Immigrants and Bikes

I’ve seen the argument that DACA recipients are like “kids whose parents stole a bike and think they should get to keep it.” I think that’s a flawed analogy for many reasons.

But, let’s say that your parents acquired a bike in violation of some criminal or civil law. This includes kids whose parents stole the neighbor kid’s bike at gunpoint, parents who bought the bike not knowing that it was stolen, and parents who received the bike in compensation for work, were therefore supposed to pay taxes on it, and didn’t (some deliberately, some who honestly forgot or didn’t realize). The whole range of major to minor offenses, both criminal and civil, both deliberate and inadvertent.

Whatever your parents did, you had no control over it. You may have known that something was shady about your bike, or you may have been blissfully unaware. You just got a bike. With that bike, you got a paper route when you were 10 or 12. From that paper route, you built up some savings. Later, at 16, you used the bike to commute to your part-time job at the grocery store. You kept saving and eventually bought an adult-size bike, which you still ride. You went to college or trade school. Your paper route and grocery wages didn’t pay for the whole thing, of course, but they helped. And that second bike saved you an awful lot of gas money while you were in school. Even if you’d paid for the second bike another way, you probably wouldn’t have had the confidence or skill to bike commute in college, if not for all that time you’d spent on the first bike as a kid.

You get a job and start building an adult life. Maybe you get married and have kids, maybe it’s just you and your cat. Maybe you buy a house.

One day, a government official comes to your door and tells you that because of the way your bike was acquired, it’s now forfeit. Your second bike, which you still have and ride, is also forfeit. In fact, all of your assets are going to be taken by the government, regardless of their relationship to the bike. You have a choice. You can leave your current hometown, job, friends, and family, and start your life over from scratch with nothing. Or, you can go to jail. Indefinitely. Eventually, maybe after several years, you will have the chance to explain to a judge why you should not have everything taken from you and get to stay where you currently live. Because you yourself aren’t being charged with a crime, you have no right to a lawyer.

Regardless of the crimes or civil offenses committed by the parents, or when the child became aware of them, is this a just and reasonable punishment? Because that’s what we do when we deport people.



I can’t say it any better than Caitlin Stout does.

If I’m being honest, I have been struggling quite a bit lately. This past year has been marked by a depression diagnosis, lots of sleepless nights, a new patch of gray hair, and a noticeable dip in my academic performance. I am weary, in the most profound sense of the word. And I am so scared to admit that, because I know that people like my professor will hear it and say to themselves, “Well, that’s just what happens when you give in to sin.”

I think he might be right.

I think maybe depression is what happens when you are constantly told that you are inherently broken. Maybe anxiety is a natural response to multiple anti-gay harassment incidents. Maybe stress takes its toll when the responsibility of speaking on behalf of an entire community is placed on your shoulders. Maybe joy feels elusive when you spend your evenings comforting friends who have been rejected by their families. Maybe it’s difficult to concentrate on homework when you’re busy meeting with school administrators to ask them for equal rights. Maybe it’s fair to be tired when you’re constantly made to fight.

Maybe this is just what happens when the Church gives in to the sin of homophobia.

“Maybe this is just what happens when the Church gives in to the sin of homophobia.” A-freaking-men.

My fat acceptance/feminism/anti-racism/LGBTQ activism will be intersectional or it will be bullshit.

So, the last time I posted something about LGBTQ issues, I got a comment criticizing me for bringing them into fat acceptance, because fat people are the majority, and LGBTQ people are “fringe” and their rights are a “far left” ideology.  Apparently allo/cis/het fat people are supposed to ditch LGBTQ folks so that centrists and right wingers will be better disposed toward us.  Yeah, fuck that.

And today was the Women’s March, and apparently some TERFS decided that instead of protesting the President’s ill treatment of women and minorities, or any of the current crises, they needed to use their time and energy at one of the marches to hold up a sign about how “trans women are men.”  Look, sweetie, the fucking President sees you as either a pretty young sex object to be used, or an ugly old bitch to be ridiculed or ignored.  It turns out that a bunch of the dudes in the media who relentlessly trashed Hillary Clinton were sexual predators themselves.  People are getting murdered by Nazis and white supremacists. The HHS just created a new division dedicated to making sure your pharmacist doesn’t have to fill your birth control prescription, or your Catholic ob-gyn can stand around and watch you die from sepsis rather than complete your miscarriage.  Flint still doesn’t have clean water, Puerto Rico still doesn’t have power, and our President keeps flirting with all-out nuclear war over Twitter.  And you looked at all of this crap and decided that the biggest threat was trans women?  Are you shitting me?

Like, seriously, if you don’t like trans women, you’re not obligated to have trans friends, or eat lunch with your trans coworkers.  I doubt they’ll miss your company.  You’re totally free to leave the restroom or locker room if someone you deem “insufficiently feminine” shows up. The primary thing trans people as a group ask of you is that you leave them alone, and stop getting them killed.  Don’t falsely accuse them of being sexual predators, or assault them for using the restroom. Don’t make stuff up about sex changes on little kids in order to scare parents out of acknowledging that their kid is trans.  If you want to go further along the path to “not being a total asshole,” you could also abdicate your position as the gender police, and call people by the names and pronouns they ask you to use.  To misquote Thomas Jefferson, it neither picks your pocket nor breaks your leg for someone to identify as a gender that you don’t approve of.  It costs you nothing to take people’s word on their gender and treat their genitals as need to know.  (And you don’t need to know.)

I’m not even asking you to work together with them on common issues, because they’re at enough risk as it is, without choosing to associate with someone who sees them as Public Enemy #1.  But it would be awesome if you could drop the anti-trans crusade and focus on one or more of the many actual catastrophes that could use that level of passion and activism, rather than continuing to kick a tiny and extremely vulnerable minority.

Every single progressive movement, every single movement for the rights of any group of people, needs to be intersectional.  Women’s rights has to mean black women, queer women, disabled women.  Fat acceptance has to be for poor fat people and gay fat people and trans fat people. Gay rights can’t just be for the white, cis gay dudes—it has to be for the whole alphabet soup of LGBTQIA, and the whole spectrum of race and class and gender and ability.  Because it’s all one interconnected fight.  And when we try to kick people out of the club, we dilute our power.

I’m not saying everybody has to get along and sing kumbaya.  I am saying that we’re all minorities by ourselves, but a majority when we work together, and that it would be good and useful to focus on the people who are actually trying to harm us.


The Fantasy of Flying While Thin

Last week, I flew home from my second ever trip to Alaska.  My brother-in-law moved up there, so that’s where the big family Christmas was this year.  I got to see my adorable nephews, which is definitely worth 12 plus hours on a plane. Each way.

Some time between the previous flight and the last time I’d flown, I reached the size at which I need a seatbelt extender.  On that previous flight home, I was miserable.  In theory, window seats are a good thing, but I was jammed into a space with not enough leg room, the armrest poking me in the hip, and my shoulder against the wall (right on a fibro trigger point, of course).  There were also one or two flights where I was too embarrassed to ask for the damn extender and just sucked my gut in hard and tried not to breathe too much. (Don’t do that; it sucks.)

I actually broke down crying on the flight, not just because I was so miserable, but because I was figuring that the only way to actually see family in Alaska was to diet myself down to a more flight-friendly size.

And then, there was the puking.  I occasionally get carsick, but this was the first time I’d been sick on a plane.  I can only apologize profusely to the poor soul who had to clean that bathroom, as well as to anybody who had to wait longer to pee than they otherwise would have.  On the second flight, I at least realized that I was about to puke in time to avoid defiling any lavatories.  (By the way, if you want to see how fast a flight attendant can move, ask for an air sickness bag.)

At some point on the trip, I realized that the level of misery I was experiencing had nothing to do with the size of my ass and everything to do with air travel being generally craptastic and with my actually being ill.  I’m not sure when exactly this dawned on me.  The vomiting was a good clue, as was sitting in the airport shivering, and realizing I was probably running a fever.   (I ended up missing a day of work when I got back, if I needed any more confirmation that I was actually ill.)

As I thought about it later, I realized how insidious the idea that losing weight is the magical cure to any and all problems really is.  I mean, I blog about fat acceptance for pete’s sake.  And yet, there I was, jumping straight to the conclusion that everything would be better if I were just thinner.  And this wasn’t even something caused by my size.  I mean, yeah, if there were less of me to fill the seat, there would be less pressure on trigger points, but it’s not like the fibro would magically go away if I were thin, or like things wouldn’t hurt for no reason even if they weren’t pressed up against a wall or an armrest.  And since even a successful diet wouldn’t make me any shorter, the lack of legroom would have still been painful.  I’m also pretty sure that weight loss does not prevent either air sickness or sinus infections.

It wasn’t until the second trip, which sucked a lot less, that I fully realized how untrue that was.  I had a little fibro pain here and there, but nothing horrible.  (One of the crappy things about fibromyalgia is that the pain feels pretty much like the aches and pains that come with the flu, so it can be hard to tell getting sick from having a flare.) Same me, same size. I still needed the seatbelt extender (that I was actually smart enough to ask for and use on all six flights).  The whole difference was not being sick.

(The title of this post is inspired by Kate Harding’s classic post The Fantasy of Being Thin, whch is worth a read if you missed it ten years ago. Yeah, it’s really ten years old.  Now if you’ll excuse me, apparently I need to tell some damn kids to get off my lawn and go to bed at a reasonable hour.)


The Casual Ableism of “Get Therapy”

A while ago on Ask a Manager, a letter writer with PTSD asked about how to get her boss to tone down a Halloween display that was triggering her.  The over-the-top decoration wasn’t a big deal, but the constant spooky soundtrack was a problem.  Not just spooky music, but screams and other sounds suggesting people or animals being horribly harmed.

There were lots of useful suggestions, but also at least one impressively patronizing comment. The commenter first expressed that he’d have trouble replying with a straight face if a grown woman was scared of a little spooky music, since children are fine with it. And he suggested that she get therapy.

After I finished swearing under my breath, I realized how much casual ableism is packed into those two little words.

First, there’s the condescension. I rather doubt that someone who’s triggered by their work environment every year and who takes the time to write to an advice columnist for suggestions is sitting there going, “Therapy?  What is this ‘therapy’ of which you speak?  I’d better go try that!”  It’s like asking a fat person if they’ve ever heard of diets (with the exception that therapy is way more useful).

But, aside from the attitude of “I must make incredibly basic suggestions that this person surely has never considered,” there’s also the underlying idea that mentally ill people owe it to abled people to never inconvenience them.  Because “get therapy” is presented as an *alternative* to talking to the boss about the decorations.

Even overlooking the fact that therapy is a help rather than a magic cure-all, the idea is still that it’s the responsibility of the person with the mental illness to “get better” completely rather than make the completely reasonable request that their work environment not be filled with screams and maniacal laughter for several days leading up to Halloween.  If the therapy doesn’t work quickly enough, I suppose they’re just supposed to take the time off.  Wait, no, that might inconvenience their coworkers.  Better just suck it up and have multiple panic attacks.  Make sure to hide in the bathroom and panic quietly, so no one is annoyed by any crying or hyperventilating that might occur. But, you know, don’t take too long.  Other people might need to pee.

That’s not to say that therapy isn’t important, or that you shouldn’t do what you can reasonably do on your own before asking for accommodations. But it costs *nothing* to turn the sound off on creepy decorations, or to switch the soundtrack to spooky music without the screams. (I guess it might cost $5 if you don’t have suitable music handy, but a boss this into Halloween probably has 47 covers of Monster Mash as well as every version of Toccata and Fugue in D minor ever recorded.)

It bothers me that people are so cavalier about other people’s suffering that they weigh “Boss gets to celebrate Halloween exactly as he wants” as more important than “Employee’s serious health condition isn’t exacerbated by totally optional and non-work related things.”

Schrodinger’s Closet and the Fuck-It Model of Coming Out

One of the ways in which my experience of being bisexual is different and sometimes weird is that I was already married to a guy by the time I realized I was bi.  This is, of course, more common than you’d think. There are lots of people who figure out their sexuality in their twenties or thirties, or later. And, just because of the size of the dating pool, an awful lot of bi people will end up with someone who is not their gender, having people sort of assume they’re straight.

This makes the whole concept of coming out a little weird for me.  It shouldn’t feel like oversharing to say, “By the way, I’m bi,” but it often does.  Spending more time in LGBTQ spaces has helped with that.  When people are going around the room giving introductions and how they identify is a standard part of that, it’s a lot easier to stand up and say I’m bi.  The fact that I bought a shirt that says “Bisexual and Still Not Into You” also helps.

I’ve reached the point, finally, where pretty much everyone who I feel *needs* to know that I’m bi knows.  My husband knows and is supportive. Ditto for my brother.  My mom knows, and is mostly confused, and we will probably never speak of it again.  A few friends know, especially those who also fall somewhere in the queer universe. My dad doesn’t know, and while that’s sometimes a source of stress, I’ve pretty much accepted it as the status quo.  When I told my mom, she made it a point to keep it from my dad, so I suspect that he’d be weirder about it than she was.

The concept of the closet, at least for me, is complicated. Most of the time I go about my daily life without actually caring whether people know I’m bi, or feeling like I’m hiding something, or worrying what will happen if someone finds out. Even at my pretty conservative workplace, I have at least one non-straight coworker, and people manage to not be assholes to her.

And yet, every once in a while, it hits me.  It’s basically Schrodinger’s closet—simultaneously a closet and an actual room until a thing happens that makes the distinction clear.  Like, for example, the aforementioned t-shirt.  I had ordered it for Pride, but it didn’t arrive in time.  So, when I got it, I wanted to show it off.  I put it on, I agonized a bit about whether some stranger in my pretty red community would give me grief over it, and I ended up changing into something else.  Oh, hey, is that a hanger pressed into my back, and a door a couple inches from my nose?  And, wow, it smells kind of musty in here all of a sudden, doesn’t it?

So, between being pretty much sick of angsting over who to tell how and when and being in a position where I really don’t *want* to be out at work, but it’s not likely to torpedo my career, I’ve come up with the “fuck-it” approach to coming out.  I’m not going to censor myself, or bring it up.  I’m not wearing the bi shirt to the company picnic, but I’m going to wear it to the grocery store, and if I run into a coworker, oh, well.  Likewise, I’m not planning any more big conversations where I tell people I’m bi and try to phrase it perfectly so they don’t freak out on me.  If it comes up in passing, then I’ll roll with it and treat it as the non-issue that it really should be. If someone else wants to make a big deal out of it, that can be their problem.

That’s the theory anyway.  We’ll see how it goes.