All I Want for Christmas, or Mrs. Claus Has Her Work Cut Out for Her This Year

I wrote this almost exactly a year ago. Some things don’t change (need for coffee). Some things seem even farther away than last year (feline litter box, patriarchal litter box). Mrs. Claus, save us!

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My two front teeth. Check. 1978

Somebody to lean on. Check. 1985

Just a little more time. Check. 1992

You.

The abolition of imperialist white supremacist capitalist heteropatriarchy.

A self-cleaning litter box.

A hard-boiled egg.

And a cup of coffee.

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Crystal Nights in the New World

When the world turns weird           though the sky stays sapphire

Fear finds its F-stop              capturing crashing crystal.

Glass crunches underfoot                sanctuaries no longer safe.

These are the times that try                        weary women’s souls.

Now every nation, even ours,          shall tremble, tremble,

Awaiting wickedness, war    and all the caustic casualties

Of hatred let off its long leash         while we, the warrior women,

In mud up to our ears and angry   struggle to stand up, shoulder to shoulder,

And face the fray—fearful   but determined and diligent—

Knowing this is the uncommon hour         our pasts have prepared us for.

Life is Beautiful — Wine and Cheese (Doodles)

More timely words from our pal Dina Honour. She is saying the things I can’t even, just yet.

While in Prague recently, friends and I toured the Jewish Quarter. We stood among thousands of crooked and wilting headstones dating back to the 15th century. We silently absorbed the names of the 80,000 written in simple script upon wall after wall. Prague Jews who never returned home. We toured the Spanish Synagogue and meandered through a well […]

via Life is Beautiful — Wine and Cheese (Doodles)

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An Open Letter to Women — Wine and Cheese (Doodles)

More wise and exhausted but necessary words from our buddy Dina Honour over at Wine and Cheese (Doodles). Dina, I’m #WithYou!

Dear Women: I didn’t choose this fight. This fight chose me the moment I was born and the doctor announced “It’s a girl!” Trust me, my life would have been a lot easier, my voice less hoarse, my husband less harassed if the damn ERA had passed the first time and we were done with […]

via An Open Letter to Women — Wine and Cheese (Doodles)

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When You Are Feeling Outnumbered

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Today is Veteran’s Day, commemorating the end of the War to End All Wars. If you don’t know much about World War I, I strongly recommend two books: Barbara Tuchman’s Guns of August, nonfiction about how we got from the end of 1910 through the first 30 days of the war; and Jeffrey Shaara’s, To the Last Man, a fictional account that shows how people from the bottom to the top of the military and political establishments throughout Europe on both sides made the devastating and heroic and deadly decisions that the war forced on them

War is a bizarre human endeavor that brings out the worst and the best of the people engaged in it on both sides. And our poets help us make sense of it. So in the troubled days ahead of us now (please, God, not including war), when you feel embattled and outnumbered, remember what Shakespeare gave us in Henry V, Act IV Scene III: 18-67.

 

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!
.
KING. What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin, Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”

.
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words—
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered–
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

In which I’m still here and nothing is okay

Some hard thoughts from our pal Luther Stiler.

Infinitefreetime.com

lgbt_lifeWell.

Got that one wrong.

Like a lot of white people, I keep wanting to write things like “I did not realize I lived in a country this hateful.”  I already Tweeted that my main mistake was underestimating the number of assholes in America.  I genuinely didn’t think there were enough white assholes to elect Trump.  That right there is a failure of empathy on my part; people of color and LGBTQ people and any number of others who aren’t straight cis white people have been telling us this for years, and while I thought I was listening I clearly wasn’t.  America isn’t any different from what it was a few days ago.  There’s just a whole lot of white people who can’t deny what America is any longer.  The proof just got rubbed in our faces; it’s going to keep getting rubbed in our faces repeatedly for the…

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In Retrospect

So this is the poem I wrote about voting on Tuesday, or actually, waiting in the playground before we got into the school to vote: anticipation.

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Election Morning, Nov. 8, 2016

Alexander Hamilton Elementary School

 

Bodies order themselves in circles, concentric,

The newest arrivals on the inside, protected:

One step forward. Stand. Watch each others’

Nervous faces, watch the selfies on this

Historic morning. Another step forward. Stand.

 

This election has kept us guessing, neither able

To watch this boor go up against this white-clad

Suffragette, nor able to look away, alas.

One embraces the thought of war—he’s a fan,

Apparently; the other considers him deplorable.

 

The circle moves incrementally, a lazy dragon

Shifting forward one step at a time, waiting to take

A stand on the issues, to fill in small ovals

With a black marker on a slightly shielded shaky

Table. But not yet. For now, take a step forward.

 

Stand. I hear a woman say, “This is like that

Catholic thing in the garden.” Oh yes. The living

Rosary. People stand in a circle, each saying on prayer

To our mother to save us. Three rounds: Joyful,

Sorrowful, Glorious mysteries. Pray for us sinners.

 

Yes, this is a circle like that one. Taking a step forward.

Standing. Remembering the joys and sorrows of

The last eight years. Hoping against hope for glory

To come. Twelve hours later we sit and wait for hope

And unity to win, take another step forward, stand.