The Birdcage, as best I can remember, was a pretty good movie. I enjoyed it, anyway. Robin Williams and Nathan Lane play a cabaret owner and his trans-woman starlet who live together as a married couple. They have an adopted son, and the movie is about them dealing with this adult son getting married to a Catholic girl who's parents would never approve of their religion (Jewish), lifestyle, or sexuality.
They first attempt to deal with this by trying to pretend that Nathan Lane's character is biologically a woman, and that they are a good Christian family. But as she hasn't been through the surgery (and seems to have no interest? I don't know. It's been a really long time, and I was like 14.), her makeup job goes awry after a series of wacky misfortunes, and the jig is up.
Somehow, both families work through this and decide to tolerate one another for the sake of their children, and the movie ends on an adorable half Jewish, half Catholic wedding because tolerance of our differences is what's really important.
So I really liked it. I thought it was funny. I liked the message. Maybe I wouldn't agree now (like I said, been a long time, and I'm a little scared to rewatch it. I'm kind of worried that it will turn out to have been problematic, or even offensive, in ways I don't remember.), but at the time, it was like a breath of fresh air. It was a sort of validation that it's OK to be different. I would later go on to realize that I'm pansexual, and I've always kept this movie in the back of my mind.
I saw the Birdcage with my grandmother. I don't remember why or who's idea it was to see it. I seem to recall that she disapproved and wanted to...kind of be a watch dog, I guess? Like when parents want to make sure their kids aren't watching something they shouldn't be exposed to. Not a problem, is what I'm trying to say. It's annoying in retrospect because I was 14, but it was an R rated movie. It doesn't really matter. The important part is what comes after.
There's a scene in the movie where the son tells his father that he's getting married to a girl. Armand (Williams' character) goes to Albert (Lane's character) to commiserate that they're son is getting married, and to a girl, no less. This was treated with sadness, but acceptance. Their son was different, but in the end, that's OK.
After the movie, my grandmother was troubled. Surely, they couldn't want their son to be like them? They were homosexuals. That's like a disease or something.
I can't remember what I said, some vague toeing the line thing that I felt was acceptable while registering my discomfort with her sentiment. What I do remember was hearing her say that, then crinkling my nose, drawing my eyebrows together. It wasn't right, what she said. Then a tiny bit of nausea in my stomach and my mind. All this in a moment that's as crystal clear now as when it happened, and then my murmured response.
My grandmother confuses me, looking back. That she could honestly believe that, not only is there something wrong with homosexuality, but that they must know that and hate themselves for it. But then, a few years later, she expressed the sentiment that the hot girls calendar my grandfather kept in his workshop was not only acceptable but desirable because the female body is beautiful, and there's nothing wrong with that. She could say and believe such an awful thing about homosexuality, and then be the inspiration for me accepting that I'm not heterosexual.
Sometimes, I love her. And then I remember something else she said or did or didn't do, and I remember why I couldn't, and still can't, love her. I used to hate her. Now, I just feel tired.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Boundaries
I never had any. This post put it in mind. I wasn't allowed boundaries. I wasn't allowed to take care of myself. I always thought I must be the most awful, selfish person who ever was because I couldn't do what was asked of me by my own family with anything but loathing and rage.
I still think that, actually. I'm getting better now, but it always lurks in the back of mind, ready to pounce when I'm tired or depressed. "God, you're so selfish," I'll tell myself. "Being sick is no excuse. The woman you love has asked if you want to go out somewhere, and you have no right to say no." And then I get all uncomfortable, and she has to remind me that it's totally OK to say no, and then I relax and say no, but it still eats away at me afterward.
Growing up, I lived with my grandparents and their son, my uncle, who is mentally about 12. No, I mean literally. Once I was older, it was expected that I would help care for him. And my jobs around the house were doing the dishes and the laundry. All of them. By myself. Every day. And on top of that, I had to be on call 24/7 for anything my grandmother might need. This meant that I would be up in my room playing a video game or listening to music, and then I would hear banging on the wall from three floors down. I would drop whatever I was doing and rush downstais before she could call me again because if she did that, I was in trouble for not listening. And heaven forbid I didn't hear her for whatever reason, because she would be livid. And then once I was down there, I would...answer her question. Or fetch a backscratcher from 5 feet away. Or stand with my head down while she lectured me about forgetting the laundry again.
And let me just reiterate something here. The backscratcher was kept by my grandfather's chair about five feet away from her chair. My grandmother was not an invalid. She did have a health condition (doctors never figured out what), but even on her weak days, she had no problem standing over the stove, running errands, weeding the garden.* But as soon as she sat down in that chair, it was way more convenient to make me run down three flights of stairs than stand up again.
And speaking of that banging, there's a lot of construction going on around our house, and sometimes when it starts up, I flash back to those days. I hear the banging of hammers and machines, and oh, shit, I missed hearing her the first time. She's pissed now. I'm going to be grounded for a week again. I'm going to get yelled at. And even if I manage to fight off the panic, I can't relax again after that.
Oh, right. This post was about boundaries. Well, that's why I don't have them, I think. When I moved out of my grandparent's house, it was to move in with my mom. She actually does have a lot of physical problems that make things difficult for her, which meant I felt even less comfortable saying no to her. I couldn't do it, and I hated her for it, and I hated myself for it. She would call me on my cell phone from her chair in the other room. Every time the phone rang, I knew it would be her wanting me to grab something from the fridge or let the animals out or run an errand. I learned to hate the sound of that phone. I have a different phone now, with a different ring, and I still can't stand to hear it.
Well, I moved out finally, but after Hurricane Sandy, my girlfriend and I went back to stay with them while our house was under construction. Things were pretty OK for about a week or so, and then they started pushing against my boundaries again. My grandmother was dead by this time, and my grandfather didn't ask for much. It was my uncle who started things.
He's lived without me for years. I moved out of that house long before I moved out of Missouri. But as soon as we got back, I was the only person who could make him food. He suddenly couldn't handle that himself anymore. He couldn't make his own tea, even though he'd been making it himself for my whole life. At first, he was pleasant and polite and grateful, but he quickly just turned demanding.
There was one day specifically where my girlfriend and I were about to do play a game together, and he knocked on the door and yelled for me to make him a sandwich, and I dropped everything and went to do his bidding, just like I'd been conditioned to do. It wasn't until afterwards, when my girlfriend confronted me with her hurt that I hadn't even acknowledged her, that I even realized it had happened. It was just automatic.
And my mother, who's muddled along without me for a good three or four or five years at this point, suddenly needed me to do everything for her, too. She has her own house, so she wasn't calling me every five minutes to get something or handle something. But every couple days, it seemed, I had to go shopping for her or take her somewhere, and I could not say no. If I said no without a good reason, I got guilt tripped about how things are hard for her.
God, the emotional manipulation in this family...
And this went on for not quite a year, something like eight or nine months. Both of us were just so beaten down by this time that we left. We spent two months driving across country and up and down the coast because neither one of us could handle it anymore. I'm still recovering mentally, and it's been a year since then.
It seems kind of weird, actually. Staying with them during that time has ruined my relationship with my family in a way the first 28 years of my life couldn't. They don't call too often anymore, and I don't really call them. I suppose I might be willing to call them more, but I have to psych myself up for days in advance before I can even pick up the phone.
One last thing. It was towards the end of that stay. I can't even remember what we were arguing about. The incident with my uncle had been a wake-up call for me, and I was trying to set a boundary. Mother was angry and screaming. I was screaming. I don't really cuss, but I yelled at her to shut the fuck up. She was so surprised that she did. I tried to make my case about whatever this was, and here's the one thing about this conversation that I remember clearly.
"Taren, do you really hate this family so much?"
And I almost said yes. Almost. But I stopped myself because that's not really true. And then I hung up.
*She later developed much worse problems and lived with a broken back for months before it got diagnosed as such. But at this time, she was still pretty spry.
I still think that, actually. I'm getting better now, but it always lurks in the back of mind, ready to pounce when I'm tired or depressed. "God, you're so selfish," I'll tell myself. "Being sick is no excuse. The woman you love has asked if you want to go out somewhere, and you have no right to say no." And then I get all uncomfortable, and she has to remind me that it's totally OK to say no, and then I relax and say no, but it still eats away at me afterward.
Growing up, I lived with my grandparents and their son, my uncle, who is mentally about 12. No, I mean literally. Once I was older, it was expected that I would help care for him. And my jobs around the house were doing the dishes and the laundry. All of them. By myself. Every day. And on top of that, I had to be on call 24/7 for anything my grandmother might need. This meant that I would be up in my room playing a video game or listening to music, and then I would hear banging on the wall from three floors down. I would drop whatever I was doing and rush downstais before she could call me again because if she did that, I was in trouble for not listening. And heaven forbid I didn't hear her for whatever reason, because she would be livid. And then once I was down there, I would...answer her question. Or fetch a backscratcher from 5 feet away. Or stand with my head down while she lectured me about forgetting the laundry again.
And let me just reiterate something here. The backscratcher was kept by my grandfather's chair about five feet away from her chair. My grandmother was not an invalid. She did have a health condition (doctors never figured out what), but even on her weak days, she had no problem standing over the stove, running errands, weeding the garden.* But as soon as she sat down in that chair, it was way more convenient to make me run down three flights of stairs than stand up again.
And speaking of that banging, there's a lot of construction going on around our house, and sometimes when it starts up, I flash back to those days. I hear the banging of hammers and machines, and oh, shit, I missed hearing her the first time. She's pissed now. I'm going to be grounded for a week again. I'm going to get yelled at. And even if I manage to fight off the panic, I can't relax again after that.
Oh, right. This post was about boundaries. Well, that's why I don't have them, I think. When I moved out of my grandparent's house, it was to move in with my mom. She actually does have a lot of physical problems that make things difficult for her, which meant I felt even less comfortable saying no to her. I couldn't do it, and I hated her for it, and I hated myself for it. She would call me on my cell phone from her chair in the other room. Every time the phone rang, I knew it would be her wanting me to grab something from the fridge or let the animals out or run an errand. I learned to hate the sound of that phone. I have a different phone now, with a different ring, and I still can't stand to hear it.
Well, I moved out finally, but after Hurricane Sandy, my girlfriend and I went back to stay with them while our house was under construction. Things were pretty OK for about a week or so, and then they started pushing against my boundaries again. My grandmother was dead by this time, and my grandfather didn't ask for much. It was my uncle who started things.
He's lived without me for years. I moved out of that house long before I moved out of Missouri. But as soon as we got back, I was the only person who could make him food. He suddenly couldn't handle that himself anymore. He couldn't make his own tea, even though he'd been making it himself for my whole life. At first, he was pleasant and polite and grateful, but he quickly just turned demanding.
There was one day specifically where my girlfriend and I were about to do play a game together, and he knocked on the door and yelled for me to make him a sandwich, and I dropped everything and went to do his bidding, just like I'd been conditioned to do. It wasn't until afterwards, when my girlfriend confronted me with her hurt that I hadn't even acknowledged her, that I even realized it had happened. It was just automatic.
And my mother, who's muddled along without me for a good three or four or five years at this point, suddenly needed me to do everything for her, too. She has her own house, so she wasn't calling me every five minutes to get something or handle something. But every couple days, it seemed, I had to go shopping for her or take her somewhere, and I could not say no. If I said no without a good reason, I got guilt tripped about how things are hard for her.
God, the emotional manipulation in this family...
And this went on for not quite a year, something like eight or nine months. Both of us were just so beaten down by this time that we left. We spent two months driving across country and up and down the coast because neither one of us could handle it anymore. I'm still recovering mentally, and it's been a year since then.
It seems kind of weird, actually. Staying with them during that time has ruined my relationship with my family in a way the first 28 years of my life couldn't. They don't call too often anymore, and I don't really call them. I suppose I might be willing to call them more, but I have to psych myself up for days in advance before I can even pick up the phone.
One last thing. It was towards the end of that stay. I can't even remember what we were arguing about. The incident with my uncle had been a wake-up call for me, and I was trying to set a boundary. Mother was angry and screaming. I was screaming. I don't really cuss, but I yelled at her to shut the fuck up. She was so surprised that she did. I tried to make my case about whatever this was, and here's the one thing about this conversation that I remember clearly.
"Taren, do you really hate this family so much?"
And I almost said yes. Almost. But I stopped myself because that's not really true. And then I hung up.
*She later developed much worse problems and lived with a broken back for months before it got diagnosed as such. But at this time, she was still pretty spry.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Purity
I just remembered. So my family wasn't big into the purity culture thing as far as I know. They never forbade me to date or anything. I don't remember them even telling me to save sex until after marriage, although I know they would have been livid if I had been having sex. I should talk about my teenage years later. Note to self, that.
So I never did the purity ball or the ring or anything. But one time in the Christian school, might have been during that sex ed/charm school crap from the previous post, I had to sign a purity agreement.
Now, my memory has some tunnel vision on this. I know I can't have been the only girl there. I wasn't singled out. But I only remember myself, the paper in front of me, and the teacher was droning about something. I don't remember anyone else around me. I don't even remember what the paper looked like or what it said or if we all signed one and passed it around or each had our own.
So I signed it. I can't remember what my reasoning was at the time, but I remember that I took it very seriously. It was a vow, after all, and you can't go back on a vow because that's sin. So I signed it, and I was very proud of my virginity for a very long time. When I got to high school, I kind of subtly lorded it over my friends who'd had sex. Mind you, they lorded it over me that they weren't virgins, too, so it was more of a good-natured ribbing among us.
But it was around that time, high school, that I also started to feeling a little ashamed of it. I wondered what I was missing out on. Didn't have enough interest to find out, but that was when I started to wish I could be like other people.
So I never did the purity ball or the ring or anything. But one time in the Christian school, might have been during that sex ed/charm school crap from the previous post, I had to sign a purity agreement.
Now, my memory has some tunnel vision on this. I know I can't have been the only girl there. I wasn't singled out. But I only remember myself, the paper in front of me, and the teacher was droning about something. I don't remember anyone else around me. I don't even remember what the paper looked like or what it said or if we all signed one and passed it around or each had our own.
So I signed it. I can't remember what my reasoning was at the time, but I remember that I took it very seriously. It was a vow, after all, and you can't go back on a vow because that's sin. So I signed it, and I was very proud of my virginity for a very long time. When I got to high school, I kind of subtly lorded it over my friends who'd had sex. Mind you, they lorded it over me that they weren't virgins, too, so it was more of a good-natured ribbing among us.
But it was around that time, high school, that I also started to feeling a little ashamed of it. I wondered what I was missing out on. Didn't have enough interest to find out, but that was when I started to wish I could be like other people.
I want to talk about sex ed
Homeschooler's Anonymous is running on series on sex education, and it's made me think. I don't remember much from school, really. I went to a Christian school that was little better than a big, group homeschool run by the local Mennonite church. I've realized, since I left, that I didn't get much of an education there, but it's only since I discovered ex-fundigelical and homeschool survivor blogs that I'm remembering and understanding the full extent of that education.
When I was 6th grade, they decided we girls were old enough to...well, I don't know, actually. I'm pretty sure they called it sex ed, but they didn't even really discuss abstinence that I remember. What I remember was it was more like charm school.
Let me back up a little further, actually. Our school had a policy that girls could wear nice slacks until a certain grade, pretty sure it was 5th, and then we had to wear skirts or dresses. Keep in mind, nice slacks means no jeans, even the black ones that are acceptable in some workplaces. But boys could wear jeans. Because jeans are for boys? I never understood. It was always unfair to me.
Somewhere around then, our principal retired, and his wife took over. And holy crap was she so much worse in so many ways. But the older girls in 7th and 8th grade successfully campaigned to remove the skirt restriction. We still weren't allowed to wear jeans, though.
This charm school thing happens when were still all in skirts. I'm pretty sure it was after Mrs. Principal took over, but that could be because I blame her for fucking everything. So you know, grain of salt. Also, I don't know what the boys did during this time. This class was girls only, so our gym instruction (who was male. He taught the boys and girls in one big class, and while certain things were gender segregated, it was mostly a co-ed affair.) took all the boys elsewhere. I don't know where, just elsewhere. Probably the gym. Maybe they had their own class about how to treat women. Maybe they just threw a ball around for 45 minutes. Fuck if I know.
Actually, it's kind of weird to me now that I don't know. Maybe they told us, and I've just forgotten. Anyway!
Now, my memories of this time are a little surreal. School was from 8 to 3, but in my head, these charm classes always took place at night. I know that they didn't. They happened towards the end of the school day. But in my head and my memory, everything is just darker during these classes. I can't remember who taught them. For some reason, I simultaneously remember it being Mrs. Principal and someone I had never seen before. The school wasn't real big on hiring new people, so it was probably Mrs. Principal.
I don't remember getting an abstinence only education, either. I know that, at some point, someone taught us that condoms always break and abortion is murder, but my memories from this class are reminiscent of a 1950s posture video. We learned how to get into a car without spreading our legs and how to show proper etiquette at a dinner table. And yes, we learned about good posture, although it wasn't quite as, uh...dystopic as the above link.
Learning to get in and out of a car is my clearest memory for some reason. The teacher pulled a chair to the front and demonstrated for us, and then called each of us up individually to practice in front of the class. Everyone else went slow, and in my memory, it was because they didn't get it. Looking back, maybe it's just because they were taking it seriously. But I wanted to show everyone how it was done, and so I went up with my head high and sat down sideways and pretended to lift my feet over the edge of the car, and then I got back to my seat in half the time it took everyone else.
Man, I was a little shit back then.
Other than that, I didn't find out what a penis looked like until I moved in with my pre-op girlfriend when I was 29. I still have no idea what sex actually looks like or how it works. In fact, I have very little interest and am kind of terrified of the idea of heterosexual sex. Everything I know about it is that it hurts, and I'm terrified of that.
And yeah, aside from that, I found out what a period was because a friend of mine was reading a book where a girl in a similar situation to me gets her first period and is afraid that it's cancer. My friend thought it was funny. When I started mine, I had some vague idea that's what was happening, but it wasn't like I expected it to be. I was afraid and resigned and knew that I couldn't possibly tell anyone. I think part of me was hoping it was cancer, so I could feel like a martyr. And then a week and three or four laundry cycles later, my grandmother and mother finally sat me down and talked to me about it. Days after it had stopped.
To this day, it's something disgusting and painful that I hate about myself, and it makes me just hate myself. I am never more self-loathing than when I'm on my period. I don't like my girlfriend to touch me, even in entirely nonsexual ways, because I'm afraid she'll suddenly realize how awful and disgusting I am, or that I'll contaminate her. Intimacy takes a lot of effort on those days.
And that was my experience with sex education.
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