RJ's Blogtastic Universe

I had a magnificent idea today. One of the components of my thesis project is an “IT Workshop” for small businesses/nonprofits in the Omaha metro area. I gather a few of my IT friends, small business owners come up with a list of common difficulties, and we all get together and figure out better ways of doing things. If you know me at all, you know this is right up my alley – better ways to do the same old thing has always thrilled me. This IT Workshop – or maybe a series of them – will be held through the spring, with possible extension into the summer, if necessary.

I’ve done many of these interactions over the years, with differing results. Whether we’re successful or not depends on many factors, but the most important factor seems to be self-efficacy. That type of “I can do this” mentality is generally a recipe for success, at least in my experience. The question is, how much of a part does it play? Is it as necessary as I think it is? Is it the most important factor, and how can we measure this? Hmmm…

As I was having this idea, I saw an image in my head (typical RJ behavior) of myself in front of a room of people, leading a sort of 10-minute session that is geared toward helping achieve an “I can do this” mentality before the IT teaching begins. For a control group, we could do the same sort of IT teaching without the ten minute session at the beginning. We could give surveys before and after the teaching sessions, and follow up by phone a few months later.

I am excited about this. We may have something here.

Seriously, darlings, how many reunions can one short girl have in a year? Thank you again, creators of Facebook…

Yesterday afternoon, at Stokes in the Old Market, I saw some women I haven’t seen in 18(?) years. The four of us were thicker than thieves in elementary school, which in this case was St. Patricks School – ahh, Catholic school. The (repressed) memories… I remember a couple of things about St. Pat’s. We used to have to recite prayers in the main entryway three times a day: before school, before lunch, and just before dismissal. We also attended Mass on Wednesdays, before the official school day started. (My dissatisfaction with religion started rather early, as you may have already guessed.)

I started school in Mo. Valley in kindergarten, but due to some strange whims of the parental units, we moved away some time in the first grade. The strange whims ended in the fourth grade, and I returned to St. Pat’s. By that time, my class was pretty small – there were just three of us. Of course, St. Pat’s was pretty small anyway – so small that they put two grades in each classroom. Dana and Sara were the other two girls in the fourth grade when I came back. Sabrina was a grade below us, but in the same classroom that we had. Actually, I think Beans sat beside me. I can’t remember whether it was proximity or fate, but either way, we all became friends.

Coming back to Iowa was interesting for me – I had spent two years away, one in Omaha, and one in Oregon. Actually, the plan was never that we would return to Iowa – my sisters and I were sent to Omaha to spend the summer with our father. Before the summer was out, however, we were informed that we were not returning to Oregon at all. We were all moving back to Mo. Valley, minus stepfather #1.

Our fourth grade teacher was named Mrs. Pitt, and I always had a feeling she didn’t like me too much. This certainly could have been because I was always questioning everything. It’s a talent that still gets me into trouble. Also, I think it might have been at this point that I decided I didn’t like to do things the way everyone else did them. For example, in the fifth grade, I began writing my numbers differently from everyone else. They were the same numbers, just with a few embellishments. I also started my very own business at one point – reselling candy that I had bought at the Kum-n-Go (go ahead, snicker. We sure did). Also, when we made mistakes on our assignments, our teacher (Mrs. Solon) would require us to correct it and hand it back in for a few of the points back. I felt that this was a worthless exercise. This opinion spurred action on my part – every time I got an assignment back, I would add it to the crumpled ball of past assignments I’d been secretly keeping in the coat closet. These were eventually unearthed, and I was sent home, carrying the ball of corrections and a note for my mother. The note made it home, but the corrections didn’t. I walked to the top of the hill and set the ball rolling down toward the school – and past Mrs. Solon’s car. I figured I was in deep trouble anyway, so why not? You know me – in for a penny, in for a pound…

I really didn’t care much for Catholic school. The bright spot was hanging around with my friends. As I remember it, we did just about everything together from the fourth grade until seventh, when Dana, Sara, and I went off to junior high. Random memories from that time include:

• Sara’s mom was a really good cook.
• We were all in Camp Fire at one point. One year, we were completely rained out of our summer camp-out. It had been a great time, up to that point.
• We used to play “Light as a feather, stiff as a board” quite a bit on overnight stays. I can’t remember what we were trying to accomplish, except that it was sort of a seance thing.
• We listened to an awful lot of Def Leppard in Dana’s basement bedroom.
• Hair spray was used early and often. Not on me.
• Birthday parties were an entire weekend long. Dana and Sara’s birthdays were close together in the summertime, and Beans had a birthday in January (26th?) They weren’t just birthday parties, they were extravaganzas. We would go into Omaha to eat at one of Beans’s father’s restaurants (Firmature’s? Cheyenne Social Club?) and shop at Westroads. That was a super-huge deal back then.
• Beans had a big family, and they had a cavernous maze of a house. I loved it. Something was always going on. I was extremely shy at the time, and Beans’s father would always ask me if I was holding up the wall I was leaning against. I always answered yes.
• Dana shared her basement bedroom with her sister, Erin. Whenever anyone would come down the stairs, Erin would say “Welcome, (your name here)” in a voice that sounded like you were being welcomed into a cult ceremony. It was absolutely hilarious. Actually, I still do that to people.
• Dana’s house had a breezeway. I thought this was the coolest thing ever. It was like you were outside, but you weren’t.
• I saw Risky Business for the first time at Dana’s house. I only remember because it was something I wasn’t supposed to be doing.

All right, I could go on and on here, but you’re getting the picture. Though I relished the moment I left St. Pat’s forever, I hated leaving Beans behind. I think I wrote her notes for a while, but soon enough I settled into 7th grade, and started hanging out with Brandy and Shawna. We all traveled in different circles in junior high and high school. Dana sat beside me in high school Choir for a few years – we were certainly a force to be reckoned with. We giggled and mocked others, mostly. After graduation, I left Mo. Valley and didn’t give it a second thought.

The story picks up three years ago, when my mother died. Her health had been bad for a while, and her extra curricular activities weren’t helping at all. It happened pretty fast, and I wandered around in shock for a while. Out of the blue, I got a call from Beans. She’d heard through her family grapevine what had happened. We caught up over the phone that day. A couple of things made an impression on me: first, that someone I hadn’t seen in 15 years would take time out to call me and see how I was doing. Second, when we were catching up she said she thought she would have found me in a big city somewhere, like New York. I remember thinking, me too.

That statement, along with the funeral, caused me to step back and take a look at a few things. I wasn’t really where I wanted to be, and I knew it. I have always settled for less, simply because I’m afraid to fail in the process of getting what I want out of life. Isn’t that silly? Failure isn’t final. Self-fulfilling prophecies, on the other hand, are pretty damn final.

Soon after that, another friend approached me with the idea of going to school and getting a better degree. I smiled politely at him, and then when I got home later I laughed out loud. What use do I have for another degree? I mean, come on… Long story short, after a little investigation, I changed my mind on that one. Now I’m right in the middle of the process of changing my life (and getting out of this part of the country). Women in hot places, watch out!

So then half the world friended me on Facebook – including my elementary school cohorts. Dana was the first one I met up with over lunch at Old Chicago – from our first visit, it was clear that lunch was not going to be enough. I have since spent much time giggling with Dana – this has added considerably to my life.

I have to say that I was a little anxious about getting together with all of us – my personality is a bit different these days. I’m much more outspoken and opinionated than the little kid who used to hold up the walls. I never know how people will react to that. Also, there’s always the worry that I won’t have anything in common with people.

And once again my fears were unfounded. All of my friends are doing well. Sara is teaching and raising a lovely little family in Mo. Valley. Beans is raising a small army of tiny peeps in northern Iowa. Dana and I are the single girls, hanging out here in Omaha. Everyone seems well and happy, and it seems like we’ll make this happen again soon.

One thing did occur to me, as we were sitting there, catching each other up. We talked a lot about family, careers, school, etc. It’s interesting that I spend so much time hurtling toward goal completion, when it’s often the simple things in life that really matter. Whenever I do a reunion like this, I’m always struck by the thought that I need to slow down, enjoy life, and let everyone know that I love them. Seriously.

So. It’s late, and I know this because the guy who lives above me has started his nightly guitar practice. He’s actually pretty good. Besides, this has gotten a bit sentimental! I don’t want anyone to think I’m losing my edge….

Goodnight, darlings. The photo posted below is so you can know what we look like.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged, but I felt I needed to gather my thoughts on this one.

October, 1998. A bunch of us were sitting around between classes, burning some time. Someone came in and said that Matthew Shepard had died. I really didn’t follow the news, so I didn’t know what was going on. Then someone told the story of what had happened to him. If you don’t remember, Matthew was beaten, robbed and strung up on a fence, left for dead. The two boys that did it felt their actions were justified because Matthew was gay.

The people around me seemed to want to talk to me about it, but I just couldn’t. In fact, I had to go stand outside in the sunlight for a while. It was difficult to wrap my brain around the image of that kid dying the way that he did. Even worse was the knowledge that the two boys that murdered him felt they were perfectly justified. After all, God hates queers, right?

I had come out about a year before. It was a difficult process. Telling other people was the easiest part, actually – and most of my friends already knew. Telling myself was hard. It meant I needed to drastically revise many of the dreams I had for my future. I don’t think I ever really wanted a picket fence, but I would have settled for some kind of normalcy.

The trade-off was that I finally knew the truth about who I was, and it was a relief. I had been walking around, feeling as if some part of me was disconnected. After I came out, I felt like a part of humanity again. I found a group of gays to hang around with, and I didn’t feel so different all of the damn time.

The day that Matthew died, I became aware that there are people who would be willing to hurt me, if they knew I was gay. I really hadn’t thought about it before. But there it was, right in front of me. Since that time, I have been exposed to many people that don’t think I have a right to exist, much less get married. The Gay Pride parade here in Omaha (not exactly gay Mecca) always draws some protesters. I’ve been screamed at, spit at, and condemned to a Hell I don’t believe in, in the name of a deity I also don’t believe in, by people I don’t even know. What do I do in those moments? Smile and tell them that their God will forgive them for being so judgmental. And then their heads just about explode.

Iowa joined the ranks of states that consider me a whole human being last Friday. It made me proud of my home state. The atmosphere these last few years has been riddled with fear. The idea that it’s ok to hate certain kinds of people has been especially pervasive, and that’s scary for someone like me. It made me a little moist around the eyeballs to hear that withholding rights from a group of people is unconstitutional. It has never been my belief that the people who founded our country wanted church and state to be close friends.

When we were kids, my older sister and I never wanted to play with our younger sister (we were crappy like that). Mom would always tell us that we had to play with her, so we would let her be in the same room with us, but we wouldn’t acknowledge her. (I know. Awful. I assure you, I’ve made amends for all this.) Whenever I hear about new legislation barring gay people from having the same rights as straight people, I am reminded of those episodes with my sister. Our hope was that she wouldn’t want to play with us, and would leave us alone. To me, this is the same tactic, twenty-five years later. If we don’t acknowledge the gays, maybe they’ll just go away. If we treat them as if they’re illegitimate and unwanted, they’ll get the hell out of our hair.

I have news. This tactic has worked for a number of years, but it is failing. The gay people I meet today are different than the gays I met ten years ago. We are no longer willing to believe that we are less than our straight friends. About a year and a half ago, I officiated at the wedding of a couple of dear friends of mine. In Nebraska, where people like me don’t count. These women got married because they love each other, and for no other reason. It was the most beautiful wedding I have ever attended. The brides don’t believe me, because they didn’t have any money and ended up renting the Paralyzed Veterans of America gym for the afternoon.

That said, I wish we had focused on equal rights instead of marriage rights. No matter what happens with the marriage rights, it is still perfectly legal to fire me in 30 states out of 50 because I am gay. Housing discrimination is also perfectly legal in many states, in fact Nebraska wrote it into their books just a few years ago.

It is late, and my soapbox is creaking, so I’ll get off. It was good to get that out – it’s been rolling around in my head for days. more stories another day – happy ones, I promise.

Today was the first day this year that I have been able to stand outside for thirty continuous seconds without bolting for my car. I look forward to this day every year. Today, when I opened my front door, I did not hunch over and run to my vehicle. It was nice, I won’t lie. Spring makes me happy. It also makes my friends happy, because they get a break from my constant input about how people shouldn’t have to live like this. Baseball will be showing soon, which is another boon to my existence. There’s something comforting about a game that you can turn on, fall asleep on the couch for an hour or so, then wake up and have missed nothing. Pitching fascinates me – I don’t know why. I don’t play sports. The closest I ever came to joining a sport was throwing shotput in my senior year, and I think I did that just to get out of the house. Suffice to say that the venture was indeed unsuccessful. At any rate, tomorrow I might try one full minute outside the car. I’ll report back on my progress.

Random story here:
This was about four years ago. My sister Rochelle and her husband took me out for my birthday. We went to Village Point, which is Omaha’s answer to the Plaza in Kansas City. We went to dinner, and then we saw Rent, a musical that had been turned into a film. I had never seen the musical, but given its wild popularity, I figured the movie might be good. I was wrong. Some movies are just boring, some movies are so dumb that you can feel your IQ dropping, but Rent really lowered the standards to a whole new level. It was so bad that the three of us laughed the entire way through. It was that kind of giggle that is usually frowned upon in public places. In fact, there were many that did not share our mirth. (I think I’m trying to say that we were annoying.) At any rate, we retired to the lobby to wait for my sister to make a pit stop. At this point in the story, two things become very important. The first is that I was slowly recovering from a very bad cough. I generally only visit a health professional when there is a true emergency, like a gushing head wound. The second pertinent fact is that between fits of giggling during the movie, I had consumed almost an entire box of Hot Tamales. A great big box. I love Hot Tamales, but I have loved them a little less since that day.
We started giggling about the movie again, and before I knew it, I started to cough as well. My brother in law stood there, patting my back, and then I began to cough so hard that the Hot Tamales began to make an encore appearance. When I realized what was happening, I made a herculean effort to stop coughing – and then I caught a glance at Brad. He took one look at me, and RAN for some napkins – apparently he thought I was bleeding to death. At that point, I cough-laughed so hard that I had to sit down on the floor for a while. Brad was not quite as amused.

That’s it for now – more random stories later!