As a mon of a son who is gay, I will never be ashamed of who he is.  And what he will go up to be.  I will be so proud of him no matter what he does. 

Being Gay

My young son came to me one day,

He looked at me and said nervously, Mum I an Gay.

I looked at him, hugged him and smiled,

I always knew he was a special child.

My only child and he is Gay,

What do you think I would say?

Well it was hard to assimilate at first,

For mothers have great dreams for their children at birth.

To grow up be happy, and marry some day,

So as I could have grand kids to take out to play.

So my dreams as a mother were not to be,

I was just do glad my son was at last free.

Free to be with his own kind,

So as his mother I do not really mind.

To know my son is true to himself,

Not trying to be somebody else.

To teach other people is now my mission in life,

TO UNDERSTAND HOMOSEXUALITY AND THAT IT 

DOES NOT MEAN STRIFE.

My son being Gay has brought me so much joy now that he is free.

He will always be the most courageous and precious son to me.

Pamela D.V.W. 1995

I will always be there for my son through the thick and thin.  I am his biggest supporter!  

 If there is one thing that is certain, life can change with a blink if an eye.  And how do we survive?

Is there a mountain?

Is there a mountain in your day for you today,

Something you have to do, or fail?

Someone difficult to meet perhaps and get along with,

Someone you see as a task, that person who just doesn't fit?

Someone no longer there, who cannot be seen or touched,

Whose absence from your day makes things a little too much?

If life a hill for you today, a slogging upward path,

Where you'll count your steps one by one, and then take two more back?

Is it pain that saps your willingness, is it fear, embarrassment, or worry,

Makes the day ahead a little too steep to set out on in a hurry?

Or Debt, that wall of glass too sheer, too slippery for a foothold,

Hangs there like a frosted fog that chills you with a numbing cold?

Maybe today is just one more day on your solitary lonely trek

That bereavement, divorce, or just not being loved is the test?

Each day is a maze of questions, a confusion of zigzags and choices,

We all look up some mornings wishing we had easier options.

The trick is to not see the mountains, the trick is to know in your heart

What the world needs is for you to be in it, and each day is a brand new start.

Your path is the way up the mountain for you to find and to share,

The hills we climb are inside us, they don't take us to just any Where-

Success or failure doesn't matter, it's not triumph or victory or glory;

Each day that place you come to, that you are there will be you Story.

-Tommy Randell

Thoughts on Representation and Privilege's

Representation is important. 

If we cannot see the faces of those like us, then we will never feel as though we truly belong.

But what is belonging?

Is it being considered a part of the binary scale that holds us all in place?

Or is it feeling content in the knowledge that we will never actually fit in a set place of society?

I wonder these things when it comes to diversity, and acknowledgement in the media, as portrayed in the variety of texts and videos we have seen throughout the semester. 

I also think about how privilege comes into play with representation.

As someone who is white, I have seen representation in the media. 

But I am overweight. I am queer. and I am conflicted on the thought of representation because I have seen my skin tone but not my body size, or my sexuality displayed without it being the butt of a joke in television, and film. 

I know I am privileged to see my skin tone reflected in barbies, in television endlessly, and throughout the media.

But I want to see cellulite, stretch marks, and scars the way that it hasn't been shown.

I want to see a relationship fully fleshed out, written as if it were "normal" in the eyes of society.

I don't want to be traumatized by the aspects of politics and religion that come into play when a character represents aspects of me that make me feel natural and welcomed. 

But I also want others to see themselves on screen as I have, even if there needs to be more work done on the subject. 

I pray for the ability to see all aspects of people in the media. 

Refreshed, and nourished in the eyes of Hollywood so that children can experience diversity and representation more than I did in my childhood. 

I wonder if it will ever happen, or if the church will forever disregard the feelings of those they condemn because they do not understand, or do not have the capacity to try and understand. 

Speaking out gets you hate, and hurt, and I don't want that anymore. 

But I do not know how to go about representation and diversity. 

I do not know how because I was born with the privilege of looking semi-normal.

There is this underlying fear of what normalcy is because I can fake it but I cannot be it.

I can try to shut out the world with whatever substances can numb me from real life.

Or I can face them head-on and be an outcast even more so than I already am. 

How do we project representation in the world if we are scared of how the world judges us?

We can say we don't give a shit that we are rejected but what does that even entail?

We all want to belong in the eyes of society to some extent, but what does it mean to break that down and face it head-on?

We want representation, but when we are represented it is with stereotypes, and typecasting that makes us all look like one entity that the world is scared to look at.

So how do we go about breathing, living, representing, for the children that come after us into this desolate world?

I don't know, but I would like to find out so I can feel something positive for once in my life. 

The First Academic Queer Oriented Poem I Ever Wrote

 If home is where the heart is then we're all just fu—

At 14-years-old,

I stood on top of the strangest man-made building I'd ever seen.

It was the city’s staple,

flocks of tourists gravitated to it,

and strung up on the highest point of it 

in contrast to the grey sky,

was the brightest rainbow flag.

I thought,

“they would never do this back home.”

A day later the skies had cleared and I was sat on a patch of grass not far from where I stood before.

I watched curiously as people strolled past on the path in front of me,

some carrying the same flag 605 feet above me,

some carrying flags I had only ever seen reflected back to me on a computer screen,

most carrying a sense of carefreeness I had never felt.

My brother, his wife, and their daughter sat behind me,

I didn't notice that another family had sat near us.

With them, they had a child the same age as my niece.

I turned around to see that my niece had ran over to the other child as her ball rolled in that direction,

the child picked up her ball.

I rotated my body around to observe the 2-year-old conflict more,

“give the ball back” one parent of the child warned in a singy-songy voice.

The child handed the ball back and ran back to his parents.

His parents.

His parents were two women—

my sister-in-law exchanged the glance with them that parents who are strangers exchange when their kids interact out of nowhere,

and that was it,

and I had never felt more safe in my life.

I wondered if I would ever feel that safe back home.

A year later my brother and sister-in-law brought me to the same place around the same time,

the flag was once again strung up upon the building which I found less strange and more of a beacon of light.

Once again I sat in a field,

in the place of the family that sat near us a year ago

was a group of bare naked people

and another group smoking pot.

I still felt safer than I ever had back home.

-2016

Caps in the Air

 I am less than a month away from graduating college. It seems like these past three years of my life, including nearly three full semesters during quarantine, have flown by and changed me in so many ways. Growing up in Casper, I always said that I would leave Wyoming as soon as possible. 

I went to the same middle school and high school as Matthew Shepard and had teachers and a father who knew him before he passed. All I knew of Laramie was the story of his death. In short, I was scared shitless to move to this town. My freshman year, in the fall of 2018, marked 20 years since his death. Someone offered me a memorial armband. I did not take it, out of fear that the town would turn against me, too. Now, I wish I had. Because the truth is, Laramie is far more safe and friendly for someone like me than most of Wyoming. In Laramie, I've had a queer boss and queer coworkers. In Casper, I was told people like me don't deserve a job.

Graduating early has its perks, I'll admit. But a part of me felt like I was missing out on some college experiences due to the pandemic and my quickened pace. I enrolled in this class because I hoped I could learn more about myself and my community. This class gave me more opportunities to be true to myself than any other class before this.

Thank you all for a great semester. I will think of this class when I see caps in the air in a few weeks, and will remember the lessons you have all taught me for a lifetime.

The Problem of Genderqueer Representation

Queer representation has expanded onscreen quite a bit through the past few years – pansexuality on Schitt’s Creek, asexuality on Sex Education, lesbians in Booksmart. Representation has been praised online as important, especially positive representation that normalizes and actively includes queer people.

These representations are one way of making it easier for queer people to come out. Being able to point out characters that represent ourselves is important. Some shows even provide fantastic re-usable metaphors for the way we experience our sexuality – Schitt’s Creek provides a great metaphor for pansexuality: “I like the wine and not the label. Does that make sense?” But as great as some of these representations are, they often fall short when it comes to genders outside of the binary.

Despite great queer representation for sexualities, the representation for non-binary and genderqueer individuals is distinctly lacking. When they are portrayed, it is often by cisgender individuals, written badly, or both. In the few examples that it isn’t, the queerness of their character is often brushed aside or not acknowledged at all.

Before the third season of Star Trek: Discovery was released, Star Trek released a lot of press saying: “Discovery Introduces First Transgender and Non-Binary Characters”. This press release was very exciting, especially as it billed Blu del Barrio (a non-binary actor making their debut on Discovery) and Ian Alexander (a trans actor known for The OA and The Last of Us). But despite being hyped up online, the actual representation displayed in the characters was subpar at best.

Blu del Barrio’s character, Adira, gets a small coming-out speech: “They’re fast. Um, ‘they.’ Not… not ‘she.’ I’ve never felt like a ‘she’ or-or a ‘her,’ so… I would prefer ‘they’ or ‘them’ from now on.” Their speech is accepted, their pronouns are used throughout the show with no misgendering, and overall, it’s a nice ‘coming out.' Despite this, though, the actual issue of gender never comes up again, and although Ian Alexander’s character was billed as trans*, it is never acknowledged, and his character doesn’t get to interact with anyone other than Adira. As exciting as the first nonbinary and trans* characters in Star Trek were, the writing and portrayal fell short when it came to representing them onscreen.

Another show aiming high for representation was 2020’s Deputy. One character, Deputy Bishop, has a gender discovery journey throughout the first (and only) season. Bishop is played by Bex Taylor-Klaus, an out nonbinary actor. Bishop gets a few scenes throughout the show that alludes to a genderqueer identity – first, in episode 7, they say: “I need to be me. I’m getting closer, every day, to exactly what that is. But for now, I know, I’m not all woman.” Bishop uses the word nonbinary, has a few coming-out scenes, but perhaps the best one is to their boss.

Bishop shouts their coming out to their boss and the world on the side of the road: “It’s over, Sheriff. The veil has been lifted! Doc took a look, wrote a little F on my birth certificate, and ever since that moment the whole world has viewed me as a woman. … I’m not a woman, but I’m not a man, either. Something other than those two. My gender is non-binary. I’m not she or her, or even him. I’m they and them. Those are my pronouns.”

As great as Bishop’s coming out scene is, the unfortunate issue with these two issues of genderqueer representation are that they are both represented by thin assigned female at birth white people. While it’s great that these actors are actually nonbinary and representing themselves on screen, it’s unfortunate that the media is reinforcing the idea that nonbinary people are only AFAB and thin, white, with short hair and generally androgynous-looking. Representation is helpful for some, but for nonbinary people who don’t fit this mold, these representations are not enough to make genderqueer identities acceptable to the mainstream public.

Of course, we do have fantastic public figures that are working to change that image of the thin, white, AFAB nonbinary person. Alok Vaid-Menon, Jeffrey Marsh, and Jayy Dodd do a lot of activism, writing, and other work that shows that nonbinary people do not have to be androgynous, AFAB white people. But until media representation of genderqueer people catches up to the reality of actual nonbinary people across America and the world, we are stuck with good queer representation for sexualities, and mediocre representation for everyone else.

I'd like your opinion.

Do you trust Wyoming with queerness?

That is to say, do you think you or someone you love would be comfortable being openly queer in Wyoming? 

I want to know your feeling about the whole state. Laramie has already seen what happens when queer hate openly occurs, and has tried to turn it around, but what do you think about the rest of Wyoming?

Would you trust the town of Riverton with your queerness? The town of Gillette? Jackson Hole? Rawlins?

I don't mean to say that there are inherent places that should or should not be trusted because that is my personal perception of these locations, but do you think Wyoming is safe to be openly queer? 

Families

 My son got me watching POSE.  During one of the episodes they featured a quote.  And it meant something to me, and I wanted to share. 

“Blood does not family make.  Those are relatives.  

Family are those with whom you share your good,bad, and ugly,

and still love one another in the end.  Those are the ones you select.”

Hector Xtravaganza 1965-2018

Thank You

I will never know your name or your whereabouts at this very moment.

I may not even know your pronouns or the name of lipstick you were wearing when I first saw you.

But I know the impact you left on me that one fleeting moment I met your eyes and smiled at you.

I may not know what you were doing at that time and place for which you changed my outlook on life,

and probably will not know what you went through to stand as you were when I saw you,

But I know the bold attitude you had standing there in the corner of that restaurant. 

and I know that your tanned complexion popped against the lavender for which you painted on your lips.

I will remember that white and pink basketball t-shirt you were wearing,

and the cutoff jean shorts you wore with your unshaven legs bared for the world to witness.

I will remember your short quaffed hair, a warm brown shade that reminds me of a rich piece of chocolate.

The slight stubble of your chin that you embraced,

 the smoky eye that was blended to perfection up to your full dark brows,

And also the tall heels you strutted in when you finally walked outside into the cool summer breeze.

I will never forgive myself for not butting in when I heard hateful words thrown in your direction.

and I will never understand why I didn't do something when I heard laughter from the people I was with at the time.

I just want you to know, stranger.

That you made me want to live boldly, unapologetically, and fiercely. 

You made me use my voice for others in our community later on in life.

And you made me realize that identity is individual, and normalcy is overrated.

So thank you. 

Thank you for being yourself.

Thank you for showing me authenticity.

And thank you for making me realize I do not need to hide my queerness from the world.

You've made me strong, 

You've made me proud,

You've made me unapologetic.

You helped me realize I was not normal. 

And that I didn't need to be.

Subarus and Stereotypes

 In honor of me starting a new job working for a local car dealership, I figured it would be great to discuss something a little out of the norm this week: the Subaru. Subarus have quite a stereotype as being lesbian cars-- one of my coworkers even calls them "lesbian battle wagons." But why is this stereotype around? And are these cars as queer as they're made out to be?

In short, yes. 

In the 90's, Subaru released an ad (shown above) which was one of their first instances of marketing towards the LGBTQ+ community. As you can see, one of the cars has a rainbow flag bumper sticker. The other's license plate says "XENA LVR." Xena: Warrior Princess was a popular show that had a lot of lesbian subtext, very similar to Netflix's reboot of She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (don't judge-- you know you watched that kiss in season 5 too). So, each of these cars had references to queer culture which was a huge deal in the 90's.

Future ad campaigns included slogans like "At least we have our priorities straight," "It's not a choice, it's just how we're built," and of course, who can forget this gem of an ad?

Sure that ad might seem a bit like pandering. But Subaru didn't just put their money into gay ads. They also donated millions of dollars to HIV/AIDS research and several other causes. In a world where the LGBTQ+ community was still very, very far outside of the norm, Subaru's actions were bold and impressive. These "lesbian battle wagons" live up to their stereotypes thanks to decades of marketing and smart money moves from Subaru. 

Technically, A Poem About Aristotle And Dante Discover The Secrets Of The Universe

You

The cold wind is sharp on my face,

I'm standing there,

sucking on a halls breezer

trying to rid the shots of vodka I agreed to take last night.

After all,

I am just human.

I must remind myself I am just human

by tearing my liver and life apart.

I could beg for the wind again if it meant it'd erase the fact that this vomit is the most warmth I've received in a moment.

I am panting like a dog, nails digging into dirt and grass like the earth would come up my arms and save me.

Is it not human to be this weak?

Knees aching from the unforgiving ground, I can see the stupid fucking strawberry-flavored f*ck floating in the stream of my own demise.

Tears mixed with bile and vodka

how sad the earth must be to feel men fall like this!

Tell me, friend, is it not like a man to be this weak?

To sob and want to be desired?

To want to be removed from the dirt and held into health?

feminine fear (poem)

femininity for me

translates into fear

i only feel like a “woman”

when walking home

in darkness

keys clutched between fingers

arms tight to my chest

no one allowed to see the shadow of my breast

femininity

is too-tight dresses

squished around a body

made like barbie

but desperate to be something

more akin to ken

femininity is a costume

forced onto me

my body wishing for something easier to perform.

Those who came before

Pain

Every day I'm reminded of the dull pain of life. 

The knives that sink into my skin of words remembered.

The headaches from the pressure of conformation.

The razor edge I walk when I talk with strangers. 

But then they pulled the knives from my skin,

lifted me from their view,

and gave me confidence. 

They gave me the hope and steel to ignore,

the peace and mindfulness to be me,

and the footing to speak my mind. 

I thank these unseen Saviors, 

those that came before me and fought those who would harm me.

I can only hope,

I can do this for another. 

 Don't judge a book by its cover.

At first glance, you would see me as a white female with a decent job and someone who has their act together.  And to some individuals they would take that as "white privilege".  But honestly, that would be the furthest thing from the truth.

The truth is my skin might appear to be white, with a little tan.  My blood is mixed with several nationalities.  I'm Mexican, Indian, German, Norwegian and Sweden.  Not only that, it has taken me 40 years to get where I am at, and every day is still a struggle. 

I am a recovering meth addict who liked to drink.  I have been to jail several times and have 3 DUI's on my record.  I have 2 kids, one son who is about to graduate this year and one daughter who is in the second grade, with two different fathers.  My daughter doesn't even know her father.  He left us when I was pregnant.  He has never bothered to meet her and has never paid child support for her.

When my daughter was born, I had her taken away and put in foster care until I got my shit together.  And the dad to my son had restrictions put on me until I got my shit together.  I had lost everything including the trust and respect from my family.  

From that moment on, I have done nothing but work on myself and myself worth.  I worked hard go get my daughter back, which I did in record time (6 months).  Rehab was the best thing for me.  I had to work every day to earn back my families trust and respect.  I went back to college and got my Associates in pre-law.  Took a year off then enrolled at the U of W to work on my Bachelor degree in Criminal Justice. 

It has taken me 8 years to get where I am at today.  Every year got a little easier, but at first the criminal brain was there for a long time.  The urge to use and forget everything and everyone would have been so easy.  The love for my kids and family eventually took over, now there is nothing I wouldn't do for them.  

Addiction is not a choice, it is a disease.  A disease of the mind that doesn't just go away.  I am constantly keeping myself in check because if I don't I will fall and fall hard.  

So, when someone thinks I have it all, they have no idea that I had nothing and had to work for everything.  This was only possible with the help of my family and fully believing in my higher power to help me.

So, when I am judged at first glance I get a little defensive.  That is why, I will never judge a book by its cover.  I don't know their story.   

Abnormalities in the Eyes of Society

(TW: SA, SH)

 I think about my disabilities and disorders sometimes

Whether it be late at night when the only sound I can hear is the running of the fan or the snores of my partner

I reflect on them during the mid-morning rush to get ready

and I wonder if I can ever get better. 

I think about being overstimulated by multiple conversations going on

and how when music is a little too loud I tend to pick at my hands, 

or scratch at my scalp until it bleeds.

At least I do not mutilate my body in the ways I used to when I did not know how to respond to the things that overstimulate my brain.

I called my mother the other day and told her I had not done dishes in over a month, 

and how my partner could not keep up with them.

I told her it was hard to shower and brush my teeth because depression exhausts me to the point where getting out of bed is the hardest chore of the day. 

She said she had never experienced depression like that. 

I am torn apart because of a job interview I recently had, where I mentioned my anxiety, my depression, and my bipolar disorder,

 and the two women in front of me sighed before one of them said that is all they needed from me and that they would be in touch. 

I ponder about my sexual orientation, 

and how a woman from my church who is bisexual told me stories of women and men 'changing' their sexuality who now have a significant other of the opposite sex and have children. 

She speaks about a woman not loving her husband romantically,

and how although she is happy she feels as though she cannot speak to members of her same-sex because of her attraction. 

I ponder that same loneliness is the same one I feel when I am rudely awakened by my alarm when all my body wants to do is shut down during an episode.

I think of the queer community and the disabled community. 

How we are outcasts because of things we cannot control. 

I remember how society views these 'abnormalities' as if they are unable to be loved, appreciated, and understood. 

and I think of how sad society must be...

to outcast those who are different because of their bodies and minds not being able to work. 

Or their sexual identity that they have no control over. 

I wonder if it will ever change. 

Or if it even should. 

I question if my sexuality stems from the assault of my body right days after my sixteenth birthday.

Or if maybe it happened during the same occurrence with a different man at the age of seventeen.

Or yet again, if it was because of the 'friend' that fed me shots like they were the elixir of life until I could not remember him groping me until I felt pain coursing through the entirety of my body.

I thought it was in my head until I drove his roommate to his job at Arby's the next morning,

and he asked me if I remembered anything.

I shiver when I remember responding, knowing he watched and did nothing.

In reality, I know I was five when I knew I was not only attracted to men, 

but I still question if those moments in time had something to do with it.

I tell myself others have it worse than me because I finally finished the dishes yesterday afternoon,

 neglecting my homework during a manic episode because I could not focus. 

But none of us experience mental illness the same. 

None of us experience our sexuality the same. 

and none of us should be abused, abandoned, misunderstood because we all experience our lives differently. 

I wonder if it will ever change.

Or if it even should. 

A Poem About Being A Man

it's because I listened to hozier isn't it

I can see the bodies of greek gods reflect in your eyes when you're looking at me

telling me soft and gentle lies.

I could cry at the rubble of a fallen empire

choking on the dust of men who have left me in the dust—

I could never be the boy you dreamed of

and I wish I could tear the skin off my bones 

to be born your favorite.

If the universe swears I'm a man,

then why must I rip myself apart to fit the sighs of those who love them?

"Ringing in my Ears" A poem about being queer & PTSD

 When I close my eyes, I'm there again:

Those who gave me life throw slurs across the room

and they each hit harder and harder until the word

"unlovable"

buckles my knees and sends me falling.

And they haven't hit me in years but

my brain is scarred, forever marred,

with this ringing in my ears.

Or maybe I am there again:

Holding her hands and kissing her lips

but someone sees and chases after, shouting

"dykes"

and the words hit just as hard as before.

And I want to curl up and cry but

we stay on the run, hearts weighing a ton,

and the ringing in my ears.

Now I am offered an explanation:

Sitting in this chair

box of tissues on the table

"PTSD"

and somehow this word acts as a shield.

And sometimes I think it's crazy but

just as many people face battles so have I,

all the pain and the ringing in my ears.

When I open my eyes, I'm here again:

Fiancée by my side

they remind me

"I love you."

and for a moment I am healed.

We speak of queer, we speak of crip,

their intersection and how it emits--

They show themselves in me. 

Cripping Motherhood

Not until reading Alison Kafer's temporal definitions of crip did I recognize the crippling nature of motherhood. I also recently read a Buzzfeed article in which parents anonymously shared their experiences of being super unhappy as parents. Both notions, that motherhood is somehow crippling and that people could not like their children or could be unhappy in parenthood both feel taboo and dangerous realms. Yet there is value in cripping motherhood in that it expands crip theory and disrupts the binary of (dis)ability which rests comfortably, for the public at large, in the bookends of permanently able-bodied and (dis)able-bodied. 

Temporality

Kafer writes about how social and cultural definitions of (dis)ability hold a "normal" standard of temporality. In that standard, people are punctual and the future for those with (dis)abilities is one of desired ability or none at all. What's more prenatal screening techniques stigmatize (dis)ability by giving parents the eugenicky option to terminate the gestation of fetuses with Down syndrome and other genetic (dis)abilities. Finally, sterilization, institutionalization, etc. are used to prevent crip folx from passing on their "inferiority". Crip folx, in Kafer's view, live lives anchored in the anxieties and intricacies of scheduling everything including bathroom trips and meals, or "eating and sleeping and shitting- and the ways in which they shape our days" (Kafer, 2013, p. 39). In this temporal view of crip life, the bodily needs take center stage and, without great care, may cause people to be late or miss out on mainstream definitions of "normal" life. 

As I was lugging my reluctant toddler to the car and wrestling her into her car seat yesterday, I had a revelation. My front-loading language an hour ahead of our quick trip to the dollar store to buy her a balloon and bubbles, my conscientious scheduling of this trip in between meals and naps, my attention to whether she'd pooped or not, and so much more, ran parallel to the notion of temporality in crip theory. My life has been restrained and strained in the places where mothering interrupts normal attendance and where the mind is constantly focused on how to live in a time-driven world responsible for a human body that does not understand or respect time. 

Mental Health Impairments

As a new mother, I was almost literally rendered (dis)abled by the toll which sleepless nights take on the body and mind and my painful and terrifying anxiety that my baby might literally die due to my action or inaction. During the first few weeks of my child's life, I lost my shit completely. I am the type of person that truly needs at least eight hours of sleep every night. Waking up every 2 hours to feed, dealing with feelings of inadequacy and frustration around difficult breastfeeding, and living in constant terror over my every move caused me to break down. I remember sitting in the office of the lactation consultant with my sister-in-law, husband, baby, and consultant (not that I'm religious but God bless her). They all had this look on their faces of a mix between sad puppy dog and disappointed parent. I could tell in the reflection of me in their eyes that something was not right. I started, embarrassedly, crying. They reflected back to me that I was so used to being in control of every aspect of my life, including my sleeping. They reminded me that I once took joy in mealtime and that I now had no appetite. In the same breath, they cautioned me that I needed to be eating to care for my child both physically (through my breastmilk) and emotionally. I confessed to them that every time I breastfed I felt a pit in my stomach, a lump in my throat. As I write this, I'm having a physical memory of those moments. I felt guilty for crying while breastfeeding because I did not want my child's mirror neurons to pick up on my utter sadness. In that office, under the fluorescent hospital lights and the gazes filled with care and fear, I got permission to let my husband and his sister bottle feed my baby so I could get some sleep. I got permission to drink Gatorade and the push to talk to a therapist who specialized in post-partum care. 

As I write this, I recognize the innate medicalization of my experience which rendered my earliest post-partum days as crippling. In crip theory, the mere fact that motherhood was crippling to me through the recognition of my pain and sorrow by a medical expert (and now someone I consider a "soul sister") is not lost on me. 

Physical Impairments

The actual physical impairments, which rendered my body temporarily incapable of certain physical activities following (and during) pregnancy, labor, and delivery hold an important place in how motherhood has been crippling. Let's start with the fact that I am an avid athlete. My mental and physical health depend on my outdoor recreation. I bike, run, ski, snowboard, hike, play roller derby, and am generally happiest after a vigorous workout. Yet during pregnancy, I put on weight early on; experienced pelvic symphysis, which felt like my pelvic bones were separating (because they were...); had debilitating back pain; and a numb left thigh (damn that was uncomfortable). Following labor and delivery, I experience the worst upper back pain of my life from engorged breasts, breastfeeding, and bending over constantly to tend to my little one. You know those awesome baby carriers that are the best way to help your newborn nap? They were excruciating for me. Since my baby was born, it has taken me almost two years (and a breast reduction surgery) to lose all but five stubborn pounds of baby weight, get more comfortable running (although I still cannot go the long distances I enjoyed pre-baby), and regain the strength that I had before motherhood. 

Concluding Remarks

I would not trade motherhood for anything in the world. I am incredibly proud of what my body did and enamored with my child. My toddler walks, talks, has opinions, is assertive, and is super strong, agile, and daring. What this post reckons with is the notion that my life experiences, when considered through the lens of crip theory, allow me to draw parallels between the circumstances that deem certain bodies (dis)abled and other bodies abled. I cannot help but compare my own body to my fellow mothers. In a mountain town arguably obsessed with physical wellness, I feel like I am outside the norm in my bodily proportions. However unhealthy it may be, it is difficult to be satisfied with my body. Yet, writing this post provided me with important reflection on the ways in which my body is very abled and how temporary my own (dis)ability was. Even so, as I write this, my left arm has gone numb and my upper back screams for a stretch and a rub. 

D&D and queerness emerging

     In the last couple of years, namely 2018-2020, there has been a significant increase in both Tabletop Roleplay Game usage, as well as an increase of Queer-identifying people playing Dungeons and Dragons. In many ways, Dungeons and Dragons is an escapist tool meant to get away from daily life and live out your adventurous dreams in a fantasy world where you can be anything your imagination creates. With the recent growth of resources that open the gates for more people to have access to playing Dungeons and Dragons, among other tabletop roleplay games (TTRPG), there has been a surge of welcoming communities bent on creating a fun environment for new players of all creeds, colors, and backgrounds. with the growth, comes the inclusion of diversity. 

    In the early days of D&D, many saw the game as belonging to the straight white nerds of game stores and nerdy activities. It wasn't until recently we saw massive growth in not only player diversity, but as well as in-game character diversity. This was not by an accident by any realm of imagination. With the introduction of the game's 5th edition of the game by "Wizards of the coast", the players were exposed to new gender and sexuality devices that may have been inaccessible to the players in the years before. In some of the prewritten adventures, some of the main characters the players can interact with are identifying outside the human gender binary and go by they/them pronouns or even use androgynous terms for themselves. There are canonical characters that have sexual preferences and open the world for players to seduce, romance, and befriend characters of all kinds of definitions. 

    The ability to find games where one can feel welcome and allowed to express their gender or identity has also gotten more accessible. A new surge of online games and game platforms that allow the playing of TTRPGs has opened the door for queer folks to find games where they can play for a time, see how they feel, and even jump groups and sessions to find the playgroup they mesh the best with. At any time, one can take to the forums of the internet, the website Roll20, or discord chats, and find a game to play in. To incentivize a new player, many DMs (game controllers or "Dungeon Masters") will create accommodations to allow for play to change between sessions if need be or allow changes to character to make the player more comfortable. 

    Whatever you're seeking, Dungeons and Dragons has a group waiting out there for you to roll up a character and begin not only exploring a fantastical fantasy world but also explore yourself and how you express yourself through a character you create (maybe in your image).

"High Priority to Achieve Basic Equality"

This week, we explored how Wyoming's LGBTQ+ community lacks protection from discrimination. According to an article by WPR, the Human Rights Campaign says that Wyoming is a state that is a "High priority to achieve basic equality." The way Wyoming has treated its LGBTQ+ community has become famous-- or rather, infamous-- over the years. Whether it's conspiracy theories surrounding the death of Matthew Shepard or former Senator Enzi telling a high school student that a man wearing a tutu "gets what he deserves", the state has failed to live up to its motto of "equal rights" when it comes to its queer citizens. But how do these lack of protections impact the average queer Wyomingite?

For me, discrimination first reared its ugly head when I started working at my first job. I’d been working at the small gift shop in downtown Casper for about a week when it happened.  I was fifteen, excited to make some money on the side to help save up for college, hang out with friends, and go on a big trip my Girl Scout troop was planning.

The business was a mom-and-pop style shop. Wilson*, the owner, employed his nephew, Jack, an ex-con named Mark, and me. The four of us had varying schedules. On this particular day, it was just Wilson and me in the shop. It was a slow day; one that was highly uneventful for the most part. Wilson had gone upstairs to his office when the familiar chime above the door sounded. A couple of women were coming in.

“Welcome to Wyoming Shirt and Gift,” I said, confidently filling the role I’d been called forth to. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?” The ladies smiled and told me they weren’t. I let them know I was here to help. They went into one of the side rooms in the store and I continued doing some cleaning behind the counter.

The stairs groaned as Wilson made his way down. This business was his pride and joy. It made sense for him to want to take my training seriously and not quite trust a high schooler to run the show while he wasn’t around.

The women emerged from the side room holding hands and carrying some baby clothes. They seemed so happy. As a young lesbian who had been harassed after coming out and had told myself that I could never have a life as a queer person in Wyoming, just seeing this couple gave me a bit of hope. My heart felt lighter. I smiled and looked over at Wilson.

He was frowning.

The women came up to the register, paid, and left. Nothing eventful happened as I punched the numbers in the register and Wilson bagged up the items. We engaged in a bit of small talk, but everything that happened was normal. Average.

The door chimed again. The women had left. Immediately, Wilson went into a rage. He started talking about how gay people were ruining marriage and demanding special treatment from society.
“In fact,” he growled, “I would never hire a gay person. They don’t have the same work ethic as us normal people do.” He put his hand on my shoulder and the lightness in my heart turned into stone, sinking deep into my chest. I knew then that if I wanted to keep this job, I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone there who I really was.

I worked at that job for four years. Despite never coming out, I was still treated differently. Maybe it was because Jack was Wilson's nephew, or because I was a woman, but they always took it upon themselves to make me feel like an outcast despite being the most thorough worker in the building. I could not be, and would not be, appreciated at that job.

[*To protect the identities of those involved, all names have been changed.]

a poem about a couple of guys in the summer

Summer Kissed Questions

How I wish to float on my back upon waters just cold enough to soothe my sun gripped skin. In my head, I am not alone and it scares me as much as it would if I were standing in a dark hallway 

in a horror film.

What if I turn my head and you're there?

What if the sun were to shine on your skin too?

On us both?

What if you also feel the touch of the water as I do?

What if you could feel my touch between the waves?

What if our skin allowed us to simply be

and we became part of the world

as one?

Failure: From the Perspective of a Pessimist Coming Out Story

Sometimes the thought of failure drowns me. It eclipses any amount of passion that once circulated through the very veins of my existence. I think my fear of failure stems from my childhood, like most of ours does. What is it though, from my childhood experiences that make the aspect of failure so uncontrollably paralyzing? Is it the fact that I was overshadowed by an overachiever of a twin sibling? Or is it the remarks of my father that still bruise me today? Is it the experience of living with a mother who was kind and accepting of my sibling and I until someone who disagreed with our existence came around? I may never know.

I was never given the luxury of being an optimist. Throughout my life, I have always been a failure. I have learned how to perfect a fake smile and laugh in order to surround others with the comfort I never received. I have seen the breakage of a family. The loss of loved ones and the disapproval of the church. Halberstam states: "Relieved of the obligation to keep smiling through chemotherapy or bankruptcy, the negative thinker can use the experience of failure to confront the gross inequalities of everyday life in the United States" (pg. 3). But am I a negative thinker? in a lot of ways yes? I was raised to win. And whenever I lost, I was reminded that I was the child my parents never wanted.

Now, I am not looking for a pity party. I am just exercising my thoughts around the subject of how failure was presented to me in my youth. I know as a human being am not a failure in day-to-day life. I win, by taking a breath of air when I wake up in the morning. But I am also reminded, often time in the most dreadful moments of the day, that others see me as a tragedy. I know for my father, the moment he lost all hope in me is when I came out to him. Granted I probably chose the worst moment in the history of ever to tell him that I was not heterosexual. But nonetheless, I did.

I remember being in High School, and laughing around his living room, while he endlessly flipped through television channels. He landed on RuPaul’s Drag Race, and the room went quiet. He was a few drinks in and was feeling the burn of alcohol. I could tell by the way his face lit up like a firetruck as he muttered something having to do with the f-slur. His wife, my stepmother said nothing, and my twin clearly uncomfortable looked in my direction. I am not scared of confrontation. I reminded him that saying hateful things about people who are different is not an acceptable thing. Of course, it triggered an argument. He began to go on and on about how 'the gays' are a burden to society, and that they are all going to hell. Now, I have never known my father to be a religious man, so it shocked me that he would bring religion into it when I could count the number of times I have seen him step through a church's doors on one hand in my time of life. I laughed, which I think triggered him because I have my mother’s laugh. and after hearing him ramble on about others' lifestyles and his opinion on the subject I came out to him, angrily. I saw the five stages of grief pass through my fathers' eyes all at once. He launched upwards off of the couch screaming about how I was not his daughter anymore and walked outside to have a cigarette. I remember bursting into tears, as my sibling held me and my stepmother (who is always caring and considerate as long as my father is not around) saying he was just upset and that he would come around eventually. At this time, my sibling had also expressed to her, their identity in the LGBTQ+ community at a previous time. He did not. Which sucks. I remember the days after, being stuck in his home, hoping the days went by fast so I could return home to my mother. I was scared, upset, and overall, I felt like I had failed my father.

I am not scared to be this failure any more in his eyes. His opinions do not matter to me, nor should they ever mattered in the first place. I found my place in the world with friends who accept me. and I am not scared to be a failure to him or anyone anymore. My identity has nothing to do with failure, but it has everything to do with how others perceive me. Halberstam, later on in his text states: "some of us who have escaped our cages may start looking for ways back into the zoo, others may try to rebuild a sanctuary in the wild and a few fugitive types will actually insist on staying lost" (pg. 26). I never want to return to the cage in my father's zoo. I have built my own sanctuary here. With my partner, with my friends, even if far away in distant states in the US, and around the globe. I am a pessimist, but I have to say my community gives me optimistic tendencies. I do talk to my father, once every few months while he plays house with his new family. But I am reminded every single time that I am not the daughter he wanted to have. And quite frankly, I am perfectly fine with that because I am content with the situation I am in, even if it is not perfect. I still question myself, my existence, my sense of self, and my winnings and losses. But I am not going to let others dictate what makes me a loser. I get to decide that for myself.

I am a failure for other reasons, but my sexuality and my existence as a human is not one.

 I decided to write to this post in hopes there were more parents out there like me.  I, myself am straight, but my son is gay.  I have known this for most of his childhood.  It was just a matter of time for him to figure it out for himself.  When he reached high school, everything changed.  He was finally figuring out who he was and what he wanted to be.  

Being a parent of a gay son never came with an instruction manual.  And in turn, being gay never came with an instructions either.  We just had to figure it out as we went along.  He still hasn't been able to tell some of the family members how he feels in fear that they would disown him.  On his dad's side though (were divorced), they took the news and blew it way out of portion.  His dad rushes him to his preacher, trying to preach the gay out of him (I was so pissed).  This made him feel worse about himself.  He was already feeling like an outcast that this little stunt made things worse.    

But I had other plans for my son.  Not only is he gay, he enjoys putting on make-up.  On one of our trips to Wal-Mart he asked if he could get a couple things.  So, we put together one of his first make-up kits. With the help from his cousin who lives in Denver, they spent the day trying it out and experimenting.  I have never seen his so happy, and a better self-esteem.

I don't think of myself as a mother of a gay son.  I think of myself as a mother period.  I want my son to be happy and enjoy being who he wants to be.  But this world can be cruel, and it kills me that I can't protect him from everything that will cause him pain.  

The reason why, I took this Queer Theory course is because I wanted to understand.  There are so many things that I don't know, but I am willing to understand.

The only advice I would give to another parent is don't forget to Love.  Love who they are and who they are growing up to be.      

A Dream i once had

In a dream I had when I was a few years younger, I encountered a being who made me challenge my thoughts about my place in life. 

I was in a winding wood, deep in the forests near my home.  As I walked I found myself confronted by a tall man looming shadows over my perception. 

“You are a dying thing,

made in the image of a dead

God, Only knowing this life.

You do not belong here.

This is a place of knowledge.”

I asked why I was there speaking to him. He considered me for a moment, then showed me a path leading back to the woods. 

"You have yet to live these lives yet. 

They are not yours to see. 

Your time has yet to come, and your mind has yet to mature. 

Leave. 

We will meet again soon."

I walked shortly down the path before turning to look at the strange man again. 

"Are you a God?",

I asked. 

"No. We are another manifestation to reach kinship with yourselves.

See where your lives walk before you..." 

I turn and see many people walking past me on the path I take. 

Some crying, some holding their heads proud. 

Some white, some tanned. 

Some old, some newborn. 

All share my path. 

Before I left the Man spoke to me again:

 “You create an infestation of Hope where none is found,

and hold guardianship of fool's symbols by which many die.

You have not learned of why you are, or what you are. 

We will one day welcome you home."

I awoke the next day, feeling as though id lived a thousand lifetimes. Thousands of memories of joy and sorrow, anger and fear all contained by the small dimensions of my mind. 

My Professor Taught Hate

 In the second semester of my doctoral studies, I took a course on Learning and Cognition. It was a simple class with readings, videos, and written responses. The homework was the same every week. As the third quarter of the semester approached, the module I had noticed earlier "Sex and Gender" was upon us and the mundane and boring week-to-week routine was disrupted. For the module, I read the chapter in "Brain Rules" by Medina on some of the differences in men's a women's brains and it all sounded credible. But then I started to view the videos the teacher had cherry picked from around the web on the sex differences in brains. All of a sudden, I was fired up. In one video, the speaker went on and on about how allowing young children to identify as a gender different from their genitalia was potentially traumatizing and confusing, I kind of lost it. I honestly thought it was a joke and he was getting at how this was hateful and contrived. On the contrary, when I posted in the threaded discussion that I found this material offensive and short sighted, he responded in defense. I couldn't track down his exact response but I did find one of his comments in response to another assignment in the module that is remarkably defamatory: 

From a brain and cognition and point of view, males and females are definitely different sexes and not interchangeable. From a brain perspective, you don’t wake up one day and think “I’m a man” and the next day decide, “I’m a dolphin” any more than one can decide that today they are 39 years old and tomorrow they are 17 years old. There are a teeny, tiny number of people born intersexed, but that is an incredibly small number of folks. Gender, on the other hand, is how people “feel” and is often socially influenced. Nonetheless, just because people are different, doesn’t mean in any way that some are more valuable than others. As teacher’s it is not our job to pretend everyone is the same; instead, I believe it is our moral obligation to recognize that each student is different, and teach each accordingly as best as we can given our highly constraining “stack ‘em deep and teach ‘em cheap” school systems. In any event, it is our burden and our privilege to teach these students—and based on your answers, I wish my grandchildren were able to have you for a teacher! I'm glad you pointed out the example of girls in Africa. And, in terms of the military, I"d speculate that this is mostly due to the suicide rate problems that are already inherent in the military....it is dangerous to put people who are already prone to suicide in a suicide inducing environment if you don't want people committing suicide in the first place. In our next module, we’ll move back to talking specifically about using what we know from the science of learning in designing learning experiences and environments that really work for our students.

Nevermind the typos and mansplaining that always drove me nuts (can a professor mansplain or is that their job), this guy literally said, "it is our burden and our privilege to teach these students." He even defended the US military's anti-trans legislation! Foucault has called attention to the false narrative that science has conveyed throughout recent history in efforts to control populations. This includes throwing out outlier data that might point to similarities in the sexes. Looking back on that class, I wish I had done something and reported this. Is it too late? 

Below, see the videos that are still up on YouTube. I should emphasize that the video that got me the most worked up was taken down due to hate speech!!!! Also, here's a link provided by the professor to a post about sex differences. 

technically, a poem I wrote about harry styles in high school

 boys boys boys

your body is so beautiful

with art splattered across it like

you’ve never felt pain at all.

i will slice this knife across my chest

for a body just like yours

they can call me Frankenstein 

until my so-called mutilated body is 

tossed into a hollow grave

it will not matter

because with the knife bloodied

i will walk around

like i’ve never felt pain at all.