Yes, I'm back from the BC3D. There are precious few things in my life that never get old, and this event is surely one of them. Of course, I'm already registered for next year and must hold my breath again in hope that I will get the assignment that I want and love.
There were only two things that marred this event for me, and one is the old nemesis: the cellular phone. I'm not exactly sure why cellular phone use on the route sticks in my craw so bad, besides the fact that it's patently against the rules and wholly unsafe. And the rules are easy to follow: step off the route, stop walking, take your call, hang up, start walking again. This is not rocket science. Still people refuse to follow this simple rule. And then they act righteously indignant when their refusal to follow a basic rule is pointed out. I think the thing that makes this so hard for me to swallow is that it reminds me so much of what I do every day at work - except these are ADULTS who are being given a very simple set of rules and very obviously and defiantly failing to follow them. This is not the Olympics. No one is timing the Walk. Stopping along the route to take a call, or stretch, or chat with an onlooker is encouraged and expected. Why people will defiantly argue their right to endanger themselves and others with use of a cell phone - a cell phone that accepts messages!!! - is completely beyond my scope of understanding.
The other thing, well... it's really just the same old thing as well. Except that it's never happened in Girltopia before, at least not to me. I'm hoping that the infiltration of the "real world" into Girltopia was a one-time glitch, but I fear that the increasing numbers of men participating in the BC3D is going to allow the "real world" to infiltrate even further, perhaps even enough to occupy.
Pics to come!!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Song of O: 2-28-00 to 11-9-08
When we brought you home, you were small enough to hold in my two cupped hands. For the first three weeks, you slept in a laundry basket next to my bed. Just like all my other babies, when you cried in the night, I brought you into bed with me and held you next to my heart until you slept.
Every time we opened the dishwasher, you would climb in and frolic. One day, you could no longer fit your body into the cavity and were comically confused at the inevitable physicality of it. Ice was your very favorite treat, and the sound of someone opening the freezer door was cause for rejoicing and a funny little dance, your toenails tapping in glee on the kitchen tile. You were the reason that no mailperson, FedEx employee, UPS deliveryperson, or Jehovah's Witness would approach our door - at least not more than once. You hung your head and followed us to the door every morning when we left for work, and wagged your entire body while snorting with ecstasy when we returned each night. You knew with clockwork precision when 6:00 am and 6:00 pm rolled around, and made sure that everyone else knew it too; in fact, you wouldn't stop letting us know until we produced the food you were waiting not-so-patiently for.
You sat on the couch with your legs on the floor because you were convinced you were human. You slept with a pillow under your head for the same reason.
We brought you home with hope that your presence would revitalize old, tired Frejya; instead, she hated you with a passion reserved only for the Akita breed and would choose to sleep outside in the rain rather than anywhere near you. You valiantlyand tirelessly - and rather stupidly - insisted that she recognize you, often getting yourself a firm swat and snarl for your trouble. Later, she learned to tolerate you, and you accepted the gift of her tolerance with playful impudence that frustrated her to no end.
Still, when she died later that year, you were lost without her. You pawed at her body and barked, trying to rouse her; and when you found that her body was gone, you yelped joyously and ran frantically around the yard in search of her. When she was nowhere to be found, you cried mournfully. Your grieving baying broke my heart all over again. More so throughout the days that followed, as you didn't know how to fulfill the duties she had left to you and were painfully aware of it.
When we brought Siofn home to help you, you gratefully accepted her as the new "alpha," a role you were no more comfortable with than you were going outside in the rain. She, in return, graciously allowed you to housetrain her and share the couch. Throughout the years that followed, you and Siofn had long, strange conversations in high-pitched Dobie-speak that frustrated MSU endlessly because it was impossible to hear anything else in the house - including the smoke alarm - until you were finished.
You were the ground squirrel Enforcer, the voice of fence-line reason, the Official Greeter, and surreptitious panty thief. You played dumb a lot, but managed to find your way into every food cabinet no matter how we tried to keep you out. You loved with unbridled abandon and protected with fierce dauntlessness. You were the master of energy conservation in those last years, but when it really mattered, you were all over it like flies on shit.
Ten days ago, you stopped eating. Six days ago, you ate some turkey and some peanut butter, but I could tell you were doing it to make me happy and it was then I knew that you had made your decision. Knowing what was to come, I spent as much of the last four days with you as I could; as your faculties waned I wanted you to know every minute that you were a good, good boy. Yesterday, you lost control of your body functions but still tried to stagger outside, face filled with shame. The Baby (not anymore, but that's how you always knew her) gave you her sleeping bag and we made you as comfortable as we could, and I let you know that I would clean up after you and that there was no need to get up, go out, or work. And though your body was shutting down at that point, you appeared sheepishly affronted at being relieved of the duty you had meticulously attended to for so very long.
Last night, I lay with you on the sleeping bag and held you as your breathing grew ever more shallow. Your last bit of bodily energy was spent in Herculean effort, as you stretched your front legs out to take the first step of your Last Journey and struggled to take the last breath you would need to cross the Veil. I felt the sweet release as you left the confines of the body that had finally failed you and knew that you had found your way.
Of all of the watchdogs I have trained for God, I know that you will be the most entertaining.
Every time we opened the dishwasher, you would climb in and frolic. One day, you could no longer fit your body into the cavity and were comically confused at the inevitable physicality of it. Ice was your very favorite treat, and the sound of someone opening the freezer door was cause for rejoicing and a funny little dance, your toenails tapping in glee on the kitchen tile. You were the reason that no mailperson, FedEx employee, UPS deliveryperson, or Jehovah's Witness would approach our door - at least not more than once. You hung your head and followed us to the door every morning when we left for work, and wagged your entire body while snorting with ecstasy when we returned each night. You knew with clockwork precision when 6:00 am and 6:00 pm rolled around, and made sure that everyone else knew it too; in fact, you wouldn't stop letting us know until we produced the food you were waiting not-so-patiently for.
You sat on the couch with your legs on the floor because you were convinced you were human. You slept with a pillow under your head for the same reason.
We brought you home with hope that your presence would revitalize old, tired Frejya; instead, she hated you with a passion reserved only for the Akita breed and would choose to sleep outside in the rain rather than anywhere near you. You valiantlyand tirelessly - and rather stupidly - insisted that she recognize you, often getting yourself a firm swat and snarl for your trouble. Later, she learned to tolerate you, and you accepted the gift of her tolerance with playful impudence that frustrated her to no end.
Still, when she died later that year, you were lost without her. You pawed at her body and barked, trying to rouse her; and when you found that her body was gone, you yelped joyously and ran frantically around the yard in search of her. When she was nowhere to be found, you cried mournfully. Your grieving baying broke my heart all over again. More so throughout the days that followed, as you didn't know how to fulfill the duties she had left to you and were painfully aware of it.
When we brought Siofn home to help you, you gratefully accepted her as the new "alpha," a role you were no more comfortable with than you were going outside in the rain. She, in return, graciously allowed you to housetrain her and share the couch. Throughout the years that followed, you and Siofn had long, strange conversations in high-pitched Dobie-speak that frustrated MSU endlessly because it was impossible to hear anything else in the house - including the smoke alarm - until you were finished.
You were the ground squirrel Enforcer, the voice of fence-line reason, the Official Greeter, and surreptitious panty thief. You played dumb a lot, but managed to find your way into every food cabinet no matter how we tried to keep you out. You loved with unbridled abandon and protected with fierce dauntlessness. You were the master of energy conservation in those last years, but when it really mattered, you were all over it like flies on shit.
Ten days ago, you stopped eating. Six days ago, you ate some turkey and some peanut butter, but I could tell you were doing it to make me happy and it was then I knew that you had made your decision. Knowing what was to come, I spent as much of the last four days with you as I could; as your faculties waned I wanted you to know every minute that you were a good, good boy. Yesterday, you lost control of your body functions but still tried to stagger outside, face filled with shame. The Baby (not anymore, but that's how you always knew her) gave you her sleeping bag and we made you as comfortable as we could, and I let you know that I would clean up after you and that there was no need to get up, go out, or work. And though your body was shutting down at that point, you appeared sheepishly affronted at being relieved of the duty you had meticulously attended to for so very long.
Last night, I lay with you on the sleeping bag and held you as your breathing grew ever more shallow. Your last bit of bodily energy was spent in Herculean effort, as you stretched your front legs out to take the first step of your Last Journey and struggled to take the last breath you would need to cross the Veil. I felt the sweet release as you left the confines of the body that had finally failed you and knew that you had found your way.
Of all of the watchdogs I have trained for God, I know that you will be the most entertaining.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
BEING
While I was teaching at a local middle school deep in the gangland, we adopted a uniform policy. Needless to say, the uniform – navy blue belted pants or skirt, white button-down or polo shirt tucked neatly in, and closed-toed shoes – was unpopular with the students and faculty alike. So unpopular, in fact, that much of that first year’s teaching time was engaged instead in uniform compliance enforcement and the inevitable referrals that accompany defiance.
And, of course, the female sub-population was the most difficult to bring on board – as I’ve said many times before, sometime around the age of eleven, young girls stop BEING and start BEING SEEN. Making them wear uniforms frightened them horribly (though they could not have verbalized it as such) because their power base had been completely removed. No more tank tops. No more middy shirts. No more skin-tight low-rise jeans. Their mechanism for displaying their status, power, and desirability had been yanked out from under them like a moldy rug. Without the mechanisms of BEING SEEN, the females could be seen casting about in confusion, looking for a way to restructure their pecking order.
One year later, assaults on campus had declined from two or three per day to two or three per semester. Thefts by students declined 80%. Participation in after-school programs increased dramatically. Gang-related crime on campus decreased dramatically. Standardized testing scores skyrocketed (NOT an exaggeration). The District had finally learned the lesson the military had known for years: take away the biology of status and sex and even uncivilized middle school students can become somewhat civilized.
You see, you can’t fight biology. That’s why many of us, confronted with questions about why we did something remarkably stupid, can only shrug our shoulders in shameful remorse. We don’t know why we do a lot of the things we do. But you can bet the motivation came out of our biology, out of our hard-wiring. You can bet it had something to do with perceived sexual signals, perceived status, or perceived power. Intellectually, we’d all want to deny that our motivators are so base. Yet, here we are, base creatures all.
The topic is on my mind because it’s made itself evident, in several manifestations, quite often over the past few weeks.
I battle biology every day. 20 years of my employment history has been spent in male-dominated fields, including my current career path. I’ve struggled for 20 years to maintain some semblance of femininity while earning the respect, trust, and esteem of my male co-workers, and biology notwithstanding have managed to fare pretty well. I can’t say it’s been a major sacrifice, as I failed every class in Girl School anyway; however, I have at times lamented that dressing up (for Court, for professional visits, for seminars, etc.) often results in dumbing down, at least in the eyes of my co-workers.
Yesterday (in the figurative sense), I was just “one of the guys.” Today (also in the figurative sense), I was dressed for Court and was suddenly treated differently by my male co-workers. I’m not sure it’s necessary, but I will make the distinction that I am not a shapeshifter or any sort of magical creature. I am the same person in the figurative today as I was in the figurative yesterday. The only difference is that in the figurative today, I was dressed like a girl and my legs and the general shape of my body were evident. In the figurative yesterday, those statements did not apply. Co-workers and other men (in the Courthouse, for example) who wouldn’t have given me a second glance yesterday - much less any sort of special treatment - suddenly acted in way that made no sense given the nature of previous associations: they opened doors for me. They did double-takes. They moved aside to allow me to sit. They offered to fetch me beverages. They made suggestive comments. They allowed their eyes to roam and linger. They did these things despite the fact that yesterday, they knew they’d get their asses kicked for treating me with such commingled respect/disrespect. Today they were surprised when I called them on it and then fervently denied such behavior.
Yesterday, I was a warrior. Yesterday, not a single one of my co-workers would have thought twice about my tactical positioning or ability to control a situation. Yesterday, I WAS. Today, I was only SEEN. What a transformation to undergo in only a few short hours: from BEING to BEING SEEN! From soldier to object! From manifested power to invoked subject! Why did this happen, you ask? Pure biology, plain and simple.
Ladies, we can say that we’ve “earned the right” to proudly display our femininity whilst retaining the “status equality” that our feminist sisters fought so inanely and futilely for, but it just ain’t so. Worse, some women know this to be true but insist upon dressing in a provocative manner at work and then having the gall to protest – sometimes even as far as into a court room – when they get exactly the sort of attention they are (maybe unconsciously?) seeking instead of the respect and cohesion their skills may very well deserve. We can’t fight biology, our own or that of the opposite gender. We can either minimize the effects of our hard-wiring in order to gain trust, esteem, and respect or we can maximize the effects to ensure attention. It’s a difficult and perhaps unjust dilemma, but the choice should be very clear.
Please don’t misunderstand. The inherent power of female can not be denied and should not be underestimated. It is a gift, and used wisely and with prudence, the power of female is and will ever be the civilizing force of humanity. The confusion seems to lie in the expression of it. The natural force of the feminine exists without makeup, without surgical enhancements, without push-up bras and “shapewear,” It exists without or without youth, without or without “standardized beauty,” and with or without higher learning. The unifying energy of the feminine is the birthright and responsibility of every female born, and needs only recognition and encouragement to bloom and grow. In other words, though our unique bodies are capable of demonstrating our Magic, the wellspring of our Mysteries lies elsewhere. Our power is in BEING, not in BEING SEEN.
And, of course, the female sub-population was the most difficult to bring on board – as I’ve said many times before, sometime around the age of eleven, young girls stop BEING and start BEING SEEN. Making them wear uniforms frightened them horribly (though they could not have verbalized it as such) because their power base had been completely removed. No more tank tops. No more middy shirts. No more skin-tight low-rise jeans. Their mechanism for displaying their status, power, and desirability had been yanked out from under them like a moldy rug. Without the mechanisms of BEING SEEN, the females could be seen casting about in confusion, looking for a way to restructure their pecking order.
One year later, assaults on campus had declined from two or three per day to two or three per semester. Thefts by students declined 80%. Participation in after-school programs increased dramatically. Gang-related crime on campus decreased dramatically. Standardized testing scores skyrocketed (NOT an exaggeration). The District had finally learned the lesson the military had known for years: take away the biology of status and sex and even uncivilized middle school students can become somewhat civilized.
You see, you can’t fight biology. That’s why many of us, confronted with questions about why we did something remarkably stupid, can only shrug our shoulders in shameful remorse. We don’t know why we do a lot of the things we do. But you can bet the motivation came out of our biology, out of our hard-wiring. You can bet it had something to do with perceived sexual signals, perceived status, or perceived power. Intellectually, we’d all want to deny that our motivators are so base. Yet, here we are, base creatures all.
The topic is on my mind because it’s made itself evident, in several manifestations, quite often over the past few weeks.
I battle biology every day. 20 years of my employment history has been spent in male-dominated fields, including my current career path. I’ve struggled for 20 years to maintain some semblance of femininity while earning the respect, trust, and esteem of my male co-workers, and biology notwithstanding have managed to fare pretty well. I can’t say it’s been a major sacrifice, as I failed every class in Girl School anyway; however, I have at times lamented that dressing up (for Court, for professional visits, for seminars, etc.) often results in dumbing down, at least in the eyes of my co-workers.
Yesterday (in the figurative sense), I was just “one of the guys.” Today (also in the figurative sense), I was dressed for Court and was suddenly treated differently by my male co-workers. I’m not sure it’s necessary, but I will make the distinction that I am not a shapeshifter or any sort of magical creature. I am the same person in the figurative today as I was in the figurative yesterday. The only difference is that in the figurative today, I was dressed like a girl and my legs and the general shape of my body were evident. In the figurative yesterday, those statements did not apply. Co-workers and other men (in the Courthouse, for example) who wouldn’t have given me a second glance yesterday - much less any sort of special treatment - suddenly acted in way that made no sense given the nature of previous associations: they opened doors for me. They did double-takes. They moved aside to allow me to sit. They offered to fetch me beverages. They made suggestive comments. They allowed their eyes to roam and linger. They did these things despite the fact that yesterday, they knew they’d get their asses kicked for treating me with such commingled respect/disrespect. Today they were surprised when I called them on it and then fervently denied such behavior.
Yesterday, I was a warrior. Yesterday, not a single one of my co-workers would have thought twice about my tactical positioning or ability to control a situation. Yesterday, I WAS. Today, I was only SEEN. What a transformation to undergo in only a few short hours: from BEING to BEING SEEN! From soldier to object! From manifested power to invoked subject! Why did this happen, you ask? Pure biology, plain and simple.
Ladies, we can say that we’ve “earned the right” to proudly display our femininity whilst retaining the “status equality” that our feminist sisters fought so inanely and futilely for, but it just ain’t so. Worse, some women know this to be true but insist upon dressing in a provocative manner at work and then having the gall to protest – sometimes even as far as into a court room – when they get exactly the sort of attention they are (maybe unconsciously?) seeking instead of the respect and cohesion their skills may very well deserve. We can’t fight biology, our own or that of the opposite gender. We can either minimize the effects of our hard-wiring in order to gain trust, esteem, and respect or we can maximize the effects to ensure attention. It’s a difficult and perhaps unjust dilemma, but the choice should be very clear.
Please don’t misunderstand. The inherent power of female can not be denied and should not be underestimated. It is a gift, and used wisely and with prudence, the power of female is and will ever be the civilizing force of humanity. The confusion seems to lie in the expression of it. The natural force of the feminine exists without makeup, without surgical enhancements, without push-up bras and “shapewear,” It exists without or without youth, without or without “standardized beauty,” and with or without higher learning. The unifying energy of the feminine is the birthright and responsibility of every female born, and needs only recognition and encouragement to bloom and grow. In other words, though our unique bodies are capable of demonstrating our Magic, the wellspring of our Mysteries lies elsewhere. Our power is in BEING, not in BEING SEEN.
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