Fathers and Surrogate Son-Daughters

I've just finished "Fun Home" by Allison Bechdel. It made me angry. Or her father did. What would his life had been if he had just accepted himself? I am sure this thought haunts the author as well. I believe he loved his wife at one point. I believe he was in love with her, but I think that he would have been contented if he had only accepted his homosexuality. Would he have still trolled young men? Would he have been a more benevolent father? Would he have been a more loving husband? Would her mother have found love?
It reminds me of my father. Had my father not cheated on the personality test, what would he have trained for? What would he have done with his life? What if he'd continued trying to sell his work? Would have been successful? If he hadn't, would I have resented him for making our family struggle? Would he have been happy? Would he have been a more benevolent father, a loving husband?
And that is what angers me. Both men had a pursuit of normality. Normality being a family, a wife, a good job, lots of money, respectively. I imagine if both men had not been so concerned with "normality" they would have been happier, with more fulfilling lives, and that would have been passed on to their children.
That also begs to question, who would I be if my father had been happy?

I Can't Say What Anymore?

I find myself often missing words I used in childhood. Not the half-words that you make up, or mispronounced words that you cling to (like ba-ba). Regular, 3rd grader, childhood words. Like play. Play used to mean going to my friend's house, hanging out, watching a movie or running around the yard. Now play means "play", baseball play, barbie doll play, Monopoly play. I can't call anyone anymore and say "you wanna come over and play?" because they accuse me of proffering sex.
And pussy. When was the last time you heard pussy and thought of a cat? (Or a willow as the case may be). Now a pussy willow is a dirty dirty thing, something to be sniggered at and put asside. Pussy cats are no longer an option. Cat only. I can't recall when in my life pussy became a dirty word.
Frankly, its depressing. I'd like to be able to use the words I want in the context I want, without getting glared at or laughed at. I suppose pussy has gone the way of bitch and ass. Those words will never regain thier true meaning. They're condemned to the dirty mouths of tweens and college kids. I suppose since I am about to graduate, even I have to put these words to bed, dirty meanings and all.
So, wanna come over to play?

Criag Thompson Changed My Life

I just added Craig Thompson's blog to my list. I read some of his comments, a highly unusual activity for me, and came across one that was telling him all about how Blankets changed their life. I was thinking about the autobiography class I took last year and about how autobiographical authors make it seem like you're their best friend and have just confided in you their biggest secrets. But they aren't. Its a clever rouse. They make people, like the one who commented on Craig Thompson's blog, think they know the author, think they have gotten into a secret place in his head.
I can see this all causing terrible problems. Like stalkers.
Although, its true. A terribly personal, seemingly honest and complete work like Blankets can change people's lives. Its the human emotional connection we all share across culture, we recognize across the world. It can open up something in yourself that you didn't know was there. That you locked away years ago. And its understandable, when you find this special thing, you do have a connnection to the author. And you want them to know exactly how amazing it was that they opened up this thing inside you, and that thier book/blog/article changed your life.
Hey, it happened to me.

O My, Obama

Its hard for me to believe that Barack Obama is our President-Elect. As trite as it sounds, its like a dream come true. I was beginning to loose hope in my country and my countrymen. I was beginning to think that people were too caught up in their own lives, in their own problems, in their own greediness to see that change, that compassion, that the good of the community, the good of the world, was necessary and slipping away. I was beginning to think that compassion was dead, that those suffering across the ocean by our hands were reasoned away, that those starving on our own land were going unnoticed and uncared for. I know that Obama isn't going to be able to fix everything. I know that it will take longer than four years, eight years, twelve years to fix the country, but Obama gives me hope. The election gives me hope. That all these people, from across the nation, from traditionally Republican states, from swing states and even from Democratic states, could look at the world today and see that change is necessary. Vital. That they can see the pain of the world and say "Yes, we can".
The pride I have from my small participation in this change is overwhelming. To say fifty years from now, when my grandchildren are reading about this, "Yes, I was there. I was part of that. I remember." is astonishing, amazing, and beautiful.
As Elise so gracefullly put it, "I can finally say I am proud to be an American!"