On July 5, I will turn 34. But this year, there is a birthday that feels more important. In a few hours, it will be June 17, or the day that my uncle would be turning 62 years old. His birthday is a lot more important than mine, because it's more important to remember him than to just turn 34. I'll be in my thirties for a while. It's not that big of a deal.
Robert is a big deal. He's a big deal to our family, and he's a big deal to me. I really only barely knew him as a person, because he wasn't around a lot. It was a different time, and there were a lot of things that weren't talked about. What I figured out about Robert, I mainly did through piecing things together on my own. But there are a few things I do know.
When I was born, in 1981, Robert tried to give blood for me in case there was an emergency, and he wasn't allowed. Gay men were banned from giving blood and they still are banned today. (ETA: Actually, any man who sleeps with men is banned from giving blood so that includes bisexual/pansexual men as well.)
Later in my life, my mother and father decided that with the wrong, gay, influences, I was going to "decide to turn," so I wasn't allowed to be around my uncle (or my father's gay sister) very much.
I can pretty much count the number of times I was arouund Robert at a family thing on my hands, and that's it. I only remember a few times I was with him, but the times I remember, I've probably played a thousand times each in my head.
Most of the times I was with Robert, he was organizing. Handing out leaflets in a park, making voting reminder calls. Pretty much any time I saw him he had some political goal he was working toward, and we never talked directly about those things, but I never, ever forgot them.
I'm not the organizer that he was. I'm not the politician that he was either. I'm not very good at long range planning (I don't think life allows me to long-range plan either). But I think the most important part of any of it is just remembering.
Remembering so that I can ask myself what he would do pretty much every day. Remembering so that I can imagine the pep talk he would give me right before I explain, AGAIN, what human dignity is supposed to look like, and that as a disabled, queer, trans person, I am still allowed it. Remembering that anything that he did, I am allowed to continue-and expand on. Remembering so I can imagine that if I explained what being trans, what being non-binary, what being a disabled adult is like, I can walk myself through what he might say (the good and bad). Even remembering so I can confront my family history, also the good and bad.
I don't have to tell you a lot of detail about him. Some of those things are for my family, some are in a museum in Queens, some are embedded into the history of ACT UP NY, the St. Patrick's Day Parade For All (also in Queens), where he was an honoree this year, and some things I'll just never know. Sometimes that last part is really horrible, and sometimes it's just how things are. Some things I was there for and don't remember, and I hate those things the most.
Sometimes I'm known as the really argumentative one. (Okay, that's all the time.) Sometimes I know that I'm probably way more argumentative than he ever was. To be an organizer, you have to deal with way more people than I am good at dealing with. So, you know, I'll never be him, but that's okay. I carry him in the back of my head and he gives the best pep talks in the world--way better than anything I could come up with by myself.
Happy birthday, Robert. I love you.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Monday, June 1, 2015
Boundaries
When I was younger, I was not allowed many boundaries with my family--and in some ways I am still not allowed boundaries with them. I grew up and realized that other people were raised with an idea that they were allowed privacy, that their autonomy would be respected, and other things which were not so much an element of the life I had growing up. Boundaries were something which I had to learn to utilize as an adult. As the saying goes, there was no going back. I began with a simple exercise given to me in the classroom in an unrelated class. As goofy as the source is, the exercise presented in this article is very important. Try it.
Many disabled people are raised without boundaries. They may be told what to like, what to do, who to have as friends, who their peers are supposed to be or aren't supposed to be--the list goes on and on. Basically, if you grow up disabled, you may not have been given the option of personal boundaries. And even if you are able-bodied, you still may not have been given these or know how to enact them. That's where the exercise comes in.
You are allowed boundaries--but it may take a little while for that to sink in, and that's okay. Once it does, they become a very heady and positive force in life. YOU ARE ALLOWED THEM. Whether it's boundaries around not being stopped and asked questions about your disability or other marginalized identity, or just being allowed personal space, being allowed personal care staff who respect you, or doctors who respect you, or anything in between: you are allowed these things.
When other people don't respect that you are allowed privacy, respect, personal space, and a healthy-for-you environment, THEY are violating your boundaries. This is not your fault. People should always ask if it's all right before asking personal questions, violating personal space, making assumptions about you, giving you unsolicited medical or other advice, or a bunch of other things. People should ask if it's okay, or at least not assume that it is okay, because any of those things are boundary violations. And distancing yourself from people who violate your boundaries is okay. It really is. Maybe you explain to them--or maybe that doesn't feel safe. But if your boundaries are violated, you have every right to uphold the boundaries you've decided on. It takes practice, but it's worth doing. After a while it becomes second nature, and upholding the boundaries is easier and easier.
New scenarios will present themselves, but at the end of the day your boundaries are there to protect you and honoring them is the same as honoring yourself. And it can be done. I promise.
Many disabled people are raised without boundaries. They may be told what to like, what to do, who to have as friends, who their peers are supposed to be or aren't supposed to be--the list goes on and on. Basically, if you grow up disabled, you may not have been given the option of personal boundaries. And even if you are able-bodied, you still may not have been given these or know how to enact them. That's where the exercise comes in.
You are allowed boundaries--but it may take a little while for that to sink in, and that's okay. Once it does, they become a very heady and positive force in life. YOU ARE ALLOWED THEM. Whether it's boundaries around not being stopped and asked questions about your disability or other marginalized identity, or just being allowed personal space, being allowed personal care staff who respect you, or doctors who respect you, or anything in between: you are allowed these things.
When other people don't respect that you are allowed privacy, respect, personal space, and a healthy-for-you environment, THEY are violating your boundaries. This is not your fault. People should always ask if it's all right before asking personal questions, violating personal space, making assumptions about you, giving you unsolicited medical or other advice, or a bunch of other things. People should ask if it's okay, or at least not assume that it is okay, because any of those things are boundary violations. And distancing yourself from people who violate your boundaries is okay. It really is. Maybe you explain to them--or maybe that doesn't feel safe. But if your boundaries are violated, you have every right to uphold the boundaries you've decided on. It takes practice, but it's worth doing. After a while it becomes second nature, and upholding the boundaries is easier and easier.
New scenarios will present themselves, but at the end of the day your boundaries are there to protect you and honoring them is the same as honoring yourself. And it can be done. I promise.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Confronting another attempted murder of disabled man
I write unsent letters, and I write unfinished stories. Today, I did both.
Letters are simple--bursts of emotion dashed off to myself or to people who will know what the meanings are. Writing a story might take more time. In the days when I wrote every day, I might spend twenty to forty minutes and have 300 to 500 imperfect words to show for it. Something, at least. But the stories that mean the most have been with me since I was young, before I was writing them down.
I fold pieces of them into other stories, other characters, other circumstances, and they are not literally mine anymore, they're safely somewhere else. But only I could tell them.
I began writing the stories I couldn't write down when I was four or five, and instead of written words they came out in tears. Tears of emotional release as I settled into my private world where I could process the terror of my childhood.
Poems came later, at age ten, when I woke long before I had to for school and sat down to write as my form of meditation.
I brought the old poems out of a forgotten cranny in my room today and put them on my office shelf.
Then I went off to be with friends. Friends of a friend, and some of them knew me and some of them didn't, but it was good.
Sometimes maybe you shouldn't log back in to the Internet after a thing like that. Or maybe you should. I don't know the answer.
A "mother" left her son, her disabled son, with CP, in a park, alone, to die there.
As a child of five, of ten, of fifteen, this was my single greatest fear.
The parallels are there--not exact, but close enough. Close enough that I wrote stories so close to this mark from age nineteen until I don't know when--I'm still writing them.
In the stories, always, my character is saved. Not saved by love of a mother, because I have never been able to write that story, but saved by the love of caring, obstinate people who believed in him, chosen family, of a partner, of a life.
When I was younger, imagining the details of the life was an easier task, and I don't know if what I have now would seem like much of anything to most people around me, but here I am, alive, having cried my tears, having had my heart palpitations, and having gone to find my characters. I listened to them process the news, reassure each other that they were safe and so was I, and then I put words to paper--the letter unsent, the story unwritten, but known, inside of me, and I breathed. Because I must.
Letters are simple--bursts of emotion dashed off to myself or to people who will know what the meanings are. Writing a story might take more time. In the days when I wrote every day, I might spend twenty to forty minutes and have 300 to 500 imperfect words to show for it. Something, at least. But the stories that mean the most have been with me since I was young, before I was writing them down.
I fold pieces of them into other stories, other characters, other circumstances, and they are not literally mine anymore, they're safely somewhere else. But only I could tell them.
I began writing the stories I couldn't write down when I was four or five, and instead of written words they came out in tears. Tears of emotional release as I settled into my private world where I could process the terror of my childhood.
Poems came later, at age ten, when I woke long before I had to for school and sat down to write as my form of meditation.
I brought the old poems out of a forgotten cranny in my room today and put them on my office shelf.
Then I went off to be with friends. Friends of a friend, and some of them knew me and some of them didn't, but it was good.
Sometimes maybe you shouldn't log back in to the Internet after a thing like that. Or maybe you should. I don't know the answer.
A "mother" left her son, her disabled son, with CP, in a park, alone, to die there.
As a child of five, of ten, of fifteen, this was my single greatest fear.
The parallels are there--not exact, but close enough. Close enough that I wrote stories so close to this mark from age nineteen until I don't know when--I'm still writing them.
In the stories, always, my character is saved. Not saved by love of a mother, because I have never been able to write that story, but saved by the love of caring, obstinate people who believed in him, chosen family, of a partner, of a life.
When I was younger, imagining the details of the life was an easier task, and I don't know if what I have now would seem like much of anything to most people around me, but here I am, alive, having cried my tears, having had my heart palpitations, and having gone to find my characters. I listened to them process the news, reassure each other that they were safe and so was I, and then I put words to paper--the letter unsent, the story unwritten, but known, inside of me, and I breathed. Because I must.
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