#it was hard to keep myself from going on a full communist rant for a while there

[someonesrealityshifting]

.・✭・. Life Explanation .・✭・. ・

✭ My life is like a 2010s coming of age novel, but one of the ones with a shitty ending, like Before I Fall. Except it doesn't have a shitty ending, you just worry it might. My life is dancing in the rain and forgetting a coat and ending up with a cough but not caring because I was dancing with him. My life is climbing into abandoned buildings and befriending the rats who live there, leaving them food and telling them how pretty they are. My life is finding roadkill and bringing it home to pray for it and to send it to Thanatos gently, as he would want it.

✭ My life is making stupid decisions because I never got to as a kid. My life is smoking cheap cigarettes and coughing so hard I vow to quit, only to come back six hours later when he pulls out his lighter. My life is drawing on myself and loving it so much I go get it tattooed that day. My life is incohesive playlists and rants about movies and bugs I love. My life is collecting rainwater and rocks and bones I find, pressing flowers and leaves between the pages of limited edition books.

✭ My life is collecting soda pop tabs and butterfly wings and walnut shells because I can. My life is crying over the dead things I find and mourning them, giving even the worm I find on the sidewalk as it pours the simple respect of life. My life is constantly defending my position as an ambiamorous gay trans man as well as a leftist, an anarchist, quite possibly a communist, because my idea that all living things have inherent worth is apparently 'radical'.

✭ My life is tiny jars and using watercolor on canvas even though you're absolutely not supposed to use watercolor on canvas. My life is painting my nails outside because I don't want to risk my dog inhaling the fumes and feeding my gecko by hand because he's a diva but I also can't touch him because it frightens him. My life is car rides to vibe-based playlists, sticking my arms out the window and screaming when I see a puppy in the next car.

✭ My life is loving, endlessly and without remorse. Giving my love to anyone who will take it, accept it, regardless of whether or not it's reflected back at me, because if one can hate without cause, why can I, too, not love the same way? My life is shamelessly blocking and cutting off toxic people because I'm worth more, because the people I love are worth more.

✭ My life is holding a cat like a baby, because I'm a bit too fucked up to have a real one, and dancing around the house with it, telling it how much I love it as shitty music blares from the phone in my pocket. My life is putting stickers on my canes and headphones and every electronic device I have because they deserve to feel pretty, too. My life is putting too many layers of dye in my hair and not caring because it makes me feel better. My life is asking "would you still love me if I was a worm?" a thousand times and never getting bored of the answers.

✭ My life is keeping Loki's altar in my kitchen because it's never not chaotic as all hell in there, even if the odd assortment of things he likes is a bit of an eyesore; that's where he belongs. My life is keeping Christmas lights up all the year round because they're pretty and I love them. My life is finding a spot where I can see the sky without light pollution and staring at the stars for as long as I can, even though I know so very few of them, just because they're beautiful and I can. My life is getting a shitty camera from, like, 2015 because it's cheap and it has decent exposure, and even though the pictures always come out a little blurry, I pin them to the wall over our bed anyway.

✭ My life is writing poetry on every available surface, buying a shit ton of notebooks in August when they're 25 cents each and them all being full by March. My life is texting him "this song reminded me of you" at 3am when I know we should be asleep but neither of us are. My life is freaking out anytime I see a cat, because fucking look at him, he's such a cutie, aaa he booped meeee. My life is listening to Taylor Swift because they like it, and because I'd do anything to make them smile, even if I think "Antihero" is the single stupidest song I've ever heard in my life.

✭ My life is the word 'paladin', which is not only my dad's favorite WOW class, but it's my mom's favorite episode of bones. "Paladin" means, "I will always protect you. I will not choose violence for myself, because I can keep myself safe enough, but I would burn the world for you, because I love you, and I will hurt anyone, even myself, to keep you safe." My life is my parents telling me at age 9 that to love a hero was to hate one's self. That a hero would sacrifice you to save the world, that a villain had no such obligation. To always love the villain, the person most likely to hurt everyone but you.

✭ My life is painting on a 60 year old denim jacket and having no idea how to get the paint off so I just take a razor to the paint to get it a bit thinner and then saving up money so I can buy a Vincian flag to hide the marks it left behind. My life is having a bunch of scars from stupid things, and being proud to share each misadventure, because they define me, because I let them. My life is wishing I wasn't clean until I meet him and them and maybe deciding that I prefer having marks from love than self loathing.

✭ My life is waking up with my legs tangled in theirs only to get up before they do, going to make us shitty coffee because it's the only kind I know how to make, but they drink it anyway because I also make French toast so it's palatable. My life is house plants that I take care of exquisitely for years only to leave them in his care for a week and find them to be on the verge of death. My life is eating too much chocolate and dragging them both into the living room to build a pillow fort and watch Bluey for 6 hours on a random Friday night.

✭ My life is thrift shopping and buying shit I know I'll never use, simply because I can afford it, and because I love it, and because I can. My life is gardening all of spring and summer and never leaving the woods in autumn and shoveling until my knees buckle in winter. My life is learning how to swim in a creek because I don't trust anyone but the two of them to teach me.

✭ My life is love. My life is light. My life is making myself feel whole, and being able to give myself to the people who love me and the people whom I love. My life is happy, and warm, and safe. My life is starlight and wholesome until it's dark moons and dirty jokes, and even then, the sun comes back the next morning, and so do the gentle kisses and caresses. My life is safety and comfort and value, inherent and known, in every person I come across.

[colorguardian10]

Response to Mike Rose’s “Blue-Collar Brilliance”

I said I wouldn’t share this if another post didn’t show enough interest, but @yoursinfulsister asked to see it and I didn’t really need a strong excuse anyway.

For my Writing Seminar course, we were supposed to write a five-page response to this article. He wrote about how a lot of workers in low-class jobs are considered to not have intelligence, and about how it’s a gross misconception. I recommend reading it for the full context of this paper. Here was my response to his article:

Mike Rose speaks on the concept of most jobs fitting into one of two categories: the intellectual or “white-collar”, and the physical or “blue-collar”. Hearing these groups, examples come to mind: accountants, lawyers, teachers propped up against steelworkers, construction workers, or plumbers. We immediately categorize work differently in order to treat it differently. I’m not sure my first job could have been a more fitting example of this divide.

While I was in high school, my school district decided to try something new. Every student is given a laptop assigned to them to help with schoolwork and develop technology literacy skills, and every summer, they hire a few professionals to deal with the hundreds and hundreds of computers needing maintenance over the break. This year, they planned to hire a handful of mildly tech-savvy, and cheap, students instead. They also knew that they were short on janitors for cleaning each building while the students were out.

So, in the main library, applications were put out: you simply checked which of the two positions you were applying for, why you wanted to work there, and how many hours you would be available.

This turned out to be a grave mistake on their part. For starters, through some form of miscommunication, 12 “technology interns” were hired for the five open slots. For another, not a single person applied to be a janitor. Having relied on a boost of students to fill out their gaps, they were now even more short-staffed than before.

A solution was reached: the interns would rotate between the job they had applied for, and being janitors, to help even out the balance in each. Anyone unwilling to accept this could leave. (One quit, one threatened to sue for the position, and an additional two were later fired for committing crimes at work.) As much as I wasn’t happy with the arrangement, I knew that the administration was doing its best in an unusual situation, and certainly preferred it to not having a job at all. I stayed.

Working as an intern was repetitive, but concerningly easy. Our first task was to update the software on every laptop in the school and set up the school’s network (a process called “imaging”), which required first wiping them of personal data as a matter of policy. We simply had to memorize a series of hotkeys and administrator passwords and wash, rinse, repeat. All the interns of the day did for weeks was sit at a desk with two or three laptops in front of them:

ctrl + alt + D / ctrl + alt + D / ctrl + alt + D

Are you sure you want to reset to factory defaults? If so, provide credentials and press enter:

qu@k3r / qu@k3r / qu@k3r

Do you wish to download the latest software?

yes / yes / yes

You are using a private network. Please log in as a network administrator to continue:

qu@k3r# / qu@k3r# / qu@k3r#

Put them back in the computer carts, pick up three more from the “unimaged” cart. Repeat.

Certainly, it required basic computer skills, but it was pretty obvious why they didn’t bother to ask for previous experience on the form. Later, we were tasked with fixing broken hardware, which at least required the ability to unscrew the casing, identify and replace sensitive parts, and put the casing back on in one piece.

On the other hand, being a janitor was exhausting. Every summer, the entirety of every single building is cleaned from top to bottom: every desk, every chair, ceilings, walls, and cabinets alike. Furniture has to be removed so that all floors can get a new layer of wax. Outside maintenance is done, too. I was spared by only having to fill cracks in the tennis court with wet asphalt in the summer sun for just a few days. I was “accidentally” placed in the rotation for twice as much time as any other intern, though, so maybe not. I became very familiar with Laura, my immediate supervisor in this department.

I said it was exhausting. This was in part due to the fact that they were still short-staffed, and a quarter filled with unwilling teenagers to boot. I never got to stop. We had our 30-minute lunch break and two exactly-fifteen-minute breaks. The other eight hours were nonstop, moving, scrubbing, mixing solutions, lifting desks and slate tables, carefully picking up lamps, and putting everything back exactly how the teachers left it - they might complain about having to shift the desks again, I was told. Third floor to bottom floor, stripping the wax floors and re-waxing every room and hallway as we went. I could barely even interact with my family when I got back home from how mind-numbing it was on top of barely being able to move. I was given the “easy” jobs because I was young, and a student, and the other workers didn’t want me to “break something”. Laura had been working at my school longer than either of my parents have been alive. Despite this, I had never even heard of her.

My personal experience would support the notion that jobs come either physically taxing or mentally taxing (or perhaps physically or not at all). I might even have argued against Rose’s claims that they’re not so divided, but I have the sense to see that my examples are pretty far on either end of the spectrum, and that one came with very different pressures than the other. I know that the majority of “physical” jobs, such as a waitress like Rose’s mother, do require mental effort as well as physical.

Mike Rose mentions the complexities of something as externally simple as taking orders, one of many basic skills of a waitress - “Waiting on seven to nine tables, each with two to six customers, Rosie devised memory strategies so that she could remember who ordered what. And because she knew the average time it took to prepare different dishes, she could monitor an order that was taking too long at the service station.” (47) He goes on at length about the massive cleverness needed to keep your head on straight in the restaurant business.

Even being a janitor, which I’ve already stressed the physical effort of, came with its tips and tricks: solution #20 for the desks and the walls, #8 for the windows, but dab some #16 on first for stickers. Zizz-O® gets off permanent marker and mop in that white gunk to strip the floors – but if you actually touch it head straight for the chemical shower. And by the way, pour in some extra #20 in your bucket, here’s a bottle we popped with a screwdriver - the mixing machine dilutes it too much.

You might take Rose’s statements and counter that, obviously, waitressing must be a strange exception that really requires knowledge rather than endurance. He prefaces these remarks by describing her additional efforts simply navigating the restaurant, describing her as walking “full tilt through the room with plates stretching up her left arm and two cups of coffee somehow cradled in her right hand” and “weaving in and out around the room” when not holding dishes as a constant part of her work, “flopping” into a booth to take a break with him (Rose 46).

However, while I do solidly agree with Rose’s argument that the perceived division of jobs is untrue, I do not agree with the way he makes it. He states that physical jobs include a mental aspect as a way of giving them value. I believe they should deserve it regardless. Certainly my experience would suggest giving even more respect to physical work.

I do not agree with the notion of intelligence garnering respect, and the corresponding notion that roles not requiring it are not worth respect. To again apply it to Rose’s thinking, I agree that jobs are often divided into mental and physical, but I believe that this is an applied devaluing of jobs in the latter rather than a quirky misconception with side effects. Work not requiring a formal education is frequently devalued based on not requiring “intelligence”. Rose applies this to waitresses and argues that they deserve respect by showing that they need smarts to do their job well. I believe that he is trying to rise something up with an idea used to bring it down, and accepting his argument completely, to me, simply leads to the same problem he is addressing - just for other people.

The superintendent told us we might be getting paid less while janitors - for the same qualifications, for the same hours, technically even for the same job title! Why? Because it was “unskilled work”. So what kind of “skills” are we really talking about when considering pay scales? Rarity of required skills, and compensation of effort in gaining said skills, may be one factor, but who decided that removing an LCD screen was harder than removing an entire classroom? While certainly some work is worth more than others, efforts to funnel money out of working people’s hands has only been hitting those least able to get it back, resulting in a drastically unfair imbalance. Instead of trying to help each other, our society climbs over each other to get at the precious “fair” work left, and people who can’t compete with one-dimensional standards get work that’s even less valued. It’s not about “skills” or “effort” at all. It’s about your rung on the ladder.

Rose does make good points. He clearly shows through his examples that stereotyped categories of work (he also includes “pink-collar” or creative/empathetic work in his comparisons) are defective and out of touch. He gives examples of foremen and waitresses having aspects that obviously contradict the social divide. He even admits that intelligence doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with formal education – and then says that many jobs require intelligence even if they don’t require formal education. Even Rose can’t seem to separate himself from the root problem enough to denounce it. Most likely he is not conscious of this – few people knowingly perpetuate issues – but that doesn’t mean that I can suddenly agree with the underlying notion.

I believe that we should hold ourselves accountable when we notice ourselves keeping harmful ideas alive, at the most basic levels we can. That means, yes, don’t belittle work based on the perceived intelligence needed, but it also means don’t belittle work based on the actual intelligence needed. The original purpose of jobs and specialized work is so that everyone can provide for the needs of the populace. Roles are needed because no one can be their own doctor, and banker, and cook, and technician, and janitor. People simply can’t independently fulfill their own needs in modern society. We work to help each other. If someone is working in a position socially lower than you, then they are doing you a service. Respect them.

“Respect them.” What does that even mean? I know what I think that looks like, but I grew up in a rich neighborhood. I have more concrete examples of what respect for workers doesn’t mean. Do you remember Laura? I never even knew she existed until I had met her. When people are giving their time and effort for the sole purpose of making your life easier, we should appreciate that. Instead, we say these roles are “insignificant” or “low-level” and push them under the rug.

Have you ever had to wait in line at a fast-food restaurant because the service is slow? Think about this instead: the people behind that wall are working even harder than normal. Service isn’t being slow, demand is simply too high to keep up with. You have to stand still for a few minutes. They can’t stand still until everyone in there is gone, and probably haven’t for a while. I know far too many people who take a situation like this and complain, or leave pitiful tips. After all, you had to wait a long time to receive food you normally don’t have to wait for. To me, it always seemed that it meant the people serving you are doing an even better job working to fulfill your needs.

Part of recognizing that all roles aren’t divided into definite categories, as Rose and I argue against, is recognizing that work also can’t be categorized into quantifiable worth. The person making your Starbucks, the person making your sandwich, and the person wiping your floors are all working at least as hard as you are, and to your direct benefit. Treat them as such.

You may disagree with my earlier ideas, that work exists to help others. Isn’t everyone just working to provide for themselves? That’s how American society at least frames it. Rose shows his mother acting very differently. He says that many customers came in with a desire for human contact, and describes how she changed her behavior to suit that. Though he also says it was all to get a higher tip, this is an outlook we disagreed on from the beginning. One of the founding principles of a capitalistic society is that everyone has to compete to “earn” their right to live freely. And so, payment is phrased as points in some great unwinnable game and not as acknowledgement for doing your part. This is where the faults lie. We can’t ever be compensated properly when our compensation doesn’t treat our work as work. Beyond that fact, not everyone can “compete”. Certainly not everyone can compete in a system where your worth is measured by a singular quality. Waitresses have intelligence? Great. Why weren’t they respectable without it?

Again, I wish to state that Rose made a valid argument. I saw his article as halfway to getting at the true problem, but for many his view may be the first time they’ve seen it that way. I can think of a couple people back in my rich neighborhood who could have used the worker’s perspective. Maybe the girl who rented a stadium for her birthday, or my mother, who thinks that most of the janitors made minimum wage because they’re too lazy to get a degree. She can carry the accursed solid slate chem room tables for decades - then she can tell me what “lazy” is.

My experiences may be extreme, and my views radical. But I said above that it is necessary to prevent ourselves from perpetuating harmful ideals. That includes calling these ideas out when we see them. I know that the teenagers typing in passwords were placed at a higher worth than the full-grown adults working themselves to death. I saw Mike Rose’s criticism of a system that put those two forms of work on different pedestals, and I wanted to express what I meant by saying that this divide is unfair. Seeing so-called “white-collar” and “blue-collar” workers in different lenses is something we should recognize, and we should also recognize why we made that divide. Rose argued how inaccurate this difference is, and I argue that the difference shouldn’t even exist.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Reefer Madness

Cycle 5, Day3

Well, you probably could’ve seen this coming, but in a twist that will surprise no one, I’ve recently started experimenting with a dangerous, unproven drug that could have severe long-term medical consequences. And medical marijuana.

With 3 brain tumors, I’ve used a lot of complementary medicine to great effect - like neurofeedback, exercise, diet, etc. Which is not the same thing as “alternative medicine” (it’s the combination of the two). I’d argue that an untested, unproven, potentially-lethal chemotherapy regimen - no matter how-well calculated (now that I think of it, this might be setting an unhealthy bar for trust in relationships - “Do I trust her enough to calculate a dosage and administer a toxin to me?”), probably counts as, at best, “complementary” medicine, particularly since I’m still on the Temodar. I have probably ranted at length in previous posts about how much I hate Temodar. We’ll talk more about that at length here, but first, when I was first admitted to the clinical trial, I asked about all the substances available to lessen the radiation-chemo side-effects. I was told that, for the study drug, they only recommended marijuana or related substances as a last-resort. I shrugged, played by the rules, and forgot about it until Shrink mentioned it as a possible treatment for Temodar.

So, I hate Temodar, partially because of the nausea factor, but more because it causes what is called “chemo brain.” That’s an odd sort of fog of forgetfulness, lack of concentration, inability to multitask, etc. You should be worried about it because 17-75% of all cancer patients complain about it sooner or later (it’s actually most well-documented in breast cancer survivors), and sometimes it’s permanent. With Temodar, it’s awfully hard to tell whether it’s just a toxic substance that’s undoubtedly swirled around in my brain, whether it’s a cumulative sleep-deprivation effect, or whether it’s the fact that, whenever I take Temodar (these are the horse pills you take at home right before bed), I tend to wake up at 2 am with itchy-brain (a unique and weird combination of physical discomfort, anxiety, and nervousness where you have to get up and do something)(I’ve double-checked all my medical contact numbers on my phone, written the first few chapters of a novel, and, more usually, just worried myself). Anyway, I’d kinda just resigned myself to the idea that the first five of each cycle would be near-complete misery (I don’t even drive on those days, that’s how little I trust myself on Temodar) when Shrink recommended medical marijuana for Temodar days. This was eventually okayed by the warlocks, under the following rules: 1. Not on infusion days (those are amazingly unpleasant to be sure, but thanks to zofran, they’re survivable)(I made it 36 hours after an infusion, just to give everyone a little breathing room) - the stated logic here is that they don’t want to make associated hallucinations worse. Which, now that I have them, makes sense, but, at the same time, just saying, “We don’t want to mix an experimental substance with a substance about which there’s not a whole lot of conclusive research” would work fine. 2. No swapping of drugs without explicit wizard-related permission. 3. Do some homework, make an educated purchase, and keep everyone informed of all things in my system at all times (again, this isn’t really a major policy change). Senior Warlock also warned me to be wary, that it’s a largely unregulatd industry, so you’re not exactly certain what you’re getting, and, as a new segment of the health-industrial complex, there’s all kinds of snake-oil salesmen.

Right, so, homework. There’s over a hundred different cannabinoids, with all sorts of various claims. The two with, from what I could tell, the most research on them are THC (that’s one of the fun cannabinoids that makes you hungry and/or enjoy Phish concerts) and CBD (that’s not a “fun” one, but it treats a lot of the symptoms of chemo)(it also counter-acts a lot of of the psychedelic effects of THC). I’d be fine going with an all-CBD product, but there’s some research (not a whole lot, but some) that THC makes chemo more effective for brain cancer (which is good for my long-term prospects, but, I’m not wild at the thought of Temodar eating through my frontal lobe more efficiently. As it turns out, this was almost unneeded, for reasons we’ll see shortly. This should not be read as an endorsement, instruction manual, or scientific study. In other words, don’t read this, try something really dumb, then blame me.

Even though marijuana is technically legal in CA, and medical marijuana’s been legal here since 1972, I wound up going to a dispensary nearer Mother Dearest, both for convenience, and because the place had an established reputation as both a medical and legal dispensary. First observation; it amuses me to imagine that the neighbors - who are all lovely, but very standard, middle-class (I’d hesitate to use the idiom “straight-laced” because it’s ungenerous, but it’s not totally inaccurate) - live literally within 20 miles (as the crow flies) of places where virtually any sin or vice that you can put a price-tag on can be had. I’m not passing judgment (there’s a reason a lot of illegal industries are illegal, and, even when legalized, there’s usually a few other logistical/legal warnings).

Anyway, if you haven’t been to a dispensary, but enjoy weird, unique experiences, I’d go, with the warning that window-shopping is strictly forbidden, and there are (unarmed) guards. The modern, quasi-legal drug dealer offers a lot more to the discerning customer than the past. I quickly abandoned the idea of smoking after seeing a variety of suspicious vaccuum-sealed substances and hearing Senior Warlock’s warning about no unified regulation or enforcement (plus, one of my neighbors is a cop; I didn’t feel that waving the cape in front of the bull was a good idea)(also, the thought of having to roll my own joints seemed ludicrously out of my league). At that point, Mom took over entirely (I’ve noticed she has a tendency to do that - whenever there are minor health decisions to be made or when we’re on unfamiliar turf, she grabs the wheel)(Sorry, Mom). I got asked how I felt about vaping (that Keith Moon and Jimi Hendrix would be sad to think that humanity would couple drug usage to cell phone chargers), and then found myself the proud owner/user of a (possibly) 1:1 THC-CBD pill. Paid for with cash, since the dispensaries are legal, but the federally-regulated banks don’t accept that filthy drug money (where was that moral certainty when they were laundering money for cartels or lying about the value of a mortgage, one asks).

And now we fast forward to last night, when I looked at the label on the bottle; there should be a German word for the moment a person with a health background realizes they forgot to look up recommended dosages.. I decided to start with one pill (that’s 5 mg THC, 5 mg CBD). I down it, then take my other bed-time drugs, then wait a full hour (you have to do this with chemo - mostly, it’s to give the zofran time to dissolve. You literally do not take chemo until you’re about to leap into bed, otherwise you’ll get...uncomfortable.

First of all, let’s look at the communist menace

If it looks like a rather boring pill, I’ve romanticized it. I noticed, in that hour period between taking my non-puke-up-the-chemo, that it had the psychedlic effect of Tums. Anyway, 11 pm rolled around and I went to bed, then I woke up at 3 am. However, instead of sweeping the walkways or researching story ideas, I just kind of lay there for a while. Okay. At 4 am when I started twitching, I grabbed another tab (that’s 10 mg of both) and woke up at 7:45 am. Near-8-hours’ sleep. that’s as good as it gets on Temodar. The bigger shock was realing not only was I hungry (as I usually am when I wake up) but I felt almost normal and not-completely hung-over at all. As far as the grooviness of the pill, I’ve gotten more potent highs  watching Star Wars trailers (unless a sudden ability to snarf down a whole bushel of bananas id exciting. Still, I’d woken up, and my first thought wasn’t “Oh, something’s wrong,” Which automaticallly and dramatically improves any day.

[chicitym-blog]

I love the NFL

I’ve always loved football. Like, LOVE, love. I was born in July, and by that fall I was posing for photos inside of one of my uncle’s college football helmets. This uncle later became one of the most-winning high school football coaches in the state of Illinois, and I was proud to attend his games, hear stories of his “no nonsense” (probably concussed-inducing) style and rantings about how “only Communists like Florida State” football. I have fond memories of a very Catholic and docile grandma screaming “KILL HIM” at the TV while watching an Illinois defense in the living rooms of my childhood.

I’ve been a Packers fan since high school. I grew up in the middle of Illinois where there was no pro allegiance until the Bears came to work at Memorial Stadium in 2002. When I was in high school, we got the game-of-the-week and I saw Favre develop into a quarterback with a style that I looked forward to each Sunday and again throughout the off-season: fearless, care-free, risk-taking, unapologetic, and brash. My younger brother grew up a Colts fan; my younger cousin became a Bears fan.  

Well before high school, I realized that I couldn’t play football. Learning how to throw spirals in elementary and middle school got me nowhere - just like my dream of becoming the Incredible Hulk was shattered because I was not born with a man’s body. And I mourned those losses. Hard. I knew early on that there was a ceiling that was different for my sex, and I tried to find different entry points. The only space football makes for women is asking them to don a skirt and root from the sidelines. I did what I could to be a part of it and gladly cheered and pommed my way through middle and high school.  

In college I decided that I wanted to work in sports. I started studying communications. Once I said that aloud, people gave me weird looks. Up-and-down looks, trying to figure out if I was hot enough. Once I started interning in Chicago at a sports station, some of those looks were asking if I was willing to put in the hard (usually sexual) work to get there. Some men would become outright enraged at my aspiration to be included in the sports not meant for me. The week before the 1999 playoffs, I was on my couch cheering for more touchdowns from the Pack against the Cardinals when they were already up big. Watching Favre throw for more than 300 yards in a game where they may not make the playoffs for the first time since he arrived was nerve-racking (as a Packer fan, losing is pretty foreign). The man I lived with said something like, “You’re such an idiot, and you actually think you’re smart enough to be on the sidelines. They won the game.” When the color guy explained that the Packers were trying to rack up more points in case they were tied for a playoff spot because the tie-breaker would be based on who in the division scored more points that last regular season game, I don’t remember gloating, but I do remember being up locked in the basement of my own house for hours as punishment for being right. It took me another two seasons to get out of that house. Covering the Bears training camp, I was once courted by a player and he touched my leg. A radio host once bruised my arm because I came to “his” training camp and didn’t sleep in his hotel room. I looked past these incidents in sports.

When Favre took pain medication and admitted that he needed them to get through his day, I was producing for Steve Rosenbloom on the weekends. Rosie asked if as a Packer fan I cared. I opened my producer's mic and said that I wanted him “to win.”  In 2002, when Mark Chmura was accused of sexually assaulting an underage babysitter, I said it didn’t affect me because he was cut by my team. Big Ben didn’t play for the Packers so those rape allegations didn’t impact my life, I reasoned  in ’10. That same year, Favre was, at the least, sexually harassing an NFL reporter while he played in Jersey, but again, he wasn’t on my team. Ray Rice was seen on video dragging his wife off of an elevator after knocking her out with a punch to her face; and the Commissioner of the NFL, Roger Goodell, lied to all of us and said he didn’t see the tape when we all know the NFL sees everything. I reasoned that this was part of the sport I loved and someday these asshats would get it together. Concussions will happen, and they are grown men deciding to play this game.  My justification for continuing to watch is that my own, not-yet-conceived children won’t play football until they are out of my house, but my nephews love to play in organized PeeWee leagues to my chagrin. This month Zeke Elliott, a smiley 22-year-old second-year player from my state who looks fun and unassuming, was suspended for six games for domestic violence accusations. He’s appealing the suspension. Today a black quarterback, a good quarterback, is not leading or waiting to play backup on any NFL team because he knelt during the National Anthem in protest of blacks being being shot by some of our law enforcement officers.  

I have not gone out with friends after Packer losses. I’ve texted thousands of times to fellow Packer fans during games. I’ve seen my Packers decimate the Bears on three separate occasions in three different venues. Last year one of my BFFs and I braved the Chicago -10-degree weather to see our teams face off, but I only lasted a quarter. We’ve hosted playoff games in our house where I was mortified seeing the Seahawks come back and beat the team I love. I’ve happily cheered for Aaron and his magical arm, Clay and his amazingly timed tackles, Jordy’s Mighty Mouse catches. Football has been my fall/winter self-care. It’s an escape I’ve used to get away from abusive men, and it’s been a way I’ve maintained ties to one side of a family that has abandoned my brother and me. It has been a release. I can hide in my TV on a Sunday and watch. I share this game with my husband, my friends, my brother, my cousins. I have won fantasy leagues. I have made friends with people over Twitter because of gridiron Sundays. In June I bought a friend’s baby a trio of Saints onesies. Football means so much that when I discovered a live-in boyfriend was lying about his third chance at honesty on a Saturday night, that next morning I stepped over him to watch the noon start before gathering my things and leaving that relationship for good.

I love this game. But I can’t support this game until the white players on the team I root for stand up and give unequivocal support for Colin Kaepernick and denounce the racism in “our America.” I mean HEAR HEAR to Martellus Bennett and HaHa Clinton-Dix for their bravery (don’t fucking @ me with your “bravery is only for our Vets” bullshit; we’re in a war with racist and not-yet-apparent racist assholes right now). I need Aaron, Clay, and Jordy to open their mouths and denounce what is happening in this country and to their fellow union brothers. Our white and non-white children look up to these guys, and I want the organizations I support to have decent, humane values. This isn’t an issue about one dude; and once we let the owners, the fans, and the players make it about Kap, the righteous side loses. The Players Association needs to also step up. Unions are womens, civil, workers, LGBTQIA, disability and immigrant rights organizations.  As a woman, I know that being in a union makes my pay fair. This struggle is about how we treat groups of people and what that says about us. The argument that sports aren’t political is an outright lie. We hear a song touting the U.S. at the beginning of each sporting event. The NFL lobby to receive and fought to keep tax exempt status for more than 60 years. The League and individual teams pick causes all the time, such as the American Cancer Society, which is politicking. Our owners threaten our states and city councils to move teams unless tax dollars go to build new. shinier stadiums. Sports are our lives; and if your life isn’t political, then you have a certain level of privilege—a privilege that others do not possess.  

A few years ago I told myself that I wouldn’t buy any more NFL gear for myself. I haven't been able to click “buy” on that Kap jersey I hate the League so much. Last year, I vowed to only watch games in which my team was playing. Now I’m ready to break up with this shitty BF who doesn’t give me anything unless I give them money and my unquestioning devotion. I’ve cried over thinking about leaving football. I’m crying now. Full disclosure: My husband is employed in a job where he has to watch sports. But I am willing to not watch any NFL game or footfall shows, not buy any NFL stuff, and take the Packers and the Bears off of my Google calendar until the Green Bay Packers and its white players make a statement about the injustice Kap is facing and that they agree with his stance that our country needs to address the violent treatment of our citizens of color. I get I’m only one person. My career now is as a school social worker on the West Side of Chicago, and I know that each and every day I am in the classroom those students and I change the world. Each of us has that power. We can be ripples in this ocean to end racism. This fall I will refuse to watch the game I love and tweet instead what I am doing in lieu of my Packers with the #BoycottTheNFL #ImWithKap. Maybe I'll bake.