Repressed Rage

 

I don't feel at home here. But is it this planet? This body? This city? I don't know. I don't feel at home on the couch. But not in my bed either. Earlier I thought I did in the bath. But it passed. Anxiety, I guess. Is anxiety to be without a home? Or, a state of peace? Such a simple word for such a big concept that shows up in so many different ways. Uranus on the Ascendant. The church should have radicalized me. I loathe the word should. It's very Saturn. Fuck off Saturn! But in this case, it feels right. The church SHOULD HAVE radicalized me. They didn't. Nor did the young people at the church camp, my youth pastor, or later on, my college pastor. He (always a he, Who do you think we are, Lilith?) spoke about abortion with this special kind of distance. The kind that knows that he'll never truly deal with what that is because those close to him who may want to go to him about it will feel too fearful. He didn't strike a paralyzing fear by any means. But for me, what we was was bigger, scarier. He was charming, affable, and young, with Prince Eric hair. I thought he was hot. Gross. He took his chaste bride when she was 19. You know when Gary Vee is pretending to listen? For those 3-seconds (the longest I've seen it b4 he interrupts this whatever dude that idolizes him), you believe he's truly invested in caring about someone else's life. That was him, all the time. He played basketball and partook in pop culture. He was funny. He drank. Now that was juicy. The church should have radicalized me. But they failed. They fail everyday; the white, American church. Most of the churches. My teachers should have radicalized me....

But they were made busy, under resourced, and underpaid. You don't really have the energy to inspire when you're trying to survive. Furthermore, you barely have time to think more deeply about concepts that don't obviously directly affect you. And those that do find themselves spinning with a depression sourced by the unmendable heartbreak of injustice. The students born into the homes of poor and working-class addicts, foster care, without shoes, are the ones my teachers would watch eat lunch alone. I remember when the police (or some kind of school security) were called on John Tabor. He was big, tall, quiet, gentle seeming. But my peers were afraid of him. I was a little afraid of him. He lived in “the home.” I didn't pay attention in class. I also needed glasses for a long, long, long time before doing anything about it. I would sit in class and stare at John and wonder what it was like for him to go there after school. I imagined it as a horror movie with white walls, cold floors, and no windows where Miss Trunchbull ordered him & them to go to bed without dinner.

I wrote many notes to him I never ended up passing. I was also busy reinforcing toxic gender norms onto the boys interested in me and pretending to read anything that wasn't about the Holocaust. I was weirdly obsessed with The Holocaust and the incredible stories told by Elie and Anne. One of my teachers could have noticed those were the only books I was finishing and said, hey, you know, I noticed you like these books. Maybe you should read this speech called “Ain't I a woman?”, or this speech by MLK Jr. But again, they're kept busy. If they spend too much time thinking about the systems and people allowing this they may lose the faith they need to show up. A lot of my teachers thought I was dumb. I don't know that they really had time to think otherwise. Maybe I didn't give them enough juice to. This will probably make me mad forever. But honestly, a part of me knows it was good for me. I'm that kind of freak who needs people to underestimate me. In a small way it drives me. I've heard that's not healthy. Who knows.

My mom radicalized me in her special way. She was kind and good and affectionate. She would tell me that I was other things besides “beautiful,” and that those things were what mattered. She took responsibility when she caused harm. She told me to. Sometimes I did. When I didn't I felt awful. I still do. She told me her biggest secret when I was 13. It was the truest vulnerability I'd ever witnessed. She cried in public with no apology upon finding out someone, anyone was mistreated. She spoke ill of some more powerful. But not ill enough to keep her from moving, loving, laughing. She kept my friend's secrets. But she didn't have the language. She left the country for the first time 4 years ago. She went to Israel. She came back concerned for the Palestinian people. I wish I could take her everywhere. I wish I could show her the world. C told me I was a good writer. B never did. T said I needed work. I don't think I know yet what he really thinks about my writing. Imprints imprints everywhere. I never thought K was a girl. But I never thought they were a boy. Makes sense. That helped radicalize me.

College should have radicalized me. Instead I sat around angry envying sorority girls who I knew I didn't want to be but who seemed to float through the years I spent stomping about from class to Ruby Tuesdays to the gym to church to the far away phone calls where I would oppress someone who loved me with my own depression and soulful feeling of a personal homelessness. Then I would come home and either gorge myself or starve myself, laying in bed full of the anxiety that kept my legs forever shaking. I hope John Tabor is okay. I hope he's loved. I hope I'm spelling his name right. Jesus Christ.

The Cheesecake Factory should have radicalized me. The GM spoke to me like I was an idiot from the time I met him. He would simultaneously observe my body and mannerisms as if he wanted to consume them, but also owned them. This went on for months. I was pulled aside various times by co-workers and told that I needed to learn how “to act” around him or I would lose my job. Basically, I needed to prove to him that I was capable of upselling product and not rolling my eyes at tables that treated me like shit. He would follow me and quiz me on ingredients in dishes. I told him I was moving to LA in a few months. He laughed in my face and said he'd believe it when he saw it. I told him I was going to transfer stores. He soon demoted me to host. My income was cut three-fourths, and I needed money to get to LA. Kristin said, you know they're always hiring at Hooters. I could get you an interview tomorrow. She was right. I knew I would hate it, but, I needed the money so bad. I started a week later. It was awful. The manager would hold up our beginning of shift meeting to declare that I was an inept child and rebel, refusing to wear the amount of makeup demanded by corporate. One of the girls would cake me up and I'd hit the floor. I made less than I did at Cheesecake, but I figured I'd get to LA and be transferred as a host/server and be okay.

Working at Hooters was my biggest ever shame and secret at that point in my life. It was incredibly antithetical to my brand, lol. Three months passed and B drove me across the country. I got here and went to The Cheesecake Factory Anaheim to remind them that I was a transfer and they would need to find room for me. They had no idea who I was. I called my best friend who worked at my old Virginia Cheesecake Factory. She snuck in the manager's office and saw that they had never submitted my transfer paperwork. This was intentional. Weeks went by and they took down notes and notes from me but never came to the phone or transferred the paperwork. So she sent me the receipts. I went to corporate. They told me I'd need to organize a collective if there truly was one. I reached out to around 6 women, all whom had been harassed or seriously degraded by this GM. I was told this was the fifth case brought against him. I guess it was enough. He was fired briefly after. Years went by and I felt tremendous guilt. He was a widow and a Gemini. I knew that he wasn't always conscious of the harm he caused. But he needed to pay. So he did. I don't know if it was the right thing. But what I do know is I wish I would have done the same to Henri. Henri was a Scorpio from the true bourgeoisie owning class. He was a sommelier. He told me directly that if I ever went to HR about him I would regret it. He spent an entire beginning of shift meeting one day asking every server (all men, and 5 of them) what was wrong with the outfit I wore to host that night. They went around exchanging complaints of my appearance. The next night he liked my outfit and asked all of these same servers to agree with him that it was nice. It was more figure hugging. It was one of the only jobs I ever cried before instead of after about. Before I think because I was always afraid. He asked me to go to a wine tasting with him and I said no. He cancelled my shift the next day. The stories go on and on and on and on. For some reason Tierra and I were the two chosen victims of his psychological warfare. But, if you ever eat at Superba in Venice, you may see him or someone who knows him well and wishes they didn't. The lesson I want to share with you is, if you can organize, do it.

Social media makes my legs shake. It makes me feel bad, and small. Sometimes it makes me feel hopeful. Often, hopeless. I heard about some study that showed that the more progressive you are, and the more oppressed, the less happy you are. Makes sense. I don't know that I want to know about everything going on in the world. But when I leave here, even for a day I feel lost and selfish. Lorenzo radicalized me on facebook. Then Toni. Greg had a part. Then Rachel on IG. Rachel was a big one. Jenny Yang was it for awhile. There was a consuming period with Ericka. Bernie, obviously. Youtube, sort of. Then Matt McGorry came into the restaurant I was working at. It was 2-ish am. We closed at 3. He sat in the corner with his friends. Him and I fell into a stimulating chat about police brutality and he invited me to this activist group meeting. I had been looking for something like this since I had moved to LA 3-ish years prior.

I went. The first meeting I went alone. I felt a very conscious flight feeling response in my nervous system. But I stayed. I raised my hand when I was asked if any of us had a family member or friend who had spoke ill of undocumented peoples on social media or at home. I kept my hand raised when asked if any of us had retorted to these people. Of the 20-some hands in the room mine was selected in front of this group and asked what I had said to this person. I said that I had stated that it was very difficult and very expensive to complete the processes of immigrating “legally.” They asked, how expensive? I said that I didn't know and that I should have. They went on to double down on this. Everyone in the room aside from the speakers were white. They looked down in their laps with shame at me for not knowing this. There's a lotta shit I didn't know. Still is.

I wanted to go in the bathroom and cry. I knew that that feeling meant that this was something for me to work through, but I was terrified of all the rest that would come up through this process. Afterwards, I walked up to a few people and tried to engage in pleasantries, letting them know I was new and didn't know anyone, and that I wanted to do this work. But all of them were clearly so ashamed of me, or maybe they were just ice cold. Either way they didn't engage with me. I got in my car and sobbed the sobs of isolation for 15-ish minutes and drove home. I told my partner about it and he passionately stated a monologue that wasn't it, including that this is why he doesn't organize with specific “types” of people. Something in me felt that although this was not the right way to do this work, this is what I should be doing. So I went back and back and back. And I reminded myself of monologues of gratitude to these same people for at least putting together the important logistics of setting this work and education up to be available to me. Along the way I got lucky, meeting D and K, G, V and L, and so many more. But to this day I can still feel the harm caused that will never be spoken of or acknowledged. So much more followed...

I remember telling my youth minister how holy and glorious sex was gonna be for me because I was going to wait. I was 14 and very confident about this. We were both sitting on my bed in braids and shorts, sweating. Church camp in the deep south is HAWT. She looked afraid. I was one of those kids that listened, really listened. If an adult I respected said something, I ran with it. People talk about dramatic types that embellish. When I was a kid I blew concepts up to their highest heights. Maybe it was my Leo moon craving the drama. Maybe it was my creativity trying to make anything halfway entertaining happen in the bumfuck mountain town that held me. Maybe it was Uranus telling me to shake it up and rebel against the mehhhhh that played on repeat. I asked my mom what abortion was after I heard about it on the news. She softly told me that sometimes women who were pregnant couldn't have their babies. I jumped in. Not my pastor. Not her. I jumped in with, And they murder them?! Maybe there were seeds planted in whatever I saw on the news that got me there. Or maybe I'm just inherently one of those crisis center worker pieces of shit who has to work against my inner nature to force myself to care about real people. This quandary keeps me up at night.

I've always told stories about people from home using their names, sometimes their full names. I think most southern and rural people do that. “My friend” just feels too far away. I wanna bring people in so they get to know the people I'm talkin' about. Sometimes people call this endearing or make jokes about it. Lately I've been wondering if I do this because I fear that those I love and know won't have a shot at the kind of legacy they deserve in the wider world. So, just repeating their name signals to the universe that they're being thought of. And then there are other names that irritate me. I like to use those so I can curse them. Obvi, I'm a witch. Jk.

I don't know where to place this writing. I don't know if anyone is even reading it at this point. I don't even know why I am writing it. What am I gonna do, write a fuckin' book? Who am I? And who is anybody to be interesting enough for that? Most women. Women are so important to me. But I don't always feel important. I hope you feel important today. I just want us all to feel as important as Jeff Bezos does, you know?