Two Letters, One Story

I sent a letter today; a letter that was a scratch on the surface of truth. In this font is the letter that was sent to my daughter, in this font is the letter that I wrote to file for a later date. It is all that I would say if I could. However, her age and her censor do not allow for it. Read on...

Dear Emma,

I am writing this letter to tell you that I love you and miss you.

Dear Emma,

I just wrote you a letter that says only an nth of what is in my heart. I cannot, however, say to you that we miss our little girl. I have the woman that I love here but not my daughter.

I cannot tell you this now, because your father would tear this letter up and you would never see it. You would not, perhaps, understand what I am trying to say, anyway. But know this: my life is incomplete in some way I cannot describe.

California is sunny and warm and there are lots of cars and tall, tall buildings. The ocean is here, which is a lot like the lake but it tastes salty. There are trees here that smell like medicine and there were lizards in my old house. I live near tall hills and a soccer field where little kids play and it reminds me of you.

I am sometimes only half-aware of my surroundings; my mind is full of 'what if' and memories. But I thank god for the memories, as they are finally becoming recollections of pleasant things. I am slowly, slowly disentangling memories of you from the memories of pain. I am remembering holding you feeding you, and laughing with you. I remember that I was a good mom to you at one point. I am learning to forgive myself for struggling, and for not being able to always be a good mom. For a woman with an astounding vocabulary, I find myself struggling now to tell you how I feel.

I fear what your father will tell you about me. I fear more your anger when you are older, and that uou might somehow think that you were lacking in any way. You are not. It is I that lacked the ability to be the best for you. You are amazing, little one. So smart, so deep. You were my buddy and my best friend, and my baby. I loved the smell of your hair and the feeling of your warm little self cuddled up in my arms, and the sight of those amazing blue eyes all crinkled up with laughter.

I am hoping to see you soon, Baby, and hear all about school and your new friends.

Everywhere I go there is something that reminds me of you. A song, a sight, or something that is said to or by me. You are my daughter, always, and always a part of me. I miss you...

Love,

Mommy

Let the rain set me free...

I suppose I should give myself a break, really. I tend to forget that coming out is a process filled with ups and downs, forward leaps and hesitations. I have read that it is a lifelong process that one encounters trouble with on a regular basis. Truth be told, I am much farther than many of my counterparts, those women who, for one reason or another, hid or walked oblivious to the truth.

One year is gone. One year since I left the hell I had called home and left behind the long nights filled with fear and self-revulsion. One year since I was chased through my own home, kept awake long nights by a tormentor who demanded what I could not give. One year since I felt the part of a whore, felt used, or felt like there was something broken inside of me that might never be fixed. I have come far in just over a year.

There are so many aspects to this journey that make no sense and cannot be related well to those that did not in some part accompany me on this road. There are some parts that even those involved either do not understand or refuse to accept. I have begun to learn how to live with that. There will be those who, even in their love for me, refuse to understand the steps that brought me to this place. They don’t understand to power of fear, the grip that feeling out of place can have on you, or the insidious things that can accompany the concept of “normal”. They do not understand what it is like to have aspects of your life come at you in a tone of discord. To be standing in a room full of married women and wonder if they all felt like something was missing, and to eternally feel out of place with them. To wonder if you should speak up and say what you really feel…after the first ten odd looks from strangers at your attitude toward the opposite sex, you tend to just stay quiet. To watch woman couples together with an air of fascination that bordered on the uncomfortable. To fall in love with your best friend, only to be used as some sort of stand-in until the right guy came along. To wonder if you are going crazy.

There are others like me, I know there are. There are also those who like to dabble, and those create their own problems. I am up against them in some way when it becomes apparent I am a lesbian with an ex-husband. There is an immediate wariness from those women who have never touched a man or have so rarely as to be more virginal than your average nineteen-year-old. It is ironic that the straight women who find this out also cast a suspicious eye upon me; they , too, have trouble reconciling the two facts together. And as I tend to relate certain stories only to those close to me, the mystery tends to remain. The blanket statement “I was never really into it” is an understatement; I was a trained monkey who did what I did very well (never had a relationship end for bad sex) but received nothing in return. Absolutely nothing. And in the morning, if I was lucky, the revulsion and self-recrimination would pass quickly, hopefully before I finished breakfast. When it became too much to bear, I would move on—searching in the wrong direction for what I might never have found had I not moved in just the right direction in the right time.

It’s funny how little we realize we impact other people. I had been around lesbians for years and never felt truly attracted to any of them—most that I knew were outcasts and weirdos or hippies. I was even in the Gay/Straight alliance o-campus at the tender age of twenty. I still didn’t realize what I was doing there. The fascination manifested itself in this way; a way to be close to what I didn’t know I needed. Apparently the subconscious wanted a safety net and I let it have one. And so I continued on…

I fell in love with a straight girl a year and a half later. She was my world for a moment, and again my subconscious refused to spit the truth out. I either went into such a denial as to not even recall a moment when I outed myself really, but I do recall a conversation that skated so close as to be so. When my halted, heart-racing conversation ended with a withdrawal of the person I was pining for, I too withdrew, back to safety and all things accepted as “normal”. I forgot her kiss, forgot all of the things I watched in fascination—her eyes, her hands, and the way her nose looked like a pixie’s. She was a bright light, and in her rejection, I went back to what was safe and easy…and utterly miserable.

This time my escape was blocked by pregnancy. I wished so desperately to leave that I shut down everything I was; by the time my condition was discovered I had already begun the separation process from my then-boyfriend. This event hooked a noose around my neck and pulled me back to the side of a person that would perhaps cause the most damage. He would, however, lead to my ultimate outing. I suppose I should thank him for the trauma that made me finally look at myself for what I was. He was helped by a very nice girl that sat down across from me one day at the lunch table and gave me silent acknowledgement that I was gay at the same time I recognized that while she didn’t broadcast it, she too was gay. At the time I was only suspicious about myself. Having really never consummated the act with a girl, I didn’t feel qualified to answer the question truthfully and with confidence. Instead, I merely tiptoed and kept my eyes open. And I began plans to sever the bond of matrimony once and for all.

Within a month of filing for divorce I was beginning to open the closet door to see what was on the other side. I knew on some level but feared that I was wrong. I had traveled through life with this constant question mark above my head, the threat of never knowing and the terror that I was really just crazy and needed meds. So I took my burden and left behind all that was familiar, determined to settle for nothing less than the truth. Anything else was to be avoided at all cost. I would be alone the rest of my life if necessary. I was prepared for that.

In doing so, I ended up in a set of ridiculously-coincidental circumstances that have forever changed my life. There are a few people, though, without whose help I would not be where I am today. Some of them I have thanked for their parts. Some I have not. I have thanked Angie posthumously for outing me in our first conversation. Nobody had ever been so bold as to ask my orientation…I felt that if I was straight I should be able to say so. I could not. So be default I admitted I was not. She became my first confidant I the lesbian world.

But I have not, for instance, thank Shannon and Sean for their acceptance. Thank god for my cousin’s sense of humor, which caused her to explode into hysterical laughter when I told her I thought I was gay. And her husband’s rather crude camaraderie in thinking I’d now watch girl porn with him. (Off-base but well intentioned). She was my doorway to the rest of my father’s family; in her humorous acceptance of me she opened a path and set the precedent for me to love myself for the first time in my life.

And then I made a mistake. Sort of. In hindsight I see the necessity of my actions; I doubt my girlfriend would agree. I feel I had to make my circle complete, however, and test my theory. I did not know what it was at the time that made me act recklessly and sleep with a man again. It was perhaps a combination of the growing awareness of the attraction I held for a close friend, the need for closure with an old ex…I am glad I did, though, as this means that I ended my straight life on a good note with a good person that I had few bad memories of, and most of them were external forces and not the two of us. And by doing so, I proved to myself (still without having a sexual encounter with a woman) that I was never to go back. It didn’t matter the man or the emotions involved, the good memories or the amount of booze. I could not be complete in a heterosexual relationship. It was all or nothing.

So I ended where I began and in doing so somehow washed away the stain of five years of hell that closed a path of self-destruction that had come to its end. It is a place I will never be again. No longer will I degrade myself to kill the pain that comes with uncertainty, lack of self-confidence, and the desire to somehow die emotionally.

And that is where she comes in. My she. In her I found all that I was looking for and more. The very first time she kissed me I was lost, feeling more aware of another human being’s movements than I ever have in my life. Her presence made my skin raise in goosebumps and made me bolder than I ever thought I could be. I somehow trusted her implicitly and suspended all of my inhibitions and awkwardness and just be. I count it among the best moments of my life—the moment I realized that all of my doubts were simply gone. The question mark that--now that I look back upon it—defined so much of my life was gone forever. I had truly thought myself a heartless monster, a cold-hearted bitch that destroyed people’s lives just by touching them. That doubt was thoroughly banished from my existence. I was free.

In that moment I somehow forgave myself of many heinous and grievous mistakes. I was able to—perhaps not justify, but understand—the process and pain that I went through. I realized also that there was no higher price to pay than to live a lie, be that lie subconscious, unintended and tragic. It is a lie that has no place in my life anymore.

I found myself changing. I walked differently. I felt differently about myself. I was sexually bold, satisfied, and confident. I was trusting, curious, and utterly lacking in what I call the “Whore Syndrome”—that insidious feeling that sex is merely a vehicle to power, a way for someone else to use you or you to use them, accompanying the morning after an encounter. It was dead. I had nowhere to hide from my partner; she watched me in a way that I had never seen before. There was no faking, no checking out, and absolutely no way to conceal my emotions or the evasions that had allowed me to survive in the past. The beauty of it is that I didn’t need any of these things anymore.

I love her, this girl that I met a year ago and didn't immediately like. She has washed me clean in some way I can never relate. I feel like I have come full circle, and in doing so have started anew. There are old patterns that call to me, but I largely ignore them. I am far more patient in this relationship than I ever have been. I am aware of her in a way I have never been aware of another save my own child. I trust her beyond anyone else in the world save D, and I would run a marathon if she asked it of me. She is the first person in the world I can see myself growing old with. I have always evaded that question been unable to see this situation. I now see it and feel it and desire it like I desire nothing else. She excites me, frustrates me, challenges me, brings peace to my life, and gives me the kind of joy that leaves me breathless and feeling like I could fly. She has taught me much in the short time I have known her.

I have come a long way in a little over a year. I should give myself a break when I hesitate over the word "girlfriend" amongst strangers. I do not, though. I, as one used to fitting the mold, know that I did not usually hesitate over the word "boyfriend". I did not feel it necessary to guage my audience before talking about someone. And since I have never felt this way about another person before, that distinction rubs. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. I feel joy over it--why should someone be offended by it? More offensive is the sham marriage, the tragedy of a child born to an already-doomed household, and the loss of one of my good friends. So I am hard on myself for buying into the institution of fear that is associated with being gay amongst uncertain audiences. I have no wish to hide one of the most important people in my life. I am proud of her, proud to be with her, and utterly unconcerned as to who knows that.

Most of the time. I just pray that someday I am completely without fear. I hope someday everyone else is, too. For the most part, the simple mantra of "I have paid too much" works. I have paid a price; the price was in my daughter's blood, and I must make the most of the coin. Anything less is an insult to her and an unforgivable offense to an already tragic situation.

I am looking forward to what this life has to offer me; I am looking forward to domesticity with the woman I love, a small corner of peace, and the ability to grow. I am, I think, mostly happy. There is only one thing missing, and she will be here very, very soon....

One year. In one year I have found what lacked, what I want, and who I am. That's no mean accomplishment. I must learn to be forgiving of my small relapses and stumbles along the way...

Angel's Fall

I tried to sit on the bus today, but my wings got in the way. Wings don’t qualify you for priority seating, though I fail to see how they aren’t a handicap when you must use the municipal bus system to get around.

So an angel stood on the 43, getting jostled and unbalanced and sweating because she could not fan herself without her wings spread wide. There are no thermal currents on Market Street, though when the wind is right you can smell flowers over the stench of exhaust. When it’s hot you can smell the sewers, boiling up and over your nose like a vent straight out of some Stygian pit. Angels have noses like harriers, designed to find the worthy, the dying, and those in dire need; they are not meant to process the scents of a million people’s waste and decay. Ironically, though, we revel in the smell of fear and desperation, rolling in it like dogs while walking away smelling like cookies.

We angels are icons full of holes like old Swiss; people see our ability to fly away as a sign of strength rather than a burden of too few ties and too much of a taste for chaos. After all, I know chaos tastes like chocolate in my mouth…still; I would think this journey would have earned me some respite from the burdens of mortality…

But God has no sympathy for an angel who falls, having found comfort in the arms of a green-eyed devil. He lets her sweat and ride the N, bound for The Embarcadero, holding onto the poles like any other mortal, three hundred dollars stuffed in her bra and an appointment to see a hellhole in the Mission on her agenda. After all, heaven is forever barred to those like me, right? Yeah, well, fuck you. He lets her wonder where her life is going, wandering amidst people who refuse to see her. He lets her see a dream coated in diamonds that cut and make her bleed on the cracked sidewalks in the Financial District. I have decided that God is definitively a dyke-hating, bitter old man…the taste of resentment fills my mouth and I feel disgust, like vomit, rise in my throat at the injustice of walking twelve blocks in the pouring rain when I should be flying, yet I am stepping over transients and crack-heads, praying to that selfsame god that the last bus is two minutes late. Standing soaking in my wool coat and dripping feathers, I don’t even smell good to me.

When I lay down to sleep at night, exhausted, the memories of a life 2,337 miles away fill me, and I am damned once more…

Because the green–eyed devil has me by the throat in my memory, holding me up while exploring every inch of me with hands that were intended for that purpose. She calls for me softly, chuckling darkly and I come, wings wrapped around her as she fucks me. She is everything a devil should be; dangerous and dark, tattooed and pierced, with eyes that turn yellow when she is angry and reflect soft shades of the sea when she looks at me. I feel her nightmares and she sees what I cannot say out loud. She is my sister dark, and now her face is buried in my neck, tracing soft, sweet patterns across my throat as I scratch long trails in the skin of her back. Our hands can heal one another or rip each other open with impunity. We are fire and ice, love and hate, violence and tenderness, the fear of being alone and the terror of letting someone get too close. We fill each other’s spaces, defying convention and logic and all things that make up the American Dream.

I ran to another coast and still those eyes haunt me…I will never find their like in another face. After all, heaven is forever barred to those like me, right? Yeah, well, fuck you...

Canopy

So I am sitting here listening to the soft sound of breathing and wondering when it was that the sound became foreign to me. This weekend has been an intersection of pain and joy, a little bit of guilt, and a smidge of frustration. In all, it has caused those around me to ask more than once if I was okay. I feel as though I am being watched and perhaps judged. Can't help it...

I put a canopy up around her bed, a soft sea of netting to keep her safe. I made sure she had her buddies, combed her hair, and asked her if she was hungry. A model mommy, by all standards--so why does it feel like a charade? Why do I feel as though that bed is somewhere in another dimension? And how do I fill this empty shell that has become my heart?

No one has the answers for me. There is no handbook, no guide, and no way of knowing which direction you are going, really, until you're there. And only then do we know if we made the right choices. I just have to put my money where my mouth has been, and stop being afraid. The terror of getting off this fence has me paralyzed, stressed, and lacking in patience with things that normally don't even enter my radar. It has affected my confidence and even inspired a painful (of rather beautiful) spot of poetry. It has hurt people I care about. It has hurt me more than I care to admit.

It has inspired me to get some new ink and write my daughter a long letter...LOL
The truth always rises to the surface; it's just processing all of the truths that have come to light in the past few months that has me a little off-balance. I found myself somewhere I didn't expect, looking around me and realizing that I had completely lost my way. I'll state these questions (or their spirit) from my deceased profile's blog:

When did I start think this was my destination? What made me think that?

When did I forget what it cost me to get here? When did I decided that I could grow complacent? This journey had nothing to do with complacency...

About Me:

About me:
1. My girlfriend says my shoes are gay. I say they are an extension of my eclectic personality, and go great with my business-casual attire, having nothing to do with my sexual orientation. I will ignore the fact that a fifty-year-old retired male autoworker and colleague of mine has a very similar pair of footwear. I will be posting pictures soon and hope to get feedback...

2. I tend to wax poetic in the written word, then come at the real world like a Rubik's cube. Some would say this little switcheroo is contradictory; I prefer the term "well-rounded".

3. I have been told that I can be very guarded and closed off at times. I beg to differ--those guys with machine guns are there for your protection, not mine! ::wink::

4. I once thought of myself as the domestic type; I realize now that unless all of my belongings fit in the trunk of my car, I am not happy. I can however cook, make a bed, and close a cabinet door without being asked (most of the time...) Does this make me a wandering domestic, or a marginally-domesticated gypsy..?

5. I also always thought of myself as a pet person. Then I went five years without one and in the meantime acquired a wool trenchcoat. I am now convinced I am a plant person. (When I don't kill the little buggers...)

6. I have discovered that I do not require alcohol to offer to have sex in an elevator and be more than halfway serious. Huh.

7. I give great advice; I teach well, and I speak confidently to others. Then I go home and completely disregard what I said and mess it all up anyway.

8. I don't like being sick. I get clingy and whiny, and would like nothing better than to lay in bed with my significant (or even not-so-significant) other and cuddle. The flip-side is, I'll do the same for someone else...

9. I have absolutely no sense of interior decorating. I like white walls. I also like color. Would I know what color to put on a wall? Nope. I would, however, prefer to leave gold, green, and burgundy where they belong--on argyle socks...

10. I have very few things that others could accuse me of being OCD about. They are the following:
~wearing a watch, bracelet, or armband in bed. Don't ask me why. Also, add necklaces to that, as they often get in the way of my teeth, and that's just bad form...
~baths. I must scrub the tub before I get in it; this generally turns me off to baths because it makes the process extremely long, drawn-out, and tedious...
~lotion on my hands. I prefer to have someone else apply it, thanks. Bonus for them...add to this strong smells of any sort. Especially on my hands. Weird, I know..
~leftovers. There are many levels of dislike for leftovers. I hate when an open pot is simply transferred from the stove to the fridge. UGH!! Bacteria count, anyone? I hate leftover meat. It tastes like leftover meat. I will, however, eat a leftover burrito made by one Nikoli. I believe that is a rare exception to more than one rule, actually...
~people who play "adopt-a-word". This is when someone picks out a word to use, overuse, and even misuse throughout the day. I believe the last one I experienced was "forte". Please do not confuse "adopt-a-word" with my favorite game, "word of the day". There is a significant difference between the two. Trust me.

The Power of One

So I haven't written a philosphical blog in a while. I think I will today, since I was thinking about the power of acceptance, and how children seem to have it down to a science. If you tell them that something is normal, it is. If you say something is wrong, they will believe that too. Those lessons stay with them for life, which makes us all incredibly powerful in their lives. And incredibly responsible for shaping them.

All of our lives, we are told that it is bad to be different. It's everywhere: in magazines, books, the internet (see yahoo personals tagline regarding whether or not someone's profile is 'cute') and in the media. Girls are expected to have long hair, and if not, a pixie-cut is acceptable if you weigh less than 125 lbs. They aren't expected to have well-developed arms, buzz-cuts or tattoos, watch UFC, be able to bench-press 200 lbs, or burp loudly. Girls just don't DO that...right?

Wrong. And if we say they do, they do...

I have been watching my four-year old for the past 8 months or so. I have introduced her to girls that did not fir the 'norm'. She has met girls that do not fit that traditional role; girls that were girly but burped like champs, girls that were tomboyish/butch that painted their toenails, and girls that looked like teenaged boys but had girlfriends. She has never once confused their pronouns. They are all 'she', all girls, and completely accepted for who they were. Never once does my daughter look at the people around her and think they aren't anything but 'normal'. We go places, we do things, and we do it without a trace of self-conciousness. She watches Shannon burp like a sailor, Nik (see "Crash") giggle and wave her hands like a girly-girl (for lack of a better term) and me walk around in camouflaged pants. Men's camo pants...the day after I wore dress pants and a camisole...

So I will move to my next example: Alex. I honestly don't know if that's the way she was raised or just her personality. She is old enough to be aware of the impact of looks, prejudices, and 'differences' upon the general public. And she doesn't care. I am floored when she introduces her Aunt Nik ("Nik the Chick") to her friends at school. Nik has very short hair, shoulders like a football player, and looks like Matt Damon circa 2003. Alex states firmly that she is a girl and is the coolest person in the world. Her friends hear all about the funny stories and how much she means to Alex. Alex accepts that Nik is a girl who likes other girls, and she doesn't bat an eye.
And then there's me. Somehow, I ended up in the cool category. I am a nerd by nature, and have finally accepted it. Alex's friend quantified it best when she said I liked to party but bring your dictionary so we can talk. What she didn't realize was that for a large portion of my life, I was UNCOOL. I was the bottom rung on the teenaged social ladder. I stopped caring long ago whether I was considered popular or not--I have no fashion sense--don't care--and wear glasses. But to Alex, I am cool--if nerdy...LOL

When we (as a group) get stared at in public (happens often), Alex has watched us for qeues as to what she should do. Our answer? Ignore the stares, or walk proud and have fun with it. We have a lot of fun in public, from Wal-Mart, bars, police stations or rest stops. It doesn't matter what other people think. It matters that you are with people that care about you, have your back no matter what, and love you no matter how other people might see you. And if they want to stare? Skip, have a ridiculous mock-argument about chair pads with buttons, indicate that the nerd is the one in charge, sneeze exotically, or sing loudly....unless you're Shannon--then you just stare back or ask them point-blank what the fuck they're looking at... (Gotta love it)
I just hope that these two kids can hang onto that sense of acceptance. It will be challenged--in my daughter's case, all the more because of her father's beliefs--it may land them in trouble, but overall, it's a beautiful, precious gift....

Climbing the social ladder...an observation

So I woke up this morning with a blog in my head about agendas and self-confidence. Here it starts. (As I may finish it in town this morning waiting for Steve...)
I have found that most people in California have an agenda. Not only do they have an agenda, but they feel they must feed it to you within the first five minutes, sort of like a screening process. Then if you pass this initial screening, (whatever it is they are looking for/at), you may proceed to another conversation and perhaps a drink.

I found this to be odd. I completely disagree with the idea that you must be a clone of the person you are speaking to in order to be worthy of their attention. Okay, clone is perhaps too strong a word, but let me juxtapose this to the way we Midwesterners are raised...

When you come to Michigan and you walk up to a blue-collar person, the initial conversation is light. Yes, someone might ask what you do, but they do not carry a portable soapbox and a speechwriter. They will not ask you what you thought of Newt Gingrich agreeing (however briefly) with John Kerry on environmental policies and then subsequently retracting everything he said. A Midwestern blue-collar instead will ask, "Would you like a drink?" They may ask you where you work, or what city you are from. If you say you are from out-of-state, they are respectful and interested. They may tease you but they will not cut you. If you ae local, they will not ask which local non-profit organization you subscribe to. They do not care how much money you make or where you bought your clothes, for themost part. (There are exceptions, but this is not the general rule, I think.) Instead, they will probably welcome you and introduce you to everyone they know. Proudly.

To a Californian, this is tantamout to watching either toddlers in action or an undiscovered, uncivilized tribe welcome the white man. There is a mix of amusement, condescension, and "pinch-your-cheeks" sort of affection for these activities. Let me highlight the condescension for a momnet, since it is what sparked this blog...

I caught my sister pouncing on me in front of her friends. I made one innocuous comment, and she turned to me and said, and I quote: "That's because people havent been EDUCATED about it..." I cocked an eyebrow, looked her dead in the face and laughed. My response was, "Oh, no you did NOT just categorize me as a backwoods Midwesterner." The smile on my face diverted the rest.

Everyone laughed. Even her. Had she known me, she would have heard that my initial laugh was the one that my friends call "edgy". This means that this conversation could go very, very badly. You have stepped in my bubble, irritated me, or completely insulted me to the core. And this is your only warning shot. In short, I WAS categorized as some unlettered country oaf. How amusing...and offensive.

So I started thinking that perhaps there is something missing in the California lifestyle: acceptance. They preach it, they market it, and then they absolutely lie through their teeth about it. They are just as bad as they say we are. Midwesterners may have a rep for ostracizing those who are different (which to us, entails sexual orientation, eclecticism, and sometimes ethnicities); tell me how I am not different from a Californian--what have they been trying to do since I got here? Everyone wants me to be someone else. I understand personal growth, but why am I the wierd one versus the dude dressed as an Easter Basket? Since when did egocentrism become a regional phenomenon?

When I brought up this issue (the agenda issue) I was greeted with the statement that there are too many people in California and the city for you to talk to to waste your time conversing with someone you are not going to have a connection with. What connection? Your political beliefs? Your views on the use of greywater in horticulture? Your profession? What ever happened to the value of human experience and diversity? Why should you agree with me on all those things? Yes, I recognize that there are critical points unpon which a couple may have to agree. But I have generally subscribed to the belief that there must be balance. A blue-collar worker CAN be coupled with a professional. An intellectual CAN marry a person who works with their hands. A dreamer needs a practical base, and a straight-eyed realist needs inspiration. What is so crazy about that idea, that we as humans are more than a sum of our political stances and personal networks?

Apparently, it is absurd. And idealistic. Well fuck me for being an idealist, then. I find that some of the most fascinating observations on the human condition have come from custodial engineers, shipping and receiving technicians, hi-lo drivers, gang members, paralegals, ex-convicts, and starving artists moonlighting as office bitches. I value the role of the intellectual in society. But without the balance of realism and struggle from what they label the "common man", our views are skewed and without base in the real world. To me, the intellectual serves humanity, and that includes the lowest human in the social structure as well as the money people. There's my agenda...want a drink?