Crushing Krisis

The Newest Oldest Blog In New Zealand

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fear and loathing in the back yard

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Our neighbors are keeping two small dogs in their back yard. They look like they could be puppy dobermans, but I’m really not sure. However, they’re definitely being kept – they’re not strays.

As far as Elise and I can tell they are living exclusively in the yard – to the point that it’s been cleared of various detritus and set up as a dog-proof enclosure that’s protected from access via the alley.

I wouldn’t mind any of that, except:

(A) Our bedroom is at the rear of the house, and I have been having trouble sleeping this month. It only takes a few barks to rouse me.

(B) It has been hovering near the freezing point for several days (it’s currently 29), and the dogs seem to have only a small carrier to retreat to for a respite.

(C) The colder it gets, the more the barking turns into sustained whining/crying.

These are not neighbors we ever speak to – usually they’re just standing around outside smoking blunts when we walk up to the house. At the same time, they’ve never been unfriendly or threatening, and they’ve never once complained about us playing music.

Elise looked into Philadelphia’s policies on animal control, and we’re within our rights to submit a report about the barking if it persists more than 15 minutes on an hour. Also, clearly we can call at any time about the cruelty situation.

I know what normal Peter – mouthy, empowered Peter – would do. I would ask them about the dogs when I come home from work tomorrow, advise them cheerily that the barking is keeping me up and that I’m worried that the dogs are cold at night, and advise them that I could call the SPCA on their behalf of they can’t find a solution.

Except, that Peter doesn’t live here anymore. Not since this summer, when a slight mouthiness resulted in our home being vandalized in a hate crime.

I haven’t talked about it much, here or to anyone else, including Elise. But, for the first time in my life, I’m afraid of being me. I don’t know how to speak up. In fact, I don’t really feel safe anywhere unless I’m surrounded by friends. I’m afraid to sing karaoke or talk to people in bars or on buses or travel to any suburban or rural area because if I am the wrong combination of soft and assertive and they don’t like me they’ll just try to degrade me or something that I hold valuable.

I’m stuck. I’m afraid to talk to the neighbors, even though signs point to their being at least a little friendly. I’m afraid if I call in the dogs the neighbors will assume it’s me, even though it could be any of the five yards adjacent to them.

I’m afraid if I’m me people will hate me.

It was hard enough to sleep for a month after what happened – constantly bolting upright every time I heard a sound anywhere adjacent to the house. I’m already nauseous every time I walk up to my door for fear of what it might contain. And, unrelated to that, I’m already ragged and tired at home and at work, verging on sick.

I don’t need barking dogs to compound the situation.

Rachel Maddow, in brief

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It’s always interesting to read a foreign take on American news media – in this case, a brief Guardian bio of newly minted MSNBC host Rachel Maddow.

Interesting to me is that the article focuses on Rachel’s sexuality – she is gay, and has been out since age fifteen. Not surprising, considering it’s the Guardian. Yet, the revelation still holds some intrigue because:

(a) I had no idea she was a lesbian;

(b) My ignorance nonwithstanding, I don’t think this is a widely known fact in the US;

(c) Yet, clearly it’s known by the media- and political- establishment. is it a component of the “liberal” tag applied to her; and

(d) Rachel is rapidly achieving rating dominance; she has recently topped Larry King in her time slot. This makes her one of the most visible “out” personalities in the media, and from the article it sounds as though she’s more vocal about her sexuality than Anderson Cooper.

Lest it be overlooked, she also holds a doctorate in political science, specializing in AIDS and prison reform. Certainly not a lightweight coming from the world of sportscasting.

(Lest you mistakenly think that was a Palin joke, I’m actually refering to her sometimes-mentor Oblermann. As Palin jokes go it was way too easy.)

Steer Clear

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Last Saturday we awoke to some vicious knocks on our door, and declined to answer.

It was another block party on our street – another one of dubious legality where we were given less than ten hours of notice before its start – one situated plumb in the middle of our first long weekend together this year. We keep to ourselves, and no one thinks to ask us to sign their petition, or remind us there is a party upcoming, or ask us we have anything to contribute (such as, I don’t know, my mixing equipment? But, I digress).

So, we declined to answer. The first time. But a few minutes later the knocks came again, insistent and vicious.

We had hoped to sleep in – at the back of the house, away from the noise.

No such luck.

I dressed quickly, pieces patched together, and flung open the door to be greeted by an unfamiliar face. White, stubbly, firepluggish but not so intimidating, a tattoo or scar on his cheek next to his eye.

“Izzat your car?” Gesturing broadly at a boxy sedan parked a few spots to the right of our door. Already a tent had been struck on our sidewalk, nearly obstructing our front steps.

I replied sharply. “Look, we don’t own a car, and even if we did we wouldn’t have to move it for the block party. That’s not how the permit works.”

I closed (not slammed) the door to an echo of protest (“Hey, I’ll break your door down and kick your ass”), but that was a wolf not big or bad enough to warrant my concern on a summer Saturday morning. I’ve lived in South Philly long enough to know an idle threat.

Nothing else happened, and several hours of booming, inescapable music later we left. We were dressed as sharp as my earlier words for Erika’s engagement party, and everyone on the block saw us depart just as the daylight was ripening into a pretty golden evening.

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The party, which is a topic for another time, was wonderful. The two parts that are germane to this story are that I drank quite a bit of Bombay Sapphire and we that took a cab home shortly after 3 a.m.

I stepped (stumbled) out of the cab, intent on a trip to the bathroom and the chance to get into some more comfortable clothes (having entrusted Elise with my wallet and the ability to do arbitrary math).

At the steps I fetched (fumbled for?) my keys, and when I looked up I was greeted with black magic marker scrawl across our door:

Steer Clear of Queer

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Was it the message or the gin that sent me into hysterical sobs, pounding on the door with my fists until it was feeling unsure on its hinges?

Does it matter? What was I supposed to feel, or do, the first time a message of discrimination I’ve heard off and on for years at parties and bars and from passing cars found itself tangible and branded on my home?

The next part is a blur: Elise getting to the door, our exchange, my dash into the house only to collapse on the floor, crying, screaming:

“This is our house; I just want to live here.”

Elise, rational and sober, called 911, and discovered as she shut the door that our newfound aphorism had been accompanied by an even more tangible reminder – used cat litter fed painstakingly through our mail slot so that it would be swept across our threshold when the door was opened.

I’ll spare you the visit of the police, protective and sympathetic, or my repeated calls to Lindsay, my voice splintering and breaking as I screamed to her that I didn’t understand, upset as much about myself as with my demographic-sharing double, the straight white male who thought this sort of thing was okay to go writing on someone’s door because he didn’t have enough muscles or force when he opened it or because he left the house in a wrong-colored shirt, and also how I would be happy for people to write on my door and shove crap through my mail slot for the rest of my life as long as they left Lindsay and Kate and our gay neighbors (yes, the irony) alone and in peace.

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I would never compare this experience to the discrimination that other people endure every day. It was passive – intimidation from a coward. It’s not even really about me. It’s not even really offensive, as a statement.

Yet while I would never compare, it remains that those words were written on our home, and that the crime of petty vandalism was undoubtedly about hate. I articulated as much to the lieutenant in my living room, feeling strangely sober and my stare fixed on the floor.

“Do you feel that this was a hate crime?

“Yes, officer. All that matters is what he thought of me when he opened the door, and the intended effect of his message.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you and your roommate.”

“Fiancee,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “We’re getting married.”

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With Sunday came concern; we had no way of knowing if the vandalism was an arbitrary one-time event or the first step of continuing harassment; we didn’t know if it was the work of a single actor or a faceless group of disgruntled neighbors. But we discovered that – after the initial shock – we were not concerned about the words on our door.

To scurry out that morning to clean it off would mean we didn’t want the neighbors to see. To cover it up surreptitiously by cover of darkness would mean we didn’t want to be seen responding to it.

Both would show that the message met its mark – that it had intimidated us. We may be a lot of things – maybe even a little queer – but one of them certainly isn’t easily intimidated.

I’ve been avoiding this box all this week because I’ve been uncomfortable with my own voice – the voice that got me into this mess – just as I haven’t felt comfortable in my own living room. Now that our door is finally back to its single solid color (plus a peephole) I also feel okay to return here, my virtual home, to begin to describe how I feel … how I’ve felt the graffiti on my own skin all week, how our house feels different now, and how every time I approach our door I am ever-so-nauseous in anticipation.

As to why we ultimately decided to leave the words on display until our landlord could have them painted over in broad daylight for the entire block to witness, Elise blogged it better than I ever could, so I’ll let her speak for me:

[I]t doesn’t reflect on us, it reflects on the people who did this and on the people who allowed it to happen. It’s a reminder to us of what emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually small people are capable of (though we would still see it there whether we painted it over or not), and it’s a reminder to everyone else that while this time we were the target, it could just as easily be them, next time.

They probably have not realized this, yet.

Alla This

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On Thursday morning I was very much in my head while sitting on the trolley, listening to Ani DiFranco’s madly terrific new song “Alla This.” The song is partially about the intersection of the personal and the political, with Ani at one point delivering the following:

i won’t rent you my time
i won’t sell you my brain
i won’t pray to a male god
cuz that would be insane
and i can’t support the troops,
cuz every last one of them’s being duped,
and i will not rest a wink
until the women have regrouped

I already love the song as much as anything she’s done this decade, but at her concert earlier this month that verse sent a thrill through my body – in eight lines it succinctly hits commercialism, religion, war, and feminism. Amazing.

The verse ended as I stepped off the trolley, and my mind began to wander. I thought about Ani’s constant challenging of the patriarchal status quo, and how any form of discrimination ultimately connects back to that hegemony.

In the distance between the trolley doors and the stairs to sunlight somehow that rolled into my wondering about the Iraqi citizens, and if life has actually improved for those that exist outside of the patriarchy both of that nation and of the force the world is imposing on it.

I wondered, what about the gays and lesbians in Iraq? I knew nothing about this group, though I was sure they existed. What was their life like before the invasion, and what was it like now? While I am advocating for the rights of my lesbian friends to marry are their Iraqi counterparts struggling for the simplest of rights – for the ability to exist as themselves without fear?

Sometimes my brain and the internet do a peculiar zeitgeist tango, where the same day I wonder about a topic it shows up in my daily reading, and sure enough when I got to my desk CNN was running a story entitled “Gays in Iraq terrorized by threats, rape, murder.”

As it turns out, as the Iraqi government came unmoored the situation of their GBLT citizens deteriorated. Any hint of their sexuality risks not only their own lives, but the lives of their entire families.

What a terrifying closet to be trapped within.

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Just a day later I was at the Philadelphia Theatre Company to see Elise’s brother in his weekly theatre lab.

One of his classmates – barely a teenager – wrote a brilliant play about how bullying can go too far, as the actions of a few are enabled by the inaction of their peers at large. Here the result was the death of a young girl at the hands of her tormentors – their faces unimportant, as all of her classmates were complicit in her fate.

In the play’s last scene Elise’s brother acted as a federal agent, gingerly interrogating one of the girl’s classmates, getting nowhere. Finally, grimly, he asks her:

“Is it true that the girl who was murdered had a crush on you?”

And then, brilliantly, sparking immediate tears in my eyes as much for his delivery as for the line itself:

“Have you ever heard of a boy named Matthew Shepard?”

So powerful, and from the pen of a girl half of my age. Vital proof that we still have some terrifying closets of our own, whether their doors are open or closed.

As the lights came up, Ani’s voice rung out again in my mind as the voice of murdered girl, of those Iraqi men, of Matthew, and of Larry.

i will not stand immersed,
in this ultra violent curse
i won’t let you make a tool of me
i will keep my mind and body free
bye bye minutiae
of the day to day drama,
i’m expanding exponentially,
i am consciousness without identity

Loving

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There were kittens in our yard, but now there are not.

You were going to get a whole post about the joys of kittens and the joys of pet fostering, with a smattering of Bob Barkerisms, but we returned from work to find said kittens and accompanying momma gone from the yard.

So, no wacky kitten pictures with captions in stilted lolzcatian English.

Honestly, I’m only mentioning it now so that in five years I can recall when it was we found the kittens in our yard.

So, for historical reference, the apparent close of the kitten incident happens to coincide with the first day of legal same-sex marriages in California.

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Just as I am a feminist, I am an advocate for civil rights for everyone, and that includes the GBLT community. I honestly don’t understand how anyone can not be an advocate and an activist for both, because each movement is rooted in a simple concept: equality for all.

As we celebrate the landmark California Supreme Court decision and the many beautiful unions that it will yield, I was also reminded today of another beautiful union – this one fifty years old.

The union in question was of Mildred and Richard Loving, two Virginia small-town sweethearts who in 1958 found themselves pregnant and decided to wed in neighboring Washington, D.C.

Back in Virginia, five weeks after their wedding the couple found themselves on the receiving end of an unfriendly visit from the local Sheriff’s department because they were in violation of the state’s Racial Integrity Act.

Richard Loving was white; his bride Mildred was black.

The Racial Integrity Act made their marriage – and, for that matter, any marriage between a white person and someone of another race – a felony.

This post isn’t meant to be a history lesson- you can read other sources detailing the Loving’s arrest, or their subsequent exodus from Virginia under threat of imprisonment, and how – nine years later on June 12, 1967 – the Supreme Court of the United States overturned the Racial Integrity Act in their landmark Loving v. Virginia decision.

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I know most people (maybe even you, reading now) see the Lovings’ story in black and white – literally and figuratively. However, laws like the Racial Integrity Act were leveraged against couples of any interracial combination across the country. If it weren’t for the Loving’s and the unanimous SCOTUS decision their case garnered, interracial marriages might never have become as visible and accepted in mainstream American society. (And, similar laws lingered on the books for decades until the last one was repealed in Alabama in 2000.)

If those same laws were prevalent today it might not be legal for me to marry Elise. And, it certainly would have been illegal for her parents – one white, the other Chinese – to marry and have children.

Consider that for a moment.

All of these years I’ve been one blessed white male in the multi-ethnic sea of America. I never experienced any personal discrimination to cause me to believe in feminism or civil rights, but I believe in them because equality should be for everyone, without strings attached.

Little did I know at age five, or age twelve, or age twenty-two that my blessed life would benefit from the battles waged before me in the most meaningful way possible – because they cleared the way for me to have and hold the love of my life.

Could you imagine denying us legal recognition of our happiness just for something as trivial as the colors of our skin?

Your answer, I suspect, is “no.”

Then, consider that as of today one of my co-best-ladies and one of my dearest friends can only legally marry each other in two states in the country, solely because they are both women.

Why is it that we can all imagine denying them legal recognition of their happiness just for something as trivial as their gender?

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In my mind, the two are the same – the two couples, the two imagined denials, and the two inevitable, ineffable sets of basic human rights.

Just as I advocated for those rights before I ever knew they would effect my life so directly, I will continue to advocate for them even after my marriage is legally recognized – because everyone should have the same rights as Elise and I, regardless of race or gender.

That’s feminism. That’s civil rights. That’s equality.

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As I write this post there is a tiny dent in the dish of cat food we put out in the yard, hoping to lure back momma and her four stray kittens.

And, at the same time thousands of Californians have had the imagined denials cleared from their path to a legally recognized life of loving.

Imagine There’s No Heaven

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When I was in grade school a frequent topic of conversation and consternation was heaven.

As the Born Agains would have us believe, every thought we had or action we performed – from doing math to running on the playground to watching television at night – had a direct relationship to our eventual destination. Heaven. So, we ought to pay good attention to every decision we made, lest we get diverted from said destination, thus sharing the fate of the gays, Jews, catholics, &c.

It mostly seemed like bunk to me from the start – did god really care which version of the Our Father I recited, so long as I was still name-checking him? Or, to put a finer point on it, did he mind if I listened to a tape of the B-52’s Cosmic Thing on the bus to our field trip?

I didn’t think so, but my principal did. He, and the entire staff of the school, shared that same opinion about all popular music, which increasingly lead me to rebel in tiny ways, like asking if we could pray for Gloria Estefan when she had her big accident (“we don’t pray for those people”) and writing The Immaculate Collection as my favorite album in a survey for class (“it’s Conception, and it’s not an album, Peter” … “No, not this one”).

If you think you understand where they were coming from – that the B-52’s and Gloria Estefan and Madonna were actively sexual and inappropriate for grade school – then you’re only seeing a symptom of their insanity, rather than the depths to which it ran.

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I was a precocious reader, and by fourth grade I had exhausted the Nancy Drews and every other Young Adult novel in the school library. My mom, who was in danger of being run out of house and home by fueling my voracious reading habit with monthly trips to the book store and weekly trips to the library, decided I could start reading her books as long as she read them first to screen for anything truly inappropriate.

At the time my mother (and most of America, I suppose) was on a heavy Stephen King kick. All the classics – Pet Cemetery, It, The Stand, and every other one that wound up as a movie. Some of them she rightfully screened from me for a year or two, but others she passed along.

One was The Eyes of the Dragon, which was not horror so much as a dark fantasy. Or, at least that’s what I remember from the first 20-or-so pages, because after that it was snatched away from me (on yet another field trip) by a teacher.

“Where did you get this?”

“From my mother?”

“You shouldn’t steal books from your mother.”

“I didn’t steal it, she gave it to me to read on the bus.”

The teacher clearly did not believe me, but my mother – as always – came to my defense. “He’s a smart kid,” I imagine she argued, “and he needs stimulation.”

Of course, they couldn’t be trusted to trust my mother, and so I received long, personalized sermons from everyone from my teacher to the janitor about why reading Stephen King books was a bad idea. Why would I want to jeopardize my spot in heaven for some gory horror novel? It just didn’t make sense.

Well, they were at least right about that. Every time I thought I had them figured out they’d find a new way to paint me into a decidedly unheavenly corner. Reading fantasy books was frowned upon if the fantasy wasn’t directly derived from god. GI Joes were not an appropriate toy, because they had guns (nevermind that they all supported Iraq #1, and I’m sure Iraq #2 as well). And, AIDs was a plague the gays deserved, and anyone else who caught it was just collateral damage.

It was around the time of that last one that I decided I was definitely not going to be a Born Again Christian.

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So, yes, they talked a lot about heaven. Or, at least, a lot about getting into heaven. Not so much about heaven itself.

It seemed strange to me, that they were so focused on getting to a place they didn’t know much about. It seemed analogous to begging your mother to go to an amusement park without knowing how many loops the roller coasters had.

(Clearly my Stephen King reading had left me a little remedial in studying up on the concept of Faith.)

(Or, maybe I’m just not wired that way.)

Gradually, I started to make my own concept of heaven that would match all of the tedious effort they put into getting there.

The whole point of heaven, it seemed, was to be awesome. Clearly it was always blue-skied. All of the food would taste great. You would never have to sleep, and you could re-watch television shows you missed by mistake.

(Yes, heaven imported TiVo from the future. Heaven is that awesome.)

God, I decided, was sortof a hard-ass – what, with all the smiting and sending Jesus to pal around on Earth for three decades just to get himself killed. I mean, the “only begotten son” bit just didn’t ring true to me – god was definitely the same Old Testament hard-ass he always was, he just looked softer because he had a kid. I had seen the same thing on television.

God was effectively Gargamel – old, batty, mean, and chasing around little people who barely came up to his shin with a big club. But, in a wacky, non-threatening, recurringly eposodic way.

By contrast, Jesus was definitely John Lennon, walking around singing “Imagine” – or, if you asked very nicely, “The Ballad of John and Yoko.” It definitely put his “bigger than Jesus” comment into a particularly ironic light, I thought.

However, I determined that the greatest feature of heaven was that you would know everything anyone ever thought about you. Not in an intrusive way … just a tally. Like, Leah, the girl I had a crush on for four years, would be able to see every distinct time I thought about her. Or Victor, the bully, would be able to discern the times I feared him versus the times I just felt sorry for him.

It made a certain amount of sense to me; if you were going to spend the rest of your life mingling through the clouds, you ought to be on equal footing with each other.

(Slightly later I amended the list to include people being able to get a tally of how many times people thought of them while having an orgasm, with a second tally indicating how many times that was during an orgasm had with someone other than you.)

(In retrospect, that might not be the kind of thing you find out in heaven.)

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I still remember our last exchange with anyone on the staff in the sharpest possible focus. It was after our sixth grade end of year assembly, and we were all running around behind the stage drinking carbonated punch, which I claimed made me feel a little tipsy since I had never drank anything carbonated before in my life.

My mother was talking to the wife of the school’s principal, and as I ran past her I overhead this snippet of conversation…

Mom: “It would be nice if you held some events where they could just socialize together.”

Wife: “Oh, yes, that’s always nice.”

Mom: “Maybe even something like a dance.”

Wife: “A dance?”

Mom: “You know, with music? Around this age the kids in public schools and Catholic schools start to have dances.”

Wife: “Oh no. No. No no. We could never…”

I don’t remember anything else. Maybe I zoomed out of earshot, inebriated on bubbles. Or maybe my mother excused herself and ushered me out to the car. Either way, it was the last time I ever set foot in the building, or spoke to any of them other than my best friend Monica.

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I still dream about them sometimes, about the teachers and janitors and principal’s sons. Sometimes I dream that I am 10-years-old but still myself, desperately trying to escape their serpentine corridors without notice. Sometimes I dream that they invite me to a twentieth reunion and I try in vain to explain to them how they made me so hateful and distrustful of religion.

Sometimes I dream that they all wound up being gay, and that they each confessed to me in turn that they were afraid they would never get to heaven.

I really hope they all get to heaven, since their whole lives have been dedicated to the practice – to the exclusion of school dances, Stephen King novels, and Madonna albums.

I wonder if when they get there they’ll see how much time I’ve spent worrying about them.

I wonder if they’ll care.