Showing posts from June, 2015

This is a blog post about being an ally

Recently someone asked me how to best be an ally to Black people; she didn't want to offend/step on any toes/misstep. I really appreciated her asking, but I also gave a convoluted answer. I thought instead of being redundant, I would share a great video that succinctly talks about how to be a good ally.

Franchesca brings up privilege, which can be something really hard for people to understand. I remember realizing a privilege I have when I was interacting with someone who has dwarfism, her and I were talking and walking, when she starts taking the ramp and I head for the stairs. It hadn't even occurred to me that the ramp was a viable option, but for her she always took the ramp because it makes her life easier. Here's another super video that's about intersectionality, but is a good illustration of privilege (white-female privilege).

Both of these videos are great, but there's a few other things I'd like to add on how to be (or what to know as) an ally:
1) So…

you're doing it wrong

I mean, I’m a catch, right? I’m intelligent, attractive, compassionate, kinda fit, social, I could go on, but you get it. So why, a few years back, was it so hard for me to catch someone? This was the first time in years, possibly ever, that I had decided to actually try to not be single. I yoked myself to the online dating world and invested time in finding the right guy. In retrospect, I now realize why none of those potentials worked out.
I dated some eligible guys. There was the really handsome anesthesiologist tech who was a great conversationalist and shared my love for breakfast foods. There was the parks & rec employee with a brilliant smile and winning attitude whose one flaw was that he had a cat. And there were a couple of guys who just really weren’t for me. There was the guy who expressed that he was so great that he wanted to have kids so they could admire his greatness. There was the guy who wanted to jump right into a relationship with me and then got upset when I …

Genderally Speaking: A couple of musing on womanhood

A couple weeks ago I was in fitting rooms (trying on clothes I had no business buying) and I was taken aback, encouraged and thrilled, by the chatter I heard among the women in the space. As women, we’re taught that we should always be ashamed of at least one thing on our body. And that we should dress according to our physical insecurities instead of our tastes in clothing. So if she is self-conscious about her fat thighs, then she should only wear knee length skirts/dresses/shorts; and she’s brave if she wears otherwise. In the fitting rooms I heard women building up one another by compliments and best of all by correcting. When someone would say she didn’t look good in something, her friend corrected her and said that she looks great in whatever she feels comfortable in. If she likes yellow, then wear yellow and don’t worry about how others will perceive her; if she likes big prints then don’t think she can’t wear them because of her size. It made me smile and almost brought me to…


You know that feeling
when you stand up from sitting on your leg wrong?
You know you're leg is there
but you can't feel it
yet it's heavy
and then the uncomfortable prickly feeling kicks in
so you try to carry on gingerly
because that leg can no longer be trusted?

That's you.


When I was a kid I had two clocks. One I got for my 9th birthday, it was a gold colored wind-up alarm clock; I had seen it on some tv show and asked for one for my birthday. My dad made a big schpeel and rhyme about it when he gave it to me before school. I loved it and had a very particular routine about keeping it wound up. The second was a bird clock; one of my great aunts sent it to me after she thought I asked her for it. Every hour, on the hour, a bird would call. There were 12 different birds, but I can only remember and recognize the sound of the mourning sparrow, its sadness and deep call at 7am and 7pm always reassured me.
At night I would lay in my bed and tune into the clocks. My gold clock moved in eighth notes: 1+2+3+4+; my bird clock, just quarter notes: 1 2 3 4 . Both clocks were at 60 beats per second, but they weren’t in sync themselves so the air was filled with ticking. The ticking seemed to take on musical textures and I would happily lay in bed under layers of t…