Balancing act.

As I have previously mentioned, earlier this year I started the process of becoming a truck driver. Big rigs, eighteen wheels, the whole nine yards.

It’s taken me somewhat longer than I expected it to take. But I’m doing it.

There are several stages of training for getting a commercial driver’s license; there’s also many in-depth posts about it on trucking oriented sites if you’re so curious. This is not one of those in-depth posts. There’s studying the handbook to take the tests to get the permit in the first place, followed by three or so weeks of training at school to learn the driving portion, the test to get the license, and several weeks out on the road with a trainer to learn all the things that you don’t learn at school so that you’re ready to go solo. I’m in the last stage of that training right now.

What this is about is different worlds, and somewhat less directly, about culture shock and culture clash. Over the summer I worked in a liberal and progressive campaign office in pretty much the heart of Los Angeles doing fundraising. It was great. I was surrounded by people that I got along with (at least ninety percent of the time, which is about as much as you can ask for in a work environment, to be fair), people whom I shared views and background with, people whom I felt comfortable around. Similarly those are the people I have surrounded myself with for most of my life. I’ll even go so far as to put it out there that I come from the liberal bubble that so many accuse the coasts of being.

And trucking is a whole different world. Trucking, by and large, is middle America; and for the most part it’s not as different as I thought it would be, but at the same time if I had to pinpoint what’s different out here, I’d be hard-pressed not to answer, everything.

I’ve been struggling for the past few weeks with how to write about this all. On the one hand it’s a tremendous experience and I am enjoying myself. And this is my intended career at least for the foreseeable future. Along the way to this we (the definition of which is a subject for an entirely different post) bought a house in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and life is moving right along.

On the other hand there have been many times where I have felt like I should put part of myself in a closet; where I have outright been told that something about who I am that I have held important for all of my adult life is something that nobody is going to understand anyway; where instead of being able to critique behaviours that in most places would be socially unacceptable I have been told that this is a chance to practise “growing a thicker skin”. It’s a balancing act, and one that I’m still figuring out as I go. One that the next several posts will most likely be about as I get there.

How do I be a trucker and still be non-binary and genderqueer? Every time that I have mentioned it to anyone within trucking, even in passing, I’ve been told that my gender identity isn’t a big deal because “there are both men and women out there”. And when I overhear conversations between other truckers, it turns out that offensive slurs to refer to people outside the heteronormative ideal are far from uncommon. I’ve heard drivers from the company that I’m working for remark upon it being “ridiculous” that people who are born one gender could ever think to change it. Or, or… I could by now think of a thousand examples.

Moreover, how do I be a trucker and still hold my disability as a part of my identity when this is an industry with so many preconceived notions of who should and shouldn’t drive a truck? I couldn’t tell you whether I do or don’t get looks from other drivers when I pull through the fuel island and get out of the driver’s side of the rig. I’d like to be able to tell you that those looks, if they exist, didn’t matter. And they don’t, but at the same time even with an automatic transmission now available I’ve had to work twice as much and twice as hard to get where I am, to be able to convince person after person of my ability to do this job and the physical aspects thereof.

What I do know is that for now if it’s a choice between climbing a flight of stairs and taking a shower, taking a shower can wait. It often seems like the accessibility of facilities on the road is an afterthought. But not always. For every truck stop where the shower is on the upper floor and they don’t have an elevator, or every truck stop where there’s two flights of stairs just to get down the hill from where they have the trucks park in the first place there are ones like the one we stopped at tonight, where they saw that I use a crutch to walk and they made sure I had the accessible shower without my even having to ask for it. And at the same time there was no big deal or big fuss.

And those are the truck stops I’ll be making a point of returning to.

Balancing act.

Even if we’re secretly Martians.

If you defend nazis and their right to incite violence and terror you are not my friend. If you defend the so called alt right and the kkk and say not all x or all lives matter you are not my friend.

You are not the friend of my family, of my friends, of my neighbours and coworkers and acquaintances. We deserve to live in safety. To feel safe walking down the street or in the checkout line. It doesn’t matter the colour of our skin, sexual orientation, religion or lack thereof, gender identity, or if we’re secretly Martians or purple people eaters.

Just don’t be a gods damned nazi. There is no good excuse for fascism.

As someone much smarter than I said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Edmund Burke.

The violence that occurred today is unfortunately nothing new. But it is still horrific and it isn’t going to go away with apologism and excuses and pandering.

And if you’re not my friend. If you don’t value our safety and our lives and our liberty. You can show yourselves the door.

This was originally posted on Facebook, but I feel that it is important to post here as well. Facebook is a frequently ephemeral medium outside of my control and this is important. Fuck nazis.

Even if we’re secretly Martians.

Nine years later.

This post is expanded from some musings that I put on Twitter earlier, some conversations I’ve been having on Facebook, and thoughts that have been bouncing around my head. Content warning for frank discussion of suicide and grief, and other things.

A list of suicide crisis lines better than any one I could put together can be found here on Wikipedia. Not only are there phone numbers, but there are internet based text chat support, and there are text lines. If you’re hurting, please reach out to someone, be it a help line, a therapist, a friend, or a family member.

(And by the way, if you’re my mother? Please do NOT read this post. I’ve included a read more tag to make it really easy to skip over.)

Continue reading “Nine years later.”

Nine years later.

Some thoughts.

As usual, I have thoughts bouncing around my head like a bunch of rabid weasels that refuse to just settle down and behave. So what the hey, I’ll write a post about them instead!

One of the things that happens sometimes, within the communities that I hang out in, is getting asked, “So what do you write?” and my default, instinctual answer is something along the lines of, “I don’t”, or, “Nothing really,” anything along those lines.

I have a complicated relationship with words.

Obviously by the fact that I have this blog at all, the aforementioned statements aren’t particularly factual or true; instead they are a reflection of my notions of self-worth, they are a mirror of how I tend to view my writing despite time and time again of people telling me otherwise about it. Even when I admit to the fact that I write things, be it this blog or my assortment of poetry or my seven trashfire nanowrimo drafts (yep, seven; and I still moderate a nanowrimo chatroom on IRC but in recent years haven’t produced anything remotely resembling a story let alone a novel) most of which I would prefer to never see again, I have a very difficult time seeing myself as a writer.

Part of this in turn stems from the difficulties that I have with composition. A lot of what I write is exceedingly short, and I’m not talking about the whole myth that “shorter is better”, either. The posts I write are short because I run out of the ability to string the words together and make them say what I want to. They don’t look the same on the screen as they sound in my head and I get frustrated and more often than not I close the window and do not post anything at all. I leave windows open for hours on end (like I have this one) and don’t come up with what I want to say.

There’s a solution to this problem for me, but it’s a solution that comes with its own round of problems. That solution is pen and paper. I’ve always felt better and felt like I have more of a compositional flow when I’m writing with pen and paper. However, I have a whole host of problems with doing that as well.

I hold my pen too tightly, and writing more than a sentence at a time often physically hurts. Additionally, one of the most abiding and severe manifestations of my obsessive compulsive disorder happens when I am writing on paper. I have a very difficult time coping with the natural differences in letter forms, and every letter has to be perfect and look like every other letter on the page. I cannot switch pens in the middle of the page. If I misspell a word or make a mistake or my pen slips I have to start over from the beginning. If my pen runs out? I have to start over from the beginning. Sometimes mistakes are so upsetting that instead of writing I end up focused on tearing up what I made a mistake on, or shredding it, or burning it. I start writing in notebooks and then three days later put it aside and do not continue, which is made worse by the narrative that I’m wasting paper— I don’t want to be wasting paper, and I really do care about trees.

Shopping lists are a particularly fun part of this. I end up writing shopping lists two to three times just to get them to look neat and so that the foods are organised by type and aisle and store, and gods above forbid anyone else writes on my shopping list. Then I redo it again.

So of course, the solution to that is technology. Write on a computer, they said; it’ll be fun, they said; it’ll solve all your problems, they said. And maybe for someone else it will solve all of their problems, but it hasn’t yet solved mine.

A lot of things that I write I still work out on paper first and then type up after I have the idea of where it is going. But most of the time I’m not willing to deal with the entire process of writing or the frustrations of writing, and so that’s the reason that most of the time, I’m not willing to call myself a writer.

Some thoughts.

Reality sets in.

Today is my last day as a bus operator with my current employer. I put in my resignation notice earlier this month when it was becoming increasingly clear to me that it was time to move on. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I should stick it out, or make it a year or two years. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I’m being overly hasty in my decision making process.

None of those accusations are true.

At the very least, the point remains that I am an adult and it’s well and beyond time that I can make my own choices as to my career path. I put a lot of thought into it, into whether or not I could stick it out, before deciding that it was in my best interest not to try to. I learned a lot while I’ve been with Metro, about driving buses, about interacting with the public, but most importantly about myself. The things in this post are just a few of the reasons I’m leaving.

I learned I absolutely hate the uniform pants. They’re made of an itchy polyester fabric that I have had nothing but problems wearing. Polyester doesn’t breathe, which is a particular problem here in California where the weather tends to be on the warmer side. The uniform requirements are probably one of the things that contributed to my choice to not stay at Metro any longer. I thought that I was going to be able to cope with the polyester pants, but I was wrong.

I’m looking forward with my next job (which is mostly lined up and a subject for another post) to a more relaxed dress and appearance requirements than what I’ve had to deal with in the past. I’m looking forward to being able to wear clothing that I already have instead of finding out that there’s an expectation to sink hundreds of dollars into uniform clothing. One of the first things I’m going to do this week is go and get my hair cut and coloured— I am planning on purple and possibly teal. The rule that Metro has against supposedly “unnatural” hair colour and style has been stifling. (Some time in another post I should probably write about the general culture of “if you look like that you’ll never get a job” and the impact that it has had on my generation, but again, I’m getting side-tracked here.)

I learned that I really can learn the script for interacting with people. It’s a good thing to be able to do, but just because I can learn the script doesn’t mean that using it doesn’t absolutely exhaust me. I’ve always been an introvert. The constant repetition of interacting with people while driving the bus was wearing in all of the worst ways. Moreover, it took a toll on my interactions in the rest of my life.

Work was taking all of the energy and leaving nothing for anything creative. Work was also taking all of the energy and ability to have a conversation and interact with people. At the end of the day (and only working part time, my days weren’t actually that long) there was nothing left. I would get home and it would be at a point where I couldn’t easily have a conversation with my parents; I couldn’t stand the sound of voices and I couldn’t figure out how to make words come out of my mouth.

One of the most frequent interactions that I had with people on the bus was the constant question, “Are you a boy or a girl?” It was followed shortly thereafter by, “Are you even old enough to drive this bus?” or “You don’t look old enough to be driving a bus.”

Although I am aware that I’m not going to escape those sort of microaggressions entirely by leaving this job, there will be less of them. That’s important to me, too.

So now it is time to move on to the next adventure. After I post this, I’m getting dressed, going to work, and going to drive the route for the last time. This evening I will turn in the items that are issued by work, and leave the property for the last time. Tomorrow I’ll call the recruiter I’ve been working with from the trucking company, and get the ball rolling.

Here’s to the road ahead.

Reality sets in.

Feelings and commercialisation.

Today is Valentine’s Day, otherwise known as the day in which the internet abounds with cheesy rhymes and outpouring of mostly romantic feelings.

roses are red
violets are blue
this is a poem
I think.

The holiday can be difficult for a lot of people, for a variety of different reasons. Maybe you’re asexual or aromantic or maybe you’re just not involved in a romantic relationship right now. Maybe you’re still getting over a break-up. Maybe the relationship that you’re in is abusive and you’re trying to get out of it. There are so many maybes here, but I think that is enough to start with.

And then on top of all of this along comes this holiday all over the television and radio that encourages people to show their significant other how much they love them! But wait, how are we supposed to show them?

Since you asked… the media would have you believe that love is expressed by spending money. We are spurred to buy cards, to buy jewelry, to show him or her just how much you care. And the clear subtext is that if you are not able to make this monetary effort, or if you do not make this monetary effort for any reason, you clearly don’t care enough. It’s plain wrong and distinctly untrue, but the subtext is there nonetheless and pervasive enough that it is yet another one of the pressures on people who live with financial stress.

So I’m going to divert from the narrative here and reiterate that it is entirely acceptable and okay to not be able to spend money on someone else just because a Hallmark holiday says that you should. It doesn’t mean you love them or care about them any less. And there are a lot of expressions of care that do not require extra expenditures, like a nice night watching movies at home with a nice dinner, or if you cohabitate, offering to do a chore that the other person dislikes doing but does anyway. There are so many things that do not involve spending money that is allocated to something else in the budget.

If you do care about someone, the best thing to do is to just tell them (in which I am a gigantic hypocrite but that’s probably material for another post once I have all these pesky feelings figured out). Don’t just tell them on Valentine’s Day, though, or when you feel obligated to tell them. Tell them every day, or every week, or when you go to bed, or when you wake up— but maybe not all of those.

Or maybe yes all of those. Whatever works for you.

Feelings and commercialisation.

The not so simple answer.

As stereotypical as it sounds, I have pretty much always known that I am not a girl. Or at least, as long as I can easily remember, and I really don’t have very many concrete memories before when I was around eight years old. From what I can remember, I was never as comfortable being a girl, or with most typically feminine things.

From middle through high school stumbling around the internet, I came across trans narratives in a lot of places, and reading these narratives made a lot of the jumble of feelings going around in my head start to make sense. According to my logic at the time, because I wasn’t a girl, I clearly had to be a boy. I identified very strongly as transgender and moreover as male. There were and still are a plethora of resources around for transgender men, and for a long time this seemed an answer to my question of gender, and a very simple answer at that.

I was in search of the magic ‘passing’ for a man, and that goal gave me a guideline on what clothing I should buy and wear, on how I should wear my hair, on how to walk and talk.

As time has gone on and for reasons that I am still working out, the simple answer has proven to be less and less absolute. Part of it probably stems from the multitude of ways that toxic masculinity pressures masculine-identifying people, and a desire that if that is what it means to be male, I don’t want that either. A gender role that is centred around violence and a lack of emotion isn’t what I was going for. Another part of that stems from the fact that while I have gotten to watch many of my friends go through the joy (and often pains) of self-discovery, and getting on hormone replacement therapy and figuring it out, hormones have always been just out of reach for me. I am admittedly a little bitter about the fact that it is quite likely that for health reasons (better discussed in some other post), hormone replacement therapy will never be a viable option for me.

However, the other thing that has happened is that nonbinary gender has become more prominent, and more discussed. This is the direction where my identity has been shifting, and this is the direction where my experience of gender has always been, perhaps.

I get asked a lot of the time, especially by strangers and children, “Are you a boy or a girl?” When I do respond, because sometimes I’m just too busy or not in a mood to engage, the answer flips between yes, and no, and both of those answers feel valid and relevant at the moment. I’m not a girl, but I’m not a boy either, and more importantly, I don’t have to be either one.

It is still difficult most days to figure out what being nonbinary means for me. Trying to figure out whether something makes me look too feminine for me to be comfortable, too masculine, or some Goldilocks balance of ‘just right’. Similarly, I haven’t figured out the sort of effortless confidence that I see from many nonbinary people on the internet, mixing items from clothing typically considered feminine and clothing typically considered masculine without so much as batting an eyelash. But I am slowly managing to be at a point where I feel comfortable wearing lipstick or eyeshadow, or wearing a dress and combat boots.

And being able to say that for at least that moment, I don’t care.

The not so simple answer.


This is a fairly quick post, in that I’ve been thinking for a while. I think I’m going to publish some of the poetry I have, here.

For one thing, it’s additional content for the site. But for two, while I do submit pieces to various publications there are also some pieces that are inherently personal and that I want to control perhaps a lot more. Pieces that I feel more comfortable with putting out here than sending out during submissions.

I may or may not also occasionally post some short fiction that I have. For now, the poetry is the main addition to the blog. I doubt anything will change about the frequency— this is a side project that I write when I have the time and inclination to do so. But if it does you’ll be the first to know.


Self-care and moving forward.

With the inauguration of a man who is not my president, who does not and will never stand for me or any of the communities I belong to, right around the corner and drawing nearer, I think it’s important to talk for a minute about self-care. To talk about taking care of ourselves so that we can get through this, so that we can survive this, so that we can resist.

I know that many of my friends and other people I talk to on Twitter are talking about feeling hopeless.

Feeling anxious.

Feeling angry.

And at the same time, our daily lives don’t stop. We still have to go to work, we have to interact with other people, and we cannot just curl into an introspective ball. The policies that are threatened are too real for that.

What we can do, though, is take care of ourselves and be gentle with ourselves when we need it most. This can take many forms, which have been documented time and time again on the internet, but I thought I’d throw a few of them out here for everyone to take with you into your day. (If none of my suggestions strike a chord, do a Google search for self-care! There are a billion and one lists out there and one of them is bound to have something. Plus, the time spent looking at it is a few minutes spent not actively beating ourselves up.)

Curl up with a blanket and a hot drink. The comfort factor is real. A blanket (or two or three or four depending upon), and a warm cup of your favourite tea can help bring you into the moment and be grounded.

Take a bath or a hot shower. Wash away at least the current moment’s worries, and a hot bath or shower also helps to relax some of the tension that settles into our bodies and can cause physical pain.

Walk, hike, get outdoors. I know that this one isn’t possible for everyone due to varying physical health, but sometimes what helps most is a slight change of scenery and some fresh air. Anything from going outside to your porch, to going on a five hour or five day hike through nature. Our planet is important, and I use it as a reminder that we belong to the Earth and we are obligated to fight for her in whatever way that we can.

Do something on your to-do list. It sounds somewhat counterintuitive, but if I’m struggling with something else, I often find that I can take some pride and accomplishment in getting a lurking task from my to-do list done. Sometimes this is the dishes, or the laundry, sometimes it’s just putting something out to be mailed the next day. Whatever that task I get done, though, it’s no longer hanging over my head and adding to the black cloud of worry.

Ask for help. While it can be really very tempting to tough it out alone, we are stronger together.

It’s okay to ask for help, whether that means reaching out to your social media networks and asking for people to say some nice things to you, or whether that means calling a counselor or therapist or clergy member and setting up a time to sit down and talk. None of this invalidates the struggle that you are going through, nor does it make you weak.

And finally,

Be gentle to yourself, if you can. The negative voices are real, and they significant, and they are hard to deal with. And saying “be gentle to yourself” doesn’t magically make anxiety or depression go away or be less horrible. But find the little thing that makes a big difference to you, and do it.

Self-care and moving forward.


This entire thing is kind of ironic, given I live in southern California, and everyone knows the joke about winter here. However, when I search for excuses as to why I haven’t written a post in almost a month, that is the only one that I come up with.

It’s winter, such as it is; the season is taking its toll.

I hope everyone will bear with me patiently until the sun comes out again. (I need others to be patient with me, because when this sort of thing happens I’m less capable of being patient and gentle with myself.)