Why I love the queer community.

Saturday night, Alex and I went to the Red Party, a party hosted by Boulder Pride (evidence pic; don't I look queer?).  We were perhaps the only ones under the age of 30 at the entire party (although we ran into Lynnette there, and that was especially exciting).  It was a really great party, themed after the Seven Decadent Sins, dominated by older lesbians. And it was amazing. Old gay people are probably my favorite people ever. There were so many cute couples, dancing and having fun like no one else, and it was really inspirational and powerful.

And it really got me thinking: all these people - at least ten years older than myself, and many much older than that - all these people have lived through so much, seen so much. Imagine the homophobia that must have existed ten years ago, when some of these people were in college. How about twenty years ago. Thirty. Imagine how much they must have seen, how much they must have endured.  Yet here they are, today, dancing. Dancing for love.

So here's why I love the queer community:
1. It's a culture of activism. It's a group of people fighting, acting, bringing about change. And it really works. Sure, it takes time, but we've made so many strides, and we keep moving forward!
2. It's a culture of having fun. Of making the most of life. It's a culture where, as you make these strides, you party. Party with the one you love.
3. It's a culture of love. Love is what we fight for, love is what matters.
4. It's a culture of being yourself. And not just being yourself, but being proud that you're you.

Someday, I'm going to be one of those amazing, crazy old queers.

How did I get here?

My family ridicules me for having so many queer friends. They criticize the fact that most of my friends are queer. They insist I need to branch out, that I'm limiting myself. Once, my mother even told me that the reasons so many of my friends are queer is because I struggle with making friends, and that gay people do too, so I get along with them. I told my mom she knows nothing about gay people. These things really get to me.  Often, I feel ashamed; often, I feel like this isn't good enough. I notice that my friends, even my queer friends, have straight friends, as well, and I feel awful that the vast majority of my friends are not heterosexual. To tell you the truth, the only reason I am not branching out beyond my current queer group of friends is because I don't know how: I struggle with meeting people, and I found (and am still working on finding) my place in Boulder through clubs like GSA and QI and through the people I met at those clubs.

Only I shouldn't feel ashamed. Recently, I visited an old friend at Northwestern University. She told me all about her friends, and how much fun she has. Most of her friends are band people, and she met them through the college band. And she was so happy - she went on and on about how cool they are, about their band inside jokes, about how happy she is. So I began to wonder - what's the difference between that and my friendships? Most of my friends are queer, and I met most of them through queer organizations. And I could go on and on about how awesome these people are, about our inside jokes, about how happy I am. I'm attracted to the gay community, I love the gay community, and that's why I befriended queer activists!

Often, I wonder how different my life would be if I hadn't come out last summer. Before summer, although I admitted that I had some attraction to women, I primarily identified as straight. Occasionally, I would tell people I am questioning or bi-curious, but by the end of the day, I was straight (and turned down many girls in highschool because I was straight).  To tell you the truth, until I met the right woman to pull me out of the closet, my sexuality was not a major concern in my life. Even now, I still believe I lean primarily towards men, and I even consider myself hetero-flexible at times.  Thus, if I hadn't met that woman, if I hadn't come out, I would have identified, acted, and felt straight - and I would have been fine with it.  Still, I think I would have ended up in the same place I am now. Before coming out, before seriously questioning my sexuality, I was already active in the GSA at my highschool, and I proudly wore an "I am an Ally" pin on my backpack. I had already looked up the GSA and the GLBTRC, and I was already planning to get involved in the gay community at CU. If I was straight, I would have joined the same clubs, met the same people. Even my love life would be essentially the same - except for a few casual make-outs, all my significant physical and romantic partners since starting college have been men. I probably would have still cut my hair. If I were still straight, I would look, act, and interact in much the same way as I do now.

So how did I get here? I got here because this is where my passions lie. Because this is something I believe in. I got here because I love friendly, kind people, because I love unique individuals, because I love change and activist. I got here not because of my sexuality, but because of my personality.

I've changed so much since August.

My Sexuality

I just had a really fun conversation with myself about my sexuality.


queer for queer, panromantic, gray-a sexual, fluid

Queer for queer? What does that mean? I am primarily attracted to other queer people.

Alright, then what's queer? Generally speaking, it means not hetero-romantic. There are exceptions. It's also a self-identity.

Is hetero-flexible queer? It depends what you mean by hetero-flexible. If it means "I like guys but sometimes fuck girls" (or vise versa), then no. If it means "I usually like guys, but once in a while I am attracted to a girl, and not afraid to act on it", then yes.

So you're never interested in straight men? I'm not strictly queer for queer. However, certain "queer" aspects help. Involvement and activism in the queer community; queer friends; absolutely no homophobia or transphobia, EVER; not being afraid of showing intimacy with same-sex friends; not being afraid to show feminine characteristics. Actually, I think everyone should act like that, but many straight men don't. Overall, though, if you're a straight man, I'm most likely not into you.

Are you interested in straight trans men? That would be a straight man, as discussed above.

Are you interested in asexuals? Very. In fact, I'm gray-a sexual. However, if you're a hetero-romantic asexual man, I'm probably not into you.

But straight trans men or hetero-romantic asexuals or hetero-flexible people sometimes identify as queer. And sometimes, they don't.

What's panromantic? That means I can be romantically attracted to any gender.

Isn't that just bi? Bi means two. There are more than two genders.

So, which do you like more? Boys or girls? I usually lean slightly towards men. It changes. I'm also really into androgyny as a gender presentations.

Gray a-sexual? What's that? A gray-a sexual is someone who falls between asexuality and sexuality on the (a)sexuality spectrum.

Oh... so you're asexual? If you use that as an umbrella term.

Does that mean you don't have sex? Maybe.

What? I'm still trying to figure this part out. You can talk to me about it, if you'd like.

Alright, in that case, moving on. Fluid: what does that mean? It means these answers will be outdated tomorrow.

My Vagina

I went to see an amazing performance of the Vagina Monologues last night. That really got me thinking about my relationship with my own vagina.

I developed a very close relationship with myself when I was still very young. At about 11 or 12, I began touching and exploring my sex organs. Curiously, I began researching the female anatomy. I'd spend hours on the internet reading about the clitoris, the g-spot, masturbation, orgasms, and why it's important to know oneself. Then, I'd spend hours more in the real world finding my clitoris, my g-spot, masturbating, getting orgasms, and looking, with mirrors, at my vagina. Long before I even wanted to be sexually active, I already knew everything there is to know about what I do and don't like.

Still, my vagina and I are not especially good friends. Just the idea of "my vagina" sends me shivers. Why is that? Well, it's really all a matter of word choice.

My vulva I love.  My vulva is soft and sweet, it's loving and gentle yet fierce. My vulva is a beautiful serving platter, a shining silver tray.  My vulva carries a feast, a delicious meal prepared by some amazing chef. Before the platter even leaves the kitchen, that sultry smell makes your mouth water. This creation is not only delicious, but also gorgeous, and the sight of it fills you with excitement and euphoria.  The main course, the center of attention, is my clitoris. My sparkling phallus, embellished with nerve endings, hidden innocently under a little hood, but ready to come out, to look you right in the eye. My clitoris is a gift from God, a very special friend.

But my vagina? My vagina is the throat of a satanic monster. My vagina is the foreign body that bleeds every month, causing me to scream in agony - "Why? Why again?!?".  My vagina is like a flesh eating virus, quivering with self-hatred. My vagina does not want to touch or be touched, does not want to give or receive, my vagina does not want to exist.  My vagina is wrong. My vagina is a dark tunnel leading to a dungeon of torture. At the end of the tunnel are my ovaries. Those ovaries that send out some ominous hormones that determine my secondary sex characteristics for me. Those ovaries that, against my will, release an egg monthly, against my will inflict a bleeding wound on me.  Those ovaries that say that if we get pregnant, I'm actually the one who'll carry the baby or suffer through an abortion. Those ovaries are parasites.

Retreat, retreat! Back out, reverse. Let's get out of this awful place, let's come back to fresh air. Breathe. Let's get back to my vulva, that sits before you, that steaming meal, all the courses laid out. Dive in, indulge in all the flavors, more flavors than you've ever known existed. Or maybe hold off, just look at it for sometime, the way the meal is arranged, the colors, the smells. It's perfect. I love my vulva, minus my vagina.

Valentine's Day

Secretly, I love Valentine's Day. Pretty strange, huh, to enjoy a holiday devoted entirely to the commercialization of love. Still, I love it: not because of what Valentine's Day is about, not even because of the chocolate, really, but all because the time of year. Right around February 14th my winter blues begin to turn into spring fever.

Valentine's Day 2006 was the last and only time I had an actual Valentine. The boy who would later become my boyfriend brought me a rose, a card, and chocolate. To tell you the truth, I've always been rather uncomfortable with such expressions of affection, but, on the other hand, that was the first time someone had honestly admitted their feelings for me, so I always smile when I remember that.

Valentine's Day 2007 was another life-changing day. I was in a deep bout of depression and self-harm that year, and February 13th, reminiscing on the previous year and the boy that was no longer mine, I had the worst episode of cutting in my entire life. It was that night, as I was recovering from my fit, that it hit me. I was being ridiculous. Now, it's not that I magically turned around and was happy after that moment (some of my saddest poetry was written that year after that day), but it was then that I realized that I need to recover, and I set my intention in the right direction. Thus, I'm especially happy that To Write Love On Her Arms Day always comes right before Valentines Day (February 12th and 13th this year).

I'm expecting a similar turn-around this year. It has been a tough winter, but I can see spring right over the horizon. To my surprise, I'm expecting this to be an amazing weekend, and am in a very optimistic mood.

Salmon, and Humans

Reactions to The Great Salmon Race.

I was on the plane recently, and they were playing The Great Salmon Race on the TV. Have you seen those poor salmon? As if swimming upstream isn't bad enough, every step of the way, there's something trying to kill them. Birds of prey swoop down from above, grabbing the poor fish in their beaks, killing them with their talons. Bears carelessly splash in the waters, bite down onto the fish, and there's lunch. But these salmon keep swimming. They swim through rapids, jumping up small waterfalls, achieving amazing height, but if they leap at the wrong place, at th wrong time, there's a bear waiting for them, hir jaw hanging open. The fish may wiggle and squirm, but there's only one fate. But they keep swimming. Night and day, sun and rain, they swim upstream, swim through foaming waters, swim between sharp rocks, swim under the gaze of predators. At last, they arrive, they lay their eggs in the shallow waters. But it isn't over yet: birds open their jaws and scoop the eggs up, eating them, swallowing the hard work of these salmon. And our beloved salmon die. They've completed their life mission, and slowly their rotting bodies are washed ashore, decomposed, forgotten.

How does a creature evolve to so inconveniently reproduce? Couldn't things have been easier, less painful for salmon? Why not evolve to lay eggs in the sea, or in the downstream waters? Why not change, mutate, become something simpler? Why would evolution create something so complex, so difficult? And, if there's a benevolent God, why would he want the suffering of salmon?

And humans. Why must we love, and feel, and wait, and search? Why so complex, with so much pain, so unwise and inconvenient? No science, no religions can explain love. The only explanation I can think of is that there must be some malevolent deity, looking down at us, and laughing at the suffering of salmon - and humans.