Yearly Archives: 2010

On this the 13th anniversary of our relationship

Beloved,

I wanted to take this opportunity to write something romantic, mushy and gushy and sweet even, a digital love letter, the writer’s dozen-and-one roses. I wanted to write you something strong and deep and wide and worthy of you and what I feel for you. But I think of you, and I think of the last 13 years, and what comes to mind above and below and through all else is simple, profound gratitude. So allow me to thank you.

For that kiss, 13 years ago, sprawled across the front of your sister’s ancient sedan (and never have I been more grateful for bench seats), thank you.

For moving hundreds of miles away from the only house you’d ever lived in, for moving back in with my parents for a year, for moving more than halfway across the continent with me and for moving all the way back again, thank you.

For wanting to stop me from hitting my head, and for letting me do it anyway when I had no other way to cope and you knew the alternative would be worse, thank you.

For having complete, unshakable faith in my fidelity, for lacking even the smallest grain of jealously, for trusting me so damn much I could not break that trust even when I may have had the urge to, thank you.

For never, ever, not even once insulting me or belittling me even in the worst of our top-of-our-lungs arguments, thank you.

For your often-changing pastimes and passions that are a delight to my eye and my heart — from yo-yos and chainmail to sourdough and bonsai — thank you.

For being someone I could look at and think “I want to see him be a dad” and “maybe parenting wouldn’t be so bad with him by my side”, thank you.

For the Boychick, thank you.

For doing far more than half the housework for most of the Boychick’s life — really, for most of our life together — and for never needing or wanting a “honey-do list”, and for never even muttering that it was properly my responsibility because I was home all day, thank you.

For not yelling back at me when I, seeing a pattern reemerge from my childhood and the terror of it transforming into anger, yell at you to change your parenting (even though I do exactly the same things), and for doing the work necessary to make your actions more in line with your intentions, thank you.

For respecting the work I do — on my sanity, on the forums, caring for our child, going to school, writing; all as yet unpaid — without patronizing me or valuing it any less than your work, thank you.

For being really great in bed (and elsewhere), for imagination and very few inhibitions, for our toy collection, for working with our disparate drives (and for laughing or rolling your eyes at the suggestion my higher drive might be “unfeminine” or unappealing), for accepting if not understanding my occasional sexual dissonance, a lusty thank you.

Finally: for being you, for being the one person I hope to spend all my long life with, for loving me no less completely (though rather less publicly) than I do you, thank you Beloved. Thank you thirteen times, though I could thank you thirteen and thirteen and thirteen again and still not come to the end of what I am grateful for in you.

Happy anniversary.

Yours,
Arwyn

9 Comments | Posted on 13 December 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Parenting | Tags: anniversary, life, Mental Health

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Quick hit on birth advocacy and privilege

A friend of mine (and my midwife for my pregnancy with the Boychick) shared with me The Story of Mrs Y and added:

The concern over our high cesarean and birth intervention rate is a privilege. Seriously. We cannot have any idea about how so many women face pregnancy and birth in other countries where the simple, natural act of childbearing could easily end in death — of them or their babies.

This was my take on the topic:

I don’t believe in the limited thinking that says we can or must only care about one (the “worst”) injustice at a time; we absolutely can and ought continue to work here on making birth better and safer for those facing the ridiculously, immorally, and unscientificly high cesarean and intervention rates.

But so often in USian birth advocacy, we completely ignore or dismiss the real risks of those who have no access to care, no resources to learn from, no emergency services for the rare occasion when they are truly needed, and not even the basic level of nutrition and hygiene that makes “natural” birth mostly safe.

It’s not unhindered birth when that is all you have, when it’s not an informed choice, when the midwives who had worked in your area have been imprisoned or worse, when the only other option is walking for four hours to a hospital that makes ours look humane and caring. It’s not freebirth right here in the USA when a teen has no access to birth control, no ability to say no, no way of getting an abortion, and no one to turn to who will not shame hir for being pregnant. It’s not safe or rational to consider homebirth when one’s “home” is unsafe or nonexistent. It’s not humane to shame someone for seeking pain relief for an experience they didn’t choose. It’s not reasonable to demand someone do the strenuous, “natural” work of labor when never in hir life has ze had adequate, abundant nutrition, and all hir tissues reflect the lack.

It’s not that birth practices or intervention rates don’t matter. It’s not that hospitals don’t desperately need reform, on so many levels. It’s not that it’s wrong to work on changing those. It is that we flaunt our unseemly ignorance of our privilege when we talk as though those are the most pressing needs in birth the whole world over, or that it’s only “those brown people way over there” who are still lacking what we take for granted and are seeking to move away from.

15 Comments | Posted on 11 December 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy, Parenting | Tags: activism, birth, classism, Health, homebirth, Privilege, Race

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How far I’ve come

Twelve years ago, I was almost flunking out of high school, only in part due to getting could-not-do-anything-productive migraines 4-5 days a week. My moods shifted faster than my classmates’ relationships, and though I didn’t have the name for it I spent most of my days in generalized anxiety spiking into panic at every casually or pointedly cruel thing said around me — so only several times a day. I sent off applications to safe colleges, everything on the west coast, comfortable, familiar. I mostly did not get in.

Ten years ago, a good day’s accomplishment was getting out of bed. Getting dressed was worth celebrating. Housework was far beyond me. Working as a temp — a call at 8:30am, “Can you be there at 9?” “Make it 9:30.” — relied on my ability to flick so quickly into what I now know as hypomania, relied on knowing I would never see these people again, on knowing tomorrow would likely be another day I did not have to pretend to be what I thought a real person was supposed to be, would not have to force myself vertical and presentable. I did not take longer assignments.

Eight years ago I was withdrawing from college. Again. I’d started medication, divalproex sodium, and that was going to cure me; we’d packed up our possessions, bought furniture in flat boxes, and drove it most of the way across the country to this town with one redeeming feature: the college from which I had just withdrawn because it was better than flunking out from chronic absences. I did not know who I was, what good I was, if I could not do college, be a student. I could not see a future, and mostly did not believe I had one.

Six years ago I was in therapy. I had walked away from the campus I’d once looked to as my salvation, and now, in a falling apart house not two blocks away, tried to ignore its omnipresent reminder of my failures. I measured my life in weekly appointments; talk therapy Tuesdays, massage or acupunctures Thursdays. I had half a dozen nearly-maxed-out credit cards, a partner stuck in a place without employment for him because of my proven-false belief that This Time Would Be Different, a concussion I never sought help for from a coping mechanism I never told anyone about, a coccyx and back in so much pain I could hardly lie or sit down — but could hardly do anything else –, and a house that immediately let the rare visitors know of my two incontinent pets. Life was surviving each day, hoping and trusting and often despairing that somehow, eventually, the work I was doing on myself would pay off.

Four years ago my partner started a dream job in Portland, all our possessions and two of our pets were in Indiana, and I was in California with my mom and my dog and a round-the-clock rotation of hospice aides, waiting for my father to die. I was off medication and on fish oil, suddenly away from my professional support system, grieving for a parent not yet dead, and yet, somehow, more stable — less crazy — than I could ever remember being. I was bleeding every 27 days, hoping somehow that the weekend visits from The Man would mean this month no period would come.

Two years ago the Boychick was one and a half years old; I’d survived his infancy, become a valued member of the moderation team on a large parenting discussion board, and was about to gamble $10,000 — $20,000 total over the life of the loan — on the idea that I was well enough and committed enough to massage that I could, and would, make it through the 555 hour program at Oregon School of Massage. The three hours a week I was to be in school would be the longest I had ever been away from the Boychick in his life, and neither of us were sure we were ready for it. It was to be the most I had asked of my body in a decade, apart from the six hours of the Boychick’s labor, and I definitely wasn’t sure it was ready for it. There was a blog registered in my name at raisingmyboychick.blogspot.com and the tagline “Feminist thoughts inspired by parenting a presumably-straight white male” in my head, and I, familiar with the defeat of attempts never given a fair chance, assumed that would be as much as would ever come from it.

And now: I’m one quarter away from graduating and becoming a licensed massage therapist; I write a frankly magnificent and provocative blog with regular, substantial updates; am, according to Babble, the Most Controversial mom on Twitter; have my work referenced in college papers and used in childbirth education classes; get mentioned in newspapers internationally; edit one of the most honest, raw, and breathtaking anonymous blog series on the web; have gone from daily spikes of 9/10 pain, weekly migraines, and severely limited movement to having little pain, monthly migraines, and a body more and more able to dance through my days; have started submitting work for paid publication; and, while writing this, received a rejection from a magazine editor — and survived. And I do it all with a not-quite-four year old in tow, keeping the both of us alive and more or less well by myself 32 hours a week.

***

I will always be bipolar. I will likely always have pain and the need to be especially considerate of the limits of my body. My life will never look “normal”, I will never work in an office 8-5, and I may not ever earn enough to solely support myself and my family. There are so many things I want to be doing for which I simply don’t have the time, or the spoons; maybe eventually I will add more, or, I am sure, change what I choose to do; maybe I’ll be able to do less, and will scale back as needed. I still don’t know what the future holds — though I have some hopes, the foundations of which I am working on even now — but, most days, I am reasonably sure I’ll be there for it. Most days, I live, not pausing in awe at what a wonder, and a change, that is.

That is how far I’ve come.

22 Comments | Posted on 8 December 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: bipolar, chronic illness, disability, falling short, life, Mental Health, school

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Transgender Child Awareness Week: December 5-11, 2010

Thanks to a tip from reader-and-friend Janelle, today I attended a benefit for TransActive, an entirely volunteer-run organization supporting transgender/gender non-conforming children and youth. It is one of the only such organizations in existence, started here in Portland, Oregon, and serving families in the Pacific Northwest and all over the USA. While there, I was blessed with witnessing Portland Mayor Sam Adams proclaim December 5-11 2010 as Transgender Child Awareness Week; this is the first such declaration from a government agency recognizing transgender children anywhere in the United States of America, and possibly in the world. (Please correct me if you know of other such proclamations.)

The text of the proclamation:

Whereas, TransActive Education & Advocacy, founded by Jenn Burleton, Hayley Klug and Kaig Lightner is based in Portland and is an international leader in providing education, services, advocacy and research that benefits transgender and gender non-conforming children, youth and their families; and

Whereas, transgender and gender non-conforming children and youth are among the least understood, most marginalized and underserved of populations despite constituting at least one percent of all children and youth; and

Whereas, isolation, marginalization and rejection contribute to alarmingly high rates of depression, low self-esteem and suicidal ideation experienced by transgender and gender non-conforming children and youth; and

Whereas, transgender children who receive the love and support of their families, friends, neighbors, communities, schools and culture have every opportunity to thrive and be successful; and

Whereas, transgender children and youth have identities that are, in every way as authentic, valid and natural as cisgender children and youth; and

Whereas, transgender adolescents deserve access to pediatric medical care and healthcare coverage that affords them the opportunity to experience physical puberty in a way that is congruent with their gender identity; and

Whereas, all Oregon children and youth are guaranteed the right to express their gender identity as they experience it by the Oregon Equality Act, and they have the right to be educated in a safe, respectful and supportive school environment as required by the Oregon Safe School Act.

Now, therefore, I, Sam Adams, Mayor of the City of Portland, Oregon, the “City of Roses,” do hereby proclaim December 5 through December 11, 2010 to be Transgender Child Awareness Week in Portland, and encourage all residents to observe this week.

I originally had three giant and boring paragraphs here, but I shall replace them with two slightly less giant and I hope not so boring points:

1) Parents, this is our deal. It’s not something for those people over there to worry about or pay attention to; we’re the ones raising the next generation of trans kids right now. By the time trans kids are aware enough to tell us that the gender we have assigned them into is not what they know themselves to be (if ever they work up that courage), we have had thousands of opportunities to affirm that we love them, that there is a vibrant and diverse and beautiful transgender community, that genitals do not equal gender, that their worth is not dependent on their adherence to our assignment of their gender, that “male” and “female” are sometimes useful generalizations but not at all strict, easy to recognize, or discrete categories, that gender roles are meant to be broken, that we will always love them: do not miss these chances. If it turns out yours is a transgender child, think of how much easier this will make hir life; if it turns out yours is a cisgender child, s/he will grow up all the better off for these early lessons, and hir transgender peers will be safer for it. Don’t wait until you know your child is trans; don’t leave all the work to parents of transgender kids: start now.

2) Please, if you are able, contribute to TransActive. None of the people running it make a single cent off all their work they do for transgender and gender non-conforming children in Portland, the Pacific Northwest, and all across the United States, though they deserve to; all of the funds go to running and expanding their programs and their ability to help transgender youth. The success of this organization, one of the only of its kind, can lead the way for other organizations like it, and through them we can make the world a better, safer place for transgender kids and adults. If there is an organization in your state or country that supports trans youth, let me know about it in the comments, and help them in whatever ways you can.

The official declaration of Transgender Child Awareness Week might only apply here in the City of Roses, but please take this opportunity to educate yourself, your friends, and your community, and to support those working to make the world a little less hostile a place to grow up transgender.

12 Comments | Posted on 6 December 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Parenting | Tags: activism, Gender, trans, USA, violence against children

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Unconditional love

Will you love your children if they are queer?

Will you love your children if they are not the gender you thought they were?

Will you love your children if they don’t have children?

Will you love your children if they make different parenting decisions?

Will you love your children if they make parenting decisions you think will damage your grandchildren?

Will you love your children if they are more radical than you?

Will you love your children if they care more about fitting in than you?

Will you love your children if they write about how they were damaged by your parenting?

Will you love your children if they are angry you did not do more to protect them?

Will you love your children if they convert religions?

Will you love your children if they announce your religion is fool-headed?

Will you love your children if they are ugly?

Will you love your children if they think you are ugly?

Will you love your children if they don’t meet your ideas of success?

Will you love your children if they reject your ideas of what success is?

Will you love your children if they vote for a different political party than you?

Will you love your children if they vote for a party whose values are entirely antithetical to yours?

Will you love your children if they don’t vote?

Will you love your children if you can’t understand them?

Will you love your children if they don’t love you?

And do they know? Have you told them? Have you shown them? Is the certainty of your love the roots of your relationships, watered and nourished with innumerable moments and glances and touches: pauses and breaths instead of shouted insults, apologies and amends when inevitably you trip, difficult yeses when nos are socially approved, difficult nos when yeses are desired, open ears and mind to news or questions that terrify you, hugs and I love yous with frequencies measured in hours not weeks or months, still moments shared hearing only each other’s breath and the gentle susurration of a world less important than person next to you? Do they know down to their bones and below, out to their skin and beyond, that they are loved?

(Do you?)

Because that kind of love — solid and abiding, independent of emotions of anger or hurt or fear or guilt or grief or frustration or pride or even pleasure — is radical. It can change the world.

It might be the only thing that will.