Years ago, I saw a play where one woman told another, “I can’t stand these young women who say their names like there’s a question mark at the end. Like they aren’t quite sure their name IS their name. Maybe it isn’t?”
I stressed about that for ages. I told every woman I knew about it. And most of them did what I had. Stood there struck by the dialogue. Retracing every time they’d told someone their name. Had they declared it? Or had they mimicked the question they’d been asked with their answer?
And then, I was telling a woman at the bookstore where I worked and she said, “Young women already have too many stupid things to worry about. They don’t need that, too.”
And I felt liberated.
Truly liberated. Nobody needs that. Nobody needs to be told they apologize too much. Or shouldn’t giggle if they expect to be taken seriously. Or should try harder. Or be less earnest. Or avoid the word bossy.
Fuck that. Bossy women are sexy as hell.
We have plenty to worry about. And most of it is stupid.
Our lives are meant to be learning curves. Arcing always toward compassion.
I don’t understand how someone can take the message of Love your neighbor and rebrand it as Hate the other.
And I don’t want to be in anyone’s way. I know that when I have had better opportunities, I have made better choices.
I know that I have failed my wife so many times that the only recourse is to learn.
To show my child that I am frequently wrong, but working to be better. And not afraid to own either.
Do the work. Tell the truth. Be kind.
I have never been holy, and so I never need to be holier.
Despite everything, I am sacred. I am the temple. I am the love.
I am the glorious queer. Sometimes my name is a question. Sometimes it’s a war cry. I am multiverses. Wrong and right and awkward and graceful and violent and tender and learning, motherfucker. I am constantly learning. And much of that learning involves questions.
Is this kind?
Is this necessary?
Jill? Jill! Jill. Here I am.
