Trying to find Cultural Heritage

 I am obsessed with Native TikTok. I love watching the dancers show off their regalia and dances, I love the history lessons, the bannock/frybread recipes, the sharing of culture, and the comedy? The comedy is pure fire. I soak it up and want more. I think I glom onto things like this, and other platforms where people share their culture, because I feel like, as a white person, I don't have that cultural connection. I did a 23&me kit as part of a mental illness study and it just confirmed what I already knew: largely British Isles and French/German (I always used to say French but the borders have been ever-changing throughout history) with my mother's people emigrating from Canada to the United States within the past century or so. And I cling to that French-Canadian side because it's something. I've even written about my French-Canadian heritage before and felt a great connection to it when I went to Quebec a couple years ago.

But while I claim my French-Canadian heritage, what do I really have to celebrate it? Tourtiere pie and a family recipe for molasses cookies. A specific way of saying French last names and some words. But... that's it. And it still feels hollow. I don't really know where I'm going with this, in my head I was thinking this would be a much more thought-out and detailed post but... I feel like I'm grasping, the same way I'm trying to grasp a cultural identity. 

Does anyone else have this problem as a mixed-heritage white person in the United States?

What Hiking 100 miles in 108 Days Taught Me

Looking at the Bigelow range from Flagstaff Lake

Since all travel was restricted this year due to COVID-19, I decided in May that I was going to hike 100 miles this year, and I even took vacation time to go hike in order to beat the crowds. I didn't set a time limit for completion, and didn't disqualify duplicate hikes (you can see I visited some trails a couple times). If it was a mountain or a forest trail, the miles were counted and it went in the journal. I bought a state park pass (and used it all of two times, ha) so that I could take advantage of some of Maine's state parks. As a result of this goal, I hiked more mountains than ever before-- a total of 7, although I didn't summit all of them-- and even did some with my sister (we just won't discuss how every time I hike with her I fall). I really challenged myself to do harder, longer hikes, and as a result I beat last year's highest peak twice: first with Rumford Whitecap (which was also my sister's new highest) and then Mt. Zircon at 2,240 feet, which doesn't sound very high to experienced hikers and mountain climbers, but it was 452 feet higher than my last year's highest. So what did all this hiking teach me, if anything?

From the overlook on Borestone

• I will whine the entire way up a mountain, especially when it's steep, but I love the way my legs feel. I love the feeling of used muscles, and how they're a little tired after a rest.
• I really belong in nature. I feel most alive when I'm out in the woods
• I also really prefer being alone. I do enjoy hiking with my sister, but sometimes I just want it to be me and the forest. I get annoyed when I can hear other people on the trail.
• Hiking on day 1 or 2 of my period is fucking amazing for cramps. Honestly. I'm on my period now and wish I could've skipped out on work to go hike because I've been having miserable cramps.
• I am capable of doing more than I give myself or my ability credit for
• I can and will take a fun goal and have destructive, obsessive thoughts about it
• I'd like to upgrade my backpack to one that has a waist/hip strap for better support
• Water is heavy and bottles are hard to arrange in a backpack so that they are comfortable, and I want to eventually upgrade to a bladder
• I really can't trust any dog, especially a loose one, that I see on the trail (I got bitten)
• I feel real and true joy and gratitude for nature, which I have expressed before

Just because I've reached my 100 mile goal, I'm not done hiking. I plan on hiking until it gets too miserable out to continue, but I don't plan on winter hikes. No thank you. Plus, I don't want to invest in winter gear. What I will need to invest in is some blaze orange if I'm going to hike this fall, since some public lands allow hunting, and I don't want to be mistaken for a deer. Will I set goals for next year? Probably. I don't know if I will increase the mile count, but one thing I'd like to do is learn to camp so I can do some multi-day hikes, perhaps along sections of the Appalacian Trail or the Maine Huts and Trails network. I also want to try more challenging mountains and take advantage more of the state parks (and Acadia, which I've never been to, in my whole life of being a Mainer). One thing I do know is that I want to spend as much time out in the woods as I can for as long as I can, and that hiking is going to be a permanent lifestyle choice going forward.

Black Lives Matter

This has been a very heavy week. With the murder of George Floyd, things have been overwhelming in the world, but it's not a new occurrence and I've written about the murder of an innocent black man at the hands of the police before, and since that post, I've grown more and thought more about racial injustice in this country. I fully support the protests that are happening everywhere because shit has got to change in this country. This country was built on the genocide of indigenous people, the back of Africans that were stolen from their homes, the railroads built by Asian immigrants that were treated no better than slaves. We have a dirty, bloody history of violence and subjugation of nonwhites that is shameful. I've also taken the time to learn more about performative allyship and really stopped to think about what it means to be actively anti-racist. As a white, middle-class woman, I have no place to tell the black community how to feel, protest, mourn, or express themselves. All I can do is shut up and listen and take direction. To educate myself (because it is not on black people, or even my black friends to do that for me). It is my job as to use my nonmarginalized, privileged status to help others. I've also stopped caring about white feelings and have been plucking people off my friends list that use coded, racist language ("thugs"), respond with "all lives matter/police lives matter," or actively praise that shitbag in the White House.

During #BlackoutTuesday, I found myself disappointed. I went to graduate school in part to fight for social justice, especially after my own struggles with poverty and healthcare inequity. To see so many of my former classmates post their black square and then... nothing was, to say the least, disappointing. I did not post a square, but instead I took the time to look at the different charity funds that were set up, to read about performative allyship, to donate, and also to listen to the experiences of black people on social media. I reported hate speech on social media, including anyone who used "alllivesmatter" as a response to the Black Lives Matter movement. I read pieces written by journalists who had been shot at and gassed by the police and subsequently arrested. I also watched clip after clip of unchecked police brutality on peaceful demonstrators. It made me sick, it made me angry, and it made me frustrated with people who constantly respond with "nOt aLL cOpS!" Yes all cops. Because for every cop that beats, murders, or rapes a black person, hispanic person, indigenous person, there are the members of the force that turned a blind eye, who were complicit by doing absolutely nothing to make change. No amount of pro-cop propaganda (look at these cops dancing with kids on the sidewalk! look at these cops kneeling with the protesters!) will make me think that the police force in America is anything but a deeply corrupt institution that needs to be defunded, deconstructed, and replaced with social services that help support communities, to be healthy, safe, with access to equal educational opportunities, access to healthy food, mental health and substance use services, and healthcare, especially predominantly poor communities.

As an ally, it's my place to actively call out racism. It's my place to support and amplify black voices. It's my place to vote out corruption. It's my place to use my privilege as a means to help those that don't have it. I don't say all of this for asspats. I say all of this because as white people, we have never had to fear simply walking down the street, jogging, sleeping in our beds, going to the store, just because of our skin color. Our mothers didn't have to teach us from an early age how to act around police to avoid being assaulted or killed. It breaks my heart when my niece tells me that her best friend says "thank god my son is so light skinned" because fuck that shouldn't even be a concern for a mother with a school-aged child.

Remember, white people, this is not about you, or your feelings. If you go to the protests, remember, you're there to support, so shut up and listen and do as you're told. Have real and frank conversations with your families. Don't brag about donating (I hated to even mention it because I don't like talking about charitable gifts because I don't do it for praise), but don't be silent when it matters the most: when confronting systemic racism in the world around you and when it comes time to vote. Confront your own privilege and make yourself uncomfortable. 

If you are in the position to and want to donate money, here is a huge list to choose from. If you want to step outside of performative allyship and be better, here is an article that can steer you in the right direction. And another list of resources. Don't know how to talk to your kids about what's happening? Here's a resource that may help.

2019 Retrospecticus

Last year, I set out on the new year with some goals (not resolutions) in mind, mostly around exploring the world around me. And I did a lot of that. I actively started trying to lose weight in February because one of the things I really wanted to do in Iceland was ride the Icelandic horse, so I started walking, even when it was cold or I was grumpy, I went out and walked, and even a mile was so hard and my legs were so sore at first. But I kept at it, and changed the way I ate from less Western diet to more flexitarian and whole food based. When the local hospital's class booklet came out and I saw one of my old coworkers was leading a Couch to 5k class over a 12 w

eek period starting in April, I signed up, and it was hard at first, but as I lost weight and gained muscle and endurance, I found that I really, really like running; it's great stress relief. I still can't run a solid 5k but I have kept up with running, even now in the depths of winter on a treadmill. As of this writing I've lost about 52 pounds.

One of the goals I had written in my failed bullet journal (I need to stop doing those, I'm too lazy to keep up with it) was to explore more trails in Maine. I started small and local. I was already running on the Rail Trail in Augusta, and with the help of Pokemon Go (yes, really), Maine TrailFinder (PLEASE make an app!), and Alltrails, I had the incentive and opportunity to visit new places. There was nothing more liberating than researching a trail, putting on my gear, and hopping in my car for a new adventure in the woods. This was also monumentally helpful not only for my mental health, but my spiritual health. While my bullet journal page only lists the trails in Maine I hiked, I did several more outside of the state, including a 9.5 mile loop in Illinois where I got to meet so many beautiful burr oaks, and Þingellir National Park in Iceland.

 

Y'all.

I climbed three mountains this summer, including a 1,700 foot mountain I had always gazed at from the car as a child. I also hiked the rim of a volcanic crater. This has only fueled my desire to hike more and challenging peaks.

Travel was really the big goal I had this year, and I managed to visit two countries and visit a state I had never been to. My dream vacation of Iceland was finally a reality, and as you can see in the (terrible, horrible) picture of me, I did get to ride the Icelandic horse, as uncooperative as he was sometimes during the ride. My sister and I did the typical tourist trip: Golden Circle, Reynisfjara Beach and Vik, and so many waterfalls. We only had a week but we fell completely in love with the country and we're tentatively planning the next, longer trip for 2023. Before the adventures in Iceland, however, I embarked on my first solo international travel to Quebec, which, in my entire 39 years living in Maine, had never visited. I blogged about that trip after I returned, because I came back filled with emotions. You can read about that trip here. My final travel of the year, which was a little bit last-minute, was a trip to Illinois not only to visit my heart, but to go to finally see my favorite band in concert: motherfucking Tool. I'd waited over 20 years to see them live and it was worth the ticket and airfare. Illinois was quite lovely and I want very badly to go back, for multiple reasons.

I've worked really hard to improve myself. I'm proud of my weight loss, I'm proud of myself for traveling solo, for learning to be okay by myself. I've worked hard on being less negative (it's still difficult, sometimes, when I have a bad bipolar day) and am continuing on working on being a better person (my jealousy was rightfully called out). I took the leap and applied for a post-graduate certificate program, and am working toward paying down debt so that I can plan for the future.

In 2020 I will turn 40. It's never too late to do the thing, to challenge yourself, to make changes. I welcome all that comes in the coming year.

Learning to be Alone: My First International Solo Trip

Basilique de Ste-Anne de Beaupre

Take the word "international" with a grain of salt, since my first international solo trip was to Canada, and that's just a 4 hour drive, but I crossed a country border, so I guess it counts. For a very long time, I always put off traveling unless I had someone to go with me (and indeed, my trip to Iceland in a couple weeks will be with my sister) because I was always too timid to go on my own. Recently emboldened not only by a job that had me travel all over the state last year, but my own desire to explore more of what is out there, I impulse-booked a trip to Quebec for the 4th and 5th of July. I don't do fireworks or parades, and it was a perfect long weekend to take a trip and still have some home time.

Nana, my mom, and my gradfather,
who died long before I was born

Quebec, I thought, is easy, all I need to do is go up route 201 and keep going, how different can it be? I was a little nervous at the border, but I had nothing to hide and wasn't smuggling anything, and after being handed back my passport I was waved forward to continue on my journey. I have to admit, part of my desire recently to go to Canada is that Canadian Tim Horton's has a vegan breakfast sandwich made with a Beyond Meat sausage and I've been eating plant based lately-- my quick review is that it was fucking delicious if a bit challenging to get since I don't speak French. My first real goal was to go to the Basilica of Saint Anne of Beaupre (Basilique de Ste-Anne de Beaupre if you want it in French). So why would I, someone who uses the label of "animistic shaman," want to go to a Catholic place of worship? I have a few reasons. First, I am, according to 23andme, 31% French and German. My great-grand parents on my mother's side moved from Quebec to Maine (I think, I have to verify this), and you could tell my Nana grew up speaking French when you listened to her speak. I always felt a pull to Quebec, to see where my mother's side came from. And Ste-Anne? I once had a baptism bracelet of Catholic saints from Ste-Anne. Sadly, I think it's gone forever. I looked for one in the souvenir shop but they didn't have any like it. And for my last reason of wanting to go to the basilica: the tremendous amount of architecture and art to behold. And there was an overwhelming amount. I have to admit, after I left the interior and found a shady place to sit outside, I felt a bit emotional and overwhelmed. I reflected on my heritage, my Nana who passed away in 2008, and how little I know about that side of my family genealogically.

Across the road I saw a bunch of statues, and thought it was a cemetery. Well, there were gravestones there, but more interestingly, the entire stations of the cross in huge bronze statues, rendered in such lifelike detail. The path to go to each station wound up a hill (and it was very, very hot, thankfully I had water with me) and there was a woman praying/reflecting ahead of me, so I took my time and gave her space (there were a lot of pokestops so I played Pokemon Go-- if I'm going to pay for international data on my phone, I'mma use it, okay?) but made my way through all of them, snapping pictures as I went.

That's a bridge above, with people on it

My hotel check-in wasn't until 5 and it was, at that point, only about 2 or 2:30 when I was done at the basilica. Pulling up the comments on the solo travel Reddit thread I had made, I looked up Montmorency Falls. Here's a pro tip: if you're using Google Maps to navigate, give it a specific address, because when I typed in "Montmorency," it took me up a very, very steep hill on winding roadways into a residential neighborhood in Boischatel--which is the right town-- but not actually near the parking lot I needed to go to. Once I got that figured out, I paid for parking and drove down, down to the parking lot. As I pulled in, I looked up and yelled "HOLY SHIT" because the waterfall was right there (I also had this same response when I crested the hill and saw the Basilica of Ste-Anne, too, and "Oh wow!" crossing the St. Lawrence river over a huge bridge). The falls were massive (and again, if you want it in French, it's Chute de Montmorency) and there were stairs zig-zagging up a nearby hillside, that connected to a bridge, that connected to another bridge that crossed the falls. No thank you. They also offered gondola rides and ziplining, but I like to have my feet firmly planted on the ground. I did go close enough to get wet (it felt so good though) and then walked up a couple of sets of stairs to go back down instead of backtracking. There were a ton of people there and it was extremely hot. I had toyed with going to Old Quebec City after, but my legs felt really wobbly and I realized I hadn't gone pee since the basilica, so I went back to my car and sucked down almost half of my water bottle in one go. I hadn't been good about keeping hydrated in the heat, especially with my activity level, so I decided to go to the hotel and see if I could check in early.

Surprise! My booking said 5 but the hotel starts check-in at 4 so I was able to get settled and start looking for someplace to eat. I should mention here I have been eating vegan for a week (hence my excitement over the Tim Horton's vegan breakfast sandwich) and wanted to stick with it, but all the restaurants within walking distance (I didn't want to drive, I'd been in my car all day and the Quebecois are fucking crazy drivers) had really pathetic options for vegans or vegetarians, so I opted to go to the hotel restaurant across the street from my hotel, and got a veggie pizza and a glass of wine, both of which were delicious. After some Googling, I realized my hotel was in a hotel district that caters mostly toward business travel, so next time I'll try a different location. It was good, though, but their continental breakfast was bagels, toast, English muffins, cereal, and coffee. Some pathetic canned fruit. The coffee was really good though.

Fairmont le Chateau Frontenac

Wanting to beat the heat and the crowds. I decided to get up early to go to the Old City. I paid an exorbitant amount for 3 hours of parking at Place D'Youville and headed off. I didn't have a definite goal in mind, except to see the famed Chateau Frontenac. I wandered around, took pictures, and found myself on La Promenade des Gouverneurs where I had a stunning view of the St. Lawrence river and a pretty nice view of the Chateau. At the end of the promenade, there are stairs that lead to the Plains of Abraham but also a fernuncular, which people online told me to take, but I took the stairs.

All 310 stairs. In writing, that doesn't seem so bad. In humid, mid-80's sunny weather, it was torture. But I walked all of them and... was a little disappointed? I was expecting more, maybe I didn't go in the right place once I got to the top, but it was just a park, being set up for a festival. I followed the trail down until the Citadel (which I didn't go explore) and wandered back into the city (which is great for Pokemon Go) to find a seat and rest my legs. I walked over to the Notre Dame du Quebec (which was under construction and I wasn't sure if the sanctuary was open), found a cafe to rest and have a cold drink, and headed back to my car to go home.

Cities are fun to visit, but man, my battery drained quickly. I will say, though, I wasn't as terrified of city driving as I thought. When I first entered the country, I was doing the speed limit. I paid attention to the other drivers, and started to drive like them (albeit a little less recklessly) which involved changing lanes constantly, going 10-15KM/h over the limit, and not really stopping at stop signs. One thing I didn't see at all were police (except on my way out, at construction zones-- there was a lot of construction) and I didn't hear any sirens, which I expected. I spent a lot of time correcting the voice of Google Map's French accent on street names (I have very little French but my accent was always good) and developing my inner monologue.

I know there is probably a lot more to see, and I'd love to go back some time. This trip has assured me that I can enjoy a trip solo, because I can go at my pace, go where I want, play Pokemon Go while I walk if I want, and eat wherever I want.  This makes me really optimistic for Denmark next year.

Photographing Cemeteries

St. Francis Catholic Cemetery, Waterville ME

 I have had this blog for a long time, and I could have sworn I had written about my cemetery photography hobby before, but it's only vaguely mentioned in a post from 2015 where I talked about getting my creative spark back.

I've been visiting cemeteries in a non-funerary function for as long as I can remember. As a child, I used to help my parents as they helped fill Memorial Day orders at the family greenhouse for the local cemeteries, which included delivering arrangements and planting at the grave sites. Because visiting cemeteries was never associated with anything "scary" or "sad" for me (and indeed, the only "graveside" service I can remember attending is from adulthood) I have always found them a place of calm serenity. Oftentimes, if I need a quiet place to sit with my thoughts, I'll go to a cemetery. While some people do use them as walkable greenspaces (as they truly are), I typically have the place to myself for the most part, with the exception of the people who come to tend the graves of their loved ones. It's quiet, peaceful, and filled with art.

St. Francis Catholic Cemetery, Waterville ME

I started photographing cemeteries when I was in high school. I think the first time I put any effort into photographing something at a cemetery was at St. Francis Catholic Cemetery in Waterville, Maine, when I went with my mother as she tended to the graves of families. There are the most spectacular bronze angel statues guarding the gates of the cemetery (the Catholic side, because there is a secular side), one with a cross raised up to the sky, and another blowing a trumpet. It was natural, when I started photographing cemeteries again, that I recreate some of my first photos (the above is one of the recent photos). St. Francis is one I have traveled the width and breadth of because it is not only massive and convenient to get to, but it is filled with some of the most beautiful monuments. There are angels galore, many in varying state of decay due to age and the inevitable lichens that feed on the stone they are made from. There are virgin statues (see right), incredibly old grave markers that are barely legible, and new, shiny, modern marble and granite head stones with likenesses of the deceased etched into them with laser precision.

Maplewood Cemetery, Fairfield, ME

I have a set of personal rules or standards I hold myself to when I'm visiting the cemetery to photograph monuments. I try to remain as respectful as possible, and treat it like you would a national park: what goes in comes out with me. I try not to tread on the flat markers if I can help it (some have sunken into the ground and become overgrown over the years), and while I haven't encountered a fresh grave yet, I wouldn't tread on the dirt or otherwise disturb someone recently interred. I give anyone else in the cemetery a wide berth because I realize that some people find it weird and morbid and possibly inappropriate that I'm photographing grave markers and monuments. I also don't photograph (with one exception, because I hadn't seen one like it before) the names and birth/death dates if I can help it. If I can't, usually editing can help make them illegible. To me, photographing the personal information of the dead feels invasive. I do not sit on or lean on grave markers, ever. While a cemetery is a public greenspace, it is still a place where people are interred and their loved ones visit. It's not a park, or a playground, and I get upset when I see people walking their dogs through a cemetery or riding a horse through one (I have seen this). Cemeteries are sacred places to me, and they-- and their residents-- deserve respect.

Cavalry Cemetery, Skowhegan, ME

Photographing cemeteries is a sort of self-soothing act for me at times. It allows me to completely disconnect from the outside world for a while and do something creative. I often edit the photos on the spot and upload them to my Instagram account (you can find more there, but my page isn't all cemeteries), and I will walk through the more historic areas with their old, leaning marble stones to learn about the history of the area (anyone with an interest in epidemiology should visit an old cemetery or one with an old section, there's a lot to see and learn). Sometimes, though, I get sad, because I see graves with plastic or silk flowers on them, tattered and faded, and to me, that says "this is an obligation" or "I don't really care" and I would hate for my final resting place to be treated that way by the people I've left behind to care for it.

A friend recently asked permission to print some of my photos to decorate her office with and asked why I don't sell prints. Honestly, I don't photograph cemeteries for money or fame. They are available on my public Instagram page to view, and I would hope people would ask before reproducing them. I do this for myself. These cemeteries and the photos I take in them make me happy. I enjoy exploring different angles, getting close, and editing on my phone (because I take them ALL with my phone). I enjoy the time outside, walking, seeing the varying types of monuments, and learning the history of the area. I'd like to visit more than just the local cemeteries, but there is a lot here I'm sure I haven't seen. Cemeteries are a happy place for me.

If you're interested in death, cemeteries, mortuary science, and anything to do with death rituals, I highly recommend looking up Caitlyn Doughty either on Youtube or on her website. She's informative, funny, and a mortician that specializes in green burials.

All photos in this post are mine. If you want to see more, use the link above to visit my Instagram. Please don't steal them, I don't want to start using watermarks.

Bi Erasure, Biphobia, and Treating People Like a Fetish

Pride month is wrapping up, and I've had a few thoughts that have been stewing at a rolling boil just below the surface, and it started with The Babadook. I am not "babashook" about people elevating a horror movie character (from a fairly good movie, mind you) to the New Gay Icon(tm) and proclaiming that the B in LGBTQIA+ stood for Babadook. I am not here for that at all. And neither are other bisexuals.

Other? Yeah, about that. I'm bisexual.

Apologies to my family who find out via my blog. I never felt a "coming out" was important or necessary, because all of my relationships have been with men and let's face it, we all know I'm too huge of a catty bitch to have a functional relationship with a woman. It's not a big deal. I don't even particularly care about labels, but if you want to put one on it, there you go.

Back to the Babadook and why it's a big deal. Bi erasure is a huge problem not only in mainstream media but within the LGBTQIA+ community. Bisexuals are faced with stigma, exclusion, and treated like they're too gay to be in straight spaces but too straight to be in gay spaces. At the best, bisexual people are ignored. At the worst, they're either treated like a fetish for straight-identifying people or instantly categorized as inherently unfaithful and untrustworthy partners.

Let me tell you why the way bisexuals are treated is bullshit:

1. A bisexual person is perfectly capable of being in a committed, loving relationship with someone without being "tempted" to cheat, without feeling like they're "missing out" on the other sex. I am a ridiculously faithful person, even with a partner 1,200 miles away that I haven't seen in a year. Don't tell me I'm a cheater because I'm bi!

2. If someone tells you they're bisexual, your instant response shouldn't be "wanna have a threesome?" Please. That gets old really quick, and I can tell you, threesomes are kind of overrated, awkward, and boring. I'm not here to be your unrequited fetish fantasy.

3. It's not that I can't choose. I am attracted to both. It's how I am. Penises are awesome. Vulvas are awesome. It's not a phase. If it is, it's a 20 year one.

4. Bi people aren't bi for attention. If I was bi for attention, I would have... come out?

I'm sure so many others have written about the topic of bi erasure and biphobia much, much more eloquently than I have. But the whole point of this blog was to work through my feeling and thoughts as I wandered through my day-to-day life. So to sum up: I'm bi. No I don't cheat. I'm not attracted to you, don't worry. No I don't want a threesome. Yes I belong in queer spaces. No it's not a phase/for attention/because I can't choose. Yes I am valid. Yes I am visible. Yes I belong.

Oh and P.S., stop being shitty to asexual, intersex, gender noncomforming, nonbinary, trans, and other erased members of the community. They're just as valid.

Dear People in Customer Service

I'm taking a break from the last two weeks of hectic grad school wrap up to rant a little (did you miss me?). I am going to preface this with my work experience: about 3 years in a retail, face-to-face setting, and almost 9 years in a call center. That's a long time in customer service. I've trained customer service representatives. I did that for 2.5 years. I know what I'm talking about.

Getting my hair done is a treat. On average, a hair appointment for me, for a cut and color, can go anywhere from $50 - $70, depending on how complex I want my dye job to be. I haven't worked, aside from a 10 hour a week graduate assistantship, for 2 years, so I hoarded gift certificates from Christmas and my birthday so that I could get my hair done today, two weeks before I graduate, 5 days before a job interview for a job I really want. My life right now is busy and stressful, and getting my hair done is relaxing. I know my hairdresser, she's family, and the only person I want to touch my hair. She owns her salon and booth rents to other hairdressers. Today, as she was doing my hair, she was nearly going out of her mind as one of the girls that booth rents from her chattered at her client nonstop about her personal life. It was obnoxious. I offered to get rude.

Another preface, that's relevant to me: I am a weird combination of A-type personality and huge introvert. I get annoyed easily, I don't look outwardly approachable, and when I'm in a situation where I am receiving service from someone, I usually want it done as soon as possible. This is why I love the nail salon I go to. Their English is limited so they don't feel obligated to carry on a conversation, they're busy so they're working as quickly as possible. I'm in and out on a good day in about an hour with a fresh fill and polish. It's a win-win for me.

Somewhere, somehow, the service industry interpreted excessive chattiness as good customer service. That this loquaciousness was somehow endearing to a customer and built loyalty (and in addendum to this, calling every customer "hun" "sweetie" or, to my horror getting coffee the other day, "darlin'"). It's actually not. I wasn't even her client and I was getting annoyed by her constant stream of excessive, personal information. Yes, in an industry where you have regular customers, it's okay to get to know them, it's nice to chat. But, if you're going to do that, let the conversation be two-way, know your client's personality, and remember you're in a busy public place, and keep the conversation professional. I've overheard many, many conversations in the salon over the years that I never wanted to, and I'm sure clients didn't care to hear, either. Hell, when monitoring calls in the call center, I overheard agents sharing way too much with customers they didn't know, and you could hear in the customer's voice how awkward they felt, and how much they didn't want to have to hear it, but didn't want to be rude and interrupt (except one guy who told a coworker of mine ages ago "will you just stop talking?" which still makes me laugh to this day, because she had one of those horrible, saccharine voices that makes you want to stab out your ear drums with a hot poker).

Save the personal conversations for your friends and family, not your clients, whatever service industry you're in. No one wants it. It's awkward and your coworkers secretly hate you.

In addition, I think this sounds like a fabulous idea.

A Letter to my Youngest Niece on the Second Day of Trump's Presidency

Dear Rachel,

You probably won't see this unless someone directly links it to you, since you don't use Facebook, but this is something that's been composing itself in the back of my mind now for years. Composing itself, ever since that Easter a couple years ago when you, barely 15, started expressing an interest in politics and a desire to see a woman in the highest elected office in this country. That Easter, when I saw you visibly withdraw your passion when your grandfather (not my Dad, mind you) stated "the worst thing we ever did was give women the vote." With that utterance I felt rage well up inside of me, and I am truly sorry I didn't speak up, but instead buried myself in the glass of wine in my hand and worked on getting drunk.

With that single utterance, he reduced your thoughts, ideals, and hopes into an insignificance he ground under the heel of patriarchy, and I should have spoken up. I was so happy to see your burgeoning feminism at the table, and so incredibly sad to see someone in your life who is supposed to love and support you quash it. I'm sorry I didn't let my anger manifest into words. On this day where so many women around the world are voicing their anger and fear by demonstrating political dissent, reminding the patriarchy that our voices will be heard, I offer my humblest and sincerest apology. I have been dwelling on that day for years, and you have no idea how much that one harmful phrase has stuck with me. I will no longer remain silent. I may not be marching for us today, but I will no longer remain silent in the face of a regime that wants to subjugate women and commodify them.

You are an incredibly intelligent, articulate, generous, gentle, and kind person, Rachel, and don't let this cruel world strip that from you and turn you cynical. Seize hold of that burgeoning feminism I saw manifest years ago, and speak up for yourself, your friends, your loved ones. Get involved, be active. Get to know victims, marginalized people, vulnerable people. Use your incredible capacity for caring and compassion to make change in this world. Whatever career you embrace, use it as a platform for good, but please, I implore you, never lose your values, your ideals, your autonomy. Stand up for what is right and never allow someone to drown out your voice.

I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you then, but I will and am now. I have your back, and the backs of all women whose voices have been drowned out.

You are not property.

You are not a commodity.

You have agency.

You are strong, whether you realize it yet or not.

I'm proud to call you my niece.

Stop Telling Me to Give Him A Chance

In the wake of the horrible news that Donald Trump will, indeed, be the next President, I've swam through a sea of ignorance, white male privilege, and pure hostility on Facebook. I spent a good portion of yesterday unfriending and unfollowing people that support and spread the rhetoric of hate and intolerance while I tried to reconcile my own feelings, only to sit on my couch crying and feeling nauseous. This election season has been so stressful, and I get it, people are tired of hearing about it, tired of campaigns, tired of media oversaturation. And that's okay. I'm tired too. I'm emotionally exhausted, but my brain is already trying to think two steps ahead to plan how I'm going to help people most affected by this national tragedy. And as I try to think, as I read about the fears people have, I keep seeing the same things written by people over and over, people who don't get it, or people who lack empathy and compassion for others to see exactly why we're scared.

"Give him a chance"
"It'll be okay"
"He has no real power"
"Get over it"
"Stop whining"

On an on the apologist litany goes. I will be totally up front that I do have a level of privilege being a middle-class, educated, white woman in a largely rural state. I've never been sexually assaulted and despite dancing with poverty and mental illness, I've had a relatively comfortable life. But reading these sentiments over and over makes me sick. Why? Because these are the things rape apologists say about the victims of sexual and domestic assault when they try to use their voice and stand up for themselves and expose someone for the predator they are. And that's not okay.

I am scared. I am scared for my fellow women, queer folk, trans friends, friends of color, friends in a non-Judeo-Christian religion. I am scared of the culture of hatred, racism, and misogyny that has already sprouted as people are reporting harassment, threats, and assaults, all in less than 24 hours of the election results. For the first time in my 36 years, I am genuinely afraid of sexual assault. This is a Trump presidency. It's already happening. So no, I will not "take the high road," I will not "give him a chance." And it certainly will not be okay. This will be an unbearably long 4 years. Let's support each other.

Ways to help:
Donate to help transpeople get their names and genders legally changed here
Jezebel has a great (and expanding list) of organizations that support women, transfolk, people of color, immigrants and refugees, and people with disabilities that you can help by donating or volunteering here
Support the ACLU

You Are Not Entitled to a Wedding Invitation

By popular request, my wedding invitation rant, straight from my Facebook. Cut and paste for your pleasure! Nothing has been added.

*********************

I know of a few people planning weddings right now. Wedding planning is stressful as hell, and weddings are expensive. So when people post about their happy day, whether it be the initial "we're engaged!" announcement, or progress on their venue, etc., the appropriate response is "congratulations!" Appropriate responses do NOT include "I had better be getting an invitation!" or "I'm invited, right?"

What the fuck makes you so entitled? You're not. The couple is under no obligation to invite people to avoid hurt feelings, whether they be friends or family. Weddings are EXPENSIVE. Not only is the couple paying for venue, photographer, officiant, etc., they are paying FOR YOU to be there. You're getting a free ride on them, and if they decide not to invite current or former coworkers, distant relatives, YOUR CHILDREN, or not allow a plus one, that's their decision, because you know what? It's THEIR day, not yours. Nothing about it is about you actually.

And demanding/asking to be invited is rude as hell.

I know someone who was asked CONSTANTLY about an invitation to her special day, someone she didn't particularly want to invite, and it made her uncomfortable. Wedding planning is stressful enough to begin with, don't be the asshat that adds to the stress because YOU, as a special motherfucking snowflake, HAVE to be invited or the world ends.

If someone does you the honor of inviting you to their wedding, be gracious. And for fuck's sake, dress up. Nothing says "I don't really care" than showing up to a wedding (or a funeral, for that matter) in jeans and a t-shirt.

I Love Social Media

When I look at memes to the right, I can only think that they were made by technology-fearing old people. I know they're not, but when some people bitch and moan about "kids these days always on their damn phones" and how everyone is looking at a phone and tapping a screen, I tend to disagree with them. I'm one of those always-connected people. My phone is typically within visible range at all times, or in my pocket. Or my hand. My phone delivers my emails to me from my university, messages from my mother, texts from my friends, calls from my brother when he's drunk and waxing a bit maudlin. I love my phone. People who know me in real life know that I'm kind of shy, I take time to warm up to people and in general have a hard time making friends. So when people want to say that social media culture, Internet culture is ruining how we interact with each other, I'm going to heartily disagree with them.

I made a new friend today, all thanks to social media. It started with getting a follow on Twitter, then an exchange of tweets. Then realizing we had some stuff in common. This is what is wonderful and special about the Internet and social media. I remember back in the early 2000's when I first started using the Internet. One of the first places I visited was a Yahoo chatroom, where I made friends with people from all over. Then I moved on to message boards, where I made some long-lasting friendships on a Wicca/Paganism board. I still interact with those people to this day.

So fast forward to present time. Thanks to Facebook, I can keep in touch with my brother in Canada. I can keep up with my old college roommate and her adventures. I can see how my friends from computer club are and share their happiness and successes. I can network with former coworkers. And speaking of networking, via LinkedIn, I can keep my resume updated and build a network of professional connections. I can search jobs, and see how my old coworkers are doing professionally. If I want makeup inspiration, I turn to Instagram and Youtube, which is also a wealth of information for other things; I've often used it for Excel tutorials when I need to see how things are laid out. When I want quick updates on a celebrity, I turn to Twitter. In fact, I have gained a ton of admiration and respect for a band that is easily becoming my second favorite band of all time (Tool will always be number one) because of their interactivity with fans on social media. It's probably a huge time sink for them, but in turn they have an incredibly loyal fanbase. And you know what? I discovered that band when someone I follow on Instagram posted a picture of the lead singer and I got curious. If not for that, I probably wouldn't have discovered them.

Before  you judge someone for staring at their phone, ask yourself-- are they Skyping a family member oversea? Are they getting updates on a friend? Are they looking for a job or applying to school? Smartphones connect us in a way we have never been connected before, and social media enhances that experience by creating a global community. 20 years ago I would never have thought I'd have friends all over the world that were a Kik message or Facebook post away. If you told me then that I'd be able to talk to my brother in Canada for free through a social media app, I wouldn't have believed you. Sure, there's a lot of oversaturation of media that does come from social media and the Internet, and Pinterest culture has lead to a lot of people with identical tattoos (I won't rant about my loathing for Pinterest today, but that's one social media platform I don't use) but I feel the good outweighs the bad. As a global society, social media has given us insight into the plight of the peoples of other nations, social injustices and victories. Social media has brought us all together in a wonderful, beautiful way.

If you're interested in my social media presence, I'll pop some links below. Facebook is private but all else I welcome followers. All the links should open in new windows/tabs.

Instagram
Twitter
Tumblr
YouTube (there's not much on there)
Yelp
And of course, you're already on my blog, so I needn't post that. :)

Running Away

This weekend was... not good. Anyone that knows me knows that I run away from my problems, and I felt like I had nowhere to run to this weekend. One of the signs that I have an amazing and supportive boyfriend is that he recognizes my need to run away, so we got in the car and he just started to drive. We'd gotten about an hour away when he asked if I wanted to go back. I wasn't ready. So we just kept going, riding in silence while I stewed and processed and vacillated (and at times nodded off) until we found ourselves in northern New Hampshire. We stopped at a shitty Irish pub for dinner and made our way through the White Mountains National Forest on our way home. It was exactly what I needed, to be surrounded by mountains and trees and silence. By the time we reached somewhere around North Conway (and we still had a couple hours ahead of us) I was ready to talk.

We came in on Rt2, went through Gorham, Berlin, Lancaster, then down 302 and got back into Maine via Freyburg. Had we just kept going west for 10 miles, we would have made it to Vermont.

#ThxBirthControl!

Today, Planned Parenthood encouraged women to share why they're thankful for birth control. This is something that I take personally, so let me list why I appreciate my birth control:

1. Thanks to the Affordable Care Act, my birth control pills are free. Without it, they would be close to $100 for a 3-month supply. While I have a good job, I wouldn't be able to afford that. And when I get the opportunity to revisit the conversation with my doctor, my sterilization will be 100% covered.

2. Thanks to my birth control, I am not burdened with children that I a) can't afford to take care of, b) do not want, and c) would probably abuse (It takes a lot of self-awareness to understand this about yourself, and I don't think less of myself for coming to this realization).

3. Thanks to my birth control, I have and can focus on a job I really love.

4. Thanks to my birth control, I don't worry about adding to the staggering amount of people at risk for heart disease in my family (along with mental illness and cancer).

5. Thanks to birth control, I can travel whenever I want to, without having to make any extra plans except for making sure my cats have sufficient food and water. I can go to adult-friendly places and eat at kid-unfriendly restaurants.

6. Thanks to birth control, I can be as selfish as I want to be. I can have nice things and eat ice cream for dinner without having to set an example or share. I don't have to share my video games.

7. Thanks to birth control, I can save money to become more financially stable.

8. Thanks to birth control, I don't have to watch my fucking mouth or save naughty movies for late at night.
 
9. Thanks to birth cntrol, I can be empowered as a woman to make my own health choices.

Tatas Aren't Worth Saving

So last October, I ranted about the commercialization and commodifying of breast cancer/breast cancer awareness and how marketers take advantage of people's needs to feel good about supporting a cause by buying stuff. Breast cancer was, and still is, a very personal subject to me. So when I see the idiotic meme to the right floating around Facebook, and all the stupid "save the tatas" shit, I need to rant, and rant hardcore. I can understand the intent behind it all: be supportive! Be aware! Cancer is bad! But you know what? Memes like this and pink rubber "save the tatas" bracelets trivialize the disease and the women who struggle with it.

Not to sound like I'm ripping off Jezebel's article from last year on a similar subject, but we really need to stop the focus on the "breast" part of breast cancer awareness. In this sexualized American culture, more importance is put on the actual breast tissue than the woman with the disease. Let's talk breasts for a minute. What are they? According to cancer.org:

The breasts make milk for breastfeeding. It has 2 main types of tissues: glandular tissues and supporting (stromal) tissues.

The glandular part of the breast includes the lobules and ducts (shown in the picture below). In women who are breastfeeding, the cells of the lobules make milk. The milk then moves through the ducts–—tiny tubes that carry milk to the nipple. Each breast has several ducts that lead out to the nipple.

The support tissue of the breast includes fatty tissue and fibrous connective tissue that give the breast its size and shape. (source)

Breast tissue is non-essential. Women can easily live without breasts. However, so much emphasis is placed on the breasts being a large part of a woman's feminine identity that women often feel that a mastectomy makes them less feminine, or takes away their womanhood somehow. In '"Does That Make Me a Woman?" Breast Cancer, Mastectomy, and Breast Reconstruction Decisions among Sexual Minority Women,' Rubin and Tanenbaum write:

Lorde’s (1997) account of her own experience of breast
cancer was among the first to illuminate the sexism, racism,
and heterosexism ingrained in both the clinical and social
context of breast cancer. She was particularly concerned with
the assumption, expressed by medical professionals and
breast cancer support organizations alike, that some form of
replacement breast—whether through prosthesis or
reconstruction—is an essential element of cancer survivorship.

 Instead of focusing on the breasts as something that must be saved, let's look at the women themselves, and create a supportive and safe network for them where they don't have to feel like they are less of a woman for having a mastectomy done, or that they are reduced to no more than fatty tissue on their chests. Need to have a mastectomy? Go for it. Genetically cursed and want to do one preemptively? Excellent. It's your choice to have them removed, and also a choice whether you want them reconstructed. Either way, you're still a woman. In the end, it is the person who matters, not a fleshy part of the body.

For further reading, here is an excellent article about survivor identity. And here's a wonderful article about post-mastectomy tattooing.

Please, I Don't Need Your Help!

Because I don't have a DCUO pic...

John and I just wrapped up a 20 hour gaming marathon over two days on DC Universe Online. In that time our goal was to get my character from level 22 to max level 30 (we were successful) by clearing out all my quests and doing instances (if you want to know, I dinged level 30 taking down Fire). During that time, I did go off on my own to grind and farm. Let me point out that I almost always play a female character (the exception being my paladin from WoW) and while yes, I am a female gamer, I'm by no means new to this thing.

That being said, there are things that just make me rage. So you see a female character surrounded by mobs. She's a magic user, no way she can handle those by herself! So you run over and start killing mobs for her. I HATE THAT. DON'T DO THAT. I didn't ask for your help, so why the hell do you think you need to be a hero and save me? I pulled those mobs, and I'm going to AOE (area of effect) them down. I'm fine. Unless you see something in world chat or whatever that says "HALP!" I really don't want to see you hovering around. And if you're opposite faction and you try to "help," you're going to make me really fucking nervous. If PvP (player vs. player) is enabled, I may just go after you. I'm a PvPer, and I can't read best intentions, and cross-factions can't communicate. So if you're trying to do something nice, emote, okay?

I decided to dick around on some ridiculously low quests today because I never go to Metropolis in DCUO. I just hate the zone, but since I never really did anything there, I figured I could get some investigations completed (I'm a wicked completeist) to try to boost me up and get some extra skill points. So I'm flying around, killing shit and I get a tell (private message) from another player, telling me he/she would teach me about my class. I said no, grinding my teeth all along. They continued to talk at me about how hard my class can be at max level and I again declined, stating "I'm not an MMO noob." Then they bothered to look at my level (I was 27, almost 28 and 30 is the max, remember) and they kind of ate crow. I went back and talked to them, but seriously, I absolutely hate-- not just in gaming-- unsolicited advice/mentoring. I didn't ask. Don't assume I don't know my class or that I don't already have someone in my pocket. When I say "no thanks," please leave it at that.

Anyway, I should have taken a screenshot of my new armor set, because it looks fucking amazing.

Prostitution Should be Legal

With the recent scandal (ohnoes!) in Kennebunk about the Zumba instructor who was also serving as her own pimp and whore, I thought I'd bring out an old post from my sexuality blog (no, you may not have the link) about prostitution and why it should be legal.

********************

A good friend and I were taking about jail and how celebrities are released due to over crowding because we frankly have the wrong "criminals" in there. What do I mean by the wrong criminals, you ask? Let's talk drugs, for a moment. Now, I am one of the most anti-drug people you'll ever meet, but jailing a small-time user or dealer of marijuana is ridiculous and a waste of time and money. Fine them and be on their way. Now white-collar crimes like tax evasion. Not only are the taxes not getting paid, but it actually costs taxpayers money to have tax evaders in jail. Way to go, the legal system.

So what does this all have to do with prostitution? A number of things. Since I'm composing this on my phone (anyone wanna donate a Samsung Galaxy Tab? *wink*) and it's becoming cumbersome, I present to you the numbered list. Besides, people feel tl;dr with paragraphs sometimes.

1. Legalization would allow for federal regulation, meaning taxation (because really, it's only illegal because the government isn't getting their cut) and access to healthcare programs.

2. Also, legalization would decriminalize the sex worker industry, freeing up space in the jails for rehabilitation of real criminals and would help our government save on wasteful spending.
 
3. No more pimps! No more girls or boys abused, held hostage, raped and kept strung out and controlled by the god-damned pimps. Prostitutes in a legalized sex industry would have a safer work environment due to the lack of pimps.

4. Regulation... I touched on this briefly. One thing that there is no control over now that legalization could enforce is something that is done in the porn industry: mandatory STD and AIDS testing every 3-6 months as well as immunizations for hepatitis.

5. Oh, and let's put an end to human trafficking, shall we? Of course, legalizing prostitution doesn't put an end to the exploitation of the impoverished and desperate denizens of third world countries, but it will help.

The Best Role Model Today

This post was bound to happen eventually.

I can't help it. I have a huge love for drag queens in general, but I really have to dedicate an entry to RuPaul, and not for the reasons you'd think.

In this day and age when reality TV is flooding our senses and young people with less than savory characters and athletes are doping and movie stars are drunk driving and snorting coke in bathrooms,  we despair that there are no more positive role models left. I beg to differ. There's RuPaul. Despite being a drag queen, there's nothing disingenuous about him. He doesn't lead you to believe he is really a woman; on the contrary, he's quite frank about having to tuck.

The big thing about RuPaul that makes him such a great role mode though, is his positivity. Watch his shows, Drag Race and Drag U, some time. Sure, Drag Race is a little gritty, since it's a competition between drag queens, but the core message he gives the competitors is "if you can't love yourself, how the hell are you going to love anyone else? (can I get an amen?)" You have to remember, a lot of the competitors on Drag Race are coming from less than supportive homes, were bullied, disowned, had their self esteem ripped apart, and were only brought back up through the drag community. RuPaul as a pioneer has provided them, by his very presence, a safe space and a positive place to grow. Let's look at Drag U, since I just finished watching season one. In Drag U, three women with image issues come to be made over by previous contestants of Drag race. Maybe they've always been picked on, maybe they're overweight, maybe they just don't feel sexy or happy in their own skin any more. RuPaul assigns each woman a beautiful drag queen to help her regain her femininity, confidence, and make her over.

Even RuPaul's music is positive. It's always upbeat, poppy, and full of positive messages. And some of it is actually really good. You can't help but feel uplifted and in a better mood after listening to it. I mean, look at the lyrics for Champion. That's some motivational speaker material there if I ever saw it.

You don't have to love RuPaul, but certainly, even the biggest drag queen hater (if they exist) can admire the positive energy he puts out in the universe. Everybody say love!

Awareness and being Aware

Every month now is an awareness month, and with so many causes out there to be aware of, they often overlap*, but in the month of October, you can't go into any retail location without seeing a wash of pink everywhere. And, it kind of bugs me. Now, before you call me a sensitive ass for being offended by breast cancer charity let me explain. The lady in the picture to the right is my Nana. She is sadly no longer with us (it is suspected she was reincarnated as my Aunt's cat, but she was Catholic, so I don't know how that works) but she was a three time  survivor of breast cancer. See, back in the day, we didn't know much about breast cancer, because no one we knew was directly affected by it. It happens. We knew about heart disease and lung issues, but not breast cancer. You become aware of a lot in a short period of time. Now all the women in my family get checked yearly when they're of a certain age. My doctor does an exam on me every year too; breast cancer is not a disease that affects only older, post- or parimenipausal women. In fact, when it hits younger women, it is often very aggressive. Early detection is key. So when you have to live through someone you know and love going through radiation, extensive surgeries, lymph node removal and eventual mastectomy, you tend to become very aware, very quickly. And men, you're not immune. Please, always talk to your doctor if you even have a fear that there may be something wrong.

So now you know, I take it personal when people commercialize breast cancer. It's not so much the commercialization and the splashing of pink on everything, it's the legitimacy of the products that is alarming. Big-ticket causes like Breast Cancer Awareness Month is a prime revenue source for scammers setting up fake charities and milking the sympathies and good intentions of people who think their money is going toward research and helping women. This article published on Jezebel.com last year has some alarming statistics about breast cancer scams, and even the results of a Yahoo search on "breast cancer charity scam" are frightening, but taking money out of the hands of scammers and back into research and development is fully possible, just through a little more awareness. Look at the labels on products stating they are for breast cancer awareness. Do they say a certain percentage of proceeds go to a certain fund or charity? If so, is it one you've heard of? If not, look it up. Real Simple has an amazing list of approved, legitimate breast cancer charities.

One foundation that is not on the list, and is often over-looked, perhaps due to a lack of awareness, is Planned Parenthood. That's right, the organization the conservatives love to hate provides early detection screenings, mamograms, and education:

Planned Parenthood doctors and nurses teach patients about breast care, connect patients to resources to help them get vital biopsies, ultrasounds, and mammograms, and follow up to make sure patients are cared for with the attention they need and deserve.

Planned Parenthood also works with the Susan G. Komen Foundation to help low-income women get the vital early detection screenings and exams to help save lives.

So "think before you pink" and ensure your money is going to the right place. And if you want to be a geek about it even the WWE is in on the action with their Rise Above Cancer partnership with Susan G. Komen. I happened to see one of the shirts yesterday on a young lady at the fair.


*October is also Rett Syndrome awareness month. Rett Syndrome is a disease that only affects girls, my good friend Ben's daughter Campbell is affected. He has written some amazing blogs over time about it and his struggles as a Rett parent. Until I met him, I had never even heard of it. Go read the two links there. They're humbling.

Keeping with the Old Ways

The other night John invited me over to have a turkey dinner cooked by his roommate, Kevin (yes, I am back in John, no we are not a couple). After ensuring safe food handling had been observed (long story) I accepted, being hungry with no money to buy groceries. It was a well-cooked turkey, but the gravy was from a jar. I asked "what are you going to do with the bones?" Kevin shrugged and said "some people know how to make soup out of 'em, I don't." I looked up from under my hair, I'm sure my eyes were green as they are when I am passionate and said, almost in a movie-witch whisper "I do." My price for taking the bones was that I had to pick the carcass, which wasn't hard. I enjoy picking chicken carcasses so this was no different, and got me a gallon bag full of bones. But there was another problem: the pan drippings, which had not been made into gravy, sat a half inch deep in the roasting pan. I wanted them. All night, I would hover in the kitchen over the pan, which had not been taken care of, longing for them. And finally, when the turkey and the bag it had been cooked in had been cleared away and all the other food, that pan and the tantalizing drippings, now semi-congealed with the richness of the collagen in the bones and cartilage, sat there still. I deemed it mine for the taking, and John said if I could find a container with a lid, I could have it. I poured that golden goodness off and happily pranced with it and my bag of bones to my car, to stash them in my freezer when I got home later on.

I am, like the crow that is my animal guide, a scavenger by nature, I always have been, but it was my mother who taught me the value of bones. I grew up watching her after Thanksgiving and Christmas, once the bird was divest of its flesh, take the bones and roast them for hours in the oven and come away with a small amount of very concentrated, flavorful stock. After the Easter ham was done, she would boil the bone for pea soup (yuck). Short ribs, with their long, flat bones, were excellent for beef and barley. So having learned this, I always saved my chicken carcasses in the freezer. When buying cuts of meat, I look at the whole package and say "can these bones be of use to me?" (I've recently discovered a use for pork bones, which pleases me).

Yesterday, I took the bones from my freezer, as well as some my mother had given me from Thanksgiving, and a turkey leg I had bought in a package of three and then bagged separately  to boost quick chicken soups with flavor, and placed them in a roasting pan with onion, carrots, and a head of garlic and some water. In a slow oven, they roasted all day as I gradually added water and the broth got richer and more flavorful with each passing hour. My house smelled incredible, as if I was roasting a turkey for myself (I wish! I ordered pizza) and a few hours before I stopped the whole operation, I pulled the meaty drumstick out, cut the meat from it, and threw the bone back in the become brown with the rest. The cats and I enjoyed a tasty morsel, for even I can enjoy dark meat cooked in that broth. All in all it only yielded a quart and a half of stock, but this is valuable stuff, because a little goes a long way. One quart of it will flavor several quarts of soup. I can't wait to make some.

Yes, as I made this bone soup and thought forward to today's baking (banana bread) the thought "we keep the old ways here" kept running through my head. And it's true, as I think on my spiritual reawakening this summer and reconnection to the forest. But it's also true, cooking down bones to make stock, that these are the old ways and the youth of today (even a 40 year old man) don't know these things. It is one of those infinitesimally comforting things to know that should I truly hit rock bottom, and I'm at the butcher or the grocery store, I can ask for bones, which in today's society is throw-away trash, and make something nourishing out of it. And as I think on it, probably the best recipes have evolved from poverty, when you had to make something from nothing. So, gentle readers, if you have a chicken or turkey carcass, I will happily take your bones. If you have a prime rib, I will take the ribs. If you remove the bones from bone-in pork chops, I will take those too. This crow shall make a mighty feast on your bones.