I Will Stand With You

My social media presence is full of people speaking to their frightened friends, saying "I'll stand with you,  I'll fight for you" and promising to use their privilege to help those who don't have it.  As a friend pointed out yesterday, that's easy to say and sometimes tough to do.  Many people don't even know where to start.  So, while there is no be-all-end-all guide to being an ally, I do have some helpful tips for those who genuinely want to support their loved ones.

1. It's not about 'the barricades'; it's about the day-to-day.  It can be tempting to envision the fight for equality and dignity as an actual physical *fight*, one where we might need to take up arms to defend our friends.  I desperately hope it never comes to that.  The real battle is going on every day, in ways that don't feed our adrenaline.  Most of the things you can do to stand and defend involve sitting and listening, speaking and teaching, reading and writing.  It's tiring work, and it must continue steadily to do any good.  The good news is that if you do it right, the number of people doing it with you increases, rippling outward from you.
   
2. The goal is supporting others, not protecting them.  We protect children, we protect the weak, we protect those who are incapable.  Our friends are strong, courageous, intelligent, and dedicated.  They can protect themselves.  Do not stand between them and harm, thinking you can somehow shield them with your body.  Stand behind them and beside them and among them.  You are not the hero in someone else's fight for equality.  You are the sidekick.  Embrace that and be the best possible sidekick.
   
3. Start by listening.  Let your friends know that you would like to hear what they need from you, and then do your best to help them get what they need.  Be present.  Be thoughtful.  Be open.  Understand that they may have been burned, in the past, by 'allies' who demanded a tremendous amount of time and energy and praise in order to be decent human beings, so if  your friends trust you enough to talk to you about things, be grateful for their trust.
   
4. Accept feelings as valid, even if you don't have the same response to the situation.  Don't try and tell people they're overreacting, don't try and tell them things will be OK, don't try and explain to them how it will all be fine and we just need to 'focus on the positive'.  There are people legitimately afraid for themselves and their families, and that's not new.  Some of these people are only experiencing a magnification of fears they've had every day for years.  Understand that there is a real vulnerability in admitting those fears, acknowledge them and take them seriously.
   
5. Don't make your friends waste precious time and energy when you can do the work yourself.  Asking what you can do is good.  Asking for recommendations to read is good.  Asking your friend to dedicate hours to an online conversation explaining the basics of sexism to you and proving to your satisfaction that that is indeed what they are experiencing is cruel and exhausting.  Asking your friend to give you detailed descriptions of what is and is not racist because you want to change as little as possible without hitting any land mines is lazy.  Before you ask someone to explain things to you, spend half an hour with Google.  Don't use that time to come up with ways to punch holes in what they say.  Use it to try and better understand what they're saying.
   
6. Stop hearing "That thing you are doing is hurtful to me and others," as "you're a bad person who should be ashamed of yourself."  Don't make others spend the time and energy to ensure that you have a positive experience as an ally, just because it upsets you to have your mistakes pointed out.  You WILL make mistakes.  Everyone makes mistakes.  Be the person your friends can trust to say, sincerely, "Oh, I'm sorry.  I didn't realize.  Thank you.  I will be more mindful of that," not the one who tells them, "Why do I even try?  I'm just wrong anyway.  You should not be so harsh with people who are on your side, you know."  Don't expect praise for basic decency as a human being.  If your friends don't thank you, it doesn't mean they don't appreciate that you're there; you'll notice that appreciation in greater levels of trust and respect and friendship, not in overt praise or thanks.
   
7. Carry safe space with you, and establish safe space where you are.  Be the person your friend can trust to chime in with, "I agree with (friend), I don't think it's OK for you to say/do that either," or "I'd rather you not use that sort of language around me," or "I'm not sure you're aware of it, but that thing you're doing hurts people."  This is a hard balance, because you also need to do it without co-opting others' rights for them to speak for themselves.  Let your friends know you will back them, and then follow their lead.  Don't try to own the conversation, just support the people having it.  Make sure that your home is safe space.  This can be as simple as creating a space where others feel comfortable to speak up because they know they'll be supported, or as significant as keeping your spare room ready to receive someone who needs to get out of a bad situation quickly.
   
8. Embrace and use your privilege.  There is *something* in your demographic that means some people might take you more seriously than they would take those who don't have it.  Once you understand what that is, whether it's your gender, gender identity, race, religion, sexuality, ability, or some other factor, you can use your status in the group to actively include and advocate for others who aren't.  Tell your male buddies you don't think rape jokes are funny, whether there are women around or not.  Call out your other white friends on racist comments.  Speak among your other straight friends of the need for LGBT rights.  Make sure that gender-specific events are planned as trans-inclusive.  Always be looking for ways you can include, support, and amplify others.  If you're aware of areas where you're not privileged, then let that awareness give you empathy in the areas where you are.  When different groups of people work together to overcome each other's oppressive systems, this is called intersectionality, and it is good.
   
9. Members of demographic groups are individuals, not a monolithic hive mind.  One member of the group who doesn't have a problem with a slur or a joke can't 'give you permission' to use it whenever you like around anyone you want.  Some members of a group may not want your active support, for whatever reason.  That's up to them, and you have to respect it.  Some may not recognise you as an ally, while others might consider you one.  Again, that's up to them and you have to respect it.  Remember that these are your loved ones, first and foremost, and your goal should be making sure that you are doing what you can to make sure they, as individuals, have the opportunity to be safe and happy on their terms, not yours.
   
10. You're not obligated to attend every fight to which you're invited.  The fight for justice and equality is going to be decades more at least.  You have to choose a sustainable level of involvement.  Sometimes, you have to say "I am too tired to take that on right now."  That's OK, as long as you do step in when you're NOT too tired.  If you see someone else fighting for their life, remember that they're probably at least as tired as you, and that even a little public encouragement could mean the world.

Finally, too important for a number:  Love is all.  Love is everything.  It is our shield and our fire and our reason for being.  Lead with it.  Live with it.  Fight with it.  Fight for it.

I love you all.

Lumos.

Vote

This will be my last appeal to voters this election cycle.

Tonight, I will get a good night's rest and then tomorrow at 6am I will report to the polling station where I've been assigned.  I will spend all day helping people exercise their right to vote, and then I will come home and, like most of you, anxiously watch as the numbers are counted across my city, my state, and my nation.

I am doing this because for more than 20 years, other people have done the work necessary for me to walk into a polling place and blithely cast my vote.  Other people have risen on dark mornings, blearily blinked away the sleep as the coffee took effect, and put in fourteen-hour days so I could have a voice.  It's my turn now, and I'm excited beyond measure to take my place within the process, to be the one who says, "Welcome, please step into this booth and cast your ballot."

It has never been hard for me to vote.  I've never had to fight for it.  Perhaps I was inconvenienced, perhaps I had to sacrifice an hour or two, but I've never been afraid for my safety as a result of my choice to vote.

That's not true for everyone.  Only a half-century ago, activists risked death to register black voters in Southern states, and those voters risked assault or abuse for showing up to the polls.  Voters navigated poll tests and poll taxes, risked the ire of the KKK, walked past armed men who just 'happened' to be hanging out around the voting locations, marking who thought they had the right to walk in.  And yet they walked in, because they believed in overturning the system that would keep them silent.  There are people who will vote tomorrow who have done so when they believed they might die for it.

Only a century ago, the right of women's suffrage was so important that women were willing to risk assault, imprisonment, starvation or force-feeding.  They were willing to be considered beyond what little protection the law afforded 'decent women' so that whatever happened to them might be called no more than they deserved.  Despite all the risk, despite all the threats, they fought and won it. There are women voting in this election who were not born with that right.

Even the privileged original American voter, the white male property owner, has an obligation.  Over two hundred years ago the colonies took up arms in the name of self-governance, granting you a voice instead of continuing to accept British priorities for colonial lives.  Our Constitution is based on the principles that drove them to take up arms in rebellion.

No matter who you are, no matter what your demographics or your politics, if you're an American someone fought for your voice to be heard.  We forget sometimes how much the simple act of voting meant to those who couldn't do it.  It's easy, in a frustrating election cycle in a cynical time, to get apathetic and feel like there's no reason to show up, no reason to care.

There is so much reason to care.  Our country stands at a crossroads, deciding what sort of nation it will be, what values will carry us through the 21st century.  Choices are being made in the halls of power that will dictate our economic relationships, our basic and fundamental rights, our ability to express ourselves, even the love we choose to honor.  And choices are being made in voting booths that will decide who fills the halls of power.

You must believe something.  There has to be something, deep down in your psyche, not matter how jaded or cynical you may think yourself, something that matters to you.  Somewhere in your ideology there must be a vision for what we as a nation should look like, act like, BE like.

And tomorrow, you should take up that vision, those ideals and dreams, and carry them to the poll if for no other reason than to honor those who cleared your way.

Go. Vote.

BFFs are Totally a Commie Plot

I'm gonna talk about some things that will sound like Communism to some folks now.

Specifically:  from each according to their ability, to each according to their needs.

If that sounds familiar (which it should), it's because it's a paraphrase of one of the central tenets espoused in The Communist Manifesto, which is where people might get the idea that I'm talking Communism.  I am.

I'm also talking community.

In recent decades, as Americans have stopped living in large extended family groups, as we've moved for jobs or schools or partners to cities where family and the friends of childhood don't provide a close-knit peer group, a lot of us have sought to recreate that social network.

We build tribes, squads, groups, phamilies, whatever word we choose to designate "these people are My People, they are more than friends, we are a unified entity," and what we are creating are communities.  Some are huge (the 'Burner community' or the 'pagan community' which have tens, if not hundreds of thousands of associated people).  Some are small, like a group of six or seven who meet up for dinner each week.  They're online, they're in-person, they spring up at annual events.

We talk a lot about 'intentional community' and 'building community' and 'community standards', all of which is shorthand for "we were all raised with different sets of ethics and morals, with different ways of treating people and establishing relationships, and we need to navigate the process of developing a consistent set of ethics and mores for a group that will thrive and support all its members."

It's a struggle to create space that includes free speech and excludes expressions of hate and bigotry.  Where laughter has a place, but people don't mock each other.  Where those in need are supported, but those with more than they need aren't exploited to do it.  All these things are important, but that last one is especially so, because it contains the seeds of ruination for every community:  unequal resource flow.

This may sound cold, but it's true:  all relationships are transactional, most of them unconsciously.  You may not think "My friend bought me dinner when I was broke, so now I 'owe' her dinner when she is broke," or "My friend has spent seven hours listening to me complain about my job, and I have spent six and a half hours listening to him bitch about his partner, so in half an hour his time is up," but you can probably describe several times your friends have helped you out, and part of the value of any relationship is how much you have personally gotten out of it.

In healthy relationships, the transactions are most likely both unconscious and balanced.  You don't stop to think what your best friend has done for you lately before doing something for them.  You just know that this person makes you laugh, gives you insights, provides real value to your life in being there, and that having a relationship that makes your life better generally makes you want to make the other person's life better.  As the scale expands and more people are added into the relationship, it becomes a community and the value of healthy relationships within that community increases.

One of the things that makes a community a community is the sharing of resources to improve the condition of everyone in the community.  Resources can mean a lot of things: money, space, time, creativity, energy, emotional labor, physical labor, intellectual labor, physical assets like cars or tools, anything that the members of the community share with each other.  That sharing allows the community to do more than its members could do alone, and it 'evens out' the experiences of the individuals, because having that resource pool to tap instead of needing to go it alone expands your ability to handle problems.  Healthy community operates on the same principles as ideal Communist theory: we all put in what we can, and we all take out what we need, and it all balances eventually.

We've all seen it: you've got your friend group, your buddies, and over a few years you build a really solid structure.  No one ever has to carry a sofa alone, everyone has someone to cheer them up after a breakup, you know that if you were about to be homeless there'd be a couch with your name on it till you got back on your feet.  It's all good, all easy, all balanced.

Then something shifts.  Maybe a new member comes in and doesn't quite understand the established give-and-take.  Maybe an existing member suffers several setbacks in a row and just stops trying.  Maybe someone has a sudden windfall that drastically improves their personal resources.  Whatever happens, it exposes a problem you'd never realised: everyone is not working with the same understanding of how community resources should be shared, or even what should be community resources.  The transactional nature of the relationships becomes both apparent, and ugly.

This is a make-or-break point for a community.  If you're genuinely willing to face hard questions with integrity, and talk openly about your own philosophies on support structures and resources, you can come away stronger.  If you try to avoid conflict and force the peace, you can end up with a badly unbalanced community.  It can manifest as someone taking a disproportionate share of the community's focus and resources without demonstrating any inclination to share their own.  It can *also* manifest as someone providing a much greater share of the community's resources, and expecting that to 'buy' them a greater voice in the ethics and philosophies of the community.  There are a lot of possibilities for where the imbalance can lead.  In any case, it's usually based in an expectation that someone should 'win' at relationships and someone else should 'lose' at them: the capitalist model of human relationships.

I've been a manager, moderator, guide, or leader in a number of different communities, and the percentage of them that ultimately failed because of resource inequality is high.  My own failing as a leader was that I was not willing to put the health of the community as a whole ahead of each individual feeling completely included and happy on the terms they dictated.  In trying to meet everyone's demands, leaders empower a few greedy and entitled individuals to destroy what we've built, when we should defend it.

The hardest thing: sometimes this means kicking someone out of your community, or just letting them walk away without trying to win them back.  Someone who may be fun and funny, but who also doesn't feel inclined to support or share with others, while gladly availing themselves of what others offer.  Sometimes it means telling someone that they have to fall, because they have worn everyone out with catching them and they refuse to stop jumping off cliffs.  It *hurts* to do this.  You feel like a bad person, a bad friend.  Guilty.

It means standing up to a bully, saying "I don't care how much you give, you don't 'own' this."  That's scary too, because maybe your community's gotten used to having what this person shares, and if you make them mad they'll take it, and leave.  Will everyone blame you that you can't have pool parties any more, because you told the guy with the pool to stop making sexist comments to the women in the group?

We need to be willing to stand up for the value of our communities as their own entities, as discrete things, and be open and honest about expectations in the group, community ethics and ideals, and goals.  We need to get honest about the real value of people's intangible contributions to our communities, and respect creative, emotional, or intellectual labor on behalf of the community as essential and worthy.

The days of the widespread family unit with consistent traditions and philosophy are gone, and if the structures we're building to replace it are to survive, they can't be based in capitalist theories of 'value' that view 'success' as coming out ahead of others.  They have to be based in a communal understanding that we all do well when we *all* do well.

An Open Letter to Texas Democrats

One year ago today, I stood in the rotunda of the Texas Capitol among a sea of orange, speckled here and there with huddled clusters of blue.  I saw my friend Nakia, and she said to me, "you won't get into the gallery.  No one's leaving.  Come to the auditorium, we're watching it stream live downstairs."

So we herded in, and I saw more friends and familiar faces.  Hello, oh you're here, I'm so glad, isn't it exciting?  What's happening, who's that, what did he just say, isn't Donna Campbell just awful?  We held our breath, watching Senator Wendy Davis filibuster.  Occasionally we explained pieces of parliamentary procedure to one another.  We made note of those who stopped her, to ask long-winded procedural questions (and then to ask for those questions to be repeated and clarified) and extend her time -- just as we made note of her opponents.  Come next November, we said, we will remember all of you.

When Senator van de Putte entered the chamber, having driven from her father's funeral, a whisper went through the auditorium, rising to a righteous cheer.  We could do this, we thought.  They have to listen to us, we said to one another.  Older activists, those of us who recall the so-called Summer of Mercy in 1991, said, "This won't stop the law, it won't stop them from trying, but we are being heard.  We have risen, and we will not return to quiescence easily."

At one point, a woman near the center called out for a doctor, for EMS; someone had collapsed.  We made way for the paramedics, and dozens of women called reassurance to our fallen sister.  We assured her we would hold faith in her stead, we would stand for her as she was wheeled away.

As midnight approached, the other side became desperate, and then they began to break rules and to make them up, to ignore questions and speakers and procedure.  You could have heard a pin drop as Senator van de Putte stood and asked her now-famous question:  "At what point must a female Senator raise her hand or her voice to be recognized over her male colleagues in the room?"

And that was the signal, the trigger.

I remember very little about the next couple of hours, so much as that NOISE.  It had a weight, a mass of its own, compressed and vibrating against the walls.  We watched an ineffectual little man slam his hand and his gavel, shouting his mistake:  "This vote will not proceed until we have order!"  Order was nowhere to be found, and midnight passed, the session closed and the vote unrecorded.  Thanks to Senator Hinojosa, we still have record of the Republicans' attempt to record the vote illegally, and then pretend they had not.  And still the noise went on.  Chanting shouting screaming clapping laughing cheering crying, that wall of sound began to build a house where women could live safely.

That week, I was being treated for severe anemia, unable to stand for very long or walk very far, and that noise knocked me literally off my feet.  I faintly remember my friend, who had called me into the auditorium, telling me that troopers might be called to remove us, so we removed ourselves, filing out into the hallway and up the stairs into the rotunda.  And over our noise...THEIRS.  A rolling thunder cascading from the gallery, a roar of defiance and a thing of beauty.  I felt the world move, and begin to change beneath my feet.  In that moment, we were power incarnate.

So why, now, do I feel sad, unmotivated, disillusioned?

On this historic day, I've received seven e-mails from Texas Democrats.  Some are from the Davis campaign, some are from the van de Putte campaign, and some are from other Democrats on behalf of the campaigns.  I don't even read them any more.  I keep unsubscribing and still more come, from a new committee, campaign, or public figure each day.

Every day for the last year, I've received them.  Senator Davis runs to me to lay each fresh offense from the Republicans at my feet, and ask me for money to fight them.  Senator van de Putte tells me how we will beat them if only I will stand with her, and give her money.  Just five dollars.  Do I know about this woman who can't afford to give ten dollars a month, so she gives just seven-fifty?  How much can I be like her?  Have I heard the latest thing to be outraged about, and does it motivate me to open my wallet?

Senator Davis, Senator van de Putte, Texas Democrats, please listen to me.

Stop.  Just, stop.

Stop asking me for money, stop pointing at outrages, stop telling me at every turn about the newest mean thing the GOP has said.  I never heard about Abortion Barbie but from you, and you told me five times.  Stop telling me that we're going to fight them, we're not going to let them win, we're going to throw it all back in their faces.  You cannot light the fire of my heart with anger or indignation.

Tell me, instead, how qualified you are to lead.  Tell me what your vision *is* for my beloved adoptive state of Texas.  How will you draw green industry?  How will you manage the fracking concerns?  How will you improve children's healthcare options?  What will your energy policy be?  What on earth are you going to do about the schools, the roads, the trees, the fires?  Tell me, because you have not bothered to do so yet, what moves you besides fighting anti-choice advocates.

If I am willing to look, sure I can find platforms and positions and stated goals; I have to seek them out, though, take the initiative and do the work for them.  By contrast, every single day, Senators Davis and van de Putte bring their hurts, their angers, their resentments and their outrages to my inbox, hand-feeding me with them so that I'll be groomed to provide the funding they so desperately need.  I cannot live on this diet.

In 2008, I joined Barack Obama's primary campaign, and donated all I could afford in time and money to help him get to the White House.  I did it because, undecided and unsure he could even win, I went to hear him speak and he spoke to me of what he wanted to do, to achieve, to accomplish.  He spoke un-ironically of hope, of the belief in civic duty, of a sincere and specifically articulated vision for America.

I doubt they will ever read my words, but I have to say them nonetheless.  Senator Davis, Senator van de Putte, I want women of vision and purpose in government, and I believe you are women of vision and purpose.  I have faith in you, I want to support you.  As it stands right now, I will vote for you.  But I am not moved to anything more by what I have thus far seen.

I want to feel, rising through my chest, that roar that shook the nation a year ago today.  I want to feel the steps of the Capitol shake beneath my feet again, to weep with joy at the solidarity, the beauty of motivated women and men united not in hate or fear or anger, but in hope and love and fierce passion for one another's freedoms.

Senators, I am a woman of power and passion and prodigious vocabulary, all of which I would put at your disposal.  The fires that burn inside of me are strong enough to light the world, and I will add them to your own.  I will give you more than my vote and my money; I will give you my loyalty and my heart.

I will walk through flood and fire and righteous fury to follow you.

But you must lead me.

I Am Not A Feminist, and I Am Certainly Not Your Feminist

It's been a full ten years, at least, since I felt I had to set aside the term 'feminist'.  This has caused me no end of arguments with feminist friends, and it's resulted in a tremendous number of people assuming I hate women, don't support their equality, or 'just do not understand feminism'.

Initially, I left the word because I kept having this conversation in which I'd try to explain my concerns with the simplistic approach of American feminism, and the other person would become progressively more aggressive towards me for resisting the label.  I've been told that as a woman if I wasn't a feminist I was a traitor to my gender and a tool of the patriarchy, and had no self-respect.  Ultimately, it almost always resolved in the same way, with another woman shouting into my face "Feminism is the radical notion that women are people!  Why don't you think you're a person?"

And so, wearily, I would say, "OK, fine, then, I'm a feminist."  And she would sit smugly back, and congratulate herself on enlightening me, and never once stop to consider that maybe, possibly, it's worth considering that the nuanced complexities of privilege and equality don't resolve that easily into a binary, gendered dynamic.  Some time later, I'd start talking about an opinion, and the same friend would ask me, "How can you possibly think that, and still call yourself a feminist?"

Finally, I settled upon the word 'egalitarian' to describe myself.  I know the word has a bad reputation, because it's been embraced by the "but men/whites/heterosexuals have it JUST AS BAD" crowd, but it really is the best description for me.  What it means is this:

Everyone is not automatically and automagically equal.  Everyone cannot be *made* to be equal.  That way lies Harrison Bergeron.  My vision of equality is equal opportunity.  What we are entitled to is equal rights, equal protection under the law, equal pay for equal work, equal educational options, equal treatment by the system of institutional structures.  I believe that the only limiting factors on a human being's potential should be luck and will, not any function of demographics (and that you cannot handwave 'I was born into a white middle-class family that sent me to good schools' as 'I was just lucky', sorry, thanks for playing, have a version of the home game).  And I will work, on every front I can find, to promote and ensure that equality of opportunity and experience.

And people keep telling me, that yes, of course, that's what feminism is.  It really means 'equality for everyone' and 'a rising tide lifts all boats' and 'if we eliminate patriarchy, everything else will follow because patriarchy hurts men too'.

But it isn't.  Feminism, at least as it exists in my country, is deeply incongruous with equality.  Many feminists supported, for example, Z Budapest's exclusion of transwomen at Pantheacon.  I've found deeply-rooted ableism and body-shaming in self-proclamed safe feminist spaces.  The very fact that a Twitter hashtag #solidarityisforwhitewomen even exists at its current level of popularity suggests deep divisions in feminism.  The more I read and learn about the growing frustrations with white feminism, how willing we are to overlook the objectification of women of color right inside our own alleged movement for equality, how frequently we appropriate the struggles of women of color to give our own perspectives 'more emotional impact', the less I am comfortable sharing a label with feminism.

I had hoped, that after time had passed, I could be a feminist again.  That the movement would progress, and grow, and fully embrace the nuanced and complicated implications of privilege.  Yes, women are oppressed, I will never dispute that in the current culture.  But we're not The Oppressed.  Oppression is a hydra, a vicious, insidious, ugly beast woven into our social structure, and a vanishingly small number of people never experience it in any form.  I cannot claim to 'own' oppression because of my gender, and I cannot pretend that my experience as a woman is a one-stop ticket to Getting What It Is Like for any other group.

So, with a heavy heart, I begin to accept that while I support feminist ideals, and I support the advancement of women and the protection of our rights and freedoms, it is fully possible that I will never, with a clear conscience, be able to embrace the label 'feminist' again.

In Which I Am Not Triumphant So Much As Resolved

Something amazing happened yesterday.  Texas Democrats stood up and fought like hell to prevent the passage of SB5, which would have brutally restricted abortion access, imposed an arbitrary and unrealistic 20-week limit, and closed the clinics that currently provide essential women's health services to tens of thousands of women, especially the clinics that serve poor and mostly-nonwhite parts of the state.  Just under a dozen Senators stood up for the women of Texas, backed by THOUSANDS of citizens who turned out to stand with them.  And in the end, despite cheating, despite a complete assault upon parliamentary procedure, despite lies and despicable tactics on the other side, despite the literal (and possibly illegal) alteration of the legislative record, that plucky little band of Democrats prevailed.  Just before 3 in the morning, word came down that we had prevailed, that the vote had not happened in time, that the Democratic filibuster had succeeded in running out the clock.

There are a lot of names to remember from last night.  Senators Wendy Davis (who kept her feet and her head when all was chaos), Kirk Watson (who wielded procedure and verbiage with fabulous aplomb), Leticia van de Putte (who stood her own ground, in her grief, with a grace and courage that stunned me), Royce West (who ran Senator Duncan around after his own tail on whether you could appeal a ruling that is not a ruling once the presiding officer has ruled...or not ruled?), Rodney Ellis (who asked, "Is it fair to say the rules have become very flexible in this body?" at just the right moment), and Juan 'Chuy' Hinojosa (who had the foresight to print out the evidence that proves GOP tampering with the record).  Even Senator Eddie Lucio, who supported the bill based on his personal beliefs -- but refused to vote with Republicans to suspend the rules of the Senate and accelerate the process, out of respect and compassion for his friend, Senator van de Putte, so that she could attend her father's funeral and return in time to vote.

Soon, they will all need our support because you can bet they'll be targets in the next election.

There are other names to remember, too.

Lt. Governor David Dewhurst and Senator Robert Duncan, who between them completely mocked and gutted any pretense at parliamentary order or rules.

Senators Donna Campbell (who insisted that the legislation already existing to restrict abortion was not germane to a discussion of restricting it further), and Craig Estes (whose irrelevant, insulting, and bullying questions I lost count of), and all those who supported not only the bill, but the unethical tactics used to try to force it through.  I can respect those who voted 'yes' on SB5 for reasons of conscience, on which we disagree, but not those who participated in devious, underhanded, and dishonest tactics to push it through without scrutiny or debate.

Governor Rick Perry, who has already called another special session to force through legislation that he KNOWS does not reflect the will of his constituents, a special session that will cost the taxpayers of Texas money they must find somewhere: schools, state parks, highway maintenance, environmental monitoring...

*They* will also be targets in the next election.  Remember them, find out who is standing against them, and support every one of their opponents.  Not one of them ever deserves to hold an office with more responsibility or power than 'Second Assistant Deputy Inspector of Dog Park Fecal Collection Bags' ever again.  Let's remember how we feel today, and keep it in the coming weeks to fight through the special session, and then in the months beyond as we work to get these people OUT of office.

In Which I Advocate for Domestic Partnership

Almost everyone I know is currently up in arms about gay marriage.  It's understandable; a substantial portion of the American population is being denied basic civil rights on a flimsy 'moral' pretext.

The argument as to whether homosexuality is moral or immoral is relevant to the social and personal treatment of gays, but it should be irrelevant to law.  Law is not, contrary to popular belief, derived from a moral argument.  It's derived from an ethical agreement we participate in as a society.  Things are not illegal because they are 'wrong' on a moral level.  In a pluralistic society, things should be illegal because they're detrimental to the social order, not because they're in opposition to a theological position.

Civil rights are not detrimental to the social order.  Equality is not detrimental to the social order.  If you give everyone the same rights and privileges under the law, it creates a more stable system, not a less stable one.  Greater social stability is an inherent benefit to those who live within a society, so long as it doesn't prevent the growth and progress of that society.  Any expansion of civil rights encourages the growth and progress of a society.

Marriage equality is a complex issue, and one that affects me on a number of levels.  As a non-Christian, I object to living under the assumption of 'Christian morality'.  As a straight ally, I see my friends and loved ones denied a basic right I enjoy simply because my sexual preference is more palatable to a certain segment of the population.  And as a clergyperson, I have to wrestle with the issue of whether or not I will perform heterosexual marriages when I can't legally solemnize same-sex ones.

The first two are larger social problems, but the last can be viewed as a matter of contracts.  Ultimately, what I've come to consider is that I should give up my power to confer legal status on anyone, straight or gay.  When I perform a wedding, it should be solely a spiritual and social ceremony, with no legal standing at all.  I believe that clergy should play a simple role, managing the rites and rituals of community life.  But I believe that ultimately, the only way to maintain a proper separation of church and state is to create two separate elements to marriage.

The first element is the social and spiritual one, the ceremony before community in which consenting adults swear oaths to one another by whatever they hold sacred, oaths that create no legal obligation.  This element of a wedding confers a social standing upon the participants, by which those who share similar values can recognise that these people have made promises to one another.  It creates a moral obligation, but no connection under the law.  I feel, as a priestess, that I am qualified to perform these ceremonies because I intimately understand the structures of oath and obligation, the social fabric of community that makes that ritual meaningful.

The second aspect of marriage is the legal contract.  It creates a connection under law, a set of obligations with fiscal and legal ramifications, and a set of privileges that affect property transfer, parental rights, healthcare decisions, and financial standing.  The set of promises entailed in civil marriages all relate to simple contract law, and should be handled as such by a state-appointed official well-versed in contracts, estate law, tax policy, and property rights.  As a priestess, I am not an expert on contract law, and am not best qualified to legitimize that relationship.

I propose a complete severance between the aspects of marriage, that the clergy be left unmolested to perform any marriage they choose:  man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, three or more people.  In cases where one party is unable to legally consent (age, mental incapacity), clergy marriage shouldn't provide protection to the relationship (if you find a priest to marry you to a twelve-year-old girl, "she's my wife" should not protect you from statutory rape), but otherwise there should be no legal restrictions on who can be married in such a ceremony.

In tandem with this, any domestic partnership should be required to undergo a civil contract registry to obtain the rights, privileges, and legal standing available to married persons.  Any number of consenting adults can sign a contract, provided all signatories agree to the terms.  You can be married all you like, but without a domestic registry the state recognises nothing about your union.  Each state has a standard set of rights and privileges associated with marriage, and a simple "John Doe and Jane Smith agree to enter into a domestic partnership according to the laws of (state) with no exceptions," contract would cover most marriages, and those with more complex relationships are free to seek legal counsel to codify the terms of their marriage contract, just as a couple can seek legal advice for a prenuptial agreement now.

Most suggestions of 'domestic partnership' offer a 'separate but equal' dodge around marriage equality, creating a second tier of 'almost the same' to be offered to gays and lesbians, but that creates a second-class marital status.  Pure equality under the law requires, ultimately, that only the law determine who has a legal standing.

This involves me giving up a power I currently hold under law, but I've been feeling a growing conflict with that power for some time.  I am not qualified to advise on the legal ramifications of contract marriage, and if I am truly taking the responsibility of officiating weddings seriously, I should be able to intelligently explain to everyone involved the full ramifications of the thing we are doing together.

On Not Being Fearless, But Walking Anyway

Today a friend posted a link to part of this comic.  It's all about the idea of empowering women by advocating that we become fearless.  I wrote this post earlier this year on not being fearful, but I'm not *fearless*, not at all.

It's been pointed out to me that I occasionally give the impression of being 'ten feet tall and bulletproof'.  I'm not, and I know I'm not.  I am competent, and level-headed in a crisis, and pragmatic, but I am not invulnerable.  I'm just refusing to accept fear's limitations.

There was a minor kerfluffle with my dad lately, in which he said he wishes I would not hike alone, because 'something might happen'.  I tried to explain that I carry food, and water, and a jacket and a cellphone and a multitool, that I'm getting a handheld GPS so I'll be able to better know where I am, that I take reasonable trail precautions, but he's still holding on to 'something might happen.'  Later that evening, one of the dinner guests, a friend of my stepmother's, asked me about hiking, saying "And you hike by yourself?  Are you really sure that's wise?"  I said, shortly, "Yes, it is."

I know that things can happen.  I know that it's not a safe world for women, that it's specifically less safe for women than for men.  I know that the thing my father won't say out loud is not that I might get hurt or attacked by an animal.  He is afraid I will be assaulted, raped, or murdered, and he's correct in his knowledge that my gender makes me more likely to be so.  What he doesn't understand is how aware I am that I might also be assaulted, raped, or murdered by someone I meet at the grocery store, or someone who lives in my apartment complex, or the acquaintance of an acquaintance I meet at a party, or a partner, or any one of a dozen other scenarios.  There is no guarantee that any place is a 'safe place' for me, not my own house, not even his house.

It bothers me when people like my stepmother's friend offer "Are you sure that's wise?" in hushed and scandalised voices, with significant looks to make sure I understand the unspoken "...for a woman?"  They wouldn't ask this of either of my stepbrothers, one of whom has been working in bars and at after-hours parties in all sorts of parts of Austin and San Antonio pretty much since he finished college -- and neither of whom has the sort of skills and experience I have at taking care of myself.

The conversation with my father trailed off when I tried to explain that I was refusing to accept what I felt were gender-based attitudes towards my need for fear.  I said, "You wouldn't ask those questions of a son.  You're a father of two daughters you didn't raise to be cowards.  Doesn't it bother you that I'm expected to live a life in fear, that I'm just supposed to accept that the world is more dangerous for me?"  He didn't have an answer, except that "It's just the way the world is."

He thinks I'm being fearless.  I'm not being fearless.  I'm often very, very afraid, so afraid that my hands shake and my voice threatens to give out on me, but I know that being afraid must not stop me.  There are times when I am in a situation, on a trail as the sun sets or walking further than I remember to my car late at night, and I think, "If something happens to me, they will say 'she should have known better than to do that in this dangerous world' and shake their heads.  They will say I 'got myself' hurt, and that of course I didn't 'deserve' it, precisely, but what did I expect?"

But I walk on, and I force myself to hold up my head, to project confidence, to make each stride firm and decisive.  In part, it's because I have no other option.  I can't call my dad, or some other male, to come and walk me back to my car or finish that last half-mile of trail with me.  I can't just stop living, stop moving, stop having experiences just because my gender makes me a target.  I can't pass up my life just because I'm afraid to live it without an escort, a chaperone, a bodyguard, a buddy.

There's another reason, a stronger one, that makes me brave when I am scared: I never know who's watching me.  Maybe it's a predator looking for a soft target, who'll move along when he sees my squared shoulders and easy stride.  More than that?  Maybe it's another woman, another frightened woman who's being told she must stay in the light, must behave, must follow all the rules, must never walk alone, must never trust in her own companionship, and maybe she'll see me and straighten her own back, hold up her own head.  And maybe it's a little girl, building the character of the woman she'll be.  Maybe when people push her to fear, to hide, to stay with the herd, she'll remember me, walking alone in the places I have every right to be, and she'll accept the danger as I do, steady her hands, and set out to choose her own way.

Just Saying No

Say "No."

Just, right now, say it out loud.  See how it feels, how you feel when you're saying it, how you hold your face and your body.  How does your voice sound when you say it?

No.

Do you feel powerful?  Defiant?

...

Guilty?

What did you think of, when you said it?  Of things you'd like to say no to, but can't?  Of incursions against your body, your time, your schedule, your budget, that press upon you every day?  Of the constant fight for your own space, your own needs, your own rights?

Do you think of tedious dates you went on because it would have been mean or stuck-up to refuse them?  Of unfulfilling or unwanted sex it was easier to endure than refuse, for the sake of the relationship?  Of late nights worked and family events missed because you felt 'no' would endanger your job?  Of volunteer burnout as 'just one more little thing' is heaped on the already-overworked individuals who pitch in to keep things running for everyone else?  Of words like 'helium hand' or 'voluntold' that mask the common practice of tapping the same small population for an expanding set of tasks?

We are not taught that 'no' is a sacred birthright, that we have not only the right, but the obligation, to establish and defend our boundaries.  We are, instead, taught that our needs are secondary to getting along.  And getting along means that the person with the most power, the most force of personality, the most control, sets the agenda for everyone else, even against their wishes and interests.  We do not resist it, because the current drives so very hard against those who stand up in it.

One of the hardest parts of training newbie Safety Staff is teaching them to put their own needs at the center of their service.  We are there because we WANT to be there, because we WANT to help, because it is important to us that others be safe, and happy, and healthy.  It seems counter to this to stop me and say, "I know I am supposed to be working tonight, but I am exhausted and at the end of my reserves.  I need to sleep instead."  But that, right there, which happened at the last festival I worked, is exactly right.  In that moment, I needed to be told 'No' by someone who knew herself and her limitations far better than I could.  As a leader, 'No' is music to my ears even when it snarls my schedule, because it means that the people working with me are caring for themselves and respecting their own boundaries.

As a woman, it's even more gratifying to hear another woman offer a clear and unapologetic 'no'.  I have struggled, as have so many of the women I know, with the delineation and defense of my boundaries.  I sat on airplanes while men sitting next to me took up the armrest and half my seat as well, but I said nothing because it would be 'rude' to defend the space I paid for.  I just gave up and let the guy on the dance floor keep his hand on my ass because I didn't want to be That Bitchy Prude.  I worked late hours and gave up my evenings because my bosses felt it was 'unfair' to ask married co-workers to give up time with their families.

Over and over, I sacrificed what I wanted and what I needed, because I could not reach and hold 'no'.  Because I attached all the guilt that comes to women who are 'standoffish', 'bitchy', 'rude', or 'ungrateful' to it.  Because I let others establish how we would share the common space and resources and tasks.  Because I internalized the relentless social message that I do not have the right or agency to refuse any treatment, any task, any expectation.  Because, at the heart of it, I had never considered the possibility that my time, my needs, my rights, were equally valuable to anyone else's and deserving of equal respect.

I started saying 'no'.  First, it was a sharp "No!" to obvious incursions.  "No, and let go of me RIGHT NOW."  It was the 'no' that comes with the threat of a short sharp punch to a sensitive body area.  But then, as I got used to how 'No' felt, I was less moved to give it sharp edges.  "No, I can't stay late tonight."  "No, I don't want a free sample."  "No, I'm not interested in going back to your tent."  Firm, clear, unambiguous.

To be honest, it isn't easy.  People push back against it.  They say, "But why not?  You're usually so helpful."  They say, "What will one little date hurt?"  They say, "Why do you have to be so contrary?"  They say, "Can't you just try it out and decide?  Don't be so negative!"  And still I smile, and I say, "No."  No excuses, no apologies, no dissembling.  I generally don't even offer an explanation, because that leads people to think that you're open to negotiation.

It's both liberating and terrifying to claim agency like that.

Now, I feel moved to tackle the larger refusals.  Because once you have mastered, "No (I do not owe you a date just because you got up the nerve to ask)," you can tackle, "You may be a nice guy and all, but women are not beholden to men for sex or companionship simply because you don't go around raping and beating us."  Once you have mastered, "No, I cannot work late tonight (just because you think a single woman's plans are inherently malleable)," you can begin to reach for "I am a valuable employee and deserve equal respect and compensation to any of my co-workers regardless of gender."  Once you have mastered, "No, I will not attend church with you this Sunday (because your church teaches that people I love and value are worthy of scorn and hatred)," you are ready for "I believe that faith is a deeply personal choice and that it is not an appropriate guide for public policy or legislation, and reject attempts to use the false idea of a universal morality to create laws."

And most liberating of all, I find that "No, thank you, I don't want that free makeover/perfume sample/'health survey'," is growing up to be "I reject your right to establish a universal standard for health or beauty based in an idealized body image, appearance, skin tone, or gender identity.  No, I don't want your magazine model beauty and your Ten Tips For Perfect Abs and your sixteen-page foldout article on how to camouflage my flaws or 'tone my trouble areas'.  I am beautiful in myself, and I choose to determine who I shall be and how I shall live."

That is where I hope to end up.  It is a long and arduous process and I am only partway there.

But it begins with a single word, a word I urge you to say, once more with feeling:

No.

On Privilege

It seems like I spend a lot of time talking about privilege.  Describing it, discussing it, debating whether a situation is due to privilege, or just coincidence.  But what really strikes me is how polarizing a concept it is, and how negatively people react to it.  I'm not sure the negative reaction is warranted, and I think the fault for that is multi-sourced.

Privilege, once you've stripped away all the politics and all the trappings and all the accusations, is the basic idea that some element of who you are can make your place in the world a little softer or a little harder than it might have been otherwise.  It doesn't mean some people are guaranteed a hard or an easy experience at all.

Take, for example, one of the most common privileges:  race.  You cannot escape the advantage of being part of the dominant racial power structure.  People see my white face and they make certain assumptions about me, and don't make others.  It is less likely that I'll be followed in a store as a suspected shoplifter,  and less likely that I'll be assumed to be on welfare, than if I were black or Latina.  I can put a scarf on to cover a bad hair day without being assumed a terrorist, which might happen if I were Middle Eastern.  I am not fetishized as 'exotic' because of the shape of my eyes or the color of my skin -- a daily reality for most non-white women, but especially for those of Asian descent.  If I am chosen over an equally qualified applicant for a job, I don't hear the whispers that I only got the job because the company 'needed more color diversity'.

Finally, it's more likely that I'll be expected to have disposable income, AND I am closer to the 'beauty norm' my society embraces, so advertising is targeted to me, with models that match my own skin tone and vocal intonations.  This means that I'm surrounded by idealized beauty, and that idealized beauty (save the obligatory 'multicultural' token models) looks like the people in my own family.  I get the constant, subtle reinforcement of the message that I am of the dominant paradigm.

On the other hand, I fall to the opposite side of one of the other common privileges:  gender.  I can expect to be paid less than an equally qualified male applicant for the same job.  My medical care is a matter of national public debate.  What I escape in assumptions that what I've earned is based on 'ethnic diversity' I reap in whispers that I slept my way up the ladder or only got a position because the company 'needed more gender diversity'.  I am more likely to be a victim of rape or domestic violence, which colors my interactions with men, my relationship model, and my personal habits.  I have never voluntarily lived in a first-floor apartment, have even paid more or chosen a less-desirable location to avoid it, because of the possibility of peeping toms, or intruders coming through a window.  When I began college, I received messages from every direction, telling me how to avoid rape, an overwhelming chorus of voices:  Don't relax.  Don't trust.   Above all, remember that you are never safe.

More people, my first year of college, told me how to avoid being raped by a friend or a stranger than told me how to choose classes, develop study habits, find an internship, and work with my professors for my own success.  I am told, daily, to spend an incredible amount of time, money, and energy on the fact that I have no right to expect to be respected or even safe and must work harder to secure these things for myself.

Are these examples universal?  No, absolutely not.  Am I guaranteed higher wages based on my skin and lower ones based on my gender, regardless of what I do?  No, of course not.  I can do things to change my lot.  I can become aggressive about pursuing compensation, work harder and longer hours, and prove my worth.  If I look or dress a certain way, I'll reap the same assumptions about welfare or shoplifting.  But the essence of privilege is that, all else being equal, certain things provide an advantage.  Two people of different skin colors, born in the same city to parents of equal socioeconomic status, educated in the same schools, wearing the same clothes, achieving the same grades and working equally hard, SHOULD expect the world to treat them the same way, and receive the same rewards.  But they can't expect that, because it doesn't happen.  A man and a woman who put equal work into school and their professional lives, who are equally qualified and competent, should expect equal respect and compensation.  But they can't expect that, because it doesn't happen.

And the next part is important:  the fact that it doesn't happen doesn't mean anything about them personally.  Having privilege doesn't make you a racist.  It doesn't make you a sexist.  It doesn't make you homophobic, classist, ableist, or any other form of bigot.  It says absolutely nothing about YOU except your demographics.  Privilege is about where you fall when it comes to institutionalized barriers to success, not how you treat other people, whether you've worked for what you've got, whether you've ever consciously discriminated against another person.  It means that the system tilted towards you in certain circumstances, and whether you chose to or not, you received certain advantages with that tilt.  Most of those advantages boil down to not having had to put extra time, money, and energy into things other people spend a lot to overcome.

To check your own privilege is not admitting you had it easy.  It's admitting that you could have had it harder, and that some people did.  It's admitting that your perspective is informed by a system that's spent your entire life (and decades before you were born) affirming that the center of the 'normal' bell curve is arranged around an ideal that shares certain traits with you.  Most of all, it's admitting that you acknowledge the barriers you never had to scale, and saying you want to tear those down, so that those who work as hard as you do can earn the same rewards.

And almost no one falls on the 'privileged' side of the equation universally.  I am a white, straight, able-bodied college-educated middle-class thirty-something overweight pagan woman who suffers from chronic depression.  Sometimes the world isn't fair to me.  Sometimes it's fairer than I've earned.  The privilege that affects my perspective is layered and nuanced, and I don't always pick it out, but like most people I'm pretty quick to see my own disadvantages.

Of course, this brings me to the final question:  what do you DO about it?  You learn to acknowledge it gracefully, you learn to listen when someone points out an advantage to you, and you stop to consider whether your perspective is based on institutional advantages.  When you find yourself without privilege, you learn to call it out without necessarily attacking the people who have it -- instead remembering that its *existence* is the enemy, not its *beneficiaries*.

Most of all, when you find yourself *with* privilege, you work to end it, not by dragging yourself down or placing artificial barriers but by working to remove those barriers for others.  My clearest example of this is that two groups of people worked to give women the vote:  Women who stood up fearlessly and demanded it, and men who stood beside them and used their own voting privilege to extend it.  No one thought to say that men shouldn't have the vote; removing privilege should not disenfranchise or harm those born to it.  My life shouldn't get harder as barriers for others are removed, but the resulting fair competition should make us ALL stronger and faster.