Questions from a Wonderstruck Me

Tonight my partner and I watched the 2003 film Osama, directed by Siddiq Barmak. The film depicts the struggles of Afgan women under Taliban rule through the story of a 12 year old girl who is forced to act like a boy in order to work to support her widowed mother and her sickly grandmother. The movie features genuine performances by untrained actors whose experiences with Taliban rule are so recent that their emotions emerge effortlessly and with startling urgency. These are people who have a story to tell, and are thirsty to tell it. The film is beautiful in its cathartic release, however it features a few scenes that leave foreign audiences needing to know more. After a few unfruitful attempts at souring the Internet for answers (“women’s human rights infringements under Taliban rule” turns up so very many sites, you see), I turn to you, my bright fellow Xanga authors, in search of clarity.

In one scene, the Taliban principal of the young protagonist’s school was suspicious of her actual sex. He strapped her to an apparatus that dangled her over what appeared to be a well in an attempt to discover is she was a boy or a girl. She was reveled to be a girl when, after intense sobbing, she was lifted from the well and blood streamed down her legs. I was unsure of how to interpret this—it didn’t appear to be menstrual blood—it was more like the blood of a gushing wound than of a shed uterine lining, and besides that, the protagonist seemed too undeveloped to have yet started her period. I thought it might have been some sort of hymen popping machine, but if it were shoved between anyone’s legs, boy or girl, and then blood would surely appear, proving nothing.

In another scene, our young protagonist has been married off to an old, lecherous man. On the night they are to consummate their marriage, he holds up a stick, from which metal padlock-looking items dangled. He asked her to choose one. She cried and backed away in horror. My first thought was, “are those chastity belts?” But as our young protagonist was about to loose her virginity to this bearded old goat, it is more likely that they were something else entirely.

If anyone has any idea what these two items might be, please leave me a comment or an email. I’ll continue scouting about online and I’ll hopefully have an answer to share with you all.

I highly recommend this movie. The creators of this film seemed like swimmers emerging from the water’s heavy surface-their lungs eager to inhale the sweetness of life, relieved and euphoric to tell their story. This is freedom. This is a director that has his chance to speak to the entire world, and lucky for us, he does not squander it.

First Amendment Rights Don’t Always Apply to Bloggers

My friend forwarded me this article. Luckily she’s going to be a lawyer and fight for your rights to parrrrrrtay. Seriously, though, eventhough all you Xanga authors are always sweet and generally positve about your lives (at least those of you who I read), you might want to take a look at this before you vent about Bossy McBoss. I’m all for starting a revolution, but I’ve got bills….

The article, written by Washington Post Staff Writer Amy Joyce, describes the punishmet that blogger Rachel Mosteller recived after venting about work in her live journal:

“This post, like all entries in Mosteller’s online diary, did not name her company or the writer. It did not name co-workers or bosses. It did not say where the company was based. But apparently, Mosteller’s supervisors and co-workers at the Durham (N.C.) Herald-Sun were well aware of her Web log.

The day after that posting, she was fired.”

Here is the link:
Washington Post Article

It will ask you to sign in. Go to www.bugmenot.com to get a sign in that won’t shovel emails into your box. But perhaps you want to subscribe–its up to you! Either way, its worth a read.

His Sister Was Six Feet Tall

The desperate stench of misguided love (the loneliness/horniness disguised as “destiny” and found in heart shaped cards, bridal magazines, and other distinctive venues) has charged the air today as society is reminded by the cuddly capitalists at Hallmark to find someone to copulate regularly with before their existence expires, and they die alone.

I’m not really all that jaded, but I have been a bit nauseated by the shameless come-on’s I’ve received today, and I blame Valentines Day.

The most recent flirtation took place only minutes ago, during my bus ride home from work. A man who—if it weren’t for his obvious and acute awareness of them, I honestly wouldn’t have noticed—had a massive case of crater face, and the sour breath that only accompanies nerves. He was 35 –45 years old; pot bellied and stooped, and seemed embarrassed of himself. As the bus rocked and bobbed as Chicago busses do, he leaned close to me to tell me something. I was startled by this sudden invasion of personal space and looked up from the Granta I was reading. Just then, the bus hurtled his forehead into mine. We reeled back, rubbing our heads. Grumpy, I turned back to my reading. A couple of seconds later, his blushing face was back, too close for comfort.

“Are you six feet tall?” He asked.
A man bumps my head to ask me that?!?!
“Umm..yeah.”
Inexplicably, he flinched, and sat back down. When he rose at his stop, he told me,
“My sister was tall.”
Wow. I sincerely hope that my brothers won’t grow up to use that line (is that even a line?!!?) on any Amazon goddesses they find.
“Great,” I said.
He left.

A skeleton of a man with a filthy do-rag leaned over and said, “That white boy want to be yo Valentine, baby! Why don’t you go catch him?!?”

I smiled and tried to escape into my Granta. A middle aged, desperately lonely, bumbling man with no confidence—I thought—what a catch!

The skeletal man laughed loudly, as if reading my thoughts, “Well, if you don’t want him, then hows about me?”

Oh brother!

For all of you who have heard the logistics of this story before (yes, I’m talking about you LinSquee. My endless thanks to you, by the way, for getting me out of my head the other day and having fun), I apologize if this story might not be fresh enough for you. I however, have just recovered from reeling from the events this essay describes, so I’ve put your needs aside for a bit of self indulgence and a way to express gratitude to my very cool husband for all his efforts. Anyhow, it being Valentines Day tomorrow–its time to get a bit mushy. Or, as mushy as I get, which honestly, isn’t that mushy. Without any further ado…

Loving a man who fights “The Man”
An unlikely Valentine story for my partner in crime
&copy The Author, 2/13/2005

I have heard before that the suicide rate amongst dentists is uncommonly high. Apparently, the knowledge that most of society avoids and dreads seeing the dentist like the plague seems to corrode whatever self-worth they arrived at their profession with. After years of being charged with the task of hovering over patients who reluctantly pry their jaws open, squint their eyes shut, and propel self-automated squirts of saliva from the back of their throats in a feeble, last-ditch effort of self defense (known by middle school boys everywhere as “gleek-ing”), the world becomes a sinister and unloving place for a dentist.

I had always understood how it came to be that dentists had the highest rate of suicide of all the worlds’ professions, until last Friday when I realized that there was in fact, another professional group who might commit even more suicides than dentists. In a dark, windowless, paper cluttered office, I met with an individual who is loathed and demonized even more than our ego-bruised dentists–I was met with the wrath of a Student Financial Aid Officer.

The story of my eventual encounter with the ruthless and feared financial aid officer began about four months ago, at a gathering with the people my husband works with in the publications department at the Art Institute of Chicago. In the warm, neon pink glow of the tiki bar, I was talking with my favorite of my partner’s coworkers-a toothy, pretty, guitarist named Sarah. We were talking about continuing our educations, and our constant curiosity about the world. Between sips of mai tai and bites of greasy, happy-hour Buffalo wings, Sarah suggested that I take some of the classes offered by the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. One of the benefits of employment at my husband’s place of work is that of three free credit hours at SAIC, one of the world’s most prominent art schools.

My husband had taken advantage of this benefit before, taking awesome night classes ranging from web design to Cuban history. I had never realized that, as a spouse, I could also take advantage of this benefit. According to the beautifully well-meaning Sarah, I could do just that, as long as my husband wasn’t enrolled in any classes that semester. I eagerly awaited the course catalogue, and was first in line on registration day to claim my spot in two continuing studies night classes: drawing and photo.

The first week of classes was like a dream come true. I went to work in the day, and my nights were spent making new friends in my new classes, and gobbling up the teachings of my wonderful professors. I drew cylinders and learned how to properly use the light meter on my camera. I learned the wonders of the Conte crayon, and the possibilities of aperture and F-stop. I raved about the classes to my husband, and spent countless, happy hours on my homework assignments. I could not stop gushing about how grateful I was that he was providing this great gift for me. My partner, on the other hand, was dying inside.

I love the person I have chosen to spend my life with. And the best part is-he doesn’t even annoy me; I actually like him. However, he does have an occasional habit of hiding things from me that might make me unhappy. This is a trait inherited from the behaviors of his otherwise happy and functional family. Seeing me as excited as I was over the classes, my partner could not bear to tell me that the “special projects” status of his employment (which basically means he has been working on a contract basis that requires annual renewal for the past three years) in fact does not allow the employees spouse to take these free classes. Single-handedly and very discreetly, he had been challenging the long-standing rules of the massive institution he works for in order to allow me the pleasures of my blissful art classes.

I learned about the fight my husband had engaged “The Man” in from a jowly, tired eyed, and testy Financial Aid Officer last Friday. I had originally taken off from work a bit early to go to the SIAC to get my student ID, but as soon as I told the student desk worker my name, his eyes widened and he informed me, “you need to go to Financial Aid, like…now.”

After navigating my way through aisles of gloomy cubicles, I arrived at the Financial Aid Officer’s dungeon. She must have sensed my dread and hesitancy to approach her, because in a voice that seemed to bellow from the bowels of hell, she croaked, “Truly, is it? (*Note: yes, dear readers, my name is actually Truly) We need to talk.” Not knowing what exactly to expect, but knowing that it couldn’t be good, I put on a brave face and ducked into her gloomy cave of number-crunching angst. Her breath was heavy and stale. Her hair looked brittle and thin from what must have been the stress of her profession prompting her to periodically pull it out. Her ass, having widened to the dimensions of her cushioned office chair after years of endless sitting, propped her up tall in a superior, authoritative way.

Seething with discontent from decades managing the complaints of broke, angry students and attempting to find solutions in an uncooperative government with little interested in making higher education affordable, she sneered at me. “I suppose your husband told you what’s been happening.” She said husband as if the word were a reeking, filthy diaper that had to be carried to the trash with one hand closing the nostrils, and another holding the leaking sack a full arms length away. With great irritation, she informed me that my husband “was unprecedented in his challenge to the school’s policy of not allowing special projects employee’s spouses to take the free SAIC classes.” Exhausted with my husband’s tireless attempts over the past month to rattle the school’s foundation, the Financial Aid Officer said that she was almost relived when, “he tried to go over my head about the matter.”

My tenacious partner had a series of meetings with the chief financial officer of the school and the museum to try to inflict a change in their pointless policy. He argued his case eloquently and articulately: if people who aren’t “special projects” can extend the three credit hours to their spouses, why not him? And if he can take the free classes, what’s the difference if I take them instead of him? Everyone gets paid the same amount either way. Even the worn-down, stressed out, deflated sack of humanity known as the Student Financial Aid officer was able to see his point, as did her bosses, the chief financial officers. But rules are rules. I had to drop the classes.

I think I surprised the Student Financial Aid Officer by my complacency over dropping my classes. This was in no way due to me being in any way complacent by nature, or to me seeing the point of the silly rules that put my husband and I in this situation. I was simply shocked to hear that my partner had been fighting tooth and nail this whole time with these financial aid people (who, by the very nature of their professions, are frustrated, ornery individuals) and I had absolutely no clue about any of it. My husband had given no indication that anything like this was happening; he would smile in that soft, loving way of his when I’d talk about my classes, never letting on to his anxiety or stress over his crusade for me to continue them.

When he came home last Friday night, he said simply, “I heard you had a meeting with my friend in the financial aid office.” I tried not to say anything, to save my spiel about him needing to tell me things; persuading him that he doesn’t have to fight the good fight alone. I went to him and held him close. My selfless, kindhearted husband melted into my arms.

Even more than my beloved art classes, I love spending my life with a man who challenges the status quo in search of fairness and justice, who gives of himself so fully, who loves me so purely and endlessly.

My partner might not have won his fight against “the man” this time, but trust me, he will. He’s got the tenacity, smarts, and passion to create change, as well as to avoid professions that might strip him of the will to live. And my husband has me–a partner in crime who believes in him. Next time, I hope he’ll take me up on my standing offer to storm the forts of our enemies together. In the meantime, I’ll just revel in my luck at finding such an awesome person to trek through this world with.

Happy Valentines Day, Shaun-san. You have my love and appreciation always. I dedicate my attempt at a cylinder drawing to you.

I am very lucky person. My best friend is one of the most funny, outgoing, smart, loyal, and unique individuals I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forges through life creating new definitions for tired labels. He challenges the strict path that society tells us we need to be on in order to be “contributing citizens,” (college, career, marriage, kids, retirement, death) acknowledging that it is really just a ploy to fuel the capitalist machine. He enriches the communities he lives in. He makes his life his own. He snorts when he laughs. Embarrassingly hung over, I recently puked in a candy dish of his. His name is Bryan, but I call him Byron or Tinos. Today is his birthday. Which explains this enourmous, hillarious, and ancient picture of him at age 16 tweaking his nipple to the camera. Oh, how I love birthday tricks!

In honor of Bryan, and in honor of best friends everywhere, I am sharing the following piece with you. While it has little to do with friendship in and of itself, it was inspired by our giddy conversations, our hilariously raunchy emails, and our shared history based on laughing at the world and ourselves.

Bryan and I often laugh about the right wing conspiracy that gays are so very threatening to the straight status quo. But beneath the laughter, there is always something more. It hurts to have someone as amazing and giving as my Byron is bashed by anyone—even if they are nothing more than stupid bigots. Those stupid bigots have somehow sequestered political power from people with a genuine commitment to civil rights. In a country that marches into other lands with our phony “freedom” and “democracy,” Bryan isn’t privy to the basic rights I have as a straight American.

So, without further ado, and with an ever-mounting disgust for the right wing, I present this little sarcastic little article, co-written with my husband, specifically for my best friend on his birthday. I love you Tinos!
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Insurgents Struggle Beneath Gay Militant Maneuvers

© The Authors, 2/3/2005

Recently, the militant gay assembly has reassessed its agenda to tear human existence apart at the crotch seams. The group has employed new aggressive tactics in its self-proclaimed “Operation Hetero Freedom,” or “War for Liberation.” Gays have reluctantly withdrawn troupes from civilian centers, where they were stationed to hump the pant legs of innocent straight bi-standers. They have moved on to tactics designed specifically to shock and awe—cartoon bunnies and sponges with square pants.

The cartoon tactic, dubbed “Color Me Badd,” began in 2001, when militant gays infiltrated Nickelodeon studios. Sodomites and Lesbos fought side by side for a cartoon character that would win the hearts and minds of America’s youth while revealing moist holes. “Sponge Bob Square Pants offered exactly what we were looking for to up our recruitment numbers,” Private Sharon Beavers said, “it is the duty of all patriots to instill [hard] core hole values from an early age.”

Despite poor fashion sense, Sponge Bob is a poster child for Gay life. He holds hands with his lover, a starfish named Patrick, and the two often engage in quadruple penetration, with starfish tentacles tenderly occupying sponge holes. Their friend Sally, a squirrel and obvious fag hag, supports Patrick and Sponge Bob in their commitment to each other. The show also features a meowing snail.

Mission “Color Me Badd” also includes forcing the cartoon bunny, Buster Baxter, from the PBS series, “Postcards from Buster,” to interview raging dykes engaging in cunnilingus on screen. The gay militants forced Buster to travel all the way to Vermont; a state that supports same-sex civil unions, in order to capture the sex acts of the butch and fem on film.

President Bush’s newly appointed education secretary, Margaret Spelling has condemned the cartoon bunny and the publicly funded airwaves it travels on as an, “Axis of Schmaxmis.” Spelling continued, “Many parents would not want their young children exposed to the lifestyle portrayed in the episode.” The militant gays couldn’t agree with Spelling’s statement more, which exactly why it is a crucial tactic in their fight against heteroism. Militant gay, Colonel Chick McDick stated, “Graphic lesbian sex is one of the corner stones of our great country. If parents can’t understand that, then at least we have a shot with their kids.”

Right wing insurgents have been orchestrating feeble attempts at defense through litigation and public demonstrations. Reverend Donald Wildmon, head of the American Family Association, and James Dobson, founder of the Colorado-Springs based activist group, Focus on Family became particularly vocal, alleging that the militant gays were “promoting tolerance” and attempting to spread their disease to impressionable children through pedophiliac tactics. The gays don’t deny the charges.

“It’s been a long, hard slog,” Sergeant Bob Fersemen said. “We’ve tried so many initiatives: Tickle Me Elmo, Telletubbies, Bert and Ernie, Pinocchio and Geppeto—and we’ve never gotten such good response as Sponge Bob or Buster Baxter. I hate to say it, but I want to prolong this as long as possible. The liberation of youth feels so good. I dread the exit strategy.”

The Right Wing insurgents claim allegiance to Pope John Paul II, who is currently recovering from being old, and has been hiding in a Spider Hole in an undisclosed location in Rome. In a tape released last month exclusively to Fox News, the Pope advises followers to beware of the militant gay assembly’s Biological Warfare of Cooties. In an unintelligible voice, the Pope specifically stated, “You can catch ‘gay’ easier than crabs from an Italian hooker’s anus!” The Pope also made mention of an abominable snowman.

Spokespersons for the militant gays, cast of the smash hit show, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, poo-pooed the Pope’s remarks during the national State of the Wardrobe address. In perfect unison, the limp-wrists exclaimed, “Papa—don’t Preach.”
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