Tag: Friday Philosophy

It was supposed to be Gay Pride Week here on campus.  Everything has conspired to screw that up, not the least of which were apathy and poor organizational ability by the volunteer coordinators of the event, including yours truly.

But I did write a speech and I don’t want to waste it.  You’ll find it on the other side, embellished with whatever doo-dads I can think of, find, or create.

It’s that time of year again.  Next week is Gay Pride Week on campus here at Bloomfield College.  Sometimes it is a little earlier, but usually it is a little later.  But the second week of April includes Easter Break, so it was now or never.

I’d love it if it were a time of joy.  But I often find it to be rather depressing.  I’ve been one of the co-coordinators of the Gay/NonGay Alliance since I got a full-time job here in 2001.  I wish I could say it has been rewarding.

The truth is that it has all been an uphill journey.  No matter which direction one looks, it is uphill.

On Tuesday I attended our annual Cyrus H. Holley Lecture on applied ethics.  The speaker was a retired colleague, Professor Emeritus of History Steve Golin, a well-known labor historian (see The Fragile Bridge:  Paterson Silk Strike, 1913 and The Newark Teacher Strikes:  Hopes on the Line), who lectured on History, Cynicism and Hope.

Therein lie the roots of this riff.

And hereafter will lie a little history (or something simulating history), a little cynicism, and…with any luck…some hope.  And maybe I need something to tie them loosely together.

Greed.

News out of West Virginia is that the State Senate passed a bill adding protection for sexual orientation (and age) to its anti-discrimination law.  While I applaud that, I also understand that it is not sufficient to protect the people most likely to be discriminated against.  And I don’t just mean transfolk.  I mean gays and lesbians…and even straight people…who do not perform their gender role to the liking of those who would discriminate.

A lot of folks just don’t get that.  A lot of people believe that transpeople are just out to get what they can for themselves and do not comprehend that in working for protections based on gender identity, we are concerned about you…and you…and you, too.

What people seem not to be able to accept is that we all have gender identities…every single one of us.

As usual as Friday approaches, I start panicking because I haven’t a clue what to write about.  That especially happens around midterm as we crawl towards Spring Break.  On more week before refreshing can commence.

It is often the case, however, that events provide an idea.  This one crystalized with plf515‘s morning offering, WGLB presents: Stereotype.

In my mind I teamed this together with several other recent events, listed after the fold, and the idea of writing about teaching against stereotypes arose.  I’m hoping to generate some helpers, both in the here and now and to pick up the burden after I die.

Stereotypes are ubiquitous.  I battle them consistently.  All my political battles, not just for GLBT rights, but also for Native American rights, against the English-only doofi, for the poor and downtrodden, against racism and religious and ethnic discrimination, for the equality of women, against bullying…and so many, many more, all have at their root the battle against stereotypes.

Be aware that if you choose this path, you will be called sanctimonious, self-absorbed, self-important, thin-skinned fascist against freedom of speech.

If that’s the price to be paid, so be it.

I’ve made no secret lately that I was going to appear in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, as Woman #1 (Calpernia Addams) in the…well it is not exactly a monologue, but rather a chorus…They Beat the Girl Out of My Boy…Or So They Tried.

The two-night run at Bloomfield College’s Van Fossan Theater is now over and I am exhausted and have a splitting headache from interacting with the stage lights.  I’m tired and I’m cranky.

Word on the street was that the event was not to be missed.  But then again, each night only had about 120-140 in the audience.

Part of the proceeds went to help combat the systematic maltreatment of women (and men) in the Democratic Republic of Congo in the quest for blood coltan, in what has become known as The Playstation War.  The remainder went to the The Safe House Shelter for battered women, which is affiliated with Clara Maass Hospital.

Affiliated with our production was a teach-in on the DRC and a Clotheline Project in March.

And one more presentation, which is the main purpose of this essay, against the backdrop of these other educational efforts.

I’ll be truthful with you.  But then, I always am.  So maybe I should say I’ll be truthful again.

I’m exhausted.  I got up early enough this morning and did some of my usual Friday morning things, but around 11 I fell asleep on the couch with Paula Deen and Giada De Laurentiis cooking who knows what.  Certainly not me, because I passed right on out.  And I slept for two and a half hours.

So now I am fuzzy-headed in the extreme, my eyes will hardly focus, and I have much less time than I usually do to finish my Friday column.

But I know I have a topic here somewhere, a topic that concerned my earlier comments.  Or at least I had one.

Last week I was told somewhere that Friday evening on the Internet is not the time or place for anything resembling serious discussion.  Really?  Who made that rule?

Debbie and I were informed about a week ago that our doctor was changing locations, leaving the Family Health Center in Montclair for another practice a half hour away.  We are left with the decision of whether to follow her or keep going to the Family Health Center.

For me, that’s not as straightforward a decision as it would be for most people.

Treatment by medical personnel, doctors, nurses and office staff can be a critical issue or transfolk.

Of course, I can only speak for myself and my experience should not be deemed universal.  That could be the point…or at least one of them.

Sometimes it all seems futile.  I teach and teach and teach, wondering if one day, even some day soon, I will get the opportunity to talk about the things which really matter, about the way the world is and how to make it better for some of us who could use the improvement.

Then I run into someone who puts me back to square one, wondering if anything I have taught has survived…or how many other people are out there who feel the same way as the culprit.

So what do I do?  Go back to the beginning and start anew?  Maybe with some variation on the theme?  

What else is there?

Waiting.

I should be good at it by now.  I have decades of experience.

The time floats on, those minutes fly by

You wanna go, but just you try, guy

You wanna see her

You wanna see her, oh yeah

So you wait, you wait and wait

Girl don’t come

In my case, “you want to be her” were the words in my ears…for years and years and years.  But the words have often been slightly wrong.

So the waiting goes on.

Keep waiting.  Our hopes and dreams will be fulfilled…some day.

Someday soon.  Just you wait.

She arose silently from her bed and walked to the bathroom.  She stopped to stare at herself in the mirror.

Sh was old.  Sometimes she wondered how that had happen, but she had been aware that she was not aging all that gracefully for quite a few years.  Daily stress can do that to a person.

So can 44 years of being on testosterone.

Now, even 17 years later, the effects of that were still there in the face that looked back..  Nothing was going to undo that…except maybe thousands of dollars of facial reconstruction.  That was money she would never have.  So she made do with the rationalization that she hadn’t wanted to stop recognizing herself anyway.

And nothing was going to change the fact that she was 6’4″ tall.

First they came for the K word.  But I didn’t mind.  The few people I knew who were Jewish were nice enough and knew their place in the world and they didn’t bother me, so I didn’t need to bother them.

Then they came for the N word.  Again, my humor didn’t include blackface and anyway I thought jokes based on the stereotyping of black people were vulgar.

When they came for the C word, I got pissed.  And then someone told me it wasn’t just the C-word, that there were other words that women objected to just as much.    

My whole comedy game relied on me calling people c**ts and b**ches and pu**ies.