Author: Lauren

I'm a reader, over-thinker, idealistic cynic, and hopeless knowledge seeker living in the wilds of Seattle, Washington. I write, but am not sure I'm a writer yet. I'm blind. I was an activist in my former life for the LGBTQIA etc community and still love reading about and discussing sexuality, queer issues, and living an out and authentic life... plus the constraints our society places on allowing us to exercise that right. I write about what it's like having a disability (I'm blind, you dig?), things I love about Seattle, and my hopeless addiction to all things culinary. Also, I'm on the bus a lot, so I write about that too.

When I was 17, I sat on a blanket in my backyard, surrounded by my dearest high school friends, and told everyone I was a lesbian. It was my birthday party. The tradition was to stay up as late as we possibly could, outside, until the birds chirped to life and the sun gave us the morning. In the middle of the night, coming out felt so safe and so freeing. I’m not sure anyone was particularly surprised. The cliche exists for a reason: it felt like a tremendous weight had been lifted from me, just by saying aloud, “I’m different. And this is how, and this is who I am.”

This was the start of my “coming outs.” I came out to my mother, my grandparents, my host families in Spain and Ecuador, friends and acquaintances. I stopped getting bent out of shape when someone else came out on my behalf. This was who I was.

Until it wasn’t. Until, in my twenties, I started dating men and had to tell all my lesbian friends that haha! just kidding! I’m not straight, but I’m definitely not “100 percent gold star gay” either.

And still I wasn’t done. I’m not sure when I first discovered that open relationships were possible, that there was this thing called polyamory where you could be in love with multiple people and everyone was ok with it, embraced it even. After learning about polyamory, however I did, I thought about it in my subsequent relationships, but never brought it up much. It was something I wanted, but felt strange and guilty for wanting.

When I was 26, I had the opportunity to date someone who was polyamorous and who lived with his girlfriend. She liked me, at least initially. And I got to experience a relationship model that seemed to fit me in a way that monogamy had failed to do. And that was just the beginning.

So now, I’m coming out again, publicly, loudly, as polyamorous. Many of my close friends and family know, and now all of you know, too. I have a network of people who are, in one way or another, my partners, my dearest loves, my chosen family. They are the people I want with me for big life occasions, for small life occasions, for birthdays and snow days and days where there’s nothing going on at all. These are the people I will probably introduce you to, if you and I see each other often, and they are the people who will hold my hand, possibly one right after the other, or at the same time, and it will be normal to us. Normal because we’ve actively, intentionally decided to bypass normal relationship ideals and trajectories and create our own models, which are living, not static, and changing and growing as we change and grow.

I am not writing this to convince anyone that polyamory is “better.” You shouldn’t try this at home if it doesn’t sound good to you. What I’m writing this for is to ask for your acceptance and your respect. I’m writing this so that, in the future forever, I can talk and write openly about my poly family without shame and without holding back the particular love I feel for multiple people. And, ultimately, I’m writing this to open a dialogue about relationships, about the infinite ways we humans can stretch and live and love, and to be a resource for anyone who feels like the conventional model, for whatever reason, just isn’t for them. Talk to me. I am open and I am here.

And, I’ve learned one sure thing in all this uncertainty: I’ll probably never stop coming out. What a gift and a privilege that is.

I wonder what your life was like when you were young.
I picture quiet streets, everyone knew your family.
Everyone knew you.
In grocery stores they’d ask what you were learning.
They’d tell you you were smart.
Leaves under your feet
school trips and brothers and God
or something like it
How did you picture your life would be?
Did you know I’d turn up
like I had some right to be there?
(That’s how I usually turn up, and I usually don’t.)
But I come in anyway
I dismantle what people think is true
I break teacups and leave traces
blood and glitter, glass and gold
Sometimes I forget to clean up the mess.
Sometimes I remember and leave it.
Did you see it coming?
Did you know me in your mother’s arms
in the sun flooding your eyes
in the way you think you hear me laugh when I’m somewhere else crying?
I spent years looking for you
not even knowing I was
and I’ll spend the rest of my life
trying to leave you
with nothing to gather or sweep or scrub or throw away
It’s the very least I can do.

I’m in Vermont right now working through my ten-day residency. It’s exciting to be back around writers again, and take in all the things my brain can hold. We have long, intense days, beginning early and lasting until 9 or 10 at night. My schedule has become my lifeline. It’s all I can do to try to eat when I’m hungry and sleep when I’m tired, and I am tired all the time. And this is how residency is, and mostly, it’s great.
The not-great part is that on top of all my other learning, I’m learning to navigate a new campus. And, because of that, I am way more dependent on everyone than I like to be. And because I am way more dependent on everyone, I’ve become somewhat one-dimensional: I’m the one who’s blind and needs help. People all the time, having nothing but good intentions, approach me and ask if I need help. Sometimes I do, and it’s appreciated, but there are many times when I yearn to do it myself, even if it takes a few extra minutes, or when I don’t need help at all.
It’s hard to explain to those who don’t get the “do you need help?” question constantly, but being asked that several times a day is exhausting. You play a little game each time you are asked: what should I say? Do I say yes, just for the comradery and to have someone to talk to? Do I say no because I want to show my independence? If I say no this time, will they not ask next time when I might actually need help? Have they helped me before? In fact, have they already helped me a bunch today and really shouldn’t be expected to help me again?
When I stop to think about the conversations I’ve had in the last few days, I am astounded at how many of them revolve around what I am doing or not doing, and whether I need help doing it. I’ve heard, “what do you need?” so many times when I’m idling to look at my notes or my schedule or just to take everything in. Most of the time, I don’t know what I need, or it’s a long list that most people can’t help me with, and many times I don’t need anything. Being asked over and over continually puts me on the spot, in a fight or flight stance, even though the intentions behind the asking are nothing but good.
Today, I had someone yell across campus to me: “Do you know you turned the wrong way?” This person didn’t have any idea where I was going. So how did they know I was going the wrong way? I called back that I was fine, then wondered if they continued to watch me as I navigated to where I wanted to be. When I refuse help and the person doesn’t immediately withdraw, I wonder if they are watching me, thinking how much easier it would be if they helped, how much faster and more efficient. I know I have done this before, too. But sometimes, most times, I want the agency to take longer, to do it my way that’s maybe, probably, not your way. When you’re in my situation, you can certainly do it your way.
What I miss most in these ten days is just being able to get away. I want to walk uptown by myself to the co-op, or the crepe place I went to last fall. I want to find a café and listen to people around me, not talk to anyone in my program. If I want to leave, though, I have to find someone to help, and coordinate schedules, and feel obligated, somehow, to return the favor. I hate that society has ingrained this tit-for-tat idea into me. I hate how hard it is for me to accept gracefully, without worrying about the payback.
I’d ask folks who interact with people with disabilities, or want to help those who might need it, to consider the circumstances before offering help. Don’t just offer willy-nilly, and do be prepared to be told no, thank you. Try not to bring your ego in.
I think what I want most right now in the world is to have a genuine conversation where my blindness or my dog are never mentioned. Or, to take a walk by myself away from the campus and away from everyone, just for a few hours of receiving no help at all.

Breaking the Cycle

I haven’t been writing.

Back in May, I finished my third semester of grad school and in August, NILA closed its doors.  I moved back to Minnesota.  In September, I attended a writing conference in northern California and felt slightly renewed to write, or, I told myself I felt renewed.  But I came home and didn’t write.  Keeping this blog has been a struggle, and it’s the only real writing I’ve done in months.  Instead, I’ve spent hours laying on the floor with my dog, made an epic ton of jam, paced, cried, and tried in vain to get a job so I wouldn’t have to think about writing. I’ve felt like a failure.

There is a dam of words inside me, the desire to make sense of this insane, sad, difficult year.  Part of me is afraid that if I start writing I will never stop, or I will cry until I can’t breathe, or I will realize just how hopeless writing is or how much of a fraud I am.  Imposter syndrome is eye rollingly dull, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist and isn’t pervasive.

I had wanted to spend this holiday break writing, but I didn’t, for all the same reasons I listed above.  My advisor from NILA always said, “If you can’t write, read”, so I have been reading instead, and when I haven’t been reading I have been singing, and when I haven’t been singing I have been watching slam poets on YouTube and trying to let go of everything except words.  I hope it is working.

On Wednesday, I start residency at my new grad school in Vermont.  I finally wrote to my former instructors at NILA to tell them I’d gotten in and was starting soon.  I chided myself for not doing it sooner; I’d put it off for months because it felt like closing the last peephole window on NILA, and on the community and challenge and solace I found there.  And because I knew that one of my instructors, in his recommendation letter for the school in Vermont, called my writing “fearless” and to be honest, I am fucking terrified.  I always wish people knew how afraid I am.  The only thing I have going for me is that I’m afraid, but I do it anyway.

Fear or not, I am doing this thing, I am going to write again, (thank you, grad school deadlines), I am going to get my MFA, I am going to meet and connect with writers again.  I am hungry for it, and curious, and hopeful, because I don’t know how else to be.

What are you hopeful for in the New Year? What do you want? What are you afraid of but determined to do anyway?

I’ve been bingeing on Metric lately, so I’ll leave you with some.  I acutely feel the urgency here, and understand the wanting.  I want it all too. Happy New Year, everyone.

“A blade of grass

a grain of sand

the moonlit sea

to hold your hand

I want it all

I want it all

I want it all

I want it all.”

 

Metric: The Shade

I’m sitting in my Seattle house (er, I mean, Arlie and Betsy’s house in Seattle), eating pepparkoker and finishing off a truly giant and ridiculous cup of eggnog-spiked coffee. I feel that I should be thinking about real, hard, deep things like not having found a job yet or getting in the mind set for the drastic weather difference I’m going to experience when I return to Minnesota, or the doomed state of our nation and how I still haven’t figured out something concrete to do about it. Instead, I’m thinking about my kitchen. I can’t help it. All that other stuff is exhausting sometimes, and I find that the one thing, the one elemental thing, I always go back to is food. There’s too much of it, but for many there’s too little. Anxiety makes you eat too much or not enough. You’re too depressed to cook, or you’re too depressed not to. It matters what we use to nourish ourselves, our people, and our community. So, I’m thinking about my food life.

More specifically, I’m thinking about my kitchen, which has been in various shades of disarray since I moved back to Minnesota. I don’t have a proper pantry, but instead a tall narrow cupboard with shallow short shelves. It is not what I would have picked for dry goods storage, but it’s what I’ve got, and I need to get it under control. I have been slowly labeling things and rearranging them, but have not liked any of the results yet. My resolve for the next year is to get all of that into shape, but to also not give up on it if I try a few configurations and don’t like them. (I have a bad habit of giving up too easily when it comes to organization.) Also, the vexing problem of how, for the love of all that is holy, to organize my spices. 2017 is gonna be my year.

Also in 2017, I’d like to write a little more about day-to-day cooking on this blog. I do so much cooking but feel that when it comes to writing, I should focus on more “hard-hitting” things than what’s on my dinner plate. I have always felt a bit of dissonance about food writing because of this. I feel most days that I should write about topical things, but I really want to talk about chocolate chip cookies or the first time I baked bread. I guess those are topical things in their own right. They seem so much “smaller” to me in the grand scope, but I’m trying to remind myself that not much else could be more grand than how we are feeding ourselves every single day?

I can’t remember where I heard this, but some food person in the last few weeks said that we should all make lunch for one another. The context was talking about how we can bridge the gaps between us, most notably the political ones. I’ll be honest, most days I feel bleak and angry enough that the last thing I’d want to do is make lunch for a Trump supporter. I don’t want to talk, I don’t have compassion, I don’t want to understand. But, I’m trying to keep that bitterness in check with hopefulness, with the idea that even though it may sound overly precious, maybe we can extend ourselves to those different from us, if only for the quiet commonality of sharing a meal.

To that end, there will be more food posts this coming year, and here’s where I need your help. I want your food stories and pictures. I want to know your food memories, techniques, and philosophies. I’m aiming to make this blog more visually appealing, so really, send me your photos and tell me about them! And, if you know me in real life and feel like doing some food photography with me, let me know.

I want this to be our kitchen year. I want us to find our shared ground in this small thing, and I want to stop feeling like and telling myself that it’s not relevant. Because it’s one of the most important aspects of our lives.

Today I walked through my old neighborhood
Under the bridge, down the big broad hill
my feet knew the path
my dog knew it too, trotting beside me, trying to pull towards our old home
we’d worked so hard to learn these streets
we still knew them like we deserved to.

Cheeks rosy cold, fingertips curled into palms into pockets
I found myself holding my breath
trying to name the feeling rushing in my body
the quiet whish-whish of traffic
the night clean and clear.

“I’m thinking about moving back to Seattle,” I told her earlier.
In a tumble of confession, of shame but wanting no shame
I spoke the thing aloud
where it had so far only been heard in my head
and in the ears of my Beloved when I felt the most sad.

I crossed at the light with strangers guiding us
and hopped a bus to Ballard
just so I could be alone a little longer.

Last week, I spent Thanksgiving at my parents’ house in Sioux City, Iowa, my hometown. They are moving at the end of this month. I don’t know when, if, I will be back in Sioux City. I don’t have a lot of memories of Sioux City as a town; it was the place I grew up, but I was tethered to my home and my school and my gazillions of activities. Most of my friends no longer live there. I never “got” the Sioux City food scene: hot dogs, lengua tacos, etc. And there were hardly any coffee shops when I left at 19 and moved to the Twin Cities, and definitely no Thai food.

All to say, Sioux City doesn’t produce nostalgia, but my parents’ old house on Orleans Avenue does. We moved there when I was 13. Change-averse as I was then, I was not exactly pleased. I also remember feeling like my parents were spending too much money on the house, which I find hilarious now. As if I had any clue.

We moved in the spring, close to summer break, and I remember spending most of that first summer writing my “novels” on the Brailler in my bedroom. I sat on the wooden floor to type, and my mom would comment on how loud and exuberant my typing was from where she puttered around downstairs. There was a cupboard hanging on the wall in my room when we moved in, which I thought was amazing for some reason. I liked the secretiveness of xI kept all my finished writing in that cupboard, stacks of typed Braille pages which are now likely in the attic. Around that time, I won a “contest” where the prize was a brand new Brailler of my very own: (up to that point, I’d borrowed school-provided ones). I won because I told the person who phone interviewed me that I wanted to be a writer, and wrote “novels” using my borrowed Braillers. Now, that Brailler’s keys are lumbering and sticky, and the back space doesn’t back space. It’s almost as if I typed it to death.

Over Thanksgiving, my dad talked about that first summer in our house, mentioning that I’d sat on the porch swing into December because the weather was so warm. I don’t remember that year specifically, but I do remember a few other years when the summer stretched well past August. I did so much thinking, writing, and daydreaming on that porch. I sat with friends late into the night; we figured out our whole lives. We were pretty wrong about everything.

During high school summers, my friends and I would sleep outside in the backyard, with the bright city lights and the loud traffic and intermittent humming air conditioners. In my mind, there were dozens of these sleepovers, with none of us actually sleeping much. In reality, there were probably only 4 or 5, or fewer. During one such sleepover before my senior year, lying on a blanket in the circle of my friends, I came out as a lesbian. I had just turned 17. I felt buffered from everything in that circle except bracing love.

The stairs in that house always creaked. For many years, we had wood floors and you couldn’t hide from anyone if stairs were involved. We believed that my dad always made extra creaky stair noise in the summer when we all slept in and he had to get up to go to work. I’m sure he will deny this, but it was real, people. The squeaks don’t lie.

I always liked coming back to the house on breaks in college. I’d sit in one of the recliners and read all winter break, and though I didn’t go home for the summers once I moved to Minneapolis, I still missed the porch swing and my mom making iced tea and my dad whistling as he got the grill ready. Certainly, physical homes are just that; between people are where real, lasting homes are built and added to and sustained. But I will so miss that physical space that embodies where I come from.

I’m not sure why I’m so sentimental. I have to confess that the holidays are hard for me. I struggle with societal consumerism, dark cloudy days, some combination of internal and external pressure to pretend I’m happy all the time. I see how the holidays are devastatingly hard on many people, especially those who are sick, lost, vulnerable, alone.

I have also been feeling a lack of attention to intention in my own life for the past several months. I have been living precariously, feeling in a near constant state of reaction and anxiety and volatility. Many things feel outside my control, and that has eaten away at my normal desire to be intentional with people and with myself and my decisions. I want to use the holidays, the hunkering down of winter, to recalibrate my intentions. I have a few ideas of how I want to do this: things I want to do to strengthen my friendships and relationships, physical exercises to be fully with my body in a given space, writing prompts and projects to shed light on some critical choices I need to make. What do all of you do to stay mindful? Or, what would you like to do better?

I’m wishing you all a peaceful December. Be gentle with yourselves and with one another.

In the best world, I would have all the words for this. In this world, I can only approximate, which is why I’d like to say from the outset that I have no idea what it is like to be a person of color in this not-at-all-the-best world today. I have only knowledge and pitiful understanding of what black and brown people face every single second of every single day from a society who collectively thinks it is so much better than it used to be, or, worse, who insists that racism no longer exists.

That said, I am a disabled person. And I can tell you, as a disabled person, I am hella angry, and if my anger is anything at all like the anger of folks doing racial activism in this country, I know it and I feel it, at least a little bit.

If there was a movement for me as a disabled person to stop traffic on a freeway, to yell and scream and link arms and create a human wall of passion and rage, I would be there. That’s why, when people say to me that they don’t understand why everyone is so angry and has such a bad attitude, I just think, I know why. I’m angry like them; I know how it is, a little bit.

Here are some reasons I am angry:
1. I am 31 and have never had a steady job that pays me enough to live independently and with relative ease. You can say this is due to the economy, but it is mostly due to people not knowing how to work with a blind person, and not believing she can be an asset rather than a hindrance.
2. Because of this, I am 31 and have also never had reliable, consistent health insurance. It’s a good thing my blindness doesn’t actually present any day-to-day medical challenges.
3. Every time I leave my house, I have to decide if I’m willing to handle nosy questions, pushy offers of “help”, or harassment directly related to my presenting as a blind woman. If I want to live in the world that day, I have to make peace with the fact that this could happen at any time I am outside my house. If I just can’t deal that day, I stay home and a day of productivity is lost.
4. No one, on a bus or a sidewalk or in any building in any situation, has ever tried to intervene on my behalf when I am being catcalled, questioned, or harassed. People walk by. I imagine they either stare or look away quickly. If I want allies, I defend myself. That usually does not help.
5. Because of a world that is in no way created for disabled people, it takes me much longer to do simple tasks. This usually fits the narrative that blind people can’t do anything, so the narrative is perpetuated. Very few think about the problem as being about the rest of the world, not the blind individual.

These things are just the tip of why I am angry, and why I am more angry now than I was last year, or five years ago, and why I fight to keep my anger in check way more often than I’d like. This is why when I see people with immense privilege refusing to acknowledge that, I want to scream and stop traffic and howl with the injustice.

And that is why, sometimes, I am not very kind to people with that privilege, even if they are the people I love the most. I am not proud of this. Sometimes, my pain and frustration is such that I can’t separate the “privileged people who get it” from the “whole ignorant and privileged society.” It all mashes together into people that will just never, ever truly understand. The people I love the most get caught in the fire. No one is spared, because ultimately, privileged people, even those who get it, benefit from this system that keeps disabled people from the most basic livelihood.

As I said, I am not at all proud of my reactions, my pain, my anger, the fact that it drags down those I love. I ache for the hurt I’ve caused. I spend as much time yelling at myself for being an asshole as I do being angry, if not more. I am so, so sorry. I love you. Thank you for sticking with me. Please forgive me.

The terrible part, the absolute worst part, is that I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again. I can only hope for, if not the best world, a better one.

Day 3, and this is where I am.
I feel more and more afraid and unable to cope with being alone. I crave community and am struggling with where to find it.
I am worried about living as a poor person without a lot of choices or financial power. Without that power, I can not make changes, and with the uncertainty of the upcoming administration, I feel this very acutely. I feel a growing sense of dread that this will be the rest of my life, tinged with fear of just getting by.
I am afraid for the vulnerable people I know, and the vulnerable people who have decided to not go on after the outcome of Tuesday night. They are out there. I know of at least two personally.
There are moments where I think: I MUST stop this. I must get up. I must walk, exercise, eat better, make myself stronger. I am going to need my strength. Others will need my strength.
I am still, mostly, content to listen and to put forth positivity, rather than yelling at invisible Trump supporters, or shaming them, or screaming at people for not voting. That particular use of my voice is completely unproductive, and does not make me feel better.
I am feeling scattered in my writing and in what I say, and I think, maybe, hopefully, I just need more time. We just need more time, and though we don’t have much time, we have a little. And perhaps, we who need it should take it.
How are you? I want to hear from you. I want to hear voices from my community.

For anyone who is alone and does not want to be, my home is open to you. Please get in touch.

For anyone who wants someone to talk to, I am listening.

For anyone who wants to sit quietly with someone, I can be happily quiet.

For anyone who is feeling overwhelmed by things like deciding what to eat or what to do next, I have lots of food and I will feed you and we will figure it out.

For anyone who is grieving, I am grieving with you.

For anyone who is afraid, I am afraid too, and maybe we can be braver together.

It’s natural for me to want to turn inward on days like today, and I could do so easily. But I am here in the world for you, yes you, if you need me.

And if not, know that you are loved, especially by me.