lilyjford-blog

[lilyjford-blog]

Things I've Learned Since Sending My Son to Boarding School:

The first week of school, I got a handful of texts--most of the one-word variety. Fine. Epic. Fun. Yeet. Yes. No. Okay.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

I wasn't.

I got two phonecalls. The first ended in him hanging up on me, and then I threatened to tattle to his advisor if he didn't pick up the line. It was not my finest moment. I cried for three hours when it was finally over and spent many more complaining to anyone who would listen.

The second phonecall wasn't much better. He didn't hang up, but he was monosyllabic, and I could feel his attitude in waves.

I did not cry again. I got angry. I also got over it.

Then came the panicked emails: Where are my dress pants? Where's my soap? What music should I use for my trombone audition? Where can I get trombone sheet music? Do I have batteries?

Somehow, hours away, I was still responsible for knowing where everything was. I kindly reminded him that he unpacked his stuff and put it away, but hey--check your drawers.

Week Two had a few more texts, a bit more substance, but no real information. No details. He was fine. Fine. Okay. Good.

I wasn't. I was bereft. Mourning. Desperate. Curious.

Good news started pouring in: Jazz Band. Chamber Orchestra. Great lessons with the vocal teacher. Chorus invites. Chorus auditions. A Humanities teacher with a sense of humor. Baritone notes in the Freshman Musical.

And bad news: Math is hard. Have I mentioned that math is hard? Oh my God, I hate math. Wait. My Spanish class is taught in Spanish? I thought this was Spanish I. Emersive what?

Still, communication was shaky. I backed off my obsessive--er, interested--texting. I didn't call. I gave him the space he wanted.

It killed me. I literally sat at home scouring the school's website for information. I probably knew his schedule better than he did.

Then, it happened. The Moment. I've talked to a bunch of parents since sending my son to Boarding School. I've heard a ton of advice. I was told he'd come around, that the relationship would grow, that he'd call when he needed me. I was told to trust the process, and trust the school, and trust the adults who were looking out for him. I was told to give him room to breathe, and room to make mistakes, and room to fix them himself.

He did that, the first two weeks. He advocated for himself. He asked for help. He spoke honestly to his teachers about his concerns and passions. I knew none of this, of course. You can't fit personal growth in a single Yeet.

I just knew, when he sent me a text saying he was sitting under a tree crying, that I was an hour and thirty-some minutes away.

The Moment, then. The one that I couldn't mess up. The one when I realized, no matter what, I was still his mom and he was still fourteen.

"Please call me."

And he did.

He beat himself up. He missed a mandatory meeting for a trip he really wanted to take. He forgot his inhaler in his dorm and, when he got back to practice, the team had already left. He was going to miss the final auditions for the musical because he was leaving campus for a family wedding. His math homework was late because he forgot to hit submit. His Spanish group gave him a smaller role, so his grade was lower.

In other words, it was a no good, terrible, very bad day.

I couldn't hug him. I couldn't make faces to cheer him up. I couldn't take his hand or see his face or wipe his tears. All I could do was listen.

So, I listened. I waited for him to take a breath.

And then I became a better mom. Right there in my kitchen, biting my tongue, framing my answer, telling myself I couldn't mess this up.

I told him that no one expected him to be perfect. I told him that everyone was allowed to make mistakes. I reminded him that he was away from home for the first time of any length, completely responsible for himself, with an intense schedule and advanced classes, and it was perfectly normal to have a bad day.

I told him he'd had enough time to beat himself up, and that now it was time to think of possible solutions: Talk to your teachers, be honest and admit your mistakes, learn from this, be better tomorrow. Send that email. Request that meeting. Trust that the school you said felt like home, the school you are now making your home, lives by their own motto.

Forgive yourself. Because I forgive you. I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed. What you're doing is hard, but you're doing it. I am so, so proud of you.

I told him that I loved him.

Together, we made a plan for picking himself up and attempting to find a way to fix what went wrong. I told him the plan might not work, but that was okay. The important thing is that, instead of spending the night crying under a tree on that beautiful, brick-lined campus, he tries to make things right.

He told me he loved me. He said, "Thank you." He hung up.

I cried. I cried and cried and cried. Maybe I was disappointed. Maybe I was a little angry. Maybe I was worried and scared and full of doubt. But none of that would have served The Moment. None of that would've served him. None of it was serving me.

The next day, he found out that mandatory meeting had been rescheduled. He got permission to read for his audition early. He got razzed by the cross country team, but it was all in good fun. He stood up to his Spanish partners. He decided to go to Math Study Hall for his next homework assignment. He set new alarms in his phone for important events.

He was smiling. I could see it through his text messages. Oh, and he sent text messages. They had more than one word. He even said he loved me.

Communication hasn't been a problem, since. He calls when he needs help. He emails or sends messages when good things happen. There are still one-word answers, but I've learned to trust them for what they are: Good news. Happiness. Adjustment. Time constraints.

I text him once or twice a day. I respond to every email. I call when he says he has time. It's not enough. It's never enough. But it's Enough.

When he called me, when he listened, when he worked to fix his problems, I learned that I could trust him. I could trust him to call when he had a problem. I could trust his silence. I could believe in him and his stupid Yeet.

I miss him. I miss the everyday role I played in his life. I miss the mom I was. But The Moment taught me to love the mom I'm going to become.

She's okay. She's going to be okay. And you know what? So's her son.

[lilyjford-blog]

To The Mongering Masses

It's true that some may call me naive, but I'm willing to accept that fault. Naiveté should not equate to civility. It should not refer to a basic level of humanity, or dignity, or--dare I say--hope. After all I've seen, I still believe in compassion. I still believe that empathy is the single most significant skill to our continued survival. I believe in a We as well as I believe in a Me. No matter the context, I still believe that atrocities against one people are the responsibility of all. I believe that the disadvantaged and vulnerable deserve charity. I believe, like Camus, that integrity needs not a god--that freedom is a chance to improve, not condemn. I believe in Mr. Rogers's helpers. I believe the world is a frightening place. I believe that terrorism is an act, not a side. I believe there are times when "might" may not be right but is necessary. I believe peace is always tenuous, that human nature is unapologetically progressive, and that faith is a personal journey through a collective conscience. I believe an individual's right to punch ends at the other person's nose, that turning the other cheek is a sign of maturity as well as weakness, and that the Golden Rule is still the best philosophical ideal humanity has dreamed up. I believe, wholly, in both self-defense and insanity. I do not believe that one or some equal all, but I do believe that one or some can command the all, control the all, and lead the majority astray. I don't believe in being reactionary, but I do believe in reacting. I don't believe that every contradiction boils down to hypocrisy, but I do believe that hypocrisy is cause for shame. I do not believe that compromise is a dirty word. This world has witnessed such degradation, such filth--so much destruction and too many premature deaths. History repeats, not because we haven't learned, but because fear helps us forget. I believe in being afraid. However, I don't believe that fear or anger are worthy justifications--not for anything. Because I, too, believe in the survival of the fittest, and yet I am not willing to discount blind, dumb luck. I believe in science and math and mystery. I believe innovation is just a fancy word for imagination and that good and evil exist as constructs to control society. I believe ethics can be understood as full versus empty--as the difference between open and hollow. I believe that beliefs can change, that ideas evolve--opinions adjust--and that we are all slaves to our experiences, first, before we are aware. I believe awareness is a conscious choice in the rational animal and mere instinct in the rest. I don't have a fancy meme to share or a pithy political leader to exault. I don't have the answers--not any--and I don't mind admitting it. All I have, waking each day, is what I believe. I'm not asking you to believe it, too. I'm not looking for followers, and I'm not interested in arguments. Just know, naive or not, that these are the tennants by which I live my life. They were hard-won. They are not done. And neither are We.

[lilyjford-blog]

Gay Guide to Leveling Up

Coming Out is not a competition. It may seem strange, but I don't get "gayer" because more people know I'm gay. The legitimacy of my sexual identity is not tied to rainbow flags, charity funds, or political affiliates, and neither is it quantified by how large my parade might be or how many "friends" fit under my Facebook filter. Whether it's a conversation or a production, a dance number or a sob session, how I choose to come out--and whom I choose to "come out" to--aren't variables that decide the strength of my Gay. It's not the fucking force, people. It's a foundation. My sexuality is a fundamental part of who I am, and it's not based on a point system. I don't have to "level up" to the Next Great Gay Stereotype to be welcomed into the fold.

As a matter of fact, there is no fold. Just saying, "I'm gay," doesn't automatically gain a person access to the extra-exclusive, super-secret "Homosexuals Only" club box for all the cool queer kids. Don't get me wrong: There is an extra-exclusive, not-so-secret, "Homosexuals Only" club--or so goes the rumor. There are gay people who will judge you by your wrist curl or flannel collection. In fact, there are even gay people who will tell you--as I was told yesterday--that you are not "out enough" to participate in Pride, as if "coming out" should be measured by degrees.

Wait, what? Hold up. I didn't know my Queer Community Card came with a punch-line on the bottom: For every ten friends told, get one super gay bestie free! Since when is being born this way not quite enough?

Don’t get me wrong, you should come out. You should. It may hurt like hell. You may suffer losses that you can never really be prepared for, and the world may very well come crashing down for a time. I'm not going to lie and pretend that Gay Marriage votes equate to Gay Marriage acceptance--that exposure or TV shows or magazine covers can change a person's heart when that door closes at night and the ugly prejudices crawl back in. But coming out--that's not something you do for other people. Coming out is something you do for YOU. And no matter how much it hurts, no matter how bad it goes, there's a part of your heart that will start to open--and another that will start to heal.

So, yes: You should come out. And yes: It is a process. I "came out" on 13 October 1998, and I've been coming out every single day since. It's been a rocky, roundabout road. However, "coming out" is not a prerequisite for being proud. If you're not out to anyone but yourself--even if you're not even "out" to yourself because you're still not sure, you're still discovering, you're still finding you--don't think for one fucking second that you don't have the right to be proud. Don't you dare think that you don't have the right to participate. You are here. You are born. You have so many things about you that make you special, unique--so many things far more interesting than who you'll take to bed. Your legitimacy is not determined by who you love.

And you know what? You're invited to Pride. I'm extending a personal invitation. If you're curious, if you're confused--if you're simply an ally or someone's support--you're invited. If you're in the closet, or out of the closet--climbing through windows or dancing naked on roofs--you, too, are invited. If you're a parent, or a child--someone's cousin or sister or significant other--you're more than welcome to come along. And if you, like me, have been rejected by the LGBTQ+ community--if you've been told that you're not "enough" of something, haven't done "enough" of something, are "too much" of something, then you can be my special guest, okay? You can stand right next to me and every other person marching in my parade, because every single damn one of us has been rejected--even the SuperGays in their "Cool Kids" club with the reserved box on the second floor--and today is not a day for rejection. It's not a day for counting our worth by another person's words.

You are not a coward. There's nothing to confess. You are not more or less. And even if no one else is, I’m really fucking proud of you for waking up this morning and tackling a new day, because sometimes that’s the hardest thing any of us will ever have to do--gay, straight, and everything in-between.

Come out to Pride. Let it be a doorway for coming into your own. And if you really think it’s necessary, I promise to bring my hole punch.

[lilyjford-blog]

I hate this "real" hero bullshit. I'm hoping that some sports-loving transgender child (or any child) desperately not sure that life is worth living to 16, let alone 65, understands that heroes come in many shapes and sizes and that the same is true for courage, too. Different doesn't make something less real or someone less deserving. Galloway is incredible--the traditional sort of hero that most of us look up to; Lauren Hill, the college basketball player who died of cancer earlier this year--she's the sort of hero that I, a cancer survivor, can look up to. Caitlyn Jenner, for having been an absolute dick for so many years, is the sort of hero that someone who could be my child--I don't yet know, do I?--could look up to. My child, who may never be a soldier, may never be a cancer survivor, but who may just feel that life isn't worth living if he (or she) can't be him/herself (and that being him/herself is just too fucking hard to bother trying). Heroes are made, and heroes are "real" for many different reasons. ESPN decided to go this route--probably for publicity, but maybe for something else--to acknowledge one type of hero in a world that already (flat-out, without hesitation) acknowledges Galloway and Hill as being heroes. Such recognition doesn't make ANY of them less-deserving of the title.

[lilyjford-blog]

Still Beautiful

I was speaking to an old friend today, laughing in that almost-comfortable way, when the conversation turned toward the past. We'd been close, once--too close, maybe, or never quite close enough--and what bought us distance were probably pebbles along a pretty jagged fault line. Simplified, it can be traced to my not being ready and her not willing to wait, but it was more complicated than that--and simpler, still: She wasn't the one, and we were too wise to risk it. The conversation became a story--something of an off-hand adventure we'd shared--and we were both smiling nostalgic when she shrugged and took a sip of coffee, gaze a little less bright on mine: "You know," she said, still laughing, "back when I was beautiful." And I wanted to laugh along--to show I got the joke--but I couldn't quite work up to it. I knew what she meant, of course: I've gained weight, and stretch marks, and wrinkles. My hair's a disastrous remnant of sickness and stress. The muscles I once relied on--athletic and proud--are withering and wasting thanks to disease. I wear jeans just a tad too big and get swallowed up in hoodies and generally try to ignore my reflection: woman, unrecognised. But her--this woman, this lovely, vibrant woman--wasn't lying. She had been beautiful. So I looked at her, shades discarded, and studied the changes: wrinkles, a little more weight--a slight change in shape. Her hair held grey, just at the roots, but she was dying to hide it. Her laughter fell off, then--smile holding fast but eyes tighter; she knew I was looking, but she didn't know what I was looking for. Neither did I, in truth, until I saw it--saw it in the way she turned her mug, fingertip light against the rim--in the way her shoulders inched upward and then relaxed against her chair with the next breath. She was still beautiful. I meant to say as much, to wash away fatigue and doubt and the insecurities that come with age and change, but I couldn't find a way that wouldn't sound wrong. We had a past--missed chances and forked roads--and I couldn't risk her thinking my statement held more weight than sincerity. The coffee, itself, was dangerous for us. No matter how well we wore single, loneliness is a heavy thing--and she still wasn't the one. So I let the moment pass, let us wander through neutral subjects and gentle updates, polishing the bad bits and dulling each success. It wasn't quite like old times, but it was close--pleasant, and close, and I was glad I'd been coaxed from my writer-cave and out into the world. She nudged her mug away, and I took another crumb from my muffin, and we made for the door--toward parking-lot goodbyes. Leave it to me to complicate things. "You're still beautiful," I said, just as she was turning away. She glanced up, head tilted and dimple showing, but couldn't quite make a smile. I rushed along, groping at clarity but acting the fool: "I mean--no, that's what I mean. You're still beautiful. That hasn't changed." "Lil," she said, and the tone held impending let-down--a soft rejection--but I waved her off. "I don't mean it like that," I said. "No strings." She didn't look convinced, and I couldn't hold her eye, so I just shrugged and glanced away. "I spend enough time every day doubting myself--looking in the mirror and wondering where I went. But I didn't go anywhere. I'm not sixteen and a size six," I said. "I'm never going to be--not again. Neither are you. And we're not twenty, anymore, either. We're not." "True enough," she said, hesitating. Her smile was as stiff as her spine. "But you're still beautiful," I said, "because beauty changes, too. What I admired about you then, it was inherent--unique to you--in a fantastic package. No, really," I said, as she laughed through a blush, "you were fantastic. Incredible. Long lines and perfect curves and totally put-together. I liked that about you, revelled in it. But it's the you-you I admired," I said. "It's the you-you that made you beautiful." "The you-you," she said, her smirk something I remembered. "You're the writer, and that's the best you can come up with?" "Well," I said, "I'm shit at conversation." "No you're not," she said, suddenly serious. "You're shit at lying and scared to be authentic, so you muddle." "I muddle," I said, lips a flat line and eyebrow tugging upward. "You don't know how to be inauthentic," she said, "and you don't trust people to know your mind, so you muddle. You avoid, and talk around, until you can't help but say something straight-forward. Then you back-track, try to explain, and it gets all muddled." I laughed and looked down. "That's not too far off," I said. And then I tried again. "You're still beautiful." She nodded, her smile soft in a sad sort of way. "Thank you," she said, holding out her hand. I shook it, we laughed, and the goodbye returned to awkward and stunted. "You're beautiful too, you know." I shook my head and dropped her hand. "No need for reciprocal compliments," I said. "No," she said. "Stop." I looked up to find her looking right at me. She was always so much better at eye contact. "You will always be beautiful." If I could see what she sees--or she could see as me--how much better the world might be.

[lilyjford-blog]

Victim-Shaming, Years Later

It's been a long time since I was actively afraid to walk down a street.

When I was younger, there were times I was afraid to hold a girl's hand--let alone be seen walking too close to her. I was afraid to wear certain colours or hairstyles or clothes, or to be seen entering and exiting certain clubs or neighborhoods--especially if I were by myself or in a pair. Some of that was simply common sense--street smarts and safety and a proper amount of caution; some of it was me, terrified that someone would find out the truth and turn cruel.

Still, it's been a long time since I've been afraid. Cautious, worried, watching--yes, of course--but not afraid. Today, I am afraid.

When I was in college, I attended a party at a nearby university. It was your typical college party--too many douches, too much drinking--and I got separated from my friends early in the evening. I wasn't much of a drinker in college (I usually volunteered to be the DD), and I don't recall having more than one or two drinks the entire night. Even so, I remember getting cornered by a large man who'd clearly had enough. He was sloppy and unstable, and I was unamused, so I turned him down rather flat. He pushed, I refused--and, eventually, I simply told him I was gay.

I'd never seen a man's eyes clear so quickly from rage. Rage. One minute he was an annoying, harmless drunk without a chance and the next--the very next--he was an angry, aggressive, threat to my safety. He grabbed me, shoved me against a wall--repeatedly--all the while spewing the most ridiculous hate speech I'd yet heard. (I was young, then.) He pulled my hair to twist my neck and make me kiss him. He used his weight to try to trap me in.

It was terrifying.

It only took a minute, maybe less, for me to realize that I could topple him with a well-placed knee to his groin and an elbow against his cheek. So I did. And I ran. I ran all four miles back to my college, showered until my skin was raw, and sobbed on my bed until morning. Eventually, my friends noticed I was missing (I'd abandoned the car but still had the keys, so I was forced to walk back to the other campus), and when they asked where I'd gone, or why, I couldn't find an answer. I said nothing.

I lost those friends that day--and stopped being everyone's Designated Driver. I stopped going to parties or out to clubs unless I knew I wouldn't be abandoned by the group. Perhaps I owed a few of those friends an explanation--perhaps I still do--but I was so ashamed--so very, very ashamed--that I'd "let" something like that happen to me. I was ashamed that I'd "put myself" into such a situation.

It wasn't until a few years later, more comfortable with me and my city, that I realized the shame shouldn't have been--and was never--mine. I didn't do anything wrong. And maybe that's when I started to become less vigilant about something as simple as walking down the street. Or maybe I just became lazy, less aware.

Perhaps I've been coddled by the "media" coverage, tricked into believing it's somehow safer now to be myself because there are people like me on TV. But the recent story of a gay couple beaten bloody by a group of adults--in my city--started to make me think that maybe I've been doing something wrong--that there's something wrong with my worldview, my approach to walking.

--And then I got angry. So damn angry. Because I shouldn't be rethinking how or with whom I walk down the street. I shouldn't be blaming myself for becoming less vigilant. They are the assholes who did something wrong. Them. Not me.

Yet, I still feel ashamed. I've rekindled that old fear, and I can't quite escape the impulse toward self-blame. I've reverted, or returned, to that terrified college student more worried about taking responsibility for her own behaviour than blaming an aggressor for his. After all, I'm a gay girl. A lesbian. In PA. "Hate crimes" don't apply to me.

Taking care and being street smart is one thing--and a thing we all should have. But being afraid? I hate myself right now for being afraid, even just a little. Because I should know better--I do know better. But a lifetime unacknowledged, second-class?--it does something to a woman that takes an effort to shake.

[lilyjford-blog]

Take off your boots, babe, swing your thigh over mine. I like it when you do the same old thing in the same old way. And then a few kisses, easy, loose, like the ones we’ve been kissing for a hundred years.

A poem from Like A Beggar by Ellen Bass, reviewed by Julie R. Enszer. (via therumpus) (Someday, love, I will find you.)

[lilyjford-blog]

We don’t pick who our children are going to be. When we choose to be parents, we are taking on the responsibility, obligation and honor to love the children we adopt or create. If someone is not prepared to cherish and celebrate a gay child, they have no business being a parent. Our kids didn’t choose to be created, and they didn’t choose us to be their parents. And every child deserves their parent’s unconditional love. Every child.

Not Ready to Love a Gay Child? Then Don’t Have Kids | the Huffington Post Gay Voices (via gaywrites)

[lilyjford-blog]

Conversion Therapy

I've always been offended by the accusation that I could "turn" someone gay. It's usually on the heels of a man's insecurity and a "good" girl's joke--something ominous and threatening or very wink-wink-nudge. Many times, it's bordered by the implication that I'd want to turn someone gay--that I'm some sort of predator waiting to defile every ounce of dick-loving in each passing pair of legs.

Now, don't get me wrong--I've done it: I've fallen for a straight girl. I've wished and hoped and sometimes plotted, in all my fucked-up, fairy-tale fantasies, of swooping in and saving my crush from your everyday douche. I've been someone's experiment, knowing all the while yet working willful ignorance. I've kissed a girl who didn't like it. But I'm not in this game to "turn" anyone gay.

First of all, it's not possible--all this turning. I'm not running conversion therapy on happy heterosexuals. If homosexual rights groups argue so viciously against "turning" gay people straight--if coming-out is so often a conversation about sexuality being more than a phase--how can I, in all my pussy-loving glory, actively try to change a fundamental part of another human being? I might be a lesbian, but I try pretty hard not to be a hypocrite. Seducing straight girls for the momentary thrill isn't healthy, and it isn't right. Besides, why would I want someone who doesn't really want me? I'd like to think I love myself a little bit too much for that.

Which brings me to my second problem with the "Turn-Those-Tits" theory: Straight girls aren't a notch on my belt. I don't wear those defeats with pride. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, or out-of-touch, but I actually respect women. And, in respecting women, I respect their right to friendship-without-motive. I've seen articles from the lesbian community designed around seducing the straight chick--whole how-tos focused on emotional manipulation and sexual conquest--and it sickens me. I'm embarrassed by it. How can we put forth memes that brag we (lesbians) know how to treat women--how to respect and admire and adore them--and then waste words on degrading their preferences? How can we blame men when they say we haven't found the right cock, yet turn around and treat their girlfriends with the same disrespect? Straight girls aren't the Holy Grail. They're not the Impossible Dream. They're girls. Who like men. And they deserve better than being treated like sexual objects--by anybody.

But let's say you do get the girl--all straight and innocent and new to sapphic love. You've got her in your bed, she's patterned on your heart, and you're already planning the perfect flat with a breakfest nook and shelves for the cats. My third problem with "turning" girls gay? Straight girls are too much work.

See, she's straight. Heterosexual. She knows it. You know it. The ex-boyfriend knows it. And do you know what that means? That means girlfriend isn't going to be completely happy with you. It means she's going to leave. It means you're going to get hurt. No matter how confident you are--how sure, of you and her--she's going to break your heart. And it probably won't be on purpose. Because if she's straight--really, actually straight--then you can't change her anymore than she can change you. And if you love her--really, actually love her--then you wouldn't want to try.

Still, I know--I know there are women out there who identify as straight but have fallen in love with a lesbian. I get it. There are lesbians out there who've fallen in love with men. But I'm of the opinion that sexuality is fluid--that it's built by degrees and measured by scales--and it takes a slight bend in the scale and a very special, perfect-person-for-you for a human being to maintain a sexual relationship with someone who's the total opposite gender to her fundamental preference.

Is it possible? Of course it's possible. With love, all things are possible. Is it probable? Keeping the straight girl? A long line of crushed dyke-hearts can answer that question much better than me.

In the end, it all comes back to respect. Dating, love--these aren't games about whom you can convert, whom you can change. They're about finding the person who fits you--all of you--as well as you fit them. And baby-girl, let me tell you: She don't need no turnin'.

The very best part? Neither do you.

[lilyjford-blog]

Of Guys and Gold Stars

"So, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," I said.

"You're not a real lesbian, right?"

Of course, the gut reaction is to ask what a "real" lesbian is--and isn't that always an adventure in stereotypes?--but I was too tired to argue. Instead, I took a deep breath and put on my best quizzical face. "What do you mean?" I said, trying for a smile.

"Well, like--you have kids, right," she asked.

"I do, yeah."

"And you, like--had them, right?"

"I did."

"With a man."

"Generally required," I said.

"Well, not really," she said. "I mean, they are--like you need sperm and all--but you don't need a man. You know. Like that."

"You mean sex?"

"Yeah. You, like--had sex, right? With a man?"

"I did," I said.

"So you're not a real lesbian."

"Well," I said--seething, but too tired to push, "I'm not what some might call a 'gold star' lesbian, but I am a lesbian--and rather real about it."

"What's a gold star lesbian?"

"A lesbian who's only ever been with a woman."

"So lesbians can be with men? Isn't that being bi?"

Why. Why do I get myself cornered into these conversations. "Uh, no," I said. "That's not--no. Bisexuality is something entirely different."

"I don't get it."

"Look," I said. "I married a man who knew I was a lesbian because I was afraid of coming out. Think 'early 90s' and conservative, Catholic families, and a scene more interested in sex than settling down. So--no coming out. Married as a cover. And I wanted kids--I always wanted kids--and he was willing to have children with me. I wasn't rich, my best friend was willing, and we were married. So, we talked it over and--rather awkwardly and probably with minimal enjoyment--had sex in order to get me pregnant. I still squirm a bit when I think about it, but I don't regret it. You know why? I have kids. I regret nothing when it comes to my kids. But I'm a lesbian. I've always been a lesbian. I don't want to have sex with men, don't enjoy men sexually, and have a rather passionate attraction to and affection for women. I'm not bi. I'm not interested in men. Never was. I'm also standing right here, living and breathing, and that makes me pretty fucking real. So--yes, I'm a 'real' lesbian. No, I don't have a gold star--and no, I'm not apologizing for that."

"Um. Oh. Okay. Sorry. I didn't know," she said.

"No," I said. "You didn't. And it really wasn't your place to ask. I don't go around asking if you're a 'real' straight chick when you start talking about how sexy Kim Kardashian is in her ugly-ass dresses. When you or your friends hooked up for the benefit of college experimentation and attentions in clubs, I didn't question if you were 'really' straight. You tell me you're straight, and I accept that. I expect the same courtesy in return."

"Jesus, I'm sorry. No need to get an attitude about it. I just wanted to know. It's an honest question! You've been married. You have kids. Sounds pretty straight to me."

"You and every close-minded, open-closet lesbian I meet."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I said. "It's nothing. Being straight has nothing to do with assumptions, is all. I get a lot of shit from lesbians for the whole 'marriage and kids' thing, too."

"Seriously? Like how?"

"Like them deciding I'm not a real lesbian."

"Oh," she said. "Oh. That's--I guess that's pretty shitty, huh?"

"Yup."

"They think you're going back to cock, don't they?"

"Something like that."

"But you're not."

"No," I said. "I've never considered myself as ever being with cock, to be honest. I did what I did to have kids. It was--basic biology. An agreement. A fucking miracle, if we're being honest."

"I'm sorry I asked," she said, and she sounded it, too.

"It's cool," I said. "I'm sorry I got upset. I just get tired of defending my lesbian honour, sometimes."

"Understandable."

"I think I need some coffee," I said. "Want something?"

"Nah, I'm going to get something before class."

"Suit yourself," I said, getting up to go.

"You know, though," she said, "you don't really look like a lesbian. Maybe that's why they doubt you."

Coffee. With an extra shot of espresso. And a bottle of whiskey. "Maybe," I said, smile tight and lips tighter.

(Sometimes, asking what a lesbian looks like just isn't worth it.)

[lilyjford-blog]

Nursing School: A Not-so-Peppy Primer

The first thing you should know about nursing school is that it doesn't teach a person to master content--nor does it test you on content mastery.

What do I mean by that?

In A&P, you memorize a thousand different facts and regurgitate them on the exam. In math you figure out the right answer, and there's (usually) only one right answer, and you move on. In English, you learn where the punctuation goes and how to talk in circles around your topic in the proper format--and suddenly you're gifted with a passing grade.

Nursing school isn't like that. Content mastery is implied. It's assumed--an expectation.

In fact, content learning in nursing school is self-directed. You're presented with a lot of information in a very short time, with pages to read and packets to reference, and the hard work of digesting that information and mastering the basic content is on you. If you have questions about the content, you have someone available to answer those questions--to provide clarity--but simply knowing information is never going to be enough. 

The other thing that nursing school doesn't teach you is how to be a nurse. If there's anything I've learned, it's that you only learn how to be a nurse once you actually become a nurse. That first year--the first job on your very first floor--that's when you learn to be a nurse. Nursing school can't give you that. It can only prepare you for it. Becoming is never something that can be reduced to a test.

So what does nursing school actually teach you? It teaches you how to THINK like a nurse.

I'll give you an example:

You have a patient in front of you going into hypovolemic shock. You know it's hypovolemic shock because you've memorized all the symptoms, you've checked the vitals, you can see it all very clearly with your own eyes. So you say, "Oh my goodness! My patient's going into shock!" And then you cycle through all the things you've learned about hypovolemic shock. You can pinpoint the major and most likely causes, you know all the relevant nursing diagnoses, and you can restate terms and definitions like a boss. You even memorized major treatments and interventions and can recite that pharmacology chapter front to back. Great job! You've mastered content!

Meanwhile, your patient's dying.

It's great that you've conquered all that content knowledge. I'm so happy you can give me the proper definition of hypovolemic shock and its incidence rate among the elderly population. But if you can't look at a patient, or examine the labs and vitals, and identify what's happening without a checklist, and if your patient is going into shock and you're trying to remember what to do from a flashcard you once memorized, I don't want you anywhere near my family member.

Learning how to think like a nurse means taking all the content that you should have mastered and learning how to think critically in critical (and sometimes not-so-critical) situations. What would a great nurse do? That's exactly what you need to know--and what nursing school strives to teach you.

This is why nursing exams are so hard. It's what all the jokes are referring to when they say, "Nursing exams: Where every answer is correct, but you're still wrong!" Because a patient doesn't want a good answer. They don't want you to do the okay thing. They want the best answer--the very best action to take. And the only way you can figure out "best" is if you understand how to think about the content in front of you. This isn't identify-and-define. This is analyze-and-synthesize--and act.

Understand that the people around you do not want you to fail, but it's their job to be honest. It's their job to offer constructive criticism. It's their job to have high standards. It's their job to design tests that ask you to assess and rank and do. Because they know, someday, you're going to have someone's life in your hands.

And you know what? You can't be mediocre when that happens. You just can't. Your patient deserves better than that.

Which is why the last thing I'm going to tell you about nursing school is this: The only person standing between you and success is yourself. You will experience a crisis of confidence. You will experience failure. At times, you'll question why you're even bothering, and you'll forget why you ever wanted to do this in the first place. That's okay. It's normal. Seriously.

But then you're going to have your moment. Trust me: It will happen. You're going to realize that nurses save lives. You're going to save somebody's life. You don't need to be great when it happens, but you do need to be great to get there.

So hang in, and hang on, and check that ego at the door. Learning to think is harder learning than anything else we learn to do--except maybe learning to change--but you will get there. You'll do it. Lives are depending on it.

(So, like--no pressure.)

[lilyjford-blog]

(Re)Fill Your Chest

How refreshing--that very next breath after heartbreak--reminding a body it still knows how to breathe.

[lilyjford-blog]

Facebook Hates Gays?

Guys. I'm about to be a bad lesbian again. Opposing gay marriage does not make someone a completely shit person or politician. Gay marriage is only ONE issue in a myriad of significant issues affecting the day and life of hard-working Americans. Sometimes, like Facebook, you have to make INFORMED decisions that prioritise which issues have the most immediate and long-term impact on your daily life--and this might mean swallowing the tripe and putting your money or your vote in places you wish, for other reasons, you didn't have to go. To immediately decry every business or person who disagrees with you on one issue? A singular issue? To publicly humiliate them? Call them out? Demand (insincere) retractions? It's entitlement run amuck. People are allowed to be bigots. You're allowed to like them (hopefully for their other redeeming qualities) anyway. Just as there are no perfect people, there are certainly no perfect politicians. (And let's be honest: Many of us know and have befriended at least one bigot--and are probably still friends with them for one reason or another. It's a sad fact of life, what we'll tolerate from people and for what reasons.) Of course, there ARE times when a person's stance on a single issue is so awful and so offensive that it takes precendent. I've changed my entire opinion about people based on things they've once said. However, Facebook put $10,000 (a drop in the Facebook bucket) toward a campaign that supported their business model (and just happened to oppose gay marriage). They've put a lot more cash toward candidates who've supported gay marriage (and their business model), and they've been recognised as one of the top companies who supported the end of DOMA. We need some perspective in order to effectively fight persecution. This new "Facebook Hates Gays" uproar is way out of proportion. No one is going to agree with you every single time, and not every disagreement (or donation) is going to ruin your life. If 100% compliance were a thing, there'd be no second dates. Call down.

[lilyjford-blog]

"You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and...blow." Rest in peace, Ms. Bacall. You positively sizzled in To Have and Have Not--not to mention all those other roles--and I can honestly say you were my first celebrity (lesbian) crush.

[lilyjford-blog]

Conversations on Speaker Phone:

"So, what's your type?" My friend, Jordan, never calls--so I was a bit suspicious. Still, the question seemed innocent enough.

"Cate Blanchett," I said.

"No, seriously. What sort of chick do you like," asked Jordan, shushing someone in the background.

"Still going with 'Cate Blanchett' here."

"Dude," said Jordan, "she's old. And not even a lesbian." Jordan's the type of lesbian--the type of butch lesbian--who's only attracted to other butch lesbians who are staunchly in her age group (and decidedly drunk at the club). Her tastes also wander to the occasional bi-curious college chick, but she doesn't like to admit it.

"You asked my type," I said, scrolling through my Facebook feed and hoping for an interruption. "Cate Blanchett is my type."

"How is that even a type?" Jordan was getting frustrated, which just made the conversation all the more fun.

"She's classy," I said, closing the window and opening Tumblr. A hundred pictures of Cate Blanchett and her timelessness are never farther than a few clicks. "She's poised. She's gorgeous. She speaks well, carries herself with dignity, has oodles and oddles of talent--is a mum, and a wife, and feminist. Her fashion sense is impeccable--classic--and she's always very feminine. And she's fierce. She's fierce in the way that fierce should be."

Jordan didn't say anything for a minute or two, but I could hear her frowning through the line. "Didn't you say once that you weren't into blondes?"

"Cate Blanchett transcends hair colour." It was said matter-of-factly because it's pretty matter-of-fact: Cate Blanchett radiates in lovely shades--in any shade.

"Seriously, why can't you just pick a lesbian like that girl from Juno? Or Michelle Rodriquez? Christ, even Lucy Liu would work. Just, for once, be a normal lesbian!"

"I do like Lucy Liu," I said. And I do. Lucy Liu is--well, she's adorable. And ferocious.

"Which part?"

"Huh?" I said.

"Which part do you like? Face, body--she's got a bangin' body..."

"The freckles," I said.

Jordan sighed. I imagined her pinching the top of her nose. "Next you'll tell me you don't like Kristen Stewart or Kate Moennig."

"I don't like Kristen Stewart or the Kate Moennig."

"Have you even watched The L Word?"

"Have you seen Twilight," I countered, "or Speak? Kristen Stewart is awful. She should've been cast in 50 Shades of Gray."

"You're avoiding the question," said Jordan. She had a point to prove, now. "Have you ever watched The L Word?"

"...Twice," I said.

"They should pull your Lesbian Card for admitting that. And for the 50 Shades reference."

"Hey! I did watch Lip Service."

"Oh yeah? Who's your favourite chick from that?"

"Uh, the blonde one that, uh...that fucks the straight newscaster chick?"

"So you do like blondes!" said Jordan, seemingly scandalised.

"No," I said. "I like sweet."

"And stupid, apparently."

I had to roll my eyes at that. "Eh, not so much." Taking a deep breath, and willing myself some patience, I began again. "Anyway, you asked my favourite from the show. I didn't say she was my type."

"Here we go again," said Jordan. There were voices in the background encouraging her to wrap it up.

"Why're you so concerned about my type, anyway?" I said. I admit I still had a sinking suspicion, because lesbians don't just call other lesbians out-of-the-blue to discuss the Top Ten Ladies I'd Like to Fuck, but I was holding out hope I was wrong..

"Well, I have this friend, see, and she's been looking to date...". And there it was. Right there. Another set-up.

"No, thanks," I said. "I'm happy being single right now."

"You don't even know anything about her," said Jordan, clearly miffed at her wasted effort. "And she isn't blonde."

"I really don't care what colour hair she has," I said. "Is she smart? Sweet? Does she read? Can she hold a conversation about something other than herself or her ex? Does she like Doctor Who?"

"Doctor Who?" snorted Jodan. "Really? That's one of your requirements?"

"Hey, at least I didn't say Merlin."

"Merlin?" Jordan said, coloured confused.

"Colin Morgan," I said, not even bothering to mask the smile I knew she could hear. "Adorable."

"You're such a shit lesbian," said Jordan--not for the first time in our acquaintance. "I mean, seriously. I don't even know why I put up with you."

"I know, I know," I said. "Lesbian inhabiting a straight-girl brain."

Jordan snorted again. I tried not to be offended. Or annoyed. "Well, look--she's really nice and has great eyes and thought you sounded cool. I can give you her number, if you'd like? Maybe we could all go out this weekend?"

"Maybe," I said. "We'll see. I've got a few projects to finish."

"You're hopeless," said Jordan. "Completely hopeless." Then she half-laughed, and I swore I could hear her shaking her head. "Cate Blanchett. Really."

Too bad she never gave me a chance to mention my crush on Katie McGrath.

[lilyjford-blog]

You're pretty shit at this, aren't you?

"What do you mean you think he's cute?"

I looked up from my book and glanced again at the television. Martin Freeman was a bumbling, bad-ass John Watson in an ugly jumper--and I found the whole thing adorable. "I think he's cute," I said. "I want to hug him a million times when I see him in Love Actually."

"Christ," said my friend Melissa. "You're such a shit lesbian."

I rolled my eyes and went back to reading, but the peace didn't last long. "What about her?"

"Who?" I said, looking up to see Lara Pulver naked on my screen. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," said Melissa--completely straight and unable to take her eyes from the telly.

"She's all right," I said, and I meant it. Lara Pulver is gorgeous, she really is, but she's not my type.

"Martin Freeman's cute and that chick's just all right?" said Melissa, disgust turning to distrust. "You sure you're a lesbian?"

"Mhmm," I said, because it's a conversation we've had one too many times to warrant a defense.

"What about Benedict Cumberbatch?"

"He's nice to look at," I said, turning the page.

Melissa snorted. "Any other men in your life?"

"Matthew Goode," I said, without hesitation. "Colin Firth, forever."

"Seriously, how are you gay?"

Sighing, I put the book down and gave Melissa a look she should've picked up on--it was my 'impending smackdown' look, I'm sure of it, but the expression went unheeded. "Well, Melissa," I said, "I like to fuck girls."

"How does that even work, anyway?" she said, completely changing the subject.

"Use your Google. I'm sure it can tell you." She rolled her eyes. I rolled mine. "Just because I can find men attractive--or admit that they're good-looking--doesn't mean I'm not gay," I said, not for the first time. "I appreciate Picasso, but I don't want him hanging in my house."

"It's not the same thing," said Melissa.

"Isn't it?" I said. "Beauty is subjective. There are beautiful men and there are beautiful women because people--people are beautiful."

Melissa snorted. "Deep. No, really--way to go Plato."

"Beauty is only one part of attraction," I said, taking up my book.

"What about naked men? Do you find them hot?"

"Are we seriously having this conversation right now?"

"What? Don't want to answer? Afraid to admit you're bi?"

She was teasing, but I wasn't. "I'm not bi. And some naked men are hot--in that subjective way. It's a technical sort of beauty--something I can appreciate from a distance."

"A better lesbian wouldn't even consider a guy hot." I was being teased. I know I was.

"Yes, you got me," I said, voice flat. "I'm a bad lesbian."

"You really are," said Melissa, settling down to finish watching Sherlock. "You really, really are."

[lilyjford-blog]

Sometimes, I don't wear glasses. Sometimes, I do wear mischief.