Archive | August, 2010

Choosing Children, 25 years later

Choosing Children Banner

This is not about the notion of actually choosing to have children 25 years later (than what? than their birth? than you initially planned to?).  I hope, indeed I fully expect that when/if I am so lucky as to be around to see my children — both of them — ripen to the age of 25, I would unreservedly choose to parent either of them, all over again. By then I dearly hope they both would choose the same fate. Only time will tell. I take none of it for granted.

This is instead about a groundbreaking documentary film.

I can still remember the slack-jawed wonder I felt in the movie theater — the UC Theater, to be exact, on University Ave in Berkeley; it’s now boarded up — watching  Choosing Children and realizing with my then-partner (my first sweetie and an integral family member still) that our being lesbians did not at all preclude parenthood.  We thought it did, and each considered this putative barrier to parenthood the only drawback of same-sex love, great enough to be its tragic flaw.  (The heavy, incalculable weight of homophobia was, after all, a tragic flaw of the society around same-sex love. And did either of us have a choice? No, we did not. Love each other, or enter a convent and become lesbian nuns.) Choosing Children showed us that the barriers to our parenthoods existed only in our hearts and minds. Other loving, imaginative people had gone before. A world opened up.

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Weekend bonus shot (Monday edition), 08.23.10

sisterpillow

Sister pillow, Berkeley, CA.

I know, I know! Another bare-bones (post-skimpy) week last week. It’s killin’ me. I tell you, though. Peace, quiet, and adequate time to hunker down and do justice to all the stories and ideas floating around in the head are right there on the horizon. I can see ’em from here, I swear! Meanwhile, as ever, thanks for stopping by.

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Sister-brother movement-stillness

field dance 2

Tilden Park, Berkeley, CA.

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Weekend bonus shot (Monday edition), 08.16.10

practice-practice-practice

Carnegie Hall, NYC.

No, I didn’t ask anyone how to get there. But I was tempted. [See also: “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?“ which actually leads not to the storied performance venue, but into a barnyard.]

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Mitrice

Several readers — thank you theredbaron, Jill, and COat50 — wrote me yesterday to inform me that Mitrice Richardson had been found. As in, her body had been found, life long since lost from it. (LA Times account here.)

It was another reader who informed me of her case, nearly a year ago. She thought I might be interested in trying to publicize her disappearance, partly because at the time it was getting insufficient attention from the press. That she was a Black woman mattered to me; she was likely experiencing a psychological break of sorts, untreated; also, that she was a lesbian mattered (or so, at least, I gathered from some of the news reports and readers).  All beings deserve all our love and care; some, though, get less of it from the world as it is right now, and any of us with heart-mind-gut has a special responsibility to do what they can, when they can. (Here was that first post.)

These days, I haven’t been able to do much. But I kept this notice in my blog’s sidebar since that first post, hoping someone would maybe see something or remember something or pass something on. The proverbial Hail Mary pass, the fielder’s glove tossed in the air as the ball flies past:

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