The Backlash

My dad called me today to tell me that the family knows about my last post. I posted the same blog on myspace. I admit, it was not a good idea. I only did it to stir the pot. I have flaws in my judgement sometimes and that was definitely one.

Can anyone guess where the outrage is directed? That’s right, at me. Not only am I am out feminist, out anit-Republican and an out queer, I am also a whistle blower to my uncles sexual harassment and female oppression. Imagine that, a woman who stands up and says. “You can’t do this to me.”

My dad says unless I apologize, which I won’t, then I won’t be invited to [Xanax inducing] family functions anymore and my mom may never speak to me again. My dad also says that it was inappropriate to air the dirty laundry on the internet. (None of this was threatening, but merely facts being stated.)

You want to talk inappropriate, Dad? How about how I was treated? But that’s not quite as inappropriate as airing, I suspect. He said I should write it in my journal to get it off my chest and forget about it. (What chest? Hehe!)

I don’t write much about my parents on here. My dad is a good man who tries to keep everyone happy. That’s really all he wants in life. He was more upset that there was another rift in the family, than he was about who or what caused it. I still think both he and my mom should have stuck up for me immediately, but they didn’t. My dad also has to face the wrath of my mom.

I don’t know too much about how my dad grew up, only little tidbits. I do know that he was physically and emotionally abused by his father. His mother, a grandmother I never met, was his light, but she died very young after a lifetime of debilitating and disabling arthritis. He was often left to his own defenses as a young child; as a result he sustained some interesting injuries, like a pitchfork through his shoulder and a near drowning in the sewer ditch.

My dad joined the navy when he was seventeen to escape his family. He lied about his age and dropped out of school to join.He spent time in the navy, aboard a ship, as a seamster during the Vietnam conflict. When he got out of the Navy, he joined the fire department and remained there until his retirement. While with the department, my dad helped fight against sexual and age discrimination and harassment. My dad was injured on the job and became disabled and subsequently fired from his position as chief, a policy he also fought against.

My mom grew up in the 50’s and 60’s. She came from a strict Catholic family. My grandfather was the formidable head of the family, when he was home. He was a Spaniard who grew up in Mexico; his is a family of heavy handed men and their quiet women. My mom and her two sisters and two brothers had to wear shoes in the house or face getting a beating. It was a speak-when-spoken-to household. If he were alive, my grandfather would have excommunicated me when I got my first pair of men’s 501 buttonfly’s at 9 years old. (He died shortly after my Uncle B, the oldest son, was killed in Vietnam.)

My grandmother was a very strong woman. She had a degree in Biochemistry very early on and worked in a lab. Once when my grandfather bought a car without her knowing, she kicked him out for not asking. She kept the car, though. She taught her girls to be “ladies”, as well as strong woman. She believed that her daughters could do anything they set their minds to. The way my mom taught me.

My parents have never agreed on many things. My mom’s way of living is “my way or the highway”, my dad begrudgingly follows suit. It was apparent growing up that they shouldn’t be married, but they wouldn’t get a divorce because they felt that would be an unstable environment for my two sisters and I. As it is now, they are still [unhappily] married. My dad takes really long road trips to be away and my mom speaks poorly about my dad.

Both my sister El and I are divorced and my other sister K is determined not to marry. We didn’t really learn how to be in a loving relationship. So my last 20 months have been spent learning how to love and be loved by observation and experimentation. I might be catching on.

Growing up, I was taught to be “lady-like”, but also not to take shit from anyone. My parents wanted me to speak my mind, but not too loud. They both avoided subjects like sex and drugs. (They were both 420 friendly.) I was allowed to dress how I wanted if I could take my mom’s constant criticism and ridicule. My mom also told me that family was the most important thing in my life. They would always have my back.

Early, I learned that my family would never have my back. They only have my back if I conform to their beliefs. My queer family is who I count on. I once read that friends are the family you choose for yourself. I choose very carefully who I consider a friend, but I know I can come to my “family” for anything and there will be someone to help.

I have learned good manners and how to give a firm handshake. My parents raised me to be the spirited, self-assertive person I am. I give them credit for that foundation. As far as sticking up for myself, that is something I have had to learn alone.

In my family the woman wear the pants, with one exception, Uncle G. Whatever asinine thing the man says is excused, requited or, dare I say, ignored. He doesn’t really let things be ignored. Had I not walked away last Saturday and, instead, kept telling him to mind his own business, I would have been embroiled into a losing battle. (The speaking contest is never intellectual, it’s always physical; who has the most breath to waste.)

My dad told me yesterday that my mom and her sisters are afraid to stand up to Uncle G. He said that the women don’t want to face the same derision that I am subject to; although Uncle G gives it to them in small doses. He’s a negative man who is quick to point out all of one’s flaws. Still nobody wants the full burden of mockery, so I guess I’ll keep it. (I think it’s fair to mention that his one daughter, who is 14...15, is extremely subjugated, by not only her father, but her two younger brothers and her mother. Sadly, until she is 18, there is nothing I can do about it because I am not allowed near her. I am hoping my sister K might be able to help.)

I haven’t heard from any other family members yet. I don’t expect to. I know that they are all seething and pretty much want me out of their lives. No more myspace. I learned that lesson. I will not shut up about injustices. I will never quit defending myself or anyone else in need. Oddly enough, I have my blood family to thank for that.

Dirty Uncle

I went to family function last weekend. Anyone who knows me, knows how much I dread seeing my mom’s family. My cousins seem to be better to me lately, but my mom’s brother and one sister can still suck my cock!

The last family thing I went to was a little over a year ago. It was my uncles funeral. I loved my uncle, he was a really neat person. I stayed inside at the lunch after the funeral. It’s Arizona in June, it was hot, I was wearing black. Anyway, I was really quiet.

The next day, I received a call from my Aunt B. I was at a E’s house when the call came in. Aunt B was yelling at me, telling me if I had something to say to her, that I should just say them to her face and not disrespect her in her home. Needless to say, I have no idea what she was talking about.

I avoided all contact with them until Aunt B’s surprise birthday party, last weekend. The kids were allowed to visit with them on New Years.

I was really nervous about going. My sister K drove while I knitted to stay calm. We arrived at the resort early, so we could spend the day by the pool. When we got in the lobby, my dad called us into the dining room. There were about twenty family members and friends in the room at two tables, 95% male-identified.

I made my rounds and said hello to everyone I knew. When I got to my Uncle G, we said a stiff hello. G is a bigot, a racist, a homophobe and a Mormon. (I do have some very open minded Mormon friends. I am not a Mormon hater.) The following conversation took place in front of about 15 men. Most I didn’t know.

UG: “Hi J-. How are you?”

Me: “Fine. You?”

UG: “Your boobs are getting smaller.”

Me: “What?”

UG “Are you boobs getting smaller? It sure looks like it.”

Me “Why are you looking at my chest?”

UG “Cuz I can. And later we need to talk about your lesbian problem.”

Me: “No we don’t. It’s none of your business.”

UG: “Yes it is and yes we will.”

I walked away angry and embarrassed. It occurred to me while I was standing there that he has many preconceived notions about lesbians. Like all lesbian bind their breasts. I don’t. I am and have always been blessedly small chested.

The man did not speak to me the rest of the weekend. When I told my dad, his excuse was that my mom’s brother was drunk. When I told my mom, she said, Honey, that’s just your uncle. So I guess it’s okay then, right? No.

Why am I the only person who thinks this was wrong? Not only was my mother’s brother looking at my chest and commenting on it, with assertive authority that he had ever right to do that, but the fucker outted me in to everyone at that table.

Am I just taking this too personally? Or do I have the right to be angry?