We went to the Pride Festival in Chicago today. I would have preferred to go to the parade but my sister's going down to Northwestern for a summer program on the same day so we couldn't. And she's never been to a pride event so, of course, I wasn't going to be having any of that (for the record, she wanted to go; I was just more than happy to aid).

On the way back, I happened to see Ariel in Union Station; I'll come back to this.

About a week or so ago, I happened to run into Joan. There's a principle difference between Joan and Ariel in relation to me, simply by virtue of history. I met Ariel when she was doing Operation Obvious (a campaign to recognize the LGBT movement as the next civil rights movement of our time). She eventually joined The Wit (the high school's literary magazine), which I was also on. I believe she was two years under me and joined The Wit her Sophomore year so, clearly, our interaction was not extensive. That being said, she's a fantastically nice person and someone who I have to admire for the conviction of her beliefs and willingness to pursue them.

Joan, on the other hand, I met through Shane. I haven't really kept in touch with Shane but I took to Joan. I suppose that it always struck me as odd because she was a Freshman during my Senior and I didn't get to know many (a year simply isn't much time, etc.). Perhaps in part because her friends and my friends tended to overlap, I spent a decent amount of time hanging out with Joan my last year of high school and I'm really rather fond of her.

I ran into Joan at a restaurant the family and I were going to. I sort of was walking past – thinking to myself, "Does that girl look familiar?" – and did a double take when I realized it was Joan. She was with someone and I was with the family so there really wasn't much room for catching up. I really should send her a message sometime, in spite of my recent reclusiveness. I know it's not very likely to blossom into a lifelong best friendship or even go far beyond that message (largely my own invertedness and social awkwardness to blame) but I'll probably do it because it's important to let people know they're valued. Even if my close ring of five or less best friends is my constant in life, that certainly doesn't mean those friends I'm less close with aren't very important to me.

In any case, I mention this because, when I saw Ariel today, I was struck by this very particular feeling/thought. The reason I bring up Joan (other than to mention that I was really glad to see her; it's been an…odd year) is that I didn't have the same reaction. I was glad to see Joan but seeing Ariel was markedly different.

While I would certainly like to know Ariel better, I think a good description of us would be acquaintances (which is not something trivial to me, as I've covered before here). But I would certainly describe Joan and I as friends; so, if that was what triggered the reaction, it would have occurred with seeing Joan as well.

While we were at the pride festival, I remember just feeling…comfortable. Safe. It was particularly interesting since my dad was there but maybe it just added to that feeling that I was entering a different community. Memories of the QSU kept coming to me. A girl that "looked like" a lesbian handed me a flyer on becoming a vegan. The guys behind the bar were down to just their underwear. a drag performer was performing on one of the stages. And I'm not trying to say that these groups are in some way fixed (there were women down to just their underwear there as well) but there was familiarity there. And, for whatever flaws I've found or find in my Queer community (whether they're correct or not), I felt safe. Certainly welcomed but also safe. In some ways, it was better than the parade. Sure, there were commercial vendors here as well but, outside of the food, there were causes that directly related to our community here and people who cared about them (and about us) behind those booths and fighting for them.

While I don't quite understand it in total, it would seem that community is actually really important to me, verging on dependent to my well being. While, particularly in relation to discussing and making sense of mental illness, I've become more and more of a fan of the idea of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs as time goes on, my own social interactions seem to follow a similar trend. When I'm not doing well, I rescind into myself, hard. Only those who are closest to me do I let in, at times only keeping in touch sparing (sometimes cutting off even them). When I feel more comfortable, I'm far more willing to let others in. But the thing is, a true community doesn't just include your closest friends. It includes your friends and it includes your acquaintances.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm always very happy to see those acquaintances very much. And it's not just that I like people: people in general take importance for me and even those who I don't spend much time with are important to me. Ariel is someone I think highly of and there will always be the fact that I met her through The Wit, a group that was very important to me. I'm not going to have the same reaction seeing her as I might if I saw Laila unexpectedly but she's important to me. I feel like I'm repeating myself but I like to be thorough.

My point I am slowly hinting towards is that my reaction, upon seeing Ariel, was a sense of community. I guess I used to wonder, back in high school when – wading through the masses of 5,000 students – we would often stop a million times in the halls saying hello enough times that we barely got through a conversation with the person we were walking with, why we did it. I mean, take Sarah Greenawalt. I always liked Sarah (there was a warmness she always greeted me with which I always appreciated) but our relationship didn't extend beyond a similar friendbase (or at least history) and seeing her in the hall from time to time. I don't see Sarah anymore and am likely not to (wouldn't mind seeing her again one near bit but it's not very likely). So…what was the point (alright, this is a hilarious question because I never think meeting or getting to know any person is ever a waste of time by any measurement; the question doesn't even deserve a response, in my mind; not to mention, like I said, I rather like Sarah as a person)?

I guess it goes without saying that I never really look at anyone I just meet with the expectation of remaining at the level with them forever. With all people, I sincerely want to get to know them better and become best buds with them. But, obviously, that level of friendship doesn't exist with all people at all times. So, while Laila is certainly of more importance to me (I severely don't like the phrasing of that but I'm struggling for a better one) than Sarah, Sarah isn't unimportant (just as I expect I'm "less important" to Sarah in comparison to others Sarah is closer with and has a more extensive history with). Does that make sense?

So, when I saw Ariel today, there was more than just a "Oh! Ariel; I haven't seen her in ages. I should most definitely say hello." moment (this plan went horridly wrong, in the comedic way my life is good for; I spent most of the time in Union station trying to figure out if it was her without being creepy; funnily enough, this usually works just in time in spite of my sluggishness and avoids approaching people that actually just happen to look exceedingly similar to the people I know. This time, though, our train arrived before I said hello. In spite of this, we wound up in the same car anyway. After more trying to make sure it was her – and trying not to look creepy –, I left a comment on her Facebook saying I thought I saw her and wanted to see how she's been. She asks where I am; by the time I respond, she's fallen asleep. And she eventually gets off at her spot. Probably the most successful two hours of my life and best "catching up" scenario I've had).

There was this distinct jolt of community, if that makes sense. And it wasn't just that she was probably in Chicago for the pride festival as well. It was that sense of my home state, the state of my community in high school, where I can still run into a large gamut of people I know. I mean, I didn't get to know Ariel that well in high school (a shame, as I've said, but so ist das leben). And yet, in that same way I'd pass by Sarah in the hall and stop and ask how she's been and what she's up to despite our otherwise limited interaction, I was going (to attempt and fail) to stop by and say hello to Ariel. And it was like, for the first time in a long while, I had a full sense of a community again. Not raggedly thrusting all my weight onto my close friends to pull me forward or silently licking my wounds in the dark and just biding recovery: walking through those halls and having the energy to pay attention to those people who don't loom as large in my life but who are, none the less, very important to me.

I told Antal once that I had realized that I don't seem to fully ingratiate to a community until about four to five years (I think high school was a sped up process, in part thanks to the phenomenal class of '09). I'm not entirely sure what it is; maybe it's just that sense of safety in knowing that I'm amongst people I like and who like me; maybe it's that same connectedness and support I felt walking amongst the pride festival, knowing that – to some degree – we all supported each other and cared about each other even though we didn't really know each other (this actually seems to imply a larger level of separation between myself and Sarah and Ariel than I want to imply but hopefully it gives an idea of what I'm getting at). I don't know.

This isn't a thread that I've made full sense of yet. I don't know what the relevance is of community to me (though I'm fairly certain it has relation to my feelings about people and humanity and my own bizarre need for physicality in spite of my driving tendency to isolate myself; things I shall have to cover at a later time). There's a lot here that I'm not entirely certain about but I've been chewing these ideas and concept for a while. They're coming to slow solidity but they're odd because I'm not used to discovering such fundamental aspects of myself this far into my life.

 

On a last note (to be honest, I'm not sure if it's related), I've just never understood not wanting to get to know people. It's such a universalizing expectation (so I don't entirely like holding it) but, on a really fundamental level, I don't understand that concept. How do you meet people and not want to know more? How do you not consider it a rare privilege for someone to share parts of their life with you? My immediate reaction is to ask that they continue. My instinct is to throw aside whatever it is I had (something I haven't been entirely the best at doing recently, as my post regarding Amanda noted) to pay attention. How is it not to care and worry and put first? That isn't explaining it right. I can understand how one might not do those last listed three things on accident; what I mean is, how can your reaction to a person not be to want to know more and not be elation at a return of that interest? I suppose that sounds weird until you consider that the whole of our culture pretty much revolves around human connection. Even if it's with just one person, we want human connection. I just want to meet and celebrate every person I meet for every bit of uniqueness they possess. And I don't know why, exactly. I mean, I can come up with a logical defense, obviously. I think I started with that and this emotional reaction has gotten stronger over the years (I think that's largely because it took time to have deeper human connections that, without, I couldn't have ever realized were possible and, thus, have particular emotional responses). But I've always had a strong love for people that I sort of just assumed everyone shared. Not to say people can't be shit. I've known quite a few. But knowing some of the amazing, spell-binding people that I have (and the passion they have and the aspirations and potential abilities and care that they can command) – how do people not see the astounding potential in everyone they meet?

 

It's not quite related but it's a thought I've been having so I'm tacking it on the end here. While actually trying to orchestrate such a thing would probably never run smoothly (and potentially be astoundingly awkward for all involved), I'd like to see what might happen if all my exes were to meet and get to know each other for a day (that's a nicer way of saying it instead of "plop them all into a room and tell them, "Interact!") – and not just the ones I liked (though I actually would like all the exes that I truly consider to be amazing people to meet each other simply because such phenomenal people deserve to meet other such phenomenal and life-changing people like themselves).

No, I'd like all of them to meet each other because I'd be interested to know what I was to them. Was I sweet? Was I mean? Was I too sarcastic? But, more importantly, was I supportive? Was I helpful? Or was I destructive? Careless? Flippant? Cruel? Did I give them memories worth keeping, in spite of whatever fallout may've occured? Did I give them anything?

I remember there was one moment my brother, eager about music as he often is, was mentioning a line from a rap song he had heard recently that he really liked. Unsurprisingly, this sparked a comment from my mother about how much she hated rap. My father chimed in as well, noting that what he particularly couldn't stand was the arrogance and bragging. My mother notes that there's "just too much cursing".

In regards to the bragging, my brother gives the argument that's been given before: they strove so much to get where they are and came from so little; they've earned, to quote Kanye, the "right to be a little bit snobbish".

I ask whether Catcher In the Rye would be the same novel without Holden's candid expletives.

My father says he feels that's different.

 

I'd have to agree.

Granted, I think the notion has weight in the context of a well-put-together album such as Reasonable Doubt or the like. And I think there is something interesting and worth studying in seeing a genre – that is largely produced and put out by a group of people consistently kept economically deficient – should find a study of wealth to literally be a past-time. Kanye, in particular (or at least I'm most familiar with him), is rather good at illuminating the source of such consistent and, arguably, negative habits within rap.

However, – much as the sexism and misogyny in rap often tries to be explained away – I don't think all bravado can be so cleanly explained away. Some of it's irritating; and some of it really isn't healthy (within the culture of hip hop and for human beings in general, though I wouldn't say all of it is). And, in general, I don't think most of the bragging and trash talk can be explained with simply "You deserve to be able to do this".

 

I just don't care.

Granted, I grew up as a kid off of Detroit rap (largely because my introduction into rap was Eminem). So I have a particular affinity for rap battling. Add to that that Midwestern rap does have an appreciation punchlines and wordplay and that my second area of interest was East Coast rap, I have a large appreciation for clever wordplay and creative raps.

I really like trash talk, so long as the trash talker can back it up. Other than working on sentence structures in writing (in part because I'm more of a nerd than I know what to do with), there's a great rush from hearing someone talking about how great they are and then proving it. I dunno, I imagine it's the same rush most rap listeners (or, given the influence rap has had on pop music, any music listener of the 21^st century) have to listening to someone brag. I guess it's some vicariousness we've got going on. I dunno.

But, for an example that makes more sense, there's also this real rush to hearing a really clever punchline or witty bit, particular those that make you have to think about it for a moment so that you laugh more than you really should once you get it.

I like the juvenile wordplay of Da Ruckus:

I told you once, but you forget so here's a flashback
"You couldn't be shit, if you came out my asscrack"

Or Beastie Boys':

So put a quarter in your ass 'cause you played yourself

Or Juice's pun:

I haven't even started my reign: I'm only drizzling

Or even corny ones from Jay-Z that I still enjoy just because I somehow managed to miss it the first time around:

Flyer that a piece of paper bearing my name

Or other ones which I just can't seem to think of at the moment because I'm blanking.

Sometimes, you just want to hear good, old-fashioned, clever trash talk.

The vibe is unsettling: as soon as the verse cuts,
I kill 'em with the medley and then ready the hearse up
Overflowin' on the levy and it's ready to burst up:
Those that wanna get me, wanna sweat me, get burned up
I make 'em feel like they flows is in the amazon,
On the land being stampeded, gettin' trampled on
They can't beat it: so damn heated, they can't respond
And I'm so damn weeded, I can't see 'em – so carry on…

Yerp, that'd be the stuff.

Father: Thanks, Jonathan.  Like I said before, I read the stories and poems.  They're not bad, but I do think you could do better.  You should write more and write longer stories.  I genuinely think you're a good writer.

 

Confusing length with good writing is a folly that I'm not sure I even know how to properly respond to. I would like to know upon what qualification he bases his arraignment. To think I've always wondered where I retained my ironic sense of humor.

Sorry, do I sound miffed? We'll put aside that each of the pieces I exposed revealed concepts which I've struggled with, particularly in trying to make sense of them (the pieces were "The Only Thing We Have", "The Darkling Plain", "The Phonecall", "Fabrication to a Love Ode", and "A Memory"). Really, in all honesty, that's not the point.

It's that he's, somehow, designated judgement without the least bit of reasoning. Perhaps I'd be more understanding if I were less certain about the pieces (so perhaps my peeve is, once again, the complete lack of assumption of possible, even remote, fault in such an assured statement).

Sure, the pieces, to a degree, could be perceived as mere exercises in writing (and thus not trying to achieve something exceedingly beyond the pale at the sacrifice of the obsession with a particular technique or concept); I've always seemed to have a taste for the technical. I've also preferred doing a job that leaves no room for fault, even if that means it's short and doesn't achieve fame-level work. "A Memory" is not significant for being the next "Paradise Lost". It's significance lies in what it's able to accomplish and communicate in a mere three sentences; it may not be Hamlet material but it is well done.

I mean, there were five fucking pieces in that document. That's five pieces to dissect and tear apart and pillage for meaning. And how do you summate five pieces of writing? "They're not bad[…]."

Forgive me; perhaps I'm undercutting his sentences. The full sentence is, "They're not bad, but I do think you could do better." This is followed by the advice that I should write more and longer stories. Seeing that the following sentence moves focus from the writings I provided to future writings, I can only assume that his take on the pieces was that, "Sure, they're writings in the proper sense; but, really, give me something which I don't have to give, at best, one sentence of attention to."

 

On that note, here's an old piece I've done some revision to. You can find the original here. I've cut out good chunks of it just to trim the fat. Notably, it changes the focus of the piece a bit; certainly makes it more of a meditation on depression, though it also fleshes out the technique I was trying for the piece (even if not for as long of an amount of text).

I'm still on the fence about it, given that it really doesn't reach for much; it's certainly not nearly as busy as "Fabrication to a Love Ode". But it is an interesting technique and not one immediately noticeable; plus I think it captures what living with depression is like quite well. Oh well, here's my short piece of writing that's not even worth the time for a likewise-length dissection.

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     "Wha– sorry. Could you say it again? I jus-I wasn't listening. …. I see. Well…heh, well, who's to say? I mean – I suppose I just don't understand denial.
     It just becomes…suffocating, sometimes. It’s like I'm continually under this expectation to match every single internal and external action with the right response. Because when you respond incorrectly, that sends the wrong message. Which I'd hate to do. Because it's not unreasonable! Remember a birthday, remember Mother's Day, look happy to see someone when you say hello, go see the play your friend has been working on for God knows how long, check in on them when they're sick keep in mind when they had an interview attend their speech talk during the conversation respond make eye contactnodarcheyebrowsblinkbreathe
     "I spent the entire last weekend in my room. Heh – yeah…the entire thing. I just…didn't see the point in leaving. It took too much effort to get out the bed. And I was tired. So I tried to make sense of my computer screen for 36 hours. And it was…nice, because I didn't have to put any effort into anythin- no, I – I got lonely. I jus-
     I just needed to breathe.

I happened across this image on imgur. Some might remember that I posted an image from the same event a long while ago in another post on here (http://thirst2.xanga.com/716273608/race-sex-sexual-orientation---an-intelligent-assessment-of-controversy/).

Longstanding tensions between disgruntled African American sanitation workers and Memphis city officials erupted on February 12, 1968 when nearly one thousand workers refused to report to work demanding higher wages, safer working conditions, and recognition of their union, local 1733 of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees. Despite organizing city-wide boycotts, sit-ins, and daily marches, the city's sanitation workers were initially unable to secure concessions from municipal officials. At the urging of Reverend James T. Lawson, Martin Luther King, Jr. agreed to come to Memphis and lead a nonviolent demonstration in support of the sanitation workers. On March 29 over five thousand demonstrators, carrying signs which read "I Am A Man," participated in King's march. However, the peaceful demonstration took a turn for the worse when an estimated two hundred participants began breaking storefront windows and looting. The ensuing violence resulted in the death of Larry Payne, a sixteen year old African American who was killed by Memphis police officers, the imposition of a city-wide curfew, and the mobilization of nearly four thousand National Guard troops. Deeply troubled by the violent outbreak, King vowed to return to Memphis to lead a peaceful demonstration. On April 3, 1968, nearly two months after the initial start of the strike, King returned to Memphis and delivered what would be his last public speech. The following evening King was assassinated on the second-floor balcony of the Lorraine Motel. In the wake of King's death, President Lyndon B. Johnson sent James Reynolds, undersecretary of labor, to Memphis to help resolve the strike. Nearly two weeks later on April 16, the Memphis sanitation workers' strike ended when the city agreed to issue raises to African American employees and recognize the workers' union.

There are those who would call the image (or at least the sign) iconic. Reading the comments of imgur, it would seem otherwise.

They see his beard and know he is a man.

Who let beardy in line without a sign?

Epic Beard.

You say you a man? You a funky man...

so racist... white people can be men too

Who brings a sign to a gun fight?

Talk about irony. The beardy is not a man.

I think anyone who reads this xanga readily understands that I'm not very fond on the concept of gender-roles; that being said, they existed (stiflingly) in the 50s and the notion of being a man held importance. The phrase "I AM A MAN" here refered not only to the fact that African Americans were human but that they ought to have the same rights that white men had: the ability to work, the right to respect, etc. Literally that White America consistently and systematically emasculated black men.

The reason the white person does not have a sign, imgur, is because he has all those things already. He is there as an ally and to support.

While three or so comments seem to understand that this is related to civil rights (not entirely difficult to figure out), none seem to be aware of what this picture is of, specifically. Iconic indeed.

And, don't get me wrong. I'm generally of the opinion you can make a joke out of almost anything. Some of those comments would be funny with the understanding that everyone knew what the picture was of and respected what it represented. See, this is imgur; this is the photo upload site where, if you upload a picture of the military or something related to Queer rights, everyone goes somber, talking about the need to respect these sacred things.

Apparently not for race.

But we know that's not actually it; they're just woefully ignorant of black history – which really isn't their fault. As I was talking about jazz music with my dad, I off-handedly mentioned the Harlem Renaissance – at which point he asked me to explain what that was.

He had never been taught about it; he had never even heard of it.

It's long but all three parts relate so I'll keep them as one post.

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*phone rings*
Mother: Jonathan?
Me: Yes?
Mother: It's 3 in the morning.
Me: Yes.
Mother: Why aren't you home yet? It's way too late for you to be out.
Me: Why?
Mother: Because it's 3 o'clock in the morning.

Nothing gets by her, let me tell you. The next morning:

Father: It's completely unacceptable that you would stay out that late. [I am still, at this point, wondering why]
Mother: You're not a teenager anymore [as if I was allowed to stay out as a teenager under their arbitrary rules]; you have to wake up the next morning.
Me: …today's a Sunday [and I already had attended Sunday Vigil yesterday].
Mother: And? [for the record, I woke up at 2 today, vacuumed the kitchen and family room and tidied up my room in the span of 2 to 3 hours; I'm now on my computer. If only I had waken up earlier to get it all done!]
Father: Your clothes are on the ground; they should have been put away when you got back home [I was under the impression that a world crisis had occurred, based on their demeanor, because of how terribly late I got home last night; in my mind, getting to bed as soon as possibly was the life-saving choice to make. However, as per usual, if things aren't done in the exact order my father expects, it's apparently a lack of ambition. Never-mind that there's absolutely no difference between putting them away when I wake up or when I get home other than when I end up putting them away].
Mother: Also, you used all of my gas [I used about an eighth of a tank]. You didn't put any gas into my car afterwards, did you?
Me: No, because I don't have any money. I told you where I was going; you've been there a multitude of times; you know how much gas that takes. If that bothered you, you should have told me no and I wouldn't have gone.

The one moment of sense in this bizarre melodrama is when my mother notes that the nice thing to do would have been calling to say that I wasn't going to be home later that night. Fair; I'd be willing to oblige, though still not necessary. To use her example of why this was oh so pertinent (were I to get into some sort of accident), the police would have called their house. If you're not getting a call, I'm fine. Now stop trying to mask the fact that you can't control every aspect of my life (I can't stop myself from laughing every time my mother tells me I'm not allowed to drink, as if the first thing I've ever run to to make a decision has ever been based around whether she'd "allow" me or not).

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Father: Do you want another grilled cheese?
Me: Sure, if you're making them.
Father: What? No, it's a yes or no question: yes or no? I'm making more only if you want more.
Me: *irritable* Yes, if you're making more.

I have a habit of asking what seems like really naïve questions; even if something seems really obvious, I'll often ask again or specifically repeat, audibly, back to the instructor the steps of the (sort of obvious) task, just to be sure I have it right. In correspondence with instances like these (though not only entailed to), I often say, "I assume nothing." The larger meaning is owning up to the danger of assumption (and, in turn, the inherent ignorance we often don't expect to find in ourselves, even on accident). It's also a gracious way not to offend people, in my mind; I refuse to even be suspicious of them.

The root of this habit (I have little doubt) stems from my father. Never one to be good at communicating, he often would assume that you'd know certain things; combined with his low patience, you were never really quite certain what to do right to avoid being yelled at.

So I got into the habit of making certain of everything: I assumed nothing and asked any question I could think of to be certain I understood what he wanted. While his point seems obvious, I'm certain there've been times in the past where he's said, to some request or question from me or my siblings regarding any food, "Well, I'm done cooking, so that's not going to happen."

Under that understanding, my statement seems perfectly reasonable. Removed from that understanding, my statement is still not unreasonable; redundant, perhaps, but not difficult to figure out (humor my idiosyncrasies).

However, this – apparently – is too much for my father to figure out. My mother, like myself, often includes extra information; I'd argue that both my parents and I all prefer explaining things in the form of stories (don't give us the general idea, give us examples; we'll figure it out from there) but my mother and I use this to include other information. Example? My father is wondering how much it will cost to get my sister's dog's hair cut. My mother tells him that the old hair cutter had cost 40 dollars and one of our neighbors, who had recommended the new hair cutter, said it should cost the same amount.

My father pauses before going, "Oh, so $40; why didn't you just say that?"

My first reaction is that you get the answer either way. That aside, you now know a possible average amount for such a job. You know who gave you the new hair cutter should you want to make small talk with the neighbors (seeing as my dad seems incapable of ever shutting up, I would think he'd value that information).

I guess, likewise, my response was too confusing for his brain to parse.

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The doorbell is ringing; my sister's crazy dog, like always, thinks the house is under attack and is barking his head off. My father tells him to move away from the door (I forget if he made hand motions, seeing as the dog wouldn't understand the command "Move away from the door"; I don't think he tried very hard, if he did). The dog, not understanding and being far more involved in the more interesting events occurring just outside the door, keeps barking at the door. My father, with one more bark of "Move!", pushes the dog across the tile floor out of the way; he slides smack into the wall about a yard away. I pick him up and carry him to another room to avoid him running to the door yet again (he's a persistent one). As I head back to the front door, I hear my father mutter, "I hate that dog; he never listens."

My father, for a while (I think he's become less vocal about it but no less believing), perceives me to be very selfish and self-concerned in some areas. A lot of this, I would argue, is my firm belief that the best means of dealing with people is allowing individuals to make choices regarding themselves with no restraint so long as their choices do not harm anyone else.

Unable to perceive this, (like the individual who finds those who call for tolerance to be hypocritical because those people oppose zir attempts to ban gay marriage for everyone) he was often puzzled and irritated by my habit, when I was younger, to call him and my mother out on making comments about other people. Or, for another example, getting angry at them telling me to eat healthier.

In his mind, I was pushing my world view on him; this is hardly the case. Rather, I had no qualms about him trying to be healthy or even making disparaging comments about his own weight or loss of hair: perfectly fine. It was his utter inability to restrict these thoughts to himself that bothered me.

So, I'm the selfish one. Okay. But, I would make the argument that, even beyond the obvious generosity of autonomy, this system goes even further in opposition to selfishness. You see (to use the theme I've touched a bit on here already), this system is once again in acknowledgement of our ignorance.

I was part of a panel back in college one time that was touching on religion. I remember it was part of the Encountering Religion series, though I can't remember the particular focus this time around. Someone in the crowd asked, "In dealing with religion, we're seeking Truth and answers. There can only be one answer so don't you owe it to help others see the Answer?" Ahh, the old Evangelist approach.

I wish I had responded but I didn't. In any case, the reason why going out and killing all the heretics and infidels is wrong (other than the fact that most religions include something about not killing and it's really just common sense) is that you can't be so certain that you are correct. I've said before, any person who wants to stand and tell me that there is, without a doubt, absolutely no chance there is no god(s) or absolutely no chance there is a god(s) has lost all intellectual merit in my eyes.

To move out of that supernatural lens, a simple reading of this xanga will make evident that my thoughts and beliefs have most certainly changed over the years. Myself in middle school would have been horrified that I'd become so accepting of gay rights (let alone help further the cause in any range of organizations).

So we allow the individual as much autonomy as possible because, at the end of the day, the person who will know what's best for you the most amount of times is you. Sure, there will be times where someone knows what's best for you or what's right and you don't know. But in my system, you have the option of asking for and refusing help. In my father's, you don't have a choice. Further, everyone is responsible for themselves under this rule. Under the other, we must seek a system of justice, etc. when someone pressures you because they figured they knew better and then screw things up. If you screw things up, it's just you who pays for it.

So does that make my father's system selfish?

In terms of results, yes but that's simplifying it. It's not that he wants control, per se. It's that, in his mind, he's figured things out and (rather than verifying such findings) must put them into action.

A good example of this is actually something that happened with my brother. We were stopping by the house before heading to, I think, a swim meet for my sister. I went in and grabbed myself some chips. As I headed back, my brother asks (expectantly), "Did you get me any?"

The answer is no.

And here is why: in an individualous system, I don't have to get you chips. Would it be nice if I did? Certainly. Had I thought of it or my brother had asked before I went in, I would have happily done so. But, as I said, autonomy in self until the point of harming someone else. My brother won't die from not getting chips; he has no right to expecting anything of the sort from me. Indeed, no one owes you anything (so long as not giving it to you would not harm or restrict you); this, in turn, makes charitable acts all the more charitable. Under my father's system, you are owed those kind works.

But that sounds harsh, doesn't it? It's a little too abstract. Here's why he can't expect anything from me. Like I said, the thought hadn't crossed my mind. Further, I could have been in a hurry. Or maybe I, accidentally, remembered him not liking the chips.

For him (and my father), remembering to get someone something is a nice gesture. Thus, everyone must be expected to do it. Much like the illustration I gave 7 paragraphs ago, his system demands I must get him chips. Mine offers the choice. It also has this nice, built-in, fail-safe that allows for there to be a vast variety of reasons (that my brother may be unaware of) as to why I may not have gotten him the chips. In this instance, I simply forgot.

Further, I find more consistency in mine. I have a habit of waving to every person in our neighborhood; I like to be friendly and I like people so it makes sense to me. One time, after waving, my brother asks why. I give the same explanation. He, somewhat grouchily, responds (paraphrased), "I'm not going to wave just because someone expects that of me." Now, this is confusing to me; no one expects you to wave. He makes it seem like some irritating obligation. In his understanding of what you should and should not do, there's no reason for him to wave; in mine, that's the nice thing to do (indeed, I think my father would chastise him and say he ought to wave, were he a few years younger, because my father appreciates friendliness as a virtue). My system offers him the choice not to. There could be a vast variety of reasons why he might not (I certainly don't know it). But he doesn't owe anyone a wave.

This is the core reason my father expects obedience. In his mind, he's already figured it all out (I imagine the mountain of times I've shown him wrong or convinced him otherwise are just minor exceptions). So listen and do it his way already.

The dog wasn't hurt; indeed, we, as humans, did a damn good job of breeding those things because it really is just astonishing how forgiving and friendly their natures are. No, but it looked like it hurt. I dunno; if I had done something like that, I'd've immediately picked him up to let him know if was a mistake (forget the door for that moment). It was the way that it didn't even matter to my father that he'd basically pushed the dog into a wall (because God forbid something not obey his command) with thoroughly no concern for his well-being afterwards.

 

**note: I should take the moment to note that I'm not perfect. I make mistakes and I can't remember if I always own up to them. I know, when I start feeling more comfortable with my surroundings, I'll say things in my usual disparaging humor and forget to make certain people understand I'm not even remotely serious. I'd like to think that I'm open enough about my concern for others and my willingness to admit when I'm wrong or make mistakes (which, just as there may be evidence for the opposite, there certainly is evidence for). At least I hope.

Responding with silence has become a norm within the past year; it's not one I like very much. Part of it is simply the inevitable result of living with disability. Much like, by my Senior year of college, showering on the weekdays all but ceased. As I said – to basically similar effect – somewhere else on this Xanga, it's not pretty but I'm functional. I have that much.

It's that reason that is the operative at play in cases like Margaret and Allan. In instances like with my dad and mom, it's far (far) more my complicated history with authority.

I have little doubt that the root of it goes back to the fact that I grew up in a controlling household. If my incessant attention to irrelevant details, that are greater in value at their whole, is any clue, it was the constant denial of making little choices as to what to wear or what I could keep in my room (or even how I wanted to order and organize my room) that, if not the basis of this issue, have some part in it. Sure, part of the issue at stake in those previously listed denials is also the refutation of my choice in an identity (something that always seemed, to me, to have been developed at a young age) but it's also that basic fact that "refutation" and "denial" are used in these sentences.

I was refused choice; in a sense (metaphorically), I could not freely move. Double this with my depression (the casual choice of the abled to climb the stairs is far more greatly complicated for those resigned to a wheelchair) and you may see a pattern.

I remember being strikingly affected when, while visiting a museum, one of the guards interrupted my thoughts as I was observing a painting: "Excuse me, sir? I don't mean to interrupt you, but we ask that patrons don't get to close to the artwork or point near them to avoid getting oil on the works." I feel – if my memory is of any reliability – like my issue with people interrupting me because they felt that I hadn't noticed something (walking out in front of something, being in someone's way, etc.) is a trait which formed far more frequently, if not in entirety, after this event though my reaction at the time seems to suggest to me otherwise. Regardless, my (internal) reaction wasn't annoyance and it wasn't indifference.

It was a sort of elation. I immediately told the guard that of course I would do this and thanked him for alerting me. I wanted to help this man.

The crucial point was that he had asked me. Rather than trying to exert control over me, he had offered the control to me.

Now, of course, there has to be limits. You cannot just do as you please in life with others respecting your control and authority. You have to mutually respect everyone else's control and authority. While I may deal with the "Why" of this rule later in this post (or certainly in another post, at the very least, since the functionality of this rule needs to be addressed to make it a valid rule), what I proposed in the previous sentence works when you follow the rule of allowing every person to do entirely as ze wishes up until the point that ze harms someone else. Hence, I would have accepted the guard to have said, "Please do be careful not to touch the artwork. Thank you." I may not have had such a positive reaction but there would have been absolutely no complaint from me. I'm visiting the museum; the artwork is the museum's; they have every right to tell me how to behave around it.

But the reason that I tell this story is that it was this moment that started to make me realize the explanation that can justify – I'll even hazard an absolute guess here – everything about me (I forget if I've mentioned it here but the fact that I came out of an abusing household and most of the people I've known have witnessed abuse can also be used to explain and justify every action, ideology, and way of thinking that make up my identity).

It is that I want control. Even if it's solely for the aim of implementing what I want (which, in almost all cases, is the betterment of others; I mention this because this is often not what we think of when it comes to desiring control. I like power; power is control. That it garners respect is certainly a perk but, at the end of the day, it always comes back to what I want to build and make. And 90% of that deals with the bettering of others).

I've been thinking about mentioning here for a while now that I think the reason that stupidity so vastly and flatly terrifies me is that, when someone is stupid (or is stupid about something), there really is no way to reach zem. Because you can't rationally proceed about the world when basic logical connections break down. While I very rarely am a fan of forced control, I am all for control by helping someone understand a line of reasoning. We often don't think of this as control (e.g. we don't think of it as control for us to accept that gravity is real and choosing not to deny gravity. Yet it is; I can't control someone in a way that can avoid zem making choices that will harm others if zir basic logical processes cannot comprehend gravity).

 

Which brings me back to my central point. Sometimes it's not fair. Allan or Margaret don't deserve to be put off. That's the disability working, reducing our expectations below the logical standard.

But with my parents, I have only ever asked them for one thing, really. Sure, I borrowed the car to go see friends (come college; I'm pretty sure my standard of getting out of the house in high school was far below average for others my age at the time). But that's really about it. I bend very easily; I'm pretty sure I've said it here before but I often don't actually fight back until backed into a corner (notice that the notion of control has been here all this time, even before this post?). So I've made concessions. My mother's controlling. So I let her make me apply to 13 colleges. Not necessarily what I would do; not really a bad thing, either, so I was more willing to do with that proposed idea. However, when it came to applying to Havard, I firmly said, "No." I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to go.

Ever since I ran away, my mother got nicer about certain things. It's interesting to see where her and I actually do have similarity (and the differences in that similarity). It's the play I would have made. I give up some, you give up some. It's the idea behind me bending, as I mentioned in the previous paragraph; I often play the long game: I'd much rather accumulate points to use later than fight out each battle full-on each time (depression partially necessitates this). As I've told my father, I choose my battles. My mother's been particularly lenient about some of her inanities lately; I overheard her a few hours ago telling my dad he should stop being so negative in the way he talks to me (of course, seeing as this is actual foul play rather than something that could truly be seen as a favor (you don't stop stealing from someone as a favor, for anything), this is problematic).

Yet when I said that I didn't think that it was a good idea for me to go to graduate school (something I should probably do a full post on some later time), I was resoundly told that wasn't an acceptable answer (it was said more leniently than that but, like I said, another post).

So when I desire silence from my parents, this is partially to see if I get the choice of being left alone. When I continue silence despite their protests, this is to see if they earn my trust to break that silence (word of advice: incessantly talking and refusing to accept that choice of silence are not ways to reassure that I have control).

Because, I would strongly argue, the only thing I have ever truly asked of them is to be left alone – and, by a lesser extension, the ability to make my own choices and time to formulate my own thoughts (clearly I don't make rushed decisions; I need to think). Interestingly, this is the one thing they have refused to give me.

Father: "You know, I hate when people shove me or push right in front of me. It's drives me absolutely crazy; I can't stand it."

Oh, the irony is too much; it's killing me inside.

"Did you write a birthday card for your mother yet?"

"No"

"Were you planning to?"

"Yes"

"Really? Were you actually?" [aka I am surprised at your capability in remembering to do the task you've had to do since your date of birth despite (I believe) absolutely no evidence of you having forgotten to; i.e. I think you're incompetent]

It astounds me that being silent and hardly responding somehow translates to "I need to talk to you more. If I just keep at it long enough, you'll open up! Like a piñata," for my dad.

I'm sick of being assumed that I'm wrong or that I don't know what I'm doing. When I'm successful, this shouldn't be surprising to you.

I also don't appreciate my opinions about things being pushed aside or being considered invalid. Those are rejections of me, in turn labeling me invalid. Assume I actually know what I'm talking about, or, at the very least, grant me the respect to acknowledge my differing.

 

My brother and I were discussing who was the favorite child for each parent today (despite constant repudiations from our mother). We both mutually agreed that Nathan was her favorite, Natasha second, I last, without question. When it came to my father, we both agreed Natasha was first. Both of us thought we were the least favorite child.

I have no doubt that they love all three of us equally. But it's telling that both of us felt so utterly rejected by his actions as to think we were the least liked. Perhaps it's more we're all equally loved, he just respects Natasha more (though I still kind of want to contend that I'm the least respected: he finds Nathan somewhat selfish and hot-headed, I think (which is humorously ironic given his own anger), but he finds me incompetent. I may be the oldest, but I couldn't do anything on my own (four years of college away from them didn't really have anything trying for me; after all, I can't wake up in the morning for anything, so I must've had someone else help me; and one instance of oversleeping in four years proves the precedence)).

 

I've always insisted that, in most cases, what was intended is more important than the result. However, my parents provide ample example, that the result can outweigh the intention. I just don't know how to justify a good deal of the actions my father partakes in. They so frequently go against any reasonable logical assessment of how to treat fellow humans, that I'd be tempted to guess he were mentally impaired. However, if he were mentally impaired, he'd have an excuse and reason. He's not, which makes him unjustifiable.

I hate the phrase "I'm sorry".

Sorry is what my friend says when she knows she's fucked up yet needs my support, like usual; it's an excuse phrase so that – despite being wronged in the situation – I have to take care of her in her hurt over having hurt me.

Sorry is what my dad says when he's screwed up again for the 4,000^th time, not bothering to learn from his mistakes and apparently incapable of understanding basic human interaction – and the fact that there are some ways you should never treat anyone.

Fuck sorry. I don't want to hear it. I don't need to dwell on the shit you did, nor hear your attempts to appease me.

Grow up, gain some maturity, and don't do it again. I don't need to dwell on it; I don't want to dwell on it. Change. If you need to say it, say it once and then drop it. I don't want to hear it. Change and don't do it again.

End of story.