Keep On Livin'

And I lived to tell the tale!

Here I am, alive and okay and plowing through some very fluffy Black Forest Cake which I have dubbed "breakfast".
I have decided that today will be a faux birthday, due to the nature of my activities: Wake up at quarter to one in the afternoon. Play with cat until she attempts to claw out my eyes with love. Eat too much cake in attempt to obliterate it "because there is no room for it in the frige". Take a moment to fart with glee. Go buy fancy cat food and potentially one of those SIGG bottles that everyone has (I'm tired of using a waxed paper cup or mug that can spill while working) with newly acquired Guilt Money. Go to friend's house for pre-planned debrief snuggles.
See? It's just like a birthday except it doesn't have to remind me that I am about due for a yearly physical, and I am not covered in ribbons and bows.

So yesterday was intensive.
I was filled with glee when my Best Friend of LIFE returned home from her East Coast March Break Extravaganza and we shared some knock-off-brand maccaroni & cheez and esophagus-melting coffee. Of course this meant that I left the house late to go see my therapist, who I have not seen since I broke my foot a year ago. So of course I was late, and she had already started a session with another client, so I waited for an hour, which I deserved because I am always late. I got to hang out with my therapist's lovely elderly mom and extremely friendly lap dog (She runs her practice from her home in far North Scarborough, hence the difficulties of me trying to maneuver my broken self on the TTC over there while I was wearing the "Shortie Walker" cast). We had a decent session, and she quesioned my motives for going to see my dad, to which I had no definitive response. While I thought about it blankly, she went to grab a frozen roast beef from the other room to thaw for her dinner. I am mildly worried about her response to my "new" job (last time I had a session with her, I worked at Sbux)... being that our focus in our sessions is on sexual abuse, she referred to me working at a sex shop as "the OTHER issue", and I kind of took offence because I am really proud of the transformative and educational work that I do, but we know each other well enough that I think we can have some good talks about it. A lot can change in a year. A lot can change in five years, too.

While my therapist thought it was not - to put it mildly - the best idea to go to dinner at my dad's, I freaking did it anyway, because I felt it rude to cancel 2 hours before I had said I would be there. I got dropped off at Fairview Mall, where went in to Sephora and put on some makeup, and then took the bus straight to my dad's. Although he didn't make food and had eaten dinner plus a few beers at his neighbours' place before I came, he had the kindness to pick me up a delicious beef roti and an ENTIRE black forest cake (not my fave, but it's cake), which I ate while he watched. My step-mother is still on Weight Watchers (I have at least a few entries worth of rants on the rediculous idea of "food points" that will come in the near future) and my dad is Diabetic now, so the remainder of the cake came home with me in the end, but I digress. The first 20 minutes were tense and eye-contactless, as it was just me and my dad, him chain smoking and avoiding eye contact while he listed his three or four feelings on "the subject", and me summarizing why I didn't really know why I was there, and that I was happy they were getting married but that I did not feel that it was appropriate for me to attend the event. When my step-mom arrived, the conversation got flowing, mostly catching up on the births, deaths and home rennos of the past 5 years, and the disproportionately important bonding fact that I now drink coffee. I felt lured in to the world of little neices I have never met, missing my step-sisters and hearing all about everyone's lives. I looked at pictures of their trip to Sri Lanka and saw so many beautiful smiling relatives I have never met. I stood strong on my NO vote to the wedding, though.

As often as possible, I took the oportunity to underline my Flamboyant QUEERNESS, which I hoped would open some doors to conversing about that. Not so much. They attempted to give me a stereo system, and invite me to an Easter shindig of some kind. My dad claimed that he is going blind (which he is not) and made a bullseye estimation of the cost of my glasses, and in the end, nervously handed me a hundred dollars and told me to "get some cat food and some new shoes". I thanked them. We left it at the statement that it was nice and that they would love me to come visit more, and that I "might do that". Hugs at the elevator, a long transit ride home. Crocheting to ease my fidgets, and also to someday beget a bangin' mermaid sweater.

Not sure how I feel about it all. Still had nightmares all night, but of a slightly different variety.
Time for scheduled friend snuggles, over and OUT <3

mix! intertwine! blend! combine!

I want to collect up a kind of fountainous list of writings, art, storytelling, performance and poetry coming from the experiences of mixed race folks. I read ravenously, write with my guts akimbo, paint wildly and don't often enough bump into created characters whose experiences of their identities come from often dichotomized places, mishmashes, mixtures of so many experiences but also entirely new ones.

Bein' mixy: there is no single way to describe "the" experience of being mixed, even though I have been asked to, and then been seen as difficult for not being able to answer. A close friend once asked me something about my understanding of myself as a mixed race person as a child, and when I said I guess I never even got a glimpse of the concept until I was older. I just knew I was "different" from everybody else, but there were lots of things that made me different, so how was I supposed to unpack that bundle? Unless they, too, come from mixed ancestry, parents don't often sit their li'l mixy kids down and say things like "mmmkay. So you're 'mixed race' and sometimes people might not get that. People can be racist, colourist, snobby, bring up Tiger Woods a lot, ask you 'what you are', ask you 'where you're from' as a way to mean 'why are you the colour you are', claim you aren't _____ enough, claim you're too ________, and they may frequently dis' your wild hair! But you know what? Fuck 'em, you rock just they way you are." (Although I might give my future little mixy kid(s) a pep talk of that nature, but with more practical tools and less swearing some day in the future when they exist)

At present, my mixy list is fairly wee, but here it is. If you have things to add, please post them in a comment, I would love to check out new stuff!


Caucasia by Danzy Senna
Cereus Blooms at Night by Shani Mootoo
Colonize This! (An anthology)
Consensual Genocide by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
Fall On Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald
Fireweed Mixed Race Issue

Double Agent - (song!) by Amanda Marshall

...And there has to be more, as these are just things here in my room!

(Goodness, my room! what a great segue into a closing statement of "I need to tidy my room, post haste, if I ever in good conscience want anybody other than my cat to be interested in hanging out in it with me.")