My Tribe

I got tagged in tribe challenge on Facebook and decided to celebrate some of my longest and most impactful relationships.

What better way to kick it off than with my longest friendship - Laura. Our parents were friends before we were born and I only lived four months without her in my life. There must be thousands of photos of us together. My first sleepover was at her house. I can’t even begin to count how many shenanigans we got into or how many horror stories are parents could tell. No matter how much time passes between seeing each other we never miss a beat. She is smart, stunning, a wonderful mother, and I don’t think that anyone has made me laugh more than she has. 

Visiting Washington D.C. with Laura in 2011.

I’ve known Emily since I was three years old. The list of shenanigans and blackmail photos is probably a hundred miles long. We were both obnoxious Leo’s but any time we got together we dialed it up to eleven and broke the nob off! I had a rough year when I had gone to visit her in California but when we were together I just remember laughing for days straight. She is someone who can turn the most mundane trip to the grocery store into a ridiculous adventure and a story for the ages. I have seen her grow from some difficult times into the amazing woman she is and never lost an once of her sparkle. She is beautiful, wild, and unstoppable. I have enjoyed every minute of her company. 

Visiting Emily in California in 2016.

My third longest friendship is with Rochelle, who I met when I was six years old. We were neighbors and she asked me if I wanted to be friends. My family moved when I was nine years old and I don’t know if I would see her again. We were miraculously reunited in middle school when after three years of changing schools I ended up at the same school where her mom was a teacher. We recognized each other immediately and it has been delightful wackiness ever since. I can’t think of any other person who can bounce between art and science topics with such enthusiasm and fluidity. She also taught me the value of hugs in middle school when she wrapped her arms around me when I was having a bad day. I have been a hugger ever since. She is extraordinarily kind and exquisitely unique. Watching her raise her little girls has made my heart melt.

Hanging out with Rochelle and her daughter Ellie in 2019.

I have known Amber since I was fifteen. We met in Marine Biology in high school when she sat next to me. I loved hanging out at her house eating nachos, talking about boys, and watching MTV. Not long after we got to college my relationships with my first roommate and my boyfriend collapsed. I would not have come out of that mess as well as I did without her help. Her straight forward, no nonsense approach to problem solving is something I have always admired. When we became roommates I experienced a physical and emotional stability that I hadn’t known in years. We were always laughing, sharing clothes and cooking up a storm in the kitchen! I’ve watched her take on grad school and become this incredible teacher and roll model. Seeing her ride the roller coaster of the adoption process waiting to be the mother she already knew she was. The outpouring of love that she has for her children is so incredibly special and they couldn’t have ended up in a more wonderful home. I am so proud of her and everything she has accomplished! She is fearless, radiates grace, and is completely unstoppable! 

Enjoying a girls weekend in Tampa with Amber in 2013.

I met Mariko at Dandelion Cafe back in 2008 when I was looking for an internship. She was working on the WET show for the Fringe Festival that year and asked if would be interested. I said yes. Working on the WET show was unlike anything I had ever done before and was the first time as an artist that I felt like I was part of an art community. I was so impressed that when the show was over I told her that “she would never be rid of me”. Over the years it is incredible to see what was accomplished. Working a myriad of jobs within DRIP I learn what I was capable of and acquired skills I never thought I would have. She is the reason half of my clothes still have paint on them. Most people that I know in Orlando I met thru her. She is innovative, boundless, and compassionate. It is so hard to put into words just how much of an impact she had on my life. What an incredible ride! 

Mariko and I in the DRIP venue on I-Drive around 2012; before all the renovations. 

I met Tink somewhere in 2012 shortly after we got the DRIP venue on I-Drive. My first memory of you was going out to eat at Cici’s pizza. I remember I thought she was intense and very smart. She was instrumental in getting the show off the ground and keeping it running. I couldn’t believe how much she knew about lighting at such a young age. Through the long hours we got to know each other very well. I so fondly remember our many conversations on the loading dock, our little pre and post show sing-a-longs, and our 3am gas station snack runs. Her sass and spunk are truly legendary. And she was reason I got into the SCA. She knew I’d love it right from the start and it brought so many wonderful people into my life. She is the common link between my two wild adventures. I am so proud of all she has accomplished and how she has grown as a person. She is strong, a unique mix of crazy and down to earth, and immensely fun to be around.

With Tink on her wedding day in 2017. 

Ten Years

I made my first post on Currents and Color ten years ago on July 29, 2010.

I wasn’t sure what direction I was heading in, but I’m glad I took flight. For the ten year anniversary I wanted to reflect on my two largest and most surprising categories:

Writing 

Writing came to me later in life. I remember I was given a diary as a child and balked at the idea of journaling something everyday. It seemed laborious. I didn’t do anything particularly exciting and I had no deep, dark secrets I was holding on to. I was still too young for serious inner reflection. 

In high school we were given a journaling assignment and it turned me off writing for years. My sophomore English teacher was the only one I had a hard time getting along with. She wanted us to write something about our lives every day. I found the assignment dull and approached it with a very matter-of-fact sensibility. The teacher criticized me for not using enough “flowery words”. 

“Do you want to read bullshit or do you want to read information?” I protested. 

She was not thrilled with my response and I had nothing flowery going on in my life so it felt pointless to use flowery words. To top it off most of my high school and early college years were plagued by the “Gordon Rule”, a guideline for writing that meant that anything need to contain a minimum number of words. It forced me to think in terms of length as opposed to quality. You had to jump a hurdle, not create something impactful. Haikus, poetry, song lyrics, and short stories can be brilliant forms of expression. A powerful experience is created by meaningful content, not by merely hitting a predetermined number of words. 

Once out of high school it took a while for me to come back to writing. My best friend Amber suggested a start a Live Journal. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. I was old enough for inner reflection and without the needless demands of high school I was free develop a style that fit me. 

As a grew into my writing I became more aware of my internal struggles. I was better able to articulate my thoughts and I found my voice. I branched into writing poetry and short stories. I have always been a talkative person but a lot of what I write about would not come up in most conversations. I tend to struggle with complex emotions and writing has allowed me to pull a lot to the surface that my have remained hidden. For as talkative as my be, there is still much that brews internally. Writing has become the bridge to that innermost world.

Photography 

Another avenue that came to me later in life. I never thought I would love photography as much as I do now. But I stumbled into a photography class at a Photoshop Conference and I haven’t been the same since. 

Boston Changed Everything

If writing was the bridge to my inner self then photography was the vehicle. I often take photos of fleeting or seemingly insignificant moments that become catalyst for writing prompts. What starts off as luck or observation becomes part of the bizarre mosaic of events that makes up my life. 

I find that I enjoy big and small moments in equal measure. I try to see the art in every day subjects like bugs, lizards, or even the oil leak in my car. 

I spent a significant amount of time photographing some behind the scenes moments at DRIP. The show we created was stunning but the mechanics of how it came together were equally fascinating to me. 

I captured my adventures through the SCA and learning how to fence. I chronicled the healing of my broken nose. I love taking pictures of my best friends children and catching people when they aren’t looking. 

The photos I take while traveling can be the most exhilarating because I’m always seeing and experiencing something new. I spent my childhood watching nature documentaries with my dad and admiring the photos in National Geographic magazines. Small trips only fueled my desire to take bigger trips. I found myself similarly awestruck with the soaring vista of the Brazilian skyline and the sleepy stray dogs napping on the beach. The breathing stained glass windows of St. Chapelle and the overlooked patterned floor beneath my feet. 

Collecting all these little moments to build something great. It was a way to showcase my artistry and maintain my creativity while I had day jobs, obligations and responsibilities. I was able to hold on to that dream that most people dismiss as foolish. I remained an artist. I am immensely proud of that. 

The one year anniversary post, which explains how I go started - Full Circle

My first post - Art at Steak n’ Shake

Feminist: Part 2

Back in 2015 I wrote a piece about being a feminist. I feel like it’s a good time to readdress the subject.

One of the points that I brought up in my original article was that I felt some ideas about feminism were outdated. I thought we had progressed enough as a society where it wasn’t as much of an issue anymore. Unfortunately that was very naive of me. 

Maybe it was a combination of being sheltered and a healthy dose of luck that I didn’t encounter as much bullshit in the first 32 years of my life as I did in the most recent five years. 

At first a lot of it came in the form of ridiculous advances from horrible men. After my last break up I was treated to an almost constant parade men that were aggressive, careless, or inconsistent. But what stood out as particularly unfortunate was the treatment I received was from two female coworkers when I became concerned about a customer who kept trying to pursue me after I told him no. They both said that I shouldn’t be so picky since I was single. At this point I was already accustomed to being treated poorly by men, but I didn’t expect my female coworkers to be perpetuate the stereotype that any attention was good attention. I felt truly alone but I went over their heads and got it resolved. The whole experience was exhausting. 

When the “Me Too” movement came to light I felt a mixture of comfort and horror. Comfort because there was a collective sense of acknowledgement but horror due to the prevalence of the abuses. How men cover up for each other and women are still seen as “asking” for it. The sickening rise of the Alt-Right an incel communities that thrive on hatred and misogyny. The belief the women owed men their bodies. Watching Christine Blasey Ford’s heartbreaking testimony and seeing Brett Kavanaugh getting sworn into the Supreme Court anyway. 

I have members of my own family who mock the “Me Too” movement every chance that they get. Even after they knew about some of the battles that me and my sisters have been through. It’s always minimized, brushed aside. Those same people love to support a president who brags about grabbing women. They think it’s funny. But it is frightening when you are on the receiving end. If you let it happen then you must have wanted it to happen but if you fight back you’re overreacting. You’re either not enough or you’re too much; but it’s always your fault. 

Men will love to tell you that they are not as emotional as women, but no man who ever says that has a problem expressing rage. It’s aways a cop out instead of acknowledging more complex and nuanced emotions.

When I went to the British Library in London I was blown away by a book by Christine de Pizan. She was a poet and author in the late 1300’s and early 1400’s. She was the first professional female author from Europe and she was a great defender of the intellectual and moral character of women. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of her before that day. It’s amazing to see a woman fighting like that so long ago. It makes you wonder how many other fascinating woman were written out of history or just plain forgotten. 

I helped my parents clean out the garage a while ago. My dad came across a box of things from his childhood home in Wisconsin. He found an old metal tin filled with his mother’s recipe cards. She passed away when my father was twelve and we don’t have many things that belonged to her. The recipes were from the 50’s and she had them organized alphabetically. Most of them were in her own handwriting. 

I asked my father if she liked to cook and he said yes. I knew she was a house wife but I wanted to know if she enjoyed cooking or did it because she had to.

I don’t know much about her but I know she was already married and divorced before she met my grandfather, which was rare at the time. I don’t know anything about her first marriage or why it ended. I don’t know what it was about my grandfather that made her fall in love with him. 

My father remembers that they would fight sometimes but didn’t recall why. I met my grandfather a few times and knew that he could be fiery and stubborn, but I’ll never know if she was fiery and stubborn to match. Was she defiant, passionate, opinionated? 

I am sure they loved each other but the way two people argue can tell a lot about them. Maybe I’m just looking for a way to know people who feel elusive. My grandfather dated a few people in the years after she passed but he never remarried. I’ve always wondered who she was beyond being a housewife with diabetes. Who would she have chosen to be outside of those limitations? There are so few things of hers that to have have some cards with here handwriting seems like a treasure. 

My grandmother on my mother’s was also an accomplished cook. She lived longer but passed away when I was two years old and I didn’t get a chance to know her either. Both sets of grandparents had children later in life because of World War II. Both of my grandfathers were drafted. My maternal grandfather was station in the Philippines and my paternal grandfather sustained a pretty serious injury when a gun backfired in training. He was meant to be stationed somewhere in Europe and ironically that injury probably saved his life. 

I’ll never know how my grandfathers mentality prepared to fight in the war. I’ll never know how my grandmothers coped with their absence. 

Both of my grandfather’s were children during the Great Depression. They remained cautious and frugal until the end of their lives. 

I was a senior in high school during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. 

I’ve lived through two “once-in-a-lifetime” economic crashes before I turned 37. 

Knowing how the Great Depression and World War II affected my grandparents I often wonder about the effects of 9/11 and the economic crashes of my own life will impact me in the long term.

I grew up middle class and with a happy childhood. I think it was easy to feel removed from a lot of the daily struggles. America has always been my home. 

But I support immigrants because I am descendant from immigrants.

I believe in increasing the minimum wage because I have seem my family struggle.

And I have never fought for my country but I won’t glamorize war. I have always been proud that my grandfathers fought for America but know what kind of impact war carries even on the winning side.

I think Covid-19 also pushed a lot of ugly truths front and center. About how more than anyone else the essential workers are all too often taken for granted and undervalued. How badly this country needs Medicare for all. 

One of the most deeply disturbing things I saw was during a photo of a protester with a sign that read “Arbeit macht frei”. “Work sets you free” written in German. A slogan that was plastered at concentration camps in World War II. 

The photo wasn’t some relic of the past. It was a modern photograph, in full color. It looked like any normal person you would see in a grocery store or around town. I audibly gasped when I saw it. That was no accident. 

The protester wasn’t fighting for their desire to go back to work, but fighting for others to work for them. The idea that others only exist to serve and they are expendable. It’s ok for other’s to put themselves at risk for haircuts and economy. 

I remember learning about World War II in school and how distant it felt. It infuriates me that does not feel so distant now. The same with rampant racism in this country. There are stories everyday about the mistreatment of minorities. I thought we came so much farther as a nation. 

I am aware that as a middle class white woman with a happy childhood my struggles are minimal in the grand scheme. It still hurts to see how backwards everything is now. 

It was rough reading my words from only a few years ago dismissing some aspects of feminism as outdated. 

A while ago in the midst of a fight with an ex boyfriend he ask me what our future children would think if they saw the way I argued with him. 

“I HOPE THEY SEE HOW I STAND UP FOR MYSELF AND FIGHT FOR WHAT I BELIEVE IN!”

I wonder if my grandmother ever said anything like that to my grandfather. 

I do not yet have children of my own, but in the years since that break up several of my best friends have had children. My unofficial but much loved nieces and nephews. I never shied away from holding them when they were moody or screaming. I loved to see how they tried to communicate before they could speak. Excitedly looking for hints to their unfolding personalities. 

So proud of all their parents who encourage boldness and sensitivity in equal measures for the boys as well as girls. 

One of the things I learned over the last few years was to be an individual as well as fight for others. My feminism never felt radical or imposing until I had something to fight for beyond myself. I saw feminism through an individualist lens for so long. If felt outdated because I wasn’t held back much personally. 

I’ll never know about a lot of the other woman who fought before me. So many of their voices lost to history. Or even my own grandmothers, are so are close but remain frustratingly elusive. I’m not the first person to have been in a bad relationship or be mistreated at work. But I am here and healing matters. 

There is so much left to fight for. The fighting is necessary. 

Old Stones and Unlocked Memories

Helping my parents organize their garage I found a few of my forgotten treasures. My love for unique rocks goes back farther than I realized. 

Years ago, when my family lived on Farragut Drive, I remember walking with my mother around the neighborhood. We stopped at a house down the street and my mom was in the drive way talking to the lady who lived there. The woman had a pile of rocks for decoration. One rock in particular caught my eye in the sun. It was a medium sized flat rock with subtle stripes, red freckles and loads of sparkle. I was about six years old at the time and was very familiar with the earth toned rocks from the yard. But I had never seen a rock so beautiful. It glittered in my hands as I studied it. The woman told me that she collected the rocks from places she had visited. She mentioned where the rock had come from but its been so long I don’t remember. She saw how much I liked it and told me I could have it. I was struck by her generosity. I wonder if she would be surprised to know that I still have that rock after all this time.

When I was about seven we had a school field trip to the Science Center. I think it was also supposed to be a sleep over, however, I had to leave early because I had my first communion a church the next morning. I fussed about missing my chance to go to the gift shop. My best friend Laura was there as well and her mother Jan had been one of the chaperones. Jan told my parents she would pick something out from the gift shop for me. While chaperoning she noticed how I gushed over the unique rock specimens, geodes, and crystals. She told my parents she knew exactly what to get me. A few days later she stopped by the house and surprised me with with a geode and an agate slice. The geode, I know I still have but I have misplaced it. I am sure it will resurface one of these days. The agate slice was a brilliant blue with lovely crystal “teeth” in the center. I always remembered what a thoughtful gift that was. 

Years later I would visit Laura in Virginia and she took me to the Natural History museum in Washington DC. We got separated and we she found me again I was talking with a random kid at the museum about how fascinating the rocks were.

Around the time I was fourteen I was at a Catholic middle school. The art teacher was friends with a man named Crowfeather. He was an Apache Indian who spoke the Lakota language. He visited our school with his three children Brandon (Big Bear), Sean (Running Wolf), and Cassie (Wind in Her Hair). Brandon was about my age but his other two children were younger. He visited our school and set up a tipi. Some of us school kids helped set it up and paint designs all over it. I remember some of the other kids complaining because the tipi had been set up on the soccer field so they couldn’t play for a while. I had zero interest in sports but I was completely transfixed with Crowfeather and and his culture. I spent as much time as I could before and after school hanging out with him and his kids just soaking in all in. 

He was at our school for about a week and towards the end of his visit some kids had slashed up the tipi. When I got to school and saw what had happened I was heartbroken. I remember standing outside with Crowfeather and the art teacher. The art teach was upset and I was sobbing. I had been treated to a week of culture, art and education. I couldn’t believe that anyone would destroy something so beautiful. 

“Why would anyone do this?” I stammered.

Crowfeather was calm and remained light hearted. He overlooked the mess and said “It’s not a bad day, its just a technicality”. 

I was reassured by his level headedness. He told me I was sensitive and I will never forget they way he said it. It was one of the only times in my life that that was said to me as a compliment. It felt like an honor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stone. He handed it to me and told me to keep it. It was from the Colorado Rockies. I have always cherished that experience. I wrote down their names all those years ago so I would not forget their kindness. 

Fight or Flight

For years my relationships were defined by fighting. At first it would be fighting from a place of love. Fighting for each other, fighting to be together, fighting against the odds. I believed deeply in fighting for the one you loved.

Inevitably it would turn into real fighting. Screaming, yelling, hitting. I have been in some extremely contentious battles. I had a hard time backing down because I always thought I was fighting for the right reason. I was fighting for “us”.

I remember reading somewhere that women raise their voice when they feel they are not being heard while men raise their voice when they feel they are not being obeyed. That stuck with me. I have never been terribly obedient. I was always strong-willed and taught to be an independent thinker. That was something that all my ex’s all loved about me - until they didn’t. 

I’ve often entered relationships wondering how long it would take for my best traits to suddenly become the worst things about me. 

Years ago I was having a heated argument with an ex when he confessed he couldn’t fight anymore. He had nothing left to give. It was one of the most nauseatingly heartbreaking moments of my life. I could have fought forever to make it work because I loved him, but he was already out the door. To this day that scene plays out in my head every time I hear the phrase “not everybody has a heart like you do”. 

I never fought to win as much as I fought to be heard, but I wasn’t innocent. I can kick and scream with the best of them.

Another ex would always try to control me and tell me who I could and couldn’t spend time with. It got worse when he drank. One time he threw a plate at my head and it shattered on the wall behind me. He was over a foot taller than me and very muscular, but in my mixture of rage and self defense I left marks on him. He wouldn’t calm down and I wouldn’t back down. He was in my home destroying my sense of security. I came to grips with anger that was frightening but it was my anger just as much as his. I vowed never to be with anyone who made me feel like I had to defend myself that ferociously ever again. 

Passion with an absence of love rots into aggression. 

I grew sick of fighting for people who didn’t love me. Hell, everything was a fight; I was working two jobs most of my 20’s and 30’s and still barely had enough money to survive. Anytime I got sick I still had to take care of myself and my pets. When you have to work so hard just to make it day-by-day, relationships struggles become especially exhausting. 

And things still took a turn for the worse. I was grabbed by a married co-worker, lusted after by men who only wanted to use me, stalked by a customer, and lost two of my closest male friends; one in a fight where he said something that destroyed me, the other just stopped communicating.

I used to pride myself on being a good judge of character, but the ones who are the closest will tear you down the fastest. 

It was then when fight turned into flight. People always say “let your light shine bright” but a bright light often attracts creatures that like to hide in the dark. “Give your love away - that is the key to happiness”. But I didn’t want to give anymore. I didn’t want to take either. I became withdrawn and isolated. I endured and perpetuated a thousand cat lady jokes. 

Dating had turned into a warped game of roulette - who is going to assault me and who is just going to disappear? I can hardly remember a time when someone laid their hands on me with anything beyond the spirit of aggression or greed. 

Maybe I wasn’t pretty enough or skinny enough to attract a good partner, but I was too smart and too defiant to settle for the bullshit I experienced.

I felt forced to sink into solitude. I didn’t have anyone to fight. I didn’t have anyone to run from. There was certainly peace in being alone. 

But the truth is that I didn’t want to stay isolated. I just didn’t know how to fix it. I still don’t. Someone asked me out and I froze. Torn between wanting to try and absolute terror. I used to be a good judge of character. Now I don’t know if I could trust myself to make the right decision anymore. Would I even recognize someone who came with love if they were standing right in front of me? 

What happens when you don’t have a reason to fight? What happens when you know flight is no longer the answer? You stand there motionless and vulnerable just like a target. A martyr unto yourself and everything you used to believe in. You don’t know what anyone else could possibly see in you besides easy shooting practice. 

Repurposed

One of the favorite things I had from my grandfather was a little clock he had repurposed into a picture frame. The picture that he used was a photo of himself, my grandmother, and my father from April 1959. It was the only photo of all three of them together. My grandmother would pass away a year later from complications with diabetes. 

I treasured that photo and the old clock it was set in. The one my grandfather gave new life to. For years it was the only thing I had that he had touched. 

A few years ago my father decided that he wanted it back. I was heartbroken but I couldn’t argue. It has always been his more than it ever was mine. Time passed and I always missed having it. 

Recently, I was in TJ Maxx and a small clock caught my eye. It didn’t look anything like the original frame but the retro design got me thinking. I bought the clock and the next time I went to visit my family I took photographs of my grandfather’s old frame.

Although my clock was lighter and the mechanisms were more simplified, it was a little more difficult than I had anticipated. 

There were small bits and pieces all over my desk and for a brief moment I though this was how my grandfather must have felt all those years ago. 

Slowly all the pieces can pack together. I had a copy of my grandfather’s photo from 1959 in a clock frame I had repurposed myself. Now, more than an object, I had a new memory I could attach to my grandfather. A simple act of history repeating.

My original post about my grandfather’s photo: https://currentsandcolor.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-only-one.html

Bejeweled Rainbow Spiked Heart

I had never thought about getting another tattoo until I was standing at his funeral. My right shoulder suddenly itching and burning for more ink. Unsure of what I was going to get; I just knew that my soul was affected and I wanted my body to reflect that. 

The tattoo artist helped work from the original geometric design into one that looked more like a gemstone. I added spikes around the outline to give it more of an old-fashioned, sacred heart look. It was originally done to honor my friend Chris who passed away in the Pulse shooting. He started the first Gay Straight Alliance at my hight school and I wanted to pay tribute to his courage. 

The days after the shooting were dark indeed. I was sitting with my best friend Amber when they announced his name on the news as one of the ones who didn’t make it. We cried with each other as other as we recalled fond memories. At work I remember two customers coming in with pictures of rifles on their shirts boasting about how they were proud gun owners who would never get ride of their guns. I fought to keep my composure then excused myself so I could cry in the bathroom after they left. I had a boss who called me weak for mourning and boyfriend who told me he couldn’t understand why I was so upset. 

Members of the Westboro Baptist Church had flown in to Orlando to taunt people as they went to the funerals of their loved ones. I almost didn’t go to Chris’s funeral. I was already at a low point and couldn’t bare the thought of having to face that kind of hatefulness. I did go, and thankfully the counter protestors shielded us. I walked behind a row of them singing to drown out the hateful chanting. Chris’s funeral was full of people who loved him and celebrated all the wonderful things he had accomplished. For the first time in days I was surrounded by people united by love. 

My soul was affected and I wanted my body to reflect that. The heart represented love and the rainbow colors represented pride. The spikes radiating around the ages represented a blend of modern acceptance with spiritual reverence. Chris fought to bring more love and understanding into this world and wouldn’t let that be forgotten. 

The difficult days after the shooting turned into difficult years. I addition to struggling with a difficult break up and a rocky new work environment, I had to cope with a harsh reality within my own family. I have many relatives who are pro gun and anti gay rights. This coupled with the fact that I am an artist leaves me wide open to being mocked. Mocked by people who say they love me. Mocked my people who view sensitivity and understanding as a weakness. 

Dating had become particularly dark. My ex who made light of the pain I was experiencing after the Pulse shooting had often told me about how awful men were. I knew that some men were awful, but I had always had a lot of male friends - gay and straight. After all, my ex was controlling and jealous of my friends. He spent a lot of time trying to drive me away from them. I dismissed his behavior as groundless paranoia; but in the three years after our break up I had been subjected to a lot of terrible behavior at the hands of men. 

A married co-worker tried to force himself on me. A man who had pursued me for months went out with me once and disappeared. Another man only wanted sexual favors. I had a customer pursue me aggressively after I told him no multiple times. That situation got so bad I had to alert the HR department and get a regional manager involved. Mostly because my manager - a woman - refused to help me. She knew I was single I felt I shouldn’t be so picky. I had even begun to feel unsafe around women.

Looking back, maybe I found all this so shocking because it was new to me. I never partied much, I’d largely been around people I trusted, and the majority of my co-workers were respectable. Maybe I’d been luckier in the past. I had been able to avoid the worst of it. But the Pulse shooting was the beginning of a parade of some of the worst humanity had to offer for a long time.

In those difficult years my tribe of people I could trust became greatly diminished. I wrote more because I had less people to talk to. It was hard to find my voice. I was always in the wrong. 

Of course the shooting was terrible, but is banning guns the answer? I lost a friend, but should my family members have to get rid of their precious guns? Maybe if my friend hadn’t been gay this would never have happened. Those people from the Westboro Baptist Church were just expressing their opinion. 

And the married co-worker who grabbed me was just trying to make me feel better. Why did I have to hurt his feelings like that? Maybe if i had said yes sooner to the man who pursued me he would have liked me better? The man who only wanted sexual favors obviously found me attractive, how could I possibly take offense to that? And maybe my boss was right. That guy who stalked me was only trying to show me that he loved me. How could I be so picky?

The heart tattoo I had gotten to commemorate Chris’s memory started to feel like symbol of things I couldn’t have. Chris was gone, gay rights were still being argued, and love was something that had become elusive. Rebuilding it took a lot of effort. 

I wrote a lot about these painful experiences because acknowledging the sorrow made it valid and forced me to work through it. I took on the injured stray cat because I couldn’t bare to see needless suffering. I visited the children of my best friends as often as I could. Their innocence and sweet nature did wonders to reconnect me with sense of joy. And getting involved with fencing had introduced me to group of people who have continuously showed me overwhelming kindness. 

And with the rebuilding, the new foundation becomes vital. I constantly had to remind myself to make decisions out of love rather than fear.  

The third anniversary of the Pulse Shooting still brought sorrow, but this time around impacted differently. 

In the span of three years I had lost a lot of friends but gained many more. I left a job with a toxic work culture for one that I truly feel appreciated for my talents. I left an awful renting situation for a place that I can truly call my own. Three years ago I had become more timid. I was afraid to rock boats already in tumultuous waters. Now, I have grown more into the person I was meant to be. More outspoken, more determined, and more commanding. 

Every little bit of creativity was an act of rebellion. Even in small and simple ways the fight rages on. 

I had never thought about getting another tattoo until I was standing at his funeral. My right shoulder suddenly itching and burning for more ink. Unsure of what I was going to get; I just knew that my soul was affected and I wanted my body to reflect that. 

Three years ago I got the tattoo to celebrate my friend and what he fought for. Now my bejeweled, rainbow spiked heart servers a reminder that I have come a long way, and fighting for the right things got me this far.

Love Always

Trident

My journey with fencing as well as the Society for Creative Ananchromism began in February 2018. As I approached the one year mark I was encouraged by my trainer Tim to become officially authorized to fence at events. For the majority of the year I had been running drills and fighting against fellow fencers at practice. Becoming authorized, knowing the rules of fencing and being proven to be a safe fighter, would allow me to fence at SCA events. 

Late in 2018 I had volunteered at the Lady of the Lakes Renaissance Faire through the SCA. I had not been authorized to fight at the time so I was able to do everything except participate in fencing demonstrations. 

Tim, in the spirit of fairness, doesn’t not authorize people that he trains. I would have to be authorized by someone else of high rank. One event at the end of January would be my opportunity: Trident. 

Trident was an event held in Ocala that would feature heavy fighting, fencing, and arts. Ryan, a fellow fencer was kind enough to let me ride up with him. Ryan filled the drive up with an interesting array of music, from Italian love song to silly songs about fictional restaurants that only serve meat. Although I was in a good mood, I was hurting. I had gotten my period that morning. I was doing my best not to let it show, but I was already tired. 

When we got the event I was grabbing my gear out of the back seat when a follow fencer Davius (Micheal) had ran up to me from behind to give me a playful scare. He was followed by Seth, a heavy fighter from our group who was retrieving something from his car. Seth was chewing gum which helps him remember to breathe during a fight. Once he got what he came for he bounded back to the fighting with childlike enthusiasm you could see despite his heavy armor. 

After Giovanni (Ryan) and I checked in we changed into our garb. Everyone was dressed like they were from the Middle Ages or the Renaissance. We leave the mundane world behind and step back in time. Heavy fighters in full suits of armor were already pounding on to each other’s shields with loud cracks as eager competitors waited for their turn. Small children running in the field nearby and the smell of hearty soup was coming from the great hall. The fencers were beginning to gather at a picnic table towards the edge of the field. 

Chlothar (Tim) was there and I got to meet several other fencers who had traveled in from out of town for the event. He suggested I have Matthias (Todd) authorize me. I had meet Matthias (Todd) only twice before. Once at the Mermaid’s Faire back in July (which was my first event with the SCA), and once when he came to our Wednesday night practice. He was no-nonsense, direct, and very professional. It got off to a rough start. 

I stood in front of him not knowing what to expect. My hands behind my back, shoulders straight, chin up; ready to be tested. 

“Did you read the rules?” 

My heart dropped with my shoulders “...No”

“Ok” he said calmly. “This concludes the authorization for now. Come back when you have read the rules” 

Luckily Giovanni (Ryan) always carries a printed copy of the rules in his gear bag. He handed me a stack of papers that took me a considerable amount of time to read. Thirty two pages of rules, conventions, weapons, parrying devices, and protective gear. I came back to Matthias determined but nervous. He asked questions and I fumbled through the answers. I was tired, overwhelmed, and nervous. Then he had me fight another fencer whom I’d never met before to see how I would react in a fight. Matthias (Todd) would set the perimeters for the rounds. At first the other fencer would attack and I would have to defend myself, other rounds I was told to attack while the other fencer assumed a defensive position. Matthias (Todd) could see that I was nervous. At one point between rounds he pulled me aside and told me that it was ok if I didn’t get authorized the first time around. I walked back to my position and put my fencing mask back on. I took a deep breath as I watched Matthias (Todd) formulate the next exercise with the other fencer across the field. “Oh God” I thought “I’m not going to get authorized and he’s just trying to let me down easy”. Tears began streaming down my cheek. I didn’t dare remove my mask to wipe them away. I tried to calm myself with deep breaths. The other fencer took his position. Matthias (Todd) approached me and said “For this exercise I want to see you use your left hand to block a shot”. I grounded my feet into my stance and pointed my sword at my opponent. We went a few more rounds and I took a few more hits. I know the object was to flight well, not to win, but I was struggling. Matthias (Todd) and the other fencer broke off to deliberate. After several agonizing moments I was waved over. I walked slowly towards Matthias (Todd) taking one more deep breath before removing my mask. 

“Ok” he said with his calm, characteristic poker face. “I will authorize you”.

I was in grateful disbelief.

We set out signing the paperwork. One of the other fencers suggested that I enter into the fencing tournament that was going on that day. I was still trying to gather myself after the authorization process but I decided to jump in. We clustered around the picnic table and waited for the heavy fighters to finish their tournament. I was overjoyed at being authorized but didn’t now what I would be getting into. I had never even seen a fencing tournament. 

Seraphina (Fionnula), a fellow fencer, was overseeing the matches. We would be fighting “round robin” style. One fencer would enter the ring and take turns fighting the other fencers. Then the next fencer would enter the ring and take turns fighting all the other fencers. Everyone would have fought everyone twice once everything was all said and done. The matches would go according to rank, and since I was the newest authorized fighter, I would be first in the ring. 

I fought nine matches in a row. Most of the men I had never fought before. It was difficult because I had to jump in without knowing anything about their fighting styles until they were swinging at me. Some fought with secondary weapons I had never seen before. I lost match after match. I was tired, unsure of myself, and loosing confidence. My last match of the first round was with Tim. He entered the ring and I took another deep breath to gather myself. He was a formidable opponent dressed in black. Although he was a kind teacher I braced myself for another fight. It was tradition to salute your opponent at the beginning of each match. Before I could even salute Tim he was walking towards me. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a big hug. When he told me I was doing fine it almost brought me to tears again. 

My match with Chlothar (Tim).  Photo by Nancy Nguyen.

I fought Tim and lost. As my first round of matches came to an end I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I was only half way through. I worked hard at learning fencing for a year and I had just gotten authorized. I desperately wanted to make it to the end but I was struggling. I refused to sit because I didn’t want to get too comfortable. I wouldn’t remove my mask because of the tears. I took more deep breaths to center myself. As the other fighters got ready for their turn in the ring I knew that it was unlikely I would win any of the matches. But I was always taught that winning wasn’t everything. Learning how to control your movements, as well as your opponents, was key. If I couldn’t win, I could focus more on control. My goal became to stay in control longer. I entered the other rounds with a new sense of purpose. 

One fight in particular stood out. Robert was a very experienced fencer who I had met a few times before. As our match began he opted only for his sword even though he knew I was fighting with sword and dagger. I knew he was confident with one weapon because I was a relatively new fighter. I wanted to make him second guess that decision. I fought more defensively in our first match but with my regained confidence I fought more aggressively. Twice the marshall had to call “hold” during our match because I backed him to the edge of the field. Ultimately, Robert won the match but that was my longest fight. It helped me feel like I had gotten closer to my goal of being in control. 

At the end of it all I hadn’t won a single match. I was tired, sore, and feeling a little fragile, but I had made it to the end. Afterwards a lot of the other fighters made it a point to congratulate me. Seraphina (Fionnula) presented me with a small ribbion with colorful beads. She wanted to give me something to commemorate my first tournament. During the court meeting in the evening the Baron and Baroness were giving out awards and recognitions when a man knelt down beside my chair. He offered me two brass bracelets and went on to explain that it was Viking tradition to bestow rings to someone who acted bravely. He wanted me to have them and he encouraged me to keep fighting. 

I thought it was because I was the only woman in the competition. In the year since I had had started fencing everyone had always been so supportive. I thanked the gentleman and took the bracelets as a souvenir of my first tourament.

At home that night I prouldly laid my gear across the table. My sword and dagger were from Christian, the helmet was from Davius (Micheal), the hat was from Seth, the ribbon from Seraphina (Fionnula), I had the braclets I was given and the belt token with the Trident symbol.

It wasn’t until the following Wednesday until I realized what I had done. At practice Tim asked me how I thought I had done at Trident. I told him that I was glad that I had gotten authorized but I was so-so on my fighting in the tournament. 

Tim looked at me with raised eyebrows “I don’t think you realized what you did” 

I looked back at him, confused.

“You had just been authorized and that was your first tournament. Most tournaments have only about 4-5 people. This tournament had 9 people and of those 9, half were of high rank. You also had to fight everyone twice - that’s 18 fights! And you went the whole way though.” 

Jake, who is the Baron and high ranking fencer himself, overheard the conversation. He came over to corroborate with Tim. “I’ve been fighting a long time” he said “and I don’t think I could have done what you did.” 

I was floored. I knew I fought hard to make it to the end but I didn’t realize I had done so much. That was why everyone had been so encouraging towards me. I thought back to all the gear I had displayed on my table. Everything had been given to me by someone who wanted me to succeed. Even the blue tunic I had worn that day was borrowed from Tim. I took all the love and support I was given and jumped into the fight. I fought against my own body, my emotions, and people I had never met before. I was new and I battled until the end.