Power of the Pink

My best friend’s grandmother always said, “Sometimes you gotta laugh for cryin’.” I always thought that Grandma Jeffrey’s homespun philosophy perfectly summed up American politics.

On Super Tuesday, as I walked into the lobby of my polling place—a convalescent home awash in the pervasive odor of alcohol swabs and eggplant casserole—I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Today, on Jubilant Wednesday, I am a flurry of giggles, while the other camp lets loose with big, fat crocodile tears. Obama will see a second term and as most pundits agree, the bulk of his support came from the rainbow coalition and their friends.

When President Obama endorsed gay marriage last spring he made international headlines and the cover of Newsweek. I was elated yet admittedly bumfuzzled. Was this a courageous move toward true equality or political suicide? The wake of Obama’s bold statement rolled out like a social tsunami— a sea of political flotsam, trampled rights, dirty laundry, religious entitlement and dogma, followed by a flood of intolerance.

As soon as the news hit, those in favor of marriage equality timidly pumped their fists and whispered “Yay.” Those opposed, stomped their feet and shouted at the top of their collective lungs, “Adam and Eve! Not Adam and Steve!” It was another divisive moment in an already fractured country. Romney and his people jumped on this like “Gingrich on a younger, healthier wife” (thanks for the simile, Stephen Colbert).

Not long after this fateful announcement — a day after North Carolina voters approved an amendment to the state constitution limiting marriage to one man and one woman — political activity from both sides mounted with equal fervor as gay rights activists rallied and traditional family groups bolstered their attack on Obama and basic human rights.

But then the remarkable happened. Out of the woodwork, from closets and corporations, LGBT voters mobilized and took their frustration to the polls. Votes poured in from Hollywood studios, New York City’s famed fashion district, farmers in the Midwest (yes, there are gay farmers—maybe not a lot, but don’t kid yourself), New Orleans’ Bourbon Street, the Northwest Coast and the Eastern Seaboard, the boardrooms of global companies, like Apple, Blue Cross, and Wal-Mart. A few votes even trickled in from backwoods’ hollers in Kentucky. 

Turns out gay folks and supporters of marriage equality are in greater numbers than anyone could have imagined. We stand next to you in line at the grocery store. We nurse you back to health. We entertain you and decorate your home with panache and style. We service your vehicles and drive tractors. We are cowboys, bricklayers, lawyers, artists, and accountants. We are everywhere.

Today I laugh the laugh of a changing America, where decades of prejudice and persecution is being replaced by a majority—albeit still slight—that honors and protects equal rights for all.

God bless the USA. Indeed.

Blame Tracy Austin

Tracy Austin is the reason I’m not a multi-million dollar tennis star with a lucrative announcer gig upon retirement.

From 9 to about 14 years old, I was playing in the junior circuit. I’d been playing the sport since I was old enough to hold a racquet upright. I was pretty darn good too.

At one point, a former Wimbledon champion who had retired in Palm Springs wanted, nay begged, to take me on as her project. She wanted to coach me, shape me, mold me, model me after her own form.  I, however, had different plans. I was a blossoming adolescent with free-flowing hormones running amok, and my concentration soon vacillated between that little yellow bouncing ball, bell bottoms, and boys.

Then I met Tracy Austin in the semi-finals of a tournament. She was younger and much tinier than I. A seeming little kid who spanked me in two sets. I don’t think I got a game. Until then, I had been the star of my little corner of the court. I was emotionally unprepared to deal with this level of defeat. And from a tot too! (When you’re 13, anyone younger is a toddler). 

I soon dropped out of the juniors and jumped into the social fray of high school. Sure, I lettered in varsity tennis (and badminton, softball, and basketball), but the fire to compete at the elite level had been snuffed out by a nine-year-old with a wicked backhand.

So today, many (many!) years later, I still play socially and competitively at a club level. And the cool thing is, through my job I sometimes get to interview tennis legends, like Billie Jean King and Rafael Nadal.

But I’m still waiting for my chance to payback, er, I mean interview Tracy. 

Rhythm of the Write

There's a scene in the 1987 Canadian film I've Heard the Mermaids Singing when the heroine, an endearing, organizationally-impaired scatterbrain, goes into a busy diner for lunch. A crazy-looking man sitting next to her at the counter looks over and says, with utter earnestness, "Is the noise in my head bothering you?"

 This brilliant yet simple line stuck with me over the years, eventually morphing into the title of a column I wrote for a weekly paper (long before the advent of the blog). The content of the Noise in My Head was just that — random thoughts, razor-sharp opinions, homespun philosophy, and the occasional anecdotal childhood memory my mother usually read with chagrin, yet clipped and saved in an old shoebox regardless. Little did mom know that her 13-year-old daughter snuck out of the house in an orange-and-white striped tube top hidden under the standard button-up school blouse, and as soon as said adolescent rounded the corner, off came the blouse and out popped... well, you can imagine.

These stories may not have interested everyone, but for some reason, my little column was strangely popular. When I left that local paper, the column left with me. There was no room for the Noise in My Head in my new position as senior editor of a sophisticated regional magazine, and so that voice was silenced.

 In 2009, I revisited the concept of NIMH in the form of a blog, but the passion to create was dulled by a lack of feedback and a dearth of knowledge on how to capture readers. The blog sputtered for about a year and then ran out of fuel completely as a new idea for a blog took root: women and aging. Or rather one peri-menopausal woman (me) approaching 50. I called it mean-o-pause. I garnered a small but faithful following (more than 10, less than 15) with my mean-o-pause blog http://mean-o-pause.blogspot.com. But again, the reinforcement offered by hordes of hungry readers did not come.

 I continued to write entries for my blogs as the mood would strike, but there was little consistency and they rarely made it to the actual blogs. I felt ridiculous and self-indulgent posting intimate thoughts and experiences that few people would seemingly ever see. But I also had a great excuse for my blogging abyss--my work as an editor sapped me of all creative energy. When your 10-hour days (a couple of bathroom breaks and lunch at the desk) are filled with a mind-numbing jumble of vowels and consonants, few of which you originate, you feel somehow justified in plopping down in front of the TV with a bowl of microwave popcorn clutched between your knees. Ah, the dinner of champions.

This hollow existence, however, cannot sustain a born writer. When you love the way words bounce, skip, and slide into a sentence and find the cadence of language more beautiful than a symphony, you are forever a willing hostage of the pen — or in this case, the keyboard.

In order to satisfy the intellectual and emotional wanderlust of the true wordsmith, you have to get your s**t out there for others to read, or suffer the long, slow death of unrealized creativity. I want to reignite the flame and stoke the passion. Most of all, I want to read and be read.

This, in a bigger nutshell than anticipated, is why I am taking a course on blogging.