Lady Work Crush, 2010: A Story of Cultural (In)competence (Part Three)

            I took a few days off and lay in bed with a cat sitting on me, deciding what to do. I went into the afterschool classroom in the in the middle of the day when no one was there, gathered up my stuff and left a note. I ran into one of the kids on the way in and the guilt just killed me. I felt like I was abandoning the children I’d been there to serve, because I was. Despite LWC’s perception that I was mean, the kids really did love me a lot, they always do, and I loved them so much too.

            I’d already written to the C.E.O. and other higher-ups during one of the witch-hunty meetings over the summer, and I wrote to them again at the end. This is one of those shitty experiences you hope has a good effect in the long run.

            A nice friend who worked at another school made me a card and had everyone sign it at the all-site meeting. It was sad but I hoped that future LGBTQ AmeriCorps members would be treated more hospitably.

            When I look back on the whole situation, I feel pretty humbled and mortified. Though homophobia was certainly a thread that ran through the whole experience, unwanted workplace advances DO need to be taken seriously, and she certainly deserved to be free of them. But at the same time, I never deserved to be treated with that much suspicion, that much distrust. Though the distrust was understandable in some ways, and I should have been much more willing to take time earning people’s trust, it still hurt, it still did damage, as did kind of having a car aimed at me.

            As I went deeper into the education field, the distrust factor got deeper and drownier. I found it very hard to stay in touch with my best qualities when people kept assuming the worst, and by the end, I was a threat to kids, I was part of a racist system and solidly part of the problem. I have to take responsibility for that and keep trying to bridge the gaps that separate me from African American people, from men, from straight people. The things that separate us hurt so much, and I know I can only do little things to fix the broken connections.

            If I were to run into LWC now, I would apologize for sending her the poem, for making her uncomfortable, for letting my frustration and loneliness impact her job. She probably wouldn’t apologize for aiming a car at me. Straight privilege seems insurmountable sometimes, and I am really, really sick of it.

            All of this informed my not-quite-love story with Mr. Makeout Music—the fear of meetings, the self-consciousness, the worrying about coercion, the general feeling like I might be the bad guy. But I’m gratified to say, this is a wholly different workplace (Well, it’s also a hetero attraction, but still.) Everyone on his team has been cordial and sweet and my own department head has been a patient, encouraging listener. Yesterday as the kids and I made a kindness chain for Christmastime, I felt things shift back into their normal, loving work ways.

I’m sorry it took me this long to realize I’m not back in the scary LWC situation. For all of my getting upset about Mr. Makeout Music greeting me with fear, I brought my own mess to the table too—fear of meetings, fear of oppressing him, fear of being too much and too many. As I revel in the space we’re giving each other and the freedom to grieve the lost connection, I feel aglow in the kind and accepting workplace I helped create.

Lady Work Crush, 2010: A Story of Cultural (In)competence (Part Two)

            At the time, Sweetie was working an hour and a half from home, on a good traffic day. It was a sacrifice she’d made so we could move to our new city, a sacrifice which my mother reminded me semi-daily was my fault and mine to correct.  Sweetie and I usually talked on the phone during her long commute, but the guilt and all of the dinners alone, combined with my insufficiently examined white lady issues, added up to a toxic soup of guilt and loneliness.

            While I was feeling this emptiness and longing to connect, Lady Work Crush developed a deep connection with the Mean Boss Girl, and they started to call each other sisters. Of course I would never want to begrudge anyone friend- or sister-love, but their bond made me feel even more alone, especially since their friendship included the detailed reiterating of SVU plots and I had to ask them to tone it down, to their great annoyance.

            We had a long series of snow days that February, during which my AmeriCorps hours got hopelessly behind and during which I wrote a love poem about Lady Work Crush. I mentioned it in passing and she said that she would love to read it. I hemmed and hawed and then sent it via facebook. I cringe every time I think about that decision, how it made things uncomfortable for her and unsafe for me.

            The next day at work, I saw contempt flash across Mean Boss Girl’s face as she took a call from LWC. There was another meeting. LWC said I’d been “taking it out on” the kids because I was upset that she didn’t like me back. I didn’t think that was accurate but it still gives me so much shame just to type it. She stated and reiterated that she prefers men in a way that still looks a little bit like protesting too much.

            I said that I understood and accepted her rejection, but that I also felt like I wasn’t being treated fairly, that this wouldn’t have had to be a meeting if I were a man. I said I thought they were making me into the bad guy in a way that made me feel unsafe and unwelcome at work. I’m not sure if that was true or if I was just embarrassed and hurt and trying to diffuse the shame and rejection like I always do. Probably it was both.

            LWC was LIVID at the end of this conversation, and that work night ended with her getting in her car, turning up the radio all the way, and speeding in the direction of my closeted male coworker and myself. I don’t want to be too dramatic, she only KIND OF aimed the car at us.

            There was a meeting with the boss’s boss the next day, wherein I was asked to sign a paper saying that I wouldn’t make any more advances on LWC. Now that I’m thinking about it, I only made one advance and accepted her “no,” so it seems crazy that there was a paper. I said again that this wouldn’t be happening if I were a man, but I signed it. I also told the bosses that this was a homophobic workplace and I didn’t quite understand how to fit in there anymore.

A Joyfully Bratty Mantra and a New Talisman

It’s standardized test time at work, and this means that school has been more stressful and shaming than usual. On Friday, our rooms were inspected and everyone who didn’t have every single thing off the walls, bookshelves covered, and students completely silent was subject to shaming announcements over the intercom and nasty write-ups.

When I opened my write-up and read it, something surprisingly joyful bubbled up in me. I don’t know if it was the awesomeness of my date the night before or the kind colleague who offered to stay after work and help me finish my room. Whatever it was, it added up to this bright phrase shining out of my heart: “Go fuck yourself.”

But it wasn’t the sort of “Go fuck yourself” that comes from anger or makes you want to fight. It was almost made out of love. In that moment, I knew that everything I’d given and everything I’d accomplished so far vastly outweighed any snotty letter or post-test chattiness. Even a month ago, I’d’ve been devastated by that day, and I’m sure I’ll be devastated by many more, but for now, what a surge of self-love.

One accomplishment that got me to this proud point was a fabulous student I’ll call R. He transferred to our school a few months ago and brought so much happiness to our often-snipey classroom. While I’m hesitant to categorize a third grader like this, the kid is clearly as gay as the day is long. He’s also one of the most centered and confident people I’ve ever met. He gleefully practices dance routines and cartwheels with the girls while the rest of the boys are trying to sneak in forbidden games of football.

He’s thoughtful and kind, participates in class, and has the neatest handwriting you’ve ever seen. Yet his behavior grades from his old school were low, as was his reading level. Working with R. really helped me to understand that it’s not just teaching skills that I have to offer, that what really can help a child to thrive is welcome and approval in the midst of a narrow-minded community that often offers none. That’s something I can do even on my worst day.

We do live in a very homophobic area, (and I’m pretty sure every school is a homophobic area) so he often tells me about the boys calling him names. The other day when we were lined up for lunch, he sadly told me that another student had called him gay. I had to choose my words carefully so as not to ruffle any school or parent feathers. I told him that anyone who makes fun of an entire category of people is a prejudiced knucklehead, that he’d meet gay people in his life and they might be good or bad, that being gay wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

I made him repeat all that back to me so I could be sure he’d heard it. He seemed satisfied with my explanation and went in to lunch. the next day, he brought me this very blingy ships-wheel ring that I immediately decided was my moral compass.

R’s behavior scores at his old school made me think of my own assessments and self-assessments, how someone or something good can be kept from thriving just by being in a hostile place. It reassures me that no matter where I am next school year, I will be able to learn and grow as a teacher and as a person, but the more barriers I remove and the kinder I am to myself, the better I will be able to blossom and be present for the R’s of the world, and I guess for the less-fabulous students too.

Unsurprisingly, I Love the Clothing-Optional Beach, Part Two

As we set off down the path to the beach, “hugging the dunes,” as the directions had instructed us, I noticed kids heading down to their beach with their families. I was weirded out for a second.

“Wait, what, there’s kids? At the nude beach?”

Sweetie, bless her heart, said “So?”

“So…they’ll never learn to be ashamed of their bodies? They won’t end up having to learn to love themselves at 37? I hate them.”

We laughed and that was the end of being weirded out.

I found Sweetie a perfect peach-colored shell as soon as our feet hit the sand. The dunes were roped off to protect piping plover nests as well as a few other endangered species. As we got to the end of the path, We saw a sign that said “Attention: Beyond this point you may encounter nude sunbathers.” We looked around for the spot where the poly meetup was happening, but no one had set up yet. Plus we were in wifie mode, so we made our own space down closer to the water.

It had rained on the way in, we weren’t sure if the clouds would lift, but as we settled into our blanket, the sun started to peek through and the air warmed up. As we were slathering on sunscreen, I felt momentarily hesitant to take my top off, but then I figured it made no sense having to sunscreen twice. I wiggled out of my pink flowery bathing suit top and there I was. Unfortunately, it was that time of the month and I didn’t feel right about showing off a string-tail, so my bottoms would have to stay on this time. (Except, because I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation, in the water…)

Sweetie is not a showoff like me, but she likes showing me off. She seemed very happy to be looking up at naked sunny me and spraying SPF 70 on my nipples every so often. As we sat reading our books, I saw some members of the poly contingency stroll past us to the water. They were beautiful, but I wasn’t ready to say hi just yet. This was a day that I felt every inch of my half-introversion. I watched them walk into the water and get such big smiles on their faces. As with all lovey-dovey people who are comfortable with themselves, I admired them and wasn’t sure I could aspire to belong with them. A guy I’d snuggled with at my first snuggle party was there, as was the Lady of the House from the Cuddle Party back in June. Later, I’d get up the courage to go over and say hello, but just seeing them was a joy for now.

Sweetie and I got into the water a little ways down the beach from them. The waves were little more than swells, but the current pulled strongly to the (I think) north. The water was cool and smoothly, clearly green. As we eased our way in, a friendly man came to encourage us: “You’ve just got to take the plunge, just dive in, after that you’ll feel fabulous.”

He was so nice but as he stood there encouraging us, I was inching away. I knew that my nipples would get really hard from the chilly water and I wasn’t quite ready for a stranger to see that up close, first thing in the morning. He was in his fifties, bald, with a big cheery grin, and his penis was cute and shrunken from the water, bigger than an outie belly button, but just as pink and charming. Oh penises, how I’ve missed you, my new friends.

Once the man swam off, I propelled myself into Sweetie’s arms. This feeling was a complete revelation, something I didn’t know I was longing for. Ever since I was a kid, I’d watch couples in the surf and hope that I could someday find a love to hold me in the waves. It was such a gift, to hold her and be held in the water and not worry that we might be disturbing someone, that we might be disturbed by some homophobic comment. It was deeply gratifying.

I slipped away from her (not too far, though the current pulled me) and pulled off my bathing suit bottoms. The cool water moving up between the lips of my vagina was difficult to describe to her—she couldn’t understand how it was any different from being in the water with a bathing suit on. It was a cool, fresh, opening up, like the other day with the thigh ropes but more refreshing. As the water filled up that little space, I felt delighted and loved, elemental, at home. I picked up my feet, put my arms out, and floated on the swells, eyes closed, boobs and hoo-ha to the sky. I felt reborn, perfect, like every real worry was just a silly memory. I felt the way that I was born to be.

Next: Happy to be around so many penises.