Repost and Share

I spend too much time on Facebook. It is my number one vice and I suppose I need to go cold turkey on it. I've not quite figured out how to see everybody I actually like on Facebook and am convinced that the Facebook scientists have conspired to keep only a few of my friends in my view.

It also would like me to repost stuff from my friends. You know the type of post. These are things that I'm completely heartless about:

I don't love my kids.
I don't hate cancer.
I don't love my parents.
I don't love my country.
I don't read my friends' posts because I don't give them the one word answer as to how we met.
My children do not make me proud.
I am not a proud mom.
I will not try to break Facebook algorithms (particularly because I don't know how to spell algorithms with confidence.)
I don't care about what I'd look like as a movie star or as an old woman. (I actually do these but don't share them typically. They usually turn me into a old white lady so it doesn't make sense.)
I don't support the military, the homeless, the clinically depressed, the gender fluid, the marginalized people, the Bernie Bros, the (fill in the blank, really).

And this is why I don't repost and share.

But... you can repost and share if you agree!

Birds at the DNC

It's been a long time coming. I watched the DNC nominate Hillary Clinton for president from my mother's house in Hawaii. For probably the first time ever, I watched the roll call of states so I could see the actual moment -- the moment when a woman was nominated for president. Like many ex-pats of Hawaii, I still watch for my home state's delegation like they're my own. I wish I could say that I saw the moment that this post is all about as it was actually happening. I didn't. The channel we were watching went to commercial and the Hawaii delegation was in a tiny picture in picture. But here it is in case you didn't see it either.

There was a woman from the Hawaii delegation who flipped off the convention when giving their vote at roll call. She's a white woman. She is a Bernie Sanders supporter. She stood directly behind former Governor John Waihe'e and Senator Maisie Hirono. When Senator Brian Schatz announced, "And fifteen votes for the next president of the United States, Secretary Hillary Clinton," with absolute glee, while watching herself on the ultimate selfie camera jumbotron screen, she flipped the bird.

Glee.

Here is what glee looks like. 

Need another look at that? Here is her face seconds later.

I'm shocked at this woman's privilege but not surprised by it. I find myself seconding the cries of "effing haole," as news stories of this woman's protest and refusal to apologize surfaced. She was stripped of her credentials and barred from attending the last day of the convention. She was decried as not being from Hawaii but Texas.


I know that being a diversity manager, I see the world through the lenses of social justice, of racial and ethnic clashes. I'm keenly aware of culture and privilege and how it changes our interactions in this world. I know it is because I have this racism hammer so everything looks like a racist nail. So maybe I'm biased. But here is what I know, if I had embarrassed my delegation, sure as shit I'd be apologizing.

So why? Because I'm a local? Because I'm a woman? Because I'm Asian? Because I'm compliant? (note: I've never been described as compliant in my life.) Because when I don't follow proscribed rules as a person of color I'm more likely to reap severe punishment than my white counterparts?

A white woman would be unaccustomed to have the constant lessons I had growing up of representing my family, my race, my hometown, my ancestry. Chelsea Kent has never had to be the representative of her race or her ethnicity -- that is the mark of her privilege. She is white. People won't make sweeping generalizations about how all white girls are this way or that. She gets to represent only herself, Chelsea Kent.

Privilege -- it's a tricky term because people think of caviar and champagne, but that's not what it means. It is recognizing that because you are a member of whatever group -- gender, religion, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, and more -- you may have been blind to other people's struggles. Better writers than I have talked about how Bernie Sanders supporters who are comfortable abstaining from voting this coming fall to avoid voting for Hillary Clinton are showing their privilege. Maybe for them, it isn't their family members who will be deported. Maybe for them, it isn't they who will lose affordable health care. Maybe for them, it isn't they who will be prevented from traveling into the country because of their religious beliefs. Maybe for them, it isn't they who will be endangered or marginalized for wanting to use the toilet.

Chelsea Kent was chosen to be the representative of our state at this event. She crowdfunded her trip to the convention. The trust given her to represent us makes me angry. How many people was she representing and she didn't have the decency to hold them and their wishes with respect?

You might make the argument that dissent is patriotism. That it is important to be able to protest when you feel a system is unjust. I agree with you; I think dissent is good. But could her dissent have been accomplished in the loud boos every time Hillary Clinton's name was spoken, starting at the convocation prayer the first day? Could it have been achieved by the signs held around the Hawaii speakers -- #stillsanders, or "Democratic ? National Convention" the question mark written in by hand, or even the Bernie campaign sign held right behind the head of the former governor?

Here is what is lost.

Every time a kid from Hawaii succeeds -- Barack Obama, Bruno Mars, Marcus Mariota -- we say, "local boy (or girl) does good." The word local is what's important here. Hawaii is a place where so many different cultures came together and while we still maintain our own racial and ethnic identities in many ways, there is a prevailing local culture. I'm reminded of Marcus Mariota's acceptance speech for the Heisman trophy. He broke it down eloquently for us in his gratitude to his o-line, his linemen, his d-line, his team, his coaches, his university, his teachers, the city it is in, the fans of the football program, his high school, his friends, his hometown, his state, his race, his ethnicity, and his family. For that shining moment, he was Hawaii's son -- because he belonged to all of us.

Every local kid carries that with him or her -- that you will represent Hawaii. You have an identity beyond your own person. You respect other peoples culture and tradition and do no harm. You remember that you represent all locals -- all us.

So Chelsea Kent didn't realize that her actions could be generalized to our entire state. She was and is an outsider. Her privilege was showing.

Auwe.

Her eyes are wide open

It was our younger daughter’s birthday on Friday. Our traditional yearly visit to the beach for this occasion was foiled by the weather; 100% chance of rain was the forecast. Instead we strung together a bunch of her favorite things for her birthday. She could invite a friend and we would do all the fun things she could think of. On the agenda:  Riding the monorail to Seattle Center, walking around Pacific Science Center, dining at the Old Spaghetti Factory, wandering the outdoor art exhibit from SAM, and lastly riding the Seattle Great Wheel. All of which was bookended by rides on the ferry across the sound which is its own kind of excitement. 

When we landed in Seattle, the two teens complained that we weren’t going to start the outing with food. They were both hungry so I sent them off with some pocket money and they promised to meet us at the Pacific Science Center. 

When they finally arrived at the Pacific Science Center, I was surprised to find my 14 year old daughter unashamedly jumping into my arms and hugging me like she had been spooked. I hugged her, happy to be embraced but then aware that this wasn’t normal for her out in public. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong. What happened?” I asked into her hair, her cheek pressed against my neck. 

“Some guy grabbed my ass when I was walking off the ferry.”

My baby girl had been assaulted by some slimy guy. Sure I felt rage, sure I wanted to cut somebody. But I kept my voice even and asked, “Did you see who did it?”

“No, he got into the crowd before I could react. It was just as we were leaving the terminal, right as we get on the overpass. My brother was walking in front of me so I didn’t look like I was with him.”

This alone broke my heart. The idea that she’d be safer if she were "owned" by a man -- a boyfriend, brother, or father -- was already indoctrinated in her somehow. I’ve never consciously told her that this is how to protect yourself from unwanted attention but I’ve done it myself. I wore fake engagement rings when I was in my early twenties; I remember to arm myself with my wedding set whenever I’m traveling or going out for ladies night. It somehow keeps unwanted attention away. Except that sometimes even that doesn’t work. The whole concept is a holdover from a time when women were chattel and men were our owners. Isn't the fact of our personhood enough? The fact that we are complete human beings should give us the right to control our bodies and be allowed to walk around unmolested.

In the end, she could only remember that he was wearing a hoodie and jeans. She couldn't even tell what race he was. She was absolutely shaken. 

For the past couple of years, I've mentioned to her when I'd caught boys and young men noticing her. She's been oblivious to the attention. It's been really sweet -- this little bit of innocence still preserved in her. When she and I walked in Seattle in the past, we'd heard comments or whistles and while I bristled at the attention, she laughed. She never internalized the threat or recognized it as such. Perhaps it's because the scales fell from my eyes so long ago, I have always been aware of the danger.

But with this assault, her eyes have finally opened.

She recalled to me this past summer when she went to Girl Scout Camp with her troop. The girls were going swimming in Hood Canal and the rocky seabed they were walking on was covered with seaweed so she was trying to be careful where she stepped.

"I looked down noticed that the seaweed was moving funny. It turned out it was one of those green spider crabs. I was just about to step down on it so I'm glad I saw it. Then I looked at the rocks and what I had thought was seaweed was actually crabs. There were hundreds of them. They were everywhere. That's what this is like."

She told me of walking hand in hand with her brother through the pedestrian traffic of Pike Place Market and seeing for the first time the looks from men. The greetings and whistles she had so easily laughed off turned into dangerous situations. Despite her 6'4 brother, she felt afraid. The crabs were everywhere.

So I'm angry.

But the amazing Girl Scout she is, she said to me today, "Mom, this year I really want our troop to work on self defense and personal safety." The Girl Scout process is 3 steps:  Discover, Connect, Take Action. I wish she didn't have to discover and connect with the issue so intimately.

Watch out lecherous jerks, this Girl Scout is about to take action.



*UPDATE* A couple of you have asked me what my husband's reaction was. That evening he was not particularly demonstrative. He was quiet as is his way. But this morning he read my blog and the reactions to the post. He told me that he is certain he'd have been in jail had be witnessed the event. Violence begets violence. It's part of our animal nature. This is what violence against women looks like and why we react with anger and rage. This stuff has got to stop. 

Stars and barred

Last week was one of those homeostatic great times after tragedy. I really do believe that because the devastation of the Charleston, South Carolina mass shooting in which 9 people were slaughtered by a white supremacist 24 year old man, was followed by the SCOTUS ruling on marriage equality. Sometimes I think that our young people will rise above the crappiness of their elders -- that the irrational hatred of another group of people will just disappear. And then it doesn't.

After the shooting there was a call to remove the confederate flag from the capitol of South Carolina. Across the country, people were astonished that the flag still flew. Because they lost. Because the only banner that should fly is that of the United States of America. Because the USA won.

That much most Americans could remember from our 10th grade American History class. But this past week, the history of the Stars and Bars was splashed everywhere on social media and the fact that it was flying over the capitol of an American state is galling.

But I never knew.

Back in the early 90's, Hootie & the Blowfish played the Waikiki Shell. One of my friends invited me to go to the concert with her and some friends. Who didn't like a little Hootie? We didn't have seats as much as we had a picnic blanket and hung out on the lawn with our cooler and some pupus. The concert was going along swimmingly when lead singer Darius Rucker stopped the concert between songs.

The exchange went something like this:

"Miss, I see you are waving the confederate flag. Why are you doing that?"
"Because you're from South Carolina. I am too!"
"Yes, we are. But we don't stand for the kind of hate that flag represents. Please don't wave that here."

A cheer went up when she took her flag down. (You must forgive my dusty memories, but it went something like that. That at least was the gist of the interaction.)

In my ignorance, that little memory was tucked away until last week when it rose up and demanded to be polished. It reminded me how easily we forget the terrible things that have happened in our past. The Stars & Bars are a sigil not of Southern Pride, but of oppression and hate depending on which side of the flagpole you're on.

I'm with Hootie & the Blowfish on this one.

Happy Birthday to George, the 15 year old beagle OR How to tell when it's really a party

George (photo by Robert)

Our neighbors know how to do it up right. Robert and India have a 15 year old beagle named George who has the absolute sweetest smile I have ever seen on a pooch. He is a true southern gentleman with a great doginality and delightful demeanor. He's a little hard of hearing, but when you're that advanced in age I think you can be forgiven such things.

For his 15th birthday, Robert & India decided to throw sweet George a birthday party. Like a lot of kid parties, it really was a gathering of pet parents and their dogs. We brought our Rat Terrier Holly to the festivities. There was a silky Dachshund who spent most of her time in her owners' arms because of a severe dislike of dogs who are larger than she which pretty much meant all the other dogs at the party. Life can be tough when you're little.  There was a personable ~45 pound Cocker Spaniel and an older Benji looking dog who simply kind of felt like he "ain't got time for that," regarding the silliness of the other dogs. There was the year old Wren, a Great Dane. I love that this ~170 pound dog was named after a tiny fragile song bird, but Wren couldn't have had a more gentle demeanor. She was inquisitive and loving. She spent a good portion of the evening trying to engage other dogs with a play stance. That really is something to see!

Wren with John for scale
(photo by India)

India had put a lot of thought to refreshments for the canine and human attendees to the party. She grilled beef burgers which had nothing but beef in them so that they would be dog safe. She washed low sodium bacon in water so that she could decrease the amount of salt in them and grilled them up. The trail mix she set out had peanut butter chips and Reese's pieces in lieu of raisins and chocolate. There were Bugles, corn chips and bean dip for the humans. We pulled beer bottles from a large tub of ice water which turned into an impromptu water bowl for some of the dogs, particularly Wren who could reach the bowl the easiest.

At some point in the evening, I had to leave to pick up my older daughter from her friend's house. I was gone perhaps a total of 20 minutes doing this errand. It was one of those cases of perfect timing.

I returned to the party to the scene of our hosts and party guests with mops and disinfectant. The merits of no-rinse wood floor cleaner were being debated for this bio-hazard type situation. I walked through the house to see that the pressure washer was being used on the deck. I'm pretty sure that wasn't a planned thing.

Like a reporter coming to the state only after a tornado has ripped all the homes off to Oz, I started asking around.

"Ah, you missed it..." just about every story started. The following is taken from first person accounts of the Event.

Miss Wren the Great Dane had eaten before she came to the party. Amounts of the kibble she was given varies according to some accounts. She had been fed upwards of 4 cups of kibble to a metric ton. This reporter is not entirely certain of these facts as she did not see the remains of the Event.

Sweet Wren, delicate thing that she is, started feeling a little off near the front door of the house. A witness claimed that he could see her neck muscles tense and an ungodly plunger like sound alerted all the party attendees that something was amiss. By all accounts, Wren never slowed her stride as she went from the entryway, through the living room, swiped by the kitchen, went through the dining room and out on the back deck. All the while, she spewed, nay splattered the floor and all surrounding areas with the tonnage of kibble, water, and lovely dog treats from the party like nearly full pieces of low sodium bacon and little hamburger patties.

The disbelief of the humans was only second to the disbelief of the other dog party go-ers at their good fortune. There was a literal buffet of dog food on the floor. The humans quickly called on their dogs to "leave it," in regards to the partially digested hamburger patties and bacon. In the dogs' defense, it was the first time they could have gotten their paws on those high level treats without the help of their humans. I hope each one of those dogs got a piece of bacon that hadn't already been inside of another dog as a reward for good behavior.

To give you an idea of the scale of the vomitus that dainty Wren made, Robert wisely got his snow shovel out of the garage to aid in clean up. India said that she couldn't believe that there was still any vomit capacity left in Wren after she left the house and yet there seemed to be exactly the same amount of vomitus on the back deck. My husband said it was as if somebody had a huge sack of wet dog kibble over his shoulder and opened a corner of it while running through the house.

Turns out that sometimes swallowing ice can make dogs throw up. Also, Great Danes have to be careful with having too much water at a sitting. For Wren in particular, she cannot drink unregulated because it does make her vomit. Add to that, she's only a year old and as such is still very much a puppy.

Many of the human party go-ers seemed a little frazzled but for me, I left directly before the Event and returned after all the drama had happened. The clean-up was efficient and effective. India had owned a Great Dane in the past so she's experienced. I can only enjoy the humor.

But hey, how many of us have been to a party where one of the celebrants had a little too much to drink and threw up all over the place?

It might, however, be the first time a snow shovel was used to clean it up.

An Abundance of Julies

There is a new standing rule in my house. I'm not entirely sure how new it is, but my husband has gotten cross with me. This is how many of our conversations go now-a-days.

Me:  I just got a text from Julie. She's finally coming home.

Him: Which Julie?

Me: Julie M. She's been out of country for over a week with that injury. Oh, that reminds me. I need to call Julie.

Him: Julie M.?

Me: No, Julie G. She said she was out of town pretty soon.

I've got an Aunty Julie. My sister-in-law has a Julie sister. There are also the Julias, which are close enough to Julie that there is still confusion. There's Julia J. who sometimes I can remember to call "Hoolia," because that's how her mother-in-law says her name, and Julia S. who is friends with our son. There's even a Juliette but she doesn't come up in conversation nearly as much.

So now he's told me that I may not use the name Juli* without specification of which one I'm talking about. Even Lil't makes me specify which Juli* I'm talking about/to.

I may just have to resort to last names. Or maybe, he could just keep up.

Pigheaded

There is a frozen pig head in my refrigerator. 

In an effort to feed my family better and kinder meats, I split a hog with one of my friends whose brother is a farmer. He raises pigs the old fashioned way -- in the dirt and grass. They live in pens and do piggy things as opposed to being raised in sterile factories, where the workers must dress like lab personnel instead of farmers.

I'd done this once before and when my meat arrived in little packets of chops and roasts, I'd inquired about the pork cheeks, liver, blood, and pigs feet. I thought that if we were buying a whole hog, those things would be included as well. My friend was baffled that I would even consider asking for those parts of the pig. She said that her brother usually gives those to the farmhands. I was disappointed but knew the opportunity would probably present itself again.

This year I was prepared. I asked if her brother could collect the liver, the blood, the pig's face, and the feet. In fairness, he tried. The guy who slaughters the pigs for him put all the pig's internal organs into a huge bucket. My friend's brother looked at the bloody mess and couldn't conceive fishing around for the liver. At the suggestion that he just freeze the whole mess and send it to me that way, I was grateful he decided it wasn't worth the bother. He did his best to give me the pigs feet but they were covered in mud and stuff that surely wasn't mud. Despite scrubbing them in hot water repeatedly, he didn't feel like it was sanitary to send me those. But the head -- the head he could do. They simply lopped that off and froze it whole.

I'd asked for the face! The face! Not the skull. Those tender cheeks and the thought that I could try my hand at sisig was very exciting to me. But a whole head?!?

In theory a pig's head is not a terrible thing to have to cook. There is a long tradition of cooking pig heads in my family. My father would boil the heads before he would roast them. We'd all fight for the ears and the crackling skin. The cheeks were truly delights. There was a vinegary sweet liver sauce that went with the pig head and the next day we'd have a stew called paksiw. At my daughter's baptismal party, we ordered a suckling pig. My older brother took home the pig head as I simply could not bear to deal with the skull.

And now there is a pig's head in my freezer.

So I texted my brother the chef. "I have a frozen pig head. How do I cook it? It's the whole head, not just the face."

He was so excited, he called me right back. Told me that I could boil it then roast it like Dad did. Said that if it were him, he'd probably just roast it whole so it would be easier. But then he had to say the terrible thing. He said, "Oh, if you can, save me some brains. It's better than butter. It's rich and creamy. Some hot brains on toast is the best thing. So good!" I had him on speaker phone. My daughters and husband were in the car when David was waxing poetic on pig brains. I think every last one of us lost all the coloring in our cheeks and a collective shudder rocked the car.

Then I texted my friend Greg who is also a chef. This conversation happened after my phone call with my brother. By this point, I had googled cooking a whole head and all the pictures had me off. I was ready to simply conduct a funeral for the pig's head and have done.

Me: I have a pig head in my freezer. Your thoughts? My brother wants me to debone it. I requested the face, especially the cheeks of the hog. I got the whole head. I wanted to make sisig.
Him: Debone... Save me the brain or a piece... Stock for split pea...
Me: How the heck can I get to the brain??? And also, how do I do this while avoiding PTSD?
Him:  Use a sanitary saw.
Me: I have sanitary napkins. I do not have a sanitary saw.
Him: Do you have the sweet breads too?
Me:  I did not get the offal. You can have all the brains if you hold my hand through this process. And by hold my hand, I mean come over here and help me through it. Otherwise, I'm bringing the head to my brother's house and he can deal with it. I'm seriously out of my comfort zone. Haven't you ever wanted to make your own pancetta?
Him:  Ideally you need a bandsaw.
Me: We have a bandsaw but Rob says no. This experience has the potential of putting me off pork for a bit. 

So for now, there is a head in my freezer. It is thankfully wrapped in a white plastic bag that I cannot see through. But it sits there. Oh yes, like Poe's telltale heart, it sits there daring me to defrost it and get out the brains for the chefs in my life.

Monkeyspheres and astroturf

SockMonkeyAngel on Etsy
Seattle Seahawk Monkey

Lately I've been following football.

This isn't something that I undertake lightly. My whole city is swept up into it. My whole city is rallying behind the Seahawks in a way that I've not ever witnessed. Not even when the Seahawks were in Superbowl 40 in 2005 did the city have this fever. There is something about this iteration of guys under Carrol and Schneider that has the region buzzing. 

I like to say that I watched football with my brothers and my father most of the years of my childhood. That isn't false. But during those times, all I could really understand about the games being played is that there was a football that needed to go to one side or the other. The men in my house had little patience to explain the intricacies of the game to a little girl. Let me write that again. Not to a little girl. So while I tried to understand, all I could glean was that my father would be rooting for the guys wearing red and gold. My brothers would be rooting for other colors that went against red and gold. Sometimes my father would yell at the television a lot. For years, I didn't pay attention. I simply didn't want to invest. Did I really want to have yet another facet of my life over which I truly had no control? When people would ask me which team I supported, I told them it was the red and gold one because it was my father's team. While I could probably name the cities and appropriate team names, my knowledge of the game was limited to that.

But then there was the 2012 season. I make no apologies about sitting up and taking notice for the first time really. My husband isn't a big watch-on-the-television sports kind of guy. Nor am I, if I'm being honest. The story of these players being from the island of misfit toys resonated with me. They were a team of late round draft picks and un-drafted players. The quarterback was shorter than most in that position and was a rookie to boot. But from that, they had progressed into a force. When they fell short to the Atlanta Falcons despite that soaring 4th quarter, despite that 2 point lead with 30 seconds left on the clock... Ah, the hubris of believing that they had it in the bag and had pulled off the greatest comeback of all time. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Russell Wilson's face after that game. It broke my heart.

But this post isn't about that. It's more about what I've observed with being a fan. It all comes down to monkeyspheres. If that concept and the attached article are too much to take in, it is the idea that we as primates are only able to keep about 150 people within our radius of caring.  We are designed to think in terms of us & them.  It is part of being a social animal. Something primal within us makes us want to quickly categorize people. Stereotyping people is normal. Categorizing people is normal. Comparing our social group to other social groups is normal. Being part of a larger group is part of being human -- it is how we identify ourselves.

This is at the root of all conflict. All.

So I've started really paying attention to football in a way I never have before. I've been reading analysis. Learning about the different positions. Learning some history. Attempting to understand the rules. And feeling like I'm having to catch up. But that was fine. There was depth to this sport that was fascinating. Seeing the intricacies of how these teams function with each play was something I had never noticed before. It was like I had only ever watched a swarm of bees and never noticed that each bee had a job.

And here is where we get to the crazy. I've been a fool to think that this was all kind of fun. That becoming a fan of a football team was fun. That starting to watch and take part in this national obsession was like joining a huge club into which any American was gladly offered admittance! What I found was that I would not be welcomed into this monkeysphere easily.

With the recent success of the Seahawks, my friends and most notedly one of my brothers, have been scoffing at my interest. That my cheers and hopes and even clothing were not worthy of the franchise upon which I place my honor. But I'm not alone. A recent study from Nielsen Scarborough showed that NFL fandom is up by 27% in the Seattle area. While a bump is usual when there is a championship, this is interesting because NFL fandoms don't change numbers -- they remain stagnant.

There is a reason for that.

Within the monkeysphere of NFL fans, there are the monkeyspheres of the two conferences, and within that, there are the monkeyspheres of the 4 regions of the two conferences, and then within that are the individual teams. What you might not expect is the monkeyspheres within the monkeyspheres of the fans of the individual teams. That is an s-ton of monkeyspheres. How does one keep it straight?

There is a kind of boastful pride that people use to talk about how long they have been a fan. They say they've been fans since the Seahawk's inception -- nearly 40 years ago already -- they founded in 1976. There's talk of fans who have weathered the times when the Seahawks were super crappy. Fans even pride themselves on wearing the old jersies -- Hasselbeck, Largent, or other luminaries we've had on the gridiron. The old colors and old Seahawk logos are a kind of badge of honor. That if you have not been through the rough times when the Seahawks sucked, you don't belong in this monkeysphere. That's the reason NFL fandom has been stagnant. One does not take up a banner because those who were there before will not give you berth.

My friends -- Seahawk and other monkeysphere team fans -- take great pleasure on quizzing me about the Seahawks. Recently, I texted a Niner fan friend of mine to wish him a happy new year. And he came back with pictures of himself and his family in full Niner regalia. I sent him a picture of myself in my Seahawk gear. He proceeded to quiz me on Seahawk history and I predictably failed. Told me that I wasn't a "true," fan. My brother and I have had what I thought was a friendly back and forth. However, it seems that was not the case. He's a Viking fan. At every turn he reminds me about how I'm not a "true," fan most recently because I do not own a jersey. The words bandwagon and fair weather are bandied about like racial epithets. But this kind of labeling comes also from my friends who are long time Seahawks fans. A "there, there, don't worry your pretty little head," kind of mentality when I talk about the game and its dynamics.

Is this to be yet another area in which I need to guard my views; religion, politics, and feminism need to make room for NFL fandom?

I am a TRUE fan because I say I am a TRUE fan. Just like in religion, politics, and feminism, you don't get to check my bonafides, you don't get to police or decide if I'm a TRUE fan based on how long I've followed the game, cared about the game, purchased the merchandise, or even had it register on my radar. You don't get to tell me how to be a fan simply because you don't think I belong in this monkeysphere. This is not something that gets passed down from father to son anymore. I don't have to prove anything to you so stop assuming that I do. I've been wrong to engage in it myself -- I flatly do not accept the premise of your position, that there is such a thing as a true fan versus a fake one. I know this, I'm real.

And for the record, I think the pink jerseys are stupid, too. They're reductive and sexist. But whatever. Women are increasing NFL fandom and the pink jerseys are not the reason.

Eight

Eight years ago today it was also Sunday. I normally don't notice little details like that. But eight years ago today on Sunday, I got a phone call that I knew I was going to get. I knew the night before when I lay down with tears in my eyes, that the hope against hope that different phone call would reach me simply wasn't going to happen. My Uncle Nofre would not survive the surgery to repair the dissecting aortic aneurysm. He died eight years ago today.

I remember waking up that morning, before the memories of the night before had flooded in. I relished those moments because my mind had forgotten -- only briefly remembered that there was something terrible I was worried about; something horrible that I was anticipating. Part of me knew but the other part wanted to savor the denial for a little bit longer.

It's been eight years and earlier this month, I was told by well meaning family members that I just "need to get over it." It's funny, isn't it? It's the family members that you share these thoughts with because they too felt the earth shattering loss, right? They're the ones who can commiserate because they know it too.

But maybe grief isn't something people want to be vulnerable to all the time.

So I'll get over it in the sense that I won't share these thoughts with them. (Heh, instead I'll share it with you, nameless, faceless internets.)

And today, I'll remember that on a Sunday like this one, my world changed. I still miss him. I still miss the weekly phone calls. I still miss how when he called I'd say, "Hi Uncle." And he'd say, "Hi, this is Uncle Nofre."

Eight years and I can still find that familiar knot in my chest. I guess that's just how it is. Love doesn't die just because the object of your affections had the poor manners to leave before you were ready.

For lovers, for dreamers, and me

Nice thing about Fall is that there are a lot of days of mixed weather. Sunshine and rain at the same time is not uncommon as the seasons shift to the shroud of clouds. Once that boom lowers over the Pacific Northwest, it's down for about 7 or 8 months. The benefit of this multiple personality disorder weather is the occasional rainbow.

I was boarding the ferry boat to Seattle around 5 in the afternoon. The sun was shining but a group of clouds was eyeing my freshly ironed hair. Jerks. The clouds started sprinkling and predictably a rainbow formed over the Sound framing the water and the ferry perfectly.

I took a moment and tried hard to drink it in; tried to revel in the sight because it was beautiful and glorious. It may be the last rainbow I get to see this season before the cloud shroud becomes the usual sky.

What was less than beautiful and glorious were the dozens of people taking pictures of that moment.

iPhones & Androids all up facing the sky. There must have been a flood of posts to Instagram, Snapchat, Tumblr, Facebook, Imgur, Reddit... Dang, I think I probably could go on.

It was sad, really. What happened to just letting the day happen and being present for that?

My cousin's daughter just got married over the weekend. My mother uploaded a bunch of pictures to her Facebook account and I was grateful for them. So good to see the family. So sad I wasn't able to attend. But it reminded me of my own wedding and the accidental lesson I got in being present.

There are a million tiny things to remember when you're putting on a wedding. I am my parents' only daughter. This would be the only wedding they'd be a part of where they were the parents of the bride. A wedding is a big glitzy production; especially when it is for the only daughter. Ultimately, we were a bunch of amateurs trying to pull off the equivalent of the Academy Awards. The morning of the wedding, which was on the Fourth of July, I realized that I had forgotten to purchase a battery for my camera. Usually this wasn't a big deal. It took lithium batteries which last a long time. I had tons of film; this was 20 years ago, folks. But I had the bad luck of having the battery wear out that very morning.

My mother was furious with me. She had been counting on snapping pictures all day with my camera. The stores around the venues were all closed because of the national holiday. People were deployed to find a battery before the ceremony but all came up empty handed. What's a girl to do?

In the words of the Imagineers at Disney, I simply, "Let it Go!"

What resulted was us being in the moment completely. My parents got to the spend the day really being there and not trying to get the perfect candid shot. My new husband and I were not distracted with trying to document every moment. We had a professional photographer to take those shots anyway. He did a much better job of it than we ever could.

So in our lives now, I've got a phone with over 2,000 images on it. So many of them are pictures of beautiful vistas and breathtaking sunsets. But the thing is, if I'm lucky, there will be another rainbow to relish, another beach to breathe upon, another mountain to stare at in awe.

Instead of taking a picture, I'll strive to take it in -- relish the moment and simply breathe.

Siri vs. Iris

This morning my husband and I were lying in bed planning our day. Tonight we are catching a show at the Moore Theater in Seattle. We were trying to figure out what time we needed to leave to get some dinner and the show. We got out our phones to get directions to the theater. I have an Android -- Samsung Galaxy S4. It's not even the latest and greatest in the line. There have been at least two upgrades since this model. Nevertheless, I love this phone. I've no doubt the manufacturer will put in updates to mess with its functionality and twist my arm to upgrading, but for now, it's pretty great. My husband has the Apple iPhone 5.

I went first.

Me:  Where is the Moore Theater in Seattle?

Android:  Here is a map to the Moore Theater in Seattle.


He went second.

Him:  Where is the Moore Theater in Seattle?

Siri: I cannot find the Moore Theater in Seattle.

Him: Let's try again. Where is the Moore Theater in Seattle?

Siri:  There are no theaters in Seattle.

Him:  Siri, what the hell is wrong with you?

Siri: I apologize.


Me = smug.

Say what you really mean

I've been thinking about and talking about dress codes in middle school for a ridiculous amount of time now. I'm a little surprised at myself. Eh, sometimes I get obsessed about something and I just cannot let it drop.

It would be simplistic to say that it is only dress codes that are the problem. I think what dress regulations do is attempt to codify the social rules we already have in place. That is why they seem so scattered and condescending. That is why they're arbitrary. They are what you get when you try to define a thing by only saying what it is not.  As in, "You may not wear <insert arbitrarily deemed offensive article of clothing> at school."

But perhaps it better to really say what we mean as a society.

"We, as your elders, are made uncomfortable when we watch your budding sexuality as young women. If you dress in ways that celebrate your sexuality, we still want ways to punish and shame you for it under the guise of it being a dress code. We are telling ourselves that shaming you and punishing you are ways for us to protect you. We believe we are acting in your best interests by denying you instructional time, pointing out to the rest of your classmates that we think you are being slutty, and that you should be considered slutty by others; it is doing our part to label you and your reputation with your peers. We think we are protecting you by forcing modest clothing choices upon you. It is important for you to be indoctrinated with the belief that your clothing will protect you from unwanted sexual advances or attacks. By the word modest, we think you should not wear clothing that celebrates your female form, unless it is for an activity that promotes school spirit like cheerleading outfits or volleyball briefs. We choose to remain ignorant to the harm dress code infractions do to you and your schooling environment. The harms to you include lost instructional time, self doubt and shame, the simple physical discomfort of wearing other clothes over your outfit, and the ire your parents may feel towards you for having gotten dress coded. We would rather you avoid our gaze and think we as staff are doing nothing but judging your outfits. Because we are judging your outfits. We think it is more important to punish you than create and environment where you feel safe talking to us without our judging eyes upon you. Your education is not as important to us as is the education of the other students. And by other students, we mean the boys. Because you are distracting them with your bodies. We would never say that we resent you for being young and pretty, but it may have crossed our minds."

My peers, we have gotten too far away from being young and foolish; we have forgotten how stifling it was to live under arbitrary rules. My peers, please recognize that we are carrying some heavy baggage that steers us to foster rape culture. My peers, we need to rise above so that our daughters don't have their voices silenced and education stymied by something as trivial as a dress code.

Let them be.

Intermammary sulcus

My Girl Scout troop has been discussing women's issues almost exclusively over the past couple of years when we're not doing the regular scouting things like planning outings, encampments, raising money for field trips, etc. There has been no end to the bad news for our gender of late. From the Hobby Lobby case, the falling of the protective buffer around abortion clinics, the NFL scandals -- both the lack of remuneration for their cheerleaders and the light handling of domestic abuse by the organization, and on and on and on. But none of these issues really caught their hearts and passions. I think they thought it didn't pertain to them. They're not getting birth control, seeking abortions, in an abusive relationship with their pro-footballer or cheering for his team.

I've felt like our gender was under attack.

But then the incident from the other week happened to me and I actively participated in rape culture despite my long held belief that I was above it. I thought that I could rise above and place the blame exactly where it belonged, at my attacker's feet. Only he had responsibility for what he did to me -- kissed me and slapped my bottom without permission or welcome. But no, I realized that I hadn't risen above. I thought exactly those thoughts that our culture impresses upon us. I questioned what I was wearing, what I might have said to make him think that his treatment of me was welcome.

I hate myself for thinking those thoughts.

But it really made me really consider how deeply entrenched this thought process is in me. Where the hell did it come from and what can I do to exorcise it? The power of Gloria Steinem compels you!  The power of Gloria Steinem compels you! 

How lucky for me that the case of the yoga pants has made national headlines. Across the country, well meaning school administrators have been banning yoga pants. These are comfortable pants that cover a person's body on their bottom half. Sometimes they can be formfitting and give evidence that a person has a body. The argument is that they're distracting and... I've just sat here for the past five minutes trying to finish that previous sentence. I don't have a handle on why yoga pants would be considered bad.

In Illinois, there are some middle school aged girls protesting the yoga pants ban by wearing them and holding signs, "Are my pants lowering your test scores?" In Billings, MT, there is a similar ban being instituted by a public high school. In an opinion piece by Ashley Crtalic, she  dissects a very common experience for young girls, the shame of being "dress coded," and how it affects their schooling. This is the moment in which girls are told that their bodies are dangerous and need to be covered, and that boys are incapable of controlling themselves around girls. It also gives girls the ridiculous belief that violence can be prevented by their style of dress. As if a lower hemline could ever induce a person bent on rape to stop.

At this point I decided to look at my girls' dress code for the 7th & 8th grades. The very first word is in bold and it is "Cleavage."

Cleavage.

That's the thing about words, I love them. Because you can say one word and come up with nuances that are implied.

Cleavage.

It is a word that describes the area between the breasts. But more than that it implies sexual maturity because a young girl who has not yet gone through puberty will not have cleavage.

Cleavage.

Of all the words they could have chosen to describe the chest, they chose the one that is only for young women. We all have chests -- part of being humans.   As humans, we all have breasts -- part of being mammals. Why not use the gender neutral term chest? Why not use the term that could apply to boys, girls who are in the throes of puberty, and those girls who have not gotten there yet?

Cleavage.

On this point, I think the administration and I agree. "Cleavage," does not belong in the middle school. Especially not in the handbook for all of the kids.

So, the dress code at the middle school is finally the women's issue that the girls are on fire about. Not only because it affects them directly, but also because it is the first volley; the first seed of institutionalized rape culture in our society. It is the start of the self doubting, slut shaming, and victim blaming that occurs. It is the start of believing men have no control over themselves; they must be protected from womanly wiles. It is the audacious belief that women's breasts can exonerate men of responsibility for their own actions.

Enough.

Karaoke gone bad

Last week I was mildly sexually assaulted.

That's a strange sentence to write.

I'm not exaggerating nor am I equivocating on the word, "assault," by saying that it was mild. It was. I'm not bruised or beaten. I did not suffer from a violent rape. But I was sexually assaulted.

I love to sing karaoke. I have a decent voice. People who have heard me sing have told me that I have the voice of an angel; that I should be singing professionally.

Drunk people are people.

A few Fridays of the month (who am I kidding, most Fridays) I'll go to the local cantina and sing. It's been getting weirder just because it feels like the populace that shows up there are more likely to be young kids in their early twenties. There are regulars -- guys who show up for heavy handed pours and the pool table. These guys look more like my age -- in their 40's or 50's.

One of those guys is named Conner. He proclaims himself my best fan. When I show up and sing, he showers me with compliments. Sometimes he likes to sing with me. No big deal. Karaoke is a crowd sourced entertainment.

This last Friday, after singing with me -- getting a little too close while we were sharing a mic, he came over to my friends and my table and chatted with us. Told me that he was going off on a trip. Told him to enjoy himself. He said he'd be gone for a long time. At some point he wandered away.

I went up to sing a song with a guy friend. While I was actively singing, my eyes looking up at the screen for the lyrics, Connor came up to me grabbed me around the waist and aggressively kissed me on the cheek. I had fleetingly thought he was getting in close to share the mic. I was turning my face to look at him when he kissed me. He caught a bit of my lips because I had moved. Ewww. I didn't even see it coming. As if that weren't bad enough, he quickly let go of me, walked around me, and slapped me on the butt.

No joke.

I was flabbergasted. He practically ran out the back door. It took me a moment to process. I think the look on my face was utter shock because the guy I was singing with looked at me and asked what had just happened.

When our song was over, I answered, "I think I was just sexually assaulted."

What comes next shows how wrong and terribly ingrained our cultural beliefs around assault are.

I immediately thought, "What did I do to encourage that?" I share the mic with tons of people, men and women alike. I'm not terribly discriminating about that because I love to sing. I love karaoke. I don't think it is a bad thing for me to do. And since there are only 2 mics, sometimes I do get in close to the other person. There isn't anything sexually implied by that.

Next, I did an inventory of what I was wearing. For the curious, I was wearing a mom uniform -- denim capris, a green wrap around shirt, my Seahawks hoodie, and brown wedge sandals. It was Blue Friday after all. For make up, I had powdered my face, put on some eyeliner, and nude colored lipstick. Also, not particularly suggestive.

Lastly, I wondered if the violation I felt was worthy of being classified as an assault. I never welcomed this kind of touching. He kissed me and touched my ass without my permission. But we were fully clothed. We were surrounded by people. What had happened was witnessed by a bunch of folks. What did they think just happened? Was it assault?

Take it from me, I'm angry with myself. Not because I put myself in that situation. (Eff that.) Not because I was dressed suggestively. (I wasn't.) Not because I wasn't fast enough to clock this guy as he deserved. (Okay, maybe a little bit on that one.)

I'm angry with myself because of the three things I immediately considered when I was assaulted. What did I do to encourage that? What was I wearing; what did I say? Does this rise to the word assault?

That crap has got to change.

At least, I know that it exists.

Pop quiz

My mom usually visits me twice a year. Sometimes it is once. If I've been to visit her house, she doesn't come.

I really like that. I like that she makes these trips. She's not just a tinny voice on the phone to my kids. She's the fun grandma who visits and showers them with presents. She's also got the clout to nag them into submission in a way that I just don't have. They'll give me a hard time, but my mother's well honed evil eye is far too biting.

This last time she visited though, she insisted that I cook. A lot. Cook the things that are her signature dishes. And much of it, unassisted by her.

In the past, she's made us stuff. Now it is as if she wants the food but she doesn't want to cook it herself. I get it. That's why we go out to eat in general, isn't it? Who wants to cook all that food? We just want to have it made for us.

So she had me make pancit, lumpia, pinakbet, guinitaan, and atcharra. The lumpia and the guinitaan are her signature dishes. People will ask her to make these for their gatherings. I imagine, I'm going to be called upon to make these.

When I was a little girl, lumpia was always cooked on Sundays. Mom would get up early in the morning and prepare the vegetable filling. She has a couple of rules on the filling -- raisins have no business being in lumpia. It's disgusting. I agree. Potatoes are only put in the filling by people who have no class. Such an obvious filler. (On this, I've had to give some because my haole husband loves potato in lumpia. It's been a source of great conflict.) Get good sized shrimp because the cocktail ones don't taste as good. She'd have the filling sit in colanders on the kitchen counter so that it would drain completely and cool so we could handle it without burning our hands. After mass, we'd be rolling them. If we were lucky and this wasn't for a party, we'd get fresh lumpia with that slightly spicy brown sauce and crispy lettuce leaves. Ah man, now I wanna make some.

The guinitaan is more of a recent signature dish for my mother. Her friends and my Aunty Junette love my mother's version of the coconut pudding filled with sweet potatoes and fragrant jackfruit. For me, this hot dessert was only served at novenas for the elders we had lost. There would be nine nights of prayers and rosaries for those who had passed. The big payoff was a banquet of Filipino pastries and desserts. On the ninth night, there would be a feast. Some people would hold a novena every year for the dearly departed. A full novena -- proving that their grief and love never truly faded. More typical would be one day of rosaries and prayers on the anniversary. But even still, there would be kankanen and this wonderful soupy pudding. When I was little, it was my grandmother's sister who would cook it, Apo Merced. She was arguably the prettiest of the sisters, though they all looked very much the same. Beautiful women, my Grandma and her sisters.

So on this last visit, my mother put in her orders. Told me we were going to Asian market and getting all the ingredients for everything.  She only stayed with us two weeks this time, so time was short. This time, though she did some of the cooking, much of the prep and cooking she left to me. Checking over my shoulder from time to time. Sitting at my kitchen table, close enough to give me direction but not hovering. It was good.

I kind of think it might have been a kind of quiz. Making sure that this kitchen knowledge was passed on. That my mother's lumpia and guinitaan would make it to the next generation and in turn become my signature dishes. That my brothers, if missing my mother when she's gone, can come to my house and have her cooking again.

Noella

A few weeks ago, one of my best friends from grade school died. She'd had a year long battle with cancer. We rarely saw each other. Of late, our conversations were all over text messages or the occasional comment on Facebook. I'd purchased a condolence card for her widow pretty quick. I had intended to send it with a similar speed. But it has taken me this long to think of words to say to put a button on this -- one of the longest friendships I've ever maintained. Here is what I wrote.

Dear Edie,

When I think of Noelle, there are images from all over my lifespan. From when we were children together, teens, college students, and when real life started -- newlyweds, home ownership. I remember her visiting my first house and my infant son.

As a kid, she always made me feel like a cooler person than I deserved to be. I was the class nerd and she was the rough and tumble kid -- I think from the outside, nobody understood our friendship. But for me, her choosing to be my friend was so life affirming and gave me confidence. Many of my growing up memories include her -- pushing my limits, challenging all the rules. We stole a pack of gum to hide the fact that we were drinking out back of the high school dance. I think she liked challenging me. She is so much of the person I have become. Maybe she revelled in what she could dare me to do -- surprising both herself and me with my willingness to press the boundaries.

Even now, when I the stay-home-mom, take a long hard look in the mirror, I can imagine Noelle daring me to flout the social norms. Her ready smile and that smirk while she formulated the perfect one liner to slay me and challenge me. I read through our last long texting exchange -- even then she challenged me to look at my life, look at my goals. She never stopped daring me to live bigger and fuller -- to grow.

I am so grateful for her being part of my life. She stuck it out despite considerable pressure from my mom. When we were kids, my mother was pretty terrible to Noelle. I suppose she could see all the careful groundwork to turn me into a compliant good Catholic girl jeopardized by my friendship with Noelle. Silly now, isn't it? My mother attending the services were perhaps her way of apologizing -- albeit belatedly.

For me, it is easy to pretend that Noelle is still here on this earth. That we are just slogging through another extended period of silence between us. Any minute, she'll text me out of the blue.

You had asked for stories. One of the oldest inside jokes between us was this:

I had the reputation of the super goodie goodie straight laced girl in school -- a fairly well placed reputation. Noelle's by comparison was that of the worldly well versed in street culture kid. Remember, these were the days before Google and Urban Dictionary.

One of our classmates in 8th grade had wanted to demonstrate my lack of street cred. She had a word steeped in drug culture of which she was certain I'd be ignorant -- "roach." I found out later that was the term for the butt of a joint. In front of a group of classmates I asked Noelle what a roach was. She looked at me, that knowing smirk on her face.

"You don't know what a roach is?" She shook her head in disbelief and laughed. The classmates around her laughed as well. I begged her just to tell me what it was already. She refused. Ultimately, I kinda shrugged my shoulders and walked off. I figured I'd ask my teenaged brothers who enlightened me of the definition right quick.

Years later, I recalled the incident to her.

"Oh yeah, I remember."
"Why wouldn't you just tell me what it was?"
"Because I didn't know either."

Seriously.

Perhaps we weren't as different as I had thought. Perhaps why we were such good friends was because we recognized ourselves in the other. She might not have been one of my Sacred Hearts Academy friends -- all about lipstick, perms, and the boys down the street. But she was a kindred spirit in her love of word craft and humor.

She always has and always will make me want to be a better human being.

Love, Tess

My celebrity doppelganger

There's this joke that all we Asians look alike. A joke. But like a lot of jokes, there is a basis in truth. Growing up in Hawaii, nobody thinks all Asians look alike. We can tell. Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, Korean... we can tell each other apart. Mind you, we take advantage of the confusion from mainlanders who can't tell us apart. My brother was cast for a Magnum PI when I was a kid as a Japanese chef. He's Filipino Chinese.

Whatever.

One of my best friends from high school is 2 years older than I am. When I graduated from high school, I sent her my senior portrait. She was going to University of Oregon at the time. It is easily the whitest place I could imagine except for when I went to UW but that's getting ahead of myself.

So I get this weird phone call from her. After she greeted me, she says, "just go with it." She then announces how her friends cannot believe that she knows the chick from Karate Kid II. That they have all looked at my senior portrait and are astonished that she knows me.

For the next hour or so, I end up talking to a bunch of college guys gushing over talking to a celebrity. Telling me how pretty I am. Asking me what Pat Morita was like in person.

Me = Tamlyn Tomita??? I'm not sure how Filipino/Chinese = Japanese but we really had those guys going for a while .

I do wonder if she ever told those guys that it was all a joke. Wouldn't it be funny if she never did? That those guys are out there today telling their friends about the time they talked with Tamlyn Tomita on the phone.

I have to admit, it makes me laugh. But not that cute little Japanese girl laugh with her hand held demurely in front of her mouth.

Because I'm PINAY, gunfunnit!

Red hot chili peppers... not the music, the food.

I was at the Safeway deli being super lazy about making a lunch for myself and the kids. While they're home during the summer, it feels like all I ever do is try to keep them fed. The Safeway deli has some Chinese food which perhaps should be in quotes. The "Chinese food" is barely passable but Lil't loves their noodles and even has requested them for her birthday in the past.

Ahead of me in line was an elderly couple, I'm assuming a husband and wife. He was pointing out that there were big red chili peppers in the General Tso's chicken. Oh, I mean, "General Tso's chicken." Anyway, he wanted to warn me. He was cute in that way men switch to being cute after they stop being threatening. Maybe that's not the right word. Maybe sexually viable?  I'm not sure if I'm stating that correctly. There is an evolution to men.  They're little boys and are cute. Then, like all people, go through puberty and then become sexual beings eschewing being cute for being handsome, sexy, etc. But at some point, maybe when they're in their 80's, they become cute again. Because as a woman, they're not on my radar to beware of them anymore. That has little to do with their self perception and more to do with mine. He'd ceased to be a threat. I knew he wouldn't be hitting on me or flirting with me. I could just chat and not be on the defensive.

Anyway, when he started warning me about those big red chili peppers, his wife rolled her eyes and started shopping for other items. I guess she's accustomed to her social butterfly of a husband.

"You better be careful of those big red peppers. They're super hot." He looked at me, my brown skin and slanted eyes. "Where are you from?"

I told him that I was from Hawaii.

He said, "When I was in Thailand, they have these tiny little peppers. The gal asked me if I wanted the mild or hot curry. I told her mild because I don't really like all that spice," pause for effect. "Those mild chili peppers gave me blisters all around my mouth!"

I said, "In Hawaii there are these small little red peppers that my dad used to grow in the back yard. Those are so hot that they'll make your hair fall out."

"I must have eaten some!" He pulled off his baseball cap to reveal his shiny pate.

Seriously cute.

WA not MS

I'm a long time fan of Dan Savage. He's a loud and proud gay man who writes books, does speaking tours, writes a sex advice column, and has a weekly sex advice podcast. For the first time ever, I've submitted a question to his podcast.

It will likely make my kids disown me.

Here it is:

Hey Dan,

I’m the mother of a 13 year old seventh grader going to school in Western Washington -- yup, we are neighbors. The uncomfortable awkward end of year science class on sex ed happened yesterday and I’m unhappy with how the material was presented. 

The teacher likely hoped to discourage sexual activity before the children are emotionally ready. My daughter discussed this with me saying, “ I think that the teacher accidentally slut shamed today. “ In my home, I openly discuss sexuality with my children to create a non judgemental environment for them to ask questions. I want them to have the tools to recognize detrimental attitudes common in our culture. “Slut-shaming” is one of those concepts. “(Slut-shaming) is a neologism used to describe the act of making a person, especially a woman, feel guilty or inferior for certain sexual behaviors or desires that deviate from traditional or orthodox gender expectations, or that which may be considered to be contrary to natural or religious law.”  *

The teacher cut two pieces of duct tape; one he left hanging on the side of a desk and the other he likened to a “freshman girl, very attractive.” This girl catches the attention of a senior boy. After dating for a while, she consents to have sex with her boyfriend. To illustrate, the teacher applied the duct tape to his arm. The boy then breaks up with her a week later. The teacher demonstrates this by pulling off the duct tape. The story continues that the girl dates other boys and, “because sex is already part of her relationships,” she continued to have sex with subsequent boyfriends. He demonstrates this by repeatedly applying and pulling off the same piece of duct tape from his arm. He then asked the class who wanted to get married someday. Many kids raised their hands. He held up the two pieces of tape; one still pristine and the other now covered in arm hair, body oil, and not as sticky. Which would you want to marry?

I understand that abstinence is stressed at all grade levels in Washington state and while I do not object to the teaching of abstinence, provided that other forms of contraception and infection transmission are covered, I do object to using shame to drive home the point. When my daughter told me this story, I was horrified. I didn’t think this kind of abstinence teaching happened in progressive leaning Western Washington. I’m waiting the few days until school lets out before I bring this before administration. I promised my daughter that I wouldn’t embarrass her by being the mom who confronts a teacher like this. In addition it’s worthwhile that I calm down a little so I’m not just running on the disappointment and betrayal I’m feeling.  I’m certain I’m not the only parent alarmed by this method of teaching abstinence. Is there truly no way to teach abstinence or model it without slut shaming? How would you go about teaching this? What can the school do to mitigate the damage done in this class? The kids cannot unhear the message delivered by a well liked and competent educator in just about every other way. 

This letter is partly lifted from a much longer letter that I'll be sending to the school administration after school lets out next week. My daughter would like me to wait until after school is out. When she came home and related this story to me, I had to check my driver's license to make sure it didn't say Mississippi -- because you expect this kind of crazy to happen there. You don't expect it here. 

With the cyberbullying and regular bullying being such a focus in our schools it is hard to feel anything other than betrayal when a trusted adult gives credence to the idea that a girl is ruined after having had sex. Imagine how many kids in that classroom may have been victims of sexual violence, incest, or rape. Are they now to internalize more shame because now they're used up pieces of duct tape? What a model for the boys to have, that their male teacher says out loud that there are exactly two types of girls out there -- the ones you have sex with and the ones you marry. Wait, let me check my calendar to make sure it's still 2014. 

I'm hardly out for blood. I don't want to see this teacher fired or suspended or anything like that. I'd like to think it was an honest misstep. I truly don't know how to undo what has been done. 

The only bright side is that my daughter had the sense to label it exactly what it was:  slut-shaming. 

If Dan decides to answer my question, I'll post the link here. Until then, I have some relaxing breathing to do so I don't come across as an irrational angry mama bear.

*I put in the definition of slut-shaming in for you, not for Dan. Obviously.

***Update*** June 19, 2014

After a few emails back and forth between myself and the teacher, I received two emails from the principal. Initially the principal was going to table the matter until the fall and then make a decision. Then the teacher conferenced with the principal and the school counselor and decided that instead they would drop the duct tape demonstration completely.

The terrible part of this is that the teacher said he had gotten this from a guest speaker he had seen about 10 years ago when he was teaching 8th grade. I thought to myself that if a guest speaker had done this, maybe it is a program I might be able to see on YouTube or something like that. When I did a simple search on "duct tape sex education," I discovered two possible origins of this demonstration. The first possibility is Sex Respect, a fundamentalist Christian group that advocates abstinence only teaching. Salon recently reprinted an article about 8 crazy abstinence only teaching happening in public schools. Duct tape was number four. The second is the Abstinence and Marriage Education Partnership, also an abstinence only training program. The attached video shows how duct tape is used in their presentation. Given how my daughter described the lesson, this one is more likely.


I'm taking some time to think about this more and about how to proceed. Neither of these programs were part of the approved curriculum.

I wonder when I get to stop spitting nails. 

Hugs

I'm your average American woman. Not a twiggy French lady. I'm a curvy, fluffy, Botticelli-like goddess.

This past Easter, I spent time with some friends who are not your average American woman. They're sisters who are cursed with the opposite of most American women. Can't keep an ounce of fat on their bodies, you know? They're great people, lovely friends. And they give great long hugs. They give those kind of hugs that really make you feel hugged, pulled in and then they hold the hug long enough for at least 30 heartbeats. And because their metabolic rates are so low, those 30 heartbeats are a long time.

But I've always been a squishy kind of person. When they hug me, they're warm hugs, but I can practically reach my arms around back again on myself reaching around their bodies.

Which makes me wonder, not unkindly, what it must be like for them to hug me. Is it weird to be up against all that squishy? Or what is it like for them to hug each other? Because I imagine that's almost like bone on bone.

How's that for completely random?