TGIF

We spent yesterday in the Napa Valley.  A respite from the oppressive heat, great food and wine and good friends.  This rose cluster was at a winery next to Rutherford Grill.  RG is one of the most delish eateries I've ever been to.  Food so fresh and inventive and of course an excellent wine list.

Our friends recently traveled to France and we were surprised to hear, over lunch, that their food experience there was less than good.   #1, they went to tourist places.  Never a good idea in France, I hear.  #2, they live in one of the most spectacular food regions in the entire world.  It reminds me of my first trip to the Maine coast, where everyone kept telling me it would blow me away with its beauty.  Not so much.  I grew up just north of the Big Sur coast.  Hard to top that.  I know, we live in a rarefied world of riches here in California.

We went to the adorable little movie theater in St. Helena to see A Little Chaos with Kate Winslet and Alan Rickman.  S and I were utterly captivated by the story, the performances, the gardens at Versailles.  After the movie, our friends made us an amazing dinner with their homegrown tomatoes as the focal point.  You know, when you made a 'simple' pasta dish with fresh, fleshy, robust tomatoes and garlic, it is an explosion of summer in the mouth! Paired with a bottle of earthy Sangiovese from the Sierra foothills, it was a glorious meal.

A completely agreeable day; a moonlit drive home.  It doesn't get much better than that.

Bon weekend to  you!

Wordless Wednesday

Monday Musings (Weary and Tired)

Perhaps as evidenced by my lack of postings, I am feeling weary and tired of all the strife in the world, and in our homeland particularly.  Sandra Bland's death kind of pushed me over the edge.  I also watched two interviews with author Ta-Nehisi Coates on his new book called Between the World and Me.  How discouraged he is by the state of race relations in our country.  And not without good reason.  I went to our public library and requested they order it.  They did, and I will get to be the first one to check in out.  Then.  Then.

I had to unplug.  I was feeling guilty for doing that, for taking care of myself.  There are many who don't have that luxury.  So imagine my relief when I read this column by a writer who is African American, Sesali B./Feministing .

When you’re weary and tired

I have to confess: I have tried my best to stay as far away as possible from the Sandra Bland story. I haven’t read any articles. I’ve refused to press play on the video footage of her traffic stop. I’ve even scrolled past tribute posts dedicated to her, not out of disrespect or apathy, but for self preservation. The snippets of information that I have seen on social media told me everything I needed to know. A routine traffic stop ended badly for a Black woman. The woman’s name is Sandra Bland. Bland was found dead in her jail cell. And today, her death was ruled a suicide. Unfortunately, I feel competent enough to fill in the blanks, despite wishing I wasn’t.

The media coverage of state violence and death against Black people since the 2012 murder of Trayvon Martin has been overwhelming, to say the least. The sheer number of publicized incidents combined with the saturation of those stories across media outlets makes it inescapable. When news of Martin’s murder began to circulate in 2012, many people grieved the loss of a child, but another affect that seemed to be circulating was hope. We were relieved that the death of a Black teenager was finally being taken seriously. We rallied for the law and the media to go all the way with this story; to be honest about a flawed and racist justice system and the realities of anti-Blackness in this country. The mass coverage of Martin’s death and the subsequent trial of George Zimmerman, and the affect of hope that followed, provided enough traction to launch what is being called today’s civil rights movement, Black Lives Matter.

The death of Sandra Bland, has been the latest in a string of stories about police brutality, neglect, violence, and mistreatment by police, against Black people. Mainstream news coverage of these events is certainly enough to trigger, and in many cases terrify, Black viewers. And I think this is only intensified for Black bloggers, activists, journalists, and other Black people who have to follow these stories more closely. We are constantly combing through different accounts, stories, profiles, documents, photos, and videos looking for new angles, figuring out what’s missing from certain narratives, and coming up with fresh takes. The pressure to have an opinion about everything that has made its way into the media circuit already requires a certain kind of emotional labor that is taxing on its own. But this burden is certainly exacerbated when the stories are so applicable to our own lives.

For many of us, the story of Sandra Bland isn’t a distant report out of Texas. It isn’t material for a casual conversations about the legal system. It’s not material for a murder mystery dinner. For us this is actually the same thing that happened to our cousin, our friend, our lover, our classmate, our sibling, our parent, our child, or someone else we know/knew. When a pre-teen Black girl is assaulted by a police officer at a pool party, or another officer shoots an unarmed man in the back and then lies about it, it is more than “news” to us. It’s something that some of us have experienced first hand in our communities. While the work requires some of us to immerse ourselves in the grisly details and pour all of ourselves into these horrifying stories in order to meet deadlines, they aren’t the kind of topics that go away when we close our laptops.

And following the release of today’s autopsy report in the Sandra Bland story, my timeline confirmed the affects that I have recognized for a while now as anti-Black terrorism continues to run rampant: fear and weariness. More than calls to rise up and fight, my friends are finding it hard to concentrate at work. They are consumed by the idea that things will never change for Black folks. We are all pissed. But more than anger, we are fucking tired and scared. We are worried. Case in point:

I was pulled over a couple of weeks ago for a moving violation I didn’t commit. I was in the car with three friends of mine – one of them Black in the passenger seat, the other two non-Black women of color in the back, while I drove. My friends in the back seat were obviously upset and angry that we were pulled over on a bogus violation. It angered them that the police officer flashed lights inside the car as if searching for some illegal contraband that he was sure we had. They were livid when when I received two tickets. But after awkwardly ‘yes, sir’ing the officer in a silent plea to not perceive me as threatening, my Black friend and I let out a simultaneous sigh of relief when we were able to drive away. Because from the moment we saw flashing lights, she and I knew how bad things could get. This was no teachable moment, nor was it an opportunity to resist the system. For the two us, it had become a matter of life and death. I knew that my work or school affiliations, publications, number of followers, awards, resumes, or networks would not have stopped that officer from harming me.

It is important to understand how anti-Black terrorism feels like an imminent threat more than a statistical possibility for Black people. It is a haunting threat that is rewritten into our consciousness as we read story after story or murder and assault. And for me at least, the burden of fear is enough of for me to bear without also having to succinctly articulate the gendered and racialized politics of anti-Black violence. So for those of you who can, I implore you to take care of yourself. Take advantage of any opportunities to unplug, detach, and hopefully heal.

Wordless Wednesday

TGIF

Seems as if money always wins. if you're in the way of somebody making money, you don't mean dick.

I was watching a video about gentrification in San Francisco's Mission District.  SF now has the highest rate of income inequality in the United States.  New tech boom, babies, and those people have got money.

I had my own run in recently with my bank, my ex and a collection agency.  I got the short end of the stick.  Despite all my efforts to protect myself legally.  Four years ago I did what I could, what the bank told me they could do and could not do.  I took their advice and this week it all came back to bite me in the ass.  Well, now it's done and taken care of.  The last vestige of a painful divorce.  Good bye, so long, farewell.  And I'm not going to be banking there anymore.  I wish I knew how to make an icon of a middle finger.  I'd place it here.

Money means somebody like Trump can run for freakin' President of these United States.  I wonder  how many people have been displaced by Trump building projects?  Don't matter.  They were in his way and there was money to be made.  Pffft.  Money means men like the Bush brothers are elevated well beyond their capabilities, and people actually pay attention to them.  Have you ever watched the film The One Percent?  Oh, the humanity.


 

Well, hope I've succeeded in brightening your weekend. 

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

Monday Musing (On An Historic Pride March)

My husband and I took the ferry into San Francisco yesterday morning for the Pride March. The ferry from Vallejo was packed in equal parts with Giants fans (big game) and Pride celebrants.  A heady mixture.

In line for the ferry, we spoke to various groups of people: het couples with kids, lesbians, gay men, and who knows who else.

The ferry is a glorious one hour ride down from Vallejo at the north tip of the SF Bay to the San Francisco waterfront.  Even as we left the ferry building in SF, there were ecstatic groups of young folks there to raise a ruckus and have a great time.

To use an often used phrase, the 'diversity' of the crowd was heartening.  Young and very old, pale white, to pink, to brown, to black. A delightfully yummy Neapolitan of humans.  Everyone perfectly aware of how momentous this particular celebration was.  I told a group of youngins that I was one of the folks married at City Hall back in the day when Mayor Gavin Newsome instructed county clerks to register same sex couples for marriage licenses.  I must have seemed ancient to these fresh faced youngsters.

Meanwhile, my daughter was also celebrating somewhere up the street with her pack of gal pals. I started taking my daughter to Pride parades when she was but a tot.  She loved them, and she loved the drag queens.  After a Christmas parade one year, she was sorely disappointed because there were no drag queens to be seen.  Bummer.

As I was saying to S. on the drive home, this momentous decision by the Supreme Court would not have been possible if it were not for the huge outpouring of love and support from allies of the LGBT community.  After all, we're only an estimated 10 percent of the population.  How in the world could we do this on our own?  This is why:  very, very brave men and women stood up and said, "I will not be invisible."  I will not go quietly and shamefully into your police vans, handcuffed and humiliated.

Can you imagine the courage of the very first marchers?  In my own community of Santa Cruz, the first parades were very small and were met with a fair amount of derision from on-lookers.  At the time I thought, "Why bother?  You just get a lot of grief thrown at  you."  What I didn't realize at the time was, they 'bothered' because they wanted to increase the visibility of queer people and to shout to the world that they were proud of who they were.

These many years later, their hard work and bravery has paid off.  Their visibility increased the support of straight people.  Together, we all made this day possible.  In my life time.  As we prepare for the foolishness and hate from those who believe the court has gone off the rails, it's important to remember that love has prevailed.  Love is stronger than hate. 

The work will go on.  We are closer to the finish line than we were before.  We're not at the finish line.  We have a long way to go to live up to our nation's promise of justice for all.

"There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires."  

-- Nelson Mandela.

This was my husband's first Pride parade.  He had a blast.  I feel fortunate to be with such a loving human being.  Thanks, Honey.

TGIF (On Marriage Equality)

Eleven years ago this appeared in the San Diego Union newspaper.  Ten years ago our friend's blog posted our San Francisco wedding story.

To think it all began in Hawaii in 1991.  Justice did not prevail then, but without brave Hawaiians filing suit, this issue may not have advanced.

As you know, our marriage didn't last, but I still love that the fight for marriage equality has carried on and we have prevailed with the US Supreme Court.  In a mere 24 years the issue of justice and equality for all, yes, even for queer folks, caught the peoples' imagination.  While the battle seemed long and made us weary, 24 years is actually lightening speed fast when it comes to such social change.

I have been married to both men and women.  When S. and I were married August 2014, I was amazed at how easy the process was.  No big deal.  No earth shattering consequences.  My parents attended our small ceremony.  They did not pay the same attention to my marriage with my wife.

So, in the end, justice has prevailed.  Love is love.  The legal institution granting 'validity' to relationships is available to all who desire it.

“Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are.”  -- Ben Franklin


So, now, may be advance the rights of all marginalized people in this country?  Now is the time.

• Voting rights for African Americans.  
• The right of African American men to walk freely and unmolested by police.
• The Equal Rights Amendment for women, which is back on the national stove-top.
• Economic justice for the poor.

So much to do.  But I'm feeling it today, si, se puede!


Have a great weekend my friends, comrades in arms!

Wordless Wednesday

TGIF

The crickets (and perhaps the frogs as well) are singing outside the window, the flowers from the Farmer's Market are aglow in the lamp light; I have sorted through the detritus on my work surface and found lost items, baseball game tickets and digital memory cards.

It's quiet and I like it this way.  Nocturnal space to move freely in, explore my thoughts and breathe in the world.

A weary week of heat, and memories of lost ones.  Both weighed heavily on me.  News that another former colleague and friend is seriously ill, gets me to counting the number of friends and family I have lost.  Seriously?  Yeah.  What person in her right mind does this?

A former and still beloved Father In Law to one of my sisters has died after elective surgery.  Sudden and so unexpected.

My husband is re-printing some photos of deathly ill children he made when he was a pediatrician.  The look in some of their eyes is haunting.  They are tired, and they are sick.  Their families invited S. to photograph them, so close he was to their suffering and their lives, what little of it was left.  Some made it through.  Many did not.  He captured their experiences in the hospital, living with tubes and monitors and surgical scars and wrinkled sheets that spoke of their restlessness.

I know I have to keep remembering the good.  It's the only way.  So when I clean up my work area, the place where I get to play with my photographs and writings, I affirm that there is worth in this life.  I place the flowers there in further demonstration.

Flowers. Life affirming. I remember well the weekly trips to the flower market in San Francisco that my friend M. made.  Each week she put fresh flowers about, in artful designs that affirmed delight in beauty for beauty's sake.  For years, Spider Mums were her cherished choice.  Then it was Irises.  I thought of her when I bought my flowers this week.  I thought about what a joyful life she had.  She was a creative soul through and through.  She possessed an old-world elegance with a very modern sensibility.  She welcomed her friends with wide opened arms and, it seems to me, lived her life better than most do.

I remember sitting on the beach with her one night; she was talking about how she had decided not to have children.  She was worried that she was being selfish.  She knew herself, and she knew what she wanted her life to be.  And she didn't let the pressure than women feel to procreate change her vision.  She remained true to herself.  I remember telling her that I wish more women would be so thoughtful in making their decisions to bear children or not.  Selfishness didn't even come into it.  I desperately wanted children, and that was my choice.  I thought her brave.  I still do.  I think she really did have the life she wanted, with the man she wanted, in the city by the bay she wanted.

I was in San Francisco last week, and I entered across the Bay Bridge, longing to see her and knowing that she is now gone forever.  Whenever I've gone to that city I think of her.  She and that place are resolutely married in my mind.  One does not exist without the other.  Except that, of course, now it does.  An incalculable loneliness has settled in to my heart.

Momi's Flowers