Road maps

All my veins are road maps
Leading back to you.
You three: the vessels that once carried me
Now in vessels
Pulsating with paint and
never-dried ink.
All branch into heart and lungs
Coloring outside the lines of time
Filling in the space
between breaths.

Notes from across the divide

These are all quotes from the diaries my aunt Mary kept as a young person. For those new to my friends list, I have posted about her a lot. She’s my mom’s youngest sister, who died in a car accident in 2007 after a 17-year drug addiction. I found years’ worth of her poetry and journals after she passed away.

Anyway, these things were written in journals throughout the early to mid 1980s, when Mary was in her teens and early twenties. This is how she explained herself to whoever she imagined reading her words in the future:

“Dearest, kindest world with endless opportunities,
Be nice to me and give me a little freedom, and just a few things to enjoy.”
-Summer 1980 (she was fourteen years old)

“I wake up in the morning and shake dreams out of my hair.” -July 1980

“I would gladly give away my creativity to all my friends.” -1980

“Life can be good and life can be treacherous. That’s why they say it has its ups and downs. Then again, death is more than often caused by ups and downs, so to live is to die.” -July 1980

“I love loving. It’s the ultimate in a deciding factor. It’s the difference between reality and the supernatural.”

“Touch the stars, they’re breezing by.”

“When people smile, I smile too. When they cry I cry. When I don’t see them I wonder what they are feeling and if they think of me.”

“Next time you want to understand me, look between the empty pages behind the lines.” -1981

“Words stuck in my throat are released beneath my pen.” -1981

“We are the young ones crying out.” -1984

“Take me as I am: alone and dreaming, a poet without a plan.” -April 1984

“What is written shall remain.”

“Maybe I’m not star material, but I know how to feel and be real.”

“You speak of the coming days. I speak of today and laugh a lot. Your crazy smile keeps me going.”

“This is Captain Mary aboard the cosmic ship Bethany [her hometown]. I am quite alive and enjoying this evening. I am at the head of my bed, in full control, and the music is real cool.”
-February 14, 1985

“I am the living Dead: ahead of my time and behind.”

“I’m filling in words that shouldn’t be said between bound covers.” -1989

“If I die soon, I want everyone to know my life was good. If I live longer, then everyone will know they helped make it that way.” -January 1989

And this last one was written in 2004:
“I dedicate my words to everyone I’ve ever known, dead or alive, or will ever know, dead or alive.”

*****

Rest in peace and poetry, Mary. You’re a supernova that will never stop bursting into life.

Eulogy for a great creator

My grandparents in New Haven, CT in 1948, when Harold was a student at Yale Art School.

In one of my earliest memories of my grandpa Harold, we celebrated Hanukkah with a menorah shaped like a Christmas tree.

He wasn’t strictly religious, but he had a love for certain traditions. He didn’t follow them as prescribed, though. He had a way of making everything his own.

Passover meant sitting around my grandparents’ table with all my cousins while Harold told the story of Moses, passing candy around to demonstrate the ten plagues. The chocolate chips he gave us represented boils, and there were gummy frogs. The grand finale came when he’d bring out a big bowl of red Jell-O and “part” it by spraying a line of whipped cream down the center. Then he’d drop a handful of little plastic soldiers into the bowl, and we’d all dig in.

One year he told the Passover story by putting on a shadow play with my aunts and uncles. They set up a big screen and a light in the living room. Harold narrated while they acted it out with shadows of puppets. My grandma Kiki had made a witch puppet for the Angel of Death. She flew it across the screen on a cardboard broomstick, making it cackle with glee. Aunt Abbie’s hair was the burning bush. She crouched behind the sofa, revealing the silhouette of her wild curls as she shook her head around, mimicking fire.

Harold was an incredible storyteller. He didn’t write, but his inventive and articulate style met perfectly with his theatrical flair. He came up with thrilling sagas to tell his kids and then his grandchildren. He brought stories from the Torah to pulsating life. He invented epics about dragons and monsters. His sound effects were flawless. He knew when to whisper and when to shout. His eyes would pop wide as the momentum built. These adventures left us gripping our seats or shrieking with laughter. His everyday manner was as animated as his stories and art.

Harold did everything to maximum capacity, sucking the last bit of air from every experience yet leaving more for everyone else. He danced on tables. He rolled in the autumn leaves. He watched sad movies with tears streaming down his face. He smacked his lips in appreciation while he ate. I used to try to correct his table manners as a toddler. When I was two years old, I’d shake a finger at him and say, “Grandpa, you’re not supposed to chew with your mouth open. You’re supposed to chew like this!” I’d stuff my face and chew exaggeratedly, mouth closed, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. My whole family would laugh hysterically and I wouldn’t know why. Harold ate just as he was supposed to, though. He consumed, and he gave, with unrestrained joy.

It seems so appropriate that his middle name was Wolf. He always reminded me of a canine with his exuberant manner and love of people and food. With his exploratory nature and endless curiosity, he always seemed to gather a following that became his lifelong pack. Even his physical features were embracing and full. His round face, broad nose, and full lips conveyed generosity. I’ve never known someone so financially thrifty who gave so much.

The frugality had a lot to do with his upbringing. He grew up during the Great Depression in a family where he had to vie with his brothers for food. But this seemed to only feed his resourcefulness. When my mother and her siblings were little, he’d take them on family trips to the Bethany dump. They’d explore the junkyard to look for materials they could use in art projects. This became a time honored Rabinowitz tradition.

I can’t think of Harold without remembering that, or without thinking of Kiki. He and my grandma are forever linked in my mind. I’ve always said them as one word: “HaroldandKiki.” One of my favorite stories was the memory of how they got together. They knew each other from the time they were children. They went to junior high and high school together, but were only distant acquaintances back then. In their class photo, they’re seated next to each other. On the last day of high school, Harold signed Kiki’s yearbook with, “I’ll be seeing you! Ha ha ha.” Neither of them had any idea they’d see each other every day for seventy years.

They reconnected three years later on the day World War II ended. They found themselves at a mutual friend’s party to celebrate. They sensed an interest in each other they hadn’t felt before, and started dating. Kiki told me they went to a carnival for their first date. At one point during the night, they got stuck at the top of the ferris wheel. Harold smiled at her and asked, “Can I kiss you?” She laughed and said, “Well, I guess I can’t run away.”

            They were married a year later and rode their bicycles cross country for their honeymoon. And then, in the early ‘50s, they built their tall, gorgeously chaotic, ramshackle stone house. Kiki built it while she was pregnant. That’s how badass she is. They made friends wherever they went with their playful antics. After Kiki gave birth to their sixth child, they gifted the nurse with a watermelon wrapped in a baby blanket. Kiki told her, “We’re returning the baby. It leaks.”

Over the years, their house became a haven. It was a community in itself. They took in family friends. Many of their kids knew someone who, at least briefly, had lived at their home. They started their family business there, Rabinowitz Design Workshop (later renamed Witz End Workshop). Creative Arts Workshop also began at their house when they gave art lessons to kids from the area. They used to come over, and Kiki would make them all a big pot of spaghetti and hot dogs.

For two people who seemed like one entity, Kiki and Harold butted heads a lot. They had some pretty hilarious arguments. I’ll always remember them fighting over directions in the car. They’d be equally insistent about which way to turn. Finally Kiki would shout, “Goddammit, Harold, I’m not going to listen to you anymore!” and pointedly veer off in the opposite direction, even if it got them briefly lost. He’d do the same when he was the one driving. Despite this, I’ve never met two people more wildly in love.

They loved to dance together. Any time I visited, I’d see him grab Kiki and twirl her around in the kitchen while they laughed. If there was no music, they’d invent their own. They were constantly ad libbing silly songs and rhymes together. Harold was a master of words. He invented a game to play with his children, and later his grandkids, called Stinky Pinky. In the game, people took turns coming up with a pair of words that rhymed and then gave a short description. Everyone else had to guess what it was. For example, someone would say, “A wet puppy.” Others would guess what they had in mind until somebody said, “Soggy doggy.” If you guessed it, you won that round.

Harold could speak in iambic pentameter off the top of his head and improvise limericks and poetry. This made him really popular at parties. At one event he donned Kiki’s purple muumuu, held a pineapple in his outstretched hand, and began to recite Hamlet. At another he stood under the balcony in his living room and extended his wine glass, shouting “My cup runneth over!” At that exact moment, a guest tried to pour wine over the balcony into his glass, but it ended up spilling on his head.
               And, of course, there was the time his son had Show and Tell back in first grade and decided to stand up in front of the class and announce, “Last weekend my dad was at a party and had a lot to drink and fell into a big bucket of popcorn!” My uncle hadn’t been there to see it, but he’d heard the story. Harold wrote legends just by living.

This is why it was so sad when Harold had a stroke back in 2000 and lost a lot of his verbal abilities. He went from someone who could keep a whole room in stitches to having trouble articulating basic thoughts. I remember the look of anguish on his face as he once said, “I can’t say what I mean to say.” And, for a short time, he referred to everyone he spoke to as Kiki. It was because of the stroke, but it made sense. He loved Kiki so much that he saw a part of her in everyone.

Even so, he never stopped enjoying life. He still drew beautifully. He still saw friends and rejoiced in family. He laughed until the end and died surrounded by everyone who loved him; all the lives he had changed. In the end, I can only regret that he won’t be a part of the memorial celebration, because it would be just like him to surprise everyone by showing up in a jester hat or a purple dress, ad libbing satirical poetry. But he’ll be there regardless, because he is everywhere he’s painted and joked and sang.

          Harold is the world he created.

A letter for people I love

This is an open letter to anti-LGBT+ family members—because there’s more than one of you, and because, even if you might not believe it when we disagree, I do love you. Please bear with me.

Because we share genetics and grew up doing holidays together, I know where you come from. I know the particular brand of theology you’re expressing is what you’d been raised with from day one. I know your parents only ever wanted what was best for you, and they are good people. And I know you don’t want to be hateful. It hurts and offends you when others think you’re being cruel for opposing same-sex marriage, when you feel you’re just standing up for “what God says.” You also believe you’re being persecuted for this opinion, and are immersed in a religious culture which tells you that is true. I can’t personally relate to this, as I was not raised within evangelical Christianity. I do understand where you’re coming from, though. It can’t be an easy place to be.

But, in love and in sincerity, I’m asking you to please consider something: That it would be incredibly painful to be a gay or bi or transgender person living within that environment. Even if nobody from your church or your specific religious community is openly “out,” there very likely are LGBT people within your community who know this truth about who they are and hate themselves for it. And, without any assumptions or accusations on my part, please let me ask you some rhetorical questions.

Are you helping them to feel loved, regardless of your beliefs about their identity, or are you encouraging self-hate?

Are you telling them God loves them, but only if they change a huge aspect of who they are and have always been? If so, how can it be called a “free gift” if there are so many strings attached? It can’t be a demonstration of parental love if it’s so conditional. (Not that all parents love unconditionally, but the general Christian understanding is that God loves in the way that an ideal and perfect parent would.)

What are you trying to accomplish by posting anti-LGBT quotes and memes? Are you directing them at LGBT people, or at peers within your religious community who agree with you? Are they directed at people outside your group who disagree—and if so, are you using those posts to try to persuade them?

If you are addressing those things to other Christians, what’s your reason for doing so? Maybe you’re trying to prove your place within their circle, to show that you belong. If that’s the case, why is it necessary? Would true friends litmus test you?

If you’re trying to reach LGBT people, please understand that telling us we’re going to hell and deserve to be murdered is not love. I am, and have always been, a bisexual person. This doesn’t mean I’m in multiple relationships or want to be. I also never chose this. It’s something I’ve known since first grade, since before I knew it was even possible to like both men and women or had any word to name it. If you have questions about this, I’m willing to talk about it. But if you're only interested in telling me how wrong I am for being bi, then the conversation won't lead us anywhere helpful.

If you say gay people are damned or unloved by what you believe to be the ultimate and all-powerful source of love, that does affect me personally. It’s extremely hurtful. In a similar way, you feel personally affected and hurt when others say the same things about your specific branch of Christianity. But please understand that nobody is telling you that your relationships should be illegal, and nobody is forcing you to perform or enter into same-sex marriages. Many people within evangelical Christian culture do seem to want to force LGBT people into heterosexual relationships, though, or force them into the religion via law. It’s not all Christians. But there are a disconcerting amount who want everyone in the US to be legally forced to follow biblical mandates and for our government to be a theocracy. If that were the case, it would completely negate free will. It would also allow even more massive leeway for government corruption; for a leader to do anything they pleased and be unquestioned if they claimed that “God told them to do it.” Nobody is telling you that you cannot be Christian—and there are different ways of being Christian, not just conservative/evangelical. In turn, please don’t tell people they cannot be anything but heterosexual and cisgender (non-trans).

One thing I understand about conservative Christianity is that conscience and a sense of obedience often pull in opposite directions. You may not want to harm LGBT people, but feel that your religion is telling you to. You may be caught in deep and painful conflict for that reason. If this is the case, please understand that any deity worthy of being called “love” would never, ever demand that you choose between duty and compassion. If you have compassion, it’s there for a reason. Please don’t stifle its voice. Also, hate is more than a feeling. It’s an action. A person can have all the caring and empathetic feelings in the world for someone else, but if their actions do the other person harm, it’s not love. Love is what we do, not just what we feel. The same is true for hatred.

If you’ve gotten this far and are still reading, thank you. I’m grateful for your time and consideration. Yes, we’re still family and we’re still friends. But before you repost another quote or video or meme about something you may not fully understand, I ask that you please take a moment to reflect on these thoughts. You’re under no obligation to answer my questions, but please don’t be afraid to ask them to yourself.

Thank you for hearing this out.

Cycles of abandonment

An all too common relationship pattern I notice: One person is afraid the other is going to leave them, and this fear may not be grounded in reality. So instead of trying to talk to their partner about what's going on or try to reconnect and be closer, they lash out at them and become vindictive because they're anticipating abandonment. And then, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, the other person does leave them—but only because of the way they started behaving. This seems to happen a lot.

Fictional potions and real-life consent

Trigger warning: examples of rape apologism and discussion of what, within the Harry Potter universe, is basically a date rape drug. (Although it's obviously a fictional universe, it raises issues that do pertain to the real world. So I just wanted to include a word of caution if that might remind anyone of real-life trauma.)

****

Today I was thinking of the whole concept of love potion within the Harry Potter world and how many issues it brings up. What would happen if somebody slipped it to a person who was already in love with them? Would it cancel itself out and cause that love to disappear? Would it make no difference? Or would it just add a desperate, miserable element to the feeling that was already there? Also, would it work if given to someone who wasn't attracted to your gender? And if so, would anti-gay wizards exploit that in order to promote "ex-gay" therapy?

I wonder all those things about the concept of a love potion, as well as the way it would undermine the foundation of consent. J. K. Rowling recognized that factor, which was why it was always presented as a very harmful and destructive potion. She emphasized that it didn't really create love, as genuine love can't be replicated or artificially formed. Whenever a character drugged someone with it, it induced a desperate, unhappy, and insatiable obsession. I imagine that it was probably a heavily contested substance within the Harry Potter world. Whoever marketed it would probably argue that it didn't compromise your agency because you were consenting while under its influence. Those who sought to outlaw its sale would reply that you weren't acting of your own volition, since it altered your mental state and you didn't even agree to take it—it was always slipped into your food or drink, specifically because the person knew you wouldn't otherwise be interested. The marketers (and probably the wizarding community's version of gross, predatory pick-up artists) would disingenuously respond that nobody really consents to falling in love, anyway—that your own brain chemicals basically impose it on you. Protesters would rightly argue that at least the natural process isn't instigated by an outside source who is deliberately acting against your will.
            I was telling Mike about this and he felt the same way. Then he said, "See, this is why you were never invited to Hogwarts. Because you'd go in and start pointing out all the problems with their social norms."

Unconditional love vs. unconditional trust

People tend to think that if you love someone unconditionally, then you're obligated to trust them unconditionally as well. But while love may not always be "earned," trust definitely is. I've heard it said that the best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them. It's true, but if they proceed to betray your confidence, you're not obliged to continue to trust them out of love. That can turn into enabling.
              I'm not referring to romantic relationships. That type of love, while incredibly strong, is often built on the way your partner behaves. And even if the love itself is unconditional, the relationship isn't entirely so. I'm thinking more along the lines of family relationships; people you didn't choose to bring into your life but need to establish boundaries with, which can sometimes mean limiting or ending contact. Standing up for yourself does not mean you no longer love them.

Appreciation

I wish everyone knew all the incredible people I know--and didn't just know them, but understood what makes them so wonderful. It would be great if everyone could see the people I care about in the same light. Not so they'd all agree with me, but so they could derive the same enjoyment. The same goes for all the music and stories and series I'm moved by. And in turn, I wish I could know all the beloved people and things that everyone else holds close, and to see them all the same way others do. Then again, the act of appreciating everything would cancel itself out if one of the things people enjoy is misanthropically hating on stuff. So go figure.

Adults and the idealization of teen love

I used to wonder why adults tend to idealize adolescent love; why it's such a theme in media that there are basically whole book and movie genres about it. I now have a theory about this. Most people will say teen romance is unique because everything is happening for the first time, hormones are at fever pitch, and you feel everything so intensely at that age. That's part of it, but it's not the whole reason. It is also idealized because it's pretty much the only time in your life when you have a relationship that's entirely about getting to know each other and entirely about feelings. It's uninterrupted by real-life intermissions like financial budgeting and daily chores like managing a home or doing errands together. Things that can be mundane. Of course, sharing those parts of everyday life can be a great bonding experience in itself, and they make the partnership seem a lot more "real." But I think that's why teenage relationships are so memorable to people: because it doesn't feel real yet. It's still like a fantasy, but one that's being acted out by both parties. Not all adolescent couples are happy ones. Teen relationships can be terrible and sometimes even traumatic, and mature relationships are usually a lot better altogether. But the unadulterated quality of them (an accurate word, since they're not adults) is what makes them such a source of fascination.

Nine years

Written December 29, 2014.

*   *   *

Yesterday was my anniversary with Michael O'Malley. We've now officially been together for nine years. Everyone who knows us sees us as an inseparable unit. As Davey said at our wedding, "If those two were any closer, they'd be like a fleshy Voltron."

It's funny and definitely true, but it's also true that we're very different from one another--and that works perfectly for us. It might seem counterintuitive how we can be such a great match when we have more or less no common interests. But what we don't share in interests or hobbies, we share in values, humor, and heart. Sometimes we disagree, but our deepest values are aligned. They always have been, even when our worldviews were completely different than they are now. We started off with complimentary mentalities and then our values changed together, so we still ended up in a mutual place. Mike and I have layers upon layers of in-jokes and can basically read each other's minds. We've seen one another through struggles I can never imagine facing with anyone else. All of our adventures spanning the past almost-decade have been shared.

Some of you may already know the story of the first time the two of us met in person, after months of talking from across the country. It was the date we didn't call a date. I had just turned nineteen and Mike was twenty-four. He showed up at my family's house, an Army tank-sized guy with an epic beard and a trench coat. My mom opened the door and announced, "Ginny, Hagrid is here to take you out!"

So I left with the real-life Hagrid. We went laser tagging and stopped at the Bridgeport Flier, where he made fun of me for barely eating. Then we hung out in his living room, where I decided to find out how many people could fit onto the couch at once. We piled ourselves, his two sisters, the dog, and two guinea pigs into a giant heap on the sofa and it nearly fell through the floor. He had to go back to Washington to finish school, but we talked every day for the next three months. Then I took a plane out to see him and we drove across the country back to Connecticut. Nine years later and we're married. We have a cozy apartment full of Keurig cups, psychedelic drawings, and the world's snuggliest cat. But wherever I go with him, I'm home.

Meeting Michael was finding my home. We share a whole world between us that we not only inhabit, but build upon each day. The greatest privilege I can imagine is to spend the rest of my life thriving in that sacred space.

Wholeness, writers, and imperfect love

I've been having a thought-provoking conversation with a good friend over the past few days. It started with a Facebook status in which I wrote, "Often times we cling to destructive worldviews and values because they were taught to us by people we love, or because we came to those conclusions during especially significant times of our lives. Changing our values can either feel like betraying those who instilled them in us, or admitting that a dramatic change was pointless and that we struggled all for nothing. To deconstruct harmful mindsets, it's important to be able to acknowledge that our teachers were flawed and to see that it's not an act of disloyalty to admit it. It also helps to recognize that the struggle wasn't pointless just because it didn't lead to a permanent conclusion. A belief system or way of life could have been meant for you, even if not meant for you permanently. Even a destructive one can lead to a deeper understanding if you're able to extricate yourself from it and try to help others untangle themselves along the way. The fact that it never stops evolving makes it all the more meaningful."

My friend Victoria responded that she relates to that because she has felt a profound bond to certain authors and philosophers over the years, and has come to a point of disillusionment with some of them. There are ones she still loves but no longer admires on account of the fact that they express some ideas she finds short sighted, if not downright troubling. She said she has come to the same conclusion about many people she currently cares about, or has previously loved, in real life.

I told her that I know what she means about loving certain writers and thinkers without admiring them, and how that also relates to individuals she personally knows. This doesn't mean that authors aren't real, but those we only know from their work do seem to take on the quality of a novel's protagonist—or antagonist, at times. The way I see it is that genuine love not only allows us to see another's flaws, but requires it. I think it's not possible to fully love somebody unless we have a realistic understanding of who they are. If not, we just adore an ideal we created. An ideal, essentially, of what we ourselves wish to be. Even if an author seems almost fictional themselves, a reader can know and care for that writer even more wholly than they love people whose faults they cannot see.

Victoria replied that we can definitely see somebody's flaws without loving them for who they are, but for what they inspire in ourselves. She said she thinks it's possible to recognize an author "more deeply through their work than through the everyday interaction and persona people hide behind."

             I told her I agree. One can see another's faults without feeling any attachment to them. I just mean that I don't think it's possible to love someone genuinely and completely without seeing their flaws along with their wonderful qualities. Feeling loyalty to and affection for someone because you think they're perfect is always a letdown, and can lead to a devastating sense of disillusionment once you see they're not faultless. You can then learn to love them in a new way that allows room to acknowledge their flaws, but not everybody can do it. In that sense, such a type of bond can be very fragile. It reminds me of the way that fundamentalist religious beliefs are so brittle, because they rely entirely on the assumption that every single tenet of the faith, or an ancient text, is flawless and immutable. Then if the fundamentalist starts to see cracks in the structure, the whole thing will come crumbling down instead of stretching to make room for fallibility.

Also, I agree with Victoria's belief that love can exist without reciprocity. It has certainly inspired many of the writers whom we, as readers, feel that sense of non-reciprocated love for. But maybe they did, and do, love their audiences. They may not have been writing for specific people, but they care deeply about their readers altogether. They want to offer sustenance, and can only hope it's able to nourish and provide.

Love and growth

Love of any kind is supposed to help you grow, but there's a distinction between adding to a person's identity and just stretching it out. When you do the latter, you think you're helping them grow but are really just spreading them thin with unrealistic expectations.

Healthy love is a weird paradox. You consume each other without depleting one another; supplementing what was there to begin with.