While editing this thing, I accidentally clicked on the "email to a friend" icon at the bottom of an entry. The message you get above the email form reads:
"The information you provide on this form will not be used for anything other than sending the email to your friend. This feature is not to be used for advertising or excessive self-promotion."
Not for excessive self-promotion? Oh Blogger, you're on to me, aren't you?
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Cringe-a-licious!
This past Tuesday was Cringe at the Midway Cafe in Jamaica Plain. I read a political article from the newspaper I wrote from ages 9-12 (which I'm sure I shall elaborate on in another entry) and a painful poem about sitting in the dark, "oozing poetry," written for a creative writing class my junior year of high school.
Two among many awesome things about this event were:
1. Briefly meeting Sarah Brown, despite being star-struck and shy about meeting someone who I have read for awhile and who is, like, wicked funny, published, and generally cooler than me. This fear of talking to people who I think are cooler than me is what led me to have so much free time in high school to write dark poems about poetry. I am working on overcoming this fear, because I like making new friends, and, of course, the world does not need any more dark poems about poetry.
2. I forgot how much I love reading on stage! I am generally terrified of initiating conversation(see #1), I despised teaching, and I can't tell a story or ad-lib for shit. But give me something really terrible or really great to read in front of a room full of people, and I am so damn happy. I guess, like someone who gave me many of my genes, I've never met a microphone I don't like.
Other awesome elements of the night included a woman reading a story she wrote at age 9 from the perspective of a blind runaway slave, the bar owner commandeering the microphone to read us his 2nd grade report card, and being lured into the back room of Doyle's to watch the debate with a bunch of Hillary voters for Obama when we were just trying to go home.
Two among many awesome things about this event were:
1. Briefly meeting Sarah Brown, despite being star-struck and shy about meeting someone who I have read for awhile and who is, like, wicked funny, published, and generally cooler than me. This fear of talking to people who I think are cooler than me is what led me to have so much free time in high school to write dark poems about poetry. I am working on overcoming this fear, because I like making new friends, and, of course, the world does not need any more dark poems about poetry.
2. I forgot how much I love reading on stage! I am generally terrified of initiating conversation(see #1), I despised teaching, and I can't tell a story or ad-lib for shit. But give me something really terrible or really great to read in front of a room full of people, and I am so damn happy. I guess, like someone who gave me many of my genes, I've never met a microphone I don't like.
Other awesome elements of the night included a woman reading a story she wrote at age 9 from the perspective of a blind runaway slave, the bar owner commandeering the microphone to read us his 2nd grade report card, and being lured into the back room of Doyle's to watch the debate with a bunch of Hillary voters for Obama when we were just trying to go home.
Friday, October 3, 2008
I'm not laughing
I am fed up with kneejerk reactions, partisan soundbytes, and the general lack of critical discussion that happens every election. I'm certainly as guilty of participating in, and reacting to, this stuff as a lot of other people, but I am trying to change that. And I am starting by making a plea to the people who won't engage in the kind of discussion that forces them to examine and truly defend their beliefs.
Despite the timing, this isn't really a reaction to last night's vice presidential debate, though I'm sure it played a role in my thinking this morning. It's more a reaction to the reactions, to the things we say every day to express our beliefs that effectively shut down meaningful political discourse.
Last weekend, Ryan and I committed the ultimate in family relations sins: Getting Into a Political Discussion at Your Republican Grandfather's Birthday Party. In our defense, we didn't start the discussion, and we kept it safely out of Grampa's earshot. It started as a conversation about a recent Obama rally between us, an aunt who is also an Obama supporter, and another aunt who is still undecided. A third aunt, who is a steadfast Republican, entered the conversation via an attack on Obama, and four of us exchanged a brief series of platitudes and simplistic attacks while the undecided aunt sat silent. Fortunately, we stopped before the argument spread around the room.
Throughout the campaign, a good friend of mine who supports McCain has been sending me various messages attacking Obama or praising McCain, in a joking manner. I've tried to talk to her about the reasons behind her comments, but I can't get her to move much past the jokes. I get angry at the comments, but I hate confrontation, so up until now, I've just blown them off.
This morning, one of those comments showed up in my inbox just as I was talking to another friend, a moderate Republican who is undecided. She was lamenting the fact that, far from helping her choose a candidate, her conservative family and liberal social circles make such absolute statements that she struggles to find an entry point to think critically and make a responsible decision.
I finally got fed up and sent this email to friend #1, and it stands as my message to anyone who has ever claimed an opinion while refusing to engage in real discussion about it.*
*I can say this, because I've done it too.
Here's the email:
Hey,
I'm tempted to keep jousting with you via comments, but I'm getting frustrated and I don't want to carry it out on a public forum. Email is second-best to talking to you directly about this, but I am terrible at confrontation and I know if I tried to say this live I would flounder and not say what I really mean. I need to work on that.
No matter how funny, I can't get into trading political jabs with you, not when I sense (and I think you've pretty much said) that you do have real beliefs behind supporting McCain. I have tried - admittedly not as hard as I could have, for fear of making you mad at me - to find out what you really think, but I feel like it's near impossible to get you to talk about your political beliefs. Of course some part of me wants to try to sway you to my way of thinking, but, more than that, I really want to know what you think and why. I'm fairly sure you're at this second rolling your eyes at my wishy-washy bullshit, but I swear it is true. I am sick of important political contests being decided by which side can more steadfastly refuse to engage in real discussion with the other side. These things have serious consequences for everyone in this country, and the rest of the world as well. I need to put my beliefs out there, and hear different beliefs, and look at the facts, and really know if I believe what I say I believe. And everyone else does too. I think anyone not willing to examine what they think should stay home on election day.
That is NOT to say I think everyone needs to talk about their politics. I know plenty of people uncomfortable with political discussion. While the righteous part of me wants to try and draw them in, I have to respect their privacy, and just hope that they have other ways - through reading, etc. - to engage with these issues. I know you have said you're just making jokes. But those jokes force you into the discussion, and they have significance for me and a lot of other people. If you prefer keeping your politics private, I will not challenge you on it. But I will assume that means we won't talk about it on any level, unless it's on a completely neutral one. I hope you read this and are willing to talk about this stuff on a deeper level. If you do, I promise to talk, not just attack, though maybe I'll be comfortable enough to send some good-natured McCain jibes your way. If you're not interested, I can accept that, but if that's the case, I just can't accept the jokes.
Shannon
*UPDATE: The friend to whom I wrote that email just wrote back, and I seriously underestimated her. The jokes were just that, jokes, made because she's rather frustrated with the whole campaign and still officially undecided in the election. What she said sounded a lot like my other undecided friend's complaints, mainly that polarized discussion and blanket statements about candidates are intimidating and entirely unhelpful when you are actually trying to make an informed decision. I'm not suggesting we treat undecideds with kid gloves, but let's all try to present ourselves first as critical-thinking and respectful people, and second as supporters of a candidate. Let's actually listen to other's thoughts on the issues, and count to ten before we start trying to convince them of ours. If we don't, we're just encouraging people to make rash decisions in an incredibly important election.
Despite the timing, this isn't really a reaction to last night's vice presidential debate, though I'm sure it played a role in my thinking this morning. It's more a reaction to the reactions, to the things we say every day to express our beliefs that effectively shut down meaningful political discourse.
Last weekend, Ryan and I committed the ultimate in family relations sins: Getting Into a Political Discussion at Your Republican Grandfather's Birthday Party. In our defense, we didn't start the discussion, and we kept it safely out of Grampa's earshot. It started as a conversation about a recent Obama rally between us, an aunt who is also an Obama supporter, and another aunt who is still undecided. A third aunt, who is a steadfast Republican, entered the conversation via an attack on Obama, and four of us exchanged a brief series of platitudes and simplistic attacks while the undecided aunt sat silent. Fortunately, we stopped before the argument spread around the room.
Throughout the campaign, a good friend of mine who supports McCain has been sending me various messages attacking Obama or praising McCain, in a joking manner. I've tried to talk to her about the reasons behind her comments, but I can't get her to move much past the jokes. I get angry at the comments, but I hate confrontation, so up until now, I've just blown them off.
This morning, one of those comments showed up in my inbox just as I was talking to another friend, a moderate Republican who is undecided. She was lamenting the fact that, far from helping her choose a candidate, her conservative family and liberal social circles make such absolute statements that she struggles to find an entry point to think critically and make a responsible decision.
I finally got fed up and sent this email to friend #1, and it stands as my message to anyone who has ever claimed an opinion while refusing to engage in real discussion about it.*
*I can say this, because I've done it too.
Here's the email:
Hey,
I'm tempted to keep jousting with you via comments, but I'm getting frustrated and I don't want to carry it out on a public forum. Email is second-best to talking to you directly about this, but I am terrible at confrontation and I know if I tried to say this live I would flounder and not say what I really mean. I need to work on that.
No matter how funny, I can't get into trading political jabs with you, not when I sense (and I think you've pretty much said) that you do have real beliefs behind supporting McCain. I have tried - admittedly not as hard as I could have, for fear of making you mad at me - to find out what you really think, but I feel like it's near impossible to get you to talk about your political beliefs. Of course some part of me wants to try to sway you to my way of thinking, but, more than that, I really want to know what you think and why. I'm fairly sure you're at this second rolling your eyes at my wishy-washy bullshit, but I swear it is true. I am sick of important political contests being decided by which side can more steadfastly refuse to engage in real discussion with the other side. These things have serious consequences for everyone in this country, and the rest of the world as well. I need to put my beliefs out there, and hear different beliefs, and look at the facts, and really know if I believe what I say I believe. And everyone else does too. I think anyone not willing to examine what they think should stay home on election day.
That is NOT to say I think everyone needs to talk about their politics. I know plenty of people uncomfortable with political discussion. While the righteous part of me wants to try and draw them in, I have to respect their privacy, and just hope that they have other ways - through reading, etc. - to engage with these issues. I know you have said you're just making jokes. But those jokes force you into the discussion, and they have significance for me and a lot of other people. If you prefer keeping your politics private, I will not challenge you on it. But I will assume that means we won't talk about it on any level, unless it's on a completely neutral one. I hope you read this and are willing to talk about this stuff on a deeper level. If you do, I promise to talk, not just attack, though maybe I'll be comfortable enough to send some good-natured McCain jibes your way. If you're not interested, I can accept that, but if that's the case, I just can't accept the jokes.
Shannon
*UPDATE: The friend to whom I wrote that email just wrote back, and I seriously underestimated her. The jokes were just that, jokes, made because she's rather frustrated with the whole campaign and still officially undecided in the election. What she said sounded a lot like my other undecided friend's complaints, mainly that polarized discussion and blanket statements about candidates are intimidating and entirely unhelpful when you are actually trying to make an informed decision. I'm not suggesting we treat undecideds with kid gloves, but let's all try to present ourselves first as critical-thinking and respectful people, and second as supporters of a candidate. Let's actually listen to other's thoughts on the issues, and count to ten before we start trying to convince them of ours. If we don't, we're just encouraging people to make rash decisions in an incredibly important election.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
All changed, changed utterly
I've tried to write about my 9/11 experience a few times, with limited success. I realize some might think the topic is tired, as far as personal narratives go, especially for someone not directly affected. But I think it is important for everyone to record their experience, whether for the thousands who lost their lives, or to contribute to understanding all the shit that has happened in the last 2,555 days. So, here goes:
Despite my frequent whining about Republicans and other such things, most days, I feel, for better or worse, that I am American through and through. Today, though, and every September 11th for the last seven years, I have felt like a visitor to my country.
At about 3 PM Dublin time, I was near the end of my tour of the National Museum of Ireland. I paused in front of a painting of Dublin's General Post Office during the 1916 Easter Rising. I tried, unsuccessfully, to recall the words of Yeats' poem about the event. Rebecca, my best friend in Ireland, who I had met ten days before, came to tell me a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. I didn't get it, really, but all the Americans from our group were rushing to the door. We asked confused questions of each other. We ran to a pub. We stood and watched the tv and didn't order drinks.
I only remember snapshots after that. I got off the DART at Dun Laoghaire and overheard one station agent making a joke to another about "those low-flying planes." I got back to Killiney and my host mother had Sky News on for me. I had messages from my mom's friends in Belfast. It took mom a few hours to get through on the phone, but she did. I don't remember what we said. My group went to the memorial at the US embassy on the Day of Mourning on Friday. We were hungry afterwards. We could only find one place open in the city, a little Italian place.
We were as shocked and upset as anyone else in the next few weeks. It was common for someone to leave class crying. But we weren't scared. Not, I think, like people in America were. We knew our families were close to where the attacks had happened, but we were an ocean away. When the attacks on Afghanistan began, some of us went to a protest in Dublin, thinking the US was striking out in fear and pain at the nearest target. We were reading critical articles in the Irish Times and analyzing the political impact of all this before October came.
We traveled to Belfast a few weeks later. A taxi driver who had lived through The Troubles, upon hearing our accents, told us bluntly that America was experiencing what Ireland had gone through for thirty bloody years. The comparison wasn't really accurate, but we nodded.
I still believe, possibly in error, that my civic and political makeup was unalterably affected by not being in the US on 9/11. I used to think that this meant that I could make rational decisions without the fear that dominated everything in the days after those attacks. Lately, I wonder more if it's just a juvenile conviction that I will never be viscerally affected by world events. Maybe it's both.
In a morbid way, I both treasure my memories of being in Ireland that day, and wish I could change the past and know what it was like to be here. Beyond the basic emotions and thoughts, I didn't understand what I felt then. I still don't really understand.
Despite my frequent whining about Republicans and other such things, most days, I feel, for better or worse, that I am American through and through. Today, though, and every September 11th for the last seven years, I have felt like a visitor to my country.
At about 3 PM Dublin time, I was near the end of my tour of the National Museum of Ireland. I paused in front of a painting of Dublin's General Post Office during the 1916 Easter Rising. I tried, unsuccessfully, to recall the words of Yeats' poem about the event. Rebecca, my best friend in Ireland, who I had met ten days before, came to tell me a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. I didn't get it, really, but all the Americans from our group were rushing to the door. We asked confused questions of each other. We ran to a pub. We stood and watched the tv and didn't order drinks.
I only remember snapshots after that. I got off the DART at Dun Laoghaire and overheard one station agent making a joke to another about "those low-flying planes." I got back to Killiney and my host mother had Sky News on for me. I had messages from my mom's friends in Belfast. It took mom a few hours to get through on the phone, but she did. I don't remember what we said. My group went to the memorial at the US embassy on the Day of Mourning on Friday. We were hungry afterwards. We could only find one place open in the city, a little Italian place.
We were as shocked and upset as anyone else in the next few weeks. It was common for someone to leave class crying. But we weren't scared. Not, I think, like people in America were. We knew our families were close to where the attacks had happened, but we were an ocean away. When the attacks on Afghanistan began, some of us went to a protest in Dublin, thinking the US was striking out in fear and pain at the nearest target. We were reading critical articles in the Irish Times and analyzing the political impact of all this before October came.
We traveled to Belfast a few weeks later. A taxi driver who had lived through The Troubles, upon hearing our accents, told us bluntly that America was experiencing what Ireland had gone through for thirty bloody years. The comparison wasn't really accurate, but we nodded.
I still believe, possibly in error, that my civic and political makeup was unalterably affected by not being in the US on 9/11. I used to think that this meant that I could make rational decisions without the fear that dominated everything in the days after those attacks. Lately, I wonder more if it's just a juvenile conviction that I will never be viscerally affected by world events. Maybe it's both.
In a morbid way, I both treasure my memories of being in Ireland that day, and wish I could change the past and know what it was like to be here. Beyond the basic emotions and thoughts, I didn't understand what I felt then. I still don't really understand.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Cementing Stereotypes
Office scene, circa 2006, observed:
Coworker #1 walks into the office wearing Ipod headphones. Coworker #2, a recent transplant from California, asks, somewhat incredulously:
"Why are you wearing those now? Do you wear them on the T?"
"Um, yeah."
"But, it's so antisocial! It cuts you off from everyone around you!"
"Um, yeah."
"I never do that. I like to talk to people I meet on the T."
"Um, yeah, no. Definitely not. We don't do that here."
Outdoor scene circa today:
I am walking from the T to my building, finishing a particularly entertaining chapter in my book (but watching where I'm going of course - it's a very wide, lightly traveled sidewalk). Guy pushing his toddler in a stroller walking behind me unfortunately decides I am a source of entertainment and potential conversation:
Guy: Look at that lady! What is she doing?
Kid (bored sounding): Walking.
Guy (louder): But what else is the lady doing?
Kid (still bored): Reading a book.
Me (silently): Oh f'ing hell, do not do this. Do not try to talk to me.
Guy (louder still): She must really love that book.
[dull silence from kid]
Me (still silent, walking faster): Are you really f'ing serious? I am not responding. You are not funny. Your child is too young to be embarassed and yet is still mortified by you.
Guy (louder, if possible): How do you think she does that? Walking and reading a book, that's hard.
[More dull silence from kid]
Me (STILL silent, walking more quickly now): I am seriously leaving town until the goddamn tourist season is over.
Two scenes, same theme: Bostonians (ok, and Somervilleans), are antisocial jerks. I admit, it's partly true of me and many - though not all - people I know here. I commute in close proximity to hundreds of other people each day. It's the time many people have alone in their cars with the radio. All I ask is that I be allowed to pretend I am alone, and read my book without anyone talking to me.
There are people around here who don't get that, and the number of those people grows exponentially during the summer tourist season. It's not that I don't like the tourists. They're entertaining, and, despite my asshole-ishness, I love being able to help when someone stops me on the street to ask directions, or get a restaurant recommendation, or to inquire what the hell is the problem with public transportation here. At the right time - in line at a store, when a train is inexplicably delayed - I can even appreciate brief, idle conversations. But sometimes people just don't understand the strange unspoken rules of public interaction here - the obscure times when it is okay to start an idle conversation with a stranger, and the few strangers who are always open to those idle conversations.
I really don't want to be a jerk. But the conclusion I have come to is that this is part of our culture. It's often cold here; always crowded. We were originally settled by the British. Until very recently, our sports teams led us to believe any happiness inevitably leads to bitter disappointment. Oh, I don't really know why. We just like to be left alone sometimes. I understand that it takes awhile to learn the subtle signals, and I try to forgive people that. I try to open up and appreciate the friendlier, more vibrant atmosphere. But it's the end of the summer, I am tired, and I am just about ready to be left in peace with my fellow cold, dead-hearted Bostonians.
Coworker #1 walks into the office wearing Ipod headphones. Coworker #2, a recent transplant from California, asks, somewhat incredulously:
"Why are you wearing those now? Do you wear them on the T?"
"Um, yeah."
"But, it's so antisocial! It cuts you off from everyone around you!"
"Um, yeah."
"I never do that. I like to talk to people I meet on the T."
"Um, yeah, no. Definitely not. We don't do that here."
Outdoor scene circa today:
I am walking from the T to my building, finishing a particularly entertaining chapter in my book (but watching where I'm going of course - it's a very wide, lightly traveled sidewalk). Guy pushing his toddler in a stroller walking behind me unfortunately decides I am a source of entertainment and potential conversation:
Guy: Look at that lady! What is she doing?
Kid (bored sounding): Walking.
Guy (louder): But what else is the lady doing?
Kid (still bored): Reading a book.
Me (silently): Oh f'ing hell, do not do this. Do not try to talk to me.
Guy (louder still): She must really love that book.
[dull silence from kid]
Me (still silent, walking faster): Are you really f'ing serious? I am not responding. You are not funny. Your child is too young to be embarassed and yet is still mortified by you.
Guy (louder, if possible): How do you think she does that? Walking and reading a book, that's hard.
[More dull silence from kid]
Me (STILL silent, walking more quickly now): I am seriously leaving town until the goddamn tourist season is over.
Two scenes, same theme: Bostonians (ok, and Somervilleans), are antisocial jerks. I admit, it's partly true of me and many - though not all - people I know here. I commute in close proximity to hundreds of other people each day. It's the time many people have alone in their cars with the radio. All I ask is that I be allowed to pretend I am alone, and read my book without anyone talking to me.
There are people around here who don't get that, and the number of those people grows exponentially during the summer tourist season. It's not that I don't like the tourists. They're entertaining, and, despite my asshole-ishness, I love being able to help when someone stops me on the street to ask directions, or get a restaurant recommendation, or to inquire what the hell is the problem with public transportation here. At the right time - in line at a store, when a train is inexplicably delayed - I can even appreciate brief, idle conversations. But sometimes people just don't understand the strange unspoken rules of public interaction here - the obscure times when it is okay to start an idle conversation with a stranger, and the few strangers who are always open to those idle conversations.
I really don't want to be a jerk. But the conclusion I have come to is that this is part of our culture. It's often cold here; always crowded. We were originally settled by the British. Until very recently, our sports teams led us to believe any happiness inevitably leads to bitter disappointment. Oh, I don't really know why. We just like to be left alone sometimes. I understand that it takes awhile to learn the subtle signals, and I try to forgive people that. I try to open up and appreciate the friendlier, more vibrant atmosphere. But it's the end of the summer, I am tired, and I am just about ready to be left in peace with my fellow cold, dead-hearted Bostonians.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Evolving Personality, some initial thoughts.
“I have considered the equivalent of Facebook suicide: removing my identity entirely from the site. But, I am just narcissistic enough to hang in there, because I can’t bear the thought of the internet without me," mused a commentator on NPR this afternoon.
The second half of this quote rings true for me. Not so much the first half, though I kind of wish it did. The internet, and specifically social networking sites, are havens for introverted narcissists like myself. What drives me nuts, though, is that I didn't really have this when I most needed it: when I was introverted, narcissistic, and overwhelmed by the belief that the world - specifically classmates who didn't really notice me - needed to understand how cool I really was, like, just in my existence. Shit, this doesn't sound so different from how I am now. Except now I admit that I'm kind of an asshole.
In high school, I really didn't talk to anyone but my close friends, but I desperately wanted other people to find me interesting. I tried a lot of things - other than actually talking or participating in stuff - to achieve this. Somehow, painting the names of my favorite bands in nail polish on my backpack didn't draw me a legion of fans. I think Everclear was the mistake...
Though I don't feel so desperate for expression anymore, like many people, I suspect, I carefully craft my social networking profiles. It's like a social resume, but oh-so-much more nuanced. I fill in the holes I believe are left by my in-the-flesh personality, trying to cover everything true about myself that someone might find interesting. I admit, I look at my own Facebook profile and try to imagine how another person would see it. And then I realize it's bullshit, because something so carefully crafted really is more like a resume than an actual personality, and that anyone who only liked me for everything in my Facebook profile would be exhausting to hang out with. But...I still do it.
The second half of this quote rings true for me. Not so much the first half, though I kind of wish it did. The internet, and specifically social networking sites, are havens for introverted narcissists like myself. What drives me nuts, though, is that I didn't really have this when I most needed it: when I was introverted, narcissistic, and overwhelmed by the belief that the world - specifically classmates who didn't really notice me - needed to understand how cool I really was, like, just in my existence. Shit, this doesn't sound so different from how I am now. Except now I admit that I'm kind of an asshole.
In high school, I really didn't talk to anyone but my close friends, but I desperately wanted other people to find me interesting. I tried a lot of things - other than actually talking or participating in stuff - to achieve this. Somehow, painting the names of my favorite bands in nail polish on my backpack didn't draw me a legion of fans. I think Everclear was the mistake...
Though I don't feel so desperate for expression anymore, like many people, I suspect, I carefully craft my social networking profiles. It's like a social resume, but oh-so-much more nuanced. I fill in the holes I believe are left by my in-the-flesh personality, trying to cover everything true about myself that someone might find interesting. I admit, I look at my own Facebook profile and try to imagine how another person would see it. And then I realize it's bullshit, because something so carefully crafted really is more like a resume than an actual personality, and that anyone who only liked me for everything in my Facebook profile would be exhausting to hang out with. But...I still do it.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
I love this big gay state
We're at the great quadrennial (yes, it's a word; your expanded vocabulary thanks me) point where anyone with a strong opinion about something can be assured of finding someone either to coddle that opinion or with whom to argue loudly about it. Though I'm still recovering from my weariness over the Hillary/Obama battle, I must say I enjoy these times. I like a good political argument, and of course, I love me some opinion-coddling. But there is one person (well, many), who I cannot get into an argument with, or my head will explode: The Staunch Gay Marriage Opponent.
While the topic hasn't exactly been discussed at top volume nationally, it's always hanging around here in Massachusetts, especially since our governor reinforced his commitment to marriage equality today. To states like Utah, I'm sure Massachusetts is like that other kid's parent who let your fifteen-year-old come over and shotgun a Bud Light. But, how do I say it? Too damn bad.
I can't maintain a civil conversation with someone who deeply opposes gay marriage. I have accepted this. I have heard the arguments:
"Marriage is for procreation." Oh really? What about those great stories of widowed people in their eighties finding true love again? Should they not be allowed to marry? What about the little pill I take to make sure my parents aren't grandparents until they are in their eighties? Is my marriage invalid? Well, it probably doesn't matter because the people who disagree with me most likely think I'm going to hell for a whole host of other reasons anyway.
"They can do what they want. I just don't want them rubbing my face in it." Don't worry. You won't be invited to the wedding.
"It is sending our society down a slippery slope. What's next, marrying goats?" This kind of comparison represents something so far from my moral consciousness that I'm just not going to go there. So, I will just say: Have you seen a goat? They are way too cute to ever be interested in humans, so don't worry about it.
I like the last two anti-gay arguments a lot, because they provide me a perfect parallel for how I feel about the people who make statements like this. You exist. I accept this. I do not like how you act, how you talk, and I probably would not want to make out with you (that one time in Canada notwithstanding). I will accept your lifestyle as long as you keep it out of my face.
Phew, so I wrote all that before even reading any recent anti-gay writings. I'm not being reactionary, so, am I being....proactionary? No, nothing so noble. I'm just being righteous. But, in my defense, I truly believe that I can talk to most people about most topics, even if I deeply disagree with them. But when someone tells me that they believe they have the right to deny another person the right to a legally recognized commitment to the person they love, I just get mad.
While the topic hasn't exactly been discussed at top volume nationally, it's always hanging around here in Massachusetts, especially since our governor reinforced his commitment to marriage equality today. To states like Utah, I'm sure Massachusetts is like that other kid's parent who let your fifteen-year-old come over and shotgun a Bud Light. But, how do I say it? Too damn bad.
I can't maintain a civil conversation with someone who deeply opposes gay marriage. I have accepted this. I have heard the arguments:
"Marriage is for procreation." Oh really? What about those great stories of widowed people in their eighties finding true love again? Should they not be allowed to marry? What about the little pill I take to make sure my parents aren't grandparents until they are in their eighties? Is my marriage invalid? Well, it probably doesn't matter because the people who disagree with me most likely think I'm going to hell for a whole host of other reasons anyway.
"They can do what they want. I just don't want them rubbing my face in it." Don't worry. You won't be invited to the wedding.
"It is sending our society down a slippery slope. What's next, marrying goats?" This kind of comparison represents something so far from my moral consciousness that I'm just not going to go there. So, I will just say: Have you seen a goat? They are way too cute to ever be interested in humans, so don't worry about it.
I like the last two anti-gay arguments a lot, because they provide me a perfect parallel for how I feel about the people who make statements like this. You exist. I accept this. I do not like how you act, how you talk, and I probably would not want to make out with you (that one time in Canada notwithstanding). I will accept your lifestyle as long as you keep it out of my face.
Phew, so I wrote all that before even reading any recent anti-gay writings. I'm not being reactionary, so, am I being....proactionary? No, nothing so noble. I'm just being righteous. But, in my defense, I truly believe that I can talk to most people about most topics, even if I deeply disagree with them. But when someone tells me that they believe they have the right to deny another person the right to a legally recognized commitment to the person they love, I just get mad.
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