Confessions: I Still Suck at Grief

I miss my brother.

I thought I'd get better at grieving over time. I thought by the fifth year that - what? I'd graduate grief? Become a superior human being? Be rid of all my flaws?

To many people, it might look like I have. A student wrote an essay about cyberbullying and used an example of a student who died of depression and I didn't burst into tears. I tell people what happened to Josh matter-of-factly when they ask how many siblings I have.

But grief is a heavy, heavy weight. I don't think it ever gets lighter. I think that we just get stronger to carry it if we survive the first experience of the anvil falling. For those who anticipate the loss, maybe they do some sort of emotional CrossFit before it happens or brace themselves and that's why it seems like they manage even though they're trying to carry an invisible, out-of-tune grand piano. For those of us blindsided, we may collapse into a puddle and then hopefully someone does something and we somehow get back up and assemble the pieces that are left and figure out what the future looks like  
without the person we always saw as part of our happily ever after and  
with a metric ton of devastation on our backs.

I lost my brother. The one who conspired to keep transgressions from my parents. The one who could remind me that not everything was perfect when we grew up, but we were in it together. The one who could make fun of my terrible taste in music and pets and stories.

The one who called out my children's book collection as too heavy on female writers to make sure my male students could see themselves as writers too.

The one who taught me that everyone can love to read when they find something that interests them.

The one who patiently explained to me how to learn to juggle and how it works, even though I'm super clumsy and never learned how.

The one who promised to come to my wedding because it was a shame for no one from the family to be there.

Who didn't, because his mental illness had taken him before I managed to get married.

Who hasn't seen the house I've owned for a year now and the yard that's a mess.

Who won't ever meet his future nieces and nephews to play soccer in that messy backyard.

In my head, in the parallel universe where he's living, he's married to a sweet woman and probably has two children and works for a bank. He would have turned 27 last week.

The grief doesn't get lighter. It doesn't even stay the same weight. If anything, the weight grows as the things pile up that I want to tell him and I can't. Lily, the mutt we adopted right after I finished high school, that Josh trained, that probably to the day she passed would have gone to look out the window when we said, "Josh is home," even years after his passing, died this year. Dorian, the cat that my brother made fun of me for getting, died this year. He never met Cesar. He will never meet Harry. He will never meet my parents' new dog, Cookie. The world keeps rolling and snowballing all the things that he will never see.

This time of year, the distance between my universe and the parallel universe where he lives now gets thinner. His birthday, the day he died, the holidays - sometimes the gap seems so small that I think that if I reached out hard enough, I could pass him the butter pecan truffles from Fabiano's that I continue purchasing because he loved them, even though they're not my favorite.

And you can't see me now, but I'm crying, the kind of crying that wracks the soul so hard that there's no sound left to come out, and I wish I could tell those of you with fresher losses that it gets easier, but it doesn't. Your arms will grow longer, your back will grow stronger, and you will find new ways to love and new people to love, and the grief will not finish you, but the grief will never finish, either.

For me, the world is divided into the time before December 15th, 2011, when my back was upright, and the time after I was issued my anvil with no instruction manual. I'm grateful for all of those who have helped me carry it and sent me pages of the instruction manual they wrote from trial and error and gone along with the pages I have written for myself that don't make sense to anyone else. And I will try to share the load for those who have received their anvil this year and send you pages out of that nonsensical instruction manual.

The grief will not finish, but it will not finish us.

Confessions: November 2016 Has Me at a Loss for Words

National Blog Post Month really didn't go well this year. In fact, it went better last year, despite our mold infestation and trying to close on a house owned by an incompetent, negligent, business un-savvy real estate speculator.

I haven't posted in about two weeks. I could try to blame hosting Thanksgiving and Sunday open dinner, but that's not the reason.

I could try to blame doing home repairs.

I could try to blame a stressful work schedule, or having to box up our antique booth, or any number of other things.

Most of you are compassionate. Most of you would give me a pass.

But I don't feel like I deserve a pass.

The truth is that I haven't been writing because I feel guilty and powerless after the results of the election.

I feel guilty that I didn't post about my concerns about a Trump administration. No, I don't have thousands of readers. No, this blog isn't a huge platform. But I do have readers. People here and there consider my perspectives.

And I didn't write because I thought that people already knew how dangerous a Trump presidency could be. I thought that my years of reading about Latin American dictatorships, of trying to understand what conditions cause revolution and political instability wouldn't matter, that people would write it off even if I explained it well, and I questioned if I could explain it well enough for people to see the parallels between Pinochet or Trujillo or the Perones or Bucaram and Trump. I didn't think he could win. I didn't want to rock the boat. I didn't want to sift through the comments on social media and moderate and defend. I didn't want to find out that more than zero of my associates support a bigoted, inept businessman for the head of state of a world power.

And if I continue in the vein of confessions, I haven't been writing because I've used up the energy it would take to write in calling representatives. I hate using the phone, but it's the best way to make elected officials listen. So it takes a lot for me to get up the gumption to do it. I haven't as much as I should. I see people who call every day, or more than once a day, and I'm in awe that they can. I'm in awe at how many voicemails they leave, that they  have a script, that they re-dial if the line is busy. It gives me hope to see their activism. But I also feel guilty that I don't match that level of advocacy.

I also feel guilty because I have so much privilege now that I might not be significantly impacted by many of the policies I anticipate being harmful. (Unless my wife or I are assaulted in a hate crime, which, you know, is now much more likely. So there's that.) We have so much privilege that we recently ordered a brand new couch for the family room at #fixerupperdetroit (our first brand new couch EVER - hooray for adulting). We don't really budget for grocery store purchases much anymore. We joke about "throwing money at problems," but we actually do, and it's great. It's so much easier than the "creative accounting" and "shrewd budgeting" and coupon clipping and waiting for sales and doing without and such that we used to do, and Rebecca's growing salary makes it okay. We're already married, and even if Obergefell v. Hodges and Windsor v. US are overturned, my marriage certificate will likely continue to be valid and recognized. We already bought a house at a reasonable interest rate, and Rebecca's salary will cover the mortgage even if we're underwater. We have the money to pay attorneys. We're White. We're Christian.

I feel guilty because we have a lot of privilege and because I've shirked what I perceive to be my responsibilities as an informed citizen.

But I also confess that despite my privilege, I feel powerless.

You see, I voted in the primaries. Carefully. Using research. Like, down to voting for former public defenders as judges instead of former prosecutors as judges because public defenders who become judges are more likely to support sentences that rehabilitate and restore.

I voted in the presidential election. Carefully. Using research. Like, down to comparing credentials for sixty-three Detroit Community School District school board representatives.

I voted, and I'm still terrified.


And now the research I'm doing is whether there's a such thing as personal political upheaval insurance. I'm trying to figure out if there's a financial advising firm that specializes in predicting the effects of political instability. I'm trying to figure out if we should try to pay of Rebecca's student loans faster or the mortgage faster if we need to mobilize or need cash on hand to pay bail for friends who are political activists. I'm trying to maximize the number of people who can stay in our house (or hide in our house) if the proposed Muslim registry happens and then turns into something more dangerous. I'm asking my wife to increase her disability insurance coverage so that we don't lose the house if she is incapacitated in a hate crime. I'm asking my family lawyer if we need to update any documents in case we end up hospitalized at a religious hospital that doesn't recognize our marriage and there's some form of "religious freedom" act passed that permits them to disregard my marriage certificate (yes, a bill like this already exists, and yes, Trump has said he would sign it).

Will all of these things happen? No, probably not. Do I know which ones will and won't? Of course not. No one really does. The outcome of this election was a surprise even to those who are far more educated on the subject than I am.

I've survived this far from a blend of privilege and preparing for the worst possible outcome I can imagine. I was lulled into  a sense of security when the economy was on an upswing and we'd mostly finished the major renovation and it looks like 80 hour weeks aren't going to kill my wife. I thought there wouldn't likely be another housing crash like the one in 2008. I thought it would get easier to be an out lesbian in a conservative state.

And I must confess: I'm at a loss. I don't know how to prepare for this many possible bad outcomes. Even with this amount of privilege.

So I haven't been writing. Maybe December will be better.

An SAT Teacher Talks Immigration

Yesterday at a local low-income public high school where I teach SAT prep, we were discussing college class structure when a student asked me, "What's the point in preparing for college applications if Trump kicks my family out of the country?"

I asked him if he had been born here or gone through the citizenship process. He said that they became citizens a long time ago.

I told him that if he is a citizen, no one can make him leave.

That's currently true.

When I posted a condensed version of this story on facebook, one person commented that if he's a naturalized citizen, he has "nothing to fear!!!!" (emphasis added, exclamation marks original).

It isn't his job as a child to know the intricacies of immigration law, nor is it unreasonable that my student took the president-elect of an industrialized country at his word.

I'm not sure what religion this student's family follows, but he may well be Muslim. I told him that he can't be deported, but given other recent events, here are possible concerns:

• He could be pushed or roughed up in public spaces (happened to a friend who looks much like this student).
• The female members of his family could be threatened in public spaces (for instance, in Ann Arbor, someone threatened to light a hijabi woman on fire).
• His place of worship could be attacked or monitored.
• Any of these racist/bigoted events that have happened in Michigan just since the election results were announced.

It remains to be seen whether religious minorities will be forced to register or undergo extra surveillance. 

So there is much to fear for his family (just as there is for mine even though it isn't possible for my marriage to be invalidated), even though he cannot be deported. 

I have felt often lately that there isn't much I can do, but in his case, that isn't true. I can teach him to get a strong SAT score and give him the resources to get into a good university with scholarships. I can help to provide him a pathway to the education and financial stability to support his family no matter where he ends up.

I cannot pretend that going forward, life will be business as usual or that this presidency will be normal. It isn't in my job description to advise students whether they will be deported between taking the SAT and finishing a bachelor's degree*. It isn't normal. Citizens should be able to set a five year plan without considering political volatility. 

 This isn't the last I have to say about the uncertainties this election and presidency create for the youth. In fact, this is a tiny excerpt from one day full of statements that I made that are currently true that may not be true down the line that I'd like to examine. 

I will end with a quote from Autocracy: Rules for Survival. 

"Believe the autocrat. He means what he says. Whenever you find yourself thinking, or hear others claiming, that he is exaggerating, that is our innate tendency to reach for a rationalization. This will happen often: humans seem to have evolved to practice denial when confronted publicly with the unacceptable." ~Masha Gessen

*My comment to the student and comments in this post in general should not be construed as legal advice. I am not qualified to provide that. This blog provides observations and commentary only.

#fixerupperdetroit: Moderately Sad News

I have some moderately sad news. First world problems news. But news that nevertheless makes my heart feel a little empty.

Some of you who have been to #fixerupperdetroit know that one of the remaining larger projects is to rehab the staircase between the ground floor and second floor.

Right now it looks like this:

I hope it's understandable why we want to get this fixed. There are still carpet staples left in some of the steps (although we were hugely blessed to have friends who came and did the grueling work of removing most of them). A lot of the steps are a bit cracked, and the stairs groan loudly under the weight of each person who climbs them. 

We had made a giant step forward. My father-in-law bought a set of antique spindles and a gorgeous post that were exactly the right architectural fit for our house. They would have looked as though they had always been in our house. It would have been an amazing statement piece that visitors saw shortly after entering, and that guided us safely up to bed each night.

He went to pick them up from the warehouse.

They had been stolen.

Who steals architectural pieces? I'm not sure. I've heard that this isn't the only time it's happened. My father-in-law bought the pieces for much less than their usual value (I'm not sure how my in-laws manage to find so many good deals, but it has definitely benefited us over the last few years). Still, that doesn't explain how they disappeared before he got there.

I don't know if we'll find another set this perfect. We almost assuredly won't for the price of this set (my father-in-law did get a refund from the warehouse, at least). 

It's not the end of the world. Compared to the news from the last week, it seems minor. But it was something we were really looking forward to.

If you see a salvaged staircase rail, let me know.

#fixerupperdetroit Presents: Table for 12+ (You're Invited)

We had our first Sunday potluck dinner at the house yesterday. About twelve people showed up - not too shabby for an event we threw together two days prior.  Guests came from so many backgrounds. So did the food (somehow all of it ended up being vegetarian, but the spread was lovely).

Our table was full.

My heart was too, for the first time since I heard the election results.

This is why we bought our house. To bring people together so that they can talk about what's on their minds, in their hearts, what's up in the news. We talked about assisted living, the Detroit land bank, cage-free eggs, cooking, gay adoption, and so much more. My kitten got lots of pets. I got lots of hugs.

We're doing it again this coming Sunday, and every Sunday that we're home. We're hoping it becomes a tradition and safe haven for those whose hearts are heavy.

You're invited, this Sunday, November 20th and the following Sunday, November 27th*. Bring a dish if you can. Message me for details.

*On Sunday, November 27th, we hope to put together Care Kits for those in need (I've also heard them called Blessing Bags - they contain hand warmers, snacks, and other basic supplies for those who could use some help). We'll need people to bring supplies, and then we'll assemble them after the potluck dinner. Keep an eye out for a sign-up list.

Confessions and an Invitation

When I woke up today, the first thing Rebecca told me was that Trump had won and the Republicans had taken Congress.

And I looked at her, and I said, "Trump has promised to pass FADA [the First Amendment Defense Act - essentially a nationwide RFRA like Indiana's], and he has the Congress to actually do it."

Make no mistake. This isn't an attempt to protect the first amendment. We already have the first amendment. There's no need to pile on or protect. The very language of FADA excludes my family. Mine. Rebecca and me. As in, it does nothing to protect us or our religion or our free speech.

And now I'm sitting in my living room under a blanket writing this. I'm staring at my dining room table where, just a couple days ago, people from multiple religions, races, socioeconomic statuses, and ages sat drinking cider and eating doughnuts. I wish more people had the chance to sit with such diverse groups (and took it).

I am scared. I am grief-stricken.

But I will keep looking at my dining room table that can comfortably seat 12 (and more if they like each other). I will keep my commitment to filling its seats, covering it in homemade dishes, and bringing people together in a safe space. We've dreamed of hosting a Sunday dinner, every week, for anyone who would come and abide in acceptance and love.

I will start this Sunday. I hadn't planned to do it so soon, but we need it now. Please message me if you're interested in participating in a potluck to share the love and share the food.

When I have more than I need, I commit to building a longer table, not a higher fence.

House Update: The Day After

The housewarming was yesterday. I've missed two #NaBloPoMo days already. I'm okay with that. I've gotten so much else done!

Our ground floor is essentially finished, except for the entry (which needs the walls re-textured and the trim repaired before painting) and the stairs (which are, to be honest, a hot mess that will require professional help).

Most of our dishes are unpacked, or at least located, even the fancy serving pieces that we only use at holidays. I also currently know where most of our Christmas decorations are, which is good, because the holidays are sneaking up on me.

And we had great turnout yesterday, between Rebecca's work friends, people from two different churches we've attended, school friends, family, and lots and lots of neighbors (I flyered our entire block). People were so encouraging - especially the neighbors who have undertaken large renovation projects themselves. (They were even understanding of the hot mess staircase. They said inviting them to the housewarming was a very neighborly thing to do.)

We've decided to host Thanksgiving. And the Henry Ford family medicine residency Christmas party. (And buy a six foot bench for our dining room.) And have board game nights and crafting nights and cookie days. We're down to less than a year left of Rebecca's residency and fewer late evenings of work for me.

If you didn't make it out to the housewarming, you'll have plenty of chances to see us (and the house) soon.

If the neighbors are any indication, we'll be in Greenacres for another twenty years.

Housewarming Eve Post: Detroit Sense

It's the eve of the #fixerupperdetroit housewarming, and I'm just sitting down to write my #nablopomo post. I spent the day scrubbing dishes and washing floors, so instead of something lengthy, I'm going to share a brief exchange Rebecca and I had in reference to our Dutch Girl doughnut order:

Me: It was confusing at first, so I asked questions until it made sense.
Rebecca: Did it ever make sense?
Me: It made Detroit sense.
Rebecca: So no.
Me: Well, I mean, Detroit just works differently.

And I love it, readers. I love coming home through a tunnel of vibrant fall color, waving to neighbors, the shops that are their own Institution at this point.

I hope some of you come tomorrow and see what I see. You can have a doughnut either way.

White People: When you say "All Lives Matter"

I should have posted about #blacklivesmatter much sooner.

I've been reading the articles, following the social media threads, trying to understand the movement, and overall attempting, though not as much as I should, to amplify the voices of my African-American friends.

In the process, I have had a few people post on my social media feed that I should be saying "all lives matter," not "Black lives matter."

It was jarring. Especially the day that I posted that Black lives matter because there had been two shootings of black men by police officers it in the 24 hours, and I wanted my Black friends to know that someone cares. Especially because there seems to be a lot of anger and resentment and almost hatred toward the Black community for even saying that there was an injustice.

But here's the really disturbing thing I realized: when White people say "all lives matter" in response to "Black lives matter," they're NOT actually encompassing Black lives in that statement, no matter how much they think they are. If they were including Black lives, they wouldn't really need to say it because no one else said that White lives DON'T matter (there are lots and lots of articles explaining this - I don't need to add to them). What "all lives matter"  really says is, "no, you're wrong. I'm correcting you.

Black lives don't matter. All lives matter. All lives except Black lives matter."

This insistence on correction, on steamrolling, results in an attempt to replace reality. It's as though White people are saying, "black people don't know what they're talking about. They are unqualified to make statements like this. Let me fix this for them and tell them what they really think, what they really feel, what they really know about an issue that primarily affects them."

And the really sad part about all of this is that I am confident that when I post this to social media, the comments thread will continue to do this. It will say things like "no, you really aren't understanding me. Blacks really are wrong, and so are you. Let me just explain 'all lives matter' to you one more time, slowly, and you will see that I am correct and you were wrong." And the implicit result is that it's wrong that Black lives matter.

I haven't posted because I had the luxury not to debate this, just as straight people have the privilege of not justifying their marriages over and over. But White people, we need to do better. We need to think harder. We need to acknowledge that we don't know everything, and especially on this, we don't know more than the Black community.

Black lives matter.

My Paperwork Cat in Training

About this time in 2010, Rebecca and I brought Dorian home. While he was timid at first, he became incredibly loyal. I didn't know that cats would wait for their humans at the door after a long day, or hold hands, or head-nudge to request petting. His 15 pound body filled up our apartment so that I wasn't lonely when Rebecca spent long days in class or at the hospital.

He crossed the Rainbow Bridge this summer (read more here). Cesar brings us so much joy, but there are a few things he has never learned to help with, including my paperwork and writing.

Being a paperwork cat is a special calling.

It requires just the right amount of presence. Not so much that my attention is required. A paperwork cat can't actually sit on my lap because my laptop needs to be there.

But full-on napping or too much distance isn't enough.

Dorian had it down. He would snuggle in, purr, and leave me to it. Cesar always wants to be on my lap. He never manages to balance his presence to comfort and focus me without distracting me.

Harrison is cuddled up next to me as I write this. He periodically looks up at me or puts his paw on my leg, as though he's reassuring me. He's still a kitten, so he's a little bit more active than Dorian, but he shows great promise. I hope that by the time I'm ready to write my memoirs, he'll be a fully-trained, trustworthy paperwork cat.

Announcement: Commit in the Mitt and #fixerupperdetroit are participating in NaBloPoMo!

It's National Blog Post Month, and I'm having another go!

Last year, I committed to do it and then we ended up in the midst of a mold infestation, moving on short notice, while trying to get closed on #fixerupperdetroit with a very difficult seller. I'd like to think I did pretty well under the circumstances, but I missed a lot of days.

Over the last few months, I've been inconsistent about posting. Rehabbing and getting situated in a historic home has taken most of my free time, and I've told myself that I'm too tired to write.

My takeaway from NaBloPoMo last year, though, was that I'm not a writer if I don't write.

So I'm trying again.

I'm writing while sitting in a fully furnished, painted living room. Harrison and Cesar are playing on the rug. I have a dining room table that could comfortably seat at least ten people. Our housewarming is scheduled. By the end of the month, my sunroom office might be done.

I'm not sure I'll ever believe that I own #fixerupperdetroit or that we get to stay here forever if we want to. We've been so nomadic up to this point. Many days, I feel like I don't deserve a house this beautiful.

And then I see the "Notice to Owner" sign from the Detroit Land Bank Authority that I framed and put above the fireplace and remember the struggles that we fought through to be here (find that back story here if you've joined us more recently). I watch the video of what our house looked like when we closed. She was always beautiful to me, but I'm astounded to see the transformation. I am blessed and privileged beyond compare, but I have also worked incredibly hard to be where I am.

I will end with a quote that I can't find an attribution for (if you know who said it, please let me know and I'll update):

When you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a higher fence.

House Update: Nearing the Finish Line

I've been quiet lately, and this will be a quick post. I just want my readers to know that we are, in fact, making progress on #fixerupperdetroit - you can see photos on Instagram (@fixerupperdetroit).

1. Brand new tiny bathroom lavatory on the ground floor is DONE!

(Well, except for painting the secondhand pocket door, which I'm telling myself is really part of the hallway so I can say the bathroom is done.)

2. Kitchen WOULD be 95% done if Olympic hadn't sold us a bad batch of paint.

I have a color-matched paint from Sherwin Williams, but I haven't applied it. I unpacked most of the kitchen boxes today and have set dishes out, but some dishes are missing and I'm sure we'll re-arrange things at some point.

3. We still haven't gotten our water tested.

It didn't seem hard, but then it turned out to be harder than we thought, and we just haven't gotten to it. We're still buying gallon jugs of distilled water from the grocery store.

4. Basement mold is DEAD.

Between replacing the packed earth (yes, dirt) floor in the basement with concrete and running a good dehumidifier, the mold in the basement died!

5. Dining room is 90% done.

Still need something done with the light fixture, and we haven't gotten the final furniture in there. Soon, I hope.

6. Master bedroom is 90% done.

We're waiting for some hardware to fix the light fixture, and then we have to redistribute furniture and get pictures on the walls.

7. Someone is sanding down/prepping the living room for painting as we speak!

I hope it will be done and beautiful soon, as that will allow us to redistribute furniture from a few different places and live a normal life.

8. Entry hallway, attic, sunroom office, full bathroom, and guest bedroom have made little to no progress in weeks.

But hey, baby steps, right?

Stay with Me: Belated Eulogy for my Late Doriancat

I didn't understand the strength I gained from the support of my elderly cat until after he passed.

We picked him up from a no-kill shelter in October of 2010. He was giant, orange, front declawed, and listed as very gentle. I think the listing said his age was 2+ - meaning that he had arrived at the shelter as an adult, and they had no idea how old he was. They said that he had been found wandering near a barn in the middle of the winter and been surrendered by the family that discovered him because he made a terrible barn cat, but they couldn't keep him in the house due to allergies.

Based on that information, Dorian sat at the shelter for six months waiting for a family. The woman who helped us said that in that time, no one but us had come to see him. I think a part of him always knew that we were his special family and that he waited at that shelter so long because he belonged with us.

He hid under the bed for the first couple days, but as he adjusted, he took up snuggling us while we sat on the couch. He was never happier than when he could sit between Rebecca and me.

The first time it snowed, he sat in the window, stared outside, and cried. We knew that he must have spent too much time out in the cold after he was abandoned. We closed the blinds and tucked him into a blanket.

The first time we moved him, we didn't consider his abandonment issues because he was doing so well. But as the furniture moved out of our apartment, his anxiety grew. I ended up sitting on the floor with him in an empty bedroom, trying to convince him that he was, indeed, going with us. He was inconsolable.

Each time we moved, we got a little bit better at moving him - and he grew a bit more trusting that we were his forever family. By the time we moved to #fixerupperdetroit, he clearly knew that his home was with us, wherever that was.

And though he was initially very skeptical when we brought home another cat - he had enjoyed undivided attention for three years at that point - the fact that he preferred to be transported in the same carrier as Cesar was proof that he loved having another cat around.

The house feels very empty now, without him. He followed our work crews around and was often a little trip hazard as he stood behind people. He greeted us at the door whenever possible, and even tried to learn Rebecca's erratic schedule so that he'd be ready when she came home. His affection toward strangers seemed so characteristic of him that it wasn't until after he passed that I realized that he hadn't been nearly so outgoing when we first brought him home.

And I wondered what changed. Is it that he became the host with the most? Was it that he drew so much courage from belonging to a family? Was it that he was trying to protect us?

Some people would say that he was just a cat, but those people don't understand. Rebecca and I often spent more time with Dorian than we did with each other these last few years due to our conflicting work schedules. He was a constant to come home to. He was unconditionally loving and comforting. A few months after we got him, I realized that one of my anxiety management techniques was to pretend I was holding him (or to hold him if he was around). He always purred when I picked him up.

In the last few months, he lost a lot of weight and his health declined. He insisted on doing the stairs at #fixerupperdetroit in spite of his clearly aching joints. We took him to the veterinarian, who told us that he was likely much older than we originally thought and that there was probably little we could do. Late a few Sundays ago, his condition worsened, and on the following Monday, it became apparent that he was suffering. He still tried to follow me around the house, but he could only take a few steps at a time. Rebecca and I did the only thing we had left to do for him, which was to take him to the veterinarian to be euthanized.

This was Dorian's "stay with me" move: putting his paw over my hand so that I wouldn't get up. Here he is doing it on the last day with us, when he couldn't really walk anymore and just wanted me to sit on the floor with him.

It was the first time Rebecca and I have ever had to make such a decision, either individually or separately. I know it was the right decision, but  that doesn't make it easier to live without him. His presence in our home made me safe and brave all at once. While we love our other cat, he has a very different personality, and in his own grief can't really comfort us.

We got a kitten a few weeks ago who has many of the qualities we loved so much about Dorian. I'm sure, though, no matter how hard we look, that we won't find another cat who will both tuck us in at night and greet us at the door.

They broke the mold after Dorian.

A Lesbian Talks Toxic vs. Real Masculinity: Not About Brock Turner or Omar Mateen

Dear Men,

I want to start with the disclaimer that this post is about toxic masculinity, not real masculinity. I have lots of male friends - gay men, straight men, older men, younger men - see how I did that? Just the way I've heard people justify criticizing the LGBT community after invoking their friend status with a gay person or two.

Many of my male friends identify as feminists - they believe that women can and should do anything, and they support behaviors and policies that make that possible. They are nurturing and honest and strong - they exemplify real masculinity. This post is not for them.

 This post is also not for you, Brock Turner,  only because I have never met you. This post is not for you, Omar Mateen, also because I have never met you.

This post is for the following men, whom I've actually met:

This post is for you, wealthy White businessman seated next to me on a plane who, when you found out Rebecca and I were a married couple, propositioned me (or us? not exactly sure) to come stay with you and your wife, explaining that . . .  well, explaining things that I don't want to know about someone's marriage and bedroom situation when I just met you.

This post is for you, homeless man I gave a ride to the shelter (I'm not looking for accolades - it's just a thing I did because it was the right thing to do under the circumstances) who texted me later to tell me that you wanted to kiss me to show your appreciation, but didn't because I had said I had a girlfriend. (Note: I didn't say girlfriend, because I don't have one of those. I said wife. Multiple times.) When I told you that appreciation wasn't necessary, and corrected you that Rebecca is my wife, you asked me if she is "thick too." (For those of you unfamiliar with the term thick, here is a link to its Urban Dictionary page. While I realize that it was intended as a compliment, I'm not sure the term actually applies to me, or how you knew one way or the other, since I was wearing a long-sleeved cardigan over a full-length, structured maxi dress that day.) And then when I told you that this line of conversation was making me uncomfortable, you said you were just joking. (No, you weren't.)

This post is for you, ex-boyfriend who told me when I came out to you that I'm not a lesbian, I'm bisexual, because "no estabas fingiendo conmigo." (Roughly translated: "You weren't pretending with me.")

It's for you, different homeless man, who angrily insisted that I don't look gay after I mentioned my wife.

It's for you, male high school student who commented something vile in Arabic about a young female colleague within earshot of her while at the school.  She spoke Arabic, overheard your comment, and was justifiably unsettled and when I found out later, I insisted the student be in my class not hers because I have developed a thick skin. But I'm still rattled by it, months later.

It's for you, young man who tried to pick me up in the Bloomfield library cafe, and was shocked that I'm married, shocked that I'm 28 years old, shocked that I'm gay. You were no longer interested in seeing me again (to be fair, I was a little disingenuous in giving you my card, because the point was to teach you something). I believe your exact words were, "I shouldn't even be talking to you." Because in your head I belonged to my wife and couldn't belong to you. Probably not because I'm a lesbian and wouldn't be interested.

It's for you, student at one of the urban high schools I teach SAT prep at who grabbed my hair as I walked past in the hallway, held it to your nose, and announced that it smelled good, as though it's a compliment. As though it was your business.

I don't belong to you.

I am not for you.

I didn't put on this dress today for you.  I didn't wash my hair today for you. I didn't give you a ride because I'm interested.

I'm a lesbian.

That doesn't mean my marriage or sexual orientation is open for your validation or interpretation. Neither is my body. Even if you see us kissing. Even if I once upon a time kissed you. Even if you want to kiss me.

These behaviors and beliefs are not real masculinity.

And the belief that I do belong to you, or could someday, or that my marriage or body are open for your evaluation - it's a sickness.

It comes from a toxic version of masculinity that claims that real men own things. That men's opinions and values are more important than women's. That women only have value when they belong to a man. That men are inherently violent and lacking in self-control.

Except they're not. You're not.

I challenge you to meet men who are so confident in themselves that they can have a tea party with their daughters, fold their wife's laundry, take a step back at work and let women speak, refrain from propositioning or catcalling women on the street, understand that no means no. They exist. They are strong. Learn from them. And then be one of them.

Know better. Do better.

Terrorism and Tending Thyme: Response to Orlando

Yesterday, after learning about the Orlando terrorism of the LGBT and ally community, I shared links to posts last year about the similar terrorism of an African American church in Charleston. The two may not initially appear to be all that similar, other than that they were shootings, but both have hit me very hard.

The one in Charleston because as someone who grew up in the church, I view places of worship as sacred and safe space. Yes, even as a member of the LGBT community, even though some religious people are critical of my marriage. Churches are a place where people come together around a common goal and try to be more human, to celebrate creation and redemption and fellowship.

The one in Orlando because although I don't visit gay clubs or bars much, there's a comfort in knowing that they exist. They're there if ever I need a place to socialize, to hold my wife's hand in public without fear, to know that no one will say "whomever you love" or "I don't have a problem with" or "judge not lest ye be judged" or any of the other comments that make my marriage seem strange or less than. LGBT clubs are places of acceptance and celebration.

It's unsettling to know that in the span of a year, both types of spaces have been through attempts to terrorize and desecrate them.

And I thought about Motor City Pride yesterday, which I hadn't planned to attend because there's still so much to do at #fixerupperdetroit, which is most of my gay agenda right now. We bought the house and are struggling to rehab it to create another safe space, a place where everyone can come and eat and share.

The most revolutionary thing I could think of to protest the violence in Orlando was to plant my garden, standing in my yard with a shovel and a watering can and a flat of assorted herbs. With every shovel full and every sprinkling, I planned to be around until the end of summer, until next summer, until the house is rehabbed and the space is safe and the world is better. I thinned out the day lilies and irises that came with the house to give the others room to breathe. I pulled on work gloves and pulled up picker weeds that would hurt people or turn people away or choke out my beauties.

How the world would be different if everyone pulled up the picker weeds and planted thyme and sage and rosemary and basil instead.

My Secret to Sanity in #owneroccupieDetroit: Meet Rufino and His Team

For almost the last year, I've been wanting to put up a post about Labra Design+Build, the business that has stood with us through #househuntersdetroit (even after the first house fell through), the land bank postering, and now, #owneroccupiedetroit.

Rebecca has known the owner, Rufino, since childhood and had been watching photos come through social media of all the beautiful work he'd been doing, so when we started looking for a home, she knew he would be a great fit.

You can visit their website to see Rufino Labra's portfolio or learn more about the work they do, so I won't spend too much time elaborating there.

Instead, let me tell you about

the ways that Rufino and his team have gone above and beyond 

 during the arduous #fixerupperdetroit process, to the point that I don't think we could have done this with any other team.

Most of Rufino's team, minus Rufino, who was on the phone. Top left: Abe. Bottom left: Eric. Top right: Marty. Bottom right: Big Rufino - Rufino's dad!

1. Showing up to the home inspections and asking thoughtful questions.

We were very blessed to work with a great home inspector, Matt Bezanson, (who now has a blog you can visit!), and that was an education in itself. Buying an old home, especially one in Detroit, especially one that's been vacant and neglected, comes with a lot more challenges than a newer construction. Rufino listened to what Matt had to say and considered it when setting up our construction proposal. We could tell that he would prioritize structural safety and quality work. That's of utmost importance in Detroit, where much of the previous work may have been patched poorly or done by non-professionals to save money.

2. Advising us on home-buying decisions 

A few days before closing, we still didn't know if the heating system worked, a major concern given that it was December in Michigan! While the seller insisted that it did, they never brought the house up to room temperature to prove it. When we brought out R&R Mechanical to inspect it, we were told that the boiler probably worked but there was no way to know without a cleaning, something we couldn't have done until we took possession, and something the seller refused to do. Rufino took the time to talk through the implications with me and help me decide whether closing was a good idea.

3. Reviewing documents from the Detroit Land Bank Authority

Most of you have already read about our horror story of having been postered with a notice threatening to seize our home.  You can read my Open Letter to Detroit Land Bank Authority here. These kinds of things don't happen in the suburbs, and I'm sure Rufino had never had to negotiate this kind of nightmare before. He looked over the documents and considered the timeline in the rehab agreement. In fact, I think he was more amenable to the terms than we were. I don't know how we would have survived those weeks without a contractor who cared on our side. We ultimately did get a resolution without a lawsuit being filed or signing the rehab agreement, mostly thanks to Craig Fahle, who does public relations for the land bank.

4. Setting up the home for us to occupy it and keeping us posted along the way.

Our construction team has a lot more to consider now that we're living in the home: will their work disrupt our normal activities? Will our cats escape while the team is going in and out? Will the fumes from their products jeopardize our health? In all cases, Rufino has made an effort to make it possible for us to live as normally as possible while not having a kitchen or laundry. By the time we moved in, we had a working bathroom, refrigerator, and laundry sink. When I asked him to set up the microwave, also, he did so promptly and in a space that was convenient for us (and inconvenient for his team).

5. Befriending our cats

Unlike us, the cats don't understand that the house is going to be really beautiful when it's done - and they don't really care. What they have noticed is that there are people they don't know here. All the time. Dorian has decided to supervise them all to make sure they do good work for us.

Dorian surveys his kingdom from a high vantage point.

Cesar has been hiding in our bed under the covers for entire days. Rufino has helped me figure out which rooms are safest for the cats while certain tasks are being completed and on more than one occasion has helped me secure them in that space when I couldn't do it alone and Rebecca was working. (Dorian has repaid him by getting incredibly underfoot.) Most members of the team have let the cats be out around the house as much as possible and will even chat with Dorian or pet him if he asks. I've never worked with a construction team before, but I'm pretty sure none of this is in the job description.

6. Visiting Architectural Salvage Warehouse of Detroit

 When we needed another radiator for the kitchen and I discovered a salvage warehouse rumored to have them for a reasonable price, Rufino met me there to see if we could find one and keep the heating budget lower to free up funds for something else. After some Googling about the different between water and steam radiators and sifting through the collection of doors, we emerged triumphant with not only a $90 radiator (that probably would have cost hundreds elsewhere), but a pocket door. We had hoped to find a 1920s lavatory sink to no avail, though the new one Rufino found and ordered is perfection.

In summary:

Many of you know that I'm a perfectionist workaholic, and that I'm not good at staying calm. While Rebecca has tried to keep me from being too anxious or overburdening Rufino, I recognize that this project has been fraught with challenges, including my temperament. Labra Design+Build has drastically exceeded our expectations not only in their quality of work, but in their encouraging, respectful nature and resourceful responses to issues problems. If you are considering a home renovation or new home construction, I hope that you will consider working with them. Detroit and the surrounding area need more small businesses that do such quality work, and we'd love to see the Labra family grow.

Reflections on Suffering: #carrythatweight

A while back, not sure how long, I read about a performance art piece entitled Mattress Performance or #carrythatweight. I won't go into great detail explaining it, but I encourage you to visit the link above to learn more. For purposes of this post, here is what you need to know:

The artist, Emma Sulkowicz, suffered a horrible trauma. Her case wasn't handled well, and she was left to pick up the pieces of her life and make meaning. As a senior at Columbia University, she decided to make her thesis an outward representation of her journey through her pain. Thus, Mattress Performance (Carry that Weight) began.

Essentially, Emma carried a mattress like the one at the site of the original trauma, as a physical representation of her inward burden. She committed to carrying it under specific parameters until there was justice for her. While she had to carry it,

She didn't have to carry it by herself. 

If someone came along and offered assistance or support, she accepted it. The mattress weighed the same amount, but her burden was shared.

So it is in life. 

Our pain, our trauma, our suffering exists, and it has its corresponding weight. I wish there were a magic way to make it disappear, but I don't think there is this side of heaven.

There is little magic in sharing the burden. But there is comfort. There is fellowship.

There is hope

within the darkest winter of the soul.

Confessions on A 4-Year Anniversary: I never meant my wedding to be a revolution

Today, Rebecca and I celebrate four years since our spiritual wedding ceremony.

I can't say that I meant to my wedding to be a revolution. I can't say that at the time it was intended to push back against cultural norms, or to be a feminist revelation, or to be an example of every gay wedding.

And yet, I think it was those things. At least for some people. Two of my friends who identify as members of the LGBT community commented that it was the first gay wedding they had been to. In fact, one of them who is now in a serious relationship sometimes calls me for relationship advice. Another fills me in on his escapades, while lamenting the fact that he has not yet found his helpmate.

Others commented that they had attended in part to see what a lesbian wedding was like. I'm pretty sure our lesbian wedding was not a great model of other weddings, as we dispensed with many, many of the trappings that others have upheld - centerpieces, favors, white dresses, traditional bridal party, alcohol, fine china. We had bundt cakes instead of tiered cake, in part to stay on budget (in part as a nod to My Big Fat Greek Wedding).

How I loved this tiny raspberry chocolate bundt from Nanna's Sweet Treats in Mason, MI! 

Deviled eggs . . . so good. We had a lot left over after this, and the venue let us take them home. I'm not sure that was good for our cholesterol levels . . .

This was a beautiful fruit salad. We tried to have lots of options because so many of our guests had dietary restrictions. A buffet line of simple foods meant everyone could have a full, happy tummy.

We called it a commitment ceremony for months ahead of time. The minister (who was not the minister at our own church because our church might have fired him for performing the ceremony)  insisted upon calling it a wedding. That meant something.

Maybe it meant everything.

After four years, I am feeling as though we have become the old married couple, although part of me feels that it was just yesterday, perhaps because my marriage has been recognized in the state of Michigan for less than a year still.

Maybe because I know so few gay couples who have been married longer than we have.

Or maybe it feels like it was yesterday because my marriage is still not considered sufficient to many of the foster/adoption agencies across the state, and the state thinks that's fine, even if it means that vulnerable children don't find forever homes.

I didn't mean for my wedding to be a revolution, but the world made it one. The political reality made it one. The refusal of a marriage certificate made it one. The refusal of the rights associated with that marriage certificate, like spousal insurance, increased student loan cap, and tax advantages made it one. I didn't mean for it to be a revolution, but in some ways it had to be one, if I wanted the marriage to mean something.

And it doesn't just mean something.

After four years, it still means everything.

Confessions: Today I Hate this House

I'm grateful for #fixerupperdetroit. She's a beauty, or will be, when she's done. Our neighborhood is amazing, and I know that when our home is done, everything will seem better. We're making progress - we passed our insulation inspection, which means that a lot of new steps start, since we can close up the walls. The team working on our house has been positive, encouraging, and diligent.

But currently, #owneroccupieDetroit is a struggle.

I'm a hot breakfast person; I make huevos rancheros for myself every morning to get my day off to the right start. I can't do that until our kitchen is ready. It's not that I can't eat something else. I can, I do, and I'm grateful for the full belly. I didn't even realize how soothing I found the ritual of heating oil, frying a tortilla, cracking eggs, measuring salsa verde to be - a form of art, of creation, nourishment of my soul in addition to my body. I miss the process.

I'm not a great housekeeper. Many of you know. Many of you tease me. But even I find the plaster and paint dust overwhelming. My cats are constantly coated in dust. My clothes have dust clinging to them, my linens are filmed in particulates. It's hard to feel settled.

Of course, Rebecca has been working 6pm-7am shifts for the last week, and I'm always grumpy when we're ships passing in the night. A week more of that and she'll mostly be on day shift for the rest of the month. Between the progress we'll have made by then and the fact that we're actually seeing each other, I trust and believe that it won't stay like this. 

But today, I hate this house.

#owneroccupieDetroit: The Joy of Sweat Equity

When I woke up today, everything hurt. In fact, that's been true for several days now.

I've been sanding plaster, scraping trim, priming, painting, etc for days, and my body definitely isn't used to this kind of work. My scalp isn't used to plaster dust. My arms aren't used to being above my head for long periods, my legs aren't used to ascending and descending step ladders constantly, my knees aren't used to squatting and kneeling to cut in base boards. A lot of the tasks are tedious.

And yet there's a deep joy in all of it. With every brush stroke, I make meaning out of the months of struggle we had to purchase this house. I think back on the years of pain, when I couldn't have imagined living in a home like this. I pray over the rooms, that they will be places of peace and joy not only for us, but for the guests who come to us.

I can't feel that I own this house. Perhaps because I don't feel worthy, perhaps I'm still in shock, but I think it's more than that.

I'm not sure I believe that people can own houses, or at least, I don't believe that it's possible for me to own this one. It has too much history behind it. It's giant, not only physically, but socially. The deed, the mortgage - they're big deals, but it feels like I'm borrowing a part of history, or stewarding it for a period, so that it remains for the future to find love and joy in it too.

And that makes it easier to work through our lack of a kitchen, the dust everywhere, the missing electrical and plumbing. We are blessed to have been approved for enough funds to redo or restore a lot of things the house really needs after so many years of neglect. We know what's in the walls, and we will know that the parts that have been repaired have been done right this time. It meant leaving some projects for later, but at this point, we're so used to delaying gratification that the anticipation itself is gratifying.

After all, leaving things until later means that there's a later. Here. In this amazing house.

2 Years Later: Straight Privilege in Wedding Season

About two years ago, I published a post about straight privilege during wedding season. A lot has happened, but a lot hasn't, so I've published an updated list for your consideration during the next few months, as weddings kick into high gear. Although same-sex couples can now be married in all 50 states, you may be surprised at the number of challenges many still face.

Same disclaimer applies: This list is compiled from a number of comments I have heard from straight people about upcoming weddings or things that I have seen at straight weddings in the past. They are NOT a reference to all straight weddings NOR are they taken from one specific straight wedding. Certainly, straight weddings are not without their difficulties, and to straight couples getting married, there are real issues. I do not mean to claim that having a straight wedding constitutes a stress-free experience. Nevertheless, LGBT couples face unique challenges that I hope will be highlighted in this list.

For most straight couples:

Finding a state-sponsored officiant such as a county clerk or judge doesn't involve finding someone who doesn't object to their relationship on moral grounds.

Finding a venue doesn't involve finding a place of worship or hall that doesn't object to their relationship on moral grounds.

Venues, caterers, bakers, clothing salespeople, etc, don't assume that a member of the couple to be married is actually a member of the bridal party.

Venues, caterers, bakers, etc don't refuse service based on a moral objection to the wedding.

Guests do not attend the wedding to see what "a straight wedding" is like or so that they can claim that they are tolerant/venturesome.

RSVPs do not include judgmental notes about the morality of the upcoming nuptials.

Parents, siblings, and close friends can be assumed to come.

The bride is allowed to at least occasionally be a "bride-zilla" to them without reflecting poorly on the entire sexual orientation community she belongs to.

If people choose not to come, the explanation is generally financial or reflects prior obligations.

If people choose not to come, the decision is rarely blamed on the couple's "choice" to belong to the LGBT community, fall in love, and commit to each other.

Parents may want to add additional people to the guest list, rather than trying to hide the ceremony.

The couple will not feel obligated to ask for permission to invite certain family members or family friends for fear of offending them or the parents with an invitation.

Once the wedding is completed, straight couples can assume the following:

They can tell people about their marriage/spouse without fear of reprisal in the form of employment or housing discrimination.

They can post pictures of their wedding without fear of reprisal in the form of employment or housing discrimination.

They can post pictures of public displays of affection without a backlash.

They will not have to be concerned about how future court decisions could affect the status of their marriage.

They will be able to adopt from most private agencies consistent with their religious beliefs if they have the funds to do so.

They will be able to adopt from the foster care system as long as they meet requirements.

Their family and friends will not pray for them to get divorced.

Their family and friends will invite both spouses to family gatherings and holidays.

Have another to add? Comment below!

Huge News on the Beautiful Mess Front

Sometimes people let me use power tools.

I'm not sure they should (not because I'm a woman, just because I'm a huge klutz), but I like it.

Today, I put up this key rack thingy. It's theoretically to help us not lose our personal effects in an incredibly beautiful mess that currently feels enormous compared to the apartments we've lived in. We've historically kept our keys in a basket, but I like the symbolism of this. It's stable. Sturdy. Organized. Something we've never taken the time to do in our apartments - where we knew we'd be for a year or two, or most recently less than six months.

Our lease in Southgate is officially up, and we've vacated. We spent our first night in #fixerupperdetroit yesterday, which means it's officially

#owneroccupieDetroit will join #fixerupperdetroit - the former for our experiences living in the home and being residents of the D, and the latter for continued updates on the renovation itself.

So from a #fixerupperdetroit standpoint: the insulation was supposed to be done by move-in, but due to some logistical issues, we're waiting for that to be finished. Once it is and we paint, we'll have a couple bedrooms pretty much set, except for the flooring.

On the #owneroccupieDetroit - it's feeling awesome not to drive back and forth to Southgate, to be able to get little tasks done between other things, and to look around our beautiful neighborhood so often. The cats are mostly taking it in stride, though that may change when the renovation team comes back tomorrow.

That said, we don't have a kitchen, there's plaster dust everywhere, and most of our belongings are still in boxes. We have a long, tough road until final completion of our current projects, and then we'll have more projects to do in a few years - or at least I'm told that's how owning a historic home works.

Earth Day Highlight: Architectural Salvage Warehouse of Detroit

I mentioned a while back that Labra Design+Build and I took a field trip to find a radiator. What I didn't sufficiently emphasize is the awesome work the place we visited does!

Architectural Salvage Warehouse is a non-profit that saves pieces, large and small, of buildings that will be demolished, so that instead of being land-filled they can be re-purposed. Did you know that a huge amount of landfill use is from construction, not household waste? Have you considered that new construction also typically requires the mining and processing of a lot of resources? So efficiently and safely salvaging what we can out of properties before they are demolished is an important part of saving the planet.

Not only does Architectural Salvage Warehouse protect the environment by allowing construction companies and individual consumers to re-use items, the money from their purchase helps to finance training in salvage techniques for youth and adults looking to get specialized training in construction and recycling. This technical training is a needed boost for the building trades and an example of on-the-job training that's very needed to help students avoid crushing student debt! 

As if that isn't sufficient, the prices at Architectural Salvage Warehouse are significantly lower than buying new, which helps families stay on budget. We were able to find a radiator for our boiler system that was a fraction of the cost of a new one, or even a used one elsewhere. We also found a pocket door in great condition. While you may not always be able to find what you need, I recommend starting here first and then moving to other salvage options, and then finally end at a typical hardware store if necessary.

Another Earth Day consideration: If you're considering whether to build or buy a home, seriously think about whether you could buy a previously occupied home and renovate it instead of buying a new house. You don't have to go to the lengths that we have on #fixerupperdetroit ! There are many great homes that are move-in ready that could reduce landfill waste, blight, and consumption of new materials. If you decide that a new construction is the right choice for your family, you can still purchase salvaged materials to cut back on consumption and waste.

#fixerupperdetroit - gaining momentum!

I'm delighted to share lots of good news with you, and I also have some bad news. I'll start with the bad news:

Pretty soon I'm going to stop posting photo updates about the house.

Here's the good news:

The house is making so much progress that I will stop posting pictures of whole rooms because I want there to be some surprises left when the house is finished. 

In the last week we've:

Passed our rough plumbing inspection.

Passed our framing inspection.

Ordered kitchen cabinets.

Passed our electrical inspection.

Repaired a bunch of plaster.

Primed a room.

Picked most of the paint colors.

And some other things that I'm currently keeping a secret.

Tomorrow the plumber should finish some major projects so that we can have the water turned back on.

I'm still having trouble believing that we will actually be living in this house, but it won't be too much longer!