A couple of weekends ago I went to visit my Mom. My sister arrived unexpectedly a short time later with her grandson, who is eight years old. Figuring the last thing the little guy wanted to do on a summer afternoon was to sit indoors with three older women, I said, “Let’s walk to the convenience store at the gas station, it’s only three blocks away, I’ll buy you a candy bar.”
We trundled off talking about candy and as we passed the elementary school a block away, he asked, “How old are you?” Hum, I thought to myself, I wonder why he wants to know my age? “I’m sixty-seven, almost sixty-eight,” I replied.
“Oh, then you’re older than my dad. He’s fifty-one,” he remarked.
Then he asked, “Do you have any children?”
At this point, I realized I had never spoken to my niece, his mother, about how much and how soon he should be informed about my ‘real’ position in the family tree. I concluded I would answer him honestly and hope for the best. (H…
the third Saturday in July of 2008, I took a leap of faith. It was
either that or leap to my death. As scared as I was of what lay ahead,
it was less frightening than the though of never having experienced what
it felt like to live authentically. I'm happy to still be here, as
A topic garnering much
attention in social sciences is intersectionality; the categorizations
of race, class, and gender as they apply to a given individual or
group, regarded as creating overlapping and interdependent systems of
discrimination or disadvantage.
Add to this idea the
questions we ask and the answers we get as we explore our world as
children and in our youth. What assumptions, expectations and
conclusions do we draw? Do they set us up for success or failure?
Same-sex attracted, and transgender and non-binary persons navigate and
view life through a lens that often makes them imagine a future that
is frightening. Fear of rejection, ridicule and abandonmen…
Coincidental with my Class of 68’ 50th high school reunion, the reports of Republicans bullying Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, who question her memory of the attempted rape by Supreme Court nominee, Brett Kavanaugh, it has thrown me into a bit of depression. I’ve been triggered.
I am here, in a motel room in San Jose, California, where in an hour my high school reunion is to take place.
Earlier this afternoon I drove to the two location where I was sexually abused and raped. I remember all the details. I may not know the name of my attackers, but my body and brain remember how it felt to be force to masturbate a man who was one of my paper route customers. I was 12 years old.
I resist to compulsion to go wash my hands for, God only knows, the millionth time.
Then there was the rape when I was 15 years old. Someone who purported to want to help me audition as a rhythm-guitar player in a garage band and had offered to drive me to a house in Willow Glen, a neighborhood in San Jose. But he …