On a World Without Book Shelves

Are you on the digital book bandwagon?

A group of us were talking about it at lunch today, and several of my friends are convinced that the advent of the Kindle and all of the other digital reading devices is the beginning of the end of real live books. And they weren't upset about it. They thought it was fine; in fact, one friend was convinced that he would read more if he had one. I'm going to be honest with you - the thought fills me with pain. No more books? No more pages to turn? No more dust jackets? No more bookcases filled with books? Could that really be the direction that we're headed?

I just really can't believe it, and yet these aren't crazy people that I was talking with. They're smart folks, and they pointed to the demise of floppy disks, records, giant personal computers, CDs. Maybe books are just following the same path. But isn't there something different about books? Something about the way they feel in your hands? The way they smell? The way you can leaf through one absentmindedly? The way the edges look on a book that you've read over and over again?

Am I crazy here?*

One person mentioned the environmental impacts of books. Listen, I'm an environmentalist, a tree hugger. I love the environment. But can we lay off the book concerns until nobody's driving hummers anymore, please? Pretty please? I carry fabric bags to the grocery store, I buy as much of my food at the local farmers market as possible, I don't own a car, I use the swirly light bulbs, we keep the heat low in the winter and the air down in the summer, I use reusable sandwich bags. Please please please do not make me worry about the environmental impact of the books that I so love. Don't get me wrong - I adore the library. Borrowing books is great, and we might all try to do more of that. But I love the books on my shelves.

One final note - I don't deny the appeal of these digital books. I like fancy electronics. I love my netbook. I pine for an iphone. I'd love to have a swanky kindle to carry with me on long plane rides, if only because it's neat.** But I just can't stomach the thought that these things will take the place of Real Live Books.

I'm thinking of starting a book sanctuary, where all the orphan books will be loved and nurtured.

*The babe would be too cause she's totally with me on this one.

**I want to also point out that I think these things might cause premature blindness.

Gear ain't enough

The babe and I head to Vermont tomorrow for the long weekend. If you're acquainted with me or my blog, you know I adore Vermont and all of our friends there. I should be super excited that we're heading up there in about 24 hours, but for the last week, the excitement just hasn't been there.

Today I kept thinking what is going on here? I love it there. I love them all. Why am I feeling this resistance, hesitancy,...dread? Is there dread? What is that about?

Oh, I remember. It's about this. And this. And this.

You guessed it. We're going skiing again.

I've actually been really excited about it. I got ski gloves, goggles, and ski socks for Christmas. I borrowed bibs from a friend. I talked up my pizza slicing prowess.

But there's this gnawing feeling in my stomach, and this little voice in my head.
Remember when you went careening down the mountain screaming like a little girl? Can't wait to see that again. Mwahahahahaha.
It's actually sort of a big voice now.

It's not that I don't want to do it. I do. I want to do it enough so that I can really be good at it. I really do want to. It's just that right now, the desire is taking a backseat to the fear.

Max Capacity

We arrived in San Marcos, Guatemala, a small town* on the gorgeous Lago de Atitlan (Lake Atitlan) after being in transit for almost 24 hours from Tikal, Guatemala. We had been in three shuttles, an overnight bus, and a boat by the time we put down our bags at a tiny budget hotel. We immediately went in search of food and, after dinner, headed back to the room to collapse from complete exhaustion. It was around 7:30 pm and dark. We were using our headlamp to light the path in front of us and saw several fairly sizeable spiders on walls along the way. I began to acquiant myself with the realization that there would probably be spiders in our room when we returned.

I should pause for a moment to address spiders in general. I don´t like them. I´m scared of them - maybe irrationally. I know they do good things like eat mosquitos and bugs, but I really don´t want them close to me. And I don´t think they belong indoors. They totally gross me out.

But - here´s the rub - I don´t like to kill them. I´d like to say it´s because I feel some gratitude for their spiderly services or apprecation for their worth as God´s creatures. But that´s not it. Killing them requires me to get close to them. So coming upon a spider always presents me with an immediate uncomfortable dilemma. I want the spider gone. Now. But I don´t want to kill it.

Even my family´s penchant for camping didn´t make a difference. I remember once when I was about 13 standing in a campground bathhouse and realizing that a spider was sitting on my shoulder. Flicking it off, while maybe the easiest and quickest response, would have involved touching it. What I clearly deemed the more appropriate response was to scream and hop around wildly while trying to take my sweatshirt off without touching any part of myself with the spider-infested shoulder. Of course, when I got the shirt off, the spider was no long on it, meaning that it could be anywhere. Thus more hopping around and screaming, shaking out my hair, writhing around in the hopes that anything on me would fall off. Ridiculous behavior. But the truth.

Over the years I learned - out of necessity - to kill spiders. Like when I´d find a spider in my room at night while my parents were asleep and would have the good sense not to go wake them up. And then living in my own dorm room and then apartment and having to fend for myself.

But I hate it. I always hate it. I scream and gasp and jump around. My heart beats like crazy. I get hot and flustered and when it´s over, I have to sit and recover myself.

So back to our room in San Marcos.

I entered with resolve. I knew what I had to do - look around, locate the offenders, kill them. Quick and dirty, stiff upper lip and all that.

First one spotted - bigger and closer to the bed than I would´ve liked, but forge ahead I must. Shoe in hand I went towards it. Fast little bugger. And...got it. Maybe. Where did it go?!

Ack! Did it come back to life?! No - that´s another one! Got it!

Breathing.....oh holy lord.

I spotted a big one in the corner by the ceiling. Big. This one would require a chair. And no room for errors. A missed whack could result in a giant spider crawling directly above my head or worse - falling into my hair. Dear God in Heaven, give me strength.

My resolve started to weaken.

I spotted another one close by and killed it. The babe looked concerned. She would just as soon close her eyes and leave the spiders be, but even she had never seen this many in one place. They just kept coming.

Melt. Down.

I stood in the middle of the room holding the killing shoe and a wad of paper and cried. The babe held me and said we could find another place to stay in the morning. I cried harder. How did everyone else staying here deal with this? What was wrong with me? Why did they bother me so much? The babe soothed me as best she could.

I ended up killing 4. The babe killed one. Four others got away, left to roam around the room unchecked. But there was nothing to do. We had to stay the night at least. So, after checking all of the sheets and pillows and blankets, we climbed into the bed. I had a headlamp wrapped around my wrist in case I needed to get up or check anything out. (Turning on the table lamp would have involved groping in the dark for the switch - unacceptable.) We tucked the covers around ourselves and pulled them over our heads as I cried into the babe´s neck. She rubbed my back and told me everything would be okay, and in the midst of my semi-panic, I was grateful to be with someone so understanding.

We slept horribly - both of us. It´s difficult to sleep pressed up against another person with covers tucked all around you. And that doesn´t even take into account the barking dogs or the rooster or the evangelical sermon over loud speaker at 7 am.

But we made it through the night. With some of the previous day´s exhaustion quelled, things looked a bit better in the morning. We decided to stay - mainly because we were in the jungle and were pretty sure that every other place would be the same. But we changed tactics. For the next two nights, we stayed out late - til after 9 - to allow the spiders time to find their evening resting spots. Then we came back and made a bee-line for the bed. No looking around. Just brush the teeth, shake out the pajamas, put them on, and get into bed. Tuck the covers. Fall asleep.

It worked, for the most part. I only had to kill one other spider. But we were glad to leave, glad to get a good night of sleep without fear of spiders. But I also felt sort of proud of myself for pushing through, for going out of my comfort zone. So proud, in fact, that a few nights later in the cloud forest, I happily walked up to one of the guys running our hostel and said, "There´s a really big spider in our room. Would you be willing to come take care of it?"

*I use the term "town" loosely. It´s basically a few hotels and restaurants at a dock.

Unexpected Packages

About seven years ago on a chilly evening, I snuggled next to my mom while we watched television in her room. My sister was downstairs having a slumber party, and Mom and I were upstairs dining on cheez-its, grapes, and a bottle of ridiculously sweet wine.

My parents had separated in late July.

My heart was broken. I was disappointed and disillusioned. Angry. And scared. So scared...

I clung to my mother, to all of the safety and comfort and constance that she provided. And I comforted her, often because I didn't know how to comfort myself.

But on that night, we relaxed and ate and drank and watched a marathon of Murder She Wrote. We allowed ourselves to fall into the delusional happily-ever-after world of J.B. Fletcher, where even when people are murdered, it all ends with a smile. Where the right person always gets it in the end. Where there's never injustice. Where you can rest assured that no lie will remain unexposed for more than an hour. Where Jessica will never let you down.

Where you can trust without any doubt that it will all turn out ok in the end.

And I guess, as I look at the saved programs on my DVR seven years later, Angela Lansbury is still helping me heal.

On Days that are Crappy

There are days I feel like my path has gone terribly awry. And there are days I think that paths don't go awry, that they just...go. In whatever direction that is. And that we are just wherever we are and we go on from there.

But today is not one of the latter days. It's the former.

I try to remember that the other days exist - in the hopes that they'll temper my fear and panic and unrest.

But it's a pretty serious effort. And I'm not sure it's working that well.

Who are these people who sort of bop through law school?
I know I'm not one of them.

Race and Privilege and Violence

There has been a really interesting series of posts over at The New Gay in response to the violence that has occurred recently in DC against several gay men. In Self Defense, Ben writes about considering whether or not arming oneself in an appropriate response to the fear of hate crimes.

I’ve read the many “buy a gun” comments seen on this blog, and I can only imagine how many people are contemplating their safety and reshaping their perspectives because of these beatings. I don’t have the answers. I don’t feel comfortable telling you that buying a gun is dumb because you can’t reasonably carry it around with you, you’re more likely to get caught with it than with other alternatives, you likely won’t be able to access it in time to defend yourself, you run a great risk of harming yourself accidentally or losing this weapon to your attacker, and because Hollywood tells you its easy to use one on another human being but not nearly so easy in the real world when you’re scared and possibly drunk.

While Ben clearly has some concerns about choosing to brandish a weapon, he is also worried about being vulnerable and open to attack on the street. He continues:

I’m also not comfortable telling you that if you choose to defend yourself, a knife is your best option for concealment, quick-strike capability, and efficient disposal of a threat in close quarters. I’m not comfortable telling you that you need a weapon with a good gripping surface, and that you should pay particular attention to how well it fits your hand so that your fingers don’t slide onto the blade during a stab or thrust, or whether the knife has a finger groove for the index finger that will provide no-slip support for either your index finger during a thrusting motion, or your pinky during a stabbing motion, both of which respectively take the majority of the force of the stab during these motions. I don’t feel comfortable telling you that a good blade design will be one that is decently thick, with the tip being wide enough or strong enough to resist breaking if you were to, say, accidentally punch it into a hard surface such as a brick wall or asphalt, or that the tip of the blade should also be able to easily pierce any part of the human anatomy and be long enough to reach vital organs (3.5-4 inches), nor am I comfortable telling you that your knife should have a strong locking mechanism, because without one you run the risk of severe personal injury to yourself should the mechanism fail or collapse. Finally, It troubles me to tell you that a fight involving a knife is most always ugly, quick, and messy, and that you should be mentally resolved to strike efficiently and that you should learn beforehand how to use your weapon tactically if you are attacked.

I understand Ben's fear (although I suppose that's open to question since these attacks have been against men, and I am a woman). However, I cannot see myself choosing to carry a weapon, in part because I can't see myself safely using one. And I know that it is in part because I maintain a sense of safety even though I have read these stories. I do feel safe most of the time in my neighborhood.

There are tons of comments on his post, many addressing the delicate balance that exists in gentrified/gentrifying communities between those who have been there and those who are moving in, often a balance between black and white. Largely in response to these, Meaghan wrote Being Gay in DC: Defending the Offense. Her post addresses really important issue about what it means to be the folks moving into these neighborhoods.

To be general, indigenous Black populations in all of the neighborhoods listed above (and many more that I haven't listed) are being pushed out on the wave of gentrification that DC continues to experience. Imagine living in a city you can no longer afford and being pushed out by people who, for most intents and purposes, are white. Imagine a gay bar being built within the four walls of your childhood caregiver's home, or your mother's hairdresser, the corner store, or even your church. Imagine your most vibrant and foundational memories being pushed aside for money. Then imagine living in a city where random acts of violence occur regularly and trying to discern whether someone is out of their mind on drugs or just simply pissed off.

And a bit later,

To shave off the inherent complexities of racism and privilege and call these hate crimes is to not acknowledge the hate crime that is gentrification. Gay white people of DC, you are still white. There is an obligation bestowed upon us and privileges extended to us by virtue of being white. Effectively negating the existence of your own racist fears and the reality of our harsh economic climate, and how it affects our neighbors, is ignorant.

All I ask is that we examine our white privilege before we brandish weapons in honor of our sexuality. I find too often that the bliss of ignorance prevents us from extending an ounce of empathy or compassion to the people we are consistently disempowering. Our obligation as gay people is to raise injustice from the maddening hush and call attention to it. And our obligation as white people is to do the same. We are responsible for acknowledging our role in this city's gentrification and we are responsible for aligning ourselves with justice and not revenge.

One of the comments on her posts acknowledges the truth in much of what she says but states that violent criminals should still be punished and that there is no excuse for the violence that has occurred. I do not want in any way to trivialize the harm that has occurred to the communities that have been displaced by gentrification. Those people have a right to be angry. I know that the situation is really too complex to point fingers or to lay down clear lines of right and wrong, but I can't say that it warrants physical attacks against the people who now inhabit the places that they used to call home. And I don't know that we can even say for sure that that is the impetus for these recent attacks. I'm not sure what the answer is.

Fear and Anger -- from both sides it seems

I read part of this article over the shoulder of someone on the metro a couple of days ago. Like Metrokin (one of the victims of an attack against 4 gay men), I accepted my neighborhood as a safe place in which to hold hands with my girlfriend and even stop to kiss her on the street if I feel like it. I don't know if this article says to me that there simply is no safe place to do that, or if it's just not here. Or if horrible crimes just happen, and sometimes they happen to gay people. I want to distinguish myself from his story - to say that it's different because he's a gay man and I'm a lesbian, or because he was out at 4:00 in the morning and I rarely am. But I think that's just my desire to feel safe, and the differences don't really tell me anything in the end. And the truth is, I know guys who are walking home from the bar at 4:00 in the morning, and I want them to be safe too.

I'm angry with these attackers that I don't know, and I'm angry with everyone in the world who helps to create an environment where it's okay to hate gay people. I'm angry with them because I do not want to feel scared. I feel scared enough from worries that don't involve whether I'm gay or not - the fear of being a woman living alone in a big city. And now I feel like I have to be scared of being a gay woman in this ultra-gay neighborhood.

I'm probably not going to change my behavior in any real way because it's part of who I am, and that's part of the reason I chose to live where I do. But today standing on the street talking with my girlfriend, I held back from kissing her and felt myself tense up because a guy was looking at us as he passed.