I was checking out this old magazine in my Aunt's house and ran across this ad. It's in the Woman's Day Dec. 1967 issue. This blew my mind.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Don't be Demure
I was checking out this old magazine in my Aunt's house and ran across this ad. It's in the Woman's Day Dec. 1967 issue. This blew my mind.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Coming Out American
I have always subscribed to the belief that you are not truly out-of-the-closet until you have been the only gay person amongst a crowd of heterosexuals; it’s one thing to be gay with your gay friends – it’s a whole other shebang to be the gay. The gay has to decide whether to bring a partner or a friend of the opposite sex to a work event, has to field a plethora of logistical questions about sex, and is even sometimes metamorphosed into the face of universal gayness via boosterish friends and family members.
I have grown to embrace my level of authority when it comes to representing the entire gay population on occasion, but my stance on being an American is not quite as solid. It may sound somewhat preposterous, but I believe that one cannot truly understand what it means to be an American until they have been the lone emissary. It’s one thing to be an American in America, it’s another to carry that passport abroad.
I was in the Panama Canal when I first heard the news that California had legalized gay marriage. It seemed an appropriate setting – a controversial test of American strength and conviction. I spent eight months traveling around the world with Semester at Sea, living on a ship and helping students enhance their studies within a global context. I had already traveled to a majority of the countries we were exploring, but this was the first time I felt my identity come into serious question -- not whether or not I would chose to be out as gay, but whether or not I was comfortable being out as an American.
Annie was a 31 year-old Indian chemist I met while held up in a train station outside of Delhi. She spoke 6 languages, was raising 3 children, and had worked her own way through college despite the setbacks of having been born into a lower caste, yet her ultimate dream was to move to the USA in search of greater prosperity – which had already begun with the adoption of a new first name. As we sat for 4 hours beneath a blinking fluorescent light, I felt the inherent awkwardness of being the physical manifestation of her presumed greener grass -- I hold the privilege of having conversations with people all around the world despite my inexcusable monolingualism, I can choose to apply for and obtain a visa to almost anywhere, anytime (with the unfortunate exception of Cuba), and I was the one who eventually boarded a first class train while she and her crying children waited behind for second.
To her, it was no surprise that my ideal of the greener grass had a lot more to do with India than a fondness of hot dogs or the Pledge of Allegiance. Her country had recently launched a branded campaign in lure of the spiritual tourist, and my thirst for all things communal and non-materialistic seemed to fit that mold. We were at a place of mutual and somewhat idealistic envy until she finally asked why I wasn’t married, she herself having been the happy product of an arranged, 10-year relationship. I hesitated a moment, then simply responded that my country did not allow me to. Never had I seen a look of hope diminish so swiftly.
A few months later as I sailed up the Atlantic, I was just about to take a bite of my blueberry bagel when Archbishop Desmond Tutu politely asked if he could join me. Curious to hear about my overall experience, I told him about the Brazilian luck ribbons I had been handing out to friends like Annie, and how I had even given one to a man I met in Cape Town. “It’s funny,” I reminisced, “here I was passing these three wishes on to an African man who had just seen the beach we were sitting on only a few years before (post-Apartheid), and when I eluded to one of my wishes being the ability for gays in the US to have equal rights, he was completely dumbfounded.” Water, power, and food are not always stable in South Africa, but whether or not gays should be allowed to marry is off the table -- it’s legal.
When I arrived back home and learned of Proposition 8, I felt a cold shiver of humility run up my spine. I desperately want to believe that there is something beyond consumerism that unites us in this giant melting pot we call the United States. We may not all be into World Soccer nor share a belief that Showgirls is the greatest movie of all time, but if there’s common ground we all share as Americans, please let it be our ability to live our lives as free individuals. Let us be responsible for ourselves. Let us take that leap of “till death do us part” if we so choose, and let us be financially and legally obligated to it. And while we say “I do,” let us further pump more money back into the fledgling economy – for if there is one more inappropriate generalization I can make – gay weddings have a penchant for extravagance.
The archbishop had wisely responded at the conclusion of our breakfast, “God is crying to see people wasting even more time and resources on hate and discrimination.” Coming from the man who ended Apartheid, I see this as hope. Please vote no on Proposition 8. Not because you’re gay, straight, liberal or conservative. Because you’re an American, and so am I.
I have grown to embrace my level of authority when it comes to representing the entire gay population on occasion, but my stance on being an American is not quite as solid. It may sound somewhat preposterous, but I believe that one cannot truly understand what it means to be an American until they have been the lone emissary. It’s one thing to be an American in America, it’s another to carry that passport abroad.
I was in the Panama Canal when I first heard the news that California had legalized gay marriage. It seemed an appropriate setting – a controversial test of American strength and conviction. I spent eight months traveling around the world with Semester at Sea, living on a ship and helping students enhance their studies within a global context. I had already traveled to a majority of the countries we were exploring, but this was the first time I felt my identity come into serious question -- not whether or not I would chose to be out as gay, but whether or not I was comfortable being out as an American.
Annie was a 31 year-old Indian chemist I met while held up in a train station outside of Delhi. She spoke 6 languages, was raising 3 children, and had worked her own way through college despite the setbacks of having been born into a lower caste, yet her ultimate dream was to move to the USA in search of greater prosperity – which had already begun with the adoption of a new first name. As we sat for 4 hours beneath a blinking fluorescent light, I felt the inherent awkwardness of being the physical manifestation of her presumed greener grass -- I hold the privilege of having conversations with people all around the world despite my inexcusable monolingualism, I can choose to apply for and obtain a visa to almost anywhere, anytime (with the unfortunate exception of Cuba), and I was the one who eventually boarded a first class train while she and her crying children waited behind for second.
To her, it was no surprise that my ideal of the greener grass had a lot more to do with India than a fondness of hot dogs or the Pledge of Allegiance. Her country had recently launched a branded campaign in lure of the spiritual tourist, and my thirst for all things communal and non-materialistic seemed to fit that mold. We were at a place of mutual and somewhat idealistic envy until she finally asked why I wasn’t married, she herself having been the happy product of an arranged, 10-year relationship. I hesitated a moment, then simply responded that my country did not allow me to. Never had I seen a look of hope diminish so swiftly.
A few months later as I sailed up the Atlantic, I was just about to take a bite of my blueberry bagel when Archbishop Desmond Tutu politely asked if he could join me. Curious to hear about my overall experience, I told him about the Brazilian luck ribbons I had been handing out to friends like Annie, and how I had even given one to a man I met in Cape Town. “It’s funny,” I reminisced, “here I was passing these three wishes on to an African man who had just seen the beach we were sitting on only a few years before (post-Apartheid), and when I eluded to one of my wishes being the ability for gays in the US to have equal rights, he was completely dumbfounded.” Water, power, and food are not always stable in South Africa, but whether or not gays should be allowed to marry is off the table -- it’s legal.
When I arrived back home and learned of Proposition 8, I felt a cold shiver of humility run up my spine. I desperately want to believe that there is something beyond consumerism that unites us in this giant melting pot we call the United States. We may not all be into World Soccer nor share a belief that Showgirls is the greatest movie of all time, but if there’s common ground we all share as Americans, please let it be our ability to live our lives as free individuals. Let us be responsible for ourselves. Let us take that leap of “till death do us part” if we so choose, and let us be financially and legally obligated to it. And while we say “I do,” let us further pump more money back into the fledgling economy – for if there is one more inappropriate generalization I can make – gay weddings have a penchant for extravagance.
The archbishop had wisely responded at the conclusion of our breakfast, “God is crying to see people wasting even more time and resources on hate and discrimination.” Coming from the man who ended Apartheid, I see this as hope. Please vote no on Proposition 8. Not because you’re gay, straight, liberal or conservative. Because you’re an American, and so am I.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
From The SF Gate
"Fresno County authorities have arrested a man they say broke into the home of two farmworkers, rubbed one with spices and whacked the other with a sausage before fleeing. Fresno County sheriff's Lt. Ian Burrimond says the suspect, 22-year-old Antonio Vasquez of Fresno, was found hiding in a nearby field wearing only a T-shirt, boxer shorts and socks. The victims told deputies they awoke Saturday morning to the stranger applying spices to one of them and striking the other with an 8-inch sausage. Burrimond said money allegedly stolen in the burglary was recovered. The sausage was tossed away by the fleeing suspect and eaten by a dog."
Call me crazy, but doesn't this smell a little like Anne Heche?
Call me crazy, but doesn't this smell a little like Anne Heche?
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Spiders, Oh My
So I'm walking out of my apartment yesterday, headed for Ikea with Brian when we spy my postman standing in the front yard, holding a large matchbox. He starts rambling nonchalantly, as if it is an everyday occurrence for him to be hanging out against a palm tree versus delivering mail. He's a nice man, and before I left months ago, I offered him my consultation on which metal outgoing mail box to place in our entryway -- but the word spider immediately caused me to twitch and scuffle. Not taking the hint that the mere thought of an eight legged beast causes hives to raise from my white girl skin, he went on and on about the special spiders that evidently live in my tree, and how he collects them -- bringing them home to an arachnid condiminium. "Brian!" I shouted, trying to indicate that I really wanted to get into the car versus analyzing the supposed "hundreds" that reside in the juniper tree outside of my windows. The postman finally got the hint, but before we could pull away he opened the matchbox, revealing a reddish monster that crawled out onto his arm. WTF is with these civil servants?
Friday, August 29, 2008
Fashionista
My friend Liz claimed it fashionista status, but I felt more like a Vietnamese vagabond getting off of the plane at LAX. I managed to get my two bags down to 50 lbs each by wearing as many layers as humanly possible -- thrusting them on and off of the scale until the woman finally gave me unenthusiastic clearance at 50.6 lbs. Just a little over, but still not bad for having been gone for so long in my humble opinion. This is the first time I have flown since the baggage crisis began, so I tried to pack according to my friend Virginia's suggestion of learning the "bundle method,"and though I had to pay fifty damn dollars to check a second bag, I feel pretty good knowing that my flight from Richmond, VA to LAX was somehow only $130.I was surprised last night by a gaggle of friends and Elton John's Mexican doppelganger. I could not have planned a better re-entry myself -- good friends, big smiles, and even bigger vats of guacamole and refried beans. I love my amigos!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Into the Great Wide Open
8 months. 51,113 nautical miles (58,819 miles). 25 countries later.
Watching my last sunset as we make our way into Norfolk, Virginia. Spending a few days in Charlottesville then back to Los Angeles. I want to thank each and every one of you (which equals maybe five) for reading this and for giving me a sense of feeling anchored to home when needed. I made the decision as we pulled out of Croatia to spend this last ocean transit thinking, relaxing, and offending my fellow passengers one last time. I might have abandoned this blog for most of the summer, but the true purpose was to take notes along the way for the writing I intend to do back on land. So stay tuned for more shenanigans. And for what it is worth, I imagine the segue back into life sans a porthole will be even more entertaining.
Signing off from Deck 2.
Watching my last sunset as we make our way into Norfolk, Virginia. Spending a few days in Charlottesville then back to Los Angeles. I want to thank each and every one of you (which equals maybe five) for reading this and for giving me a sense of feeling anchored to home when needed. I made the decision as we pulled out of Croatia to spend this last ocean transit thinking, relaxing, and offending my fellow passengers one last time. I might have abandoned this blog for most of the summer, but the true purpose was to take notes along the way for the writing I intend to do back on land. So stay tuned for more shenanigans. And for what it is worth, I imagine the segue back into life sans a porthole will be even more entertaining.
Signing off from Deck 2.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Final Crossing ...
The sky was bubblegum pink as we smoothly sailed out of the Dubrovnik harbor last night around 2100, floating past the walls of the ancient city and into the Adriatic Sea. After withstanding an attack by the Yugoslav People's Army in 1991 that left the majestic city in shambles, the refurbished rampart stood as perhaps the perfect backdrop to the end of a prodigious journey. I sat on deck 6 aft with my feet propped up against the railings, chatting with my friend Missy and venturing to nearly tap the surface of all that I, and we as a collective, have experienced. A reflection that is beginning to materialize but I imagine will take quite a bit of time to truly unfold.
(photo credit: Randy Lewis)
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