Small Town Pride

Life in the Methow Valley is not like life in your other parts of rural America, and it isn't just our beautiful landscape that separates us from the rest. In most of the small towns I have travelled to in the last few years I have noticed a distinct marginalization of the LGBT communities that dwell quietly within their population. 

But here, in the Methow Valley, we celebrated today. And in this celebration, Winthrop, Washington, made a statement today: Small towns do not have small minds. 

On a perfectly sunny morning, over a hundred people gathered on Riverside Avenue to march in honor of Methow Valley Pridefest. Kids hopped around on pogo sticks and rode scooters and were held by their loving parents. Rainbows wafted over the crowd and smiles gleamed from both marchers and spectators. The crowds cheered and waved and hollered as they ambled past the Tenderfoot General Store and Three-Fingered Jacks--the "oldest" saloon in the state of Washington. 

These were the folks that own businesses, raise beautiful and intellectual children, run non-profit organizations and produce and support art. These were the couples who see that our chamber of commerce runs smoothly, our utilities are maintained, and our bellies are full of sweet treats. This march was not solely done by those who are gay/lesbian/bi-sexual/transgender. This march was for one basic purpose: to celebrate love. 

Yes, we celebrated love and companionship in all its manifestations. 

Love in all its forms is tolerated, however it is not always accepted even here. Over the last year and a half, I've seen my friends blush and beam at their wives or husbands yet resist the urge to hug and kiss them in public. They walk side-by-side without holding hands when walking down the street. It's true, Washington state (specifically the more rural eastern Washington) has a lot of growth to make, but on days like this I think we get one step closer. 

Perhaps the most beautiful thing I saw was my friend April and her wife Sam (who were engaged one year ago today) head the march along with their fur baby, Vinnie. And they were holding hands as a married couple. My heart damned-near exploded when I saw them so happy together. They are love. 

So is Vinnie. 

And then there is love like this: 

My dear friend Mo makes Christianity look real good. She is one of the most supportive people within this community (or anywhere, for that fact) I've ever seen. She and her husband have served the world well with their gift of community service and love. I thank the universe/what-have-you every day for positive role models like them. Our children need people like them. 

And the kids! 

The children present at Methow pride were given a lesson today that all people are to be treated equally and respectfully. These are the kids who stand up for the marginalized and bullied. These are the kids who will stop a student and say, "Please don't use the word 'gay' like that. It's not a kind use of the word." 

They are a gentle and hopeful nudge toward progress. 

But it's not enough to dump the responsibility of progress onto these children. We must cultivate the notions of tolerance, acceptance, and respect every day through our own actions. Their progress is contingent upon ours. 

And today, in the Methow Valley, our group marched step-by-step onward. 

Photos provided by Mo, by awesome buddy, me, and the Winthrop, WA facebook page.

Mama Shame: The Body Love Battle

I opened up the newspaper last week to find me and my daughter in a large photo on the back page. "Rose and Magnolia hula hooping at the art opening," the caption read. 

At first, I did not notice the beautiful way our skirts swayed in tandem, the green grass, or the art installation I had just finished helping with in the background of the photo. No. There was only one thing that I saw in that image, and there was only one horrendous thought. 

My stomach. You can see my stomach skin. Everyone can see my stomach. 

It was only a small sliver of flesh--a pale strip where my tank top had slid up about an inch on my left hip. 

I wanted to hide. 

Not that anyone could see the stretchmarks that had invaded my once smooth flesh, but I knew that they, and the pregancy drapes were there. I was completely humiliated that I had allowed my body to be shown in public. I cried in the bathroom, ashamed of my body, ashamed of my vanity, ashamed of it all. 

I gained 100 pounds with each child. My body looks as though it was made from far too much fabric which hangs about in the most intimate places. There are not enough ab routines or lotions to undo the warzone that is my body. 

And now, as a single mother, the body-image challenge is even harder to overcome. Who would/could love a body that resembles a wasteland. Standing naked in front of a mirror, Vonnegut rings through my ears: "It was like the moon." 

A link arrived in my inbox today. It was a kickstarter for  'A Beautiful Body' Book Project done by photographer Jade Beall. The kickstarter sight features some of the images in the book. One in particular shook my everything. 

"That's me." 

Photo via Huffington Post. 

The image shows a woman with a body like mine. A body that looked like the moon--only it was beautiful. I lost what little composure I had. That is my body, and it is ravaged and I honestly couldn't keep myself from feeling shame for her. But it wasn't this beautiful and brave woman's shame, it was my own. I wear the extra-long tank top under my everyday life in hopes that no one will know. I keep my shame concealed. 

But there, on the computer screen, in from of the world, was my shame and fear of being alone for the rest of my life because of it. 

And it had nothing to do with the photo. 

Jade Beall is rattling the cages of society. Silently through joyous images of visctorious mothers, she is shouting,"wake up! You are beautiful and there is nothing wrong with the way you are!" 

She is activism through truth, and I thank her for it. I just wish I could believe it. 

I stretched out on the carpet and thought over the images of mothers--these women-goddesses in their flesh. My son, now seven, jumped on me, pulled up my shirt and played with my belly. My children always play with my belly and pull and prod my skin like taffy or putty to which I squirm and fight them off. Tonight was no different. "Stop!" I squealed in laughter and embarassment, "Why do you always play with my belly?!"

He stopped, patted my loose gut and then rested his head on it. "I love it. It's just so good. It's my favorite place of you." 

My daughter, eleven, came over and kissed my stomach in the same way she had kissed it when it held her baby brother. "It's where we came from. It's comfy. It has that 'safe' feeling." 

I grabbed them tightly, squeezing them toward my stomach. Holding on to my two babies I realized that I would take a thousand more stretchmarks just for this one moment. I may not be able to overcome my shame yet, but there, on the rug in a cluttered bedroom with two wonderful children, I took a big step forward. 

 I love them and I am loved, I thought. How lucky can you get? 

Raised Wild.

It rained all day, so the momentary break in the storm was a lovely after-dinner gift. 

“A nice, quiet walk” was what my father wanted. “A nice, quiet walk down to the beaver pond.” 

My father and I sauntered down the road while my six year-old son ran circles around us, whooping, hollering, and singing. “It’s a good thing we have a peaceful valley here,” my father mused. “The kids can fill it to the brim with noise.” 

Deer eating in the meadow perked and scampered away from the oncoming cacophony. The bushes shuddered and released a bevyl of quail as my son loudly brandished his trusty stick. He wailed in delight as he ran up a dirt hill and slid down again.  

“This is where we raise wild children,” I rationalized. 

My father smiled at me. “Wild children end up turning out all right.” 

I was raised wild. 

“You were fearless when you were a child,” my father reminisced. “You’d just go and not worry about anything. You’d come home dirty and dinged up, but you were happy.”  

My son bellowed at the beaver pond, sending idle ducks packing. I told him to run down to a tree about a hundred yards off--a challenge that had him racing down the road in a warrior’s charge. 

“I used to have you run down to the tree, too,” my father noted. “But I always had you run  right back.” 

We looked to my noisy storm of a son who was attempting to thwart his leafy foe with his twig sword. 

“I've learned you can get a few more moments of softer din if you leave that last part out for a while," I said. 

The break in the clouds let the sun breathe down on the valley. My son’s noise was a near-off rumble. 

“I’m at a point in my life where it’s not about quiet,” I shrugged. “It’s about quieter.” 

My father smiled at me. “He is wild, but wild is a good thing. And it takes a lot of courage to raise wild kids.” 

I smiled back and called my son as we headed home. My father put his arm around my shoulders. “Still fearless.” 

 

"B" is for "boy." "T" is for "tractor" and "turd."

"So how much an hour would it take to get you full time?" 

That was the question asked of me a few weeks ago. My bosses, they like me I think. 

So after a 40 hour work week (along with the three other part-time gigs I roll on), I had my first real weekend of the spring in the Methow. 

It was glorious. 

The weather was warm and invited us out to perambulate the fields and plot our next project: The chicken coop. 

The squids and I hacked and fought our way through long-neglected lilacs and opened up the new chicken coop room on the homestead house. The homestead was built over a hundred years ago and is about 20x20 with a door into every room. One will be the chicken coop room. It's a beautiful building and embodies all that is the wabi-sabi (old shit can still be pretty mentality). It housed three generations and about a dozen children grew up within its now crumbling womb. 

Mid-toil, I spotted my father sauntering over from his property. 

Over the next few hours there was pain, tears, whining, and grossness. 

I shall sum it up in a text. 

Yeah. Like that. The good son stole a key, lost it, was sent to his room, climbed out the window, took a shit in the front yard, then climbed back IN to his room. 

Then he crept out of his room to ask that if I was going to make him dinner would I please make pancakes so I could just slide them under the door. "Oh, and by the way, I went poop. But don't worry, I pooped outside." 

I can't really describe the contortion my face  made at that moment. Somewhere between total repugnance and rage, I'd imagine. I couldn't even speak. Fortunately for me, the twitch below my right eye started sending Morse code swears about the house. The sight of the twitch had my little public pooper walking slowly back to his room, maintaining fearful eye contact all the while. 

The worst of this whole debacle was that he was completely remorseless. Dear god, I thought, my child is one step away from being a sociopath. A million scenarios ripped through my imagination. Will I find that he's skinning adorable animals next? Or maybe he'll begin an underground crime ring next to the teeter-totter at school! He may even start hacking into the Federal Somethingerother's internet databases!! 

"JAIL!" I screamed. My son jumped four feet in the air. He had back-stepped all the way to his bedroom door and was frantically pawing for the doorknob when I broke the silence. 

I ran to him, falling on my knees, pleading to my only son. "Is that what you truly want? A lifetime in prison?! Don't you know that thievery and lyery are the cornerstones to childhood corruption? And pooping in the yard is the gateway to crime! Is that what you want? Do you want to have a rap sheet for public nudity by the time you're eight?!" 

I could hardly keep myself up. I wanted to swoon, but thought it'd be a bit too antiquated for him to grasp the subtlety. 

I gathered what was left of my integrity and looked into his eyes. "I love you. You're being really weird today, but I still love you. So you can stop being weird and stop shitting in the yard and stealing keys, okay?" 

Mouth agape, he shook his head, but it may have just been trembling. He finally found the doorknob to his room and raced into his sanctuary.

I fed the therapy jar. 

What is it with these little boys and poop? Haven't we moved on from random acts of fecal matter? That's a primate thing, right? 

Will he ever learn? Will I ever learn? These boys, they are all farts and penis and butt and poop and pee and nothing like little girls. Maybe that's a good thing, though. Maybe all of these things that make him excessively male help not only define him, but help me understand these boys' psyches. Until then, I am at a loss. 

I composed myself with a few cleansing breaths and the Morse code eye twitch subsided. I opened his door and caught him reading. Good kid. 

I walked back out into the chicken coop area. The way I have it set up, I'll be able to have them poop in the garden.....it's good for soil, yanno?