My son is five. He’s in kindergarden. He’s a fairly typical little boy who wants to play with cars, guns and pretend to be a Transformer.
My son has a mohawk. It’s a fabulous mohawk that he rocks with pride.
My son told me when he was three years old: “When I get stronger, I want a tattoo just like yours.”
My son has neon green, glittery nails. They were painted at his request at the local nail salon when he went with his aunt and grandmother. Sometimes they get painted at home, depending on how often he wants them done.
The first time I got his nails painted at the salon, the tech I asked to do it and several of the other ladies in the salon made it very clear that they were horrified that I would let my son get his nails painted. “He’s a boy” I remember them saying. “Are you SURE you want his nails done.”
Does it make my son less of a boy to have a fantastic neon green manicure? Does it make him less of an amazingly smart and well-behaved child to have a mohawk? Does it make me a better parent to deny him something that makes him gleefully happy because YOU don’t approve?
My son loves watching “My Little Pony.” Someone in our life tried to tell him at one point that he shouldn’t be watching a “girl” show. My amazing child looked up at me and said “Mom, I don’t care if it’s a girl show or boy show. I like it, so I’m going to watch it.”
My dream is that we all might be able to learn to be as wise as a five-year-old.
I’m never going to be a perfect parent. I may never have an immaculate house. My meals will probably never be all home made. I may never give up my right to put on cartoons for my son to watch so I can get 15 more minutes of sleep. Criticize me for any of these things and I’ll probably roll my eyes and laugh at you. Criticize my son’s nails however and we will go to war.
Hate and judgement of others are not things we are born with, we are taught to do them. I will not have you teaching my son to emulate your hate, your gender stereotypes, your judgement of others or your biased world views. I will violently defend his right to explore his world, his sexuality, his gender definition, his view of himself, his hopes, his dreams and his reality without limitations beyond what is reasonable for his age and legal for him to do. My only requirement for my son’s eventual adulthood is that he know how to be responsible, that he be a functional and contributing member to society and the world, and that he lives with great compassion. All the rest is on him and who he chooses to be. I may not end up agreeing with all of it, but I will love him none the less for it.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
SlutWalk is one of those things that was amazing in concept and a hell of an experience the first year the walks took place. We were loud, we were proud and we took the streets of the city we were in by storm. We were profound and we made a difference.
Unfortunately, a trend began that has been swiftly been killing the SlutWalk events. The challenge to rape culture became a forum for a whole bunch of “other related causes” that rapidly drove away current and potential supporters. I saw it start with Planned Parenthood walking around with petitions to support their organization and related legislation, at one event. I’ve seen it discussed in multiple forums about how the name itself is alienating to many people, specifically women of color. At another event I attended, there was an interesting performance by some sort of “feminist” band that played songs about having abortions and other such ilk, before any of the speakers began sharing their stories. If I hadn’t been one of those speakers, I would have walked away from the event and never looked back once the band started playing.
There are a lot of issues related to being a woman that this country and the world needs to address. Some, like victim blaming and rape culture, are universal. However, the basic concept of SlutWalk: countering victim-blaming, isn’t one that applies only to women! We need to get away from making this a “woman’s issues” event. Stop trying to lump abortion and feminism and all these other issues that are driving people away.
SlutWalk has a lot to overcome with just its name, many people cringe at the idea of claiming “slut”, because of how it has been used against them or people they care about. I am one of those people who will never use the word lightly, nor do I ever want it applied to me ever again. But I choose to participate in this walk because I care very deeply about what it represents. I’ve chosen to speak at this event because my story is one that is shared by too many who are afraid to speak out. I’ve given blood, sweat and tears to support the movement, but I don’t know that I can do it anymore.
After last year’s event in DC, I was left with a very sour taste in my mouth. I met some amazing people, we shared some powerful moments, but I never want to do an event like that again. If I hadn’t been speaking, I most likely would have left when the band started screaming about having had an abortion. One – that’s a crazily polarizing issue that shouldn’t be attached to SlutWalk. Two – for some people, the topic is actually traumatizing. It didn’t belong in what should have been a powerful event for survivors and their supporters to reach out and challenge the fucked up culture that affects this country. It also didn’t help that the event ended in a corner with minimal traffic and essentially turned what should have been public outreach into an insular group meeting.
I love the idea behind SlutWalk. I love the opportunities it has given me to share my story and to confront a disgusting concept. I love the people I’ve met because of it.
I hate what it has become.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
I’m not going to talk about rape culture because I think the best blog on it can be found here: http://rantagainsttherandom.wordpress.com/2013/03/19/so-youre-tired-of-hearing-about-rape-culture/
I’m not going to talk about not raping people, the media’s appalling coverage of this event, the ridiculous sentencing the boys got or any of the other hot topics you can find with a Google search.
I can’t read the stories anymore, not that they were easy to read to begin with. The pictures, the videos, the jokes are everything sick and disgusting about the human race. Those poor boys, their whole lives ruined because some girl couldn’t handle her alcohol…
It was a great party – the alcohol was flowing freely and the crowd was great people who could be trusted to stay drama free. There were games and karaoke running long into the night, then as the party died, there were plenty of places to crash out for the night. I ended up on a couch after drinking heavily, ready to sleep off the evening’s fun. I don’t know how long I slept for, all I remember is waking up with the guy who I only recognized as having played bartender for the night on top of me, inside of me. I remember him talking about the things he wanted to do to me in the morning. I remember not being able to push him off, being exhausted and terrified that I could barely move. I remember him crawling off me to go back to sleeping on the other couch, but I don’t remember where he came. I remember running to sleep in my friend’s room and wanting nothing more than to shower and make it go away.
I remember him asking for my number the next morning and knowing that it meant no one would ever believe me if I reported it.
I’ve been a Sexual Assault Victim Advocate for years. Admitting that I never reported my rape because I felt no one would believe it was anything other than morning-after regret fueled by a night of binge drinking makes me feel like I have failed every client and victim who has ever crossed my path. Rape is rape! I know on a fundamental level that the circumstances don’t matter. I teach that. I preach that.
Yet when it was my turn to walk the walk, all the screaming voices of this fucked up society drove me into a corner where I hid my trauma for years before I told anyone.
I see myself in the pictures: drunk, passed out, violated. The commentary cuts me like a knife. Maybe if I had drank less, if I’d been able to fight, if my sexual past had nothing to comment on to make people not believe me. I find myself flashing back to that night, screaming in my head, promising myself that we’d get out of this and no one would hurt us ever again.
I remember figuring out that sleeping next to anyone would give me panic attacks, so I stopped doing it. I remember beginning to strictly regulate who I drank around and where. I remember my rapist contacting me. I remember the rumors and stories that came out months later.
Two days after the Stubenville sentencing hearing, I broke down in my car while I was driving to work. Everything that I’d spent years putting behind me and only busting out for special occasions like SlutWalk was now taking over my life. I was right back to that night – helpless, broken, guilty and completely unable to forgive myself.
Being a victim doesn’t stop when the actual crime is over. Some days, I think it never actually goes away, especially not when we get re-victimized every goddamn day by the culture we live in. If I, someone who is supposed to be fighting the good fight for victims everywhere, am too scared to stand up and tell my story because of the reality that I’m going to get judged as just another drunk girl at a party who did something she regretted… If a 16-year-old girl is going to get death threats for a situation that was even more heinous than what happened to me…
And people still can’t figure out why victims won’t come forward, won’t testify, won’t speak out?
Until Next Time,
~Rose
When it comes to parenting, the most dreaded “talk” for most parents is about sex. We all go about it different ways, but eventually, it gets done. (And then your kids go look things up on the internet.) But in all our efforts to broach this rather uncomfortable topic, we bypass many more, which are actually more important to our kid’s development into real, functional adults.
Parents, this is a letter from your kids.
Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Guardian, Adult Who Is Raising Me; I wish you would teach me…
…How to win and lose gracefully. I am not always going to be the best, I need you to show me that I can accept defeat without letting it define me or hold me back in the future. I also need you to show me that I can win without lording it over others and without having it be something that defines my worth. I will not and should not always get a prize. I can’t always have the outcome I desire, but only I can choose what I do and become beyond that moment.
…How to have a healthy relationship with money. Seriously, you think I don’t see how you spend? Do you think I don’t know when you’re stressed and trying to figure out which bills to pay? Do you think I don’t hear the comments you make about others and how they handle their money or lack thereof? Teach me how to use it, how to budget, how to live without drowning in debt or depriving myself of the important things in life. Teach me how to be generous, no matter how much or little I have. Teach me that I am not entitled to anything, but am required to earn it. Teach me how to sacrifice without being a martyr. And if you struggle with these things, sit down with me and we can learn them together.
…That all my emotions, good, bad and ugly, are okay and can be expressed in a healthy manner. Don’t tell me that my sadness is a phase and I need to get over it. Don’t tell me that being angry is not okay and I’m not allowed to show it. Let me see you cry, laugh, be upset, be disappointed, be afraid, love; let me see your emotions and understand the truth for the reasons you feel them. Let me see you show them in healthy ways. Teach me how to take a breath, to walk away, to tackle someone with a hug, to say “this is how I’m feeling and why”. Teach me to be honest and how to communicate. Teach me that being strong doesn’t mean showing no emotions at all. Teach me how to be wrong, how to say “I’m sorry”, how to forgive and how to let go and move on. Teach me to be genuine and honest.
…That relationships require work, don’t always last forever and will grow and change with time; and that all of those things are normal and okay! Let me see you disagree and resolve it. Let me see you engage in romance. Let me see you engage the people you care about in discussion and activity. Tell me the truth about why you don’t get along with some people. If you have a relationship that ends, show me and tell me how you own what you did that wasn’t good for the relationship; tell me why it was better that it ended. Teach me how to recognize when a relationship is unhealthy and I need to let it go. Show me that relationship classes, books, seminars, counseling, etc. are all healthy tools that can make any relationship better, even if it is already a strong relationship to begin with. Teach me how to trust, how to love and how to give without draining myself dry. Teach me how to be a whole and complete person with or without a romantic relationship. Show me that life is enhanced by the people I bring into it.
…How to have a healthy relationship with food. Every diet you go through, I’m right there with you. I want to see you happy with your body, your health. I want to be happy with my body and health. Teach me how to eat well and exercise, or work with someone who can. Show me how to enjoy food and exercise without taking it to extremes. Show me how to address challenges with food, exercise, metabolisms and health, without inflicting them on others or using them as a crutch or weapon. Teach me to be kind and supportive to others who have different health challenges than I do.
…How to balance work and life, and well, life in general. I learn from you how life is supposed to be. Show me that I can work without it taking over my life. Show me when to walk away from work and have a life. Show me that work isn’t more important than family. Show me what your priorities are and that my time is the most precious gift I can give. Teach me how to show what my own priorities are by investing in them in healthy ways and without neglecting other things to do so. Teach me how to work to live instead of living to work.
…How to ask for help. Deep down, I know I’ll always go to you because you’re my parent and you’re supposed to know everything. There’s no shame in admitting you don’t, in fact, I respect you for not lying to me. Show me that it’s okay not to have all the answers and to reach out to people and resources when I can’t do it by myself. Teach me that strength comes from having the courage to depend on others, not from stubbornly trying to do things all by myself. Don’t belittle me when I don’t understand something. Be patient, guide me, let me see you ask someone else for help with something you struggle with and let me see you accept help, wanted or unwanted, graciously.
…That there are good and bad people/moments/places/things in the world, but I have the power to do something about them. Teach me how selflessness can help someone in need. Teach me how to give without expecting anything anything in return. Teach me that a hug can make all the difference in the world. Teach me that my choices matter. Teach me how to learn, how to research, how to act. Teach me that I am never helpless or alone. Show me that I can change the world.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
I started this blog with multiple purposes in mind. At times I feel that my life experiences, if shared, might have a profound influence on someone in a situation similar to the ones I have been in. Sometimes I just need a place to vent my thoughts into the anonymous internets. Most personally important though is that I want to use this as a forum for my own development. I want to be able to explore myself, my issues, my opinions; to dive down within them to find their sources and paint a clearer picture of myself in the quest for personal improvement.
As the mother of a precocious young Kindergardener, I have been pestered since he was old enough to formulate an opinion on his favorite color, what mine is. “Dreen!” He has always proudly exclaimed as his response to the question (although his pronunciation as gotten better over the years), before proceeding to rattle off the favorite colors of mom, his aunties, his grandma, anyone else in the room who has told him…
What I can’t explain to my little monster is that Mommy’s default answer of “blue” is a cop-out. I don’t know what my favorite color was when I was young, although I do remember at one point insisting my walls be pained Pepto Bismol pink. I remember gravitating toward the colors of green and purple jewel tones. But blue? That was a decision, a choice. I remember realizing that I needed to have a single color as my favorite, to respond to requests. Because I understood that a vaguely nebulous list of colors I very much enjoyed would somehow not satisfy the question.
The complicated bit about why I chose blue is because I was trying to break out of the compartment I’d been forced into as the only girl, surrounded by little brothers.
I’ve never been a ribbons and lace girl. Well, okay, that’s not entirely true. But I have always been more inclined to barrel outside barefoot and lodge myself in the tallest tree available, with a book, than to spend any amount of time in the makeup mirror. Blue was a boy color. Boys got to go to karate and play baseball and do all the things my biological father offered to my brothers, but not to me.
Yay, daddy issues.
I couldn’t really tell you why I’ve stuck with blue all these years, except it has become a parroted default response. I find questions about favorites to be somewhat misleading and coerced. We act like favorites will always be the same, forgetting that as we grow and change, so do many of our preferences. This leads me now to answer a bit more honestly: I do enjoy the color blue, especially in the ocean, but my favorite color depends on the context. Roses are incredible in many colors, but tri-tone orange and Afrikan roses (red on top of the petal, white underneath) blow my mind the most. I have a soft spot for Giants’ Orange. I primarily wear silver or white gold in jewelry, but rose gold blows my mind. My wardrobe is a mix of ALL THE COLORS. Diamonds are prettiest when they sparkle and twinkle.
At the end of the day, if I had to pick my favorite color, I’d have to send people to look at the Mystic Topaz. Green, purple, blue and other jewel tones all swirled together. Gorgeous. Who says you can’t have them all?
Just don’t tell my son, we had a crazy enough adventure trying to describe aquamarine.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
For those of you who don’t know, Wicked Grounds is a café in proximity of Folsom and 8th in San Francisco that caters to the kink subculture in the community. Signs on the outside caution that only those above the age of 18 may enter and it is very clear why once you step inside. Erotic photos line the walls in a sort of perverse gallery. They vary from artistic nudes to hook-in-flesh-suspensions (which can be rather cringeworthy, if that’s not your cup of tea) to blatant legs-wide pornographic-mag worthy crotch shots. To add to the atmosphere, there’s a person-sized cage (which may or may not contain an occupant) sex toys and fetish gear on display (should you be interested in getting a dildo the size of your arm with your coffee) and much of the furniture is modified bondage racks or chairs that cater to fantasies and fetishes.
I adored the café from the minute I first set foot inside a couple years ago. The staff were lovely, the coffee and food items were notably good (Porn Cake, YUM), the wifi was free and the atmosphere of the place was welcoming to anyone who sat outside the stereotypical norm. The problem with catering to a niche culture, however, is that it takes a toll on the budget. When Wicked Grounds fell upon financially difficult times, I was one of many people who poured hundreds of dollars into the café in attempt to keep it open. But when the co-owners eventually divorced, the doors were unsurprisingly and immediately closed. Luckily, Wicked Grounds was given a second chance through the infusion of fresh blood and finances through some generous partnerships with the owner and was able to reopen.
I will note that I was one of many who found it very frustrating and off-putting that the closing and subsequent reopening of the café were done with minimal communication to the public who fought to keep Wicked Grounds alive and running. I am happy they were able to reopen. Unfortunately, I must say that I do not believe those doors will stay open for terribly long and I am one of many who will no longer be voting with my dollars to keep them open.
As someone who has worked at a mom-and-pop coffee shop before, I have been frustrated for quite some time with the owner (Ryan Galiotto) and his mismanagement of his business. I’m sorry, but it is beyond unacceptable the the café has been known to run out of staple items because the staff wasn’t really sure who was supposed to be making the store run this week. The food has taken a sharp dive since the grand re-opening; no longer is it something to talk about – the best of it is okay, if mentionable at all. Of note: nothing is really terrible, in that mediocrity is not significant enough to develop that much of a feeling for. The quality of the coffee depends on who happens to be on duty behind the counter. The owner, to date, still slings the best cup of coffee. The rest of the staff tends to be frustratingly hit and miss; which proves even more awkward because the café is a strictly “dine in” location.
Let’s talk about the staff for a minute. While some are incredibly lovely people, some are outright hostile; which leads to the assumption that many are hired because they are the stray puppies of San Francisco – tattooed, pierced or somehow so perceptibly freaky or unstable that they simply cannot be employed elsewhere. I would grant Mr. Galiotto a consideration for his kindness, except he seems to be completely unaware of the blatant contempt and lack of skill displayed my some of his employees that drives customers away.
Last but not least, let’s talk about the customer base. The San Francisco Kink Scene is large and perfectly capable of supporting Wicked Grounds without so much as blinking. I am sure I was not the only customer who told my friends from inside and outside the area about the café and urged them to pay it a visit. But I cannot, in good conscience, do that anymore. The local scene leeches off Wicked Grounds, evidenced by the fact that the major complaint when the shop closed up originally was that there was no longer a free place to hold meetups and munches. If the major appeal to a location is that you can take over the majority of it, driving would-be paying customers to find somewhere else to go, because there is no place to sit… Well, unless you actually contribute back to the business by ensuring that you spend at least a certain dollar amount per person, per hour of the meeting, don’t be surprised when the business closes its doors on you. Wicked Grounds is currently catering to the folks who go there for meetings: look at the operating hours. If you want the café to stay open, give feedback with your dollars and your honesty to the staff members there about what will keep you returning as a paying customer.
I’m sure someone in the great wide interwebs will insist that my commentary here is cruel, mean, I just don’t understaaaaaaaaaaand. Please understand, I have a lot of love for Wicked Grounds as a concept and for many of the members on its staff. However, I cannot continue to pour my money into something that I see breaking my heart again in the near future. Mr. Galiotto, you are a very darling man, but it is time to let someone run the business for you who will make decisions based off keeping the café alive, not based off how you feel about the scene, employees or groups who regularly float through there.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
For being as unfortunately talented as I am at both telling and recognizing when others are telling lies, I have all too frequently has to deal with dishonesty when it made no sense to me. Some lies are necessary, most are not.
There was a man I cared about very much who became enamored with someone else. I saw it unfolding in front of me and inquired about it multiple times to receive silence as a response. Imagine my heartache from having to confirm the truth by his father accidentally telling me! None of our mutual friends “wanted to get involved”. Some fucking friends.
I wish you’d told me. I knew why you didn’t, some sort of twisted logic in your head that it would hurt me less. Yeah, I wanted to be with you, but I wanted to know the truth more. I wanted and still want you to be happy, with or without me.
Some days, I really hate that I still love you. Not so much because of the hurt, but because I feel like an idiot for still having hope.
The truth sucks. It strips away all your illusions and fantasies. It’s pretty much never considered a good thing. Is that why we can’t handle it? Is the whole truth really such a terrible thing that we humans can’t abide it?
Are we stuck with half-truths and better off with beautiful lies?
Until Next Time,
~Rose
Anyone who knows me usually scoffs when I say that I’m shy. Most people know me as loud, argumentative and very opinionated. I find it to be a pretty clever front.
I’m excruciatingly shy. Petrified of embarrassing myself. I agonize over things and rehash them in my head for years after the fact. No one else has to remember, but I do.
I hate admitting I’m nice. Nice people get taken advantage of. But I am. I want people to see I’m squishy on the inside, that I care way too much for anyone’s good, that my goal is always to make a difference, to say the right thing, to be perfect. I’m never good enough for myself, why would I be for anyone else?
Social Anxiety sucks. I am actually diagnosed with it and it makes my PTSD an even more awesome trip. I fear so much that I am not wanted or good enough, I’m more inclined to stay home than do anything. I destroy myself for doing or not doing anything I are as a failure to meet the expectations of others. I can’t turn it off and unfortunately, reassurances only go so far.
On the flip side, I know how it feels to not get heard. To be drowned out by everyone and everything else because of fear. I know what helplessness feels like. I know how hard it can be for some to speak out against the majority in the wrong. It polarizes me, at times, to practically and sometimes literally yell at the wrongs. I’m still petrified, usually am left shaking afterward, but the truth that echoes has now been given a chance to grow.
So the next time you want to hate on the loud girl in the back of the room, listen to what she’s actually saying. Most likely, she’s just trying to make a difference for those who don’t get heard.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
The first diamonds I owned that were not the tiny sparks of light attached to my wedding set was a set of earrings, studs to be precise. Well, honestly I can’t say they were a set, not in the way most people would visualize. They were mismatched and flawed, but they were mine; given to me by a then-boyfriend who found them wrapped in tinfoil in his drawer. I don’t remember if they were his ex-wive’s or his, but at the time it didn’t matter. No one had ever given me something like that before.
I wore them religiously. They were precious, like my relationship. Unfortunately, someone else’s leftover diamonds are usually a symbol of a lot of other left-over baggage. There was a promise ring that followed, but it came on the tail end of him cheating on me, giving me a (thankfully curable) STD and a lot of ugly fights. The relationship ended not long after that, when he tried to kill me by throwing me out a 13-story window.
Ironically, I still wore the diamonds for a long time after, until finally, one went missing. I sometimes felt weird about it, knowing where they came from. But I kept them because someone, at some point, felt I was worthy to have them.
The pair I own now are mine, paid for with my own money and chosen by me. They’re beautiful, but are sometimes still hollow to own because I fear that the only one who will ever buy me diamonds will continue to be me. I suppose that may not be entirely true. My ex-fiancée bought a several-thousand dollar engagement ring. I never saw it though. I ended the relationship before he ever gave it to me because he had been cheating while I was deployed. Some people’s children.
In my gut, I feel that my diamonds will always be just that: Mine. There’s nothing wrong with it, other than I feel resigned to it. I don’t want them just because, I want them because the right someone puts them on me.
Lord, am I nauseatingly romantic or what?
Until Next Time,
~Rose
For the life of me, I can’t understand why people like dating. Doing “getting to know you” over and over again makes me want to put a bullet in my head. I get it! You think I’m hot/sexy/awesome/what the fuck ever.
I don’t care.
Dating is just a fun reminder that someone else out there wants to use my body, then toss me. Or maybe they develop disproportionate feelings and start following me around like a puppy until I kick them down a flight of stairs.
I’m really done. Dating doesn’t excite me. I’m bored with the million and a half inquiries. I know. How this ends, finally find someone I do want to open up to and I’ll just become the stepping stone to them being much happier with someone else.
Maybe I’ll just start charging, at least then I’ll get something for getting fucked over.
And no, I don’t want any of you reading to tell me how amazing I am and that some magical prince will show up. It’s bullshit, alright? It’s time to learn to be okay with being the fuckdoll, because no man I’ve ever loved has wanted me as his girl.
I’m the kind of broken that’s not worth fighting for.
Until Next Time,
~Rose
alphafemmeconfessions 