I am sitting there
just sitting
no not just sitting
because I am never
just sitting
I am sitting and thinking
thinking about articles we read
and womdering if confrontational rhetoric is really something
to slam
I mean I read Malcolm X and
the fucker changed my whole fucking life
so there
So I am sitting and thinking
thinking about the articles we read
"I just don't see how power and sexuality are connected"
I want to smack the person who has said this
But I know it is not the queer feminist
peace loving
thing
to
do...
But I really want to do it anyway
I want to scream
everything
Everything
EVERYTHING
is a manifestation of power
"I just don't see how a gay man and a heterosexual man would have a difference in their power?
The only power I see is the power divide based on gender, male and female."
So I speak
I shouldn't have
but it hits a little fucking close to home
I don't talk about my personal life, I don't put up pictures of people I love and have loved before that have taken the female form,
I could be fired from my job..."
Ahem ahem, "Actually, actually anyone can be fired at any time, we're an at will state...I think of discrimination in the form of performance."
Oh ok, because I speak of one law and have heard it differently stated, I am not only wrong but all of those other performances I talked about previously are discredited?"
really?
Really?
REALLY?
And I just want to cry
want to run away
want to be angry
at people who have made me angry
at people who are privileged
and don't have to see
and I don't have to see racial privilege
but I do
because I know it is there
not because of full blown bouts
of racism
I don't have to see a hate crime
to know that racism exists
(Thanks bobby dylan)
but really I just keep thinking
about bell hooks and her ideas of anger
and how sometimes is productive
and most importantly
it is necessary
and it is healing
and it helps me be me...
"and even in friendly conversation
I get the bell hooks-ian urge
to kill mother-fuckers who say stupid shit to me
all day"
(thanks Staceyann Chin)
because I just want to scream
and cry
because I am a grad student
with other grad students
around and have they never heard of
HETERONORMATIVITY?
"See, sometimes anger’s subtle, stocked in metaphor
full of finesse and dressed in allure
yes, sometimes anger’s subtle, less rage than sad
leaking slow through spigots you didn’t know you had.
and sometimes it’s just
fuck you.
fuck you.
you see, and to me,
That’s poetry too."
(Thanks Alix Olson)
So fuck you,
fuck you
and get angry
get angry that you feel targeted in a system
as having privilege
let it piss you off
so that you change it...
change it
fuck you
change it
fuck you
change it...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
this is a work in progress
I have been writing this for awhile and it is extremely important to me but it isn't done, I thought I would post it anyway because I need to...I just have to...I don't have a choice...I will continue to post as I write.
--
I sat there holding my great grandmother's hand, her small frail body seeming to fall in and out of life. We were in her room at my mother's house facing Longs Peak lots and lots of flowers outside her multiple windows. My great grandmother loved roses, especially pink roses and when I was younger I remember one section of her entire back yard being dedicated to the planting of roses. But in the mountains my mother had multiple and variant columbines and what appeared to be wild flowers, the things that would survive in the cool mountain climate.
I turn back to my great grandmother my GG she is lying there on her bed, her breath not coming easy. I can tell she is struggling to take breath into her lungs and push it out again. My sister Liana who is only 13 lies on GG's bed holding her hand not wanting her to be alone. The Hospice nurse has told us that if it was her grandmother she would remove the oxygen that was sustaining GG's life, feel free to give her pain medication liberally, and to just camp out in her bedroom, that it wouldn't be long.
The past days had been a whirlwind and I was surprised I remembered much of anything. My mother calling me Sunday night because GG was really bad and she was scared and wanted me to come home. I did, I left my peaceful sleep to come home. When I first arrived I saw GG, in her pajamas, so small, nothing like the intimidating woman I had known. She was barely breathing, each breath seeming to take longer to come then the last. Her chest rose as though she was gasping for air. My mother told me "I've already dropped her three times I think trying to get her onto the commode." She was determined to try and use that commode, but my mother just knew she couldn't lift her again. My mother left and went upstairs and she told me, "Go sit with her, she doesn't want to be alone."
I was scared. I had never been this close to a dying person I had actually loved so much. She had deteriorated so much it didn't even seem to be her. She was enveloped by her light blue pajamas, being much too large for her body. I sat down beside her the bed squishing because of my weight. This stirred her a bit, she looked at me a slight acknowledgement of my presence beside her and then returned to her deep struggle with breath. I looked at her, her face growing pale, her one eye open, mouth slightly ajar and obviously dry. I rubbed her stomach as I do with many of my kids from the preschool in order to bring them some comfort. I was able to relax her enough for her to drift off to sleep, her morphine and breathing medicine also helped with that.
She laid there, I leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Grandma I love you but it's ok, you can let go." I started to whimper, my eyes welling up with tears. I couldn't help but cry when around her because she had changed so much in such a short time. "Grandma, I promise we'll do your hair and make you look nice when you go. I promise even if I have to roll your hair myself I will." I manage to choke it out through tears. I love her, she has been like a mother to me, to my mother, and to many of the children in her life. I miss who she was, her somewhat angry, pessimistic self that was tinged with moments of joy and happiness. She found joy in watching her grandchildren play everyday and was always smiling about their goofy antics. But I hate that now she is not the woman I love, she is not the woman she once was, she is a simply a mass of human being, just lying, just being. Barely living.
A pastor comes. He was supposed to give her communion but she was too weak to sit up and to elusive to know what was even happening around her. My mother, her mother (my grandmother), sister, and I gather around my GG's bed, the pastor places his hands on her and blesses her. My mom has been reading the Bible, something she never does and does not believe in for herself, but she has been doing it for grandma, to maybe provide her comfort. The pastor continues the blessing, I am so warm, sweating in fact, the prayers he is saying are intense. If he weren't Lutheran and I weren't surround by ethnically Lutheran people it would almost seem to be like a witches chorus. A pagan healing circle, but the words are Christian, and they aren't meant to heal, they are meant to give blessing to pass. I do not want her to heal, her time to heal has come and passed. She managed to heal a few times before and those times I still needed her to be there, I needed her to see me graduate college. I needed to know she was around to make my own life feel safe. And I still loved her but I didn't want to force her to continue a life for mine and my families own selfish reasons.
My mother breaks down crying. Finally, in front of the pastor, my mother cries out, "What am I going to do without you grandma? What am I supposed to do with my life when you go?" My mother's life was going to drastically change when my GG left because she had been devoting so much time and energy to her care. What was my mother going to do? Not only had she been caring for my grandma but she had been receiving a monthly stipend for providing her care. What would my mother do with $600 less per month. Not that my mother was doing it for the money but it needs to be noted that she was worried about what would happen with the money once my grandma was gone. I look to my mother, I have not seen her hysterical like this in years. She is so upset, her breathing heightened, the tears flowing freely. The room is burning up and I feel myself losing breath. My grandmother has lost most consciousness, and I feel myself needing to leave the room, breathe fresh air for a moment. The pastor stays and as I get up to leave he feels the need to ask me questions. Where do I go to school? What do I study? Things that at that moment seemed completely insignificant to me. I don't know anything, I don't care about anything. I don't want to know things. I care about this moment and it is being ruined. I leave the room, I walk outside and stare at the mountains. I do not feel my hands, the hands that had been holding and stroking my grandmother with. I don't want questions, I don't want answers I just want to be. I breathe, I think, I walk back into the house.
--
I sat there holding my great grandmother's hand, her small frail body seeming to fall in and out of life. We were in her room at my mother's house facing Longs Peak lots and lots of flowers outside her multiple windows. My great grandmother loved roses, especially pink roses and when I was younger I remember one section of her entire back yard being dedicated to the planting of roses. But in the mountains my mother had multiple and variant columbines and what appeared to be wild flowers, the things that would survive in the cool mountain climate.
I turn back to my great grandmother my GG she is lying there on her bed, her breath not coming easy. I can tell she is struggling to take breath into her lungs and push it out again. My sister Liana who is only 13 lies on GG's bed holding her hand not wanting her to be alone. The Hospice nurse has told us that if it was her grandmother she would remove the oxygen that was sustaining GG's life, feel free to give her pain medication liberally, and to just camp out in her bedroom, that it wouldn't be long.
The past days had been a whirlwind and I was surprised I remembered much of anything. My mother calling me Sunday night because GG was really bad and she was scared and wanted me to come home. I did, I left my peaceful sleep to come home. When I first arrived I saw GG, in her pajamas, so small, nothing like the intimidating woman I had known. She was barely breathing, each breath seeming to take longer to come then the last. Her chest rose as though she was gasping for air. My mother told me "I've already dropped her three times I think trying to get her onto the commode." She was determined to try and use that commode, but my mother just knew she couldn't lift her again. My mother left and went upstairs and she told me, "Go sit with her, she doesn't want to be alone."
I was scared. I had never been this close to a dying person I had actually loved so much. She had deteriorated so much it didn't even seem to be her. She was enveloped by her light blue pajamas, being much too large for her body. I sat down beside her the bed squishing because of my weight. This stirred her a bit, she looked at me a slight acknowledgement of my presence beside her and then returned to her deep struggle with breath. I looked at her, her face growing pale, her one eye open, mouth slightly ajar and obviously dry. I rubbed her stomach as I do with many of my kids from the preschool in order to bring them some comfort. I was able to relax her enough for her to drift off to sleep, her morphine and breathing medicine also helped with that.
She laid there, I leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Grandma I love you but it's ok, you can let go." I started to whimper, my eyes welling up with tears. I couldn't help but cry when around her because she had changed so much in such a short time. "Grandma, I promise we'll do your hair and make you look nice when you go. I promise even if I have to roll your hair myself I will." I manage to choke it out through tears. I love her, she has been like a mother to me, to my mother, and to many of the children in her life. I miss who she was, her somewhat angry, pessimistic self that was tinged with moments of joy and happiness. She found joy in watching her grandchildren play everyday and was always smiling about their goofy antics. But I hate that now she is not the woman I love, she is not the woman she once was, she is a simply a mass of human being, just lying, just being. Barely living.
A pastor comes. He was supposed to give her communion but she was too weak to sit up and to elusive to know what was even happening around her. My mother, her mother (my grandmother), sister, and I gather around my GG's bed, the pastor places his hands on her and blesses her. My mom has been reading the Bible, something she never does and does not believe in for herself, but she has been doing it for grandma, to maybe provide her comfort. The pastor continues the blessing, I am so warm, sweating in fact, the prayers he is saying are intense. If he weren't Lutheran and I weren't surround by ethnically Lutheran people it would almost seem to be like a witches chorus. A pagan healing circle, but the words are Christian, and they aren't meant to heal, they are meant to give blessing to pass. I do not want her to heal, her time to heal has come and passed. She managed to heal a few times before and those times I still needed her to be there, I needed her to see me graduate college. I needed to know she was around to make my own life feel safe. And I still loved her but I didn't want to force her to continue a life for mine and my families own selfish reasons.
My mother breaks down crying. Finally, in front of the pastor, my mother cries out, "What am I going to do without you grandma? What am I supposed to do with my life when you go?" My mother's life was going to drastically change when my GG left because she had been devoting so much time and energy to her care. What was my mother going to do? Not only had she been caring for my grandma but she had been receiving a monthly stipend for providing her care. What would my mother do with $600 less per month. Not that my mother was doing it for the money but it needs to be noted that she was worried about what would happen with the money once my grandma was gone. I look to my mother, I have not seen her hysterical like this in years. She is so upset, her breathing heightened, the tears flowing freely. The room is burning up and I feel myself losing breath. My grandmother has lost most consciousness, and I feel myself needing to leave the room, breathe fresh air for a moment. The pastor stays and as I get up to leave he feels the need to ask me questions. Where do I go to school? What do I study? Things that at that moment seemed completely insignificant to me. I don't know anything, I don't care about anything. I don't want to know things. I care about this moment and it is being ruined. I leave the room, I walk outside and stare at the mountains. I do not feel my hands, the hands that had been holding and stroking my grandmother with. I don't want questions, I don't want answers I just want to be. I breathe, I think, I walk back into the house.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
So much to write about
Have you ever prayed that somebody would die? Wished and hoped? It sounds morbid, it sounds cruel, but as I watch one of the most important people in my life disintegrate all I can do is hope that death will bring her comfort and a release of all of her terrible pain.
"What is your favorite GG memory?" a friend asks me curiously. GG is my great grandmother and she has been alive so far my entire life. I have to think about this question deeply. She has always been a part of my life, the head of my matriarchal clan, I don't have many memories without her. They are not all my favorite for I recall being a child and getting so angry with her because she was pretty strict. I remember my brother throwing chocolate milk all over her living room wall and running out of the house when she went to get the fly swatter in order to discipline him. I had to calm them both down an convince my brother to come back into the house.
There had been Christmas's and birthdays, I remember her getting out the Christmas dishes, and all of the decorations. She always made me fudge, the real stuff, not the marshmallow fluff you buy in stores. And sour cream sugar cookies, they are still one of my absolute favorite things. Not quite sweet but a delicious taste with every single bite.
We are almost up the mountain and I turn to her. "It has to be going to Disney World. Even though we had to push her in the wheel chair she still sat in the front of all the big rides like Splash Mountain and Space Mountain." I remember back to this time, many of my vacations had involved my great grandmother, including moving back and forth to college at least three times.
But now when I look at her it is easy to see she is not well. The Home Hospice care has begun and with that comes many books about dying and how to prepare for such things. It also comes along with lots of pain management and drugs that supposedly make the transition to death easier for the person experiencing it. So many people are scared of death of what that means but I am not scared. I see that the life she is in now is what is scary. She is not scary but the loss of her physical self scares me because it has made that very real to me. I would rather lose my body in death instead of in life. However when people say things like when I get like that just kill me I feel they must have little compassion for my situation. My GG does not want to be like this but I cannot imagine it is mine or anyone else's responsibility to take her life away. And don't tell me that because it isn't that easy, this situation is not as simple as that. It is not my choice to make for someone else.
A person once so strong and smart and quick. She could cuss like a sailor at times, and always told me "Don't ever let a man tell you what to do!" But she isn't storng and nothing can prepare a person to watch someone die. What do you do when you realize a person you love and admire can no longer feed herself, let alone walk anywhere. She is so tired. All she does is lay back half listening, barely breathing, jut barely hanging on. She is there but not. Always one to be in the conversation she now just listens. Withdrawing from the world, that's what the Hospice book says.
I was explaining my troubles of the day to my mother and my grandmother. Silly maybe, but I had had problems returning something to a store and had been significantly frustrated by this situation. Trying to lighten the mood I was explaining how I talked to two different managers and then two different customer service people on the phone and how I felt little to no help from all of these people. As I was talking my GG just lay there apparently asleep or so I thought. But then out of no where she mumbled something inaudible to me. But my grandma Jane looked at her and said, "I know mom that wasn't right. They should return her pants so that she can have something that fits." She had been listening the whole time to me babble about my stupid pants. I desperately hoped that would not be her last thought before dying.
I wish she would die so that she would not have to live this way for long and although I feel bad admitting that I feel it is the most humane situation. And recently having read "His Dark Materials" trilogy I am convinced that my GG will die and become happy particles of dust which, is everything. She will no longer need to eat homemade ice cream and peaches because she will be homemade ice cream and peaches. Just as she will be mountains, and sunshine, and rain. And for some reason this gives me a lot of comfort because these books have made me hopeful and faithful in a way I have yearned to be for so long. And I feel this hope in me that I can be part of making a world based on love, kindness, truths, and the power of story telling. All because death is no longer about the sinners and the righteous but about the dead being set free to be in the world to feel all the love that there is. And if you are particles you can no longer be in pain.
and how do you explain that you love someone so much that you wish they would die? I am sure to some who have witnessed this process that it makes sense. But is it fair to wish this and still know that I don't feel my time with her has been enough or used as wisely as it could have been? I haven't heard enough stories, I haven't eaten enough fudge, or learned how to make a pie, or kissed her enough, or rubbed her feet and legs because they are tired and old and they are done holding up a once strong and proud body. I haven't spent every night of my life trying to ensure that hers is better or more comfortable. But she wouldn't want that, she would definitely want me to live my life and be happy.
And this is real. It may not be Truth, but this is my everyday. While I may have outlets like work, friends, love, my dog it is there. This death. It is something I wake up in the morning to look at and I wonder when I won't see it anymore? When will it be gone forever, turned into tiny particles all around me? and I worry. What if I find her? Will I be more scared to see a body with what appears to be no soul, or will it be weird to feel her soul no longer in her body but somehow outside of it being released?
And now I feel we are waiting. Reading books about dying. Thinking of what to tell the children in her life. And as I wait I cry because I know eventually the waiting will end and I will be joyful and overwhelmed with sorrow. Until then I wait...
"What is your favorite GG memory?" a friend asks me curiously. GG is my great grandmother and she has been alive so far my entire life. I have to think about this question deeply. She has always been a part of my life, the head of my matriarchal clan, I don't have many memories without her. They are not all my favorite for I recall being a child and getting so angry with her because she was pretty strict. I remember my brother throwing chocolate milk all over her living room wall and running out of the house when she went to get the fly swatter in order to discipline him. I had to calm them both down an convince my brother to come back into the house.
There had been Christmas's and birthdays, I remember her getting out the Christmas dishes, and all of the decorations. She always made me fudge, the real stuff, not the marshmallow fluff you buy in stores. And sour cream sugar cookies, they are still one of my absolute favorite things. Not quite sweet but a delicious taste with every single bite.
We are almost up the mountain and I turn to her. "It has to be going to Disney World. Even though we had to push her in the wheel chair she still sat in the front of all the big rides like Splash Mountain and Space Mountain." I remember back to this time, many of my vacations had involved my great grandmother, including moving back and forth to college at least three times.
But now when I look at her it is easy to see she is not well. The Home Hospice care has begun and with that comes many books about dying and how to prepare for such things. It also comes along with lots of pain management and drugs that supposedly make the transition to death easier for the person experiencing it. So many people are scared of death of what that means but I am not scared. I see that the life she is in now is what is scary. She is not scary but the loss of her physical self scares me because it has made that very real to me. I would rather lose my body in death instead of in life. However when people say things like when I get like that just kill me I feel they must have little compassion for my situation. My GG does not want to be like this but I cannot imagine it is mine or anyone else's responsibility to take her life away. And don't tell me that because it isn't that easy, this situation is not as simple as that. It is not my choice to make for someone else.
A person once so strong and smart and quick. She could cuss like a sailor at times, and always told me "Don't ever let a man tell you what to do!" But she isn't storng and nothing can prepare a person to watch someone die. What do you do when you realize a person you love and admire can no longer feed herself, let alone walk anywhere. She is so tired. All she does is lay back half listening, barely breathing, jut barely hanging on. She is there but not. Always one to be in the conversation she now just listens. Withdrawing from the world, that's what the Hospice book says.
I was explaining my troubles of the day to my mother and my grandmother. Silly maybe, but I had had problems returning something to a store and had been significantly frustrated by this situation. Trying to lighten the mood I was explaining how I talked to two different managers and then two different customer service people on the phone and how I felt little to no help from all of these people. As I was talking my GG just lay there apparently asleep or so I thought. But then out of no where she mumbled something inaudible to me. But my grandma Jane looked at her and said, "I know mom that wasn't right. They should return her pants so that she can have something that fits." She had been listening the whole time to me babble about my stupid pants. I desperately hoped that would not be her last thought before dying.
I wish she would die so that she would not have to live this way for long and although I feel bad admitting that I feel it is the most humane situation. And recently having read "His Dark Materials" trilogy I am convinced that my GG will die and become happy particles of dust which, is everything. She will no longer need to eat homemade ice cream and peaches because she will be homemade ice cream and peaches. Just as she will be mountains, and sunshine, and rain. And for some reason this gives me a lot of comfort because these books have made me hopeful and faithful in a way I have yearned to be for so long. And I feel this hope in me that I can be part of making a world based on love, kindness, truths, and the power of story telling. All because death is no longer about the sinners and the righteous but about the dead being set free to be in the world to feel all the love that there is. And if you are particles you can no longer be in pain.
and how do you explain that you love someone so much that you wish they would die? I am sure to some who have witnessed this process that it makes sense. But is it fair to wish this and still know that I don't feel my time with her has been enough or used as wisely as it could have been? I haven't heard enough stories, I haven't eaten enough fudge, or learned how to make a pie, or kissed her enough, or rubbed her feet and legs because they are tired and old and they are done holding up a once strong and proud body. I haven't spent every night of my life trying to ensure that hers is better or more comfortable. But she wouldn't want that, she would definitely want me to live my life and be happy.
And this is real. It may not be Truth, but this is my everyday. While I may have outlets like work, friends, love, my dog it is there. This death. It is something I wake up in the morning to look at and I wonder when I won't see it anymore? When will it be gone forever, turned into tiny particles all around me? and I worry. What if I find her? Will I be more scared to see a body with what appears to be no soul, or will it be weird to feel her soul no longer in her body but somehow outside of it being released?
And now I feel we are waiting. Reading books about dying. Thinking of what to tell the children in her life. And as I wait I cry because I know eventually the waiting will end and I will be joyful and overwhelmed with sorrow. Until then I wait...
Friday, May 30, 2008
Magnificent failure
I had a class ask me to think about Magnificent Failures. But what is that-what does that mean? I know that for the class it was supposed to be an attempt to grapple with a challenging topic. Maybe it was a hard concept, one that didn't make sense right away-but when returned to gave new insight. I think this was mostly for the undergrads to attempt to wrestle with topics on racism, sexism, homophobia etc that they may never have been exposed to. For me I wrote mainly about being exposed to undergraduates again. I mean it wasn't that long ago since I was one and def not as long ago as teaching them, I felt they would be my ultimate Magnificent Failure. That was all until I hit week seven.
What does is feel like to live most days in pain? I don't really remember because so much of my life I have been dealing with chronic pain. Painful periods, bladder infections, infections here and there and pretty much everywhere. I don't know what it is like to live pain-free only what it is like to cope with and manage pain on a daily basis. It all hit me my sock to the groin that seventh week-everything came to a head and exploded inside my body. I sought the opinions of doctors-their solutions were to run a bunch of tests and give me pain medication.
Pain medication:that might have to be my biggest Magnificent Failure. I don't want to blame it all on my body- I don't think it is my body that did the most failing. Its rough when you see a bunch of doctors and nurses and they all want to know what you're on and when you last took it and you have to spout off at least three different medications for pain. U should have kept a notebook to remember when and what I took-because sometimes a I barely remembered my name let alone the medicine. And the side effects0the worst one was that I just couldn't keep a though in my mind. The medicine and the pain being so debilitating that anytime I would try to keep up with my homework read or write something my eyesight would become fuzzy and I would get dizzy and sick to my stomach.
What does is feel like to live most days in pain? I don't really remember because so much of my life I have been dealing with chronic pain. Painful periods, bladder infections, infections here and there and pretty much everywhere. I don't know what it is like to live pain-free only what it is like to cope with and manage pain on a daily basis. It all hit me my sock to the groin that seventh week-everything came to a head and exploded inside my body. I sought the opinions of doctors-their solutions were to run a bunch of tests and give me pain medication.
Pain medication:that might have to be my biggest Magnificent Failure. I don't want to blame it all on my body- I don't think it is my body that did the most failing. Its rough when you see a bunch of doctors and nurses and they all want to know what you're on and when you last took it and you have to spout off at least three different medications for pain. U should have kept a notebook to remember when and what I took-because sometimes a I barely remembered my name let alone the medicine. And the side effects0the worst one was that I just couldn't keep a though in my mind. The medicine and the pain being so debilitating that anytime I would try to keep up with my homework read or write something my eyesight would become fuzzy and I would get dizzy and sick to my stomach.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
so I continue: whose truth?
So I continue:
Why are we so invested in Truth-in finding the reality of a situation? Why do we have such a deep desire to get to the root of something and to find out if it is real or not? And in the end isn't about authenticity anyway? If we can believe a performance because it is authentic according to our standards we tend to believe it-whereas if the performance is not authentic or something seems off we may ignore it and not believe it. But according Gómez-Peña we are no longer able to distinguish authentic performances from the "wannabees" and this may pose a significant problem. She says it is a problem because people will be able to fluidly change subject positions without ever reaping the consequences (mainly negative) of being in an "othered" position. Not that one should look to be oppressed or gain some sort of pointage from being in a marginalized position but there are certain consequences certain people (certain bodies face) that those who fluidly transition will never have to experience. So what is lost
I feel I cannot address any of these questions adequately without looking for some help from Thomas King (2005) who discusses the power of storytelling in constructing our notions of truth.
As King (2005) notes, "Stories are wondrous things. And they are dangerous"(9). Stories have power and they construct our world-thus they have the power for both good and evil and everything in between and around. If "the truth about stories is that's all we are," then we have the ability to tell a story of inclusivity, acceptance, recognition of privilege, demolition of power structures etc...or we can tell a different story one that doesn't care about the well-being of other people who are different then we are.
King details an experience he had of giving an "authentic" American Indian performance speaking at a university for their "Indian Awareness Week"(62). There were four Native men speaking. As he says, "I told stories. Stories about broken treaties, residential schools, culturally offensive movies, the appropriation of Native names, symbols, and motifs. And Ishi." At the end of all the speeches two of the other men (spokespeaople from the bureau for Indian Affairs) are paid for their services-the other man, an artist and King, a story teller are not paid. King relates this to the fact that he is instead seen as the entertainment-not the voice of authority. Despite his attire, his markers of his race, his performance is not authentic or truthful enough to warrant payment. He makes it apparent that the telling of stories is not of monetary value.
So he decides to change his performance. King loses the traditional dress "turned in my ribbon shirt, my four strand bone choker, and my beaded belt buckle for a cheap but serviceable suit and a rather nice tie..."(67) -decides to throw facts and numbers into his stories-give them some empirical evidence in order to make his performance more truthful. Instead the reaction from an audience member is that he is "an apple...an Indian is red on the outside but white on the inside"(67). So where does the truth of King's experience lie? Is it in the dress-no then King is simply entertainment, so the solution-do not dress like an Indian-then "not only am I not entertainment, I wasn't an Indian"(68). King is caught in a web of where authentic performance lies and how to perform so that he will be accepted and listened to by a variety of people. Where is the truth? That is my question-and how do we know what it is? King would say the truth lies in storytelling-and I do think he would agree that there are multiple truths-as narratives are understood from different subject positions creating a new truth.
I think this also speaks very much to Gómez-Peña's article of Confessions. In this article it is very evident that some people have constructed their truths about Mexican people in various ways. This piece builds on what people desire, what they would write if no one else could see. Through this essay people are able to give their inside confessions about desire As one person confesses, "I desire badly a Mexican man (120)." Yet another comment is, "I want to be seen as a true advocate of your culture; as righteous and not as a 'white liberal' & to make love to a Latina with a firm body"(123). And another entry, "I wish all Mexicans would be deported!!...And take this bad art with them"(121). These comments are all responses to an art exhibit-and although these people all saw the same things they had very different reactions. Some respond with love, with compassion, others with hate and aggression. My own desire really draws me to the comment about being a white liberal. I wonder how authentic this comment is-or if it was done tongue-in-cheek to kind of reveal how much this type of thinking is in the world. If not and this comment is true-that a person does not want to be seen as a white liberal and then makes a comment about being with a Latina with a "firm body"(123) I question this person and their motives. They would obviously not be committed to the "other" in any sort of respectful and reciprocal way. This is the epitome of white liberalism which pays a lot of lip service to diversity issues and tolerance-without really doing a lot of work or actually trying to change the dominant power structures.
All of these reactions are true-as far as we know. And even if they are all fabricated-made up to enhance the pieces' legitimacy then I think it works. Because all of these reactions even if made up are real thoughts people have-real desires, desires that can be mean, nasty, dirty, compassionate, caring and everything in between. But then again where is the truth? According to Gómez-Peña it might be in art-it might be in people's reactions to art-or it might not exist at all.
Pinter
In my own world currently I am trying to figure out my own truth. Is my pain real-is it true. Do I perform it well-is my performance of woman in pain authentic? Are people buying it? Do they really? Do I? I am suffering with a recurring problem I have-endometriosis. It is when the tissue that grows in your uterus during one's menstrual cycle actually grows outside of the uterus. It can grow on th outside of the uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries-but also the bladder, intestines, really any organ in the general pelvic region. It has hurt so bad for so long even I am questioning my own truth of how much pain I am in. My own truth right now consists of hospital and doctors visits, procedures that require laxatives and saline solution to clean out my entire digestive system. Pain medicines that either do nothing-or make me so out of it that I am dizzy constantly-unable to drive. I cannot do anything-I cannot function as I normally would.
The truth of it is I didn't think it would bother me. But I can't read an article without getting dizzy and sick-it has taken me forever to even think of the words to put on this page. It is an endeavor I will have worked on for multiple days by the time it is finished. And even as I sit here and write I see stars around the screen-in fact I can't look at the screen because I just see a fuzzy haze. I thought I could make it through a simple movie-just sit and watch right? Wrong. Because I had also run an errand that day for my mother-with my girlfriend driving me-I got to the theatre bought my nachos and prepared. But by the time the previews for upcoming movies came on the big screen I felt it. A sharp pain in my lower back on the right side. Despite the fact I had taken every pain medicine allowed me I could not get comfortable and my girlfriend had to reassure me that it was ok to leave. That she wouldn't be upset-and that we would see the film another day.
I am not myself-but I do not even know who or what I am that is not self. I cannot be anything other than self-but this yucky, mucky self is one I do not appreciate. Imagine that all of a sudden everything in your life is changed because you are in too much pain to deal with anything in any sort of real way. And then to be given tiny little pills to supposedly make it all better-and they don't work. Am I being given placebos here? And I do not feel the way I normally feel and I wonder will I always always feel this way? And I know the answer is no-because I have gone through this before and the pain does go away after the surgery. Then do you know what they tell me will help? If I am not made infertile by endometriosis then I should try to get pregnant. Pregnancy is the pain relief plan they have? I am gay-I do not want to carry my own children. I do not want to waste the time and money because as I said before I am probably infertile. Am I a woman if I am infertile? Does it matter if I am a woman or not? My mother says,"In some ways I hope you are infertile because you aren't sure if you want kids anyway and that someone who really wants to be pregnant can be." As if it works out that way-nonetheless if it does I hope this other woman can get pregnant and maybe be my surrogate. That would be justice in a true form right?
But my truth about myself, and my abilities have changed. My desires are different because all I want to do is not feel this aching, this burning, this sharpness, this sickness. I want to wake up and not feel bad. I want to be able to move my body again. I would like to be able to have sex without having to plan it around how badly i hurt at that moment. I would like to not have to plan my life around the pain that I am in. But
I would suggest we stop this never-ending quest to find and uncover the Truth, -the unveiling of the impossible authentic/real performances and instead look for the ways that meaning and truths are constructed between people. This allows their to be multiple possibilities for interpreting situations and issues. And as Jones suggests-it offers us a new way to view authenticity as something that is co-created not something that simply "is." When we allow this multi-vocal approach we allow the possibility of multiple truths. This makes it more possible for us to question the things. But we must be careful not to appropriate these multiple truths and experiences and instead learn to view them ethically and responsibly. I think performance really speaks to this issue that we are not to simply put on a "modernized" and politically correct "freak show," instead we have a responsibility to the people we work with and participate in our research. We also have a responsibility to people not to appropriate their experiences of oppression by fluidly trying to occupy their spaces. This doesn't mean a transperson should not have their surgery or anything like that but that we think about purchasing ethnic jewelery from Target as a way to get a "real" souvenir from another country but is most likely produced in sweat shop conditions by people of that country in harsh conditions. We need to think about choices we make and think of ways we can be more responsible to our fellow humans. We need to
to be continued yet again...
Why are we so invested in Truth-in finding the reality of a situation? Why do we have such a deep desire to get to the root of something and to find out if it is real or not? And in the end isn't about authenticity anyway? If we can believe a performance because it is authentic according to our standards we tend to believe it-whereas if the performance is not authentic or something seems off we may ignore it and not believe it. But according Gómez-Peña we are no longer able to distinguish authentic performances from the "wannabees" and this may pose a significant problem. She says it is a problem because people will be able to fluidly change subject positions without ever reaping the consequences (mainly negative) of being in an "othered" position. Not that one should look to be oppressed or gain some sort of pointage from being in a marginalized position but there are certain consequences certain people (certain bodies face) that those who fluidly transition will never have to experience. So what is lost
I feel I cannot address any of these questions adequately without looking for some help from Thomas King (2005) who discusses the power of storytelling in constructing our notions of truth.
As King (2005) notes, "Stories are wondrous things. And they are dangerous"(9). Stories have power and they construct our world-thus they have the power for both good and evil and everything in between and around. If "the truth about stories is that's all we are," then we have the ability to tell a story of inclusivity, acceptance, recognition of privilege, demolition of power structures etc...or we can tell a different story one that doesn't care about the well-being of other people who are different then we are.
King details an experience he had of giving an "authentic" American Indian performance speaking at a university for their "Indian Awareness Week"(62). There were four Native men speaking. As he says, "I told stories. Stories about broken treaties, residential schools, culturally offensive movies, the appropriation of Native names, symbols, and motifs. And Ishi." At the end of all the speeches two of the other men (spokespeaople from the bureau for Indian Affairs) are paid for their services-the other man, an artist and King, a story teller are not paid. King relates this to the fact that he is instead seen as the entertainment-not the voice of authority. Despite his attire, his markers of his race, his performance is not authentic or truthful enough to warrant payment. He makes it apparent that the telling of stories is not of monetary value.
So he decides to change his performance. King loses the traditional dress "turned in my ribbon shirt, my four strand bone choker, and my beaded belt buckle for a cheap but serviceable suit and a rather nice tie..."(67) -decides to throw facts and numbers into his stories-give them some empirical evidence in order to make his performance more truthful. Instead the reaction from an audience member is that he is "an apple...an Indian is red on the outside but white on the inside"(67). So where does the truth of King's experience lie? Is it in the dress-no then King is simply entertainment, so the solution-do not dress like an Indian-then "not only am I not entertainment, I wasn't an Indian"(68). King is caught in a web of where authentic performance lies and how to perform so that he will be accepted and listened to by a variety of people. Where is the truth? That is my question-and how do we know what it is? King would say the truth lies in storytelling-and I do think he would agree that there are multiple truths-as narratives are understood from different subject positions creating a new truth.
I think this also speaks very much to Gómez-Peña's article of Confessions. In this article it is very evident that some people have constructed their truths about Mexican people in various ways. This piece builds on what people desire, what they would write if no one else could see. Through this essay people are able to give their inside confessions about desire As one person confesses, "I desire badly a Mexican man (120)." Yet another comment is, "I want to be seen as a true advocate of your culture; as righteous and not as a 'white liberal' & to make love to a Latina with a firm body"(123). And another entry, "I wish all Mexicans would be deported!!...And take this bad art with them"(121). These comments are all responses to an art exhibit-and although these people all saw the same things they had very different reactions. Some respond with love, with compassion, others with hate and aggression. My own desire really draws me to the comment about being a white liberal. I wonder how authentic this comment is-or if it was done tongue-in-cheek to kind of reveal how much this type of thinking is in the world. If not and this comment is true-that a person does not want to be seen as a white liberal and then makes a comment about being with a Latina with a "firm body"(123) I question this person and their motives. They would obviously not be committed to the "other" in any sort of respectful and reciprocal way. This is the epitome of white liberalism which pays a lot of lip service to diversity issues and tolerance-without really doing a lot of work or actually trying to change the dominant power structures.
All of these reactions are true-as far as we know. And even if they are all fabricated-made up to enhance the pieces' legitimacy then I think it works. Because all of these reactions even if made up are real thoughts people have-real desires, desires that can be mean, nasty, dirty, compassionate, caring and everything in between. But then again where is the truth? According to Gómez-Peña it might be in art-it might be in people's reactions to art-or it might not exist at all.
Pinter
In my own world currently I am trying to figure out my own truth. Is my pain real-is it true. Do I perform it well-is my performance of woman in pain authentic? Are people buying it? Do they really? Do I? I am suffering with a recurring problem I have-endometriosis. It is when the tissue that grows in your uterus during one's menstrual cycle actually grows outside of the uterus. It can grow on th outside of the uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries-but also the bladder, intestines, really any organ in the general pelvic region. It has hurt so bad for so long even I am questioning my own truth of how much pain I am in. My own truth right now consists of hospital and doctors visits, procedures that require laxatives and saline solution to clean out my entire digestive system. Pain medicines that either do nothing-or make me so out of it that I am dizzy constantly-unable to drive. I cannot do anything-I cannot function as I normally would.
The truth of it is I didn't think it would bother me. But I can't read an article without getting dizzy and sick-it has taken me forever to even think of the words to put on this page. It is an endeavor I will have worked on for multiple days by the time it is finished. And even as I sit here and write I see stars around the screen-in fact I can't look at the screen because I just see a fuzzy haze. I thought I could make it through a simple movie-just sit and watch right? Wrong. Because I had also run an errand that day for my mother-with my girlfriend driving me-I got to the theatre bought my nachos and prepared. But by the time the previews for upcoming movies came on the big screen I felt it. A sharp pain in my lower back on the right side. Despite the fact I had taken every pain medicine allowed me I could not get comfortable and my girlfriend had to reassure me that it was ok to leave. That she wouldn't be upset-and that we would see the film another day.
I am not myself-but I do not even know who or what I am that is not self. I cannot be anything other than self-but this yucky, mucky self is one I do not appreciate. Imagine that all of a sudden everything in your life is changed because you are in too much pain to deal with anything in any sort of real way. And then to be given tiny little pills to supposedly make it all better-and they don't work. Am I being given placebos here? And I do not feel the way I normally feel and I wonder will I always always feel this way? And I know the answer is no-because I have gone through this before and the pain does go away after the surgery. Then do you know what they tell me will help? If I am not made infertile by endometriosis then I should try to get pregnant. Pregnancy is the pain relief plan they have? I am gay-I do not want to carry my own children. I do not want to waste the time and money because as I said before I am probably infertile. Am I a woman if I am infertile? Does it matter if I am a woman or not? My mother says,"In some ways I hope you are infertile because you aren't sure if you want kids anyway and that someone who really wants to be pregnant can be." As if it works out that way-nonetheless if it does I hope this other woman can get pregnant and maybe be my surrogate. That would be justice in a true form right?
But my truth about myself, and my abilities have changed. My desires are different because all I want to do is not feel this aching, this burning, this sharpness, this sickness. I want to wake up and not feel bad. I want to be able to move my body again. I would like to be able to have sex without having to plan it around how badly i hurt at that moment. I would like to not have to plan my life around the pain that I am in. But
I would suggest we stop this never-ending quest to find and uncover the Truth, -the unveiling of the impossible authentic/real performances and instead look for the ways that meaning and truths are constructed between people. This allows their to be multiple possibilities for interpreting situations and issues. And as Jones suggests-it offers us a new way to view authenticity as something that is co-created not something that simply "is." When we allow this multi-vocal approach we allow the possibility of multiple truths. This makes it more possible for us to question the things. But we must be careful not to appropriate these multiple truths and experiences and instead learn to view them ethically and responsibly. I think performance really speaks to this issue that we are not to simply put on a "modernized" and politically correct "freak show," instead we have a responsibility to the people we work with and participate in our research. We also have a responsibility to people not to appropriate their experiences of oppression by fluidly trying to occupy their spaces. This doesn't mean a transperson should not have their surgery or anything like that but that we think about purchasing ethnic jewelery from Target as a way to get a "real" souvenir from another country but is most likely produced in sweat shop conditions by people of that country in harsh conditions. We need to think about choices we make and think of ways we can be more responsible to our fellow humans. We need to
to be continued yet again...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
As Corey (2006) notes:
I am not a social dancer, and when I attempt to dance with words like 'truth,' fiction,' 'honesty,' or 'objective,' I clunk and clatter when my feet contact the ground. But 'integrity,' is a word that moves modesty well with me; I am willing assess and discuss moral principles, professional standards, professional standards, reputation, and the willingness to put my name to a tenuous idea"(331).
I use this quote again because when I look at the readings by Gómez-Peña and the lecture by Pinter I am drawn to the notion of truth-multiple truths and capital "T" truths. Whose truth/s do we value and whose truth/s are dismissed as invalid, or dismissed as not being true at all? I think I know some answers but I think it is also necessary to discuss the principle of authenticity when discussing truth. Whose performances are authentic?
As Gómez-Peña (2004) writes:
You may now experience anything you want, become whomever you wish, or purchase whichever cultural, sexual, spiritual, artistic or political experience you desire. You can impersonate other genders or ethnic identities without having to suffer any physical, social, or political repercussions, or be subjected to the rage of the excluded. You don't even need to belong to any 'real' community. And you can do all of this from the solitude of you own home.
If a person in this postmodern world can "be" anything and not have to take a stand what is at stake? Again whose performances are authentic and whose performances are true? Corey quotes Joni L. Jones in his piece:
Performance offers a new authenticity, based on body knowledge, on what audiences and performers share together, on what they mutually construct. As a form of cultural exchange, performance ethnography encourages everyone present to feel themselves as both familiar and strange, to see the truths and the gaps in their cross-cultural embodiments. In this exchange, we find an authenticity that is intuitive, body-centered, and richly ambivalent.
Jones and Gómez-Peña seem to be at slight odds with one another. Although Gómez-Peña is not discussing the possibilities for performance in essence she is discussing the daily performances people can engage in. So does performance up the possibility for body performances or is it problematic in that it encourages people to explore multiple performances of the "other" without ever having to take a stand for the "others" position? I have to think that Jones believes that performance offers the possibility to explore the positions of others-but in a responsible and ethical way-one that implicates the bodies with one another and takes a stake in one another's lives. As she says we have to feel the "cross-cultural embodiments" that require the bodies involved to be invested in each other in order to construct meaning.
This may be a tangent but a necessary one because these articles are discussing the ways that bodies have not been extremely ethically committed to each other and the result is invading Iraq according to Pinter, and making extreme stereotypical judgments about Chicana/os.
to be continued...
I am not a social dancer, and when I attempt to dance with words like 'truth,' fiction,' 'honesty,' or 'objective,' I clunk and clatter when my feet contact the ground. But 'integrity,' is a word that moves modesty well with me; I am willing assess and discuss moral principles, professional standards, professional standards, reputation, and the willingness to put my name to a tenuous idea"(331).
I use this quote again because when I look at the readings by Gómez-Peña and the lecture by Pinter I am drawn to the notion of truth-multiple truths and capital "T" truths. Whose truth/s do we value and whose truth/s are dismissed as invalid, or dismissed as not being true at all? I think I know some answers but I think it is also necessary to discuss the principle of authenticity when discussing truth. Whose performances are authentic?
As Gómez-Peña (2004) writes:
You may now experience anything you want, become whomever you wish, or purchase whichever cultural, sexual, spiritual, artistic or political experience you desire. You can impersonate other genders or ethnic identities without having to suffer any physical, social, or political repercussions, or be subjected to the rage of the excluded. You don't even need to belong to any 'real' community. And you can do all of this from the solitude of you own home.
If a person in this postmodern world can "be" anything and not have to take a stand what is at stake? Again whose performances are authentic and whose performances are true? Corey quotes Joni L. Jones in his piece:
Performance offers a new authenticity, based on body knowledge, on what audiences and performers share together, on what they mutually construct. As a form of cultural exchange, performance ethnography encourages everyone present to feel themselves as both familiar and strange, to see the truths and the gaps in their cross-cultural embodiments. In this exchange, we find an authenticity that is intuitive, body-centered, and richly ambivalent.
Jones and Gómez-Peña seem to be at slight odds with one another. Although Gómez-Peña is not discussing the possibilities for performance in essence she is discussing the daily performances people can engage in. So does performance up the possibility for body performances or is it problematic in that it encourages people to explore multiple performances of the "other" without ever having to take a stand for the "others" position? I have to think that Jones believes that performance offers the possibility to explore the positions of others-but in a responsible and ethical way-one that implicates the bodies with one another and takes a stake in one another's lives. As she says we have to feel the "cross-cultural embodiments" that require the bodies involved to be invested in each other in order to construct meaning.
This may be a tangent but a necessary one because these articles are discussing the ways that bodies have not been extremely ethically committed to each other and the result is invading Iraq according to Pinter, and making extreme stereotypical judgments about Chicana/os.
to be continued...
Monday, May 12, 2008
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck!
It's just as Alix Olson says, "Sometimes it's just Fuck [you!]
I am lying here wedged between a sleeping body a popple and my own brain and yet I feel so alone.
It's amazing how much Pain can make a person feel alone.
"I will tie us together and then everything they do to you they will have to do to me to make you not feel so alone."
I don't want to be going through this-but I know that I have to-It will hopefully be over soon so I can resume making snarky remarks, quick rebuttals, sassy comments and the like. My life is not over-but I definitely do not feel like myself.
I write things that I just do not think I would write. They aren't in MY voice-if I really have one to begin with. I just don't remember it sounding and looking so fuzzy. That's not me that's no what I usually sound like. I sound smarter usually. I sound like I care. I sound like I write with passion and a desire to change the world-not this fuzzy wishy washy bull shit. I write like something bigger than myself matters.
Right now the shooting pain through my uterus is what I feel. That's what I am writing from. That fucking pain that won't go away. It lingers in my back sweeping through my entire body. Mostly my feet-my pain always seems to land itself in my feet after hurting in the local sites of pain. It always seem to find a home embedded in the muscles of my feet-sometimes my shoulders. Then I can walk on my pain feel it anytime I go anywhere.
I dislike the niceties that come along with experiencing pain. No one knows what to do for it. There is nothing anyone can do. There is little I can do and even less that anyone else can do. Anything that makes me more comfortable I generally have to do for myself and it involves taking more drugs which, knock me out, or make me doped up to the point of entering the land of my subconcious, turning the heat up on my heatin pad, taking a bath, or sleeping. Back and foot rubs are the only thing I can't do very well that relieve some o the pain for a while. I appreciate the gesture I just feel bad when I have no concrete answers to give.
And that's the fuck part! There is nothing to be done until I can schedule my surgery. Until then I just pop the pills they tell me to, and work on my lamaze breathing techniques and try not to do anything to make it worse-which can't always be avoided either.
And I wish I could connect the pain to larger issues of racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia-but right now I can't. I can only feel only write from that space of only sort of caring about life but mostly care about it being over so I can get on with making those connections to other things. Things in my thesis project, things in my class projects, things in my daily life. But fuck! This is my daily life right now. This is it. Boiled down to the roots of being in the exact moment. I wouldn't mind boiling my internal organs right now get them hot enough they would stop cramping.
And I am going through this because I am a Woman right? Whatever that means. I have a Gynecologist working through a special women's health clinic performing my procedure looking at my lady parts and assessing them. This is all because I have reproductive organs I don't plan on producing anything with. If I don't plan on using them can I just lose them and get all of this shit over with? If I lose them am I no longer a woman-if I don't produce anything with my reproducing organs? I don't think I would mind losing that label if it meant losing the pain. I would give up that title-if I did would it make my parts (previously known as lady parts) hurt less? I would hope so.
Fuck!
I just want it over and done!
Sometimes it really is just Fuck!
Fuck!
It's just as Alix Olson says, "Sometimes it's just Fuck [you!]
I am lying here wedged between a sleeping body a popple and my own brain and yet I feel so alone.
It's amazing how much Pain can make a person feel alone.
"I will tie us together and then everything they do to you they will have to do to me to make you not feel so alone."
I don't want to be going through this-but I know that I have to-It will hopefully be over soon so I can resume making snarky remarks, quick rebuttals, sassy comments and the like. My life is not over-but I definitely do not feel like myself.
I write things that I just do not think I would write. They aren't in MY voice-if I really have one to begin with. I just don't remember it sounding and looking so fuzzy. That's not me that's no what I usually sound like. I sound smarter usually. I sound like I care. I sound like I write with passion and a desire to change the world-not this fuzzy wishy washy bull shit. I write like something bigger than myself matters.
Right now the shooting pain through my uterus is what I feel. That's what I am writing from. That fucking pain that won't go away. It lingers in my back sweeping through my entire body. Mostly my feet-my pain always seems to land itself in my feet after hurting in the local sites of pain. It always seem to find a home embedded in the muscles of my feet-sometimes my shoulders. Then I can walk on my pain feel it anytime I go anywhere.
I dislike the niceties that come along with experiencing pain. No one knows what to do for it. There is nothing anyone can do. There is little I can do and even less that anyone else can do. Anything that makes me more comfortable I generally have to do for myself and it involves taking more drugs which, knock me out, or make me doped up to the point of entering the land of my subconcious, turning the heat up on my heatin pad, taking a bath, or sleeping. Back and foot rubs are the only thing I can't do very well that relieve some o the pain for a while. I appreciate the gesture I just feel bad when I have no concrete answers to give.
And that's the fuck part! There is nothing to be done until I can schedule my surgery. Until then I just pop the pills they tell me to, and work on my lamaze breathing techniques and try not to do anything to make it worse-which can't always be avoided either.
And I wish I could connect the pain to larger issues of racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia-but right now I can't. I can only feel only write from that space of only sort of caring about life but mostly care about it being over so I can get on with making those connections to other things. Things in my thesis project, things in my class projects, things in my daily life. But fuck! This is my daily life right now. This is it. Boiled down to the roots of being in the exact moment. I wouldn't mind boiling my internal organs right now get them hot enough they would stop cramping.
And I am going through this because I am a Woman right? Whatever that means. I have a Gynecologist working through a special women's health clinic performing my procedure looking at my lady parts and assessing them. This is all because I have reproductive organs I don't plan on producing anything with. If I don't plan on using them can I just lose them and get all of this shit over with? If I lose them am I no longer a woman-if I don't produce anything with my reproducing organs? I don't think I would mind losing that label if it meant losing the pain. I would give up that title-if I did would it make my parts (previously known as lady parts) hurt less? I would hope so.
Fuck!
I just want it over and done!
Sometimes it really is just Fuck!
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