Am I a Freak?

I mean in the traditional sense, not the fashionable one. I mean, why is it so hard to understand me? Why do I keep bumping up against expectations, defying them, even when I long to belong? 

I smile at a neighbor. They ask if I'm feeling better. NO, I say, irritated now. Why can't I be polite?

A friend suggests that I have as much good as possible, specifically to forgive a very recent deep wound. Oh? Well, even if I was on my way, now I burn with bitterness. Why can't I be like

Thich Nhat Hanh, who was kind even to enemies, or

Martin Luther King Jr., who was forcefully non violent, even when provoked, or

oh, choose any saint or hero. I am not That. Nor am I normative. 

Some people are afraid of me, of my emotions, and that causes me to hate myself. I was drawn to theatre, that fictional space where you get permission to live with full intensity. I was drawn to psychology, where I learned that even people who look normal have a remarkable inner life full of stuff I recognize as my own. 

I like foam. beer foam. oatmilk barista foam.

I like the drama of a changing stormy sky. 

Someone I see nearly every day bids me stay well when she leaves. But I'm not. You too, I seethe.

Am I really so much more bothered by ordinary misunderstandings than most people? or am I just too insistent on voicing my complaints? Last year I started a zen zoom group called Complaint Company, where the instruction is to lean into what bothers you. It's fun and tragic and moving, and pretty popular. But not everyone loves it and at least once someone says I'm gonna break the rules and be grateful, or some such thing. 

From Thich Nhat Hanh's famous poem: Please Call Me By My True Names

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.
And I am the arms merchant,
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

He advocates compassion and a loving heart, and he is the arms merchant.

This morning, after our daily meditation at the Zendo, our host commmented on anger, sorrow, something good I can't remember (see, see?), and frustration, and bid us meet All That with strength and wisdom. That I can strive to do.

Am I a freak? No, except in the fashionable sense.

January 26, 2022

Does Not Apply, or Fall in Love

Spotting a bauble the toddler bursts into action. The detective chasing a bandit bounds up the stairs. A woman late for the train sprints through the closing doors. I see it or I read it and I think, does not apply, but not before I feel myself doing it.

I never realized before how much I imagine motion. Not that I could ever run and jump normally but I still felt the potential of the actions in my body. Now, though, the dis-synchrony has grown sharper and become a koan. Normal life does not apply. Normal expectations have vanished. I can't pretend I will grow stronger, can't motivate myself with a plan of action, can't wait until the illness recedes. There is little in my future that I can reasonably look forward to. Even worse, I don't feel a part of this world. Sometimes I feel a creeping bitter jealousy about the simplest actions, even as I thank, thank, thank all those willing to do for me what I cannot do. 

How do I live then?

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Outsider Grief Relief

As my own story of illness and dying takes the focus here, I'm going to retire the page, OGRe Home. But she will not go gentle; she must be heard before she cedes. 

"OGRe Home is a community for Outsider Grief Relief. Grief arises from exclusion. We try to exclude what we cannot accept, but we fail because the unacceptable always pushes its way back in. If we can't accept our weakness or dependency, we diminish our crips and our mothers. If we fear our unbounded sexuality, we punish or mock our queers. Then, we're shocked when the crips and queers take to the streets, or that nice woman of color who was supposed to stay on the other side of town actually marries our sister."

I have long longed to be included and I've carried the idea that those of us who have been excluded can understand and support each other. Now I'm not so sure.

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You Be You

Last Sunday I gave a dharma talk* at the Village Zendo on the matter of becoming yourself. Like many Zen practices, it's an absurd and paradoxical goal. You already are who you really are, and yet things get complicated by the mind. 

The previous weekend we had a panel discussion with two Black Zen teachers who talked about how it is to be the only Black person in a community, how it is to deal with racist projections and expectations. James Lynch spoke of the importance of caring for yourself, not defining yourself by how others see you. And Malik Hokyu talked about confronting the objectifications that arise, how hard it is to locate their source. 

For the most part, Zen practice focuses on clearing away the delusion of a separate self, and there is no doubt that the more we sit the more we can drop our dependence on identity. But when we see each other, we see the marks of identity: skin color, gender expression, clothing or hairdo, disability if visible, body type and so on. Our minds are built to categorize and predict, so it is impossible to eliminate the expectations and judgement that shape the way we interact with each other. 

When you are a person who is marked as different from others, the usual process of forming an identity gets tangled; what gets reflected may not feel true. When I was growing up, moving from army base to army base, there were no other Russian disabled kids. I felt like a misfit, and so I struggled to imitate the customs in each place. Only in the woods by myself could I feel alive and genuinely connected. By high school I figured out how to construct an identity as a quirky drama girl that allowed me to behave in odd ways and still be popular. People saw in me what I wanted them to see. 

But this sort of thing initiates a split between who we feel ourselves to be and how we are perceived by others. and that split drives us to Zen, or psychotherapy, or destructive acting out. The bad news is that healing the split actually requires meeting the aspect of self that we try to cover. 

For me, that is weakness. My disabilities are serious but not visible. I've figured out how I can adapt movement so that I can dance, adapted my household so that I can eat (hint: don't bring me a jar unless you will open it for me), adapted my personality so that I see myself as a hero not a victim. But underneath there is still an aspect that is the toddler who can't walk, the kid who can't keep up, the adult who gets tangled up trying to get an item out of my pocket without a wrist to bend. And that aspect feels shameful because I have learned that it is better to cover it. 

Fortunately or unfortunately life always serves up what I reject. This year I've developed a quaver in my voice, something sticky in my throat or diaphragm. I believe it reads as fear, which is not ok at all, right? The more I try to control it the more prominent it gets. So the good news is that I have no choice but to embrace the fear, and fear of fear. I breathe, do what I do as I am, notice how people respond, sometimes say something about it, watch it come and go. 

It doesn't seem like good news when something comes up to challenge our identity. But actually taking down who we think we are or who others think we are, over and over again, is what makes us grow, and even to become fearless. That's the paradox. Rejecting nothing, including everything, that's how you can be who you really are. 

After I wrote this, I listened to an On Being podcast having to do with just this, exposing what we are taught to be ashamed about. So, for me it's whatever a vocal quaver indicates, but it could be anything. What would our culture look like if we all had the courage to out our true selves? 

*The Dharma talk has a slightly different focus, on the matter of being alone.

January 2019

I am I: A Tribute to Margaret Cho

Inspired by Cho's gestures, energy, and mission, a group of dancers celebrate human diversity in all its splendid manifestations.  

Conceived and Choreographed by Irene Ruiz-Riveros
Video Directed and Edited by Elena TaJo
Music by Steve Elson

I am I: A Tribute to Margaret Cho screened in June of 2010 at Anthology Film Archives as part of an excellent series curated by New York Women in Film and Television.  Running time 5:37 minutes
 

It Doesn't Show

Updated on Friday, October 15, 2010 at 11:50AM by Elena Taurke

Updated on Friday, June 8, 2012 at 4:50PM by Elena Taurke

It doesn't show, they started to say after the surgeries.   This should have been a cure for shame, and maybe it was, but it also produced a new problem.   A deep and integral aspect of my personhood became invisible and unknowable. Don't look. Juvenile arthritis is a peculiar and defining experience.  As a toddler, you get braces and casts instead of the exhilaration of walking.  As a kid, you get the special  role in the ballet recital.  Then, as your wrists are progressively deforming, Phys Ed with its impossible pushups and volleyball falls by the wayside.  You are left with the other rejected kids in Choir and then in Drama Club, where, to vanquish your depression, you pledge yourself a career and vengeance.  The twist (pardon the pun) in the story is that, along the way, you fall in love with dance--the one thing that everyone agrees is totally out of the question. 

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Michael Jackson, The Whole Man

Is it good manners?   Is it out of some sense of politeness that every column I've read about Michael Jackson makes a brief bow to the latter half of his life, then moves on to massage every detail of his splendid, brilliant early career?   As in: whatever you want to say about the weird thing he became, you have to appreciate how he electrified the world with Thriller.*   Is it good manners or is it that we don't want to face what his gruesome demise might say about us?  About our culture, I could say, except we can't just dis the culture without taking some responsibility.

How do we understand what happened to him? 

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Picking up the Other Dog's Poop

I have a dog. My dog poops.  So do the other dogs. People get mad at dogs because their owners leave the poop under their shoes.

I love my dog and want him to be accepted by the community. So, I help him out if I pick up the other dogs' poops, the ones just waiting to slide under your shoe. But I can't bring myself to do it...well, once I did, because I wanted to be able to brag on this site. Is that a worthy reason? 

What will it take for us to take responsibility for each other? Self interest? Wisdom? Empathy? Enough poop on our shoes?   (12/17/08)

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What Seduces You?

What tempts you to fall out of your mind?  For me, it is belonging.  If someone says you are one of us, I'm toast, especially if it's a  group that disdains all other groups.   I forget my values, my preferences, my feelings, my family ... and become a faulty mirror of the group, a groupee.   But maybe triumph is more seductive for you.  Maybe it's chocolate...or money...or fame...or boobs...or cherries...what are those things, anyway?
What can you learn about yourself from your temptations?
How can you encourage yourself to disobey their instructions?

What else will meet the craving?

What will satisfy the longing?

Can you stay curious long enough to sense the difference between craving and longing?  And can you allow the longing to pull you into connection with the whole universe?