Fancy.Prose.Style.

heterosexual privilege

cameronchristopher:

tyznik:

abbyjean:

On a daily basis as a straight person…

• I can be pretty sure that my roomate, hallmates and classmates will be comfortable with my sexual orientation.
• If I pick up a magazine, watch TV, or play music, I can be certain my sexual orientation will be represented.
• When I talk about my heterosexuality (such as in a joke or talking about my relationships), I will not be accused of pushing my sexual orientation onto others.
• I do not have to fear that if my family or friends find out about my sexual orientation there will be economic, emotional, physical or psychological consequences.
• I did not grow up with games that attack my sexual orientation (IE fag tag or smear the queer).
• I am not accused of being abused, warped or psychologically confused because of my sexual orientation.
• I can go home from most meetings, classes, and conversations without feeling excluded, fearful, attacked, isolated, outnumbered, unheard, held at a distance, stereotyped or feared because of my sexual orientation.
• I am never asked to speak for everyone who is heterosexual.
• I can be sure that my classes will require curricular materials that testify to the existence of people with my sexual orientation.
• People don’t ask why I made my choice of sexual orientation.
• People don’t ask why I made my choice to be public about my sexual orientation.
• I do not have to fear revealing my sexual orientation to friends or family.  It’s assumed.
• My sexual orientation was never associated with a closet.
• People of my gender do not try to convince me to change my sexual orientation.
• I don’t have to defend my heterosexuality.
• I can easily find a religious community that will not exclude me for being heterosexual.
• I can count on finding a therapist or doctor willing and able to talk about my sexuality.
• I am guaranteed to find sex education literature for couples with my sexual orientation.
• Because of my sexual orientation, I do not need to worry that people will harass me.
• I have no need to qualify my straight identity.
• My masculinity/femininity is not challenged because of my sexual orientation.
• I am not identified by my sexual orientation.
• I can be sure that if I need legal or medical help my sexual orientation will not work against me.
• If my day, week, or year is going badly, I need not ask of each negative episode or situation whether it has sexual orientation overtones.
• Whether I rent or I go to a theater, Blockbuster, an EFS or TOFS movie, I can be sure I will not have trouble finding my sexual orientation represented.
• I can walk in public with my significant other and not have people double-take or stare.
• I can choose to not think politically about my sexual orientation.
• I do not have to worry about telling my roommate about my sexuality. It is assumed I am a heterosexual.
• I can remain oblivious of the language and culture of LGBTQ folk without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.
• I can go for months without being called straight.
• I’m not grouped because of my sexual orientation.
• My individual behavior does not reflect on people who identity as heterosexual.
• In everyday conversation, the language my friends and I use generally assumes my sexual orientation.  For example, sex inappropriately referring to only heterosexual sex or family meaning heterosexual relationships with kids.
• People do not assume I am experienced in sex (or that I even have it!) merely because of my sexual orientation.
• I can kiss a person of the opposite gender on the heart or in the cafeteria without being watched and stared at.
• Nobody calls me straight with maliciousness.
• People can use terms that describe my sexual orientation and mean positive things (IE “straight as an arrow”, “standing up straight” or “straightened out”) instead of demeaning terms (IE “ewww, that’s gay” or being “queer”).
• I am not asked to think about why I am straight.
• I can be open about my sexual orientation without worrying about my job.

(pams)

This is actually hard to read.  Really makes me feel like an unequal minority.

This breaks my heart.

Remembering

davemcgee:

In Speaker for the Dead, Orson Scott Card suggests a new type of post-life remembrance. Rather than being the subject of a white-washing eulogy, the deceased should be “spoken for”, in a Cromwellian warts-and-all type way. The speaker for the dead should speak not merely positively, but honestly; describing hopes, dreams, and aspirations, as well as foibles, failures, and flaws.

Michael Jackson died this week. Perhaps you’ve heard.

Immediately after his death, the eulogies began. And somewhat surprisingly, what I saw tended to focus on his rarely paralleled gifts as a performer, rather than on his past few decades of true batshit insanity (which tended to be glossed over with a mention, as if this did them justice). I saw also a second camp of eulogists, that denounced him as a pedophile, and pretty much nothing else worth mentioning.

Now, we don’t know if Michael Jackson ever broke the law during his strange, strange relationships with children. Certainly, whether the letter of the law was followed or not, those relationships were, in the parlance of our times, fucking weird. Grown-ass men sleeping in beds with boys who are not their own is passing strange, and creepy, and profoundly icky, and gross. My guess, for whatever it’s worth, is that he was damaged to the point where he honestly believed there was nothing wrong with his actions, because he honestly believed that he himself was also a little boy. This is not a defense, note. Honest belief is never an adequate defense.

But I am surprised by how few appraisals and obituaries I’ve seen that take both sides of the man into account. This may, admittedly, be because I have not been looking at enough appraisals and obituaries, and because those that I have read tend to be your Facebookian status updates and Twitterish 140 character shouts, which are not the world’s finest places to craft a coherent argument. But it seems that one group wants to ignore the insanity and focus on the art, and the other wants to focus on the art and ignore the insanity.

Is there room for both?

I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. Quite a bit. Do an artist’s non-artistic thoughts, opinions, doings, political alignments, felonies, &c. have anything to do, at the end of the metaphorical day, with an artist’s art? Just as a for-instance, Orson Scott Card, mentioned at the top of this essay, is a raging bigot. Does this in any way diminish the value and beauty of his Speaker for the Dead concept?

Does Michael Jackson’s creepy weirdness detract from the brilliance of Billie Jean?

Is art a “conversation” between artist and audience via the art, or a “conversation” between the art and the audience in which the artist is vestigial at best?

Is a blog post interesting if it just poses unanswerable questions?

Here is my appraisal: Michael Jackson was one of the strangest people to ever walk the face of the Earth. He was also one of the most talented. Each of these statements is true. His talent seems like it was at least partially the result of abuse. His weirdness seems to stem from the same root. I do not think his death is tragic; I do think that his life was. His performance added joy to the world, but I don’t believe he ever experienced any of it. His pain entertained us, whether we danced to his songs or laughed at his plastic surgery. He behaved inappropriately, dangerously, and criminally (baby over balcony, in any case) with children. He was a disturbed, sick, fucked-up human. And between now and the day I die, I will never be able to stop myself from dancing when Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough starts playing.

This is all true. So how will we remember? We get to decide now. Always.

marginalgloss:

I set my radio to wake me up every morning at a certain time. At the moment, by the time I’m half-awake and dozing my way towards actually getting up I find myself listening to a radio adaptation of a new biography of Jean Rhys. If you don’t know about Jean Rhys you should of course read Good Morning, Midnight and Wide Sargasso Sea immediately because what the hell else are you doing with your life. But suffice to say that (according to this new book) her life was immensely sad, and listening to it whilst I’m trying to get out of bed is almost unbearable.

Christmas day, 1913, was spent alone. Rhys sat in an armchair all morning, looking out on an empty street. At midday, a christmas tree was delivered. A gift from an old boyfriend. Not a good time. She dragged it off down the street towards a cab, determined to donate it to Great Ormond Street hospital — but the next thing she knew, she was back in her empty room without the tree and with a bottle of gin on the the table in front of her. She could not remember what had happened to the tree, nor where the bottle had come from.

Sounds like Christmas to me!