the Nightmare

I want to tell you a story.

Thirty minutes ago, before I was woken by the natural violence of a thunderstorm, I had a dream. It began, as most of them do, in an ordinary time and place - in this case, walking back from Franklin Street with a group of friends.

We were doing all the things we usually do: talking, laughing, bickering. In the midst of all the hilarity, I noticed something. Certain individuals on the street were being abused. Passerby would spit on them; ignore them; force them to step off the sidewalk onto the street. A girl I know from school (not a friend) raced by yelling something. It's been a long time since I had violent (and I mean violent) dreams. I hope this doesn't mark a return.

The girl I knew was screaming about gays. Specifically, a more profane version of "Off with their heads." My friends didn't react beyond our conversation turning towards Gay Rights. (I'm sure this is a combination of my roommate and Amendment One. But still.) I, however, was horrified and enraged.

As a non-combative person in real life, my behavior in the dream was bizarre enough that it frightened me. I had no fear. When the scenery changed and I was coming out of class, I witnessed a beheading. By guillotine. It took place in one of the more famous locations on campus, a fountain students (and faculty) like to wade in. I saw the crowd first, asked what was going on, and heard the cheer and saw the flash of a pale watermelon splattered with gore. Right then I felt nauseated. No one noticed.

The rest of my story consists of little moments like that; the disentegration of society as I knew it. I was accosted in the bathroom by the same girl I'd seen on Franklin Street, demanding that I join her in prosecuting the filthy unnaturals. I took her specifically what she could do with that (and herself). But she was far from the worst.

I visited a friend, and heard some of the most abusive language ever, directed at LGBTQ individuals. I called him on his BS - asked him what the f*** he was saying. He said he'd sit next to me and say it, so I could hear him better. I punched him. I had no fear.

I remember, above all, lacking fear and being full of rage. I am a champion of "Live and let live." I don't want people to ask me questions, and in return I'm hesitant to broach anyone's privacy. But in this dream I was so enraged by the violence directed - campus-wide, even by staff and administrators - at the LGBTQ community that I acted. I called people on their crap. On the bus; crossing campus; in the dorms; in the showers and the toilets and the locker rooms. I fought, and for a non-combative Teacup Human, I did a damn good job.

What frightened me, above all, was how normal it seemed. I like to think I live in a pretty tolerant city, and that I attend a famously tolerant university. But this dream was a dark reflection of that world and a literal wake-up call. I can't describe to you what I felt in this dream: fury, fear, sadness, confusion, disgust. The words are too thin to capture the depth of those emotions. I was transcendent. I was not afraid to die, and I came very close several times: a mob of students and faculty with knives and guns, and the Franklin St. Girl, who was prepared to shoot me if I didn't join her cause, right there in the bathroom, surrounded by seven or eight other girls I recognized.

There was no question for me which side I stood on - something I find incredible. In this dream, this nightmare, this world-that-could-be, I stood up for something I felt was wrong...and I did so honestly. Selflessly. (I won't toot my own horn after this, I promise.) But Reader, imagine what the world would be like if more people had no fear. I fought a football player for God's sake. And I won. For me, this was definitely a nightmare (someone always dies, usually me). Yet at the same time, in a creepy, twisted way, this was a dream of personal emancipation. It was a reflection of who I've come to be inside, and who I may eventually be outside. I am timid; I am conflict-shy. I am live-and-let-live.

But I don't have to be. My temper is an ugly thing; so ugly it frightens me. In dreams, there are no rules, and there is no fear. It's only when I wake up that I'm afraid. I'm blessed that I don't live in fear. I have. I might do so again, one day. But this...this is progress. I can see the cracks in my world, the facade of gentility and reality. My roommate fights for the rights of those who can't defend themselves. I should be so lucky to have someone that passionate championing me.

Be me, Reader. Be brave. Stand up for the ones who might otherwise die. You've only got your life to lose; the rest is collateral damage. We live and love, but neither of those are meaingful without some investment. Be the Teacup Human who told a thuggish football player to shut his f****** mouth and sit down. (Find a better way to phrase it though.) Be the Teacup Human who grabbed a girl in the dorm restroom and said to her, "This is not you. I know you. I don't like you, but I know this isn't you. Think about what you're saying, then try to say it while thinking."

Please, please don't let our world become this. Don't let people die by La Guillotine. Once was enough. One long, bloody execution was enough. It was my nightmare; don't make it any more of a reality.

WolfGrrl

The Awkward French

French kissing is awkward as hell.

As non-sequiturs go, I think that's a good one. But it remains accurate (at least for this novitiate), unless practice does have an impact on overall performance. Regular kissing I've managed to get down with no problems; again, that old adage of "being with the right person makes it easier" holds true. My boyfriend and I progressed naturally (and quickly) from a goodnight hug to a goodnight kiss.

But Frenching...mmph. I don't know. We'll have to give it time. I just feel...awkward.

Does anyone else think that the whole French-as-the-language-of-love thing is a bit outdated? As a French speaker I feel like an idiot trying to be all sexy while calling someone "my little cabbage-head." Um, no. Italian is much smoother to the ears and palatable to the (comprehending) listener, in my opinion. German is definitely not a romantic language, but it can be very sweet. But French...French makes me feel sleazy. And not in a good way.

I admire the French mindset when it comes to love, even if I don't always understand it. I believe that many French women are incredibly self-actualized, but French men I haven't found to be particularly nice, and far too slick. Plus there's the whole Christian Louboutin thing which continues to drive me nuts every time I think about it: how can anyone consider Barbie (yes, the anorexic children's toy) fat?! Only a creepy, insane, French shoe-designer. Italian men are sleazy too but they at least back up their smack with some gestures.

But back to the subject of French kissing. I won't say I hate it, because it was nice. And my boyfriend is a complete sweetheart, so when I told him "I feel awkward" his immediate response was "No, you don't."

We're already slightly awkward as a couple; since I'm a teacup human, my head comes to the middle of his chest. This means I have to perch on something for a proper kiss. Thus far we've discovered that a lofted bed, two stairs, or being picked up works the best. All of which are, in their own cute ways, awkward positions. I couldn't really give a damn; I can't help it, and he definitely doesn't seem to mind. We're still in the honeymoon phase where everything is happy and rosy-colored.

So I don't really care about the awkward French. But I will have to practice my Frenching. Hmmm...

A demain
WolfGrrl