Who are you?

To the world, I am a butch lesbian. I am a raging dyke. I am an intern. I am a student. I am daughter. I am a sister. I am too invested in other people to care about myself. I am one in millions of New Yorkers. I am straight. I am short. I am young. I am an employee. I am happy. I am funny. I am crazy. I am energetic. I am addicted to coffee. I am loud.

I am whoever everyone else needs me to be.

I cannot tell you exactly who I am. I cannot tell you why I do the things I do. I cannot tell you how I ended up where I am. I am not sure of these things myself. I know who I am to everyone else. I know how people I know, and people I never met perceive me. We are all put into these boxes by everyone we meet. Some people tell us how they see us, sometimes we assume.

I enjoy being different while walking on the streets of NYC. I enjoy being a crazy mystery to those who see me on the streets. I hope people make up a story about who I am, whether it is close to my real life or not I will never know (hopefully it is not the same as my real life). I love to be a mystery that people need to figure out and I like to think others like it too.

I make up stories about the people I walk by on my way to work.

To me, one man is a struggling actor about to propose to his partner tonight in a flying glass elevator. One woman is new to New York after running away from the home she could not stand. The couple on the corner kissing is surrounded by family watching, but he is sleeping with her brother and she is okay being his beard. The women carrying 50 Shades of Gray is pregnant with her fourth child and having a wonderful affair with her previous boss’s husband, who is the real father of the child. The young boy holding his dads hand can read the minds of every person on the street and his father is a superhero.

To me each person walking on the side walk can be anything. That person is gay, that person is straight, that person is a student, that person is a husband, that person is a cheater, that person is a lover, that person is a mother, that person is a wife, that person is happy, that person is depressed, that person is a superhero, that person is a mind reader, that person is a professional skydiver, that person is an activist, that person is a dancer, that person is a boss, that person is rich, that person is poor.

I see all kinds of people everywhere I walk in the city. This is who I see, not who these people really are. When I think about it, I am stereotyping. I am letting my imagination run wild. I am placing each person I see into a category.

At my internship we talk a lot about letting people be who they are, and not stereotyping and allowing people to present however they feel they need to. We talk about not “judging a book by its cover”, not assuming things about others.

We are all creatures of this world where we automatically assume things about every single person we see on the streets. We assume sex, gender, sexual orientation, personality based on race and religion. I try the best I can not to fall into this assumed world we live in. I try not to stereotype based on race or religion, or appearance. I try to be as open minded as I can be. I meet new people and I try to be as open minded as I can be. I believe in equality and love and human rights. I believe everyone deserves the same chances in everyone’s eyes.

I cannot help but think that my stories I make up on the street may not appropriate. I create lives for people without knowing them, without knowing who they are. My stories in some ways take from the way each person presents, walks, talks, looks. This is the world we live in, and I am not excusing my actions. But is it okay if I am not intending to hurt anyone, or creating these stories with good intentions?

I myself have spent so many days figuring out what categories I fit into, what boxes I fall under. I have spent many a nights trying not to limit myself to these boxes. I am so many things, that just by looking at me you cannot tell. Placing me into a stereotype may work for some things, but not for everything. I do not like having to be placed in boxes, even if I do it to myself. I recognize I somewhat place boxes around the people I see, but I like to think it is just another story; and I recognize that I do not actually know these people’s lives and these stories are not true.

When I create these stories about other people on the streets; when I make up what I think everyone is, it is not to place them in a box, it is my way of creating lives more interesting than the one I have. I have great friends, I love my school. There is nothing wrong with my life. But on the streets I have the ability to create lives of other people, dramatic, romantic, comedic, incredible stories.

These stories make me smile, they make me laugh, they can even make me sad. Sometimes I get so crazy I think they are real, and it makes me hysterical on the street (in a good way). I do not intend to offend anyone; I do not intend to place people into boxes that even I do not even want to fall into. It is my way of leaving reality for a moment and creating one more exciting.

I like to think I am giving people a chance to step out of their real boxes and their real lives for a moment and into a world where they can be a superhero, a gay lover, a skydiver, a bionic woman, a mystery. Sometimes the stories are tragic and many times realistic, and sometimes they are romantic and implausible.

When stereotyping is brought up it is usually in a context where someone is offended or was used in a way to talk to one person over another. I never thought about stereotyping as what I do every single day. Where do I draw the line at inappropriate and imaginative or creative?

This is something I am still figuring out.

Until I figure it all out, I apologize for the figurative boxes I may place people in unintentionally. 

Maybe I am a Fish- but that is OK

I was never the kid to pick up a book on a dark, rainy day or the teenager to lay down on a recliner at the beach and poke her nose into the newest Harry Potter book. I could not even finish any of the required readings for school. I would always rather be jumping in puddles, digging in the sand and sometimes dancing. 

My brother read all time when we were growing up, and mom loved a good mystery novel. There was no reason why I did not like to read. To me, there was always something else I could do, something that required more energy, more fun. Even in school when we had ‘reading period’, I was that kid you see in the movies looking out the window at the jungle gym, pretending she was climbing a mountain, until the teacher catches her day dreaming and sends her to time out.  I always blamed it on how slow a reader I was, the teachers thought maybe I had a learning disability. 

Let us take a trip back in time. I am sure everyone remembers the time in elementary/middle school when they had some sort of reading log. In my school, it was a reading journal; each week we had to pick out a book from the library or from home, log how much we read each night, have our parents sign off, and at the end of each week we wrote a paragraph about that book (or our parents would write and we would dictate). 

My standards for picking a book never consisted of the story it held, rather the picture that was on the front cover. I never read the back of the books or the inside flap or the first chapter. I never cared who wrote the book, as long as the cover was interestingly illustrated or the title was mysterious. The more interesting the cover or title, the easier it was for me to make up a story.

Every night I sat in the red rocking chair, in the corner of my living room with Blanky and ‘read’ my book. I was always a very imaginative kid, I always loved to make up stories and write crazy random things. My favorite subject was writing, always, even throughout high school.  It was near fifth grade that my mom started to realize that the stories I would tell her about the books I was reading were not plausible. Sitting in the corner of my living room, I never read the books. I would look at the title and I would look at the front cover and I would make up a story, something interesting, sometimes even complex and above my years. 

My mom thought there was something mentally or learning wise, wrong with me, as did my teachers. They thought maybe I had trouble reading the books, so I would make up things that seemed to fit, but never really did. The truth was I really just enjoyed making up the stories more than reading them. The first book my mom realized I did not actually read was Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes. I remember the title only because my mom tells this story all the time. I told my mom that Sammy was in search of the father that she never knew. She called him snake eyes because all she had was a picture of his arm that had a snake on it, and she could not remember his face. Going off the picture on the front cover, that story made a lot of sense. Me being me, I could not let that be the whole story. I added, that the mother was murdered by ‘Snake Eyes’ in front of Sammy, leaving Sammy to fend for herself at the age of 4, living on her own on the streets until she could finally find ‘Snake eyes’ and get vengeance. Now, that sounds somewhat plausible until you look at the audience of the book, fifth graders, and the reality that none of that made any sense together. My mom decided to take it upon herself to read the book and see if in reality this was really what happened. Surprise, surprise! That is not what happened. How a fifth grader (me) came up with that story is beyond my understanding (may have had something to do with all the Law and Order and CSI I watched). Not only was that story a little grown up for a 10 year old, but it was also a little morbid. 

Why am I saying all this?

Recently I have become more and more inclined to read. I enjoy it and I crave it. I have realized the reason I never liked to read was not because I could not read, or because I was too slow. Those were excuses that I used to get out of doing something I was always expected or forced to do. Most people use reading to send themselves into a fantasy world; to surround them in a place that can never exist or does not exist. I never had a problem doing that, if anything my world is too much of a fantasy. 

Everywhere I went, and even still go, I create stories that probably are not true, but to me they are better than reality. A couple walking down the street, I can create their whole life in two seconds. From the cover of a book I make up my own story. I never needed fiction, or fantasy books because I preferred my own fantasies. I thought I was always expected to read fiction, because that is what every else read and loved.

As I grew up I found why I never liked to read. I use reading to answer my questions. Maybe they are not answered simply or easily, but to me I am looking for answers to questions I cannot answer myself and fiction books never did that. I realized that I like to read, love it even, just non-fiction. Non-fiction can happen, has happened, may even happen to me. Biographies, auto-biographies, memoirs- they all tell the story, the true story of a life once lived and questions of someone else’s, once answered. I read a memoir on Bonnie and Clyde, written by Clyde Burrows sister in-law, Blanche, when I graduated high school because I found it fascinating that people who were capable of love, the kind of love Bonnie and Clyde had, could do what they did.

This is not meant to be deep, but my revelation about reading taught me a lot more than why I never wanted to read. I am not my mom, and I am not my brother. I am not screwed up, and I do not have a learning disability. I know how to read and I now even know how to enjoy it. I have an imagination for fiction, I did not need to read Harry Potter to know the story, I created my own story to that cover and that title. I read for answers about life, and those I seem to find in true stories. I like to read, but I had to find my own place within the reading world. I followed everyone else and that just was not me. 

When someone tells you, you cannot do something or even you make excuses for yourself, it just means you just cannot do it everyone else’s way, you have to find your own path. 

Albert Einstein said something that I realize is an important lesson to understand, whether you are that kid who is not quite the reader every one wants them to be, or just the kid who is not the best at sports-

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

I was behind my brother in a lot of things, I am not the same as my mom with a lot of things, but I am myself and I am just starting to realize that that is okay.

"That" Couple

At the risk of sounding like a prude who needs to get laid, anyone who lives in NYC or ever goes to the park knows exactly the couple I am talking about. The hetero-normative couple that thinks it is completely appropriate to have pseudo sex in the park. Although there are two perfectly good seats side by side, the woman chooses to sit sideways in the man’s lap. Point one, how is that comfortable? You have to strain your neck to look at each other and talk, or to be more accurate, to ‘not talk’.

One of her hands grooms through his beautiful locks while the other caresses his abdomen. His hands slowly caress her thighs, higher and higher; whoops, there it goes, disappearing underneath her dress. His neck works as her pacifier, for an ungodly amount of time. You begin to question how she is still breathing, and contemplate going over to ask how she does it. At the risk of puking at the sickening public display of affection, you refrain.

I have nothing against PDA, to a point; a kiss on the check, a quick smooch on the lips, interlaced fingers, even the occasional make out session can be hot. Let’s get real here, this couple is basically having sex in the park and could probably put out a cup that says donations and would gain a few bucks.

Every man and women nearby watches, pretending as if they are truly disgusted by this intensely escalating display of free porn. However disgusted they may be, it is not because it is happening, it is because it is not happening to them. This is the couple that makes all the men run to the bathroom to cure their quickly emerging case of blue balls. Anyone watching may be inclined to pick up their phone and call a person, or the only person, on their backup fuck list (if they are lucky enough to have one).

While trying not to watch our imaginations run wild, and the questions soon emerge. Why does this not happen to me? Why can I not be part of the obnoxious couple everyone is secretly jealous of?

So with that I say, To all those who may be a part of “that” couple one of these days,

Think of everyone else sitting in the park before you begin your outrageous escapades. Just because you are having fun does not mean everyone else enjoys it, especially those of us who are single and ready to mingle, but have no one to mingle with. Keep it in the confines of your bedroom, apartment, house, even the bathroom at a local McDonalds or Dunkin’ Donuts would be better.

Sincerely, the single park patrons. 

Why I could only live in New York City

There are those people who move to New York City and say they could never live anywhere else. There are a million and one reasons why someone would never want to leave the city; the ability to walk anywhere anytime, shops and stores every two steps, people scattered on the streets every time of the day or night, free events (mostly in the summer), it is always light out (that could be both good and bad), that disgustingly specific smell of smog and grease, cute gay couples walking out and proud, and most importantly, there is always a 24 hour Dunkin’ Donuts nearby when you are writing a paper at 2 o’clock in the morning, about to pass out into a coma.

As wonderful as those things are, and they are incredibly wonderful, those are what brought me to the city. What forces me to stay is my loss of sanity and ability to act socially appropriate in public. Every weekend I decide to venture back home, to my somewhat small suburban hometown, teaches me that while my stay in the city, I have acquired traits that some would call socially inappropriate for anywhere but the city, you could even say I have gone crazy. Anyone who lives in NYC will tell you there are certain things that are appropriate on the bustling sidewalks of Manhattan, (moderately appropriate), that are not appropriate anywhere else. 

In NYC, when you scream, “what do you want me to do, shit my pants and grease my ass with it” in the very public hallway of an apartment building in front of your neighbor, it opens up a great conversation piece the next time you happen to be stuck in an elevator for an awkwardly hilarious, 43 story elevator ride. In my suburban, Connecticut hometown, jokingly slapping the ass of a friend while on the escalator at the mall, would get some sort of snide commentary from a very annoying, intrusive man standing on the escalator two steps behind.

This weekend, at home, I went to the Olive Garden with a friend of mine. Every time he and I go out to dinner in Connecticut, we are always seated in the back of the restaurant, in an empty corner, far away from public society; it is as if they know something is going to happen. While drinking my lemon water, lemonade concoction I created, some dirty joke was exchanged and water came pouring out my nose. Along with the water fall out of my nose, came a choking/coughing fit that lasted a good four or five minutes. Within those four or five minutes the couple siting five booths away from us came over to make sure I was alright, along with two waiters and the manager, who was apparently called “to assist a possible choking victim”. How embarrassing. Well I do not embarrass easily and two minutes after the almost near death experience, we laughed about it. However, in New York City this situation never happens, not the choking part but the rushed assistance. Choking on my water, soda or sometimes even nothing happens quite frequently with me (I am a very giddy person). Usually while at a restaurant in the city, no aid comes during one of my attacks. Most New Yorkers are very well known for awkwardly staring or smirking at the crazy person making a crap load of noise while possibly dying in a restaurant. My friends have all learned to ignore my coughing/dying fits and continue on like nothing is happening. Now, you might think that I would like to employ all the attention I gained at Olive Garden, just in case I really am dying, or because I may just be self-absorbed. Truth is, I almost always am just choking on my water, making an awfully hilarious fool out of myself. I can always laugh at my ridiculousness, and most New Yorkers, along with my friends, usually laugh at it too. In Connecticut, I become the obnoxious person disrupting other people’s lives. In New York, people go on as if I am already dead, which for me, is not such a bad thing. I would prefer less attention, seeing as there is a very low probability I am really dying; I am making noise after all. 

Although some of the discussions I have on the streets of New York or in restaurants are probably not appropriate for anywhere and I should probably never be let out in public, they are somewhat acceptable in NYC, but never in Connecticut. At least here my friends and I can take walk after dark, when there are less people on the streets to witness our incredibly obnoxious and many times inappropriate, dirty comments and discussions. Is it ever appropriate to yell “hey, there is a naked man in that apartment,” while the man’s window is open, probably not. However, in New York the man just turns around and walks away. In Connecticut, we would probably be caught on a security system, while the cops are called. 

Walking down the street in NYC is always an interesting experience. Sometimes I cannot help but die laughing for absolutely no reason. Other times I experience the wonderful sight of an adorable cute couple in Chelsea hold hands. (I am the person who doesn’t know how to walk and accidentally crashes right into their clasped hands, embarrassingly breaking them apart, giving all of us a quick laugh, while I attempt to sprint away). I even get to experience exciting conversations of which all I hear is, “no, not the time we had the three-some”. Although, I may be that crazy person wearing a bowtie with a tee shirt for no other reason that I feel like it, with a friend screaming “lube everywhere” in the middle of the street, my life would not be quite as interesting. I am a character that fits right in with all the other characters in New York City. 

What kind of life would I have if I did not get to experience the embarrassment of trying to take a picture of a complete stranger on the subway while getting caught by the person sitting next to me? I have recently been told that I made someone’s day by an awkward, embarrassing comment I made in the hallway. I like to think I add humor to random stranger’s lives.Everyone in NYC seems to let out their inner freak, even if it may only be at two in the morning. I fit right in. I would never fit anywhere other than the crazy, unpredictable streets of New York City. I may end up dying here with all the other moderately socially inappropriate New Yorkers that are holed up in this incredibly crazy and diverse city. I may not be able to leave for the sanity of others, but why would I ever want to?

  

A Note to my Best Friend

You may not know it, but you have always been my best friend. You may not care, but deep down you love me as much I love you. We may hate each other, we may fight, and we may never say a word to each other even though I live right next door. That’s OK, because when I need you the most, you are there. 

When you cannot handle the stress of real life and have a few too many, I am there to pick you up, always. You have a built in designated driver. You trust me with your stress and the things you cannot say to someone else. Sometimes it feels like I am your shrink, the one who holds your deepest secrets even though they are not world changing. Our car rides, even though brief help me, as much as they help you blow off steam. 

We may never go out together, but I know you have my back, as I yours; from the time I took the bus home in second grade and you could not find me and screamed for the bus driver to stop until you knew I was alright. You pretend not to care, but in the end it’s you and me. When they fight and scream and slam the doors, you look at me every time to make sure I am all right. I notice, even though you look away when I look at you.

I steal your clothes and you get mad, but that’s life. What would life be without me keeping you on your toes?

We have been through it all. You held my hand at grampy’s funeral. You took the blame when I locked all the doors to the house and we all got locked out with the nanny and her 7 month old baby. You were my horse when we played cowboys and Indians. We blew up coke bottles with Mentos and destroyed the house with our forts. You told me I was adopted, and I was inclined to believe you.                                            

                                       

I stole (borrowed, its all relative) your GI Joes and your horse collection. I pretended you hit me in the back seat of the car on two hour car rides to the cape. I made you wish you didn’t have a sister. 

You are my brother, and as much as I make you crazy, you will always be in my life. I may tend to over shadow your quiet personality, but I would never be that annoying, persistent, crazy kid I am, without you. You make up a part of me that I wouldn’t change for anything. 

You are my best friend, because I know I can trust you with my life.  

Ps. I will always knock

Ignorance

It took graduating and moving to New York City to acknowledge the blanket of ignorance that sheltered my world throughout High School. What I knew was shaped by the little news I watched, the main headlines on Yahoo! and my father’s incessant conservative rants about the economy. I was young and had no need for the real world. I was carefree, simple and my only goal was to survive High School. As long as I had good grades, worked hard and got into college nothing else mattered. I grew up in a somewhat privileged house hold, in a prominent Connecticut town. I had a close group of friends and walked the halls of High School relatively unscathed. My only connection to the LGBTQA community was my best friend, who came out to me freshman year of High School. Although he was gay it was never a main topic of discussion; it was just the way it was. I have gay cousins, they were always just my cousins; so now, I had a gay friend, who was still, just my best friend. He liked men, the same way I was expected to like men. I wanted to think this was the way everyone saw it. It wasn’t.

In August of 2010, a large amount of articles about suicides and teen bullying, particularly gay oriented, began surfacing on the internet. I always knew that bullying was a problem and not everyone accepted people’s differences; but I let my ignorance, what I wanted to see, and what I wanted the world to be, cloud my judgment. After the attempted suicide of my best friend, who happened to be gay, I began to see what, for so long I didn’t allow myself to see. I realized my views weren’t the same as everyone else; I was the outlier. I saw my best friend as I saw everyone else and his sexual orientation was as important as my being left handed; it was just a difference that made him who he was. I supported my gay best friend without any questions and with unconditional love, but many people didn’t. He was bullied, harassed and pushed to the edge because he was just a little bit different. He and I had many discussions about the increased gay bullying and suicides that were surfacing in the news. I was shocked and outraged at the ignorance of other people. He would say “you’re really shocked?” Thinking back, I guess I wasn’t shocked; I just wanted to believe that everyone felt the same way that I felt. It never made sense that someone can hate someone based on a simple difference, whether it’s being gay or just out of the ordinary.

I got bullied and picked on throughout middle school and even through High School, for being loud, energetic and just a little bit different. My brother got bullied throughout middle school and High School, for being quiet, short and just a little bit different. My perception of bullying was, it happened to everybody; that it was just a normal phenomenon, and there was nothing that I or anyone else could do about it. I wanted that to be the truth so I wouldn’t be so alone. I never talked to anyone and no one talked to me about being bullied.  I was always told that I should just get over it, it happens to everyone and I shouldn’t let it affect me.

The internet is an easy place to target youth specifically by cyber bullying and Facebook bullying, or by posting derogatory and discriminating videos on YouTube. Today, internet is so accessible, it makes bullying that much easier. You don’t have to see the bullied face to face, it is impersonal; yet so personal. However, the internet can be used in both good and bad ways. Posting or sharing a video, like an “It Gets Better” video, can combat the many bad the things that are posted online. Just by sharing YouTube videos, like the FCKH8, ‘I Give a Damn’, and ‘It Gets Better’ videos can give, if not to many people, one person, piece of mind. Telling someone they matter, they are not alone, that people do care, goes a long way.

Being different makes you feel like an alien, a spectacle; you try to blend in but for some reason you always stick out. People like Dan Savage and Terry Miller, who created the “It Gets Better” Campaign took their stories and used them to show gay teens, kids, parents, everyone who needs it, that it does get better. That no one is alone. That campaign gained so much support after only releasing one video, its server crashed because so many people who are ‘different’ wanted to speak out and tell everyone that they really are not so different after all. So many individuals, couples and parents of the LGBTQA community, who are affected by bullying or discrimination, can get their voices heard and listened to, through the “It Gets Better” Campaign. It both raises awareness of the bullying problem and helps teach a new generation tolerance.

Campaigns like “It Gets Better”, “I give a Damn”, and “FCKH8”, all send the message that it is not okay to bully, harass, and discriminate against individuals who don’t fit into the white, hetero-normative, male/female, society that we have created. They raise awareness and help show LGBTQA individuals, their families, especially young, impressionable minds, that it is ok to be different; in fact, most people are.

Society and reality are what we make of it. The internet is a great way to increase awareness in non-conventional ways. There Facebook pages, twitter campaigns, viral articles and videos that show kids that it is okay to be different, it’s okay to be gay. By liking a page on Facebook you can show your support and care for LGBTQA youth, individuals and supporters. It shows up in your news feed and hopefully will reach your friends and their friends and so many others. The internet is like a row of dominos. Once one person posts something, it is there for everyone to see. It can do a whole lot of good. This is how understanding spreads and silence gets broken. I learned about the “It Gets Better” campaign by a friend posting the video on their Facebook profile. I then liked the ‘It Gets Better” Facebook page, shared it with friends, and when I find an article that is interesting and shocking or I feel is important to share, I post it on my wall, and sometimes my twitter.

My ignorance shielded me from seeing the real world, but it also shielded me from being able to speak out for my friends, myself and others. I now have an opinion about LGBTQA rights- Human rights, and I share it. Being different is a scary thing, because many times people are persecuted for it. The internet and campaigns like “It Gets Better” and others show that it is ok to be different and give a new perspective.

On September 22, 2010, less than fifteen miles from where I go to school, Tyler Clementi, a gay teen, jumped off the George Washington Bridge. In August and September 2010, five young openly gay teens committed suicide within a matter of weeks. The news seemed to pick up the stories of these five boys and others fairly quick. Pictures and articles about the boys circulated online through the Huffington Post, New York Times, the Advocate and other popular news sources. Twitter and Facebook statuses were posted. This awareness, helped spark the beginning of the “It Gets Better” campaign in September 2010. It seemed everyone, at least in New York City, knew about the gay teen bullying problems that seemed to be escalating. My eyes were pried open, day by day, post by post, article by article, video by video. These suicides were shocking, terrible, and most likely could have been prevented. In some of the “It Gets Better” videos, young, gay youth and others talk about the difference the campaign and videos like the “It Gets Better” videos have affected them and their lives.

The internet can be used in many ways; it can be used as a weapon but at the same time it can be used for good. As long as the good can reach one person, can prevent one person from swallowing a bottle of pills or jumping off a bridge, isn’t it worth it?

My outlook on life has changed a lot since High School, thanks a great a part to internet campaigns and my increased awareness. I have realized the blanket of ignorance that I relied so much on to keep me protected was really just holding me back. I can’t speak for everyone- I wouldn’t want to. The internet is a powerful thing. Through my experience, the internet has played an informative and increasingly helpful role in learning about the LGBTQA community. It has played a role in helping me come to realize, that it is OK to be different. The internet can bring awareness to people, whether or not someone wants to listen to a message is up to them. Raising awareness on the internet is not the only step that needs to be taken in bridging the gap between hatred and acceptance, but it can help. The internet is a way to speak out and I have come to the realization that speaking out, standing up and vocalizing support is important because silently supporting someone is not the same as supporting them.