I’d always found it interesting that, though I did for a while try to internalize the Church’s dogma on rights and opportunities for women in order to be a “good Catholic” girl–I eventually gave up and accepted the fact that I just couldn’t buy it, but I did try–I was <i>never</i> able to accept the Church’s opposition to homosexuality. Even that “hate the sin, love the sinner” crap didn’t work for me, because I understood that sexual orientation is not about what you do, it’s about who you are.

Now, this is not a big mystery to me as I was always able to trace it back to the fact that, before my mother “went back to the Church” when I was very young, a few of her good friends were lesbians. Having seen for myself from a very young age that LGBTQ folks are real people and not the aberrant monsters conservative religionists try to portray them to be, the anti-homosexual bias of my childhood religion just wouldn’t stick.

My favorite of my mom’s friends lived a few doors down from us. Mom always says I loved her because she dressed “so flamboyantly and colorfully” and that’s definitely a part of it. As a three year old girl, I thought anyone who wore swirly skirts and fabulous fringed shawls had to be the coolest person ever. And then there was the way her tiny apartment was decorated with brightly colored silk cushions, and the fact that she had finger cymbals and let me play with them without complaining that it gave her a headache. Best of all was her old, blind, cranky Siamese cat, who wasn’t fond of most people but would for some reason allow me to pet him. And of course it always helps when a child can tell that the adult talking to her likes her and isn’t just being patronizing. Given that it’s been almost thirty years since I’ve seen her and I still remember all this, it’s obvious that I really did adore this woman.

So, of course, I’d always figured that the fact that someone I cared for so much at such a young age was a lesbian must have had an effect on my subsequent resistance to the homophobia of my childhood religion and society in general. What I realized in my most recent mental rehash of the history of my personal values, though, is that it goes farther than that. I’d always figured, okay, I remember seeing her hugging and kissing her girlfriend and it was a normal thing, so nothing that I was told later could make it <i>not</i> normal–and that’s true. But there’s also the fact that I was raised by a single mother who refused, for reasons of her own, to get involved with anyone while I was a young child. There were no other functional heterosexual relationships, married or otherwise, in my family. And most of what I saw on television and in movies and in print advertising that had to do with heterosexual relationships either began and ended with sex or incorporated the kind of manufactured “romance” that strikes even children as being somehow inauthentic and plastic.

Which means, as is no doubt obvious by now, that my first exposure to an actual loving, affectionate romantic relationship, and my only one for quite a while, was seeing two women, one of whom I knew and absolutely adored, sharing a hug and a kiss. And realizing that brought home to me, in a way that goes beyond intellectual understanding, how important it is in combating homophobia and transphobia that LGBTQ folks be <i>seen</i>. That being forced to hide, in ways great and small, their relationships and their very identities, is not only profoundly unfair in the short term, it forces them to be complicit in their own marginalization and perpetuates the bigotry that oppresses them. And that fucking sucks.

So I guess what I’m saying is: Won’t someone think of the children? If we love them, then we must let them see and know and love people of all sexual orientations and identities. Because whether that leads to them growing up to be allies or growing up without fear of accepting and embracing their own sexualities and identitites, it can only be a good thing.

And that is my lightbulb moment for today.

(cross-posted to my personal journal)

What I’ve figured out is that, while I’m still not quite comfortable with the word “elitist” because it’s been used so much in right-wing framing of liberal values, it really comes down to classism. And you don’t have to be poor, or working class, or rural to understand that sometimes thirty dollars a month can be the difference between eating and not eating, or between paying a bill and having late payment fees and interest start adding up to the point that, by the time you have money to pay the original bill, your debt has grown exponentially. You can be middle class, you can even be wealthy, and you can still know these things. All it requires is either intelligence or empathy. One or the other of those faculties is a good thing to have. Having both together is priceless.

I am a latte-sipping (okay, I prefer chai), wine-drinking (occasionally), far left-leaning, vegetarian, feminist Pagan living in that pit of absolute naughtiness known as New York City. I’m a white woman married to a brown man, and we are hoping to someday adopt a little girl from China and raise her to be a strong, independent, Goddess-loving woman. In short, I am thiclose to being the nightmare of the Far Right. If only I were my husband were a wife.

I also remember what it was like when my single mom lost her job and we had to live on food stamps until she found another one. I remember the hated taste of powdered milk and the way even mac and cheese can be gross when you’ve eaten it several days in a row. And my husband and I have been in the too many bills and not enough money boat from time to time, just like the majority of Americans. Ramen noodles, rice, making casseroles out of whatever was on sale that week, yep, been there. We are fortunate to live in a city where public transportation means we don’t need a car and can therefore avoid the added expenses of car payments, insurance payments, parking fees, and oh yeah, insane gas prices. There have been times when even paying subway fare for the week left us strapped. If we’d lived someplace where driving was a necessity, I don’t know what we’d have done.

So, when I hear a politician, or a pundit, or even an economist talk about how an extra thirty dollars a month won’t do anyone any good, I don’t think, “Yeah, have another latte, ya hippie scum!” I just realize that this person doesn’t understand and, more importantly, isn’t willing to learn, what a life very different from his or her own is like. And while, clearly, it is possible to be that sort of person–incurious, lacking empathy, and supremely confident in the infinite wisdom of one’s finite knowledge based on limited personal experience–and still be a well-paid pundit, I think we all know by now what kind of president it makes.

I got this blog so I’d have someplace to vent about all the disgusting misogyny that’s been on display during this primary season without fear of hurting anyone’s delicate feelings. And, admittedly, so that I can use foul language with abandon. Having been taken to task for being “vulgar and hostile” by an arrogant male (who liked to present himself as pro-woman) when I responded to Obama’s “periodically, when she’s feeling down” remark about Clinton, I know just how tender some guys’ sensibilities can be. And though I don’t care, it’s easier to tell the idiots to fuck off when on one’s own turf.

I guess I’ll start posting more as soon as I can decide just how much (or not) I want to rein in all the righteous feminist rage. I’m thinking…not a whole lot.