2011 Feb 25
I’m one of the lucky ones. I have documentation that I am a citizen of this United States of (North) America. I have a full time job. I have medical insurance. I have a retirement plan. I had parents who were considerate enough to die with money left over to leave to me and my brother (and who were nice enough to let me be born white and middle class). I own property. I have a college degree. I truly am lucky.
Next week I have the opportunity to experience “day-surgery” at my local HMO hospital. I have used this privilege before, and don’t have too many qualms about this upcoming opportunity. If all goes as hoped for, I’ll be out of work around a week (bless you scientists and pharmacists who have made pain killers readily available).
I am lucky. I live in the US of (North) A, and employed full time at a job where I have reasonably good medical benefits. I am having surgery that is technically elective, in that it is correcting something that more of a nuisance and is not currently life-threatening. Nonetheless, there is an easily identifiable medical need and I didn’t have to negotiate with my healthcare provider nor my employer. I am indeed lucky.
When all is said and done, my out-of-pocket expenses for this surgery will be around $100, plus some mileage and, if I am really looking at all of the expenses, a day of minimum wage for my good friend who will drive me to and from the hospital, and stay there for the anticipated five hours duration. So, call it $200 out-of-pocket for me.
Of course, I pay several hundred dollars a month for the insurance, and my employer also pays several hundred dollars a month towards the insurance premium. Oh yes, then there is the Family Medical Leave Act and short-term disability insurance that will pay the difference between my salary and the disability payment. For ease of discussion, let's call that around a thousand dollars. And let’s see, the average daily cost of a hospital stay in Southern California is $20,000. Now we’re talking more than chump change or pocket money. (Note to self, medical costs are the leading cause of personal bankruptcy filings in the US.)
I have a few thousand dollars of credit card debt, a mortgage, and am supporting two households on my salary. I have some inherited funds that are fairly liquid that I choose not to access, and part ownership of two dwellings. I also have a small defined pension plan and a relatively small 401 (k) plan. So, if push came to very hard shove, I could pay for my medical costs for this surgery.
But I am one of the lucky ones. I was born white in the US to middle class parents. I was able to go to college, and actually have bachelors and masters degrees. I have a full time job and a retirement plan.
But what if I weren’t white? What if my parents didn’t value education as much as they did? What if I had been in a different division and got “down-sized” a few years ago? What if my mother and father weren’t frugal and allowed me to inherit what I think of as a small fortune? If I didn’t have Mom’s cash still in the bank, and didn’t have insurance, I would not be able to have this surgery. The medical problem would continue and probably grow worse, causing me more and more pain, and ultimately, probably causing a painful and disgusting death within a few short years.
What are the societal costs of my earlier-than-expected death? Would my son be able to go to college? Probably not. Would my son inherit any property or cash? Probably not. This is the downward spiral that many of us are facing. And I’m one of the lucky ones: one with a job, papers and insurance.
What if I were like my high-school boyfriend: green-card immigrant with not even a high-school education; living on playing piano at bars and dealing drugs to put food on his mother’s table?
Or my college professor friend, whose husband was denied a green-card, leaving her to give birth to their son thousands of miles apart from him, and raising him on her own until she could find another job closer to his home?
Even as I take advantage of my privilege, I worry about those who have less. My religion (Unitarian Universalist) requires me to live my truth: to put my money, time and talent where my mouth is. This is (in my not-so-humble opinion) the purpose of religions – to cause us to act for the greater good; to create a better place here on earth; to remind us to be humble and grateful for what we have and to share so that others may also live.
We Unitarian Universalists have a program called Standing on the Side of Love which calls us to be prophetic voices (and non-anxious presences) for justice in this world. This is the reason for unions, for protest marches, for all prophetic witness in this world. This is the reason we have hope: that someone loves the world enough to stand up for someone they don’t know yet. Together we can change the world and create a better place for all of us. Even if we aren’t white, middle-class Americans.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, November 19, 2010
To live as myself
19 November 2010
To live as myself…
Tomorrow is the National Transgender Day of Remembrance. I just read (to myself) the over 129 names of Transgender people (or their allies if killed with or while supporting Transgender issues). I read a brief statement of a young man in which he discussed his difficulties in gender changing while at a women’s college and in trying to travel and get a job when his “official documents” indicate one gender and he presents as a different one.
To live as myself…
I was fairly lucky in birth: white, Anglo-Saxon even (if the “Anglos” and “Saxons” accept Irish as human yet), working class. I am a woman born into a female body. I always had food and my parents always had a home for me while I was growing up in Southern California. Yes, my options may have been broader had my parents raised me to value money differently or pushed me into a “better” college, or even if I had been genetically able to be a tall man. So although the circumstances of my birth could have been more auspicious, overall, I have had a better chance at life than most of the rest of the world.
To live as myself…
One of the immediate things that caught my attention in reading the list of Transgender people/Allies who died in the past 364 days was how many died in Brazil. Almost every month, at least half of those murdered were killed in Brazil. In looking at the CIA’s website of information about Brazil, it compares in many ways with the USA. Most people claim a form of protestant or Roman Catholic religious preference, the top 2 consumers of cocaine. Brazil is the leading economic power in South America, and USA claims to be the leading economic power in North America. Nothing stands out to me as a reason for the higher transgender murder rate. (Not that there should be a reason to kill transgender people at all.)
To live as myself…
I understand that living as one’s self is a privilege of being a member of the dominant culture. When people ask me why I work for LGBT justice, I tell them, “Because I can and I must.” When I read these 179 names (think about it, one transgender person or ally was murdered every other day), I am glad that I was born who I am and that I can live as myself, without the fear that I will be murdered for my gender identity.
To live with myself…
I grieve for those whose lives ended brutally early, because of their transgender identity or their support for transgender people or because someone thought they exhibited signs of a “different” gender. To live with myself, I have to work for more and better justice. To quote Gustavo Gutierrez, “Without justice, there can be no peace.” I urge you to take a moment (or three, they’re free after all) to consider these 179 people, their families and friends and friends of friends. Take a breath and wipe your tears away. Now, think, “What must I do to live with myself?”
To live as myself…
Tomorrow is the National Transgender Day of Remembrance. I just read (to myself) the over 129 names of Transgender people (or their allies if killed with or while supporting Transgender issues). I read a brief statement of a young man in which he discussed his difficulties in gender changing while at a women’s college and in trying to travel and get a job when his “official documents” indicate one gender and he presents as a different one.
To live as myself…
I was fairly lucky in birth: white, Anglo-Saxon even (if the “Anglos” and “Saxons” accept Irish as human yet), working class. I am a woman born into a female body. I always had food and my parents always had a home for me while I was growing up in Southern California. Yes, my options may have been broader had my parents raised me to value money differently or pushed me into a “better” college, or even if I had been genetically able to be a tall man. So although the circumstances of my birth could have been more auspicious, overall, I have had a better chance at life than most of the rest of the world.
To live as myself…
One of the immediate things that caught my attention in reading the list of Transgender people/Allies who died in the past 364 days was how many died in Brazil. Almost every month, at least half of those murdered were killed in Brazil. In looking at the CIA’s website of information about Brazil, it compares in many ways with the USA. Most people claim a form of protestant or Roman Catholic religious preference, the top 2 consumers of cocaine. Brazil is the leading economic power in South America, and USA claims to be the leading economic power in North America. Nothing stands out to me as a reason for the higher transgender murder rate. (Not that there should be a reason to kill transgender people at all.)
To live as myself…
I understand that living as one’s self is a privilege of being a member of the dominant culture. When people ask me why I work for LGBT justice, I tell them, “Because I can and I must.” When I read these 179 names (think about it, one transgender person or ally was murdered every other day), I am glad that I was born who I am and that I can live as myself, without the fear that I will be murdered for my gender identity.
To live with myself…
I grieve for those whose lives ended brutally early, because of their transgender identity or their support for transgender people or because someone thought they exhibited signs of a “different” gender. To live with myself, I have to work for more and better justice. To quote Gustavo Gutierrez, “Without justice, there can be no peace.” I urge you to take a moment (or three, they’re free after all) to consider these 179 people, their families and friends and friends of friends. Take a breath and wipe your tears away. Now, think, “What must I do to live with myself?”
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
“We don’t live only in this time.” Words heard on the radio, spoken by an author speaking of his explorations of a long-buried civilization under the streets and parking lots of present time Phoenix, AZ in the United States of (North) America. He spoke of finding potshards in vacant lots; of a parking lot that was demolished, unearthing hundreds of human remains and precious objects nestled in their bodies. Bicycling through the streets of Phoenix, he notices the dips and swells of land that are almost imperceptible to modern-day motorists (we in our air conditioned, soft-suspensioned, iron horses).
“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my mother’s daughter, my stepfather’s not-quite-successful (in his eyes) child, my grandparent’s pride and joy (along with my brother). I am the daughter of Irish and Norwegian immigrants and English conquerors. I am a former exchange student from a small town in central Mexico, nestled between Popocatépetl (the smoking mountain) and Ixtaccihuatl (the sleeping princess). I look in my ancestor’s photo albums and see indigenous peoples of Africa and North America.
“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my son’s birth mother, and his real mom. One day we may become friends. I see my g-d-daughter’s children as my grand-g-d-children, being a voice of protection and support in a sometimes-dangerous life. I am a surrogate parent for children of my church, a seldom-seen “auntie” to co-workers’ progeny.
“We don’t live only in this time.” My grandmother was a suffragette – agitating for the right to vote for women. My mother’s child-hood friend was taken abruptly away and placed in a camp for Japanese people during World War II. My first boyfriend was in the US on a green card, and is probably now an “illegal alien.” Those faces in my just-inherited photo albums, the ones dressed in formal mid-19th century dresses, peer out through the years, demanding justice, rights, and respect.
“We don’t live only in this time.” My great-grandparents homesteaded 40 acres in Washington, and gave 10 acres each to their surviving sons. (The women married either men or the Irish-Catholic Jesus of their faith.) I wonder what has become of that pristine woodland today? When I moved to the San Gabriel valley, strawberry fields and citrus orchards were my view as I drove across Arrow Highway from LaVerne to Azusa and on to Alhambra. There are remnants of those orchards surviving all over the Southland still. Will my son ever know the wonder of finding snakes and gophers and finches and robins and bugs among the wind fallen fruit? Will he ever smell the amazing scent of acres and acres of ripening strawberries, carried on the freshening afternoon breeze? Or will he be afraid to swim in the ocean, fearing a life-threatening disease should he have a still-fresh skate-boarding rash?
“We don’t live only in this time.” I hear a cry from the past echoing in the voices of our children. We must make time now to honor the past and make sure our children have a future. What will you do with your time?
“We don’t live only in this time.” Words heard on the radio, spoken by an author speaking of his explorations of a long-buried civilization under the streets and parking lots of present time Phoenix, AZ in the United States of (North) America. He spoke of finding potshards in vacant lots; of a parking lot that was demolished, unearthing hundreds of human remains and precious objects nestled in their bodies. Bicycling through the streets of Phoenix, he notices the dips and swells of land that are almost imperceptible to modern-day motorists (we in our air conditioned, soft-suspensioned, iron horses).
“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my mother’s daughter, my stepfather’s not-quite-successful (in his eyes) child, my grandparent’s pride and joy (along with my brother). I am the daughter of Irish and Norwegian immigrants and English conquerors. I am a former exchange student from a small town in central Mexico, nestled between Popocatépetl (the smoking mountain) and Ixtaccihuatl (the sleeping princess). I look in my ancestor’s photo albums and see indigenous peoples of Africa and North America.
“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my son’s birth mother, and his real mom. One day we may become friends. I see my g-d-daughter’s children as my grand-g-d-children, being a voice of protection and support in a sometimes-dangerous life. I am a surrogate parent for children of my church, a seldom-seen “auntie” to co-workers’ progeny.
“We don’t live only in this time.” My grandmother was a suffragette – agitating for the right to vote for women. My mother’s child-hood friend was taken abruptly away and placed in a camp for Japanese people during World War II. My first boyfriend was in the US on a green card, and is probably now an “illegal alien.” Those faces in my just-inherited photo albums, the ones dressed in formal mid-19th century dresses, peer out through the years, demanding justice, rights, and respect.
“We don’t live only in this time.” My great-grandparents homesteaded 40 acres in Washington, and gave 10 acres each to their surviving sons. (The women married either men or the Irish-Catholic Jesus of their faith.) I wonder what has become of that pristine woodland today? When I moved to the San Gabriel valley, strawberry fields and citrus orchards were my view as I drove across Arrow Highway from LaVerne to Azusa and on to Alhambra. There are remnants of those orchards surviving all over the Southland still. Will my son ever know the wonder of finding snakes and gophers and finches and robins and bugs among the wind fallen fruit? Will he ever smell the amazing scent of acres and acres of ripening strawberries, carried on the freshening afternoon breeze? Or will he be afraid to swim in the ocean, fearing a life-threatening disease should he have a still-fresh skate-boarding rash?
“We don’t live only in this time.” I hear a cry from the past echoing in the voices of our children. We must make time now to honor the past and make sure our children have a future. What will you do with your time?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Actions and consequences
8 September 2010
Here it is September again. Another anniversary that causes me to reflect not just on my own self, but on our collective self: we, the United States of [North] America. It breaks my heart and stretches my faith in humanity to realize that so many people in this land of plenty (for those who have plenty already) don’t seem to care at all about those without. I also am concerned about the religious hegemony some folks here in the good ‘ole U. S. of A want to impose on all of us.
I know that statistically very few people fall into the “fundamentalist” realm of religious practice. But they sure seem to cause a lot of problems and stink. I’m thinking now of the foul stench of hatred from the proposed Koran burning event being planned for this weekend. And the hatred spewing from our nation’s capital about a Muslim center being built near “Ground Zero.” As if that is the only place in the world that has suffered from terrorist bombs.
Dear ones, we MUST learn to appreciate each other, regardless of the type of religion we do or do not practice. In spite of the negligible differences in skin tone, reproductive plumbing or language spoken, if we humans are to survive and our world is to survive (dare I hope thrive?), we MUST learn to affirm each other for the inherent good in each of us.
Actions have consequences. When a member of my household doesn’t follow the house rules (which are for the continued safety and well-being of all the members, four-footed or not), I (currently being the recognized voice of maturity and reason) impose a consequence. We “Americans” pride ourselves on our government-sanctioned civil liberties. But even the acts of a small group of religious zealots will cause consequences that may reach far beyond the initial perpetrators.
Are you willing to bear the consequence of making Islam a scapegoat for our many political and financial ills? Are you willing to bear the consequences of supporting a military presence where it is not wanted? Be informed. Speak to your representatives. Be counted for positive gain in this world. It is the only one we are sure of, all else is faith and conjecture.
Here it is September again. Another anniversary that causes me to reflect not just on my own self, but on our collective self: we, the United States of [North] America. It breaks my heart and stretches my faith in humanity to realize that so many people in this land of plenty (for those who have plenty already) don’t seem to care at all about those without. I also am concerned about the religious hegemony some folks here in the good ‘ole U. S. of A want to impose on all of us.
I know that statistically very few people fall into the “fundamentalist” realm of religious practice. But they sure seem to cause a lot of problems and stink. I’m thinking now of the foul stench of hatred from the proposed Koran burning event being planned for this weekend. And the hatred spewing from our nation’s capital about a Muslim center being built near “Ground Zero.” As if that is the only place in the world that has suffered from terrorist bombs.
Dear ones, we MUST learn to appreciate each other, regardless of the type of religion we do or do not practice. In spite of the negligible differences in skin tone, reproductive plumbing or language spoken, if we humans are to survive and our world is to survive (dare I hope thrive?), we MUST learn to affirm each other for the inherent good in each of us.
Actions have consequences. When a member of my household doesn’t follow the house rules (which are for the continued safety and well-being of all the members, four-footed or not), I (currently being the recognized voice of maturity and reason) impose a consequence. We “Americans” pride ourselves on our government-sanctioned civil liberties. But even the acts of a small group of religious zealots will cause consequences that may reach far beyond the initial perpetrators.
Are you willing to bear the consequence of making Islam a scapegoat for our many political and financial ills? Are you willing to bear the consequences of supporting a military presence where it is not wanted? Be informed. Speak to your representatives. Be counted for positive gain in this world. It is the only one we are sure of, all else is faith and conjecture.
2009 November 6
2009 November 6
Friday. November. Fall. Simple words with such complex meanings and feelings behind, over and beyond them.
Now I walk in beauty:
Beauty is before me,
Beauty is behind me,
Above and below me.
In the US, many celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as “Thanksgiving Day.” The myth of the first Thanksgiving on the east coast of North America is pretty, but denies so much as to make me uncomfortable to celebrate without honoring those first people upon whom the various governments of North America have systematically, intentionally and without apparent remorse practiced genocide. For what or to whom can those soles be thankful?
This is the season in which I personally take stock of my life. Always, even in the depths of dark depression, I have much for which to be thankful: I am whole and generally healthy, with a beautiful son and many generous and true friends. I am employed and paid well for a good day’s work. Whether it is the cooler weather, the freshening and clarifying winds of Southern California falls, or simply the longer and colder nights that make pondering easier, this is the time that urges, nay, forces me to reflect on my life and where I am headed.
For without noticing in what direction I am going, like the un-aimed arrow, I will miss my target.
This moment’s target is to write reflectively. The world sees much turmoil—soldiers killing their siblings-in-arms, soldiers killing other soldiers and civilians around them, drug use weakening our youth and artists’ minds, the cradle of civilization continuing in unbroken, uncivilized strife through the millennia.
But a baby is born, young lovers are reunited and a flower grows triumphantly yellow petals to the warm sun from a crack in the sidewalk. A dog suckles a kitten and a curmudgeon underwrites a crack-baby’s education. Life, ever-abundant life pervades and perseveres. And what is to be my part of this parade?
Friday. November. Fall. Simple words with such complex meanings and feelings behind, over and beyond them.
Now I walk in beauty:
Beauty is before me,
Beauty is behind me,
Above and below me.
In the US, many celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as “Thanksgiving Day.” The myth of the first Thanksgiving on the east coast of North America is pretty, but denies so much as to make me uncomfortable to celebrate without honoring those first people upon whom the various governments of North America have systematically, intentionally and without apparent remorse practiced genocide. For what or to whom can those soles be thankful?
This is the season in which I personally take stock of my life. Always, even in the depths of dark depression, I have much for which to be thankful: I am whole and generally healthy, with a beautiful son and many generous and true friends. I am employed and paid well for a good day’s work. Whether it is the cooler weather, the freshening and clarifying winds of Southern California falls, or simply the longer and colder nights that make pondering easier, this is the time that urges, nay, forces me to reflect on my life and where I am headed.
For without noticing in what direction I am going, like the un-aimed arrow, I will miss my target.
This moment’s target is to write reflectively. The world sees much turmoil—soldiers killing their siblings-in-arms, soldiers killing other soldiers and civilians around them, drug use weakening our youth and artists’ minds, the cradle of civilization continuing in unbroken, uncivilized strife through the millennia.
But a baby is born, young lovers are reunited and a flower grows triumphantly yellow petals to the warm sun from a crack in the sidewalk. A dog suckles a kitten and a curmudgeon underwrites a crack-baby’s education. Life, ever-abundant life pervades and perseveres. And what is to be my part of this parade?
Monday, September 28, 2009
To live in fear or not
I work in the city – no, not NY or Chicago or San Francisco, but Los Angeles. It’s beautiful this morning, just past dawn. The sky is actually sky blue, nary a cloud to mar it’s smooth expanse. Humanity’s endeavors to reach the heavens through sky-scraping office buildings make a quilt-like mosaic to keep my mind and eyes entertained as I follow the river of cars downstream into the city’s heartland.
I notice a large red-nosed jet in the distance, another miraculous invention of ingenuity (even if not quite so scientific baffling as honeybees flying). I am bemused by the view, sipping my coffee as I traverse the freeway with my fellow commuters.
But, this is September 2009. Now the red-nose of the jet seems a bit off, perhaps even macabre. And the plane is banking…is it circling in preparation to land in our arid dessert or is it just taking off and circling to head eastward to greener lands? Or, my heart leaping and respiration rate rising, is it heading for one of the financial towers? Maybe even the old “burning inferno” building that I call my weekday home? Or is my imagination reaching into that spot in the back of my brain that recalls another beautiful September morn in 2001?
The events of September 11, 2001 changed the world in many ways:
§ Good: many of us have made conscious decisions to live more fully in the moment and embody our values by deepening our ties to kith, kin and community.
§ Bad (IMHO): increased vigilante-ism, fear-mongering diatribes overrunning the airwaves, governmental spying on private citizens, increased hatred spewed at immigrants (as though we don’t live in a land of immigrants who killed off most of the first peoples without remorse).
§ Ugly: the way our innocence balloon has been popped by the needle of fear, changing a beautiful morning moment to one now tinged with apprehension.
I finish my commute, and take the three elevators to my home-away-from-home-sweet-home-cubicle. I read my email, a mixture of business, political updates and oh joy! some updates from friends who are coming to town next week.
I regain my equanimity, and vow, once again, to not live in fear.
May it be so, blessed be, amen, Namaste.
I notice a large red-nosed jet in the distance, another miraculous invention of ingenuity (even if not quite so scientific baffling as honeybees flying). I am bemused by the view, sipping my coffee as I traverse the freeway with my fellow commuters.
But, this is September 2009. Now the red-nose of the jet seems a bit off, perhaps even macabre. And the plane is banking…is it circling in preparation to land in our arid dessert or is it just taking off and circling to head eastward to greener lands? Or, my heart leaping and respiration rate rising, is it heading for one of the financial towers? Maybe even the old “burning inferno” building that I call my weekday home? Or is my imagination reaching into that spot in the back of my brain that recalls another beautiful September morn in 2001?
The events of September 11, 2001 changed the world in many ways:
§ Good: many of us have made conscious decisions to live more fully in the moment and embody our values by deepening our ties to kith, kin and community.
§ Bad (IMHO): increased vigilante-ism, fear-mongering diatribes overrunning the airwaves, governmental spying on private citizens, increased hatred spewed at immigrants (as though we don’t live in a land of immigrants who killed off most of the first peoples without remorse).
§ Ugly: the way our innocence balloon has been popped by the needle of fear, changing a beautiful morning moment to one now tinged with apprehension.
I finish my commute, and take the three elevators to my home-away-from-home-sweet-home-cubicle. I read my email, a mixture of business, political updates and oh joy! some updates from friends who are coming to town next week.
I regain my equanimity, and vow, once again, to not live in fear.
May it be so, blessed be, amen, Namaste.
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