Health science reference librarian. Community college solo librarian. Answering questions, keeping it real, drinking all the coffee, busting all the myths. #kyproud These posts and views are my own.
I went to pick up my birth control this morning after a night of not sleeping, a night of tears and physical pain coursing through me. On the way back from the pharmacy, where I could make no eye contact with anyone, I drove past one of the mansions in town with a giant, hand painted sign on a slab of wood: “Thank You Donald Trump.”
I cried again, harder, as I turned into my subdivision. The subdivision where my husband and I are the only white people on our street – everyone else is Hispanic, almost all from the same part of Mexico, most from shared families and histories. I cried knowing that people who look like me failed them again.
When I worked at the library here, the first lesson I learned in working with this population was that they can sometimes be afraid of the government and that the library can be an incredible safe haven for them. And indeed, it was important to me to serve our near 40% Hispanic population here in small-town Wisconsin. Knowing my neighbors could have a space where they were welcomed, where there were books for them, where materials were in English AND in Spanish, that made me proud to do what I did.
Today, though. Today, I pulled into the driveway and hoped no one noticed me. Because I am the enemy. Even if I voted for someone who supports them. I am the enemy by virtue of being a white, middle class woman.
And I should be.
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Tomorrow I leave to go to a big event for work. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave my house. I want to stay here until I feel good again because here is safe: no one can see me in public and I don’t have to make contact with other humans.
This fear, it’s not rational and yet, it’s impossible to rationalize it away. There was “no way” this election would turn out as it did. And yet, it did.
And not for lack of trying. The people spoke one way. The backasswards system of government establishment spoke another (isn’t it funny, the anti-establishment individual won only because of the establishment? All of the establishments, actually).
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My freshman and sophomore years of college we experienced a big rape culture issue on our small campus. A group of big, secretive frat boys – who were notorious for “killing a cat” during pledging – made pledging shirts that read “no pussy is safe.” They “meant” cats.
They didn’t.
This phrase and deep understanding of rape culture kept coming back to me again and again when our now President Elect said he would and could grab women by the pussy.
And now I wonder: how many men feel entitled to my body? They always have, they always will, but now they’ve been given a role model.
How many people of color, how many queer people, how many Muslims, how many of my own Hispanic neighbors, are looking at me thinking the same awful, fearful things about me? Because I, too, am the enemy.
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I put on dark lipstick this morning. So deep red it was almost purple. I looked at myself and took it off.
Too loud a statement.
I went with a red. The one I always wear. The one that feels comforting.
When I finish up this letter, I’ll wrap up painting my fingernails my favorite shade of red. I want them to look decent for this trip, for spending time with other humans, for feeling somewhat put together. Looking a part I don’t feel at all inside.
There’s a motif in Courtney Summers’s All The Rage where Romy, who is the victim of a rape and shunned by her small town because of insidious rape culture, carefully applies red lipstick and red nail polish. It is her armor.
I thought about armor today as I started applying both. I thought about Romy and I thought about my friend Kaye. I thought about my friend Isabelle, about my friend Constance. About women like Brandy and Justina. About Amma and Tasheena. About Bryan and Brandon. About many, many others, those who I see everyday, those who I know just through screens and letters, those who I know only through fiction.
And I thought about a line Wendy Davis wrote for an essay in HERE WE ARE:
I fucking hate to lose.
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We’ve all lost.
Today we shall mourn, and maybe we’ll still mourn tomorrow or the next day, maybe through the weekend. Maybe through the rest of the hellfire that has been 2016. There’s not a time stamp on grief or disappointment.
But what I can do, what we can do, is don the armor we need to feel safe. To feel strong. To feel a little bit like ourselves on the outside, even if we’re uncertain and wavy and sick and worried on the inside.
We can wear red lipstick and red nail polish.
And we can hold our hand out to those feeling the same way.
Maybe, maybe, if we hold our hands out to those who aren’t like us, who don’t look like us, who rightly see us as the enemy, maybe we can all feel just a smidge more like ourselves.
Here is mine. My nails are a little chipped, a little longer than I’d prefer, but I’m holding my hand out to you. It is here if you need it.
It is here whenever you need it.
We’ll mourn together. And then we’ll work on rebuilding together.
The last thing that David Bowie needs is a 31 year old woman from Kentucky eulogizing him, and yet, here we are. I honestly feel like my experience with David Bowie is probably not anything different from anyone else’s.
I spent a lot of time trying to remember when I first intentionally learned about Bowie, and it must have been during my grunge years (yes, it was a thing). Once I finally learned that there was other music outside of the top 40 and country (sorry mom and dad), I went overboard trying to learn what happened before me and the music of my time. Imagine a white Lane Kim with her Mojo guide: “I’ll be finished with the 1960’s!” I spent a lot of time in the world of Warhol, then I went Warhol-adjacent: Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, and then, only then, did I discover punk. The thing about learning about Warhol, the ‘60’s and the start of punk, is that at the intersection of all those wonderful things was Bowie.
I have spent a long time reading books about Bowie, so I know he’s no hero. There are decisions that were made a long time ago that still rile me up and confound me. I was agog when People on the Internet ™ spent their tweets and such talking about how glad they were that Bowie was dead because he was a flawed human. They were vindicated in their lack of interest in his contributions to culture and could talk about just how glad they were he was dead. I feel very sad for these people. I also feel very sad for Bowie.
Why did I cry when I found out that Bowie had left our earthly realm? Because he was my cultural touchstone. I had a Bowie or Bowie-adjacent song for every occasion. I got pumped up by listening to “Moonage Daydream,” I fell asleep to the B-side of Low while studying for my comprehensive exams for my Master’s degree, and in 8th grade, I sang “Look at those cavemen go,” while at a school dance when I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I exalted “TCV-15” as an underrated gem, passing it along to friends like a love letter. The Man Who Fell to Earth broke my heart; Labyrinth put it back together. I cheered when Bowie appeared in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me for those two glorious seconds, then we rewound and cheered again. Bowie was important to me as a baby feminist, even before I knew that I was a feminist, not just a loudmouth.
As a teen, I hated my body (it’s still a very complicated relationship), and the small town I lived in. I never wanted the same as my fellow students, and found myself immersed in the world of books and music. Bowie was also a reader, a listener. David Bowie was proof that, if you did what you were meant to do, you could transcend your body, your lot in life, and become more. A gawky, somewhat awkward lad could write a rock song that calls a significant other “the total blam-blam,” and it would be the single coolest thing anyone could hear. I, too, had hopes that by following my calling, I could transcend the physical and embrace the wholeness of my person. I could reach my own cosmic starman, and become more than just a self.
The day of his most recent birthday, I jinxed it. I said, “As long as David Bowie is still with us and making records, we are ok.” I had long put my faith in the world in the hands of my favorite artists: Bowie, Patti Smith, Iggy Pop; those last few punks who were standing up against the status quo and making good, weird art. And so, I cried. Bowie’s last album was full of good, weird art, and a wonderfully sad video. We will not get any more. The blessing is that, as there were so many Warhol-adjacent projects for me to explore, there are many more Bowie-adjacent ones. He is not just MY cultural touchstone, but one for so many others.
I am usually fiercely protective of my favorite albums, but when my own mother called me to tell me that Blackstar was number one on the charts, I wasn’t upset. I was glad. I sincerely hope that some weird kids are seeking him out and can find friendship and meaning in those albums as I once did.
This planner includes everything I've done in 2015, and a few coffee stains as battle scars ☕️Trying to be proud of these things, and not stress about the things that need to be done. PS, anyone have great stickers for my new planner?
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