, feminine objectification without enough analysis, ownership and politik?
I went home feeling that the fondest moment of the evening for me was the chicken and shrimp tacos I got from Yola's, real, warm, invigorating, feeding my stomache and soul. I went home saying to myself "this is why you're leaving New York" because sometimes, in the agonizing search for worth, in the desperate plea that was why so many of us "transplants" came here, so expectant of New York being this huge means to our new shiny happiness, we sold ourselves and our struggles and our pains, for farce.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Return of Saturn, High School and Punk Rock
Sometimes you plan on being far more prolific than you actually manage to be. For this blog, I have way more drafts than posts. Oops. C'est la vie, my "final year" in New York turned into 3 months, I've flown to San Fran a ton and frankly, there's a lot to do to leave a city this way. I resigned myself to probably not posting any more, until last night.
I was planning on doing a huge horrah after my last day of work, possibly hitting up multiple queer parties and "living it up." Yet, when I got home, I started diving into my old pop punk to hopefully create some kind of mix for my going away party Thursday, and it was over from there. Perusing some of the awful pop punk I used to listen to was laughable, even embarrassing at times. There were some standard favorites, the sort I could still love now (and plan to include in my mix), but some were just abysmal. Awful songs, cliche and sometimes just shitty. I also started noting which were still the most tolerable to hear now, the faster ones, the ones most likely to talk about people and dancing and laughing. But it wasn't always like that, I was always that kid drawn even in the punk world to the cheesy ballad, the lower tempo drawn out emo whine, on repeat, until 2 in the morning. The ones that are the most painful to hear now were my favorites then.
And then by means of inertia, I was out of the punk world and back into my old pre-punk music. It wasn't necessarily chronologically directly before I started listening to punk, but just the music that was more in line with the aesthetic of that drab 90s rock. You know, the kind you play really loud locked up in your bedroom, sprawled on your bed waiting for the music to just swallow you. It was really fitting when I got into astrology to find how much water is in my chart and that I'm a Cancer, cause I used to always say my favorite music was like water, washing over me. And for years in middle and high school, I would lie in my room waiting for the music to wash me away. That, or for when college started.
And that was the shocking moment for me last night, beyond embarrassment, hearing a lot of this old music was in such stark contrast to the life I've built now. Less concerned that it would "taint" me or pull me "back down" to those places it was more of a window to a version of myself that I realize I was finally able to strip away when I came to New York. Who was that person?
Teenage depression in the 90s has become a cliche, you forget how much it really drove your life, if you can even call it driving. Swathed in white American privilege and damn lucky I was as smart as I was, I pulled off A's despite 3 hours sleep on most nights and a commitment to apathy regarding any studies; somehow I had a way out. But if you wanted to epitomize what I did in high school, I would never say "studied hard" or "got in trouble" or partied, nor would I say I was very social, and let's not even talk about dating. No, if I could epitomize what I did in high school it was "feeling" - stuck in my little bubble I consumed music in a way that I'm beyond ashamed to admit now. There's probably distinct parallels with others, but there's no knowing that when you're in it. In hindsight, probably had everything and anything to do with being queer, having an awkward relationship with my body, trans-masculine spectrum, hyper-privilege, the other spectrum, alcoholic household, parents, 90s cynicism, the economy, society, etc. But the realization of any of these determining factors is a paradox itself: if you knew, you had a foot out.
I didn't set out to talk about depression, and I'm going to try to say something very neat about it because I have other things to say. The current streak of suicides really stresses me, not just because it is terrible, but even moreso because there are ways in which I can't relate. My depression was never such a direct anxiety that I ever wanted to end myself; there was never a 1:1 correlation of, I am gay and that is bad so I am bad and must stop being. The only ending I was ready for was when it hit senior year that everything was about to change and I could go with it or insist on remaining the kid holed up in my room. I chose the former, and more than anything, knew it was a choice, and consider my 18th year to be the closest thing to rebirth I will ever taste.
I've "purged" a lot of my things recently, and the next week is going to really, really suck as I pack and mail everything. A big part of this process is deciding to get rid of the mass majority of my books. I realize the old ones choke me with obligation that intensely suppresses my drive to keep reading; they hold me back. Instead, the more books that find a welcome home, the better I feel; it was the right choice. But last night, going through my digital tome of music I realized the intense anxiety of losing this or that album, even if I could never ever listen to it again. My old bedroom is gone, as well as my belongings, but the music is still there. I don't have time for another "purge" as I need to deal with physical objects right now, but it is something I will have to consider when I get to the bay.
My return of Saturn is in theory right now, and I will never know if that is the "reason" or really just the conducive environment for all these shifts. This is the time people quit smoking, stop drinking, get married, have a kid...you know, those big life change things that were somehow not addressable until this moment. Yes, I do finally see myself as an adult, moving across the country, considering a car, a house, a life; but if anything truly cathartic about this experience is hitting me, it's losing that kid laid out sadly and without agency in that bedroom. I like to say quite often that "punk rock saved my life" because it's cheesy, and absurd, but because it also is in some way true. It pulled me out of that "feeling bubble" to a new relation to my body, and motion, and people and connection. And so, however cheesy and absurd it is at times, it's mostly the only older music of mine I can still listen to, being integral to this rebirth.
The main exception to this rule (regarding what I can still listen to) would be Third Eye Blind's self-titled; it always had an edge to it, a plea to get out; it was an intensely self-aware album that something is awry and there's better out there, but Jenkins is swimming in too much hurt to find a way. Which is what makes the album's crowning achievement "Motorcycle Drive By." I just might have listened to this gem several times last night; it's the moment you finally step away from it, and it hits you how that self-perpetuating shitstorm that was your mental state was toxic.
It's knowing that you're leaving New York, for real, and a lot of that baggage of status and image and family and the grips of the city can all be let go of, and it's triumphant. It's the ownership that you can find a better way of living, and you have to be your own determiner of that, like you've always ever been. It's breaking up with New York, dumping it, and changing your number so it doesn't call again, except maybe for a catch-up brunch in a few months after you've both moved on. It's the purge, it's the catharsis, it's the moment you realize you will never again be that kid because you've so definitively changed your life for it to be impossible. It's pandora's box, except for happiness and what you want and need and deserve and are within the right and ability to ask for, and get.
I was planning on doing a huge horrah after my last day of work, possibly hitting up multiple queer parties and "living it up." Yet, when I got home, I started diving into my old pop punk to hopefully create some kind of mix for my going away party Thursday, and it was over from there. Perusing some of the awful pop punk I used to listen to was laughable, even embarrassing at times. There were some standard favorites, the sort I could still love now (and plan to include in my mix), but some were just abysmal. Awful songs, cliche and sometimes just shitty. I also started noting which were still the most tolerable to hear now, the faster ones, the ones most likely to talk about people and dancing and laughing. But it wasn't always like that, I was always that kid drawn even in the punk world to the cheesy ballad, the lower tempo drawn out emo whine, on repeat, until 2 in the morning. The ones that are the most painful to hear now were my favorites then.
And then by means of inertia, I was out of the punk world and back into my old pre-punk music. It wasn't necessarily chronologically directly before I started listening to punk, but just the music that was more in line with the aesthetic of that drab 90s rock. You know, the kind you play really loud locked up in your bedroom, sprawled on your bed waiting for the music to just swallow you. It was really fitting when I got into astrology to find how much water is in my chart and that I'm a Cancer, cause I used to always say my favorite music was like water, washing over me. And for years in middle and high school, I would lie in my room waiting for the music to wash me away. That, or for when college started.
And that was the shocking moment for me last night, beyond embarrassment, hearing a lot of this old music was in such stark contrast to the life I've built now. Less concerned that it would "taint" me or pull me "back down" to those places it was more of a window to a version of myself that I realize I was finally able to strip away when I came to New York. Who was that person?
Teenage depression in the 90s has become a cliche, you forget how much it really drove your life, if you can even call it driving. Swathed in white American privilege and damn lucky I was as smart as I was, I pulled off A's despite 3 hours sleep on most nights and a commitment to apathy regarding any studies; somehow I had a way out. But if you wanted to epitomize what I did in high school, I would never say "studied hard" or "got in trouble" or partied, nor would I say I was very social, and let's not even talk about dating. No, if I could epitomize what I did in high school it was "feeling" - stuck in my little bubble I consumed music in a way that I'm beyond ashamed to admit now. There's probably distinct parallels with others, but there's no knowing that when you're in it. In hindsight, probably had everything and anything to do with being queer, having an awkward relationship with my body, trans-masculine spectrum, hyper-privilege, the other spectrum, alcoholic household, parents, 90s cynicism, the economy, society, etc. But the realization of any of these determining factors is a paradox itself: if you knew, you had a foot out.
I didn't set out to talk about depression, and I'm going to try to say something very neat about it because I have other things to say. The current streak of suicides really stresses me, not just because it is terrible, but even moreso because there are ways in which I can't relate. My depression was never such a direct anxiety that I ever wanted to end myself; there was never a 1:1 correlation of, I am gay and that is bad so I am bad and must stop being. The only ending I was ready for was when it hit senior year that everything was about to change and I could go with it or insist on remaining the kid holed up in my room. I chose the former, and more than anything, knew it was a choice, and consider my 18th year to be the closest thing to rebirth I will ever taste.
I've "purged" a lot of my things recently, and the next week is going to really, really suck as I pack and mail everything. A big part of this process is deciding to get rid of the mass majority of my books. I realize the old ones choke me with obligation that intensely suppresses my drive to keep reading; they hold me back. Instead, the more books that find a welcome home, the better I feel; it was the right choice. But last night, going through my digital tome of music I realized the intense anxiety of losing this or that album, even if I could never ever listen to it again. My old bedroom is gone, as well as my belongings, but the music is still there. I don't have time for another "purge" as I need to deal with physical objects right now, but it is something I will have to consider when I get to the bay.
My return of Saturn is in theory right now, and I will never know if that is the "reason" or really just the conducive environment for all these shifts. This is the time people quit smoking, stop drinking, get married, have a kid...you know, those big life change things that were somehow not addressable until this moment. Yes, I do finally see myself as an adult, moving across the country, considering a car, a house, a life; but if anything truly cathartic about this experience is hitting me, it's losing that kid laid out sadly and without agency in that bedroom. I like to say quite often that "punk rock saved my life" because it's cheesy, and absurd, but because it also is in some way true. It pulled me out of that "feeling bubble" to a new relation to my body, and motion, and people and connection. And so, however cheesy and absurd it is at times, it's mostly the only older music of mine I can still listen to, being integral to this rebirth.
The main exception to this rule (regarding what I can still listen to) would be Third Eye Blind's self-titled; it always had an edge to it, a plea to get out; it was an intensely self-aware album that something is awry and there's better out there, but Jenkins is swimming in too much hurt to find a way. Which is what makes the album's crowning achievement "Motorcycle Drive By." I just might have listened to this gem several times last night; it's the moment you finally step away from it, and it hits you how that self-perpetuating shitstorm that was your mental state was toxic.
It's knowing that you're leaving New York, for real, and a lot of that baggage of status and image and family and the grips of the city can all be let go of, and it's triumphant. It's the ownership that you can find a better way of living, and you have to be your own determiner of that, like you've always ever been. It's breaking up with New York, dumping it, and changing your number so it doesn't call again, except maybe for a catch-up brunch in a few months after you've both moved on. It's the purge, it's the catharsis, it's the moment you realize you will never again be that kid because you've so definitively changed your life for it to be impossible. It's pandora's box, except for happiness and what you want and need and deserve and are within the right and ability to ask for, and get.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Constructive
I've written two posts since my last published one that I won't be putting here. The first I consider destructive, critical and judgy. I was upset about queers treating each other badly, and I was calling out such behaviors (anonymously/not specifically speaking).
The second post I consider de-constructive, breaking down why I wrote the first one, pondering on how I over-think my emotions and my choices and general indecisiveness. I have now chosen to also abstain from publishing this one as well, though the process of writing was helpful.
But I rather hold this project to more constructive ends. To building, to growth, to love and to art. There has been some great people in this city that I am enjoying solidifying friendships with. A close college friend just got back from a summer in San Francisco and I'm really excited to have another person in the neighborhood with which to checkout queer events and to explore the city by bike. And dare I say, Queer Field Day was amazing; seeing so many separate queer collective houses come together so fabulously with such theatricality warmed the heart. There's a lot of great queer experiences, spaces and people still in this city yet to meet and know, and while I'm not in the "get new friends" mode as I anticipate leaving this city, it's nice to still keeping investing in the people here. The more the reality of moving settles in for me, the more i understand that I'll still have a lot of New York to come back to. I see more now that really, I can leave here and move to San Francisco as planned, and start my life there, without abandoning or forgetting or forsaking this city. Bouncing from this event to the next by bike and enjoying recent rooftop adventures, rock shows and warm households has re-invigorated my faith in the community here. I know I'm coming to a point of separation with the city, but I've also come to terms with the fact that my frustration and anger have largely subsided (with the exception of my employment situation).
I've done a lot the past few weeks; one huge thing is that I've committed to making my bike my main non-commute means of transportation. It is so freeing to use this to get around; time never feels wasted like it does on a subway car, traveling by bike is always a joy and my connection with my body is stronger than its been in months. This has resulted in several charmed nights where I've bounced from party to show to communal gathering, seeing the many sides of punk new york, queer new york and my already well established friends. I feel blessed to find this balanced way to peruse social gatherings while maintaining the personal autonomy of coming and going as I please, and the gorgeous solitude of bike rides across Brooklyn.
And so I promise to keep such a spirit up, in my life and on this little project.
- D
The second post I consider de-constructive, breaking down why I wrote the first one, pondering on how I over-think my emotions and my choices and general indecisiveness. I have now chosen to also abstain from publishing this one as well, though the process of writing was helpful.
But I rather hold this project to more constructive ends. To building, to growth, to love and to art. There has been some great people in this city that I am enjoying solidifying friendships with. A close college friend just got back from a summer in San Francisco and I'm really excited to have another person in the neighborhood with which to checkout queer events and to explore the city by bike. And dare I say, Queer Field Day was amazing; seeing so many separate queer collective houses come together so fabulously with such theatricality warmed the heart. There's a lot of great queer experiences, spaces and people still in this city yet to meet and know, and while I'm not in the "get new friends" mode as I anticipate leaving this city, it's nice to still keeping investing in the people here. The more the reality of moving settles in for me, the more i understand that I'll still have a lot of New York to come back to. I see more now that really, I can leave here and move to San Francisco as planned, and start my life there, without abandoning or forgetting or forsaking this city. Bouncing from this event to the next by bike and enjoying recent rooftop adventures, rock shows and warm households has re-invigorated my faith in the community here. I know I'm coming to a point of separation with the city, but I've also come to terms with the fact that my frustration and anger have largely subsided (with the exception of my employment situation).
I've done a lot the past few weeks; one huge thing is that I've committed to making my bike my main non-commute means of transportation. It is so freeing to use this to get around; time never feels wasted like it does on a subway car, traveling by bike is always a joy and my connection with my body is stronger than its been in months. This has resulted in several charmed nights where I've bounced from party to show to communal gathering, seeing the many sides of punk new york, queer new york and my already well established friends. I feel blessed to find this balanced way to peruse social gatherings while maintaining the personal autonomy of coming and going as I please, and the gorgeous solitude of bike rides across Brooklyn.
And so I promise to keep such a spirit up, in my life and on this little project.
- D
Friday, August 6, 2010
Queering the Straights
When I initially came to Brooklyn, I had a lot of expectation for the neighborhood to which I was moving. "East Williamsburg," or rather Bushwick, held some promise to continue a lot of my college lifestyle, sense of community and though I was not an artist some immersion in a creatively subversive world. Somehow, this never really panned out. There's something about New York that really silos you; you come driven with some purpose, yet find all too often that in turn you're surrounded by a less diverse group of people, other that those that fir your "niche." Where did the artists, the musicians, the philosophers, the geeks go in my life? If they were in Bushwick, I wasn't finding them, but then again I wasn't exactly looking.
Year One, as I call it, had one focus: gay party. The scene burned me out and I learned quickly how a lot of billyburg queers are more scene acquaintances than friends. Afterwards I lived with my parents for a few months to break away from the cycle and the BS and I came back to the city to find a higher caliber of queer. It worked and I have a far more solid sense of who I am and who and what matters now.
Yet, there's something about the NYC party that is relentless, and it seems that although I am "over it" I can't help but find myself at one pretty often. I've been anxious about it before, anxious to leave, anxious to call into old habits, expectations, both on myself and the party. But somehow this past Saturday I was able to let a lot of it go when I did so again.
Granted, there were particulars of the evening that made it an unusual night from the start. My close friend Christina that I've known since elementary school was in town and I had agreed to go to a Bushwick "art party" with the likelihood of doing some "Molly" (pure MDMA, main drug in ecstacy). I haven't done anything outside of pt and booze in years so I knew to be ready for a "strangeness" from the chemical. I made a conscientious decision beforehand to be observant and relaxed with no expectations on the night, and this choice proved to be fruitful. For a good amount of the party Christina and I sat to the side on comfortable couches taking in the party and its participants. Running into another old college friend of ours, Drake, and his friends, we all sat together, self-chosen wallflowers. Drake griped a little about the party, how these series of parties used to be more interesting and subversive and how they had come diluted with hordes of douchie, yuppy, coke-heads. I told him to pause and consider why exactly he came to the party, what his expectations were, what exactly the art was he was looking for. He gave descriptions of old art installations these parties used to have, and I asserted to him that whatever the parties were before, for now the parties' art installations WERE the hordes of people. You came to see the masses, the ebb and flow of expectation, disappointment, the chase to find the party within the party. To this he laughed audibly and agreed, making me smile a bit to know that he got it.
The night progressed and Christina, still high, was grateful that I could be cognizant of things around us, as there was an off-moment where a seemingly predatory cis-male was bothering her as she was absorbed in her couch-sitting. A little after that incident, we met up with Tom and his crew. Tom was who we initially came to party with and he was making it a habit of going out every weekend and rolling, so I was wary of him from the start, though knew I trusted myself enough to handle him since I've known him for years. During the height of the night Tom, his crew and Christina were all crashing off the Molly (since I had taken such a small amount and was never really high, there was no "crash" for me). Tom, chasing after the high, bought more and tried to push it onto Christina. He was also simultaneously trying to get Christina to hookup with his friend Bill, who was out of his mind high.
Now, Christina was clearly incredibly uncomfortable, to which I reminded her that she was in control and her choice was her own. It took a lot of self-control on my part to not go off on Tom, but I knew confrontation with him, particularly in his state, would not be welcome or effective. And besides, I knew at the core of the situation, what was crucial in that moment was Christina standing up to Tom. Too often have I seen the pattern where he has manipulated her to a point of clear discomfort. I'm happy I could be there, squeezing her elbow as a reminder that it was not on her to absorb his will, even as he tried to push the pill for a third god-damned time into her hand. She was firm and TOm and his drug crew went back to the dance floor as we went back to a comfortable spot to watch the waves of people move from room to room, chasing the night for something fun, hot or eccentric.
We had a good talk the whole night, and particularly after that incident about the drug pushing and the lack of boundary recognition from Tom. We chatted about his pattern, needing to always be in control. I brought up to her the notion of radical consent, where the only "yes" is an emphatic one, rather than the mere absence of "no." It was striking to see that even though this is conventionally a concept about consensual sex, she had never heard of it.
The night ended late and well. We left "early" relative to the rest of the party and Christina, at this point sober, drove home. I was home, metallic taste in my mouth, eerily awake at dawn, and buzzing with retrospective concern for if I hadn't been there to support Christina. Those two people, Drake and Christina, have been really important to me for a long time now and I love them both. But I wonder sometimes if my life now is far too queer-separatist to foster deeper friendship with them both, or more pointedly, to foster deeper community. I question how welcome they would be, especially Drake who is a straight cis-male and may not always grasp the sensitivities surrounding queer spaces. There's a lot of angry (rightfully so) queers who I could see jumping down his throat for a simple word mis-use, when in truth I know he's one of the most damned open-minded people I have ever found in my entire life.
In truth, I really consider the two of them Queer, in the Capital Q, sexually, gender-bending, politically-speaking transgressive sense, independent of their heterosexual alignment and their lack of conscious identity with it. The tools we've built as queers to continue to explore and pursue our freedom and transcendence of social expectations, our body-radical ethics, and our sex-positive feminist socio-politics expand beyond our now insulated social circles; these truths are ever the more self-evident in how we live, and ever the more inaccessible to the larger populous. I don't make any claim today to open up our spaces, nor do I diminish the need for safety and community and places to harbor our radical selves in order to perpetuate in a micro-cosm this learning and growth. But I do worry that separatist mentality perpetuates. I know it's summer, which means it's Mich-fest-bashing season. The trans and male-hatred there is a vitriolic emblem of old world feminism, but I think this is the short-term issue, whereas the longer-term concern is the insular notion of the queer sub-culture. Where's the work to really thread into other ("straight") communities the self-empowering notion that we all hold transgressive bodies? Where's the fostering of a queer sex paradigm within a heterosexual partner configuration? Where's the affirmation for the like-minded who may just not have the language semantics and lexicon to grasp what words and triggers and which words are empowering? Do you really plan to eliminate someone from the movement because they may not realize they're flagging fisting switch with that bandana? Have you decided that someone is beyond the capacity to understand or contribute because uninformed they called themselves a bio-male, unaware of the bad blood the term conjures? Have we really still just reached a point to disparage so strongly to a presumably (presumption on OUR part) conventional sexual relationship since it does not fit within the 6,000 permutations of queer-identified, gender-bending, gender-fucking, sex-transgressing, gay-oriented, queer-fuckery and faggotry we get to see within our big queer walls?
I have to caveat this with the acknowledgment that I by no means organize nor do any particular community efforts, either to alleviate this or for queers in general. It's admittedly not necessarily my niche within any group of people, though I wonder if given the right concern...
Nonetheless, I haven't stumbled over much hetero-inclusion, and when I say this I mean beyond the realm of fag-hags and lesbros and your brother that came out to the dance party. I mean conscientious and concerted, organized efforts to queer the straights through education and community inclusion. And when I say queer I do mean Queer, because I'm not including signing on your mom and dad to support gay marriage or assimilationist shit. I'm not talking about homos signing up for the mainstream paradigm, and I'm not talking about making grandma reach a point of "tolerance" for faggots. I'm talking about transformation that extends into heterosexual spaces, those most conducive to it, those who may already actually BE queer in ways you may not initially perceive.
I'm sure its inevitable that someone will try to debunk my observed "rule" with an exception, but just because there's some evidence of someone out there making the attempt to do this work doesn't mean the strong line of separatism and resentment towards straight persons (particularly straight cis-men) isn't worth consideration and a closer look. And I think part of my frustration is not really having my own habits or drive to directly address this. I'm not that sort of social creature to run events and flyer and organize, as I really do take pleasure in being the wallflower finding joy in watching the ebb and flow of bodies and souls. But I do enjoy discourse, and questioning and having those with the energy and drive to build community give me some insight into whether they think about this or agree in any capacity.
- D
Year One, as I call it, had one focus: gay party. The scene burned me out and I learned quickly how a lot of billyburg queers are more scene acquaintances than friends. Afterwards I lived with my parents for a few months to break away from the cycle and the BS and I came back to the city to find a higher caliber of queer. It worked and I have a far more solid sense of who I am and who and what matters now.
Yet, there's something about the NYC party that is relentless, and it seems that although I am "over it" I can't help but find myself at one pretty often. I've been anxious about it before, anxious to leave, anxious to call into old habits, expectations, both on myself and the party. But somehow this past Saturday I was able to let a lot of it go when I did so again.
Granted, there were particulars of the evening that made it an unusual night from the start. My close friend Christina that I've known since elementary school was in town and I had agreed to go to a Bushwick "art party" with the likelihood of doing some "Molly" (pure MDMA, main drug in ecstacy). I haven't done anything outside of pt and booze in years so I knew to be ready for a "strangeness" from the chemical. I made a conscientious decision beforehand to be observant and relaxed with no expectations on the night, and this choice proved to be fruitful. For a good amount of the party Christina and I sat to the side on comfortable couches taking in the party and its participants. Running into another old college friend of ours, Drake, and his friends, we all sat together, self-chosen wallflowers. Drake griped a little about the party, how these series of parties used to be more interesting and subversive and how they had come diluted with hordes of douchie, yuppy, coke-heads. I told him to pause and consider why exactly he came to the party, what his expectations were, what exactly the art was he was looking for. He gave descriptions of old art installations these parties used to have, and I asserted to him that whatever the parties were before, for now the parties' art installations WERE the hordes of people. You came to see the masses, the ebb and flow of expectation, disappointment, the chase to find the party within the party. To this he laughed audibly and agreed, making me smile a bit to know that he got it.
The night progressed and Christina, still high, was grateful that I could be cognizant of things around us, as there was an off-moment where a seemingly predatory cis-male was bothering her as she was absorbed in her couch-sitting. A little after that incident, we met up with Tom and his crew. Tom was who we initially came to party with and he was making it a habit of going out every weekend and rolling, so I was wary of him from the start, though knew I trusted myself enough to handle him since I've known him for years. During the height of the night Tom, his crew and Christina were all crashing off the Molly (since I had taken such a small amount and was never really high, there was no "crash" for me). Tom, chasing after the high, bought more and tried to push it onto Christina. He was also simultaneously trying to get Christina to hookup with his friend Bill, who was out of his mind high.
Now, Christina was clearly incredibly uncomfortable, to which I reminded her that she was in control and her choice was her own. It took a lot of self-control on my part to not go off on Tom, but I knew confrontation with him, particularly in his state, would not be welcome or effective. And besides, I knew at the core of the situation, what was crucial in that moment was Christina standing up to Tom. Too often have I seen the pattern where he has manipulated her to a point of clear discomfort. I'm happy I could be there, squeezing her elbow as a reminder that it was not on her to absorb his will, even as he tried to push the pill for a third god-damned time into her hand. She was firm and TOm and his drug crew went back to the dance floor as we went back to a comfortable spot to watch the waves of people move from room to room, chasing the night for something fun, hot or eccentric.
We had a good talk the whole night, and particularly after that incident about the drug pushing and the lack of boundary recognition from Tom. We chatted about his pattern, needing to always be in control. I brought up to her the notion of radical consent, where the only "yes" is an emphatic one, rather than the mere absence of "no." It was striking to see that even though this is conventionally a concept about consensual sex, she had never heard of it.
The night ended late and well. We left "early" relative to the rest of the party and Christina, at this point sober, drove home. I was home, metallic taste in my mouth, eerily awake at dawn, and buzzing with retrospective concern for if I hadn't been there to support Christina. Those two people, Drake and Christina, have been really important to me for a long time now and I love them both. But I wonder sometimes if my life now is far too queer-separatist to foster deeper friendship with them both, or more pointedly, to foster deeper community. I question how welcome they would be, especially Drake who is a straight cis-male and may not always grasp the sensitivities surrounding queer spaces. There's a lot of angry (rightfully so) queers who I could see jumping down his throat for a simple word mis-use, when in truth I know he's one of the most damned open-minded people I have ever found in my entire life.
In truth, I really consider the two of them Queer, in the Capital Q, sexually, gender-bending, politically-speaking transgressive sense, independent of their heterosexual alignment and their lack of conscious identity with it. The tools we've built as queers to continue to explore and pursue our freedom and transcendence of social expectations, our body-radical ethics, and our sex-positive feminist socio-politics expand beyond our now insulated social circles; these truths are ever the more self-evident in how we live, and ever the more inaccessible to the larger populous. I don't make any claim today to open up our spaces, nor do I diminish the need for safety and community and places to harbor our radical selves in order to perpetuate in a micro-cosm this learning and growth. But I do worry that separatist mentality perpetuates. I know it's summer, which means it's Mich-fest-bashing season. The trans and male-hatred there is a vitriolic emblem of old world feminism, but I think this is the short-term issue, whereas the longer-term concern is the insular notion of the queer sub-culture. Where's the work to really thread into other ("straight") communities the self-empowering notion that we all hold transgressive bodies? Where's the fostering of a queer sex paradigm within a heterosexual partner configuration? Where's the affirmation for the like-minded who may just not have the language semantics and lexicon to grasp what words and triggers and which words are empowering? Do you really plan to eliminate someone from the movement because they may not realize they're flagging fisting switch with that bandana? Have you decided that someone is beyond the capacity to understand or contribute because uninformed they called themselves a bio-male, unaware of the bad blood the term conjures? Have we really still just reached a point to disparage so strongly to a presumably (presumption on OUR part) conventional sexual relationship since it does not fit within the 6,000 permutations of queer-identified, gender-bending, gender-fucking, sex-transgressing, gay-oriented, queer-fuckery and faggotry we get to see within our big queer walls?
I have to caveat this with the acknowledgment that I by no means organize nor do any particular community efforts, either to alleviate this or for queers in general. It's admittedly not necessarily my niche within any group of people, though I wonder if given the right concern...
Nonetheless, I haven't stumbled over much hetero-inclusion, and when I say this I mean beyond the realm of fag-hags and lesbros and your brother that came out to the dance party. I mean conscientious and concerted, organized efforts to queer the straights through education and community inclusion. And when I say queer I do mean Queer, because I'm not including signing on your mom and dad to support gay marriage or assimilationist shit. I'm not talking about homos signing up for the mainstream paradigm, and I'm not talking about making grandma reach a point of "tolerance" for faggots. I'm talking about transformation that extends into heterosexual spaces, those most conducive to it, those who may already actually BE queer in ways you may not initially perceive.
I'm sure its inevitable that someone will try to debunk my observed "rule" with an exception, but just because there's some evidence of someone out there making the attempt to do this work doesn't mean the strong line of separatism and resentment towards straight persons (particularly straight cis-men) isn't worth consideration and a closer look. And I think part of my frustration is not really having my own habits or drive to directly address this. I'm not that sort of social creature to run events and flyer and organize, as I really do take pleasure in being the wallflower finding joy in watching the ebb and flow of bodies and souls. But I do enjoy discourse, and questioning and having those with the energy and drive to build community give me some insight into whether they think about this or agree in any capacity.
- D
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Hello and Goodbye, New York
It's really interesting to see the several blogs I've attempted over the past couple of years, and to try to comprehend why they never got past a certain point. One was for discussing my writing block, which emblematically has the least amount of posts. I then thought maybe I needed to have a blog oriented around my work, until it occurred to me that my job is best suited as a sphere outside of my personal. Then I figured that queerness and polyness was something I would want to address, but after seeing the wealth of queer, butch, femme, poly, fat-positive, kinky, perverted, sex-subversive blogs out there, I've realized that the body-radical world is something I enjoy immersing myself in, though may not have such a manifesto to address.
So the premise of this blog is something I'm realizing fits me right now, largely because it has a particular arc. This is me saying goodbye to New York, THE city in the mind's eye of my entire life. My family is from Brooklyn, and a reverence, pride and arrogance in being associated with "the best city on earth" was an expectation throughout the region. You don't have state pride or region pride, you have city-pride, even if you reside in the 'burbs.
To give credit where credit is due, the idea for this blog was sparked by my partner's aunt. We had driven across the country in 8 days, and I was discussing with her how while my partner was moving to San Francisco now, I knew I needed one more year in New York before making the treck myself. To this she suggested a blog, and I'm running with it.
So here it is, Making it Count. I admit that the blog name is inspired by a source a previous form of myself would be embarassed to admit, but it's just so beautifully cheesy some of you may recognize it. I watched "Titanic" recently with my roommates, largely because it was what one put on in our common room, and "Making it Count" is a key idiom from the film where Jack wins Rose's heart with the promise of living each day to the fullest (of course threading into the story's foreshadowing that they really only had a day or so left). It's Hollywood, it's over the top, and everyone was sick of that movie before it left the theaters 5 million months after it came out, but I dare not cast away a nugget of wisdom because the packaging is film industry cheese.
I have a year left (maybe more like 9-11 months, depending) left in this city, and this blog acts as a reminder to Making it Count. My partner is in San Francisco, my mind is on her often, I'm jaded with New York, I have the impulse to leave and never come back, but I know that the best course of action is to stay still for a bit in the city that demands you remain in motion. I've done a lot in the 3 years I've had so far here, and there are parts I wish went differently, while others I never previously dreamed to be so beautiful. My time with New York will soon end, but there are things to finish here and reconcile, and I consider this time my personal exercise in being present. Being where I am when I am there. There's a lot to Buddhist practice and yoga that I have been threading into my life that really suits this exercise and I really look forward to experiencing, again, all I have here (rather than indulging my previous impulse to run). So join me if you will in seeing New York anew, in saying farewell to it, likely for good, and doing my best to being where I am and Making it Count.
- D
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)