Educators: The Demigods of My Youth

Growing up, school was always like church for me.  It’s the one place I found peace, joy, connection, and glimpses of serenity.  I was fortunate enough to have a handful of outstanding teachers – in elementary school, high school, and even college – that helped nurture and guide my intellect. 

As an adult, I continue to have a deified image of those educators that touched me – not the bad touch of a Catholic priest – but the good touch of a mentor and guide.  I’ve been fortunate enough to re-connect with some of my favorite demigods through social media.  Every time I do, I feel like an awe-stricken child again, and am filled with reverence for them and the impact they had on me.  Even now, in my mid-thirties, I find it difficult to address my former teachers by their first names – it somehow feels sacrilegious to me. 

A few months ago, I found one of my most influential teachers from elementary school on facebook.  I had not seen or talked to her in 20 years, but I sent her a message and friend request.  Since then, we’ve exchanged a few words through that platform.  I was glad to see she’s still around and that she remembered me. 

This morning, shortly after walking into my office, my phone rang.  I answered, and I heard an unfamiliar but distinctly eastern Kentucky voice on the line, “Is this Tami from Leslie Co.?”  I affirmed my identity, and after a short exchange, I realized it was the aforementioned teacher from facebook.  I was completely taken aback.  I had initially felt creepy and a little like a stalker by sending her a friend request last summer.  Now, she had taken the initiative to look up my work number to contact me in a real-world medium.  Given the reverence I have for my old teachers, this is the equivalent of having God speak directly to me.  We talked for 15 minutes or so, but it quickly became clear to me that she may not have been at her most lucid, as she was under the influence of necessary prescription medication for a current health crisis.  I’m not sure she’ll even remember calling me, but I’m glad she did.  

Most importantly, I now know what it feels like to have your God drunk-dial you.

Therapists and Prostitutes

I recently began seeing a therapist again for a little fine-tuning.  It had been almost a decade since I last sought mental health services, and I’ve found over the past 3 years or so that I’ve relapsed into a lot of old, bad mental habits that have started interfering with my life. 

At first, I felt guilty for going to a therapist again, telling myself I should be able to snap out of this depression and anxiety on my own.  As a result, I’ve spent a lot of time over the past month or so thinking about what’s special about the therapeutic relationship.  And I think I’ve finally figured it out.

Therapists are basically just prostitutes for our minds. 

Michael Bader, in an article in 2008, explains the psychological appeal of prostitutes:

“….the appeal lies in the fact that, after payment is made, the woman is experienced as completely devoted to the man -- to his pleasure, his satisfaction, his care, his happiness. The man doesn't have to please a prostitute, doesn't have to make her happy, doesn't have to worry about her emotional needs or demands. He can give or take without the burden of reciprocity. He can be entirely selfish. He can be especially aggressive or especially passive, and not only is the woman not upset, she acts aroused. He is not responsible for her in any way. She is entirely focused on him. He is the center of the world.”

Aside from the gendered male/female description, this pretty much sums up what I think is beneficial about seeing a therapist.  In my personal and professional life, I often take care of others, and I’m not particularly good at letting other people take care of my needs and I have a tendency to neglect my own needs.  When I see my therapist, though, our session is completely about me, and I’m comfortable with that because I’m paying for a service.  I don’t have to worry about reciprocity, or living up to any sort of image.  I don’t have to worry about my therapist’s feelings or what kind of impression I make.  I can disclose the deepest, vilest, most pathetic parts of myself, and simply leave my co-pay at the door as I exit. 

And, like with prostitutes, I usually leave the session crying or exhausted. 

Fair(ly unaffordable) Housing

April is Fair Housing Month.  This April marks the 44th anniversary of the Fair Housing Act, which prohibits discrimination concerning the sale, rental, and financing of housing based on race, religion, national origin, sex, (and as amended) handicap and family status.  Earlier this year, the U.S. Dept. of Housing & Urban Development (HUD) implemented a policy to further ensure that HUD funded programs are open to all eligible individuals and families regardless of sexual orientation, gender identity, or marital status, as these categories are not protected classes under the Civil Rights Act.

With all of the groups we seek to protect from discrimination, we rarely talk about the group that encounters that largest barriers to housing - the poor.  No matter how many groups we extend anti-discrimination protections to, the simple fact is that a large chunk of the population simply cannot afford housing.

The National Low Income Housing Coalition recently released their annual report on housing affordability, Out of Reach2012:  America’s Forgotten Housing Crisis.  Before I outline some of the significant details of the report, I want you to take a minute to calculate what percentage of your monthly gross income goes towards housing (mortgage/rent & basic utilities).  

 

Housing is considered “affordable” by federal standards when no more than 30% of a household’s gross income is spent on gross housing costs.  I'm part of a DINK (doube-income, no kids) household.  My partner and I are both college educated and gainfully employed.  As a result, our housing is extremely affordable compared to this federal standard.  In 2011, our total housing costs accounted for only 14.45% of our gross household income.

For a significant portion of Kentuckians, however, housing affordability is a virtual impossibility.  

The Fair Market Rent for a two-bedroom housing unit in Kentucky is $616 – which includes rent and utilities.  To “afford” a $616 a month apartment, a household has to have an annual income of $26,648.  Roughly 23% of Kentucky families have a household income less than $25,000.  In other words, 1 in 4 Kentuckians cannot afford a two-bedroom apartment.

The $26,648 gross annual salary required to afford a two-bedroom apartment translates to an hourly wage of $11.85.  A full-time (40 hours a week, 52 weeks a year) minimum wage worker in Kentucky only earns $15,080 a year.  So, a minimum wage earner would have to work 65 hours per week every week of the year to afford this two bedroom apartment.

The housing outlook is even more dire for Kentuckians who are unable to work due to disability.  In 2010, 7.9% of Kentuckians were receiving SSDI benefits, and another 4.4% were receiving SSI benefits.  Currently, the average Social Security benefit (retired or disabled) in the U.S. is $1,124 a month, equaling an annual income of $13,488.  Based on this average, a household whose only income is Social Security would have a housing burden of 55% if they were renting a $616 two-bedroom apartment, leaving them only $508 to meet all of their other basic needs (such as food, medical costs, and transportation).  The standard SSI benefit in Kentucky for 2012 is $698 a month, equaling an annual income of only $8,376.  A household whose only income is SSI would have a housing burden of 88% renting a $616 two-bedroom apartment, leaving them only $82 for all other expenses.

At this point, you might be thinking, "Surely the social safety net helps house these very low-income Kentuckians?  That's what's Section 8 is for, right?"  Wrong.  Only about 86,000 of low-income renters in Kentucky benefit from federal rent assistance programs.  Over 113,000 low-income Kentucky households continue to pay at least half of their monthly income for housing.   

Furthermore, rental assistance programs requiring tenants to pay 30% of their gross income towards rent do not take into consideration other economic realities, especially in rural areas.  Let's use my hometown as an example.  Let's pretend that my life turned out very differently than it has.  I'm still living on Bull Creek, and all I have is a high school education.  The only job I can find is at Wendy's in nearby Hazard, working for minimum wage.  I'm working full time, and grossing $1,256 a month.  After taxes and deductions, I'm left with only about $1,000 a month.  I've been fortunate enough to get a Section 8 voucher for my housing.  My rent obligation would be $377 a month, leaving me $623 for all of my other expenses.  Since there's no public transportation, I'd have to have a car to get to work.  I'd probably have a late-model, gas guzzling car.  Even without a car payment, I'd probably be spending around $150-$175 a month on gas.  Additionally, I'd probably be spending at least $100 a month on car insurance (since I'd be poor and likely have really bad credit).  With transportation out of the way, that leaves me $348 a month in income.  I'll need phone service, and the cheapest plan I could get would be about $45.  With a gross monthly income of $1,256 and a household size of only one, I would not qualify for food stamps, so I'd probably end up spending about $50 a week on food.  That leaves me $103 a month for hygiene and household supplies and any other basic needs or emergencies that arise.  Even with "affordable" housing, I'm barely able to meet all of my basic needs.

This Fair Housing Month, I challenge you to think about fairness in a larger sense; I challenge you to think about class and economic fairness, about housing affordability and a living wage.  And, if you have a roof over your head and food in your cupboard, take a few moments to reflect on your good fortune.

Peeta and Katniss

After having read all three books in the trilogy and now having seen The Hunger Games, I have come to the conclusion that my dear partner Kate is sort of the Peeta to my Katniss.  The parallels are really quite remarkable.

Katniss and Peeta both grew up in the same area, District 12 of Panem.  Katniss was the rugged, introverted daughter of a coal miner; Peeta was the son of a baker.  Both were poor, but Peeta slightly less so.  Peeta did not reveal his feelings for Katniss until they “met” as tributes for the annual hunger games, but he had secretly pined for Katniss beforehand, unbeknownst to her.  Katniss was reserved and brusque; Peeta was more charming, and made people like both he and Katniss.  Eventually, after much struggle, Katniss chose Peeta and they settled down for a quiet life together.

That’s basically the story of me and Kate.  We both grew up in eastern Kentucky.  Kate grew up in Richmond, the daughter of a restaurant manager.  I grew up in a more rural setting near Hyden, the daughter of a coal miner.  I lived a more rugged life, but we were both poor, working-class kids.  Kate and I eventually met working 3^rd shift at a residential drug rehab facility, which always had that “we may not make it out of here alive” vibe, much like the hunger games.  Kate secretly began pining for me months before I noticed.  I tend to be slightly misanthropic.  I am an introvert who is slow to warm to people, and other people are usually even slower to warm to me.  Kate, on the other hand, is more of a people-pleaser.  She's cute and charming, and usually wins others over rather easily.  I'm also pretty sure even my friends like me more since I chose Kate.  Despite the odds, we’ve settled in to a quiet life together, too.  Unlike Peeta and Katniss, though, Kate and I were able to bypass the stage where she was brainwashed to assassinate me.

At least so far.        

Alpha Dyke Situational Awareness

I have come to realize that I have a unique type of gaydar; my own special Sapphic sense, if you will.  I don’t necessarily notice every gay person around me or sniff out closeted homosexuals, but I can usually sense other masculine women (lesbian or not) from great distances.  I like to refer to this as alpha dyke situational awareness.  As an alpha dyke, I have to be aware of my surroundings and to potential threats to my masculine dominance.  Let me give you an example of this uncanny ability.

Earlier today while I was driving home, I noticed a butch lady driving a white Ford Explorer that was stopped at a light as I turned onto a street on my route.  The visual contact lasted no more than 2 seconds, as I never stopped, but merely drove past this butch lady in the white Explorer.  As soon as I passed her, I realized that I sort of knew who she was, even though I had never met her and had only seen a picture of her on facebook.  I sent a text to a friend to confirm this butch’s identity.

Me:  “Does ur gf drive a white explorer? 

Friend:  “Who is this?”  [She is perpetually changing phone numbers, losing her phone, or losing all of the contacts in her phone.  She is not an alpha dyke.]

Me:  “Tami”

Friend:  “Oh lol.  Yea she does… why??”

Me:  “I just saw her at a stop light.”

Friend:  “How the heck did u know her?”  [Again, I have never, ever met my friend’s girlfriend; I have only seen one or two pictures of her on facebook.]

Me:  “Pics from facebook.  And my ability to sense any lesbians in a 100 yard radius.  As an alpha dyke, I’m acutely aware of the presence of other butches.”

The moral to this story, you ask?

If you know me and you are also a butch woman, be advised that you will never be able to sneak up on me or catch me unawares.  I forget nothing, and I am always on alert.  I am an expert at alpha dyke situation awareness.

Valentine's Day is the Enemy of Real Love

I am not a big fan of Valentine’s Day.  It’s not because I hate love or hate commercialism.  One fuels our hearts, the other fuels our economy, and it’s hard to imagine our modern world without either of them.

I hate Valentine’s Day because it creates unrealistic expectations about what love looks like.  This unholiest of holidays perpetuates the myth that romantic love is forever sparkling with excitement.  Valentine’s love is polished and perfectly adorned.  Valentine’s love is all flowers, candy, jewelry, and the implied promise of passionate sex.

Chances are, if you’ve been with your romantic partner for more than a year or if you live with the love of your life, that’s just not what love looks like.  Sure, a romantic evening with fine food and flowers is nice, but that’s not what real love looks like.  Real love is going home at the end of that fancy dinner, going to bed with your lover, and being serenaded by the sounds of fancy-food flatulence as you both drift off into a food coma.  Real love is looking at your farting partner and not banishing him/her to the other room and resisting the urge to stab him/her in the eye for polluting the air of your love den.  Real love is holding your breath while spooning your partner amidst the methane cloud. 

Real love is accepting the mundaneness of a long-term relationship.  Real love is accepting that your partner is a gross, imperfect human being and loving him/her anyway.   

Card borrowed from theoatmeal.com

    

Genesis

            One evening during the late spring of 1977, Sherman, still covered in black dust from the mines, and Jackie, worn out from another day of chasing children and hanging clothes on the line, made their way to the barn, perhaps, and copulated under a sun-warmed tin roof.  This was their favorite pastime, most likely because neither were avid readers and they had not yet found Jesus.

            They married young, in 1963, when he was nearly 19 and she was three days shy of 17, already four and a half months pregnant with their first child.  The baby boy, whom they named Gregory, came screaming out of Jackie’s uterus on February 6, 1964, at 8:45 a.m.  She found wee Greg in his crib, lifeless, some six weeks later.  They lowered his tiny casket into the ground on the hill just above the barn, the barn where they found themselves years later stretched across carpet-cloaked bails of hay. 

            Neither of them really gave a second thought to the broken condom.  He climbed down from the loft, rigged up the horse, and finished plowing the garden.  She lit a cigarette, her 60^th of the day, and walked back to the house to cook supper.

            Weeks later, Jackie found her stomach rebelling against her nearly every day.  Her first thought was cancer, how she was too young to die and what would happen to the children.  She and Sherman had managed to produce three since the first:  Judy Ann in 1965, Michael Anthony in 1967, and Jody Arnold in 1973.  In a near panic at the thought of motherless children, she called her sister.  “Maybe you’re pregnant,” the sister conjectured.  Appropriate tests confirmed this suspicion.

Probable site of my unplanned conception

            Months later, swollen with my life, Jackie lopped off the very tip of her left index finger on a screen door.  The woven metal stood out from the edge, attacking her, catching her unaware.  She held her abdomen with her bleeding hand, wondering if I felt her pain.

            During the early hours of a snowy February morning, Jackie recognized the familiar pangs of labor.  Sherman’s father hoisted her into his Jeep Wrangler and drove her into town, population 488, to Mary Breckinridge Hospital.  At 8:35 a.m. on February 6, 1978, I made my way down the walk-worn path of my mother’s birth canal.  The nurse in the delivery room was the same one present 14 years earlier, when Jackie delivered her first child.  They shared knowing glances and awkward words.

This is the only baby picture I have of myself

            Before checking for the appropriate number of digits and without any thoughts about the impact 20,000 cigarettes had on my development, Jackie zoomed in to my left index finger, fearing (and perhaps hoping) that the screen somehow managed to get my finger too.   But I was unscathed and intact, and the screen door was gone when I left home as a teenager.