A great relief

Bang, bang

Well, it's happened again; another shooting, another trial.

There are, of course, far too many shootings to document them all, but I am particularly interested in the "stand your ground"-style killings because the underlying premise seems to have little logic.

Don't get me wrong. I first heard about "stand your ground" about 20 years ago, in a sad case near my hometown. You'll have to forgive me if I have a couple of details wrong. 

A politician's brother was arrested for shooting a man. I can't find a reference in my cursory Wikipedia search, but as I recall, this particular politician was a relatively famous and powerful national Republican leader, a member of the House Judiciary Committee during Watergate, a Secretary of Defense for many years, and still holding office at the time.

I mention this only by way of explanation: the story was BIG NEWS because of the shooter's famous and powerful relative. 

The shooting took place inside the brother's house; the victim had broken in, likely with intent to commit some crime. 

I cannot say I am a fan of shooting anyone, anywhere, at any time, but I am at least highly sympathetic to anyone who awakens to find a criminal in his house and takes steps to protect his family. 

These shootings on the street seem to be completely different, though.

I don't watch TV, so I was mercifully spared the bulk of the George Zimmerman coverage, but I always thought the "stand your ground" argument was being used by the wrong people. A teenager, walking alone, notices he is being followed by a man who gets out of his vehicle and approaches him in what he perceives to be a threatening manner. (I gather this part of the story is uncontested.) Zimmerman's supporters claim the teenager jumped him, making it okay to pull a gun. This is the part that seems backwards to me. In this situation, the person "standing his ground" is undoubtably the teenager who is being approached. If it is OK to use deadly force when threatened, it must be OK to jump a threat using something less than deadly force. 

I'm even more confused about how anyone could claim that thinking a gun is present could justify shooting multiple rounds into a vehicle (this is the latest case). If anything, the NRA should be fighting this idea tooth and claw (but not with firearms, please). This would mean that anyone carrying a firearm, concealed or not, is a legitimate target. We will ignore the part where the shooter was mistaken; no gun was ever found, but I gather that the shooter's honest belief is the important part here.

At what point does it become OK for me to shoot you? Is it when I see your gun? I'd better keep my own gun hidden, then; otherwise you might see it first and then you'd be able to shoot me, right? Is it when I think you might have a gun? What do I then do with my own gun -- obviously I am going to need a permit to conceal it from those who might shoot me, and clearly I cannot ever let on that I even MIGHT have one; otherwise you can shoot me first, correct? But then how do I exercise my Second Amendment rights if it is unsafe for me to do anything that even implies I am exercising them? 

If you're the NRA or its supporters, I just don't see how you can justify shooting people simply because they are or appear to be carrying firearms. If anything, that seems to be a pretty efficient way to discourage people from owning guns. 

Argh

I always know it's time to leave my job by the way I feel when I make up my mind to do it. Sadness means no, I can stick it out a bit longer. Relief means it's time to go.

As it happens, I rather like my job, or at least the part that is my job. Over the past few months, however, I've been pulled into the orbits of some pretty frustrating folks. Yes, I can help -- oh, you're not sure what you want or how to get it done? Perhaps you could let me know when you figure that out -- no? It didn't help that my former roommate was among them, and it may not surprise you that I am not particularly fond of her, nor do I especially trust her or her judgment. 

I'd consoled myself with the knowledge that a looming reorganization was going to take these people off to their own little world, where they could ponder and redraft things to their hearts' content. There are only about six weeks left. I would feel relief when they left. No need to seek my own relief. 

But it's become clear that while the looming reorganization will sweep some of them away, it will bring some of them closer. So that isn't comforting at all. 

And so I need a new job. I'd assumed the job-hunting process would take longer than simply waiting for the problems in human form to disappear, so I am already behind in my search. This displeases me, as it is wasted time I could have invested in, at minimum, looking around. 

I can't say I feel relief at this decision, at least not the kind I feel when I've mentally clocked out of a job. Which tells me I am still not totally convinced there is no possibility things will get better. There must be some hope in the back of my head; I'm just not sure where it's hiding. 

Knowing, and not knowing

One of the things I'm often asked nowadays is if I knew Ex was gay all those years ago. The answer is somewhat complicated.

I started going out with him when I was fifteen. I was young and naive. I knew nothing about being gay; we didn't have a television and I didn't have much exposure to popular culture, even what little there was at the time about gay issues. I read mostly religous publications. 

And yet my gaydar went off immediately when I met him. I just didn't know what to make of it.

I remember it pretty clearly. I was being introduced to a room full of people, and I was making mental notes: "she's got brown hair, and he's got a beard, and he's gay, and she's wearing glasses..."

I didn't really know what it meant to be gay, but that was the word I put on him without any thought whatsoever. (I might have mentioned that I've always considered him pretty flaming.) It went by quickly; I didn't have time to put any thought into why I assumed that.

I just had a general sense that gay people were morally degenerate and possibly diseased. I couldn't say why I thought that, but I probably picked it up from one or more of the many religious articles I'd read in my mid-teens. 

I had a boyfriend at the time, but that didn't last long; it was a long-distance thing that we'd continued from Bible camp. Besides, I was really having fun spending time with this new guy, who did not appear to be morally degenerate at all. 

He was, however, flaming. My brothers mocked him mercilessly behind his back. So did I, at times. A person might be "queer, but not as queer as Steve; nobody's as queer as Steve." By this, we meant the person was prim, effeminate, lisping, and quite likely morally degenerate. 

Now, you must bear in mind that we didn't have a very good sense of what it meant to be morally degenerate. I am not sure I could name even one activity that I supposed degenerate folks participated in. (Pity that; it might be fun to have a "naughty list" right about now.) In any case, Ex appeared to like me, and I liked him, and he was clearly not degenerate; he was a churchgoing fellow. He was even something of an up-and-coming leader in the church. I put the "gay" label out of my head. It wasn't as if I knew any gay people anyway. 

(It turned out that I knew quite a few gay people; most of my male friends from high school came out immediately after graduation. But that is another story. Or at least I hope it is.)

It wasn't until about ten years later that I realised the truth, and by then we were married with a baby, and I'd quit my job at our national broadcaster. Even then, I wrestled with what it meant. He swore up and down he would never leave us to "go and be gay with someone", as I remember sobbing. 

He was right; he never did that. 

So yes, I knew. And no, I didn't know. And this might only make sense in the context of small religious communities in the mid-nineties. 

Surgery recovery, Day 4

I'm doing well. The pain in my throat is easily managed with meds you can buy in any gift shop, and we came home from the big city the day after the surgery.

This is my second kick at having throat surgery in the last six months, and again, my impression is that the hangover effects of the anesthesia are the worst part of the experience. I can still only handle being out of bed (or a comfy chair) for about five hours at a time. When I'm up I can happily be up and about -- we have been going for our normal walks -- but I tire quickly instead of being energized by being outside. The Caffeinated Wonk is indulging my slower pace without complaint. I think he's a keeper.

I am amused at others' abilities to carry on one-sided conversations with me. I gesture at my throat, they surmise I have laryngitis, and then they continue to talk at me quite happily. My mom went on for what seemed like half an hour but what the Caffeinated Wonk says was a much shorter amount of time: from my side of the FaceTime window it felt very much like a movie scene with the police tracing a call and urging the speaker to keep the connection open. There is not a whole lot to gesture after indicating that I am recovering well. I have a little sign at the office that seemed to make things go more quickly last time, and I plan to use it again when I get back to work. 

My mom managed to talk to the Caffeinated Wonk for the first time a few hours after the surgery; he assured her that I was out of bed and even doing some shopping. This was clearly an exciting moment for her: "He is REAL!" I am not sure what to make of this other than that she apparently thought it was possible that I'd invented a relationship. Personally, I would have invented slightly different details if I'd gone that way, but life doesn't always present itself with perfect details.

Quick update

I am finally getting the follow-up throat surgery I've been waiting for since last July. They are removing a polyp that is growing under my vocal cords. The hospital here doesn't have the equipment that's needed to remove it, so I need to go to a bigger hospital to have it done. 

I'm not excited about it -- everything about this trip has been a big hassle -- but I do want to get it over with. We fly to the nearest city tomorrow night and I go under the laser Monday morning. After that I won't be able to talk for a few weeks. I hope the Caffeinated Wonk doesn't get too comfortable with my silence; I will not be in quietness for long. 

I'm totally fine and healthy; there is no need to worry about me. I have friends who are going through far worse.

I'm probably going to hell

About a year and a half ago I glanced at Facebook on a computer or device that wasn't mine. (I can't remember where, and it's not important.)

It was, it appeared, my account. Specifically, those were my messages. 

I wasn't looking very closely, or I would have known immediately they were not my messages. But as far as I knew, I was the only one in my household who was Facebook friends with my cousin, whose name caught my eye in the list of senders. And I was really sick of Ex hacking into my accounts to read my stuff. And, I guess, it just all looked very familiar and I wasn't surprised that he would have found a way back into my accounts. I was just annoyed that my account was wide open.

And what the heck...I hadn't seen this message from my cousin before...I must have missed it...what the heck...huh...*click*...oh, this isn't my account, Ex must have friended him...what the fuck?

I am not particularly worldly (the Caffeinated Wonk and I are more into punctuation and Evensong) and it was the first time I'd read a chat transcript between men who were trying to pick each other up. Ex was tentative, clearly not anxious to get too serious about it. My cousin was less so. Horrified, I read the whole thing, including the part where they agreed to meet during the next family reunion. (You may go ahead and judge me, but you might want to wait until the end. Also, while you are judging me, I might as well admit that I read his other messages to see if he was trying to pick up any of my other family or friends. He was not. At least not on Facebook. At least not at that time.) 

From my own Facebook acount, I pieced together what had happened. I had told my aunt Ex was gay, that he had run up a ton of debt, and about the weird drugs and inhalants. She had dinner with my cousin a few weeks later, and he had messaged me right after he got home to tell me he'd heard my marriage was over. I told him only about the substance abuse, which I knew he would understand. I didn't want to get into the rest of it with him, but it would apparently have suited him fine if I had, since he immediately friend-requested Ex.

Anyway, the planned cousin-fucking has bothered me ever since then. 

And so that brings us to today. 

My parents are...hmmm...

They would hate to think that they are bigots, as they are kind, loving people. But they are homophobic bigots. It is not that they do not like gay people. They just don't know any, if you know what I mean. There are no prancing, mincing, promiscuous, immoral, fashionable young single men nearby (my mother told me today she always thought of Ex as "artistic"). For many years, I hoped that one day Ex would be the one who would show them that gay people are not bad. I knew that people are most likely to drop their homophobic attitudes when they realise that someone they love is gay. I hoped that one day they would see that the man they loved as a son was gay, and would become more accepting.

And so it is a sad irony that they found out he was gay at the same time they realized that he was unkind and controlling as our relationship ended, that he'd left me with a pile of debt, that he was irresponsible and abusing a variety of substances, and that he was living a complete lie: none of the things they had always believed about him were true. For a long time, I have thought that all of those things were related -- but to the strain of being closeted, not to being gay.

I was talking to my parents today, as I do about once a week. They were talking about how unusual it is to be gay and how messed-up it is. I said it's not really that unusual or messed-up. They wondered what causes it. I said I don't know; people just are or they aren't. They racked their minds and could not think of anyone who is gay. Frustrated and annoyed, I said Ex is not even the only one in our family who is gay. 

You can probably tell where this is going.

Yeah, so I outed my cousin in a moment of frustration without even realizing what I was doing. To be honest, I would probably never have done this if I did not still have the lingering revulsion from reading his pickup texts to my husband (is it NOT possible to find someone outside the family to fuck???) but basically, I suck.

Fortunately, I don't think they believed me. He's not fashionable, mincing, or single.

Not that that makes it okay.