I see you.

I spent my formative years in a small town in central Florida. While I technically lived in Lutz, my school was in Land O’ Lakes. That’s right. I grew up in LOL, Florida. The most Florida, Florida could get. My friends and I would ride our bikes to the neighborhood retention pond to watch alligators. A sinkhole swallowed a house. My neighbor used one of his many pistols to shoot an eight-foot rattlesnake at my bus stop. A friend’s mom was an amateur body builder who worked out with Hulk Hogan.

Yes. Take a minute to think about that.

LOL, Florida.

That was my setting. From two-years-old to 13-years-old.

When we finally got a Wal-Mart (to *much* fanfare), we had to add time to every shopping trip, because we knew every single person in the store.

LOL, Florida. Population 5,555.

For the most part, it was pretty idyllic. Weekend trips to the beach, kickball in the cul-de-sac, nearly every friend having a swimming pool and/or a pet parakeet, dance recitals requiring silver spray painted shoes to match silver sequined headbands, an orange grove across the street literally dropping ripe oranges into our hands, I mean, I could go on and on.

I was a happy kid. Until I was a happy kid with a secret. And then I was a happy but worried kid with a secret. And then I was a pretending-to-be-happy kid with obsessive-compulsive behaviors because I was working so hard to contain my secret. Then, for a few months, I tried to be a boy (with less than stellar results). Then I was a teenager and we moved to Texas, leaving my friends and fresh oranges behind, but carrying with me this secret that threatened to swallow me whole, just like a central Florida sinkhole.

I think back on those days and I don’t even really know how or why I knew my secret should be a secret. I knew only that I kept a picture of Princess Leia under my bed so I could look at her face before I fell asleep every night, and that when I traded Princess Leia’s picture for my dance teacher’s picture, it felt… exhilarating and terrifying.

But what made me instinctively ashamed? Was it because I saw my friends crushing on Duran Duran and when I looked at the posters I felt only a kind of blank confusion? “Oh, his ears seem normal sized, yes, I guess he’s cute?” I went from being a kid who was mad I never got to play Superman in the backyard (“Kari Anne, you be Superman’s mom.” “What?! No!”) to being a pre-teen with this crater-sized emptiness inside her because looking at the dudes in Duran Duran triggered only this queasy feeling that I’d much rather have a poster of my dance teacher in my room. My friends were giggly and “boy crazy” while I waited blankly for some switch to get flipped so I could be boy crazy, too.

Reader, the switch never flipped. The switch was not even there.

I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. Maybe I should try harder to kiss my elbow. That would turn me into a boy, right? Wouldn’t things be easier if I were a boy? If I were a boy, it would be perfectly normal to have a debilitating crush on my dance teacher. Right? I started hiding my hair in baseball caps, and wearing jeans and baggy t-shirts. I loved it when old ladies at church called me “young man.” Except… I didn’t really love it. I didn’t actually want to be a boy. I just wanted the cool things boys got to have. They could be Superman. They had better haircuts. They got have crushes on girls.

And so, while I don’t remember anyone ever telling me it wasn’t ok to be gay, I also don’t remember even knowing what gay was until school bus slurs defined it for me. Kids insulted other kids by calling them gay, but even that was relegated to boys. I had no place to exist, even in the world of taunts.

Sure there were tomboys I clung to like a rope thrown in a sinkhole (hello, Jo in The Facts of Life), but there were no queer women at all in my rural Weltanschauung. No books, no television characters, no cartoons, no public figures, no strangers holding hands on the street, nothing. (It would be twelve years – my entire lifetime lived again – before Ellen came out on TV.) There just wasn’t any representation. Lesbians were not a thing. Anywhere. Particularly in LOL, Florida.

I look back and see that so many of my heroines were queer, but they weren’t free to talk about it in any kind of form where a 12-year-old girl would see it. Sally Ride. Lily Tomlin. Louise Fitzhugh. If I had seen Sally Ride kiss her wife just before she climbed into the Space Shuttle… THAT would have been something. But I didn’t even know I could imagine such a thing.

Of course, the world has changed a lot since the days I painfully, confusingly daydreamed about my dance teacher. Lesbians are on TV now, they’re in movies, they make music, they teach school, they’re in the military, they run for public office, and yet… where are they in children’s literature? Where are the girls crushing on other girls in books on middle school library shelves? Where is the representation young women crave when they feel confused and alone? Where are the stories normalizing girls with girlfriends? There’s definitely more out there now than when I was young, but compared to books about gay boys? About bi characters? About trans kids? About anyone *except* young gay women? Not much has changed since the 80s. Lesbians are still not really a thing for middle school kids. The void is bigger than any sinkhole in Florida.

And yet, representation matters more than ever.

Seeing yourself in a book is just.so.validating. And this is something you can’t really understand if you’ve always had books that reflect who you are. It’s also something you don’t understand until you finally read the first book that has someone like you in it. Your world expands and collapses all at the same time. You’re stunned and thrilled and fulfilled and then… you’re sad and angry and hungry. You want to sweep your arm across all the other shelves, and demand more, more, more. You want to kick in the TV for killing the one minor-character lesbian you clung to. Why is it so difficult to find yourself represented?

It shouldn’t be. Everyone deserves representation. And just as important… everyone else deserves books and movies and TV shows where gay ladies are part of every day life, too. We are not minor characters in real life. We aren’t always witty sidekicks. We aren’t killed for ratings. We are people who live in this world, alongside other people. Our visibility should not be less than his or yours. This is true when we’re 40. This is true when we’re 12.

I couldn’t go to my school library and find a book with me in it. That’s a sad truth. But what’s even sadder, what’s even more tragic, is that right now, today, in 2018, it is almost just as hard for a queer 12-year-old girl to go to her school library and find a book with herself in it.

Next year, though, at the beginning of the school year, she will have a book she can see herself in. And maybe it won’t be an exact reflection, and maybe she’s still figuring things out, and maybe the story is different than her own, but all of that is ok because she will be able to pick up a book, see two girls struggling together (and alone) to make sense of the world, and those girls will be holding hands. They aren’t killed for ratings. They aren’t minor characters. They aren’t an abomination. They aren’t adult content. They are young women living their lives. They are representative of millions of real girls who are not abominations or adult content or minor characters, either. They are the characters in a book I desperately needed, but did not have, when I was a young woman.

It’s pretty obvious that I have no control over Florida sinkholes, but I can do my best to close the void that tried to swallow me when I was a kid. I can write stories that say, “Hey. I see you. I get it.” And I can whisper to my pre-teen self, “One day you’ll be out and proud. You won’t be an astronaut, but you will be able to kiss your wife whenever and wherever you want.”

Next September, when Redwood & Ponytail comes out (ba dum bum), I hope it reaches the girls who need it. I hope it makes its way to every LOL, Florida-equivalent community. I hope it helps young women feel seen. And I hope everyone else realizes that a book about girls is a book anyone can enjoy. Our lives are just as universal as yours, our feelings just as shared, our jokes just as funny.

Representation matters.

Even and especially when you’re a girl holding hands with another girl.

 

 

 

 

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International You Are Worth It, You Are A Beast Day

On this International Women’s Day, it occurred to me (in a moment of shock and chagrin) that 2016 was the first year – THE FIRST YEAR – I answered “children’s book author” every time someone asked what I did for a living.

I’ve been a published author for 10 years. I have six books in stores, one out in May, and four more out next year. But in previous years when asked about my job, I would say “Oh, I work from home.” Or “I’m a writer.” I felt like I needed excuses for “just” writing books for kids. EIGHT BOOK CONTRACTS from 2014 to now, and I didn’t feel adequate.

Why?

Some of that was definitely on me. I could have been more confident, for sure. But there were also the times when I’d say I wrote books for kids, and the response was “do you plan on ever writing a real book?” or “no, but what’s your real job?” There is a weird undercurrent for women writers that our jobs are actually our hobbies, that writing isn’t a real job and instead it’s a fun past time we sometimes get paid for.

“But, Kari,” you say. “The kidlit community is dominated by women. How can you say women are undervalued?”

Well, let’s look at things like conferences and school visits. Women are often asked to speak for free. If we balk at that, we will hear that “budgets are tight.” Fair enough. Budgets ARE tight. I totally get that. But then, then, we learn that men (often with fewer books published and less experience) are being paid more. Not just more, but MORE. When asked why this happens, the reasoning is often, simply, the men are paid more because they ask for more. They value themselves because they are seen as valued.

It starts to make sense, then, why women authors — why *I* —  would value my work, my accomplishments, my self, as lesser than. If I am not seen as valued, I will not value myself. It’s an ugly cycle, isn’t it?

I feel like much of this comes from Society (which, ugh, I know, but bear with me). Expectations for women are so high. Back in my always-feeling-unworthy days, I felt constant judgement coming from every angle: I worked too hard, but I didn’t earn enough money. I let my kids spend too much time on screens, but god forbid I let them play outside unsupervised. My clothes weren’t right, but worrying about clothes isn’t very feminist. So many messages, and instead of any of them saying “Wow! Look at everything you’re accomplishing,” they say “You’re not doing enough, and you’re not doing it right.” It’s easy to see how a woman can feel undervalued… she is undervalued.

The thing is, though… when I was writing? I had the confidence of an average white man. When I was invited to speak or teach about writing, and I was paid what I like to call The Man Rate? I could blow away a whole auditorium. Even with rejections and revisions and setbacks and frustrations, I never doubted myself as a writer. So why, WHY, did it take me so long to admit that Yes, I am good at what I do? Why was it so difficult to finally say Yes, I am proud of my work and I deserve to be fairly compensated for it?

For me, it’s been a confluence of events. But I can tell you, at the top of that list is turning 40 and just not giving a damn anymore about confronting people when they act like tools.

So on this International Women’s Day, this International You Are Worth It, You Are A Beast Day, I want to reach out to all my women author sisters.

You have value.
You have talent.
You do not deserve less because you are a woman.
You should not ask for less because it’s expected of you.
May we all have not just the confidence of a mediocre white man, but may we crush it with the confidence of a 40-year-old woman who is sick 👏 of 👏this 👏 shit.

We are working hard and fighting hard and writing hard everyday. We don’t just deserve parity. We deserve respect. And most of all, we deserve to respect ourselves.

 

Defeat snatched from the hands of victory

When I was in the sixth grade, I went to a district-level speech contest. I’d prepared and practiced for weeks, beating everyone at my school in order to advance. There were only something like five of us in the finals, all from different schools, and it was a fancy evening event. Everyone was dressed up, there were local “dignitaries” in attendance… it was a big deal.
 
I got up in front of everyone, so nervous I thought I was going to pass out. But as soon as I started talking, I calmed down. I gave my speech, made everyone laugh and sniffle and clap… it was glorious. I felt like I learned two things from that moment: I was a good storyteller, and despite the initial terror, I loved being on stage.
 
Fast forward a little while, and all the speeches were finished. They were good, but I knew deep down they weren’t as good as mine. The other kids came up to me and told me how well I’d done. Everyone was shaking my hand. I was bursting with confidence and excitement. I had blown them away, and I felt amazing about it.
 
When it was time for the awards to be handed out, I could barely contain myself. Third place was called… not me. My heart ratcheted up a notch. Second place… not me. I started to feel dizzy with anticipation. First place was finally called, and… not me.
Not me?!
What!!
 
There was an audible gasp from the crowd. Eyes on me, eyes on the winner, eyes on me, eyes on the winner. I hadn’t even placed.
 
After the winner accepted his award, and was surrounded by a congratulatory crowd, a judge came pulled me to the side and explained I had gone over time. My speech was disqualified. The first place winner had done a better job. That was that.
 
Everything I’d felt earlier crumbled. I wasn’t the best speaker. I wasn’t a good storyteller. I’d been too nervous to watch my time. I lost for a reason: I’d done a bad job. It was devastating.
 
Of course now I look back and remember the compliments. I remember how, even though my ego took a hit, my confidence (eventually) grew from that night. Failing is often more important than winning.
 
So, while I’m hugely glad that Moonlight won last night (and I know this isn’t a very good analogy to what happened), I feel for those La La Land folks. I doubt their confidence has plummeted much, but still. I know it’s a bit ridiculous to equate a seventh grade speech competition with the Oscars, but that night was my Oscars. And I snatched defeat right out of the hands of victory. It was tough, but it gave me my third lesson of the night:
Grace.

The winner deserved to win. I did not. And though it crushed me to shake his hand and tell him what a good job he’d done, he had done a good job. He deserved his ribbon. I was devastated for quite some time afterward, but even so, that night was one of the most formative nights of my life.

On stage last night, there was confusion, there was joy, there was shock, there was dismay, there was more joy, there was elation, but there was also grace. Grace in acceptance, grace in winning, and grace in losing. I don’t know that we ever learn much from watching big award shows, but watching humans figure out grace is a nice way to end an evening, especially in a world that, right now, seems to reward hissy fits and drama.

I’m so happy for Moonlight. So happy to see the story of a gay black man win this award. I’m so happy to see the first muslim man win a best actor award for the same movie. And I’m so happy to see humans struggling through confusion, and then doing right, on stage in front of everyone.

Maybe they’d all lost some speech tournaments as kids, too.

 

Qui tacet consentit

Qui tacet consentit. “Through silence, consent.” A colleague of mine posted this phrase on social media today after I had just hit send on an email that hurt my stomach to write. It’s a phrase I’ve been talking about for a while, and something that is especially poignant right now. 

You know, it used to be, if you said nothing then you were silently, tacitly giving your  approval. But now, even more than ever, it’s become if you *do* nothing you are approving. And there are so many things I can’t approve of right now.
Last year, when I began writing and doing school visits as my full-time means of income I knew it was going to be tricky. I need every contract, every school visit, every skype visit, every freelance job I can get. This allows me to pay rent, to buy groceries for my three kids, to pay exorbitant health insurance costs through the exchange (that thank goodness doesn’t punish me for having pre-existing conditions). I survive because I write. In so many ways. 

What this means, though, is that I can’t turn down work. Usually, that isn’t a problem. But now — I have had to make a decision. Do I say no to a paying school visit – do I risk the rent and the groceries and the health insurance payments – because I need to take a principled stand? Do I risk being seen as a zealot who is actually punishing students instead of a careless school district administration? Couldn’t I do more good in the world if I just took the money, spoke to the students, hoped to enlighten them, and then moved on?

Now more than ever, the answer to all of those questions HAS to be… I DO risk the rent. I am NOT a zealot. I AM doing good. Because qui tacet consentit. Through silence, consent. It used to be that you could raise your fist, be angry, and then go about your day. You could say, “Oh, Grandpa is a racist because he’s too old to change his ways.” You could say “Cousin Jane is a homophobe because she doesn’t know any better. What should I bring for Thanksgiving?” You would shake your head and say, “My boss is such a sexist, but that’s how the world works, and I need to get paid, right?” and you would carry on. But now? Now I am sick and tired of carrying on. Carrying on is tacit approval. Tacit approval lets the systemic poison burble happily along, splitting into more and more smoking veins of hatred until there are boiling calderas under every city, every school, every house.

It is not OK.

Last week, a small branding company in Austin, TX stood up to the entire Texas Department of Agriculture. The woman-owned business said they would no longer contract with the Ag Dept after the commissioner tweeted a profane insult aimed at Hillary Clinton. The Ag Commissioner responded by saying (this is paraphrased), “Why would they punch themselves in the face to punish me? That doesn’t sound like smart business.” What he misunderstood was they aren’t trying to punish him. They are taking a stand. They are risking their business by saying, “Hey. Enough. Maybe you’re our biggest client. Maybe we get most of our income from you. But you know what? You’re a disgusting man who doesn’t deserve the service we provide you. We’re out.” 

Do you realize how often this *doesn’t* happen? How many businesses and professionals, vendors and employees are afraid to do something like this? How they are trapped by powerful people who feel like they have free reign to be terrible (because they have had free reign)? Can you imagine what might happen if this kind of stand-taking happened more often? If rather than silent, resigned complicity, everyone said, simply, “No. This is not OK.”?

Today I sent a “No, it’s not OK” email. I made the choice to not get paid, so that I could make an important point. I chose not to be silent. I chose not to be complicit. Last summer the Round Rock school district made a choice to silence an author who was teaching students love and empathy and kindness and acceptance. The district didn’t like the message of acceptance, and effectively banned the author. They worked to gaslight him, and everyone, by stating a different reason for uninviting him, but those of us who have been discriminated against know the pattern. And those of us who know the author, know he is telling the truth. And so, in solidarity with Phil, I said no to Round Rock. It devastates me to miss out on speaking to so many children, to not be able to give my own message of love and empathy and kindness and acceptance. But if I go to the district, and I take their money, and I agree to speak on what they want me to speak about, then I am, ironically, being silent. And I will not be silent anymore.

You can read my letter below. I hope that everyone else will choose to not be silent anymore, too. Whether it has to do with school visits, or sexist bosses, or throwaway racist jokes, or or or or…. Please, no more qui tacet consentit.

###

Hello–
It fills my heart to know the entire 6th grade is reading HOUSE ARREST! I hope they are enjoying it. It’s a book so close to my heart, and knowing that so many students will be able to meet Timothy and follow him along his path means so much to me.
The last time we spoke was in April. A few months after that, there was an incident with the Round Rock school district uninviting, and then basically banning my good friend and colleague, Phil Bildner, from the district. It boiled down to the fact that Phil teaches love and kindness and acceptance of others, and this message of acceptance wasn’t something administrators wanted students to hear. As authors, we see this type of thing more frequently than we want to (obviously, we want to NEVER see it!) but we also see school districts handle the situation with more grace than the Round Rock district handled it. I know this isn’t your fault, and I know it isn’t the students’ fault, but I really can’t, in good conscience, provide visits to a district that would treat Phil – and their own students – this way. I definitely can’t support a district that would effectively censor a message of acceptance. 
Especially in this raw climate we find ourselves in, where students (and people everywhere) feel targeted for their differences, it is extra important for authors and businesses and everyone to stand up and say, “We will no longer tacitly support this type of behavior.” In the past, it has been easier for people to be upset with a situation, be vocal about their upsetness, and then carry-on. I feel, though, we can no longer just be upset and then carry on. We have to take a true stand, and we have to be actionable with our words and our principles. It upsets me to not be able to come and talk to the students, but I hope you understand why. I also hope you will share my message with the Director of Library Services and other administrators.
I wish you and your students my very best,
Kari

An experiment in interestingness

Consider, if you will, these Fall movies:

A band of women are determined to protect a 19th-century Western outpost from a malevolent industrialist (Annette Bening). Charlize Theron leads the women, as Winona Ryder (a hard-drinking ne’er-do-well) helps – and hinders – the fight.

A baby is dropped on the doorstep of an unsuspecting British man, and he must figure out which of his recent lovers is her mother. Is it the romantic, American businesswoman or the attractive, but cold, ex-girlfriend? This blunder-prone man must stumble his way through this hilarious situation!

An autistic forensic accountant (Jennifer Garner) is recruited by a robotics company to locate a money leak, and she discovers a whistleblowing CPA (Chris Pratt) while also revealing her Beautiful Mind-esque math ability.

A boxing champ (Lupita Nyong’o) faces impossible odds to fight her way back into the ring after breaking her neck in a car accident.

A luckless prospector (Naomi Watts) tries to strike it rich in the Indonesian jungle while her steadfast boyfriend (Brad Pitt) works multiple jobs to keep the couple afloat.

These are all actual movies, but I reversed the genders. Does that make you want to see the movies more? Less? Does it make any difference? This is a game I like to play when I get my Entertainment Weekly, and it has a TV Preview, or a Movie Preview. I also like to do it with book reviews. Switch the gender. Change the race. How does that affect the story being told? Does it affect the story? I have to say that more often than not, the story seems A LOT more interesting. We lose the run-of-the-mill storylines, and open things up to broader topics and statements. The Bridget Jones riff up there looks pretty stupid when the genders are switched. (Though, arguably, it’s pretty dumb to begin with).

Anyway, one could hope that Hollywood execs and TV producers, when reading a script, would also experiment with the gender of the characters. “What would this story be like, if… all the humans on the oil rig were women, all the lawyers fighting over the Very Important Thing were women, the person having the midlife crisis and then going a road trip with a crusty old person was a woman… of color! What happens to the jokes when you switch the characters like this? Do they work? Are they still lazy? Do the caricatures they come across/interact with suddenly hold less (or more) import?

I don’t imagine Hollywood will do this. I imagine they already feel a bit hamstrung and hand-wring-y about the amount of female-driven movies they’re currently producing. (omgwtfbbq the internets hate ladies and movies have ladies and we made two movies with ladies and now we will only make $384658 billion instead of $384659 billion and what is happeninnnnnggg)

So maybe it’s up to the writers? Maybe you finish your screenplay or television treatment or your book (or if you’re lucky, you finish the outline and the first few pages/chapters instead of the whole thing) and then you go back and say “Huh. What happens if…” And you change things up. Maybe you ultimately keep the characters the same gender and same race, but in the exercise of switching them you see the blatant sexism/racism/lazy writing that happens when you depend on every day observations and assumptions. Maybe putting your characters into different shoes makes you a stronger writer, and your characters more interesting. And possibly, doing this will convince you to leave the characters that way and see what happens.

Women can pilot spaceships, and men can clean kitchens. Koreans can have their hearts broken, and African-Americans can be magicians.

I know a lot more needs to be done to diversify the pop culture we all consume, and I don’t have answers to solving that (other than, “shut your whiny pie holes, and make movies about ANYONE OTHER THAN WHITE DUDES that are written by ANYONE OTHER THAN WHITE DUDES and directed by ANYONE OTHER THAN WHITE DUDES”) but since Hollywood, just like my children, will never listen to me this seems like an interesting exercise for the rest of us.

When “Pets OK: see agent” actually means “Pets OK: but no lesbians”

 

In June 2015 SCOTUS gave the final say: gay marriage is the law of the land. Everyone shares equal rights now and WHEW that was a long battle and let’s all go get a drink and wear cute rainbow shirts and celebrate.

Or, wait.

Could it possibly be that in the first half of 2016 alone, 87 bills have been introduced nationwide that attempt to limit rights for LGBT people? That would be crazy, right? I mean, the *majority* of Americans support equality. Gay marriage is a done deal. It really is an amazing time to be out in America. And yet, suddenly the party of anti-big-government and pro-states-rights, is encouraging (and funding) new laws that not only attempt to limit equality, but that attempt to use a heavy governmental fist to prevent localities from providing equal rights for all? Huh?

So maybe it shouldn’t be shocking to go hunting for a rental house and to learn that the  application my girlfriend and I turned in was denied. Maybe I shouldn’t find that as galling and preposterous as I do. But here we are.

Was there a giant stamp on our denied application that said “NO LESBIANS ALLOWED!”? Nope. Because in my city that would be against one of those everyone-has-the-same-rights ordinances that defies state and federal doctrine. Instead of a NO LESBIANS stamp, we were denied because of our pets. Curiously, the listing for the house says “Pets OK, up to 3, See Agent.” But after our realtor discussed everything with the agent and turned in all our paperwork (wherein two women were listed as partners), we found out that Lo! “Pets OK, up to 3” actually means no cats and small dogs only.

Hmm.

Maybe it’s as simple as that. The listing was unspecific. Perhaps the landlord truly isn’t into cats or 40 pound dogs. Possibly that’s true. Possibly, instead of filling out the listing like every other agent does, saying “no cats” and “small dogs only” he just thought that “Pets OK, see agent” would cover pesky details like that.

I mean, when I googled the guy and found out that he’s an executive pastor at a conservative local church that condemns gay marriage, that probably has nothing to do with how he feels about people renting the house, right? That’s probably just me piling my own baggage onto him? There’s no way he would put in a nebulous pet policy as a loophole for discriminatory behavior, right? Only a conspiracy theorist/crazy person would think that! The fact that his church held a post-SCOTUS ruling seminar on “not sitting back silently while the world celebrates perversion of God’s design for sexuality” probably has nothing to do with any of this. Right? RIGHT?

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Or maybe this kind of insidious discrimination has been going on since the dawn of time. Maybe the political climate is giving people a new boldness to deny others equal rights and opportunities. Maybe the abundance of “religious freedom” laws are creating a sense of “but it’s not discriminatory if my religion says you’re gross.”

Maybe I shouldn’t be shocked to be faced with this kind of conundrum. Is it insipid discrimination? Or are there just some craaaaazy coincidences designed to make ME look like the one who’s targeting an innocent person?

My gut-feeling could be completely wrong. The application denial could be completely unbiased and legit. I have no definitive proof in this particular case. But I do have definitive proof that the desire to discriminate is being heartily encouraged across the country. I can be told it’s not my sexuality that’s the problem, it’s really the cat’s fault. I can report the landlord to the local housing authority and the tenant’s council, and find out nothing can be done. I can make a donation in his name to a lesbian charity, to try to balance the scales a bit. I can feel lucky that it’s “only” something like housing discrimination I’ve faced and not the barrel of a gun at a traffic stop.

But what can you do? What can we all do together? I think the first step is just recognizing that this shit happens. Is happening. All. The. Time. And it has been, forever. It’s time to raise awareness instead of our shrugging shoulders. And it’s time to vote. Not just in national elections, but in the small local ones. These podunk asshole politicians who make it OK to discriminate give power to the non-politican assholes who feel threatened. And how are the asshole politicians elected when the majority of people support equality? They are voted into state office BECAUSE THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE DO NOT VOTE IN LOCAL ELECTIONS. Get out the vote, y’all, and let’s stop giving power to those who would take it away.

 

Get off my lawn

Growing up in the 80s, I got my ass handed to me a million times as I struggled to find my way. I was a shitty dancer, never earning trophies. I lost more than one speech competition because I went over time and got disqualified. I tried out for volleyball and I didn’t make the team because the other girls who tried out were better.

Guess what? Not making the team did not ruin my life. Losing competitions did not crush my fragile soul. Has my adult life been adversely affected by having grown-ups tell my kid-self I wasn’t good enough and should find something different to try? It has not.

In high school, I wanted the lead in a play. I did not get the lead. I got a supporting role where I learned that memorizing lines is hard, acting is sweaty, and though I loved the stage, I wanted to try something different. So I wrote a play. And that led me to write short stories. And novels. And boom, here we are.

What is my point? My point is that learning to fail is what taught me to succeed.

And I wonder if some of these Bernie-or-Bust supporters have ever had that experience in their lives. What must it be like to be young and privileged and earnest and to have grown up in a world where every little league player gets a trophy and no one keeps score? What must it be like to navigate the ugly real world now when all you’ve known is that there were 35 cheerleaders on the squad because if you didn’t make the squad your parents threatened to sue? What is it like to always hear that you’re special, and to never hear the word no? It must be really, really hard to be an adult and to learn these lessons for the first time.

It’s not that I’m advocating destroying the hearts and minds of children in order to make them toughened adults, it’s that I’m sighing deeply over “progressive” adult humans having multi-day temper tantrums because they did not get their way. I’m sighing deeply over weeping white boys with duct tape over their mouths that reads “silenced.” I’m driving in disbelief as I listen to NPR interviews with young women who say, “I see your basic point, but it’s, like, the principle of the thing?” when the interviewer points out that a protest vote for Trump actually endorses pretty much everything Bernie stands against.

Most of the time, losing sucks. Having someone tell you No sucks, too. Finding out there were dirty shenanigans behind the scenes really, really sucks. You’re pissed. You’re sad. You totally get to be those things. Feel the feelings, baby. Roll around in them. But then, grow the fuck up.

You know what happens after someone tells you No? You learn from it. You grow. You affect change. Understand that your temper tantrums do not affect change. Taking your anger to every single election in the next four years, the next eight years, the next twelve years, THAT affects change. Rallying people to start from the ground-up and revamp a shitty system, THAT affects change. Just because it feels like you lost this round doesn’t mean that you pitch a fit and boo public speakers and stick out your lower lip and refuse to vote. You know what it does mean? It means you feel like you lost, but take a deep breath and look around you. The party platform includes things it never would have included if you hadn’t made your voice heard. Bernie Sanders – who is not actually a Democrat, you know – has his arm elbow-deep in the muck of the Democratic party and he’s swirling it around. He’s frothing up that muck, y’all. He’s getting down and dirty, making allies, and jamming his foot in the fucking door.

Bernie is not the nominee, but his words have made a difference. His policy is already affecting change. Don’t you see that, Crying Children At The Convention? Don’t you see the leaps and bounds that have already occurred? And don’t you understand YOU WILL LOSE ALL OF THIS if Donald Trump is elected president? Everything you worked so hard for is going down in a flaming pile of shit if you abstain from voting, or if you vote third-party. You WANT the system to be ready for a third-party revolution. The system is not ready. What the system IS primed and ready for is a demagogue to rise to power on the backs of whiny baby special snowflakes who don’t know how to turn the word No into the word Change.

So buck up, buttercups. Feel your feelings. And then take your medicine, vote for Hillary, protect your loved ones from a world where hate and racism and bigotry are all state-sanctioned, and then vote, vote, vote in every local and state election until the assholes are gone.

And the best part about channeling your earnestness into down-in-the-local-trenches civic duty? You get a sticker every time you vote. EVERYONE GETS A STICKER! EVERY TIME!

Bernie didn’t get the nomination. It sucks, and it doesn’t feel fair because you wanted it to happen. You really, really wanted it and you didn’t get what you want, and you are lost.  But now is the time to learn what you should have learned when you were eight. Now is the time to realize your lack of a trophy at this very instant doesn’t mean you will never have that trophy. It means you are going to have to work for it. It means you take this failure to fuel future success. You do not take this failure to fuel future flaming shit piles. Shit piles governed by fascists do not offer very many trophy opportunities.

You hear me? Good.

Now get off my lawn.