05 On fighting for the disenfranchised
by V.E. on May 23rd, 2008
filed under writing
[This is the first draft of the fifth part of my Master's thesis/book, Confession.
Comments and questions are always appreciated.]
I late high school, I began seeing a psychotherapist. When my mom went to Texas for a month to help with my grandma, the mover and shaker in our house disappeared and for some reason I felt like the responsibility was handed to me. I began to get up uncharacteristically early to get my little sister and brother ready for school so we’d get there on time. I moved us all on a schedule and helped with homework when we got home.
My dad was there, but his role hadn’t changed to adjust for my mother’s absence, so we were on our own for food. That meant we had a lot of pancakes and popcorn—not at the same time, thankfully—which were the only things my father really knew how to make. I tried to keep things running smoothly while my mom was away. My grandma was having health issues and since my mom is a registered nurse, she went to see her in Texas instead of my dad, even though Grandma is Dad’s mom.
Whatever else was happening, I wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility. By the end of the month—in the third week, I remember it being—I refused to go to school at all. I wouldn’t get out of bed.
Dad was really worried. I don’t even remember what he said, but I told him that I just wanted the day off and pulled my covers back over my head. When he finally got me into the car (we were all already late by then), I remember pulling up in front of the high school and refusing to get out. It was a van and had a sliding door; I sat in the open door and refused to move.
“Katy,” Dad said to my sister, “get the school counselor.” And she disappeared into the maw of high schoolers.
When she returned, counselor in tow, I heard, “Come on, let’s get you to class.” It was the counselor, and I said no.
So, my father, the counselor, and I paraded in a little line from the van to his office so I could explain myself. Dad looked like he felt really guilty, but I don’t remember much of the conversation being about that. The counselor asked, “Okay, Viannah, can you tell me why you don’t want to go to class?”
And I said, “Because I want the day off. It’s Friday, after all, anyway. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s unlike you.”
Somehow, more talking was had and I was frustrated and angry and crying, and Dad and the counselor finally agreed to let me stay home. But, that was also the beginning of long-term therapy.
I was more distressed than I’m letting you see now, but my memory is faulty, so you’ll have to take what I can give you.
————
Anyway, after being in therapy for quite a while, I came out as bisexual to my parents. I was involved in the high school’s Gay Straight Alliance and in the LGBT rights movement statewide, so the revelation didn’t come as a complete shock. Still, it was a tearful one.
Later, my dad and I were waiting in line at the drive-thru at Jack In The Box and he said, “I think you just want to fight for the underdog. You know, maybe poke it in the eye of authority and help people while you’re at it.”
I’m not sure what my response was then, but now I think he was right. I still want to ravish women as much as men, but when he said that, he didn’t mean to say that my feelings were a “phase” to grow out of. Dad saw my activism and—maybe without even realizing it—zeroed in on what I meant. That’s impressive because I have the distinct impression that I denied his assertion at the time. I think I wanted to believe that it was the LGBT rights movement or nothing, but I now know that’s not really how I work.
The college I attended had an already well-established (albeit relatively small) gay club, LGBTA. (The “A” stood for Allies.) Honestly, I never attended even one meeting, though I dutifully signed on to the email list every semester.
I was bored of “safe space.” I didn’t want to sit around and be comforting anymore. I wanted to be uncomforting. I wanted to debate and get in people’s faces and make them think and make waves. In college, I was past the “it’s okay to be gay” thing. I said to myself, “It is okay, and I want everyone to agree with me.”
I wasn’t afraid to call out homophobic comments and I wouldn’t back down when I was called names or harassed. It was righteous indignation, and my dad was right. I made it my business to poke it in the eye. I pushed boundaries and purposefully made people uncomfortable. I challenged unrealized homophobic attitudes and wrote angry-yet-civil letters to my political leaders. I even founded a group, Students for Marriage Equality, to help counteract the so-called family values movement and the Federal Marriage Amendment, which would’ve defined marriage as between “one man and one woman” across the entire nation if it had passed in 2004.
I didn’t even want to get married at the time, but it was the principle of the thing. I saw something I believed in struggling, so I made the cause my cause.
It’s not that I don’t believe in civil rights or women’s rights because I do. It’s just that those movements seem to be doing just fine without my help. Think of it this way:
First, you have society at large.
Then comes a movement like a flock of wild geese. The geese are intruding on society’s geese-less view of itself, but they have momentum and can rely on one another when they get into trouble.
But then, off to the side, there’s an ugly duckling. The flock doesn’t want it because its ideas are too radical and it may slow the other geese down or mess up the flying V formation. The duckling seems to do more harm than good, even though it’s just as much a goose as the other geese are.
And, if the flock won’t adopt it, you can pretty much forget about society wanting anything to do with it or its upbringing.
Well, I want to help that duckling. I want to help the flock, too, because what they’re doing is good, but the duckling needs more help sooner, and that’s where I want to be. I want to help achieve more rights for children and youth, the mentally ill, non-traditional families (including polygamous families), and sex workers.
Talk about fighting for the underdog.
Or the underduckling.
Death of the Poem
by V.E. on May 23rd, 2008
filed under recap/review, writing
I’ve got another review up over at the Feminist Review on The Death of the Poem and Other Paragraphs, a book of prose poems by Justin Courter. Please check it out and comment if you have a chance. Thanks!
