#more importantly: what new horrors are in store for jane my best friend jane

[obeetlebeetle]

wow. hs^2 lives on. huge for fans of robot rose everywhere

[aion-rsa]

Best Romantic Movies on Hulu Right Now

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Romance gets a bad rap at the movies. Until you behold the best romantic movies on Hulu.

Yes, Hulu is on the case with an expansive collection of romantic movies for you to connect with your softer side… or the side of you that screams in an eternal tormented shriek, desperately trying to find a mate whose shrieks match your tone in this expansive disappointing nothingness of existence. Love is hard. Anywho, here are the best romantic movies on Hulu right now.

Sense and Sensibility

This Jane Austen character really seems to have a handle on romance. The 1995 film Sense and Sensibility is adapted from the Austen novel of the same name and has a great deal of talent both in front of and behind the camera. Oscar winner Ang Lee directs while Emma Thompson (yes, that Emma Thompson) wrote the script.

Thompson stars alongside Kate Winslet, Alan Rickman and Hugh Grant. The movie, like the book concerns the Dashwood sisters and their sudden descent into non-stupendous wealth. Of course then the romance begins (not between the sisters, weirdos. Alan Rickman and Hugh Grant are in this thing too, remember?)

AWOL

AWOL is how indie romances should be – small, authentic, affecting. Joey (Lola Kirke) and Rayna (Breeda Wool) are two young women from a nowheresville Pennsylvania town. They meetcute at a local carnival and quickly fall for each other but circumstances threaten to crush their romance before it can even begin.

AWOL understands first and foremost that while love is easy, relationships (and arguably everything else in the world is hard). Sometimes what you want and what your environment is able to allow you to have are two very different things.

Margarita with a Straw

2014’s Margarita with a Straw is both a coming-of-age and romance film the likes of which you’ve probably never seen. This Indian film comes from director Shonali Bose and stars Kalki Koechlin as Laila, an Indian teenager with cerebral palsy, trying to achieve some independence in her life.

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That opportunity comes for Laila when she is accepted to New York Universtiy and moves to Greenwich Village. There she meets and falls in love with blind Pakistani activist. Miles from home, Laila must deal with her changing, burgeoning sexuality and live in a world not built for her. But it’s cool: she can always take her margarita with a straw. 

Hello, My Name is Doris

Between TBS’s (now HBO Max’s) Search Party and Hello, My Name is Doris, director Michael Showalter had a stellar 2016. Hello, My Name is Doris is a wonderfully sweet, equally tragic and completely hilarious romantic comedy. 

Sally Field stars as the titular Doris, a lively woman in her ’60s who after the death of her mother becomes infatuated with a younger man. With the help of cliched self-help materials she does whatever she can to get his attention. Hello, My Name is Doris is an empathetic romantic comedy that will change how you view age.

Cashback

Cashback wins a very important award on this list: most intriguing, provocative poster. But it’s more than just a pretty poster. Cashback is a British romantic comedy about the most mundane of topics: working at a grocery store.

For anyone who as ever been young and had an interest in the opposite sex (or any sex for that matter), however, they know that one’s place of employment is often an absolute fountain of sex and chemistry. If that simple exposition isn’t enough, Cashback comes along with a sci-fi twist and more importantly: Oliver Wood from the Harry Potter series. 

Let the Right One In

Let the Right One In may seem like another odd choice for a romantic movie on Hulu but it’s romantic and sweet in a way that few other movies are. Sure, the players involved are a little boy and a little girl vampire (though the fact that she’s a vampire may very well mean she’s centuries old, just try not to think about it).

It’s a spooky yet undeniably sweet movie that presents the female side of a romantic entanglement as the ultimate protector.

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50 First Dates

50 First Dates has a somewhat disappointing Rotten Tomatoes score. Ignore that. It’s probably partially due to many critics’ distaste for at least one of the actors in the above screengrab. Not that they can be blamed. The presence of Adam Sandler or Rob Schneider in any comedy can be a rough sign. In 50 First Dates‘, however, it’s not an issue at all.

50 First Dates is a legitimately funny and romantic romantic comedy. Drew Barrymore stars as Lucy Whitmore, a woman with short-term memory loss. Due to a car accident, every day she wakes up believing it is October 13, 2002. Sandler’s character Henry Roth meets her in Hawaii and the two must overcome this bizarre condition to establish a lasting relationship.

Date Night

What do you get when you take the male lead of a popular NBC sitcom and pair him with the female lead (and mastermind behind) another popular NBC sitcom? A pretty decent rom-com as it turns out! Date Night stars Steve Carell (The Office) and Tina Fey (30 Rock) as a disaffected married couple trying to spice up their love life with a romantic night out on the town. But when a reservation steal turns into a case of mistaken identity, the pair’s night gets quite dangerous.

Date Night‘s action-heavy concept isn’t anything new to the romantic comedy genre but the presence of Carell and Fey (along with Mark Wahlberg, Taraji P. Henson, James Franco, Kirsten Wiig, Mark Ruffalo, and a whole host of other impressive talent) is enough to make this a pleasant viewing experience.

The Princess Bride

So you want to watch one of the most purely lovely and entertaining romance movies of all time? Well Hulu is here to say “as you wish.” The Princess Bride is a 1987 fantasy adventure film based on a book by prolific screenwriter William Goldman. The inspiration to the story infamously came from Goldman’s two daughters requesting conflicting stories about “princesses” and “brides.” So the writer decided to do two for the price of one.

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In this adaptation, Cary Elwes stars as Westley, a young farmhand who loves Princess Buttercup (Robin Wright). But when Westley is shipwrecked and left for dead and Buttercup is betrothed to Prince Humperdinck, the hero must embark on a sprawling adventure to rescue her. And of course this is a framed bedtime story being told to Fred Savage in bed…as all movies should be.

The Boy Downstairs

So much of what goes into a good romantic relationship is timing. Sometimes the chemistry is there but the timing is not. 2017’s The Boy Downstairs delves into this phenomenon from a millennial perspective.

Aspiring Brooklyn writer Diana (Zosia Mamet) and aspiring musician (millennials are always aspiring, you see) Ben (Matthew Shear) are in a happy, successful relationship. But Diana is forced to break things off after she moves to London. When Diana returns, she finds a new apartment through her friend and guess who just happens to be the boy downstairs? That’s right: Ben…and with a new girlfriend, no less. What follows is a funny, yet mature examination of what it takes to get the right one back.

Happiest Season

The setup for Hulu’s 2020 Internet-breaking comedy Happiest Season is very romantic…to a point. Abby (Kristen Stewart) and Harper (Mackenzie Davis) are in love. Yay! Not only that, but they’re going to Harper’s parents’ house for Christmas where Abby might propose. Woo! Also Harper has not told her parents she’s a lesbian and in a committed relationship with a woman. Oh. Oh no. Poor Abby!

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Questionable setup aside, this an excellent, personal effort from actress turned writer-director Clea DuVall. It’s an attention-grabber and conversation-starter to be sure. It also certainly doesn’t hurt that much of the cast is mind-meltingly hot. Stewart, Davis, Alison Brie, and Aubrey Plaza are like a who’s who of TV and movie crushes. Hell even Victor Garber and Mary Steenburgen can absolutely get it. All in all, the charismatic cast and accessible concept makes for a surprisingly wholesome romance movie.

Plus One

Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something really charming about erstwhile TV stars playing the lead opposite each other in a romantic movie. Such is the case with 2019’s Plus One, which stars Maya Erskine (of Pen15) and Jack Quaid (of The Boys).

Erskine and Quaid star as long-time friends Alice and Ben enduring the portion of their twenties where every friend seems to be getting married at once. Thankfully Alice and Ben have a longstanding agreement to always be each other’s “plus one” at every wedding. But such an arrangement couldn’t possibly lead to them discovering they have romantic feelings for each other, right? Right???

Palm Springs

“Time loop” movies frequently try to distinguish themself from Groundhog Day, the progenitor and most famous example of the form, by changing up the genre. Edge of Tomorrow is an action movie and Happy Death Day is a horror movie, for instance. What’s so impressive about Palm Springs is that it leans in to the romantic and comedic stylings of Groundhog Day and in many ways bests them.

In this movie, Andy Samberg styles as Nyles, a young man living through the hell of experiencing the same day (a wedding in Palm Springs) on a loop. In one particular loop, Nyles accidentally brings in the bride’s sister Sarah (Christin Milioti) and the two must confront the reality of living the same day over and over again forever together. You know…just like any couple.

LOVE AND BASKETBALL, Omar Epps, Sanaa Lathan, 2000, (c)New Line Cinema/courtesy Everett Collection

Love and Basketball

And now we come to a movie whose title is the two greatest things in the world! Love and Basketball is about…well, what you’d think. Quincy McCall (Omar Epps) and Monica Wright (Sanaa Lathan) are two next-door neighbors in Los Angeles, California, who are both singularly focused on pursuing their respective basketball careers.

Love and Basketball is a film all about passions – both creative and romantic. The movie also does a surprisingly thorough job of marking all the important beats of a relationship from childhood through the adult years. There’s a reason Love and Basketball has become a modest cult classic – it’s a fine execution of both the romantic and sports movie genres.

The post Best Romantic Movies on Hulu Right Now appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[freakflagbyiana]

Pride & Coming out

It’s Pride month, and I’ve been listening to the coming out stories of people I know and admire. I’ve also been thinking a lot about my friends who either aren’t out or are out but their family doesn’t quite accept them... They have an “understanding” that they don’t talk about it. So here’s my coming out story, a queer memoir in 3 acts: Childhood, Puberty, and Adulthood.

Childhood

When I was a kid, I was called a Tomboy. It’s not even entirely accurate; I played with Barbies and makeup and costumes. I just also enjoyed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and video games and comic books and getting dirty. And since this was the '80s, having an androgynous haircuts wasn't an indicator of gender or sexuality one way or another, it was simply the fashion.

Here’s a fun fact: My dad potty trained me, so I first attempted to pee standing up. He quickly realized he had to demonstrate sitting down if he was going to be the one teaching me. My idea of femininity - instilled in me by my mother - was also rather androgynous or 'tomboy'. Because she had always been skinny and flat chested, I grew up naturally assuming I’d be the same. I came from mom so I’ll look like mom when I grow up, right?

I remember hating Easter. It was the only time mom made me wear a big frilly dress for the pictures we'd send to Grandma. Pictures which inevitably involved me sitting on the side of the highway in a field of bluebonnets. In these photos, I am wearing a hot, unbreathable dress with scratchy tulle to make it 'poofy', sitting in a field (probably next to some fire ants), breathing in fumes of the highway with the afternoon sun burning my retinas, and trying not to squint too much for the picture. I remember thinking, “Boys don’t have to deal with this crap” (To this day, I still take bluebonnet pictures in the shade.)

I remember liking pink because, “I’m a girl, I’m supposed to like pink. Barbie’s favorite color is pink, so if I like Barbie, I like pink.” Gender Programming in action, folks! Eventually I rebelled against this gender standard, and, to this day, I’m still allergic to pink. Later I felt vindicated when I figured out how olive-yellow my skin tone was and thus how pink will always make me look sick. But I think it will always make me feel sick, too, because it was forced on me so heavily as a child. Forced by society, that is, it wasn’t my mom’s fault. I remember not knowing quite what was going on with David Bowie in Labyrinth but being really into it. {see previous blog on the subject} My parents watched a lot of MTV in the '80s, which explains most of my music and aesthetic tastes. But, more importantly, as a kid who would not understand the negative sides of the decade - the war on drugs, the AIDS epidemic, the Yuppies - until much later, the '80s were a magical time for a baby queer. Grace Jones was a strong masculine woman of color; and Nick Rhodes made it okay for “straight” men to have what I still call the gayest pink wedding I’ve ever seen. I could go on about my influences from this decade but the points that are relevant right now are these: Androgyny was fashionable, and Genderqueer was fashionable. In so many ways, the society of my early childhood, the '80s and early '90s, accepted all this stuff far better than that of my pre-teen and teenage years, the later '90s and '00s. At the time when I was affected most by society’s views on sexuality and gender identity, the culture was shifting, becoming less fluid... More into dividing by categories and labels and, to some, moralities. In my childhood, my mother was a department store makeup artist. This is a key ingredient in the Life Story of Iana. She was a department store makeup artist for Clinique, but she really wanted to be a special effects makeup artist for the movies ... like back in the days before CGI became the most efficient option, when they still hired artisans to create prosthetic movie monsters. (RIP the glory days of prosthetic SFX.) This is why I grew up watching horror movies and wasn’t scared by the scary stuff. She always explained to me how they made the zombies look dead, or blood look real, or those amazing transformations in American Werewolf in London & Thriller. Horror education aside, she also notably introduced me to makeup, brought home by her from work for me to play with. This was her most glorious, single-mom, life-hack moment: Tell child they can play with makeup and get them set up in the dry bath tub, allow them to draw on themselves and on the walls (because it’s only tile and it’s only makeup) while you sneak in a nap on the fuzzy bathmat floor. Dangle arm over bathtub so that the child knows you’re still there. When they are done, surprise! it’s bath-time, and you’re already trapped in the tub, kid! ... Frankly, it was a true stroke of genius. When people tell me “you’re so good at makeup,” it's like, of course I am! It was one of my first toys, and I’ve been playing with it ever since. You'd be, too, if you’d been playing with it as long as you can remember. It’s simply a matter of practice: do a thing 1000 times, and you’re a master, right?

Puberty

I grew up in Cuernavaca, the “affordable” hippie area of Westlake at the time. Cuernavaca is a weird little microcosm all on it’s own... I once referred to it as “The Twin Peaks of Westlake” and I stand by that statement. I attended West Ridge Middle School from 1996 to 1999. Although I was closer to my mom, I had to live with my dad in order to go to this “better” school. All the people I'm still close to from that time were kids from my neighborhood. They weren’t completely spoiled jerks, and most were probably a little weird like me. I had a beautiful best friend named Jane. I’m using her name because I want her to know if she ever reads this. Her parents were hippies while mine were weird, artist nerds into cyberpunk and technology, and we were from opposite worlds in many ways. But both of us, along with our other close friends Chelsea and Saira, were great at art. We were like an antisocial fantasy art coven who didn’t want to get involved in school politics ... we would keep to ourselves and draw when we were supposed to be taking notes, draw during lunch, and hang out after school to draw and listen to music. We hang around after class to talk to our favorite art teacher, Ms. Mouer, who always would say, “You’re only young once, but you can be immature forever!” (That’s not relevant to the story; it’s just a shoutout incase she reads this, too.) I remember this time was when Labyrinth was out of print, and I was the only girl in the neighborhood who had a VHS copy, taped off of HBO. My girlfriends would frequently come over to watch it, although once it got re-released on DVD, my house was suddenly less popular. It was in this environment that I was able to explore different aspects of my aesthetic. In hindsight, if I had been this age nowadays, I’d describe myself as non binary or genderqueer (not the same thing, but I’m not sure which I’d have used then). But at the time, I looked like an outcast no matter what; people could make their own assumptions, and I certainly wasn’t going to defend myself to anyone judging. The first Bowie album I acquired (read "stole from mom") around then was the Ryko edition of Scary Monsters - one of my favorite David Bowie songs still is Teenage Wildlife. This part always brings a tear to my eye. I think most teens can relate to this because most of us were “others” in some form: You'll take me aside, and say "Well, David, what shall I do? They wait for me in the hallway" I'll say "Don't ask me, I don't know any hallways" But they move in numbers and they've got me in a corner I feel like a group of one, no-no They can't do this to me I'm not some piece  of teenage wildlife I had developed an androgynous, genderfluid aesthetic, but, problematically, I did not have an androgynous body. I did not develop into a lanky, Twiggy-esque waif like my mother. I developed hips and breasts so suddenly that I had bright red stretch marks, everywhere. To this day, my breasts were never as big as they were then. I’m assuming it has something to do with still having “baby fat” and all the new hormones working overtime, and also my diet being sugar/dairy heavy (fatter = curvier). Later, in my 20s, I was relieved they got smaller as I cut HFCS out of my diet. In any case, sudden curves meant that I had to drop out of gymnastics ... it’s very difficult to safely throw your center of gravity around when your center of gravity is extra jiggly and changing daily.

I didn’t know how to dress for my body type. At the time when I just wanted to wear oversized band tees, the only bras I could use were underwire ... it would be years before I discovered the glory of sports bras, much less breast binders. So I wore oversized band t-shirts with underwire bras, paired with pants that never fit quite right (they still don’t) or full skirts. On top of wearing what most often resembled a giant tent, I had started cutting and coloring my own hair, so it changed regularly and got shorter. Sidecuts, mowhawks, pixie cuts, and a fully shaved head at 14 years old. From the outside looking in, you could definitely tell I was either “gender confused” or “on my way to becoming a butch lesbian” to use the language of the times; non-binary was not yet a label, especially not a respected one. My room was covered in posters of comic book women (mainly the characters from The Sandman), male rock stars (mainly Robert Smith and Keith Flint), and LOTS of pictures of Brandon Lee from The Crow, with whom I have been obsessed since age 9.

One day, mom told me about a “joke” she made to my father; taking one look at my room covered in pictures of Brandon Lee, she said to him, “At least we know she’s heterosexual” It was the first time I wanted to speak up, to argue about it with someone. I didn’t care if people outside my family assumed one way or another, but I was so angry that my mom just jumped to a conclusion like that. My own mother - who enjoyed short hair and androgynous fashion, who herself had been “a lesbian in college.” She was the one that taught me that gender and sexuality were a fluid spectrum to begin with. I didn’t argue with her though; I didn’t have any evidence to the contrary, I just knew she was wrong. I grew up watching The X-Files from day one - trading her love of David Duchovny for a deep interest with whatever Gillian Anderson was doing onscreen. Mom also took me to see The Fifth Element when it came out, and I have been in love with Milla Jovovich ever since. To this day, I have bonded with many of my male friends over these two female crushes. At this point in my life, I didn’t know if I was gay or bisexual. I wasn't sure if I was comfortable with my cisgender female identity, or if I was something else. I just knew she was totally wrong. In this time also, I would say that Jane was my best friend. She was beautiful and looked exactly like Claire Danes in Stardust, which is crazy to me now, because she and I had been obsessed with Neil Gaiman’s works long before any movies and Stardust was always one of her favorites. It's impossible for me to watch the movie now without thinking of her.

So I was close to my best friend because we were weird kids. So I thought she was beautiful because she objectively was. So what? Was I gay for my best friend? Probably a bit but no more than is normal to be gay for your best friend. ... I mean, I think even heterosexual, same-sex besties should be a little gay for each other. That’s how close friendships work! This is a person you love so much that you have their back in 99% of situations, you would bury a body with, etc. You should think they’re attractive even if you don’t want to sleep with them yourself, you should enjoy their company often even if you don’t want to marry them yourself, you should love them enough that it doesn’t matter if people accuse you of being gay for them. Platonic love is still love, so even if that person is gay and you’re not, it doesn’t mean their love is romantic. What I’m building up to, dear audience, is the other shoe dropping. Jane’s “hippie” father didn’t like me. He was in the National Guard and had just come back from dealing with the aftermath of the war in Bosnia and living in Russia for a while. After Russia he was different; he bought Jane very sexy (for a fifteen-year-old), form-fitting dresses, dressed her up like a Barbie and became more strict at home. I remember her finding it distressing, but she liked fashion, so it seemed like the typical patriarchal tradeoff that my gender faces: If you want to have shiny objects bought for you, you have to obey the breadwinning man of the house. And then, in the midst of that, here came I, parading around their house with my strong sense of self, thanks to my '80s-influenced, genderfluid upbringing. How dare I waltz in there and preach the word of David Bowie to his little Stepford daughter? I, on the other hand, just knew that they were hippies, they were supposed to be into peace, love, unity; acceptance of other, races, cultures, and “free love.” I was just a kid, how was I supposed to realize her father was so threatened by my very presence in his daughter’s life? It was so long ago that I don’t quite remember if he accused me of being gay to my face, or if Jane relayed the questions he asked her about me when I wasn’t there. But I vividly remember uncomfortable dinners, where vague personal questions that would be downright unacceptable to ask a child today were posed to me. When I asked my mother what to do, she wrote Jane's father off as “an asshole,” because she was familiar with the type of man he was. She told me to just stop going over there. But then how was I supposed to hang out with my best friend? Well, in truth, after that I didn’t really. She would have to make the effort to hang out with me at mine, or I’d just see her at school. But in truth, she totally checked out of the friendship after that. She put her head down and concentrated on getting good grades in school like she was serving a sentence in jail. I knew she had always wanted to make costumes, but after that time, she suddenly needed to get better grades as her father wanted her to become a lawyer or something related. (Eventually, she ended up making costumes after all) In April of 1999, right before I graduated from 8th grade, something happened that would change my life - and the country - forever: the Columbine school shooting. At the time, the only story we were told was that the shooters were goths, and they shot up the school because they were being bullied by jocks. (We now know that it was the other way around, the shooters were also the bullies.) And here I was, a baby goth and a genderqueer “lesbian” in a school full of rich, preppy jocks. The media perpetuated the “us vs them” situation, magnifying the underlying misconceptions and misjudgment. To be honest, I probably would not have gone to Westlake high school in any case, but Columbine sealed the deal. My mom and I loved watching Heathers, and I knew a similar environment awaited me at Westlake. Fortunately, it was around this time that I became acquainted with another Cuernavaca kid who was in the grade above me, Maria Russo. She was out as a lesbian or bisexual (I don’t remember which exactly as they were essentially the same thing in that environment) and was the only other goth girl in school. She wore ripped fishnets and dog collars and was obsessed with both Rocky Horror Picture Show and mermaids. She told me she wasn't going to Westlake either and that I should join her at this cool, hippie high school she found, The Griffin School. So even though I was only 14, I told my parents I was not going to go to arguably the best public school in the city, and that instead they were going to work together to send me to this weird, small private school for artsy kids. I was always a good student, except for middle school and I blame that on everyone being more concerned about social status than actually learning anything. That’s the irony of privilege, nobody appreciated the educational resources they had they just cared whether or not my clothes were from the Gap. I sold my parents on sending me to Griffin because of my grades suffering, the fact that my best friend and I had drifted apart, and then Columbine making the world more dangerous for goth kids really sealed the deal... The backlash meant that my safety was more severely threatened by the clothes I put on everyday, which I had been wearing for years already. I attended Griffin for all four years of high school and had one of the rarest experiences for a teen - I thoroughly enjoyed every year of high school. And it wasn’t because I was popular and peaked in high school either. I felt my sense of self was respected, my sexuality or gender identity wasn’t a concern to the staff or to the other parents. Also, I made excellent grades. I have since reconnected with several of my middle school friends that attended different high schools. But I never saw or spoke to Jane again.

Adulthood

As an adult, I identify as Bisexual. There is a myth that bisexuality excludes being attracted to people of non-binary orientation because you are attracted to "males OR females." The way I see it, the "bi" in bisexual refers to both ends of sexuality as a spectrum between heterosexual relationships and homosexual relationships. The stuff in between is undefined but included.

Many of the people who would have been considered Bisexual in the '90s identify as Pansexual today. That’s fine, but I’m not going to do that. I’ve considered myself bisexual since puberty; I don’t see the point in rebranding my sexuality now when I know what I mean by it, and that’s all that matters. But I think the reason Bisexuality split off into Pansexuality is that Bisexual is still a four letter word in the gay community. It’s better than it used to be, but there’s still this feeling that we’re not gay enough.

I once talked to a Pansexual who said she has been attracted to all kinds of things, including trees. And I thought, first, "that’s very interesting," and second, "I definitely don’t identify as that." This makes it hard to be a loud and proud bisexual; I don’t hide it, but I’ve kept it private for a reason. In the past, when a lesbian I had just met (at a party) asked me about my sexuality and I said I was bi. She then interrogated me about my gay experiences in a way that made me very uncomfortable. I finally interrupted her by shouting - “I don’t have to tell you anything!” - I didn’t know her, and it was none of her business. I got defensive because it took me by surprise, both, I suppose, because I expected more from another member of the queer community, and because it triggered memories of those uncomfortable dinners with Jane’s father. But the great thing about being an adult is that peer pressure isn’t real. No one can actually force you do anything you don’t want to do or tell them anything you don’t want to share simply by “putting pressure” on you to do their will. So I stick to the Bisexual label, partially out of resentment. I had to fight so hard to find this identity; I changed schools and lost one of my closest friends over it. I’m not going to stop being bisexual just because there are some mean girls in the gay community. And, in the end, I will always defend use of the term Bisexual: it was good enough for David Bowie, and he was a fucking Genderqueer alien. If the King/Queen of Genderqueer aliens Hermself feels included by this term, why wouldn’t I? Weirdness is a part of me right down to my sexuality and gender identity. I will always be attracted to the “others” of the world. In the end, I don’t belong in the gay clubs because I don’t like dancing to Beyonce, not because I’m not gay enough.

Although we’ve come a long way, people are still surprised if I mention that I’m not straight. Not every member of the queer community is an effeminate boy or a butch girl. Just because I look comfortable as a cisgender female doesn’t mean I didn’t struggle with my gender identity my entire childhood. I went to see Eddie Izzard do his standup act the other night, the first time since I’d seen him live in 2003. Towards the end he got heckled with something simultaneously misogynist and homophobic - “SHOW US YOUR TITS!” - and audible cringe swept over the audience as we began to boo. I thought, “WOW, He’s been out since the '80s, he’s so established and respected and famous now, and he still can’t get away from this stuff.” You never get away from it, there will always be a problem for someone. All you can hope for is a bigger, better group of people around you to boo on your behalf. You’re probably thinking to yourself, “wait this is your coming out story, when do you come out to your parents?” The truth is I didn’t. This blog entry, coming out to the general public, is the most coming out I’ve ever done. I didn’t have real relationships when I was in school, and I got married to a bisexual boy when I was 19, so it never came up. At the time, we were openly bisexual to each other but neither of us really had “the conversation” with our parents. He didn’t because they were British and, although I have no doubt they would have accepted him, Brits just didn’t talk about that stuff out loud. I used to think of him as choosing to be repressed, choosing to remain in the closet, but it’s only recently that I’ve realized that would mean I chose the same thing. I didn’t have “the conversation” with my parents because A) I wasn’t having relations under their roof either way; B) my “woke” mom had already assumed wrong, and I wasn’t close to my dad; and C) I felt it was none of their business. By the time I confirmed my sexuality, I was an adult, and they had no say in the matter anyway. That’s the million dollar question - if you know your parents accept and love you either way, do you need to have a conversation about it? Are you still in the closet even if you make no attempts to hide your sexuality or gender identity? Many of my clients are various degrees of queer and trans, going through their own complex struggles with all the emotional dust that Pride month kicks up. For example, those we have lost. ... I am again reminded of the recent void left behind by an older gay friend, the closest I had to a brother; we lost him in December to suicide shortly after he was diagnosed with advanced HIV. He was in his 40s and there appeared to be some form of denial coming from his family. Even though he was a fully grown adult, it seemed like he chose suicide over living as a “sick” person and having to address the facts with his family. Pride isn’t just about rainbow outfits and drag shows. Pride in the queer community is essential to survival. Lots of statistics prove this out in different ways; here’s just two of them: “LGB youth seriously contemplate suicide at almost three times the rate of heterosexual youth." And "LGB youth are almost five times as likely to have attempted suicide compared to heterosexual youth.” [source: The Trevor Project] If is that common as a teenager, do you think that changes when you grow up into a gay adult? Not necessarily. But I’m not going to end on a sad note. I have a lot of happy memories associated with Pride, too. My favorite part of living in Chicago in my early 20s was being a block away from Boystown, the gayberhood. The parade would come down our street, Broadway, off Belmont. For a few glorious hours the street was absolutely covered in rainbow confetti and glitter. Then as everyone moved indoors to drink and party, because Chicago is a proper city, the street sweepers would drive by and clean up all the litter like nothing ever happened. Below are some pictures from Chicago Pride 2005. That year was the first and only time I’ve ever seen RuPaul perform, way before Drag Race, when Supermodel was still his top hit. The Grand Marshal was Wilson Cruz, and, as a '90s latchkey kid who watched reruns of My So-Called Life with some of TV's first out gay teens, that was very exciting! (CW: this picture of the proud gay WWII vets makes me cry every time)

In the process of writing this blog, a client who came out to me as non-binary. It’s always exciting for my shop to be considered a safe space for people to come out before they deal with the complications of telling family, if they even tell their family. We related on a lot of the same levels. Being outright gay is difficult, being outright trans is difficult. ... But being nonbinary/bisexual can be difficult in a different way; it’s like flying under the radar, sometimes even to yourself. You’re not denying that part of you is 'other', but you know you’re not 'other enough' to be Grand Marshal of the Pride Parade. Especially for folks of my generation who grew up with the fashionable androgyny of the '80s/'90s. Then when you hit puberty and struggle with having a very feminine or masculine skewing body, it’s easy enough to fall back into binary fashion since those are the only clothes that are made to fit your body. This is one of the reasons there’s so many older people discovering this stuff about themselves now. Now we finally have language for the nuances of gender identity, so we’re all able to talk about it together. Strangely enough, these concepts are as old as mankind, the language is only new to the western culture. One of my favorite things to read about is the five gender system of Native American cultures: men, women, trans men, trans women, and nonbinary are all mentioned. {see this super-rad article here} In the end, though, when people ask me about my pronouns, I still don’t know what to say. I'll get that feeling like I'm taking a test I haven’t studied for. I’m still wired to be unconcerned with what people think of me, what they call me, but I’ll try to answer to the best of my understanding. I don’t feel entirely comfortable being a female or dressing femme. But I damn well love costumes, and I got comfortable with makeup early on in my childhood. So when people compliment my feminine aesthetics, I see it as being good at drag. Like high femme feels more like drag than when when I dress in androgynous or boyish looks. High femme is a lot of work but simultaneously (relatively) easy because I understand the programming I’ve been receiving since I was a little girl. Androgyny is easier and more comfortable for my brain but also more difficult to execute given the body I have and the way they make clothes for it. (I’m getting better though, I just got a binder by gc2b which I’m eagerly awaiting in the mail any day now!) Anyway, I’m comfortable with “she” as my pronoun - in the same way RuPaul is called “she” when in drag, even though he’s “he” when he’s just Charles, right? It’s like the same way I don’t care when someone gets my name wrong the first time they try to pronounce it. ... I don’t care what you call me, just as long as you see me. 20 years later and I’m still friends with Maria, who many of you will know as the mermaid Co-Owner of Cute Nail Studio - otherwise known as the Gayest Nail Studio in the city, state, possibly the country. I hope she knows how proud I am of her and how eternally grateful I will forever be for getting me out of Westlake. It was like she tossed me a big gay lifesaver when I needed it most. In the end I think the key is not being afraid, especially now, to talk about those things. Especially during Pride when so many different flavors of queer (and non-) come together to celebrate. Don't be afraid to talk about your own pathway, the unsureness you still might have, and the childhood experiences that made you realize you were born just a little weird. Stick together so that you don't feel isolated and don't settle for feeling like a group of one. REACH OUT to you brothers and sisters and siblings of no discernible gender and tell them you love them. Love people as an act of defiance. Walk tall with your strong sense of self.

[lizbethart-blog]

       Maybe, quite possibly I was just hoping Mary Poppins would save me too…

The Pentangle Arts (https://pentanglearts.org) presentation of Mary Poppins Returnshas been playing at the Woodstock Town Hall Theatre. I really wanted to see this movie. Yet, I am not easily convinced to leave my cozy warm little house on the hill to venture out into the cold dark evening especially on a Monday, but my husband convinced me to do so. I suspect he knew and remembered that the original Mary Poppins was one of my very favorite movies.  Quite possibly my absolute favorite as it was the first move, I saw in a movie theater as a young girl.  The magic of Disney immediately made an impression, but the true magic was sharing this experience with my mother. While Mary Poppins was  “practically perfect in every way” so was the woman seated right beside me. I truly thought and had imagined that years ago I had compartmentalized those warm and wide-eyed emotions and kept them in my childhood treasured memory box, but I was wrong.

Comfortably sitting in the Woodstock theater, the audience was mostly comprised of contemporaries as it was a school night. I wondered how many of us in the audience saw the original Mary Poppins in the theater as a first movie? I did love that we did not feel the need bring a young child to justify our attendance but instead were looking to revisit the child within. The movie starts such as a Disney movie does extraordinary with color, a beautiful setting and music. The story begins with the viewer meeting a grown-up Jane and Michael Banks learning that Michael has very sadly lost his wife just a year ago and is raising their young three children on his own. Sister, Jane Banks is very much involved in their lives but was unaware that Michael was financially struggling, had secured a loan against the family home and has not met his financial payments leading to a bank seizure of their beloved home. Enter Mary Poppins. Actress Emily Blunt, in similar fashion to the fabulous Julie Andrews, mystically appears from above floating through the mist and clouds in shades of gray as she makes her way to the Banks home once again. Quite unexpectedly and I suspect from a place deep in my heart as I watched Mary Poppin’s descend to the earth my eyes filled up and tears rolled down cheeks. Was I mentally returning to that tiny theater years ago with velvet seats sitting next to my mother? I clearly understand the loss of a beloved mother so was that enough for the tears to fall? Was I relieved Mary Poppins was on her way to help the young Banks children or was I personally hoping Mary would save me too?

Packing up our family home, a few years back was many things but mostly it was a tremendous tug on my heartstrings. Saying goodbye to a house and more importantly a home loved by both our immediate and extended family was extremely difficult.  Our home hosted many children, teenagers, family, running club friends, Kenyan runners, and most importantly the site where our daughter married the love of her life on a gorgeous September day on our ten-acre spread. Best friends across the street…perfect! Selling the house after our children had grown, I found myself deeply mourning the life we had on Adams Street. It is never really about the physical structure but the people that pass through the front door and our lives. The house for many years was filled with the sounds of joy, laughter and on occasion even sadness as every house does. The energy and level of activity that children provide in a home is intoxicating.  However, when it gets quiet and it does get quiet as the nest empties and bedrooms become museums it is time to seek a new adventure. The physical process of moving is daunting and not for the faint of heart. While going through boxes in our basement with our adult daughter and son we reminisced, laughed, teased and my husband and I listened with delight to the playful banter between a brother and sister. Even though we were under the pressure of time we often stopped to admire a school paper, a much-loved stuffed animal and the endless NSync posters. How does one sum up a lifetime?

I came across just a few boxes I had moved from my parent’s home years before that I had quite honestly forgotten about or more accurately, I had blocked from my memory.  Now was the moment I had to open the boxes and address the contents. How is it material things can affect us so immediately and profoundly? Cherished and known items prompt us to return to a time gone by in a New York minute. Familiar handwriting, trinkets of great importance to my parents and apparently to me as I dutifully brought them all with me. Another time and down the road when the possessions become the property of another generation those very same precious items will be viewed in a very different light as their meaning and history fades with each generation. I thought I had already sorted through the contents of these precious boxes long ago. In fact, they are the last physical reminders of my parent’s personal affects including handwritten notes, policies etc.…I thought for sure I had already touched each item, every piece of paper before packing them and relocating to our home but I was wrong…I must have blocked it yet again. In our effort to minimize what we store in our now small home my husband brought to me a cardboard moving box from our basement to sort through. With each move space and time seem to become more and more precious. I opened the tidy box and thought I knew its contents because it was packed within the past two and a half years, but I didn’t actually really know but now I would learn its contents.

“AFTER ALL, YOU CAN’T LOSE WHAT YOU NEVER LOST.” – MARY POPPINS

I came across a thin royal blue folder and its content immediately struck me. Instantly I recognized my mother’s impeccable longhand as it jumped off the pages of simple white notebook paper. The paper and the writing were as crisp and white as if she had written the words that very day. My mother had the most exceptional penmanship as does my sister…I did not inherit this skill and I am quite grateful for keyboards. My mother was so many wonderful things which is commonly how most of us feel about our mothers. She was creative, an excellent writer and artistic as well but unfortunately lacked time and opportunity to fully realize her many talents. She was an incredible caregiver for so many people and I always admired her way of mothering me and my siblings because her mother died in childbirth and she was an only child….so how did she learn?

The initial piece of notebook paper talked about her lifetime role as a caregiver and that empty feeling when one’s role changes due to the natural process of children growing and their independence being realized. She loved who we were becoming but missed being an integral part of our daily lives and those immediate shared confidences. What resonated to me as I read her words was, I completely understood her thoughts and feelings.  I was reading her words at nearly the same age she wrote them.  Understanding that I am now in the same cycle of life that she was as she penned the words. Maybe it was by design that I found the papers when I did so as to understand her a little more and understand myself a bit more currently.

The next piece of paper was a story about a beloved friend and neighbor of my mother’s. Flo was her name and she had lived a very challenging family life. My mom had many dear friends so her focus on Flo was curious to me. I think the first sentence of the narrative really told the story as to why my mother’s chose Flo to write about “my dear friend with the smiling face – dear Flo” My mom understood the life and pain behind Flo’s smile and I suspect she admired her strength. Maybe on some days she identified with that survival skill as well.

The final few papers were small in number, but their impact was poignant and profound. These pages were different from the others, my mother’s beautiful handwriting was now shaky and indicative of her weakened state. My mother made the decision to document her thoughts and feelings after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. If ever a person had a desire to live and had more living to do it was, she. Somehow, she knew when unrelenting back pain would not resolve, and she was not getting definitive answers until she did…she said to me “this better not be my dam pancreas!” She was smart and intuitive always, but I so wished she was wrong this time and just this time. Standing by her in her hospital bed, in the emergency room as she was receiving an IV for dehydration, the news of her CT scan was delivered. Shock, great sadness and horror permeated our thoughts in the small curtained room as my mother’s mortality became a devastating reality. Transferred to Boston Medical for futile treatments she employed her quiet moments without us surrounding her bedside and began to write about her feelings from diagnosis on.  She even sketched a city view from her hospital bed perspective. As an artist this visual hit me hard.  The words she wrote were so real and haunting as she spoke of her loneliness and not wanting to put her family through the upcoming and unrecoverable brief period of time. The loneliness she spoke of was reflecting on the common human experience we all share. Each ending is ours alone to face even though we are surrounded by those that love us the journey is singular. Her final sentence was “I prayed to go”.

Thank you, Mary Poppins, for reminding me that:

“NOTHING IS GONE FOREVER, ONLY OUT OF PLACE.” – MARY POPPINS

[thewanderingjack]

End of the year: The long read.

Grab a coffee/glass of wine, a mince pie and a slice of cake. I make no apologies for the length of this. It's approaching the end of the actual year, and as always, I get a little reflective. Conscious of how this process started back in January with my curiosity leading me down paths I never knew existed and then running with the idea. Determined.  I’ve just read Paul Coelho’s Alchemist, along with several other books I’ve been meaning to read like Conan Doyle’s ‘The Lost World’ and an interesting book about India’s forgotten borderlands. ‘The Alchemist’ resonated in so many ways and reminded me of the importance of seizing the day and of instinct and following that path, I’m no religious guy but there’s certainly something to be said for following those omens and listening to them to explore what lies ahead.

 Here I am, 11 months later, and I’m also acutely reminded of my first post – a few days before I left the UK about how this would be your outlook into a world otherwise blocked off. I’m also constantly reminded here of my presence (difficult not to be conscious of it being the only white guy in what feels like a radius of several hundred km) and arguably more importantly of how I am the window of those here to Europe, to the US, to a world outside Sudan. It’s incredibly easy to think of this as a one-way process, and for all intents and purpose this slice of the internet is, but on a day to day level, a local level – it is so much more.

Every day I am asked where I am from, I tell them ‘Britain’ much to their relief (Usually followed by an angry anti-Trump tirade), but more than that I am asked by people how life here compares to that of the UK and often how many days it takes to reach Sudan from the UK. I have to craft my responses very carefully. In a position of incredible privilege, the journey from the UK is measured in hours, not days or weeks.  To the vast majority of people I have gotten to know here London is this utopian world, as fictional to them as Shakespeare’s world betwixt the pages of their English classes – enchanted minds invigorated by the land of Macbeth, they ask of Yorkshire – familiar with the landscapes of Jane Eyre and of Dublin’s fine streets those who’ve read some Oscar Wilde. I am their window. Their door to the world. That feels strange to me.

 I tell them that life is much the same; families still have their issues, parents still go out and earn their keep and many young people, like here, work part time to fund their studies. The arts scene exists, though people listen to different types of music and tea ladies are replaced by bar men and women. Fans are replaced by radiators, and the tea served with milk instead of mint. Premier League matches remain just as popular but as out of reach in the UK as they do here, save for the stadiums being significantly closer. Cultural exchange.  I tell stories of cold winters and of roast dinners, of summer holidays in European resorts – how Spain differs from Greece and the UK. The overwhelming majority of people I have had the honour of meeting here haven’t left the country, those who have having spent time in Ethiopia, Egypt, the Gulf nations, India or China. Whilst the cost of living is comparable when scaled down, travel is one thing which is significantly more expensive to your average Sudanese than it is to your average working Brit. That’s not to say, however, that people are not globally aware, and it’s been incredibly interesting to compare how the questions have differed when asked by people at home and here in Sudan.

Occasionally, but nonetheless a reminder of how far the world as a community still has left to progress, I meet people in a transient state. This can be difficult sometimes. The Libyan border isn’t too far from here and as you’ve no doubt seen in the media, there are lots of terrible things happening there, yet the allure of Europe remains. Family members in less well-off areas, throughout the country and beyond its borders, are given hope by a distant relative or a friend of a friend’s WhatsApp message from the ‘safety’ of Lampedusa or Sicily. They tell me of their plans and ask of the job situation in Europe. In these circumstances, I have to be frank – but one cannot change a decision already made. Whilst I tell them tales and show them news articles of 2017 Britain and the horrors of families having to make the decision between heating their homes in winter or feeding their children and of the situation in Greece. The most determined among them nod and reply, albeit after an initial indignant disbelief that such things could happen in the UK, that these things are ‘rare enough to make headlines there’. My heart grows heavy at this point, too heavy to say that news of sinking migrant vessels now frequently fails to make headlines, too often do they happen. I stress the danger and the cost physically, mentally, socially and economically of what the journey might entail.  I remind them of their life here in Sudan – in Somalia, Somaliland, Ethiopia wherever, how they have food on the table, a stable job, in most cases an education and a family and would be foolish to gamble it all away. Then I think of the incredible sacrifice and put myself in their shoes given the information that they hold and ponder my decision. It’s a simple one when you can see the facts and a wholly different one when you have the full set.

Christmas approaches, 9 days away, I shall be spending it at a film festival in Suakin, near Port Sudan, on the Red Sea 15 hours away by bus from Dongola. I’ll be joining the guys from Khartoum on Thursday with our secret Santa gifts and we’ll hang until the New Year, a refreshing break of snorkelling, music, fresh fish and sand of the more familiar kind. I’m hoping to travel back with the gang via the pyramids at Meroe and perhaps spend New Year’s Eve there, camping with others under the stars, entering 2018 under the shadow of 3,000 year old pyramids, doing our best to avoid scorpions, toasting at midnight a bottle of ‘Champion’ the pineapple flavoured ‘beer’.

2017 has been an incredible year in so many ways, on so many different levels. Jack has his mojo back and if 2018 can build upon what was undoubtedly a successful year and consolidate, then I’ll be a happy guy. The first month and a half of 2018 has a little travel in store, a day stop in Sharjah in the UAE, before Beirut for a few days before I meet my folks in Cyprus and travel back down to Sudan through Egypt. May and June do too, with Ethiopia and Kenya, and potentially Uganda to see the source of both Niles in the pipeline before I fly home from Nairobi in July. Summer is too far ahead to think about planning and it’ll be nice to spend the latter half of 2018 in a place I’ve not spent a significant amount of time immersed in, despite clinging to vestiges of her culture wherever I’ve been over the past 2 years. A reason to stay in the UK would also be nice too, and it’d be lovely if there was someone to buy special Christmas presents for next year. That is all.