Skwisgaar

I have spent most of the last two days cuddling on my couch with this fellow:

Garrett and co. found him wandering around the streets near our place at midnight on Wednesday on their way home from a Children of Bodom concert, and brought him in because of course they didn't want to leave him out there.  They of course named him "Skwisgaar."

When they first brought him upstairs, he could not calm down, and he was beyond thirsty.  He ran and jumped and wouldn't sit still, and covered our kitchen floor because he's a messy drinker.  I was frustrated, and couldn't wait for animal control to come get him; I didn't want to get too attached, and with all that energy, I was worried he'd tear the place apart.  He was clearly still a puppy - I guessed 6-8 months, but big for a dog that age.

But as the night wore on, he calmed down a little, and settled into Garrett's room to sleep.  He woke me up on Thursday morning with his whining, but finally settled in on the couch and slept some more until I woke up to take him out.  He pulled on his leash, but after he peed, he calmed down.  When I brought him back into the apartment and settled in to drink my tea, he crawled up on the couch and lay his head in my lap.  That was it, I was in love. 

Over the course of Wednesday, while I waited at home all day for animal control (who never came) Skwisgaar and I became best friends.  He followed me around, I made him chicken and rice for breakfast, we played with his makeshift toy (an old t-shirt, knotted up - he liked tug of war) and, of course, cuddled on the couch while I tried to figure out where he belonged and what I was going to do if animal control couldn't find his home and put him up for adoption.  I always tell myself I can't have a dog - I don't have a car to get a dog to or from the vet, my parents, Green Lake, etc.  But I loved this dog already, and couldn't stand the idea of him languishing in a shelter with nobody to appreciate how great he was.

Animal control didn't come yesterday.  Luckily, a neighbor in my building brought us some dog food to feed him, so we kept him for another night.  This morning, I posted for a missing dog on Craigslist, and read for school while Skwisgaar slept with his head in my lap.  A response came in from Craigslist, somebody saying they didn't know who he belonged to, but they'd seen him in the neighborhood and thought he lived nearby.

Distraught at the idea of leaving him in a shelter while we went away this weekend, I took him out and started going door to door at all the big buildings in my area, asking if anybody was missing a dog.  Nobody was, although one nice guy did give me a real leash, which was great.  But one doorman called down a resident of his building, who he said knew a lot of the dog owners in the area.  The gentleman didn't, but he looked across the street at the big field where the dogs play, and saw somebody we knew.  We walked out to meet her, and she took one look at our Skwisgaar, and yelled "Kaiser?"  And it was.  She didn't know his owner's name, but she knew where he lived.  

After a good run in the field (she assured me he could be off-leash, and he did just fine) we took him to the building where his owner lived - exactly kitty corner my building.  We found the property manager, who also immediately recognized Kaiser.  After about an hour to wait for his owner to come home from work and get him, I said goodbye to Skwisgaar.

And now I'm sitting on the couch by myself.  There's no dog begging me to play tug of war, or wandering around the kitchen sniffing for spilled food, or snuggling closer and closer in to my side until he lays his head in my lap and dozes off.  And I miss him.  I did tell his owner I'd be happy to dog-sit, but it won't be the same.

The moral of this story is I have REALLY got to work on getting myself a dog.  And then I have to find one as awesome as Skwisgaar/Kaiser, because he was great. 

Fiction?

I used to write.  A lot.  Not like I do now with blog entries, personal essays, and so-on, papers for grad school.  I used to write fiction.  Short fiction, attempts at novels, fan fiction.  As I grew older – and began writing more in academic contexts – I wrote fiction less.  I was so busy.  And I was, I decided, not particularly good at writing fiction.

I was wrong.  I was right, too, but I was also wrong.  I was, and still am, terrible at plots.  I’m not a particularly good world-builder (especially in fantasy,) since I can never escape the very blatant influences of other authors' better, more wonderful worlds.  But recently, thanks to my re-read of the Pern series, I was thinking about my play-by-email role-playing (an interactive form of fan-fiction) and the stories I wrote for those characters, and a couple other random pieces of fan-fiction I created in earlier days.  And I realized something: my fan-fiction was good.  Not great, mind you, and certainly not anywhere near the level of writers (published or not) who I truly love and admire.  But it was good.  The last time I went back and re-read a few pieces of my fan-fiction, I didn’t cringe like I usually do when I re-read my old writing (well, I didn't cringe much  – there’s always something I think could be improved.)  I felt something.  I smiled or got teary-eyed as the stories and characters demanded.  I actually responded to my own fiction writing with something besides embarrassment and disappointment.

The thing is, what I do best is write characters and relationships.  I’m good at characters, I’m good at people.  The few serviceable and not cringe-worthy plots I’ve ever created have always been in pursuit of an end character goal; whether they were back-stories to explain why a new character was the way she was, or my twisted machinations to make a character feel exactly the sort of sorrow I thought he needed, my decent plots were always the means to a character or relationship end. 

And this is why I flourished in fan-fiction.  I didn’t need to build a world, because I had a world I already loved, and now I could play in it.  And I rarely needed to build a plot – e-mail role-play let plots develop organically between characters or were the product of a big event somebody else planned, and my other fan-fiction could easily focus on or around an already established plot or event.  I was free to live my characters and their relationships.  It didn’t feel like writing fiction, it felt like writing reality.  The reality of a smart, social, fun teenager developing an attitude as she chafed at the restrictions placed on her by herself and her responsibilities.  The truth of how a young man broke when the woman who was the center of his universe died while she pursued his dream.  Looking back, I wrote truths about these characters I didn’t even know were there.  I see more in some of these stories now than I did when I wrote them.  The best fiction I’ve ever written was fan-fiction, because all I was really doing was writing reality in a fictional context.  So I was wrong when I decided I wasn’t very good at writing fiction, but I was right too. 

I miss them.  My characters and their relationships.  I can’t bring back the ones that are lost – their world, their experiences, and their relationships can’t simply be grafted on to a new one.  But I find myself constantly tempted to join another play by e-mail role-play group, even though I don’t have the time.  I already have two new characters ready to move into their world.  I know where they’re from, what they look like, what kind of events in their day-to-day lives will prove difficult for them.  I would know in a second how, faced by an unexpected person or situation, they would react.  I know they would build meaningful relationships with other people.  I know what their sensitivities and jealousies would be, who they would dislike and why.  But I can’t write their stories yet, because I don’t have the time, and I don’t know if I ever will.  I don’t know if I really would give up other parts of my life to go back to them.  And so I write less now, and no fiction, not even fan fiction.  But there’s an ache where my characters used to live.  Every time I think about them, I miss them.  Sometimes growing up sucks.

“Why don’t they just go to the back of the line?”

Today, my organization had their annual fundraising luncheon.  This is an event some of our staff spend months preparing for.  The rest of us (or at least me) spent yesterday and today getting drafted for last-minute tasks, preparing everything beforehand and cleaning up afterwards, and trying to represent the importance of our work to partners, donors, and funders.  We had stories from clients, a speech from a Senator, and a wonderful and inspiring keynote address.  So with today's inspiration, I want to write about immigration.

I've been wanting to write about immigration issues since I started this blog, but honestly, I hardly even know where to start.  I’m so involved and invested in the many, many injustices and abuses within our immigration system that once I start, I could go on indefinitely.   But today, I want to talk about this idea that an undocumented immigrant could have “gone to the back of the line” instead of entering the country undocumented.

It seems so simple, doesn’t it?  Instead of entering the US illegally, you wait in line like all those good, law-abiding immigrants, and eventually get your just reward in a visa, legal status in the US, and eventual citizenship!  Except it doesn’t work that way, not even close. 

For most immigrants, there is no line.

If you are an unskilled worker – and believe me when I say that can mean somebody with more education, experience, and job skills than I have by a long shot – and have no U.S. citizen spouse or immediate relative, and are lucky enough to have suffered no major persecution in your home country, there will probably never be a way for you to get permanent status in this country.  Anyone's shot at legal status can be largely out of your hands – you could come for years on a valid employment visa, only to be laid off when your company has to downsize or collapses completely, or have to leave a job and a life in the US when your visa expires.  Even if you do have a path to citizenship, the difficulties can be near unreasonable.  Even if you fell in love with a US citizen and were planning to marry (assuming, of course, your fiancé is of the opposite sex,) your fiancé could break up with you, or pass away.  Or you could be stuck in a job that makes you miserable and mistreats you, but is your only path to legal status in this country so you stick with it.  And even if you do have one of the rare options for legal status, this so-called “line” still requires vast resources in time and money.

Take, for example, a marriage-based visa and green card.  The “easy” way in, right?  So you are Maria, a young woman from Mexico, and while you are studying for your Masters in the United States, you fall in love with and marry a US citizen, Steve (not Stacy, mind you, because then you have no shot at legal status.)  After your wedding, you decide to apply for a green card.  So you and Steve shell out the money and consult with an immigration attorney.  Because (having worked in marriage-based immigration law, I can assure you,) if you can in any way afford it, you want an attorney for this process.  Your attorney outlines everything this application will entail, and reluctantly, you and Steve decide to forgo your dreams of a down payment on a house this year, and pursue your green card.  So you prepare to shell out literally thousands of dollars in fees to the US government and your attorney.  Your attorney (you've been lucky enough to find a good one - some of them are terrible) helps you fill out form after complicated form – and lucky for you that you have an attorney, because even though you are fluent in English and Steve grew up speaking it, it’s hard to figure out what many of the fields on the forms are actually asking you for.  You painstakingly try to recall the addresses you lived at as a child in Mexico, Steve fills out and signs a form promising that he will financially support you if you lose your job so you don’t have to apply for public benefits, you review the forms over and over to make sure they are all correct.

And then you begin to collect the documents to prove your marriage is valid.  Once again, lucky you have an attorney, or you might never have realized just how much documentation is required.  You copy your marriage certificate, of course.  Then you copy your joint gym membership, adoption papers for your dog, your joint lease.  You call your phone company for the last two years of your phone records, and highlight every call you have made to Steve’s number and he to yours.  You print out your personal e-mails to each other – you’re going to let these strangers in the government read your silly and romantic notes to each other while you were at work or apart for a few days.  You photocopy pictures from your first vacation together, the Christmas you spent with your parents in Mexico, you holding Steve’s niece, your wedding, your honeymoon.  You ask your family and friends to write letters stating that you two are a real couple.  You copy a Christmas card from Steve’s godfather addressed to both of you.  You make a copy of a check from your joint account.  You collect everything you can get on paper to show that you and Steve really are in love.  You pass it on to your attorney, who reviews, who asks you for more details, who finally compiles a thick packet and sends it to US Citizenship and Immigration Services.  And after a wait of a few months, you have your interview.  You and Steve talk to immigration officers who question the details of your life together, who examine your interactions in the immigration office, who try and find any crack that might prove that you’re faking  your love, that your marriage isn’t “real.”  And after all that, you finally get your green card – valid for two years.

And in two years when your conditional green card expires, you do it all again.  You pay more fees to the government and your attorney.  You file more forms.  You collect more documentation.  You might even get called for another interview.  All to show immigration that yes, two years later, you are still married, still in love, still a real couple.

And then, after another year –because this is, of course, the fastest track, and you only have to wait three years – you can apply for naturalization.  This, of course, entails more forms, more fees, more documentation.  You take a test which a significant number – I don’t have any real statistics, so I won’t give them, but I feel 100% confident that it is a “significant number” – of US born citizens could not pass, to prove that you know and understand this country you’re trying to pledge to.  And at long last, you can take your oath, and you are a U.S. citizen.

And this, folks, is the “fast track,” this is the the best possible scenario for the easiest of the “lines”, if you’re lucky enough to have a chance to get in a “line.”  To see what all the other "lines" look like, check out this great chart from Reason magazine, detailing other paths (or lack thereof) to legal immigration.

Entering the US as an undocumented immigrant is difficult; people risk their lives, their freedom, and their life savings to do it.  They work at low wage jobs and get taken advantage of because they don’t have legal status.  If they are lucky enough to become successful, they live with the constant threat of being deported and separated from their home, their family, their US citizen children, and the lives they have built here.  Trust me, if there were a “line,” people would be getting in it, not suffering through entering undocumented. 

So if someone tells me that undocumented immigrants should have just “gotten in line,” that's when I know they have no idea what they're talking about.

Warning: Massive Fantasy Nerdiness and Nostalgia Ahead

Last night, I dreamed of a dragon.  

An Anne McCaffrey dragon, to be precise – and that is an important distinction, at least for me.  I have always loved dragons of any stripe, but hers were special.

I’ve recently started re-reading Anne McCaffrey’s Pern books for the first time in years.  I used to live and breathe these books.  As a teenager, I read my favorite books of the series so many time the covers fell off.  I was extremely active in play-by-email Pern role-play.  I wrote stories – fanfiction, I suppose it qualifies as – about my own characters living in this world.  The characters in the books as well as in the role-play groups I was involved in were my friends.  I found in their world, their struggles, connections to and an escape from my world, my struggles.  And I dreamed - daydreamed - of finding their world to be real, and impressing a dragon of my own.

I never did have such a great opinion of Anne McCaffrey herself.  Her interaction with her fans in the context of her extremely specific rules about what is and isn’t allowed (mostly isn’t) in terms of role-play, fanfiction, etc., backed up by law suits, generally gave me the impression of a crabby old lady.  In later years, I heard that she had some pretty wonky views of homosexuality (you’re a dude and some other dude penetrates you, you’re gay, end of story!  Even if it’s rape – still makes you gay!)  And when I thought about her books from a feminist perspective, I seemed to recall them being troubling at best.

Re-reading these books, though, was worse than thinking about them in terms of feminism.  Perhaps at the time when the first couple books were written – in the 60s, I believe – they were more progressive and less sexist.  I certainly do remember later books being much better on that front.  But I found myself grinding my teeth.  After the first couple chapters, I was wondering how I made it through them even at 13 without noticing the violence against women, the strict adherence to gender binaries and roles (it shocked me how often the words “feminine” and “masculine” appear in these books, the number of references to men being emasculated, and the constant use of “womanly” as an insult to men, and the number of times even the most powerful women are reduced to serving food to men and then leaving so men can have their war councils), and the unspoken sense of “quiet dear, the men are talking now.”  I honestly wondered if I even wanted to continue reading.

And then I arrived at the scene where the heroine, Lessa, impresses the golden dragon Ramoth.  It’s hard to describe what this means outside the context of the books, but I’ll try.  In these books, the bond between dragons and their riders is profound, and begins the moment the dragon hatches and stumbles around the sand to find their rider.  Pernese dragons are strong, powerful, beautiful and, well, dragons, but this bond is what sets them apart and what defines them, in universe and in the context of fantasy literature.  Dragons and riders communicate telepathically, and share in everything with each other.  When a rider dies, the dragon commits suicide immediately.  Most of the time if a dragon dies, their rider commits suicide – assuming they have the mental capacity to do so, and aren’t reduced to complete insanity.  The two are always together, always connected.  They always support each other.  They always love each other.  Their bond supersedes all other bonds of family, romance, or friendship.  

The love between dragon and rider is unconditional, irreversible, and the most important bond in either creature’s life.  That was what always drew me to the books.  That is what led me to immerse myself in this fantasy world.  That is what inspired me to create character after character that lived and interacted – and that I lived and interacted vicariously through – in that same world.  That was what I was thinking of, dreaming of, and even, in my heart of hearts and against all logic and reason, hoping for.  And when I read the moment where Lessa and Ramoth find each other on the sand and look into each other’s eyes for the first time, it all came back to me.  I put the book down after that scene, and despite the warm humid weather, I fell asleep and it was hot.  And as I dreamed, I fell asleep and it was hot – but the heat was the warmth of the dragon whose neck I was curled up against while she protectively wrapped around me, the heat was the dragon who was mine just as I was hers, the heat was comforting and safe and joyful and full of love.  When I woke up and found I was alone, I felt a little sad and empty.

Last night, I dreamed of my dragon.

It’s the most magical day of the year (and I’m missing it)

Every year at this time, young people are falling asleep with smiles on their faces in anticipation of the joys before them.  They predict an early awakening not with dread but with delight.  They anxiously await the yearly ritual that will, perhaps, be the happiest day of the year THIS year too, just like it has been in years past.  They wonder about what surprises the day will bring, and what new toys and games they will have to play with.  They look forward to celebrating this magical time with some of those closest to them.

I am talking, of course, about Flunk Day.

They don’t know exactly when it will come, or what pleasures will fill campus, but they know it will come, and they know it will bring new and wonderful delights.  Nearly every night of spring term, they will go to sleep wondering “is it tomorrow?”  As the weeks go by, this question grows louder in their head.  A thrill of excitement one night, a scare the next morning, the growing anticipation…

One morning they awake at 5:30, again, to the sounds of whistles and yells, maybe drums, louder and more persistent than the other mornings.  The air seems to crackle with a new energy.  Could it be?  Is this it?  Sleep is impossible, but they are afraid to give in to the excitement, in case this is just one more let down.  They pace, they check their stores of “Flunk Day booze,” they refresh their e-mail every ten seconds…every five seconds…every two seconds…finally, finally, an e-mail arrives from the Dean of Students: HAPPY FLUNK DAY!

Joy breaks loose.  Elated, students run around their suite, house, or apartment building, screaming the news everybody already knows…IT’S FLUNK DAY!  An excitement almost too great to contain forces them to slow down, consider their next move, and pour their first screwdriver, Irish car bomb, or other "morning" drink of choice.  Perhaps now there is a moment of subdued excitement with suitemates, joy overwhelming still, but the action slow.  A drink or two, a nalgene filled with a delicious beverage, and it’s time to venture forth.  The day is still new, a morning chill in the air, dew on the grass.  Friends are everywhere, covered in mud, laughing, dancing Tunak in the street.  A sense of anticipation still fills the air – what sights will fill campus later today?  When the mud has been (mostly) hosed off and the morning naps taken, what will the rest of the day bring?

I don’t know what today brought for Knox students.  In years past, this day brought to me so many things, including karaoke, a concert by a band I love, arts and crafts, drink of the gods, naps under bushes, sunburns, hookah, a petting zoo, a memory with a boyfriend, a memory with a friend, a Shakespeare paper (maybe not the best year,) my siblings, dancing, singing, skipping, picnics.  Every year brought an infectious sense of joy and excitement, a bond with my friends, new friends, old friends, memories that will last forever, a deeper love for my college and community, and a sense of true delight in where I was, what I was a part of, and a day meant for nothing but enjoyment of it all.

It’s a day I still love and look forward to, though for the last three years it has been bittersweet.  I suspect that Knox graduates around the world today are walking with an extra spring in their step, but an extra wistfulness in their eyes.  I know I am.

Happy Flunk Day Knox – I hope you enjoyed today.  It really is the most magical day of the year!

Eff You, Miller Lite

Ugh.  Those Miller Lite man-up commercials.  Commercials celebrating the joy of sexism, the inability of women to appreciate beer, and the intense shame of being thought of as "womanly."  It really, really bothers me that are there enough people out there being swayed by these commercials that they’re considered valid marketing.

For those who still aren’t sure what I’m talking about, here’s a synopsis of every commercial in this ad campaign:  Man walks up to a bar, orders a light beer.  Attractive, busty female bartender asks him “more taste or less taste?” holding up a Miller Lite and a generic light beer. Man orders less taste, or says he doesn’t care.  Woman says something scathing about his fake tan/skinny jeans/speedo-style bathing suite/etc. and tells him when he “fixes” this (i.e. “when you decide to change out of that man-thong, come back and I’ll give you a Miller Lite.”) Voice-over says “Man up!” and tells you to buy Miller Lite.  The first iterations of these commercials were even worse – featuring men wearing skirts or holding purses.  Apparently the outcry on these was enough to have them pulled, but not enough to do away with the “man up” campaign.

Things that piss me off about this ad campaign:

1.) It is implied that women have no taste in beer, because only if you “man up” will appreciate the “superior taste” of Miller Lite.  Excuse me, but I have FINE taste in beer (my weakness for Bud Light aside.)  I know a hefe weizen from a Belgian white and a stout from a black lager.  I know my local microbreweries.  I will give you a lecture on the proper way to pour a Guinness, and stop ordering them at a bar if they’re poured wrong.  I am a woman, and I have perfectly good taste in beer.  And me and my good taste in beer do not like Miller Lite.

2.)  The obvious attempt to make these commercials more acceptable by casting women in the bartender roles.  Just because a woman says it doesn’t mean it’s not sexist.

3.)  Transphobia.  This was much more apparent in the earlier commercials with men in skirts and carrying purses, but it’s still here.  All the commercials put down men who step outside of traditional gender roles by doing things like using bronzer or wearing skinny jeans (implied to be women’s jeans by the bartender.)  The commercials portray this as something to be shamed. It’s not as apparent as the sexism (see my next point,) but it’s there.

4.)  The implication that there is something terribly, terribly wrong with being feminine.  We are talking about an entire ad campaign based around the “truth” that it’s bad to be feminine or in any way "womanly," and that you should definitely want to “man up” and be more masculine, because that is better.  I realize that this is the implied message of many, many beer commercials, but to express it so blatantly kind of sickens me. 

So in conclusion:  Miller Lite, you suck.  And I am even less likely to drink your beer after this ad campaign than I was before (not that I was likely to drink it anyways, see aforementioned Bud Light weakness.)  Your beer is not good, and your sexist advertising is worse.

Why My Pastor is Awesome

This Sunday, after a long weekend of family and fun, I attended a special service at my church, to confer the status of Minister Emeritus on Dan Larsen, and celebrate his 19 years of service to the church.

I started attending the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Woodstock (then known as the Congregational Unitarian Church of Woodstock) sometime around the age of…six, I believe.  I don’t actually remember.  My family started going because of Dan – he had been the minister at the Methodist church around the corner from us, and my parents liked him so well there that when he switched churches, so did we.  As it turned out, Unitarianism was a great fit for us, and I know I, for one, am unequivocally a Unitarian Universalist no matter who the minister. But we have Dan to thank for leading us there.

My parents were married by Dan on October 20, his wedding anniversary, about a year and a half before I was born.  Dan and his wife, Pat, lived around the corner from us my whole childhood.  I dog-sat for their dog, Amos, and attended their church picnics.  Every year, Pat and Dan went out with my parents for their joint anniversary. 

Dan came 19 years ago to a church community suffering from a serious breach and the loss of almost 20 members, and through his leadership, helped rebuild the community.  I don't remember the church as it was when I came to it, but as I became older and more involved, my memories are of a church family that was whole - thanks in large part to Dan.  By his calculations (so he said at the service on Sunday,) Dan preached over 800 sermons at UUCW; The one that stands out most vividly in my mind is a Christmas Eve sermon wherein he re-told the story of the birth of Christ with the characters poor immigrants in McHenry County.  When I was 14 and coming to terms with my bisexuality and struggling with coming out to my mother, Dan counseled me.  He was a great leader, and the church and its members wouldn’t be where they are today without him.

On top of all this, Dan is truly one of the most giving, passionate, caring people I know.  He helped start a number of groups and programs dedicated to social justice and aiding vulnerable populations.  No matter how much he was giving, he always found a way to give more to those who needed it.  I truly believe that if Dan were down to his last dollar, he would give it away to a person in need of a bite of food.  His compassion and passion for justice are truly awe-inspiring, and without people like him, our world would be a darker place.  He exemplifies the UU principles in an inspiring way.

I am so glad I was able to attend this service, and celebrate the work of a truly great neighbor, minister, and community leader, and I look forward to seeing the great work Dan continues to do (especially now that he no longer faces the task of writing another 800 sermons.)