So, boys will be boys is bullshit

So, this morning, I decided to go for a run. I donned my shoes, picked my music, and started to run. Up ahead, I saw a Lao man and a foreign woman talking. She walked away. He leaped from the stairs on which he sat and started full on sprinting after her. I rounded the bend and saw the woman on the ground, scraped up yelling, "Are you crazy?"

I asked, "Did you just push that woman? Why did you do that?"

He then turned to the men sitting and watching this episode and said something with utter contempt.

I asked again,"What did you do?"

He waved me off and walked back to the hotel where he works (Mountain View Riverside Boutique Hotel).

The woman got up and we walked towards the town center and stopped at a restaurant I frequented so she could wash her hands. She told me, "Yesterday, I went to his hotel to find a room. He said it was 100,000 kip [13.50 USD] per night. I said that was a little too expensive for me, and I asked him if there was somewhere cheaper. He freaked out on me and just started yelling. Me and my friend were scared, so we said we will write a bad review on trip advisor. He called us bitches, and we left. Then, just now, he called to me and said, 'I remember you, bitch.' I said, 'I remember you, too. I can still write a review, and walked away. And, then I was on the ground."

I asked her if she wanted to go to the police, and she said that she didn't because they weren't  going to do anything about it.

And, that, that is the bullshit for which I refuse to stand. This boys will be boys and men will be men mentality. Violence is not, should not, cannot be gendered. Boys will be what we teach them. If we teach them misogyny, then they will be misogynists. If we teach them kindness, care, compassion, they will be kind, caring, and compassionate. I refuse to allow the boys will be boys rhetoric in my life. Even in children, if boys will be boys by pulling little girls' hair, teach them to not pull hair. If boys will be boys means young men coming in from sports covered head to toe in mud, well, I guess I didn't earn the nickname 'Mudbucket' by having a penis. Children will be children. Kids will be kids. Boys do not have to be what boys were. They do not have to adhere to the ideas that violence is the only acceptable way for men to show emotion. And, lesbiehonest, masculinity is not a singularly male trait. It is a frame of mind. It is a way of expressing oneself regardless of gender, gender identity, or even biology.

I have known too many men (and humans along the spectrum) who would be appalled by this crass generalization of what it means to be a man. My friend Sean is one of the most gentle people I know and is unapologetically a feminist. Ben has come into every conversation about gender with strong opinions but the most open mind possible. Boot has the most patience I have ever experienced in a human being ever. These, these men are the standards by which I judge what it means to be a man. These men and so many others in my life show me that there is a way to be 'both comma and' to be both a man, and be a feminist/humanist/womanist. If we expect our young men to be respectful of others, if we expect our young men to see young women as equals, then, then our boys will be boys who value the humans in their lives. Our boys will be boys who are conscious of the world around them. Our boys will be boys who recognize their privilege and use it to balance the playing field. Our boys will be the boys we want them to be.

At breakfast, even now as I write this, a foreign man is playing peek-a-boo with a little Lao girl, patiently, gently, whole heartedly enjoying this moment he's sharing cross cultural, cross age, cross gender boundaries. And, it is a very beautiful thing.

So, it seems fitting

So, it seems fitting that I am riding backwards on the train from Busan to Seoul. At first, when I sat down, I was nervous about how my tummy has gotten really motion sensitive in my old age. But, after I realised I was being silly, I settled into my luxurious window seat next to a man in a sweater vest. I put on some acoustic jams and started looking. And, when you go forward on the train, you have a feeling of arrival, "I've got my big girl pants on. I am going places and doing stuff!!" But, going backwards has a distinct feeling of departure. Things stay in my line of vision until they disappear. I watched my city, my home slip out of my vision to The Weepies, silently replacing the high rises with rambling hills and a snow capped mountainscape.

It seems fitting that I am wearing my big girl pants. I AM going places and doing stuff. I'm wearing an outfit and personality completely different from the dress and curls clad woman who came to Korea not four years ago. I grew up here. I acquired a taste for dapper ties and snap backs, dry red wine and meaningful conversations. It is best when all four of those things happened at the same time!

It seems fitting that all of my possessions are either in a box or in a back pack. My clothes and books are in transit, much like myself. Moving from place to place, check points and safely landing on my mother's doorstep. My immediate possessions (including the game time addition of Rainbow Bunny) rest in a back pack looking down on me from the luggage rack. The world will be my classroom. Literal geography class moving country to country. Quick math for currency and science conversion. The science of people, culture, oceans, and mountains. History is everywhere. I am the student. I feel like a kindergartner on my first day of school. Kinda ready, kinda scared. Hoping that people like me and don't make fun of my polka dot and stripe overall shorts.

It seems fitting that this post seems a bit unfinished. It isn't my usual first-second-third-fourth-finally published draft of thoughts carefully crafted to note exactly how I want the world to perceive my emotions. I wrote this in one shot on the train. I arrive in ten minutes and I am not ready to finish this post. I am not ready to say goodbye to the people I've met here. I am not ready to live in a place without mountains and oceans. I am not ready.

Or maybe I am. Maybe I am ready, just scared. Just happy. Just sad. Just excited. Maybe I am all of these things. And, maybe, just maybe, that is okay.

So, I drank three cups of tea

I have a lot of feelings about this world, many of which focus on how we're heading towards hell in a stylish yet affordable hand basket. But, that's not what this is about.

My time in Taiwan thus far has been filled with some great surprises, including but not limited to amazing tour guides through the national museum and stinky tofu (thanks M and K). As traveling often goes, there have been some hitches. I have found myself in a foreign country with no access to my funds and a cell phone which doesn't charge with the immediacy I am used to. While both of these are solveable and definitely first world problems, they are frustrating nonetheless. Don't worry, Mom. I will be alright.

So, despite the steady showers, I decided to rent a bike and lose myself in foreign scenery and thoughts. As showers shifted toward downpours, I sought refuge under a tent with loads of furniture seemingly abandoned. Bonus: there was a puppy sitting on the table. So, Jericho and I sat watching the rain for a while.  I was thinking about all the small things (not the song but actual small things) that have been great in this past week.

Then, an older man pulled his bike up and told Jericho to get off the table in a string of syllables (suspicion: Jericho is perhaps not the dogs actual name). The man dried off the table at which I was having my belly button time*, then brought out a huge thermos.

Using no words, he motioned towards the thermos, pointed at me, and mimed drinking. I nodded and he pulled a cup out of nowhere and poured some tea for me. He settled into a wicker chair and had some belly button time, himself. That, that was when I started writing this, furiously penning it into a pocket notebook (in other news furious writing = cursive, I guess. I was surprised, as well). Anyway, I finished my tea and moved to a different spot on the table, so I could write more easily. Before I sat down, though, he snatched a towel and dried the seat and table to make sure my paper didn't get wet. He poured me a new cup of tea and gestured a "continue working" motion, so I listened. He settled down behind me, watching me, watching the rain, watching Jericho-not-Jericho.

And this, this is what I have been thinking this whole writing time: is this my language now? I have been slowly losing my English as I have lived abroad. I am not nearly as bombastic as I once was. I am not even close to sufficient in Korean to make up my language deficit. But, as I embark on a two month journey to all sorts of places, I'm learning a new language: one of kindness, universal gestures, yes, no, drink, friend. It is beautiful and humbling. I put so much effort into verbal communication--saying things exactly right (and often miffed when others do not follow suit). My voice is now a set of movement, a dance with intricate steps.

In that moment, I tried to choreograph the perfect way to express my sincere gratitude for the tea. So, I drew him a picture. It was in the classic Botsford style of stick figures and no sense of proportion whatsoever. I gave it to him, and he looked flabbergasted. He just kept looking at it and smiling. He put it in his pocket and then took it out again to laugh. He poured me a final cup of tea, and we sat and watched the rain fall content in our belly button company.

*Belly Button Time is a Botsfordism which means you take time to stare at your belly button and contemplate the complexities of the universe.

Note: I will update with photos as soon as I can access them.

So, three French hens, eh?

According to my vast googling of "when actually are the twelve days of Christmas," it appears as though today, December 28th, is the third day of Christmas. Hence, the French hens. 

I started my Christmas season crying on my friend's couch because I had just skyped my father on Christmas Eve, and it is acutely heart wrenching to be away from my parents right now. Decembers haven't been kind to us as a family, and each year that passes is a significant reminder of it. 

Unexpected mishaps the following morning had me sitting in my bed on Christmas morning without even the slightest glimmer of magic that had so often glittered this holiday in the days of yore. Don't worry, my Christmas shaped up to be the perfect way to spend the holiday--hours of platonic cuddling, Mean Girls, a pint of Shooting Star ice cream, and the classic holiday dish, spaghetti.

But, while I was wallowing in my own brought upon self pity, I decided that the only person making me feel like this was myself. And, that I am embarrassing myself. Let's be clear, there is nothing wrong with feeling upset that I am not with my family, nor is there anything wrong with a healthy amount of self-pity. But, this wasn't healthy. So, I did something about it. I started thinking of a list of good things in my life. Some friend's names popped into my head, and I thought, "What would _____ do?" So, I guess this is it...

... a list of 12 things I've received this year:

1. Unexpected friendships: 2015 has been a surprising year for strong relationships forged in things like mutual respect, compassion, intelligence, and rapier quick wit. These friendships have sort of fallen into my lap, and I hope that I have the wherewithal to maintain them as I travel and return to Wisconsin this next year. 

2. Affirmation of existing friendships: After three years of being apart, I plan to visit the person who, arguably, has helped me most in my coming of age. Like, if this were a hero story, she would be my meeting with the mentor. She set all of my positive life changes in motion. I knew I had to unlock my potential, she just helped me discover the key. 

3. Relationships with both of my parents: I left. I left when my parents got divorced. It was absolutely the right decision for me, as a young adult, but I also have been absent in how our family has restructured itself. And, it is time for me to return after fostering relationships with my parents as individuals. I am ready to figure out how I fit into this new idea of family of individual units as well as a whole. 

4. A niece: On February 11th, 2015, a little human came into this world. I skyped with her and her daddy in her first few minutes of her life. It was almost like I was in the waiting room, but just sitting on a couch in the middle of Busan watching The Imitation Game. I have skyped with her almost every week since she was born, and I let go of her, like, twice in my whole time visiting her. Saying goodbye to her was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. 

5. Conversations with my sister: She is one of the two most important women in my life (my mother being the other). She is often the facilitator of all the skype sessions with my niece, although, Sweet P is a wily one. Since I was 13, my sister has been my confidant and my hero. Here we are 15 years later, and that is still the case. 

6. Soundness of body: Touch wood, this has been the first major injury free year in a long time. I had some slips in September, but I rested and allowed my body to heal without pushing it too hard. I have worked hard to have a healthy body (totally just wrote baby there...guess motherhood is never truly far from my brain).

7. Soundness of mind: I have finally figured out a system of writing that helps me process emotions as well as create something I find beautiful. My co-boss for Busan Spoken Word told me I finally started to write poems I thought were good as opposed to poems the audience would think are good. I am excited to check out the slam scene in the States. It will be difficult to crack, but I plan to watch for a long time before I get up there, myself.

8. Lots of luck: I dunno if you've been paying attention, but every list I have ever made in my poetry or writing, the number eight has something to do with luck. Eight is my lucky number for no other reason than my friend asked what my lucky number was when I was eight, and so obviously my first choice was my age. It has been my jersey number for every sport except for TWO unlucky draws, then I became 20. No matter, 2015 has been full of luck. I drafted an amazing team of mostly rookies who played Ultimate with the most heart for which a gal could ask. We grew as an amazing rag tag group of pirates. We were small but mighty. And, by gum, we had the most unicorn points for the entire league, so there's that.

9. Freedom to marry: I can't tell you how frustrating it was listening to one male coworker talking to my other male coworker explaining how awful marriage is and that everything in your life is worse after you get married. As a queer woman, who did not have the right to wife or get wifed for half of the year, I wanted to shout at him, but that wouldn't have made for a positive work environment.  So, on June 27th, when loads of queer folks queued in front state offices to get a federally recognised marriage, I showed up on Monday in my most queer outfit that still passed as work clothes. Thanks Supreme Court for creating a universe in which queer little kids can imagine their weddings however they choose,  with boys, girls, boygirls, girlboys, and everyone in between.

10. Opportunity to educate: I have had some amazing teaching moments both within the classroom outside of it. I have taught my students about non-gender binary pronouns, as well as how to treat all people with respect. I have discussed word choice with those around me to encourage safe environments in which people feel comfortable being themselves. 

11. Opportunity to learn: I read all the time. I read newspapers, books, and articles. I take in so much information that I can't possibly process all of it. However, I take extra time with the things I care about the most. For example, this is possibly the most informed I have been about an election in my life. And, it is 11 months away. I am dedicated to find out the most I can about a topic before I spout my opinions on social media. I use the vast amounts of technology at my disposal for good and not evil. It is important to learn about your country AND ALSO the world in which we live. There is no possible way we can continue to survive with this "I / Me" attitude. It must become "We" or else we're finished. 

12. Hope: Too many folks live in fear. We fear each other. We fear the "other." We fear ourselves. This is why too many people arm themselves with weapons instead of words. But, I trust the people around me. I know that we can do something greater than what we've been given. This is not a good time in our world, but I have hope that we will work towards equality and compassion. 

If you've made it this far, congratulations. I am proud of you, kid. 2015 has been a big year. I can't wait to see the sunrise on January 1st, 2016. I will greet whatever comes at me with the strength, perseverance, and determination that I have learned these past 362 days.

Have peace, friends.
-KB  

So, there's a new colossus in town

Margaret Atwood shares, "I think hope is among a number of things that are part of the human tool kit" (Finn, "An Interview with Margaret Atwood, Slate, 2015). I would like us to unpack some recent US political moves in response to the attacks in Paris and Beirut  with hope--hope that we talk to each other, not at; hope that we listen, not craft our next argument; and hope that we can live up to the United States we once were. We used to be a place where the weary found rest and the searching found home. 

Emblazoned on a bronze plaque, Emma Lazarus' The New Colossus introduces tourists to the Statue of Liberty and the United States, herself. Just, check it out, and we'll take a look at it together (less in depth than the close-reading I did of it in junior year university, but worthwhile nonetheless). 

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, 
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. 
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, 
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Now, I am not so naive to think that everyone just read all that poetry mumbo jumbo, so here are the parts I want to talk about. 

Lazarus refers to the Statue of Liberty as the "Mother of Exiles" (6). We've all been exiled from somewhere, whether it was the lunch table of cool kids or, you know, a war torn country. The United States, all fifty of them, were meant to be the mother of these people. We are meant to hold them when they're sick, comfort them when they wake from night mares, and love them. (For the record, fathers should do all of these things, too. Side tangent.) 

In the next six lines, Lady Liberty directly addresses the world. I would urge these 28 governors, my very favourite Scott Walker among them, to listen up. The New Colossus cries, "Give me your tired, your poor, / your huddled masses yearning to breathe free" (10-11). She urges world leaders to send her the people their country has neglected. She does not want those of "storied pomp[;]" (9) she wants those who struggle towards freedom with everything they have left. American civilians, we don't get it. We haven't lived through war. We haven't had fighting on US soil since the Civil War, since the time when flying machines were held together with Scotch tape and a prayer and aeroplanes with bombs were absurd. We have no idea what it is like to live in a place with black out curtains or constant every day shelling. Lady Liberty had it right. The inscription ends with a notion of home--something the refugees desperately need. She commands the world to "send...the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door." This is the 1800s version of leaving the light on for someone. We used to be a safe house, a refuge.

Today, today, some states are, *illegally* mind you, saying, "Nah, brah. Not into it." Someone earlier this morning so eloquently stated, "There are only two reasons for Walker to respond like this. One, he is ignorant and racist. Or, two, he has to recognise that his plan to create more jobs failed, and he doesn't want these refugees taking our jobs." And, I get it. America is hurting for jobs, but we must provide asylum for these people. I am so disheartened that the governor of Wisconsin has tried to close its doors to people in need. It is a really backwards move for a state whose motto is "Forward." He says in a press release on 16 November 2015, "There may be those who will try to take advantage of the generosity of our country and the ability to move freely within our borders." And, while he may not be wrong, is that really the most prevalent end to our means? I think the good we can do far out weighs his fear. And, I do agree that we must "safeguard the security of Americans," but I think that we need to do this all the time, not just as a knee-jerk reactionary statement based in fear. The refugees are not the enemy. 

So, what, Wisconsin, what are you afraid of? Please tell me. I need an answer, because this this is not the Badger State in which I grew up. This is not a place of Midwest Nice. This is not my home. Get it together, Wisconsin. You're embarrassing yourself. 




  

So, it has been a year

and like seven days, but I have been thinking about writing this for about a week. So, that counts, right? Whatever, you don't tell me how to live my life. (Unless you're my mother, then you can totally tell me how to live my life. hashtag HiMom)

It has been a year since my last anxiety attack. I have told two very important people to me about this milestone, and both of them responded with a confused congratulations. Congratulations because that is a big effing feat. And, confused because they didn't even know I have an anxiety disorder.

So, I am here to out myself, I guess. I have had anxiety for a long time, and I have worked really hard in the past several years to be a healthier person. I don't always feel like my best self, but I wake up every day with that as a goal. And, for right now, that is enough. 

When I was a child, I was not able to control how I felt about anything. I felt everything, or I felt nothing. I spent hours awake at night telling stories to myself because I couldn't fall asleep. My stories would be about my day usually with some fantastic elements in there--my dragon second grade teacher or my lion best friend. These stories were my emotional processing tools. I needed them because I didn't have the capacity to process things in real time. So, at the end of the day, I had all of these things that happened and all of these emotions, and I didn't know how to feel them both at the same time. This storytelling activity continued for all of my adolescence and most of my young adulthood. It helped me sort out what I was feeling and when I was feeling it. The why was always illusive, though.  

As I am learning to process things more immediately, I catch myself being emotional at inappropriate times, and I don't really know what to do with it. I also don't really know how to pull myself together after any change from the norm. But, I am working on it. Baby steps, I suppose. 

After I told one person about my anxiety-attack free anniversary, she asked me what would set them off. And, I had never really thought about it truthfully. I wanted to lie to myself because I was/am ashamed of it. In my brain, I had never wanted to own up to my part in whatever was happening. But, this person has a way of calling me on my bullshit, and I didn't want to lie to her. 

So, I thought about it. My anxiety manifests itself in feelings of disappointment. Not when others are actually disappointed in me (that is guilt, not anxiety), but when I perceive others' disappointment. Or, it crushes when I think people depend on me for x, y, or z, and I feel like I cannot give hir my full attention. Or, sometimes my anxiety swoops in on the wings of emotional distress, and I stop breathing--scared, sad, and, usually, frustrated.

My road to mental and emotional health have been paved with friends made of gold--women and men who've taught me things like limits, true heroism, and there is always time to dance. I have learned to set realistic goals for myself. I have learned that I can't be everything for everybody. And, I have learned that it is not selfish to say, "No." 

I don't really know what I am trying to do with this post. Or, if I am trying to prove anything. I don't want pity. I guess, I want to give a face to some kinds of mental health. That people you know and love are not always what society deems "normal." That word "normal" in and of itself is absurd. I guess, I wanted to be a little more real with myself, to be vulnerable. I wanted to take a moment of sonder: the realisation that everyone is living a life equally as vivid and complex as my own (dictionary of obscure sorrows). 

And, that, my friends, is enough. 

So, what if gaining access to firearms and abortions was the same?

Now, before anyone vilifies me, please know that this is neither a pro- nor anti-abortion message. This is a critique of gun control, or lack there of.

So, let's set up a scene in which I want to procure a firearm, but I must jump through the hoops of a woman in Wisconsin who wants to obtain an abortion.

I realise that I need a firearm. It has been less than 20 weeks since I've felt threatened, so I am in the clear there. In Wisconsin, there are only four stores that sell firearms. One is in Madison (south central). One is in Appleton (north-ish east). And, two are in Milwaukee (south east). I don't live in any of these cities, so I have to find transportation to them. On Highway 100, I notice a bunch of people on the side of the road with signs depicting grotesque images of bullet ridden bodies--massacres, suicides, mercy killings. All of them read, "Guns Kill Children" or "Your mother chose not to have a gun." I'm uneasy about it, but I know that for my own protection, I need to have a gun. I have my reasons for needing a gun, and these people cannot possibly imagine what it is like to make this decision. I continue into the city.

When, I get to the store, I am warmly greeted by the shop keeper. I look around, and there are so many other things I can buy. But, I came here for a firearm. As I walk into a private alcove, the shop keeper comes over and asks me what she can help me with. I tell her directly that I need a firearm. I may go into explaining why. I may not.

By law, she tells me, I have to go see a state-directed counselor. In this meeting, she warns, I will most likely be shown pictures and messages about how guns are sometimes used to kill things--people or animals. 

I find the counselor, and he warns me of my firearm's potential. If I am not careful, my child could stumble upon my gun and think it is a toy and shoot themselves or someone else. I need to be cautious. This is one of the most important decisions of my life, and will effect everything that I do for the rest of it. It affects me, of course. But, it also affects every one who will come in contact with it. I am solely responsible for this firearm.

I thank my counselor for speaking with me, but I really, really need a firearm. I, now, have to wait twenty four hours from this moment before I can purchase a firearm. I live close to the city, so I go back home and wait. I think about my firearm--how it will be both terrifying and a relief to have or even terrifying and awful to have. Everyone needs firearms for different reasons.

The following day, I have to travel back to the store. My hands are a little sweaty. "Okay," I say to the shop keeper. "I am ready for my firearm." I choose one that is suitable for what I need. "That one.  I...I want that one."

"Okay," she says. She takes it down from the wall and takes a picture of it. She uses a red felt tipped pen to explain to me all of the different parts of my gun. "This is a safety--it prevents an accidental discharge. Oh, and this is the barrel. This is where the bullet comes out. And, this...this right here, this is the trigger. This is what you pull to fire it."

"I would like my firearm now," I say.

"Okay," says the woman.

My insurance won't cover me for purchasing this firearm, unless it is for a reason they deem appropriate. And, public funding only covers people who need firearms for specific purposes, like hunting or living on a farm. Unsurprisingly, my reason does not fall under these categories. I pay for my firearm because regardless of what my insurance company says, this gun is necessary for my emotional or physical well-being. I leave the store feeling like I've won a battle in a losing war.

Now, when people hear about my firearm they have all kinds of reactions. People shame me or empower me for it--often without listening to anything else I have to say on the matter. It will always be a part of who I am, but I am certainly not defined by it.

End scene.
(Restrictions on Abortion, State Facts about Abortion: Wisconsin)

Could you imagine if law makers put their heads together long enough to police fire arms the same way in which they police women's bodies? If a gun owner had to go to a psychologist to discuss why he or she wanted a gun? And, the reason had to fall under a specific category or else you can't have one? Handguns have specifically one purpose: to kill humans. And, there is absolutely no need that a civilian, or even police forces, need automatic or semi-automatic weapons. Hunting rifles are difficult to conceal and can be locked away in armories when it isn't hunting season. It is ridiculous that people are clinging to the 230 year old 2nd Amendment "right to bear arms."  The Constitution had some pretty abhorrent original text. We can change the amendments. Amend is literally in the name (adapted from Jim Jefferies).

Mass murder in the United States has become common place, routine. Wake up, America. You're embarrassing yourself.