The events of the last week....
The deaths of the last week....
Where to start?
I currently have too many thoughts in my head and trying to organize them all in a way that makes sense to even just me seems nearly impossible. There are emotions. On all sides. But why are there sides?
I think I learned about racism in sixth grade. David, a black boy, liked to snap the straps of my bra, which infuriated me to no end. And yet I didn't tell on him (which says more about sexism than I was aware of and is a completely different topic). I glared at him and he laughed. Our teacher, Mr. Black (a white Mormon), pulled me aside one day. He said that David reported that I told him to "keep his black hands off me." I was horrified. I cried. I didn't understand completely what it meant, but I understood it was terrible. I understood that I shouldn't feel that black was different or that being black was wrong. I was devastated that someone would blame me for thinking that way.
When I think about it more, there were other things that happened that pointed out to me that being black was different. My parents never said that black people were less. Not in those words, but in others. Our white, elderly neighbors were robbed late one night when they arrived home. The robbers were two black men. That's all I know. I only know this because that was how it was reported to my parents who related it that way to me. We moved because "too many black people were coming into the neighborhood." (Also - we had the luxury and the privilege to move away.)
I always knew that having a black boyfriend would irritate my parents. I wanted one, I never got one. I wasn't really that brave.
My parents moved to a small town in Oregon when my brother was a baby. We were having lunch in a restaurant near a window. Outside, in the parking lot, were a couple of young black men. My two-year-old brother looked at them and exclaimed, "Those men are dirty!!" He had never seen a black person before. I tried over and over to tell him that was the color of their skin. He shook his head. "No. No, they're dirty." I looked at my mom and told her she should not have left Southern California because now she was raising a racist toddler. She laughed.
Why am I telling you these things? It's not to tell you that my parents are bad people. They're not. It's to tell you that, as white people, we have some pretty fucked up ideas about people whose skin is a different color. And it's not as easy to label someone as being "bad" for thinking what they do because the messages feel so subtle sometimes. I wasn't told that my family didn't like blacks or that they were inferior. I wasn't taught to hate them. The message was simply that they were undesirable to live next door to.
All of this is to say that I understand the complexities of racism. I understand how it's sometimes hard to acknowledge when one is behaving in a racist manner. That it seems preposterous to call some behaviors racist. I know there is a learning curve. I also know that denial perpetuates the violence. I know that we can't continue the way we have. I know that there is injustice in the world. Grave injustice. I know that large sections of the population in my country are hurting. They are suffering, they are losing people they love, and they are dying. They are dying because they're black. They're angry because they're dying. I know this has to change. I know we have to do better.
Social media is the most useful tool when used responsibly and the greatest divider when it's not. It becomes a platform for people to spread hatred and to show the worst of humanity. The ugliest parts of themselves that we wish didn't exist.
There are a couple of things I've read in the last couple of days that gave me what Oprah always called "an aha! moment." These articles helped to put things in perspective for me in a way that I could relate to. As a woman, they made so much sense and I'm hoping that sharing them with you will help my white sisters understand and start a dialogue that helps us to move forward in helping our black sisters and brothers.
The first was an article about a BLM group meeting in the Nashville library. When it was discovered that the group was only open to persons of color, they were told they couldn't use the library as a meeting place anymore. The question was raised that white people might like to help and isn't it discriminatory in a reverse sort of way? But then the author gave the perfect analogy. Suppose a group of rape survivors decided to meet for support. A man approaches and says he wants to help them through their trauma. He is not a rapist, he has never hurt any of these survivors. But he's a man. He represents the gender that violated them. He won't understand, his help isn't welcome.
A second article compared racism to rape. We hear (and say) the same things about both.
"If she wasn't drunk..... If she hadn't worn that..... If she didn't flirt with the other guy....."
"If he kept his hands on the wheel.... If he just kept quiet and didn't ask questions..... If he weren't wearing a hoodie....."
Do you see the similarities? A woman doesn't ask to be raped. We don't ask to be catcalled. We don't ask to be objectified or marginalized or touched inappropriately or ignored or shamed or blamed for the thoughts a man has that we aren't aware of or in control of. People of color don't ask to be shot or suspected of crimes or profiled or accused. When we are just going about our business we don't ask to be victims. If we take ourselves outside of our own perceptions for a second, then maybe we can see that we have similarities.
Another problem I see on social media, and one that I have been confronted with, is that if I care about one cause, I must not care about another. Enough has been said about Black Lives versus All Lives, but this is related. There are several causes I care about and am passionate about. I can care about more than one at one time. I have enough emotion and enough space in my life to do so. Some become more pressing at times than others. If a woman is raped today and she is being vilified in the media while her rapist is being protected, then that is where I turn my attention. If I see an abused dog brought into a shelter who is in critical condition and needs immediate funds for medical care, then that is what I focus on for awareness. If there is an Amber Alert for a missing or kidnapped child, then that takes precedence in that moment and for that day. It isn't all or nothing for one cause and all the rest be damned.
Last week, while talking about Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the greater problem of racism, I was called a cop-hater. Because I care that two men died unjustifiably does not equate to hatred of all police. I can and do understand the enormous sacrifice that officers make on a daily basis. I can feel for their families and know that they also make sacrifices in loving someone who might not come home that night. I can have the utmost respect for men and women who are willing to put their lives on the line to protect me while also calling out that mistakes were made because other lives were ended. There aren't sides. There are people with beliefs and prejudices making decisions that they might not be prepared for, and that result in the loss of lives. That this happens over and over means that something needs to change.
I went to the BLM vigil/protest in Nashville on Friday night. There were two black officers within visual sight of the gathering. One male, one female. Those attending the assembly weren't confronted with a large show of police, they were allowed to congregate without interference. And yet, before the event started, I watched two young black men walk by, silently flipping off the two officers. My immediate reaction was, "Why? They're here to ensure that you get your say, that you get to honor your loss. They're also black, like you. Why so hateful?" The next day I had to separate my own reasoning from their emotion. Maybe it was the uniform itself. And they weren't confrontational, they were expressing their frustration. It was a safe place to do so and they did it peacefully.
If we can stop the automatic voices in our heads for a few moments and try to understand, then we start to be part of the solution. Stop saying, "But I have black friends.... But I have never said that... But I have never done that.... But that's not me....." Because it is. We have all done or said something that contributes to the problem, that separates us from the solution. And even if you have never used the "N word" or refused to hire someone because of their skin color, there is a person of color who has had that experience. Saying that you don't do it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen to them.
And if I take this further, just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't or that it can't. I've never been raped, but it's a possibility. I've never been mugged, but it's a possibility. I've never lost a parent, but that is something that looms in my future. Just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't. And it doesn't mean that it hasn't happened to someone else. It may have happened to someone you know and care about, but they don't talk about it because, most likely, it happens so often it's hardly worth mentioning anymore.
I've come to understand some things in the last few days that I didn't even as recently as the last year. I was in Southern California during the Rodney King riots. Granted, I was safely ensconced in my college environment in Orange County. I watched the horrors from a distance on my TV. There was no social media then so I was allowed to form my own opinions without interference from other, biased comments. What I believed was that it was terribly wrong. What I saw was anger and frustration and fear from a community I wasn't part of. And, naively, I thought that things would change. I thought that this country saw injustice, paid the price, and would move forward.
I was so wrong, because here we are. I can't say if it's worse because we see more of it or if it's less but the worst is being broadcast more easily through modern technology. All I know is that it shouldn't continue, not in any amount. Twenty four years later and we're still having the same conversation. 24. Two decades.
What I know is that my own internal voices need to change. They way I communicate to those around me needs to change. I can no longer sit by and say, "Oh, how sad. It's terrible but what can I do?" I have a voice. I can use it. It's just one voice and it won't reach everyone, but if everyone like me spoke up too? If we all silenced our own experiences for a minute. If we listened. If we acknowledged that we have more similar experiences than we think while also understanding that what certain groups experience is also profoundly different. If we stop denying that. If we accept and admit that we have been part of the problem. And if we decide we no longer want to be part of the problem. If we educate ourselves, if we look at history, if we open our minds and our hearts.
Oh, what would we do if we realized we could do it? What if we used our White Privilege to reach out? I feel like being white provides yet another advantage. Will you listen to me before you listen to "another angry black person?" Can you understand it coming from me? Does it make more sense? Can you have a conversation with me that you couldn't have with someone else?
Because I'm willing. Are you?
Showing posts with label Nashville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nashville. Show all posts
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Starting a Conversation
The events of the last week....
The deaths of the last week....
Where to start?
I currently have too many thoughts in my head and trying to organize them all in a way that makes sense to even just me seems nearly impossible. There are emotions. On all sides. But why are there sides?
I think I learned about racism in sixth grade. David, a black boy, liked to snap the straps of my bra, which infuriated me to no end. And yet I didn't tell on him (which says more about sexism than I was aware of and is a completely different topic). I glared at him and he laughed. Our teacher, Mr. Black (a white Mormon), pulled me aside one day. He said that David reported that I told him to "keep his black hands off me." I was horrified. I cried. I didn't understand completely what it meant, but I understood it was terrible. I understood that I shouldn't feel that black was different or that being black was wrong. I was devastated that someone would blame me for thinking that way.
When I think about it more, there were other things that happened that pointed out to me that being black was different. My parents never said that black people were less. Not in those words, but in others. Our white, elderly neighbors were robbed late one night when they arrived home. The robbers were two black men. That's all I know. I only know this because that was how it was reported to my parents who related it that way to me. We moved because "too many black people were coming into the neighborhood." (Also - we had the luxury and the privilege to move away.)
I always knew that having a black boyfriend would irritate my parents. I wanted one, I never got one. I wasn't really that brave.
My parents moved to a small town in Oregon when my brother was a baby. We were having lunch in a restaurant near a window. Outside, in the parking lot, were a couple of young black men. My two-year-old brother looked at them and exclaimed, "Those men are dirty!!" He had never seen a black person before. I tried over and over to tell him that was the color of their skin. He shook his head. "No. No, they're dirty." I looked at my mom and told her she should not have left Southern California because now she was raising a racist toddler. She laughed.
Why am I telling you these things? It's not to tell you that my parents are bad people. They're not. It's to tell you that, as white people, we have some pretty fucked up ideas about people whose skin is a different color. And it's not as easy to label someone as being "bad" for thinking what they do because the messages feel so subtle sometimes. I wasn't told that my family didn't like blacks or that they were inferior. I wasn't taught to hate them. The message was simply that they were undesirable to live next door to.
All of this is to say that I understand the complexities of racism. I understand how it's sometimes hard to acknowledge when one is behaving in a racist manner. That it seems preposterous to call some behaviors racist. I know there is a learning curve. I also know that denial perpetuates the violence. I know that we can't continue the way we have. I know that there is injustice in the world. Grave injustice. I know that large sections of the population in my country are hurting. They are suffering, they are losing people they love, and they are dying. They are dying because they're black. They're angry because they're dying. I know this has to change. I know we have to do better.
Social media is the most useful tool when used responsibly and the greatest divider when it's not. It becomes a platform for people to spread hatred and to show the worst of humanity. The ugliest parts of themselves that we wish didn't exist.
There are a couple of things I've read in the last couple of days that gave me what Oprah always called "an aha! moment." These articles helped to put things in perspective for me in a way that I could relate to. As a woman, they made so much sense and I'm hoping that sharing them with you will help my white sisters understand and start a dialogue that helps us to move forward in helping our black sisters and brothers.
The first was an article about a BLM group meeting in the Nashville library. When it was discovered that the group was only open to persons of color, they were told they couldn't use the library as a meeting place anymore. The question was raised that white people might like to help and isn't it discriminatory in a reverse sort of way? But then the author gave the perfect analogy. Suppose a group of rape survivors decided to meet for support. A man approaches and says he wants to help them through their trauma. He is not a rapist, he has never hurt any of these survivors. But he's a man. He represents the gender that violated them. He won't understand, his help isn't welcome.
A second article compared racism to rape. We hear (and say) the same things about both.
"If she wasn't drunk..... If she hadn't worn that..... If she didn't flirt with the other guy....."
"If he kept his hands on the wheel.... If he just kept quiet and didn't ask questions..... If he weren't wearing a hoodie....."
Do you see the similarities? A woman doesn't ask to be raped. We don't ask to be catcalled. We don't ask to be objectified or marginalized or touched inappropriately or ignored or shamed or blamed for the thoughts a man has that we aren't aware of or in control of. People of color don't ask to be shot or suspected of crimes or profiled or accused. When we are just going about our business we don't ask to be victims. If we take ourselves outside of our own perceptions for a second, then maybe we can see that we have similarities.
Another problem I see on social media, and one that I have been confronted with, is that if I care about one cause, I must not care about another. Enough has been said about Black Lives versus All Lives, but this is related. There are several causes I care about and am passionate about. I can care about more than one at one time. I have enough emotion and enough space in my life to do so. Some become more pressing at times than others. If a woman is raped today and she is being vilified in the media while her rapist is being protected, then that is where I turn my attention. If I see an abused dog brought into a shelter who is in critical condition and needs immediate funds for medical care, then that is what I focus on for awareness. If there is an Amber Alert for a missing or kidnapped child, then that takes precedence in that moment and for that day. It isn't all or nothing for one cause and all the rest be damned.
Last week, while talking about Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the greater problem of racism, I was called a cop-hater. Because I care that two men died unjustifiably does not equate to hatred of all police. I can and do understand the enormous sacrifice that officers make on a daily basis. I can feel for their families and know that they also make sacrifices in loving someone who might not come home that night. I can have the utmost respect for men and women who are willing to put their lives on the line to protect me while also calling out that mistakes were made because other lives were ended. There aren't sides. There are people with beliefs and prejudices making decisions that they might not be prepared for, and that result in the loss of lives. That this happens over and over means that something needs to change.
I went to the BLM vigil/protest in Nashville on Friday night. There were two black officers within visual sight of the gathering. One male, one female. Those attending the assembly weren't confronted with a large show of police, they were allowed to congregate without interference. And yet, before the event started, I watched two young black men walk by, silently flipping off the two officers. My immediate reaction was, "Why? They're here to ensure that you get your say, that you get to honor your loss. They're also black, like you. Why so hateful?" The next day I had to separate my own reasoning from their emotion. Maybe it was the uniform itself. And they weren't confrontational, they were expressing their frustration. It was a safe place to do so and they did it peacefully.
If we can stop the automatic voices in our heads for a few moments and try to understand, then we start to be part of the solution. Stop saying, "But I have black friends.... But I have never said that... But I have never done that.... But that's not me....." Because it is. We have all done or said something that contributes to the problem, that separates us from the solution. And even if you have never used the "N word" or refused to hire someone because of their skin color, there is a person of color who has had that experience. Saying that you don't do it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen to them.
And if I take this further, just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't or that it can't. I've never been raped, but it's a possibility. I've never been mugged, but it's a possibility. I've never lost a parent, but that is something that looms in my future. Just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't. And it doesn't mean that it hasn't happened to someone else. It may have happened to someone you know and care about, but they don't talk about it because, most likely, it happens so often it's hardly worth mentioning anymore.
I've come to understand some things in the last few days that I didn't even as recently as the last year. I was in Southern California during the Rodney King riots. Granted, I was safely ensconced in my college environment in Orange County. I watched the horrors from a distance on my TV. There was no social media then so I was allowed to form my own opinions without interference from other, biased comments. What I believed was that it was terribly wrong. What I saw was anger and frustration and fear from a community I wasn't part of. And, naively, I thought that things would change. I thought that this country saw injustice, paid the price, and would move forward.
I was so wrong, because here we are. I can't say if it's worse because we see more of it or if it's less but the worst is being broadcast more easily through modern technology. All I know is that it shouldn't continue, not in any amount. Twenty four years later and we're still having the same conversation. 24. Two decades.
What I know is that my own internal voices need to change. They way I communicate to those around me needs to change. I can no longer sit by and say, "Oh, how sad. It's terrible but what can I do?" I have a voice. I can use it. It's just one voice and it won't reach everyone, but if everyone like me spoke up too? If we all silenced our own experiences for a minute. If we listened. If we acknowledged that we have more similar experiences than we think while also understanding that what certain groups experience is also profoundly different. If we stop denying that. If we accept and admit that we have been part of the problem. And if we decide we no longer want to be part of the problem. If we educate ourselves, if we look at history, if we open our minds and our hearts.
Oh, what would we do if we realized we could do it? What if we used our White Privilege to reach out? I feel like being white provides yet another advantage. Will you listen to me before you listen to "another angry black person?" Can you understand it coming from me? Does it make more sense? Can you have a conversation with me that you couldn't have with someone else?
Because I'm willing. Are you?
The deaths of the last week....
Where to start?
I currently have too many thoughts in my head and trying to organize them all in a way that makes sense to even just me seems nearly impossible. There are emotions. On all sides. But why are there sides?
I think I learned about racism in sixth grade. David, a black boy, liked to snap the straps of my bra, which infuriated me to no end. And yet I didn't tell on him (which says more about sexism than I was aware of and is a completely different topic). I glared at him and he laughed. Our teacher, Mr. Black (a white Mormon), pulled me aside one day. He said that David reported that I told him to "keep his black hands off me." I was horrified. I cried. I didn't understand completely what it meant, but I understood it was terrible. I understood that I shouldn't feel that black was different or that being black was wrong. I was devastated that someone would blame me for thinking that way.
When I think about it more, there were other things that happened that pointed out to me that being black was different. My parents never said that black people were less. Not in those words, but in others. Our white, elderly neighbors were robbed late one night when they arrived home. The robbers were two black men. That's all I know. I only know this because that was how it was reported to my parents who related it that way to me. We moved because "too many black people were coming into the neighborhood." (Also - we had the luxury and the privilege to move away.)
I always knew that having a black boyfriend would irritate my parents. I wanted one, I never got one. I wasn't really that brave.
My parents moved to a small town in Oregon when my brother was a baby. We were having lunch in a restaurant near a window. Outside, in the parking lot, were a couple of young black men. My two-year-old brother looked at them and exclaimed, "Those men are dirty!!" He had never seen a black person before. I tried over and over to tell him that was the color of their skin. He shook his head. "No. No, they're dirty." I looked at my mom and told her she should not have left Southern California because now she was raising a racist toddler. She laughed.
Why am I telling you these things? It's not to tell you that my parents are bad people. They're not. It's to tell you that, as white people, we have some pretty fucked up ideas about people whose skin is a different color. And it's not as easy to label someone as being "bad" for thinking what they do because the messages feel so subtle sometimes. I wasn't told that my family didn't like blacks or that they were inferior. I wasn't taught to hate them. The message was simply that they were undesirable to live next door to.
All of this is to say that I understand the complexities of racism. I understand how it's sometimes hard to acknowledge when one is behaving in a racist manner. That it seems preposterous to call some behaviors racist. I know there is a learning curve. I also know that denial perpetuates the violence. I know that we can't continue the way we have. I know that there is injustice in the world. Grave injustice. I know that large sections of the population in my country are hurting. They are suffering, they are losing people they love, and they are dying. They are dying because they're black. They're angry because they're dying. I know this has to change. I know we have to do better.
Social media is the most useful tool when used responsibly and the greatest divider when it's not. It becomes a platform for people to spread hatred and to show the worst of humanity. The ugliest parts of themselves that we wish didn't exist.
There are a couple of things I've read in the last couple of days that gave me what Oprah always called "an aha! moment." These articles helped to put things in perspective for me in a way that I could relate to. As a woman, they made so much sense and I'm hoping that sharing them with you will help my white sisters understand and start a dialogue that helps us to move forward in helping our black sisters and brothers.
The first was an article about a BLM group meeting in the Nashville library. When it was discovered that the group was only open to persons of color, they were told they couldn't use the library as a meeting place anymore. The question was raised that white people might like to help and isn't it discriminatory in a reverse sort of way? But then the author gave the perfect analogy. Suppose a group of rape survivors decided to meet for support. A man approaches and says he wants to help them through their trauma. He is not a rapist, he has never hurt any of these survivors. But he's a man. He represents the gender that violated them. He won't understand, his help isn't welcome.
A second article compared racism to rape. We hear (and say) the same things about both.
"If she wasn't drunk..... If she hadn't worn that..... If she didn't flirt with the other guy....."
"If he kept his hands on the wheel.... If he just kept quiet and didn't ask questions..... If he weren't wearing a hoodie....."
Do you see the similarities? A woman doesn't ask to be raped. We don't ask to be catcalled. We don't ask to be objectified or marginalized or touched inappropriately or ignored or shamed or blamed for the thoughts a man has that we aren't aware of or in control of. People of color don't ask to be shot or suspected of crimes or profiled or accused. When we are just going about our business we don't ask to be victims. If we take ourselves outside of our own perceptions for a second, then maybe we can see that we have similarities.
Another problem I see on social media, and one that I have been confronted with, is that if I care about one cause, I must not care about another. Enough has been said about Black Lives versus All Lives, but this is related. There are several causes I care about and am passionate about. I can care about more than one at one time. I have enough emotion and enough space in my life to do so. Some become more pressing at times than others. If a woman is raped today and she is being vilified in the media while her rapist is being protected, then that is where I turn my attention. If I see an abused dog brought into a shelter who is in critical condition and needs immediate funds for medical care, then that is what I focus on for awareness. If there is an Amber Alert for a missing or kidnapped child, then that takes precedence in that moment and for that day. It isn't all or nothing for one cause and all the rest be damned.
Last week, while talking about Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the greater problem of racism, I was called a cop-hater. Because I care that two men died unjustifiably does not equate to hatred of all police. I can and do understand the enormous sacrifice that officers make on a daily basis. I can feel for their families and know that they also make sacrifices in loving someone who might not come home that night. I can have the utmost respect for men and women who are willing to put their lives on the line to protect me while also calling out that mistakes were made because other lives were ended. There aren't sides. There are people with beliefs and prejudices making decisions that they might not be prepared for, and that result in the loss of lives. That this happens over and over means that something needs to change.
I went to the BLM vigil/protest in Nashville on Friday night. There were two black officers within visual sight of the gathering. One male, one female. Those attending the assembly weren't confronted with a large show of police, they were allowed to congregate without interference. And yet, before the event started, I watched two young black men walk by, silently flipping off the two officers. My immediate reaction was, "Why? They're here to ensure that you get your say, that you get to honor your loss. They're also black, like you. Why so hateful?" The next day I had to separate my own reasoning from their emotion. Maybe it was the uniform itself. And they weren't confrontational, they were expressing their frustration. It was a safe place to do so and they did it peacefully.
If we can stop the automatic voices in our heads for a few moments and try to understand, then we start to be part of the solution. Stop saying, "But I have black friends.... But I have never said that... But I have never done that.... But that's not me....." Because it is. We have all done or said something that contributes to the problem, that separates us from the solution. And even if you have never used the "N word" or refused to hire someone because of their skin color, there is a person of color who has had that experience. Saying that you don't do it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen to them.
And if I take this further, just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't or that it can't. I've never been raped, but it's a possibility. I've never been mugged, but it's a possibility. I've never lost a parent, but that is something that looms in my future. Just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't. And it doesn't mean that it hasn't happened to someone else. It may have happened to someone you know and care about, but they don't talk about it because, most likely, it happens so often it's hardly worth mentioning anymore.
I've come to understand some things in the last few days that I didn't even as recently as the last year. I was in Southern California during the Rodney King riots. Granted, I was safely ensconced in my college environment in Orange County. I watched the horrors from a distance on my TV. There was no social media then so I was allowed to form my own opinions without interference from other, biased comments. What I believed was that it was terribly wrong. What I saw was anger and frustration and fear from a community I wasn't part of. And, naively, I thought that things would change. I thought that this country saw injustice, paid the price, and would move forward.
I was so wrong, because here we are. I can't say if it's worse because we see more of it or if it's less but the worst is being broadcast more easily through modern technology. All I know is that it shouldn't continue, not in any amount. Twenty four years later and we're still having the same conversation. 24. Two decades.
What I know is that my own internal voices need to change. They way I communicate to those around me needs to change. I can no longer sit by and say, "Oh, how sad. It's terrible but what can I do?" I have a voice. I can use it. It's just one voice and it won't reach everyone, but if everyone like me spoke up too? If we all silenced our own experiences for a minute. If we listened. If we acknowledged that we have more similar experiences than we think while also understanding that what certain groups experience is also profoundly different. If we stop denying that. If we accept and admit that we have been part of the problem. And if we decide we no longer want to be part of the problem. If we educate ourselves, if we look at history, if we open our minds and our hearts.
Oh, what would we do if we realized we could do it? What if we used our White Privilege to reach out? I feel like being white provides yet another advantage. Will you listen to me before you listen to "another angry black person?" Can you understand it coming from me? Does it make more sense? Can you have a conversation with me that you couldn't have with someone else?
Because I'm willing. Are you?
Monday, June 13, 2016
The Big Reveal
My daughter was born a girly girl. Her first word after the parental syllables was "shoe." She was boy crazy at four, passing toys to the neighbor boy between the chain link fence next to our townhouse. By the time she was eight, she'd had more boyfriends than I had in my life. She did ballet for ten years. She giggled in the back seat with her friends about high school dances and holding hands with boys on the ferris wheel. Her favorite color was pink. Or purple. She adored makeup.
She was the stereotypical girl.
She also loves to play the guessing game when she's afraid to tell me something. Which she did ten days ago. It goes something like this:
D: I have to tell you something.
Me: Okay....
D: Only I don't want to.
Me: Okaaay.... (immediately irritated)
D: Well, I want to tell you, but I don't.
Me: .......... (rolling my eyes and heavy-sighing)
D: It's just... I wish you just knew already.
Me: How can I know if you don't tell me?
D: ......
Me: Fine. You had sex.
D: No.
Me: You got drunk.
D: No.
Me: You got in another accident.
No.
You quit your job.
No.
You're friends with that horrible girl again.
No.
You're pregnant. (Because after exhausting the obvious and the stupid, I start throwing out the crazy.)
No.
You're gay. (AmI right? This girly girl? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.......)
She looks at the refrigerator. The girl has zero poker face.
But you're kidding, right?
No.
You can't be serious.
Yes, Mom.
............
I'd had a cocktail at this point and quickly gulped down the equivalent of another shot. Remember the stereotypical girl? Which I asked her. Or, rather, told her. "You were always boy crazy." Yes, she thought she was, but then she wasn't. But what about her boyfriends? What about drooling over Josh Hutcherson and Ian Somerhalder? What about, what about, what about?
I took a quick break in the bathroom where I furiously texted my best friend. "Don't judge, I said." Her response? "Oh God, what did you do???" When I told her what it really was she said, "We have always supported the gay community. Now it's just time to prove it." Okay......
Yes, I was in shock. It was the last thing I imagined from D. I knew her. I gave birth to her. I held her and cradled her and met all of her needs as an infant. It wasn't that I was against it. I wasn't and I'm not. I had even commented to friends in front of her that I would accept having a gay child but I would mourn my dream of what I thought they would be. That was what she remembered. That is what stuck in her heart and why she was so afraid to tell me.
So I finished my drink and I tried to let her talk. I tried to ask the accepting questions, all the while my brain was reeling from the news. I told her over and over that I'm not disappointed. Not like she thought I would be. It's not necessarily disappointment, but an adjustment. I have to shift my thinking.
When she was a senior in high school, she was temporarily but extremely suicidal. I reminded her that I would take her and keep her any way I could get her but I never want to lose her. I told her she could see how it felt without choosing labels yet. She told me she was confused. Ah, confusion. It's not real. Just a phase.
Now, if anyone thinks at any point thus far that I said the wrong thing or reacted the wrong way, you're entitled to that opinion. But if you're just not prepared for something, you can't predict your reaction. This outcome had just never occurred to me. Not in a million years.
The next day was a struggle between reassuring her that I do love and accept her, which I completely do, and balancing my own confused feelings. I asked if she was sure because she had been confused the night before. No, she was talking about being confused when it all started for her. Oh. Well, damn.
My second concern was for her safety. My whole life has been about protecting her. It's my job. I'm not so afraid that she will be physically harmed, but the thought of someone slamming her with vulgarity while she walks hand-in-hand with a girlfriend makes me want to rip an imaginary asshole. It's hard to embrace something that I think will hurt her.
It's been a process. I'm still processing it. A few days after she came out, I asked if she was sure this isn't just a phase. I got the hateful teenage reply that basically identified me as in insensitive dinosaur.
The next day I asked how long she'd known. Since freshman year of high school, which equals five years. I had known for five days. She agreed this wasn't fair and allowed me to ask any and all questions I had, which I prefaced by saying that I'll always love her and I will get to the point where I openly accept and embrace this "new" identity but that it will take time. I asked questions I didn't really want answers to. We supported each other throughout the conversation.
My emotions have been all over the map and probably around the globe a dozen times. I'm scared for her. I felt deceived by her and lied to. I have to clarify that these are not rational emotions, but we can't control feelings. I can't. I felt that if I had been a better mom I would have known. How the fuck did I miss THIS one??
There have been other thoughts too. I was never hung up on having a son-in-law. Weddings with two brides are often beautiful. I halfway adopted a handful of her friends growing up anyway, I'm used to it. Plus she's promised me I will have grandbabies. That's all I really care about, I'm just asking for a couple extra now.
Over the last year, I have been worried about her capacity to love. We moved to Nashville and she went through half a dozen boys in a matter of months. She seemed to get bored or to lose interest really quickly. Of course I blamed myself for divorcing her father and for dragging her through the subsequent Bad Relationship. All of this must have affected her ability to be intimate, to love someone. Now it's somewhat of a relief that might not be the case. I want her to love deeply and be loved to the core of her being. I'm not going to be able to choose that person anyway, so why should I choose their gender?
She had the brilliant millennial idea of coming out on Facebook. I didn't expect that today she'd be ready. Always keeping me on my toes, that one. The shooting in Orlando over the weekend was her motivation. She's scared now. She should be. I'm scared for her. And yesterday we went to the vigil downtown because I wanted her to be with people like her and to see that there is love in the fear. I want her to know that she's supported, that even if I can't be there always to protect her, I will do everything in my power to ensure that she feels loved and supported. She said she wanted to be brave. The truth is, this wasn't just an act of bravery. Brave is what she is. She's been brave with her depression, she's been brave with making her own choices about her future and she's brave now to come out when it would be safer to hide.
Her responses so far have been overwhelmingly supportive. I suspect there are some who aren't and they're just staying quiet and that's okay. Their silence still speaks and she knows it. I wonder how my own friends and family will react. I wasn't going to say anything until she was ready, but now that she's just jumped into the deep end, I'm jumping with her.
I'm still scared. All the more so now. I've avoided much of the news from Orlando because it hits too close to home this time. My best friend says it always should have been personal, and she's right. I just lived in a smug little straight-privileged bubble when I thought my child wouldn't be targeted. I'm flying the PFLAG now. I have to be as brave as she is.
I was never in love with anyone the way I was when this precious child came into my life. Never since and I never will be again. The thought of someone taking that from me, or from any other parent, chills me to the bone. Nobody has the right to take love from us. I am scared, but I will not live in fear. I will love her and I will love people like her and I will stand with them and next to them.
I'm proud of her. I'm proud of Nashville, our city. Last night's vigil gave me hope. Hope that I won't have to be afraid forever. Hope that love will prevail. Hope that she will love and be loved.
That's all any of us can hope for, really.
She was the stereotypical girl.
She also loves to play the guessing game when she's afraid to tell me something. Which she did ten days ago. It goes something like this:
D: I have to tell you something.
Me: Okay....
D: Only I don't want to.
Me: Okaaay.... (immediately irritated)
D: Well, I want to tell you, but I don't.
Me: .......... (rolling my eyes and heavy-sighing)
D: It's just... I wish you just knew already.
Me: How can I know if you don't tell me?
D: ......
Me: Fine. You had sex.
D: No.
Me: You got drunk.
D: No.
Me: You got in another accident.
No.
You quit your job.
No.
You're friends with that horrible girl again.
No.
You're pregnant. (Because after exhausting the obvious and the stupid, I start throwing out the crazy.)
No.
You're gay. (AmI right? This girly girl? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.......)
She looks at the refrigerator. The girl has zero poker face.
But you're kidding, right?
No.
You can't be serious.
Yes, Mom.
............
I'd had a cocktail at this point and quickly gulped down the equivalent of another shot. Remember the stereotypical girl? Which I asked her. Or, rather, told her. "You were always boy crazy." Yes, she thought she was, but then she wasn't. But what about her boyfriends? What about drooling over Josh Hutcherson and Ian Somerhalder? What about, what about, what about?
I took a quick break in the bathroom where I furiously texted my best friend. "Don't judge, I said." Her response? "Oh God, what did you do???" When I told her what it really was she said, "We have always supported the gay community. Now it's just time to prove it." Okay......
Yes, I was in shock. It was the last thing I imagined from D. I knew her. I gave birth to her. I held her and cradled her and met all of her needs as an infant. It wasn't that I was against it. I wasn't and I'm not. I had even commented to friends in front of her that I would accept having a gay child but I would mourn my dream of what I thought they would be. That was what she remembered. That is what stuck in her heart and why she was so afraid to tell me.
So I finished my drink and I tried to let her talk. I tried to ask the accepting questions, all the while my brain was reeling from the news. I told her over and over that I'm not disappointed. Not like she thought I would be. It's not necessarily disappointment, but an adjustment. I have to shift my thinking.
When she was a senior in high school, she was temporarily but extremely suicidal. I reminded her that I would take her and keep her any way I could get her but I never want to lose her. I told her she could see how it felt without choosing labels yet. She told me she was confused. Ah, confusion. It's not real. Just a phase.
Now, if anyone thinks at any point thus far that I said the wrong thing or reacted the wrong way, you're entitled to that opinion. But if you're just not prepared for something, you can't predict your reaction. This outcome had just never occurred to me. Not in a million years.
The next day was a struggle between reassuring her that I do love and accept her, which I completely do, and balancing my own confused feelings. I asked if she was sure because she had been confused the night before. No, she was talking about being confused when it all started for her. Oh. Well, damn.
My second concern was for her safety. My whole life has been about protecting her. It's my job. I'm not so afraid that she will be physically harmed, but the thought of someone slamming her with vulgarity while she walks hand-in-hand with a girlfriend makes me want to rip an imaginary asshole. It's hard to embrace something that I think will hurt her.
It's been a process. I'm still processing it. A few days after she came out, I asked if she was sure this isn't just a phase. I got the hateful teenage reply that basically identified me as in insensitive dinosaur.
The next day I asked how long she'd known. Since freshman year of high school, which equals five years. I had known for five days. She agreed this wasn't fair and allowed me to ask any and all questions I had, which I prefaced by saying that I'll always love her and I will get to the point where I openly accept and embrace this "new" identity but that it will take time. I asked questions I didn't really want answers to. We supported each other throughout the conversation.
My emotions have been all over the map and probably around the globe a dozen times. I'm scared for her. I felt deceived by her and lied to. I have to clarify that these are not rational emotions, but we can't control feelings. I can't. I felt that if I had been a better mom I would have known. How the fuck did I miss THIS one??
There have been other thoughts too. I was never hung up on having a son-in-law. Weddings with two brides are often beautiful. I halfway adopted a handful of her friends growing up anyway, I'm used to it. Plus she's promised me I will have grandbabies. That's all I really care about, I'm just asking for a couple extra now.
Over the last year, I have been worried about her capacity to love. We moved to Nashville and she went through half a dozen boys in a matter of months. She seemed to get bored or to lose interest really quickly. Of course I blamed myself for divorcing her father and for dragging her through the subsequent Bad Relationship. All of this must have affected her ability to be intimate, to love someone. Now it's somewhat of a relief that might not be the case. I want her to love deeply and be loved to the core of her being. I'm not going to be able to choose that person anyway, so why should I choose their gender?
She had the brilliant millennial idea of coming out on Facebook. I didn't expect that today she'd be ready. Always keeping me on my toes, that one. The shooting in Orlando over the weekend was her motivation. She's scared now. She should be. I'm scared for her. And yesterday we went to the vigil downtown because I wanted her to be with people like her and to see that there is love in the fear. I want her to know that she's supported, that even if I can't be there always to protect her, I will do everything in my power to ensure that she feels loved and supported. She said she wanted to be brave. The truth is, this wasn't just an act of bravery. Brave is what she is. She's been brave with her depression, she's been brave with making her own choices about her future and she's brave now to come out when it would be safer to hide.
Her responses so far have been overwhelmingly supportive. I suspect there are some who aren't and they're just staying quiet and that's okay. Their silence still speaks and she knows it. I wonder how my own friends and family will react. I wasn't going to say anything until she was ready, but now that she's just jumped into the deep end, I'm jumping with her.
I'm still scared. All the more so now. I've avoided much of the news from Orlando because it hits too close to home this time. My best friend says it always should have been personal, and she's right. I just lived in a smug little straight-privileged bubble when I thought my child wouldn't be targeted. I'm flying the PFLAG now. I have to be as brave as she is.
I was never in love with anyone the way I was when this precious child came into my life. Never since and I never will be again. The thought of someone taking that from me, or from any other parent, chills me to the bone. Nobody has the right to take love from us. I am scared, but I will not live in fear. I will love her and I will love people like her and I will stand with them and next to them.
I'm proud of her. I'm proud of Nashville, our city. Last night's vigil gave me hope. Hope that I won't have to be afraid forever. Hope that love will prevail. Hope that she will love and be loved.
That's all any of us can hope for, really.
Like a Giant Push-Up
Last week I was veering dangerously close to a depressive episode. I felt it coming, heard the rumbling in the distance. The days leading up to Friday were fraught with events and activities that were draining any emotional energy I was trying to hold onto. I was running on empty. The temptation to hide under my covers until the storm passed was great. This happens to me on occasion. Sometimes I know why, sometimes I don't. This time I knew exactly why and I feared exposing myself to further energy drain and risking a deeper depression.
All of this is to say that Nashville surprised me. Nashville fits me more the longer I'm here.
Friday was a long-awaited burlesque show, which included dinner beforehand with new friends. Having to be "on" around new people is risky when I'm on the edge like I was. I know I was a little bit manic in my animation to make up for what was lurking under the surface of my skin, but it was manageable. (Manageable mania - oxymoron?) The show itself was wonderful and inspiring and full of acceptance and love, the way that burlesque is intended. There were hugs and laughter and beautiful costumes and quirky routines. It was just what the doctor ordered. If the doctor prescribed boobs and pasties.
Saturday the bestie and I went to see Stephen King speak. I wasn't sure how it would play out, I knew it wasn't a typical book signing with so many people there. SO many people. So MANY. People! The line wrapped around the building. Around the alley, behind the bars on Broadway. During CMA Fest. Cigarettes and drunk people and sewage liquid on the road. In the heat. The hot, hot southern heat. The Ryman was hot. Crowded. Sold out. Over-stimulating. Between the crowds, the confusion, and the odors, I was nearing a meltdown.
Ann Patchett walked out onto the stage. I feel a bit smug knowing that I can go into her business space any time I want at Parnassus Books. It's like my little nerd privilege. So I perked up. She introduced Donna Tartt to introduce Mr. King. Her small speech reminded me that it's okay to be different. It was beautiful and heartfelt and touching, without any pandering sweetness.
When Stephen King walked onto that stage, he was greeted with a standing ovation. There was an immediate sense that we all, in that audience, shared a common ideation in our love of writing, of books, and of a certain author, if not authors in general.
I want so badly to remember every word he spoke. He didn't only talk about writing, or his creative efforts, but he also gave us glimpses into who he is as a person. Someone who is not only a brilliant and prolific writer, but a humble family man with a wicked sense of humor. He curses in the exact appropriate places and he's just academically intimidating enough without being a boorish snob.
The whole experience of being in his presence, of sharing fellowship with others who chose to forego music festivals and street revelry to talk about a shared love of books, left me with a full heart and renewed soul, knowing it will never be duplicated because momentous events like that are rare and precious.
I woke up Sunday to the news of the tragic shooting in Orlando. Tragic shooting. Act of terrorism. Loss of lives. Devastation. How do I put what happened into words that make sense when the act itself doesn't? How to define the emotions. The anger, the fear, the complete what-the-fuck and why-is-this-happening-again. The overwhelming sadness and desperation to control something that can't even be predicted because who thinks of doing things that are so terrible when you're just going about your life and you're celebrating that life in a way that doesn't hurt another person and yet you and the people you care about are targets of something that can only be described as hate. Random hate because how can you even hate faces you've never met?
I don't understand it and I will never understand it and I'm tired of trying to understand it because there is no reason, no justification. Because it wasn't 50 people. It was 50 plus those who loved them currently plus those who knew and loved them last year plus those they were meant to affect and love and be loved plus the impacts they had that they don't know and we don't know and will now never know. 50 plus 150 times 18 plus infinity. It is indirectly countless people around the world. How does one person cause so much hurt?
Our mayor in Nashville, Megan Barry, posted on Facebook. She and other members of our local government and our police department organized a vigil for the victims. I knew I had to go. Whatever it meant on whatever scale, I needed to be among that support. I needed to contribute with my paltry presence. By that point I wasn't able to connect at an individual level with anyone there and had a hard time feeling like I belonged, but my body needed to be there.
Despite the disconnect, I was proud of the people who were there. The mayor. The police. The members of the city council. Those holding flags and posters. Those who changed what plans they had to show up and be present and to be heard. I know I planned on watching Game of Thrones last night and resting up for the week, not spending yet more emotional energy on things I can't make sense of.
Our city was beautiful last night. There were rainbow lights. Candle lights. Faces of determination. Hugs and displays of support. The noise came from the music in the bars, sounds of joy. Inspirational speeches and choir voices raised in community spirit.
Although I felt sad, the storm of depression had abated. I lay in bed feeling all of the support I had received over the weekend. The support that Nashville gives to the arts, whether it be burlesque or literature. The support of the LGBT community. I felt over and over that Nashville cares about the things and the people that I care about. In each instance I felt a sense of belonging and of validation. The connections brought me back from the loneliness of depression.
So, Nashville, thank you for being the giant push-up bra that held me together, that lifted me up, and that kept my emotions from sagging and dragging me down.
All of this is to say that Nashville surprised me. Nashville fits me more the longer I'm here.
Friday was a long-awaited burlesque show, which included dinner beforehand with new friends. Having to be "on" around new people is risky when I'm on the edge like I was. I know I was a little bit manic in my animation to make up for what was lurking under the surface of my skin, but it was manageable. (Manageable mania - oxymoron?) The show itself was wonderful and inspiring and full of acceptance and love, the way that burlesque is intended. There were hugs and laughter and beautiful costumes and quirky routines. It was just what the doctor ordered. If the doctor prescribed boobs and pasties.
Saturday the bestie and I went to see Stephen King speak. I wasn't sure how it would play out, I knew it wasn't a typical book signing with so many people there. SO many people. So MANY. People! The line wrapped around the building. Around the alley, behind the bars on Broadway. During CMA Fest. Cigarettes and drunk people and sewage liquid on the road. In the heat. The hot, hot southern heat. The Ryman was hot. Crowded. Sold out. Over-stimulating. Between the crowds, the confusion, and the odors, I was nearing a meltdown.
Ann Patchett walked out onto the stage. I feel a bit smug knowing that I can go into her business space any time I want at Parnassus Books. It's like my little nerd privilege. So I perked up. She introduced Donna Tartt to introduce Mr. King. Her small speech reminded me that it's okay to be different. It was beautiful and heartfelt and touching, without any pandering sweetness.
When Stephen King walked onto that stage, he was greeted with a standing ovation. There was an immediate sense that we all, in that audience, shared a common ideation in our love of writing, of books, and of a certain author, if not authors in general.
I want so badly to remember every word he spoke. He didn't only talk about writing, or his creative efforts, but he also gave us glimpses into who he is as a person. Someone who is not only a brilliant and prolific writer, but a humble family man with a wicked sense of humor. He curses in the exact appropriate places and he's just academically intimidating enough without being a boorish snob.
The whole experience of being in his presence, of sharing fellowship with others who chose to forego music festivals and street revelry to talk about a shared love of books, left me with a full heart and renewed soul, knowing it will never be duplicated because momentous events like that are rare and precious.
I woke up Sunday to the news of the tragic shooting in Orlando. Tragic shooting. Act of terrorism. Loss of lives. Devastation. How do I put what happened into words that make sense when the act itself doesn't? How to define the emotions. The anger, the fear, the complete what-the-fuck and why-is-this-happening-again. The overwhelming sadness and desperation to control something that can't even be predicted because who thinks of doing things that are so terrible when you're just going about your life and you're celebrating that life in a way that doesn't hurt another person and yet you and the people you care about are targets of something that can only be described as hate. Random hate because how can you even hate faces you've never met?
I don't understand it and I will never understand it and I'm tired of trying to understand it because there is no reason, no justification. Because it wasn't 50 people. It was 50 plus those who loved them currently plus those who knew and loved them last year plus those they were meant to affect and love and be loved plus the impacts they had that they don't know and we don't know and will now never know. 50 plus 150 times 18 plus infinity. It is indirectly countless people around the world. How does one person cause so much hurt?
Our mayor in Nashville, Megan Barry, posted on Facebook. She and other members of our local government and our police department organized a vigil for the victims. I knew I had to go. Whatever it meant on whatever scale, I needed to be among that support. I needed to contribute with my paltry presence. By that point I wasn't able to connect at an individual level with anyone there and had a hard time feeling like I belonged, but my body needed to be there.
Despite the disconnect, I was proud of the people who were there. The mayor. The police. The members of the city council. Those holding flags and posters. Those who changed what plans they had to show up and be present and to be heard. I know I planned on watching Game of Thrones last night and resting up for the week, not spending yet more emotional energy on things I can't make sense of.
Our city was beautiful last night. There were rainbow lights. Candle lights. Faces of determination. Hugs and displays of support. The noise came from the music in the bars, sounds of joy. Inspirational speeches and choir voices raised in community spirit.
Although I felt sad, the storm of depression had abated. I lay in bed feeling all of the support I had received over the weekend. The support that Nashville gives to the arts, whether it be burlesque or literature. The support of the LGBT community. I felt over and over that Nashville cares about the things and the people that I care about. In each instance I felt a sense of belonging and of validation. The connections brought me back from the loneliness of depression.
So, Nashville, thank you for being the giant push-up bra that held me together, that lifted me up, and that kept my emotions from sagging and dragging me down.
Friday, October 23, 2015
An Open Love Letter to Nashville
Dear Nashville,
In case I haven't told you lately how much I love you, I'll tell you now. I can't even be mad at you for turning me into a Basic White Girl and making me fall in love with fall. You give me nights for open windows and 80-degree days. I love your sweet tea and pimiento cheese, your southern drawls and country roads.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
1. Endless music opportunities. I've been to at least 10 concerts and that doesn't count the random music I've walked into eating bbq or getting coffee.
2. Four ballets, one opera, one musical, and Cirque du Soleil.
3. Meeting one of my favorite authors and two of my favorite bloggers at book signings.
4. Petting hundreds of dogs at the many dog events held here. Dog Festival, Pittie Day, Barktoberfest, dog costume contests, yappy hours. Wagging tails everywhere.
5. Going to my first hockey game. I'm hoping we'll see a football game this year.
6. Seeing three of the funniest comedians. Including my boyfriend Hal Sparks.
7. Whiskey everywhere. (But please, for the love of bourbon, please teach someone how to make a proper Manhattan.)
8. I will never tire of being the first out of an elevator full of men or having doors held open for me.
9. Ghost tours and "trash" tours.
10. Celebrity sightings at a tiny Christmas parade. (This is the only one and it's been almost a year though, so step it up in that area please.)
11. Going to the Governor's House.
12. A bookstore that rivals Powell's in price, if not sheer selection.
13. I can wear my heels through October without worrying about falling on ice or trudging through snow and freezing my ankles off.
14. You have natural beauty. Shady trees, rolling hills, lakes and rivers.
15. You feed me delicious things like biscuits, grilled cheese, bbq, and fried anything when I want to be bad while still satisfying my sushi cravings or healthy options.
Yes Nashville, I have fallen in love with you.
Here's to more adventures!
Love,
Me
In case I haven't told you lately how much I love you, I'll tell you now. I can't even be mad at you for turning me into a Basic White Girl and making me fall in love with fall. You give me nights for open windows and 80-degree days. I love your sweet tea and pimiento cheese, your southern drawls and country roads.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
1. Endless music opportunities. I've been to at least 10 concerts and that doesn't count the random music I've walked into eating bbq or getting coffee.
2. Four ballets, one opera, one musical, and Cirque du Soleil.
3. Meeting one of my favorite authors and two of my favorite bloggers at book signings.
4. Petting hundreds of dogs at the many dog events held here. Dog Festival, Pittie Day, Barktoberfest, dog costume contests, yappy hours. Wagging tails everywhere.
5. Going to my first hockey game. I'm hoping we'll see a football game this year.
6. Seeing three of the funniest comedians. Including my boyfriend Hal Sparks.
7. Whiskey everywhere. (But please, for the love of bourbon, please teach someone how to make a proper Manhattan.)
8. I will never tire of being the first out of an elevator full of men or having doors held open for me.
9. Ghost tours and "trash" tours.
10. Celebrity sightings at a tiny Christmas parade. (This is the only one and it's been almost a year though, so step it up in that area please.)
11. Going to the Governor's House.
12. A bookstore that rivals Powell's in price, if not sheer selection.
13. I can wear my heels through October without worrying about falling on ice or trudging through snow and freezing my ankles off.
14. You have natural beauty. Shady trees, rolling hills, lakes and rivers.
15. You feed me delicious things like biscuits, grilled cheese, bbq, and fried anything when I want to be bad while still satisfying my sushi cravings or healthy options.
Yes Nashville, I have fallen in love with you.
Here's to more adventures!
Love,
Me
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
The Cities List
Somehow I have done more traveling to new places this year than usual. Or ever. These places are all so vastly different from one another I thought I'd make up a little list, ranking them from first to last. First being my favorite, to last being a place I never want to go again. Agree or disagree, but this list is how I feel about my experiences.
1. Savannah
Of course this is number one. It's charming, it's historic, it's beautiful, and it's romantic. It's easily walkable and there are plenty of things to do or you can just sit on a bench in a park square and watch life go by under a canopy of Spanish moss. I love it and can't wait to go back.
2. Cincinnati
This one was a surprise, although I didn't really have any expectations. It's a fairly easy drive from Nashville and also easy to get around. I was there with a huge group of women and it was really easy to find each other at the local restaurants, plus the view from the observation deck of our hotel was incredible. Another plus - the downtown area we were in seemed pretty clean and really safe. Also - Tiffany.
Bonus points for homeless people with a great sense of humor.
3. Pittsburgh
Pittsburgh was another nice surprise. It wasn't the dirty, sooty, industrial wasteland I had envisioned. On the pros side, there are gorgeous, ornate, historical old homes on every single block. I found one of the best book stores I've ever been to and walked out with an entire armful of new literature. In the neighborhood of my hotel I visited a pretty cool dive bar where I boozed it up to my heart's content for less than $30. And that included the city's best mac n' cheese. The Carnegie Museum needs no explanation. Visiting spots where Flashdance was filmed only needs explanation if you don't know me.
On the con side of the page, I alternated about every other block between feeling safe and freaking out at every stop sign because I was back in the ghetto. There is no bad side of town, just a bad side of the street. On every street. The streets are narrow and winding and I could never figure what direction I was going in, and the roads are very narrow. Pittsburgh drivers aren't the worst, but they're not the best.
4. Key West
Key West is suffocatingly hot and miserably humid. Real key lime pie is disgusting. It's deceptively larger than the descriptions I read so it's not really walkable for an afternoon. But I did walk through Ernest Hemingway's house and I pet cats. Lots of cats with lots of toes. Possibly extra limbs. Still, I would never recommend going there hungover.
5. Cozumel
Oh, Mexico. It's always just as impoverished as you imagine, so there's no disappointment there. I wouldn't want to spend a whole vacation there; an afternoon to evening is plenty and kept me from getting too depressed because people really do have to live like that. These are very nice people and they deserve better from their government. Apart from their hospitality, their food is among the best I've ever had. Even something as repulsive-sounding as frozen avocado pie was mostly pleasant. (Why, oh WHY can't Nashville figure out how to do real Mexican food???)
6. Miami
I know, I know. Miami Vice. CSI Miami. A hundred movies and Dexter can't be wrong, can they? Oh, but they can. They can be so, so wrong. It's hot as balls there with a humidity index of like a thousand. It's huge and confusing. Really, really spread out. People actually live in giant, high-rise condos. I think most people that live there don't have a backyard and even the ones who do regularly find alligators in them.
South Beach is supposed to be the end-all, be-all of luxury living. Eh. The buildings are kind of plain and the shopping isn't anything you can't find in the suburbs of any other city. Except for Dash, maybe, and that place just makes me want to declare that butt implants be illegal for everyone in the world. The thing is, you expect it to be all glitz and glamour, but there's no character. And, with the majority of people not knowing English, it's like being in another country without the benefit of another stamp on your passport.
And guess what? Not even Dexter lives there anymore.
1. Savannah
Of course this is number one. It's charming, it's historic, it's beautiful, and it's romantic. It's easily walkable and there are plenty of things to do or you can just sit on a bench in a park square and watch life go by under a canopy of Spanish moss. I love it and can't wait to go back.
2. Cincinnati
This one was a surprise, although I didn't really have any expectations. It's a fairly easy drive from Nashville and also easy to get around. I was there with a huge group of women and it was really easy to find each other at the local restaurants, plus the view from the observation deck of our hotel was incredible. Another plus - the downtown area we were in seemed pretty clean and really safe. Also - Tiffany.
Bonus points for homeless people with a great sense of humor.
3. Pittsburgh
Pittsburgh was another nice surprise. It wasn't the dirty, sooty, industrial wasteland I had envisioned. On the pros side, there are gorgeous, ornate, historical old homes on every single block. I found one of the best book stores I've ever been to and walked out with an entire armful of new literature. In the neighborhood of my hotel I visited a pretty cool dive bar where I boozed it up to my heart's content for less than $30. And that included the city's best mac n' cheese. The Carnegie Museum needs no explanation. Visiting spots where Flashdance was filmed only needs explanation if you don't know me.
On the con side of the page, I alternated about every other block between feeling safe and freaking out at every stop sign because I was back in the ghetto. There is no bad side of town, just a bad side of the street. On every street. The streets are narrow and winding and I could never figure what direction I was going in, and the roads are very narrow. Pittsburgh drivers aren't the worst, but they're not the best.
4. Key West
Key West is suffocatingly hot and miserably humid. Real key lime pie is disgusting. It's deceptively larger than the descriptions I read so it's not really walkable for an afternoon. But I did walk through Ernest Hemingway's house and I pet cats. Lots of cats with lots of toes. Possibly extra limbs. Still, I would never recommend going there hungover.
5. Cozumel
Oh, Mexico. It's always just as impoverished as you imagine, so there's no disappointment there. I wouldn't want to spend a whole vacation there; an afternoon to evening is plenty and kept me from getting too depressed because people really do have to live like that. These are very nice people and they deserve better from their government. Apart from their hospitality, their food is among the best I've ever had. Even something as repulsive-sounding as frozen avocado pie was mostly pleasant. (Why, oh WHY can't Nashville figure out how to do real Mexican food???)
6. Miami
I know, I know. Miami Vice. CSI Miami. A hundred movies and Dexter can't be wrong, can they? Oh, but they can. They can be so, so wrong. It's hot as balls there with a humidity index of like a thousand. It's huge and confusing. Really, really spread out. People actually live in giant, high-rise condos. I think most people that live there don't have a backyard and even the ones who do regularly find alligators in them.
South Beach is supposed to be the end-all, be-all of luxury living. Eh. The buildings are kind of plain and the shopping isn't anything you can't find in the suburbs of any other city. Except for Dash, maybe, and that place just makes me want to declare that butt implants be illegal for everyone in the world. The thing is, you expect it to be all glitz and glamour, but there's no character. And, with the majority of people not knowing English, it's like being in another country without the benefit of another stamp on your passport.
And guess what? Not even Dexter lives there anymore.
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
Gay People Owe Us
The Wife and I are used to people thinking that we are an
actual couple. At first we were like, “Us? No! No, we’re not together. Not like
that. Ha ha ha. No…….” And now it happens so often we just shrug it off. There
are far worse things that could happen than being mistaken for being gay.
This past weekend was the perfect example of how often this
happens. We went to look at some open houses in ritzy neighborhoods. Because
they were all in the million-dollar price range and there is no way we could
actually fake it with a realtor long enough to be shown these homes otherwise. It
was also a spontaneous thing that happened on the way to Trader Joe’s. That is
how our weekends usually go because we’re both like, “Squirrel!! Squirrel in a
mansion!!” But, anyway……
We went to three houses and all three realtors at all three
houses asked if we were buying together. They were all dudes so maybe they were
just being hopeful, but it was a little odd to have a 100% rate of people
thinking we’re lesbians. And, what? Friends can’t look at houses together?
Sisters don’t look at houses together? If you are spending a Sunday afternoon
looking at houses that are outrageously out of your price range with a member of
the same sex that automatically makes you a “couple?” Whatevs.
Afterward though, when we were talking about how people like
to put us in this box, we did appreciate the fact that they all seemed very
accepting of us. Even the old guy didn't bat an eye when asking if we were
together. Way to be progressive, Nashville! But then we (because one of us is a
Leo) decided that it's us that makes people so comfortable with the idea.
People who seem like they would normally be turned off by anyone doing anything
differently than they do. We’re nice. We’re approachable. We’re a good
representation of the gay community. Only we’re not. Gay, I mean. Still, people
think we are so we’re inadvertently doing our part to advance awareness and
acceptance. For that, for taking one for the team we don’t play for, the gay
community owes us.
How can you pay us back, you ask? Wifey wants someone to
take her shopping for clothes. It sounds easier than it is. I just want to be invited to cool parties. I’ll bring the Wife.
Monday, October 20, 2014
The Single Girl's Version of a Great Weekend in Nashville
Friday – Go work out. Actually, this isn’t that great
because it hurts like hell but it means you can order the sushi with the
crunchy shrimp and fried chicken. And, yes, that is better than and as good as
it sounds, depending on what you’re thinking. Plus it’s called “Hot Chick” so
you hope you are what you eat.
Saturday – Try a new breakfast place where, because it’s
closer to noon, you order crab fondue with a crawfish/gouda omelet. Fall in
love with cheese for the billionth time. Visit some antique stores and find
really creepy things, either because it’s Halloween or because the store owners
are just kind of creepy. Hope it’s the former. Meet some friends for a little
free outdoor music and pet shy dogs. Spend a much-needed evening at home
watching one bad movie and one heart-breaking movie while drinking bourbon.
Sunday – Go to the dog park and meet adorable squishy,
smooshy faces while continually scolding your dog for humping anything on four
legs that walks by. Have a fabulous brunch before driving around incredibly beautiful
neighborhoods, witness a stunning sunset, and finish up the evening eating ice
cream before Walking Dead takes a turn for the really gross.
Curl up in bed with adorable puppies, a new book, and
complete gratitude for taking leaps of faith and carving a new life. Recognize
that it’s possible to fall in love with a place and your own life.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Second Impressions
It's been almost three weeks now and I'm settling into something of a routine. Mostly this routine consists of working and looking for shoe stores and (still) tripping over boxes. My younger, more anal self would have bitch-slapped me for not having it all done yet. Whatever. At least my dogs are settling into a potty schedule and I'm only cleaning up after myself.
Here are my latest observations about my new home:
1. Still finding unexpected pockets of gorgeous homes and neighborhoods. I never know what to expect so every little trip is an adventure.
2. People like to talk on their cell phones while driving. Guess that law hasn't passed here yet.
3. Apparently yellow is the same color as green.
4. I have white guilt. Didn't have it in Southern California so it must be something about knowing that slaves actually lived here. My overcompensation is bound to embarrass me.
5. These people love their Greek. As in sororities and fraternities. You can buy all kinds of sorority-logo shit here.
6. They also like their monograms. There are initials on many doors and framed initials in a bunch of stores. Meta was invented here.
7. It's okay in an office setting to let people know that you dislike same-sex marriage. In other words, you can be a total asshole at work.
8. Fortunately, open (and pretty flamboyant) homosexuality is accepted at Cracker Barrel.
9. I may be destined to never eat at Chick-Fil-A and I'm okay with that.
10. Aside from the discrimination, my job rocks. My co-workers are awesome, I got a recommendation for a shoe store on my way down the elevator, free lunch three days this week, omelettes, Cracker Jacks, and chocolate whenever I need it. Also, there is now an egg of Silly Putty at my desk.
Here are my latest observations about my new home:
1. Still finding unexpected pockets of gorgeous homes and neighborhoods. I never know what to expect so every little trip is an adventure.
2. People like to talk on their cell phones while driving. Guess that law hasn't passed here yet.
3. Apparently yellow is the same color as green.
4. I have white guilt. Didn't have it in Southern California so it must be something about knowing that slaves actually lived here. My overcompensation is bound to embarrass me.
5. These people love their Greek. As in sororities and fraternities. You can buy all kinds of sorority-logo shit here.
6. They also like their monograms. There are initials on many doors and framed initials in a bunch of stores. Meta was invented here.
7. It's okay in an office setting to let people know that you dislike same-sex marriage. In other words, you can be a total asshole at work.
8. Fortunately, open (and pretty flamboyant) homosexuality is accepted at Cracker Barrel.
9. I may be destined to never eat at Chick-Fil-A and I'm okay with that.
10. Aside from the discrimination, my job rocks. My co-workers are awesome, I got a recommendation for a shoe store on my way down the elevator, free lunch three days this week, omelettes, Cracker Jacks, and chocolate whenever I need it. Also, there is now an egg of Silly Putty at my desk.
Saturday, August 09, 2014
First Week First Impressions
I have now been in Nashville for a week and finished my first week of work. It still feels temporary and I have only just been reunited with my bed and my shoes today but it sinks in a little bit more every day.
So, what is Nashville like? Here are my first impressions:
1. It's very green. So green. And hilly. And all of the hills are covered with trees. So many trees.
2. The houses all have storm doors. So weird and I don't know why. Not screens, just glass storm doors.
3. If something is two miles away, it will take 10 minutes to get there. If it's 5.6 miles away and on the freeway at rush hour, you don't go there.
4. I love fireflies as much now as I did when I was a kid.
5. The humidity is bearable unless you're moving boxes and furniture into the house. Then the movers drip sweat on your boxes and floor.
6. Driving 80 mph on the freeway is fun.
7. People talk about going to church a lot. Like everyone. And the churches are huge. Also, Koreans are Baptists.
8. Neighbors are actually neighborly.
9. Every parking lot is Costco-sized, but there are gorgeous hidden neighborhoods that feel miles from town even though they're a minute from Target.
10. They have different bugs here. And different spiders.
11. For a place called Music City, there aren't many good radio stations. At all.
12. People open doors but drive like shit. Unless they are old and expect you to hold a door open for them and then don't say thank you.
13. It's not all southern accents here. And it's really weird to hear an Asian girl with a thick drawl.
14. Not all sweet tea is created equal. (Equally?)
15. There is a Gus's fried chicken that I must go to. I wonder if Gus worked there before he got blown up.
Okay, on to week two and unpacking all of my shit. That there is no room for. Fml.
So, what is Nashville like? Here are my first impressions:
1. It's very green. So green. And hilly. And all of the hills are covered with trees. So many trees.
2. The houses all have storm doors. So weird and I don't know why. Not screens, just glass storm doors.
3. If something is two miles away, it will take 10 minutes to get there. If it's 5.6 miles away and on the freeway at rush hour, you don't go there.
4. I love fireflies as much now as I did when I was a kid.
5. The humidity is bearable unless you're moving boxes and furniture into the house. Then the movers drip sweat on your boxes and floor.
6. Driving 80 mph on the freeway is fun.
7. People talk about going to church a lot. Like everyone. And the churches are huge. Also, Koreans are Baptists.
8. Neighbors are actually neighborly.
9. Every parking lot is Costco-sized, but there are gorgeous hidden neighborhoods that feel miles from town even though they're a minute from Target.
10. They have different bugs here. And different spiders.
11. For a place called Music City, there aren't many good radio stations. At all.
12. People open doors but drive like shit. Unless they are old and expect you to hold a door open for them and then don't say thank you.
13. It's not all southern accents here. And it's really weird to hear an Asian girl with a thick drawl.
14. Not all sweet tea is created equal. (Equally?)
15. There is a Gus's fried chicken that I must go to. I wonder if Gus worked there before he got blown up.
Okay, on to week two and unpacking all of my shit. That there is no room for. Fml.
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
A Little Side Trip
On our tour of Nashville, we took a little side trip to Gatlinburg. Of course "little" is a relevant term when compared to the 18-hour days (isn't there an 18-hour bra? 18 hours of almost everything is too much) of driving we had been doing; this trip was about 4 1/2 hours. Plus a brake repair day.
Anyway. If you ever have a chance to go to Gatlinburg, do it. It is beautiful. It's right at the entrance to the Smoky Mountains and is absolutely gorgeous!! However, not everything there is super great so I will tell you what you can miss and what you should see.
Pigeon Forge.
Pigeon Forge is the town you come to before Gatlinburg when you're coming from Nashville. Pigeon Forge is like a miniature Orlando. The highway is lined with tourist "attractions." There is the Dixie Stampede, a wax museum, Ripley's, more mini golf courses than I could count, and a bunch of themed restaurants. The only thing I want to visit the next time I go is the Comedy Barn. According to their signs they have a talking dog and a pig that can read your mind. I hope that pig likes thinking about bacon.
Dollywood is also in Pigeon Forge. Yes, as in that Dolly. It's an amusement park named after Dolly Parton. I have wanted to go here since it first opened. I grew up with parents that listened to her and I've passed on her legacy with "Jolene" to D. The first R-rated movie I ever saw was The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. A very wholesome movie, for sure.
Anyway. The moral of the story is don't go to Dollywood. It's a very sad place. It's like once it was opened it was just abandoned. There are very few rides but plenty of restaurants. And shopping. If you like trucker hats and gaudy women's clothing and cheesy souvenirs. We dubbed it Dollywalmart because of the crap for sale and the other visitors. Toothless, obscenely overweight, and dirty, noisy little kids. Not to mention everyone that works there is over 65. Poor old senior citizens cleaning up after 250-pound 8-year-olds. Sad. Just don't go here.
Gatlinburg.
After you drive through Pigeon Forge, you come to a sign that says "Welcome to Gatlinburg" and you are immediately driving along the most gorgeous tree-covered road in the state. Possibly the country, but I didn't see enough to know that for sure.
Our hotel backed up to a pretty little stream. If we didn't think our room would turn into a sauna at night, we would have left the windows open to enjoy the sound. Our room came complete with a ladybug and peeking raccoon. We caught him trying to get into the trash can next to the vending machines. The cicadas completed our nature's soundtrack.
Downtown Gatlinburg is full of shops and tourist traps and restaurants. We spent hours there shopping and eating and whiskey-tasting. Whiskey tasting is free. And hilarious because they serve it in those tiny little cups that you get grape juice in during communion. So it's sort of sacrilegious and I think that's funny. Anyway, there are two main places to go. Ole Smoky Moonshine advertises the most, but I think Davy Crockett's is better. Still, I got two bottles each from both places. Apple pie, southern pecan, and chocolate. Don't ask me to share.
I absolutely cannot wait to go back and explore the park and the mountains and everything that doesn't have a neon sign on it. Except for the Comedy Barn. That pig will squeal when he reads my mind!!
Anyway. If you ever have a chance to go to Gatlinburg, do it. It is beautiful. It's right at the entrance to the Smoky Mountains and is absolutely gorgeous!! However, not everything there is super great so I will tell you what you can miss and what you should see.
Pigeon Forge.
Pigeon Forge is the town you come to before Gatlinburg when you're coming from Nashville. Pigeon Forge is like a miniature Orlando. The highway is lined with tourist "attractions." There is the Dixie Stampede, a wax museum, Ripley's, more mini golf courses than I could count, and a bunch of themed restaurants. The only thing I want to visit the next time I go is the Comedy Barn. According to their signs they have a talking dog and a pig that can read your mind. I hope that pig likes thinking about bacon.
Dollywood is also in Pigeon Forge. Yes, as in that Dolly. It's an amusement park named after Dolly Parton. I have wanted to go here since it first opened. I grew up with parents that listened to her and I've passed on her legacy with "Jolene" to D. The first R-rated movie I ever saw was The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. A very wholesome movie, for sure.
Anyway. The moral of the story is don't go to Dollywood. It's a very sad place. It's like once it was opened it was just abandoned. There are very few rides but plenty of restaurants. And shopping. If you like trucker hats and gaudy women's clothing and cheesy souvenirs. We dubbed it Dollywalmart because of the crap for sale and the other visitors. Toothless, obscenely overweight, and dirty, noisy little kids. Not to mention everyone that works there is over 65. Poor old senior citizens cleaning up after 250-pound 8-year-olds. Sad. Just don't go here.
Gatlinburg.
After you drive through Pigeon Forge, you come to a sign that says "Welcome to Gatlinburg" and you are immediately driving along the most gorgeous tree-covered road in the state. Possibly the country, but I didn't see enough to know that for sure.
Our hotel backed up to a pretty little stream. If we didn't think our room would turn into a sauna at night, we would have left the windows open to enjoy the sound. Our room came complete with a ladybug and peeking raccoon. We caught him trying to get into the trash can next to the vending machines. The cicadas completed our nature's soundtrack.
Downtown Gatlinburg is full of shops and tourist traps and restaurants. We spent hours there shopping and eating and whiskey-tasting. Whiskey tasting is free. And hilarious because they serve it in those tiny little cups that you get grape juice in during communion. So it's sort of sacrilegious and I think that's funny. Anyway, there are two main places to go. Ole Smoky Moonshine advertises the most, but I think Davy Crockett's is better. Still, I got two bottles each from both places. Apple pie, southern pecan, and chocolate. Don't ask me to share.
I absolutely cannot wait to go back and explore the park and the mountains and everything that doesn't have a neon sign on it. Except for the Comedy Barn. That pig will squeal when he reads my mind!!
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Update From Nashville
Tonight ends Day 3 in Nashville. Tomorrow we head to Gatlinburg which means a four-hour drive and I haven't yet decided how I feel about that. On the one hand, it's four hours as opposed to 18 hours. Then again, it's four hours in the car. At least it's one time zone and one calendar date.
So. Nashville. There are a lot of things I like here. A ton, really. There are some weird things here. There are some awesome things here. Below are the highlights and lowlights.
1. Cracker Barrel is as close to eating at my grandparents' as I will ever get.
2. Sweet tea just fucking rocks.
3. Restaurants downtown are a waste of time and money.
4. Walking where slaves have walked is a completely unreal experience.
5. There is such a thing as southern hospitality.
6. Belmont may just be the perfect fit for D and if she doesn't go there I will.
7. Cowboy boots are overpriced here. Also, I think only tourists actually wear them.
8. Seeing famous people and ghosts is an everyday occurrence for the people that live here.
9. Southern boys know how to lay on the charm. Fucking thickly. In ways that leave me in a puddle.
10. Apparently there are things called warbles that crawl through the feet of your pets, traveling to their nervous system until they hatch out the back of their necks as full-grown moths. I neither want to see this nor have it confirmed as true.
11. Southern dogs are just as hospitable as the people.
12. Finally there is a place in the country that knows how to make chicken and dumplings. Oregon, take note.
13. I do miss Oregon coffee.
14. It is impossible to get away from hipsters. Even here.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Trippin'. Road Trippin'.
The wife and D and I left what feels like months ago on a road trip to Nashville. We finally made it here at 4:30 this morning and were passed out in bed shortly after 5:00. The shower I took was the best in a while. We're starting our day late but it was worth it to get six hours of sleep after about 6 hours of sleep in the last two days total. Below are some observations and lessons learned along the way. Yes, it's a list. You know how I like my lists.
1. There are a lot of cows in this country. And a shit ton of corn.
2. If someone tells you that it will take two days to get from Oregon to Nashville, they are fucked in the head and you should ignore their uninformed suggestion. Or punch them in face. Or the nuts. Your choice.
3. It is possible to get pulled over for Failure to Use a Turn Signal at 2:00 in the morning in the middle of Fucking Nowhere. Hopefully you will also get off with just a warning.
4. There are bison at one single rest area in Wyoming. Blink and you will miss it.
5. Nebraska is not an ugly state, but it takes 10 weeks to get through the fucker.
6. The arch in St. Louis is gigantic and beautiful.
7. Bras are completely unnecessary on road trips.
8. Girlfriends are the best to travel with.
9. Idaho has a disturbing lack of highway signage. And apparently they need a wall around the city of Boise.
10. The radio stations east of Utah are really into their oldies. And country. And religious talk.
11. If you stumble through the hotel after waking up and you need to go get your luggage so you can take a shower and you have dragon breath from not brushing your teeth for a day and a half and you look like ass, there will be a cute boy in the elevator.
11. If you stumble through the hotel after waking up and you need to go get your luggage so you can take a shower and you have dragon breath from not brushing your teeth for a day and a half and you look like ass, there will be a cute boy in the elevator.
Best sites along the way:
1. The random dinosaur statue at the end of a row of corn.
2. Sun setting in Wyoming.
3. The giant bull statue somewhere.
4. Gateway Arch in St. Louis.
5. Any gas station when driving on fumes.
6. Abandoned houses and barns.
7. Puppies at rest stops.
8. Any bed anywhere after 2:00 in the morning.
9. Texts with pictures of my dogs from petsitters.
10. State signs.
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