Uncategorized

Jobs: A Story, Maybe

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

I started my first job in 1996 when I was newly 16. It was at an old general store in the town of Readsville. A town so forgotten, there wasn’t even a post office back then. My duties included, but were never limited to:

-Slicing deli meats and cheeses from huge blocks and making sandwiches for old men who had very particular ways of wanting their sandwiches, for example, the cheese against one piece of bread with a slice of ham on top and then the other piece of bread with a slice of ham on top and nary shall the two sides meet to form a sandwich. This was so he could shake out at least a tablespoon of black pepper onto both sides and about half of it on the counter

-Pumping gas if someone came in asking me to or looked like they really needed help

-Selling Marlboro Reds to people using food stamps (no one told me I wasn’t supposed to)

-Running down the janky steps into a probably haunted basement just to scream while trying to use a tiny net to fish out a dozen minnows for bait in a tub way too large for the amount of tiny minnows that lived in it

-Praying that no one came in the store while I had to pee since the toilet was in that same basement, literally in the middle of the room with no walls

-Calling 911 for a few car wrecks

-Giving directions to lost city folk who’d wandered too far off I-70.

-Listening for hours as my lady boss (and owner) talked to me a mile a minute with garlic breath about anything and everything. It ranged from local gossip to what I now understand as conspiracy theories. Overall, she was a wonderful woman (Because when you worked, you could eat and drink ANYTHING you wanted for free!)

-Adding things to peoples’ tabs which was just a scrap of paper dangling from a nail behind the register

The cash register was really old, so it made the “cha-ching” noise when the drawer shot open. What I loved most was the feeling of pushing it back in with my hip when my hands were full of cig cartons. Minimum wage rose that year, so my pay went from $4.25 to $4.75 an hour. I think I worked there about a year before I found a job in Fulton at a video store: Broadway Video which eventually became Movie Gallery. That job was the ultimate dream of any kid during that decade, and yes it’s just like you imagine. The soundtrack, the baggy pants, the porn room, and me taking home tapes where two girls kiss without officially checking them out because I didn’t want anyone to know how many times I watched “All Over Me.”

But this is not about those fond teenage memories. It’s about jobs.

Specifically, it’s about not having one.

I was laid off on November 17th, so just about a month ago. It wasn’t completely unexpected, but it still stung and felt a little personal. That job was the most money I’d ever made and the company seemed to be one with great stock options and unlimited growth and all those corporate words. But. I only got to be there about a year and a half.

I’ve been working since I was 16 (nearly 30 years), and still have, what?, like, 20 more to go? Does this shit never end?

I began to say this is the longest I’ve ever been without a job, but I do still have a job; I’ve been coaching at my gym for a year and a half. Generally, it’s just about 5 hours of work a week, but I’ve been asking for more classes since I was laid off. I guess I enjoy it so much, I forget to call it work.

But you know what I mean.

My last week doing archaeology was really lovely. It was in southern Illinois on more than a thousand acres of mostly wooded areas with rolling hills and a large creek that we passed through several times. For the seven days I was there, I dug about 150 holes, always got my 10,000 steps in, enjoyed shimmying under barbed wire fences and over felled trees. I basked in the sunlight and some days when it was 65 degrees and felt my cold nose when it was only 39, windy, and overcast. I was so grateful for my body, which is 45, to be able to not only keep up with the 25 year old techs, but for being able to out walk them. Out maneuver them in the woods.

You’re wondering what the plan is now, I bet. My health insurance runs out December 31. Not just mine, but the whole family’s. I have archaeology applications in. My previous job is hiring, but kind of not because of a hiring freeze. It sucks that this country’s healthcare is attached to jobs. It sucks that I can’t just already own a massive piece of land I could try to build a tiny cabin on and spend my days as a content hermit.

I guess I always thought that at this age, I’d be more successful. In the sense that my job would be permanent and fixed, that I’d have nothing to worry about. That I’d be doing something I loved and was really good at. I feel like maybe the stories of the 1980s were too influential on me. I always pictured myself a frazzled, yet competent career woman wearing a power suit with those linebacker shoulder pads. I thought I’d be in some position where people would, like, have to call me because I’d be the expert on whatever it was. I’d be someone who’d get a call, roll up in my official vehicle, take off my sunglasses and say, “show me where it is,” and people would be relieved I was finally there. Or something like that feeling. You know?

When I was little I wanted to be:

  • a professional baseball player (obviously the Cardinals)
  • an archaeologist
  • a writer

I’ve achieved two of those three, and I think I can substitute rugby player of several decades, coach, and referee for baseball. In some ways, I’ve accomplished everything I ever set out to do. But in other ways, and most of the time, I still feel like I haven’t done anything. I still haven’t done “IT.” And I can’t quite figure out what IT is.

I still haven’t written the great American novel. I’m still not a scientist who gets called in to testify during intense trials or interviewed for PBS specials. The closest I got to being a Cardinal was getting to stand on the field at Busch Stadium while Cyrus ran the bases. The tears I shed were of joy and for myself-not my kid.

As I’m probably past the middle point of my life, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on my life up until now.

Would Christina, the weird girl who used to write poetry by the river, the 16 year old who spent hours alone in the 100 year old general store in the middle of rural Missouri dreaming of the rest of the entire world… would she think I’m cool? Would she like me or be proud of me? Would she want to be me?

I’m wise enough to know things never turn out the way we plan, but I’m not spiritual enough to believe things turn out the way they’re supposed to by some grand design. And I’ll die before saying, “it is what it is.”

I guess there’s no moral to the story here, today. And there doesn’t have to be. Sometimes a story is just a sequence of events with no unifying theme.

Sometimes it just takes a while to piece it all together.

One of the last photos I took on what might be my last ever adventure in archaeology.

White Men, Their White Sons, and the Trampoline Park

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

It happens like this: your kid is having a birthday party and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves until the one kid who is black comes over to say that this dad told his kid to punch him. So. The kid punched him.

You believe this kid, of course, and ask who the kid is and who the dad is. He can’t find the kid, but he knows the dad; he’s one of the rednecks up in the fucking adult balcony which overlooks the entire place. You know he’s a redneck because he’s hanging out with other white guys who are wearing hunter orange Under Armor hoodies and those stupid fucking t-shirts with the American flag in, like, black and grey with matching hats.

The kid says to you, “You should go say something to him.”

And this is where your privilege becomes glaringly obvious because you realize you’ve never had to have a confrontation like this. So, you try to postpone it. You tell the kid (the 11 year old) you might go say something later. But you really don’t plan on it. I mean, Jesus, you’re 5 feet 5 and 142 pounds. Your hair is purple or red or some color in between and you’re the queerest looking person in the building. The worst part: you know who these fucking guys are. You grew up with them. I mean, maybe you’ve never heard or seen anything too blatant, but you always knew.

So, you look up to that balcony with the redneck dad crew as they survey their land like kings. You tell the kid, you know, “I might go say something later.” And hope the kid forgets about it.

Because you are a coward. And you’re scared of these white dads. And you’ve never really had to do anything like this. Because you are white. And your kids are white.

Towards the end of the birthday party, the kid comes back to you and looks up there, to the balcony of white men, this eleven year old light brown black kid with a poofy pony tail and undercut. And he says, “I’m going to go up there and say something.” And you, a coward, encourage him not to. And say, you know, I want to help you, but I’m scared. And you don’t know what he thinks of you, you fucking coward of a parent. So when he says, “when my mom gets here, she can say something,” you feel like a real piece of shit. You ask, “what does your mom normally say?” He says, “If your kid touches my kid again we’re going to have a problem.”

So, you consult with your partner and your teenage but adult daughter. What do I do? But you fucking know what to do, don’t you? You coward. You white girl type person. You know exactly what needs to happen, but you’re scared. There’s no way in hell you’re letting the kid go up there, but the thought of going up there, ascending all of those steps to where those men lean on their forearms surveying their land, makes you feel nauseous because even though you are a badass, you do not want to be hit or shot by these white men.

Eventually, you puff up and ascend the steps with your daughter behind you because she is ready to fight. She is Gen Z and she gives no fucks and yet all the fucks at once.

So. You walk up the steps and see that he’s coming down the steps, but he’s engaged in conversation with another white man. You wait patiently because you’re socialized as as southern woman, but, sensing a lull in the conversation, you tap him on the arm and say, “Hey, I heard that you told your kid to hit my kid.”

And he looks at you like you’re nothing and says, “I don’t know anything about that.”

“He’s black,” you say, “does that help?”

And with that, this white man starts going down the steps saying things over his shoulder you can barely make out. So you say, loud enough that his other white dad friends can hear, “So, it seems like you do know something about that?”

You let him walk away, but then go to your table where your partner, the kid, and Cyrus are waiting. You’re fucking mad. You call him a coward and he says he has to go to the bathroom and then goes outside.

Why. Why is he going to the parking lot? To get a knife? A gun? Will he wait for you there? You don’t really think so, but you also don’t really know. Now, there are 5 people in your family all wondering what to do.

Just then, he walks back in, so you’re all glaring at him. As he passes he gets mad, “Why are y’all looking at me funny?” And you all answer in different ways, yours being, “I wanted to have a conversation with you.”

But. He can’t handle it. He’s walking away while saying, “that kid hit my kid in the head three times (while playing dodge ball) and, look he’s smiling right now!”

So. You white man. You do know what happened. And you did tell your kid to hit my kid. And you think it’s justified. And you didn’t have the fucking balls to even have a conversation about it.

He still can’t handle this, though. This confrontation and what you and your family look like. (You imagine you’re a white man, momentarily and how the conversation could’ve gone then. Or. The kid he told his kid to hit was white. Would it be the same instructions?)

He keeps walking, back up the steps to his kingdom. And he’s accusing you of arguing, and all you wanted was to have a conversation.

He looks down on you. He flips off the eleven year old. The one black kid. And he’s saying some shit from his tower but you can’t hear him over the roar of children running and jumping and the music.

So, your daughter flips him off. Two hands. And he’s mad now. Saying some shit you can’t hear. But there’s blood rushing in your ears because you’re ready to fight. Or you hate yourself for not doing anything an hour ago.

You apologize to the kid. The kid says, “it’s okay.” And you say, “this is not okay.”

You can see and feel in this kid’s eyes; he’s done this before.

And you, you coward, you almost didn’t say anything at all.

The Perfect Dish

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

Gaby’s love of food extends beyond the act of preparing it. Until her, I never really thought about how food is presented to someone to eat. I grew up in a household of corn mixed into mashed potatoes and gravy drenching everything. And though I do appreciate how food is plated now, I still don’t care. I just want to eat. But I do see the psychology  in making food look good in order to taste good.

Another thing I never really thought about until her is the art of food photography. It’s not just snapping a photo, straight on, of your dinner and posting to Instagram. Like any good photography, it’s about angles, light, and composition. A shitty photo of your dinner can make it look like garbage. Gaby’s really good at making amazing food look even more amazing. Just recently she bought a real camera and spends all of her free time practicing. If you don’t follow her already, I suggest you do in order to watch her already baller skills develop.

One of the benefits, I guess, of having her learn photography is her taking pictures of more than food. She’s snapped some great candids of friends. And, since I have a new essay coming out, I thought it was time to update my author photo. The last one was taken nearly 6 years ago. Six years ago I was in my early 30s; now I’m in my late 30s. That’s like a life time. Well, in preparation, and in an attempt to figure out lighting and the best time of day, she asked me one evening to sit just for fun. Since I was wearing a Christmas shirt and it was February, I took it off. And since I had just made myself a martini, I brought it with me. It was fun, or at least not horrible, and I actually liked one of the shots: Capture

This is an honest shot of me. This is my typical, non-smiling look. This is my sarcastic look. This is me, not really wearing clothes after I get home from work. My hair hadn’t been cut in over a year, and I figured out how to twist up my man bun. This, I thought, could be social media-worthy. I am not unattractive. There are things about me that people can appreciate. But then. I kept staring at myself. Like, one of those moments when you look in the mirror and you’re overcome with the thought, “I’m a human person. I am a mind inside a body. This is that body. This is what my shell looks like. Look at that face. I can make my face move like this…”  I used to go down that rabbit hole when I was teenager. I guess I had a lot of time on my hands. Or, I was a teenager. So, my 39 year old self looked deep into my own eyes for the first time in a while, and then this happened:

now this

I’d like to say at my age and with my life experience, this doesn’t happen to me. But it does. As much as I try to keep it from coming. I think we all do this. Or, if you don’t, please tell me how.

I see Erika, who is nearly 15, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror for way too long. I see her walk by her reflection in a window and pause to look at her hair, only to move one strand of curls back and forth for several minutes. I see her in the living room mirror adjusting her shirt around her waist and then turning around to pop her booty out and give it a hard look. I see her self-consciously moving through this world. I see her have the same anxiety we all have. Or the same anxiety I have which I assume everyone else has. We’ve talked about it. I try to tell her that I understand and that is gets better. Or we learn to turn down the volume of our inner critic. I think of this scene from Bojack Horseman.

I understand food seems to taste better when it’s expertly presented. When it’s an array of colors stacked to trick the eye into believing there is more there than in reality. Arranged to show only the best parts of each component. I suppose there are people like that, too. They know how to put themselves together.

I am not always this hard on myself. There are times I’m able to forgive myself for all the things I’ve done and move on. There are times when I’m positive that my friends like me and even care about me. There are times when I’m proud of all that I’ve lived through, when I know that I’m a good person, despite the bad things I’ve done to you all. To myself. There are times when I feel like I’ve really found myself and my truth and my wholeness and all of those things we are striving for. I can see those things in the martini photo. I can see a woman comfortable with all that she is. Sometimes I am her.

But, despite all the angles and light, I can also see that I’m not an elaborate, colorful, carefully constructed dish.

I am something like biscuits and gravy. I am either gross or delicious, depending on your tastes. Sometimes, I am way too much. I am best warm and terrible cold. Or I am something like a sloppy Joe: full of savory filling but just barely held together. If you put me down, I’ll fall apart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pride and Prejudice

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

It’s pride month. So, let me remind you that I’m a homosexual. I’ve been aware of myself and out for 21 years. In that time, society has changed drastically, but not enough.

Maybe it’s because of my age or the people I hang out with, but it’s very rare that someone asks me “when did you know you were gay?” or “who’s the man?”  It’s such a relief.

This is the time I dreamed of when I was 17 and sitting in that therapist’s office and he was trying to tell me that being gay was going to be so hard and weird and maybe I should reconsider. As he would go on about all of the challenges of being gay, I would try to imagine the day when I just lived without anyone caring if I was. Today is that day.

I’m so grateful to feel so much safer than I did 21 years ago.

That doesn’t mean that everyone is safe, though, or that things are just fine.

My fitbit app updated the other day to include “female health.” It’s a nifty period/ovulation tracker. I pushed the button to allow it to ask me a series of questions. They included what type of birth control I use. I clicked none. And felt judged. Now that that portion of the app is set up, I can go in and track things in my life like: sex, unprotected sex, and the morning after pill. Obviously, these things don’t apply to me.

And I really hate that my fitbit thinks I have sex with men. My fitbit has made an assumption about me based on the fact that I clicked “female” at some point in time. At least I’m a cisgender female. Think of those others who have clicked the same and then been faced with a menstruation app that doesn’t apply to them. I’m sure all of this seems like the stuff that makes your conservative uncle want to say something like, “all of these gotdamn people wanting everything to be sooooo POLITICALLY CORRECT.” But, if the people making the fitbit app update were a little more diverse, I bet this wouldn’t happen. Someone in that room would’ve said, like, wait not all women have sex with men or have a period. And they would’ve designed a separate button that says, like, “click here if you have sex with women.” I would’ve felt so included. I would’ve happily clicked the shit out of that button. I wouldn’t known that someone out there was looking out for me. Instead, I feel a little sad. Instead, I have to stare at those options of clicking protected or unprotected sex.

Speaking of sex.

I’ve had this skin problem on my right hand for years. In the past, it went away and came back. I would have a few months with no outbreak. But now, it’s been here since October. It’s eczema, I think. These tiny bubbles form under my skin that leak fluid. My hand itches like a sonuvabich. More specifically, my thumb, middle, and pinky finger and no where else. It never goes away. Something as simple as water can make it flare up. It’s the fucking worst.

But here is what is worse than the worst: this is, essentially, my penis.

I’ve been to the dermatologist and allergist. I’ve had patches stuck to my back. I’ve been prescribed some insanely expensive steroid cream (which only makes my skin crack and bleed). I’m not telling you all of this for a diagnosis. I’m telling you this because, as I mentioned before, things are better for queers, but not the best.

I had to suck up my feelings and tell the dermatologist that my partner is a woman. That my right hand is vital to my sex life. She smiled, but didn’t seem to care.

The allergist, when I told her, at least showed sympathy and said, “oh, my, this must really be affecting your quality of life.” I said it was. And I felt heard. Or nearly understood.

But yet. Here I am, still suffering with this stuff. Now, before you all start messaging me with other ways to be sexually active without my right hand, believe me, I know them. I’ve been having sex with women for 20 years.

Consider this: maybe a male friend you know has confided in his doctor (and you) that his penis has tiny, itchy bubbles, that it is constantly burning and flaring, that the skin cracks and bleeds. Would you offer him other ways to have sex or would you want to help him find a solution? Don’t you think the doctor would do everything in their power to help this poor guy?

So, why am I sharing with you these intimate details of my life? Easy. I want you to know that homophobia, or even lack of awareness of homosexuals, affects my life in a lot of strange ways. Several times a week, maybe even every day, I’m reminded by others that I’m not the status quo, that I’m not still fully included. And I’m white and cisgender. Just imagine how trans people feel. How people of color feel. How immigrants feel. How differently-abled people feel. How someone who is all of those must feel.

This is why inclusion and diversity are so important.

Your conservative uncle might also get annoyed with all the pride talk this month and all the rainbow flags. He might ask, “who cares if they’re gay? Why do they have to run around waving flags?”

Because. Every other day of the year is straight, white man day. And though there is no specific flag for that (though some might argue stars and bars), I see it everywhere, all the time. And I’m reminded, even when I look at my phone or visit my doctor, that I am still an outsider.

flag

 

Going Dark: Day 13. Ben Dover

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Thursday was pretty awesome, and I meant to tell you then, but time got away from me. Due to a quick change in the weather-55 and raining to 30 degrees in just a few hours-the university sent people home at noon. So. Awesome.

Gaby and I cheated. Just a little. I sped to Hy-Vee when it was just around 34 degrees to buy us some frozen egg rolls. It’s only fair on a snow day to splurge a little, right? We discussed making our own eggrolls, since that’s the goal of this month, but when we realized we’d be alone, with no children (they were at the other parents’ houses), we decided to really take advantage of our time together. Or, as it turned out, the several hours we spent apart. I spent my time in the basement and Gaby was upstairs. Then we spent some time together. I made some martinis. We watched the rain become ice on our deck. We went to bed early.

Friday, well, I worked and so did Gaby. After work on Fridays, we like to go to happy hour, so we did that. We got home around 8. Erika talked to us for a while about teenage things, and then, exhausted, we went to bed.

The thing is, not having the internet and tv just seems kinda normal now. I feel like there isn’t much to write about. We’re almost half way now. It’s easy. I feel like we did it already.

But I still need to tell you this:

We’re communicating with more people now than we did before. We get several phone calls a day and usually a couple of letters. Gaby is meticulously producing cards every night. We’ve nearly used up the stamps we had. We love it.

Something too hilarious happened tonight when I was tucking Cyrus into bed. The phone rings. Gaby answers, “Who, I’m sorry?”  Then she says, “Ben…Dover?”  I tried my best not to crack up as I kissed Cyrus good night. I wondered who could be pranking us, and a had a good idea. Gaby laughed sooooo hard.  It was Natalie, Alison, and Helen. They were trying to reach Erika and said they spent a long time googling pranks that were PG. We told them when she’d be home, so they’re planning something even better.

 

In other news, not really related to us not having the internet, and maybe in violation of our goals, I submit this:

Yes. It’s adorable Cyrus. But it’s also the first time he’s allowed Amy to use the clippers and not just scissors. Because of the preemie stuff, and subsequently the helmet he had to wear a long time ago, he’s had some sensory issues with his head.  I’ve tried to bribe and beg him for years to let us use the clippers to give him a cool haircut, but he never could. Today, for some reason, Amy asked what he wanted and he said, “a mohawk.”  Amy looked at me for permission. Of course I said go for it. When she brought out the clippers he said, “Phew, Finally!!!”

I’m so proud of him that I cheated and uploaded this picture from my phone, which is not supposed to be turned on. Oh, well.

Anita Braik.

Going Dark: Day 10. One Third

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

A1xQKspxS0L._SL1500_It’s January 10th, so day 10 of our challenge.

We’ve gone 10 days without tv, tablets, video games, and cell phones at home. We’re 1/3 of the way through.  That might not seem like too much, but hey, it’s almost half. I guess.

Tonight Erika, Gaby, and I finally whipped out our new board game: Karuba.  Gaby was very wary at first, as she really doesn’t like board games and always says no. Erika groaned, even though she really does like them (and begs for us to play with her)…usually. I guess when an adult suggests it, it’s not as fun.

Erika called her dad. And this was a lovely moment. She grabbed two barstools and lay back, hanging her head off one end, her curly hair nearly touching the kitchen floor. She giggled. She complained. She twirled the phone cord around her finger. Gaby and I were like c’mon, let’s play already. And she totally said to her Dad, “sorry, my mom is begging me to play this game, so I have to go.”

Classic, vintage, teenage girl on the phone. She might as well have had a facemask on and nail polish at the ready.

Anyway, we started the game, and it didn’t take long before everyone was into it. But minutes later, we got a phone call from Alison and Natalie (old rugby friends of mine who visited the other night and told Erika what the yellow pages are and how to use them). They called to talk to Erika and only Erika. hahaha. We also got a post card in the mail from them today, from Hawaii! And we got another postcard from Audra! And she didn’t realize how small postcards were and apparently wrote another card immediately following.  So, that’s two pieces of mail from her.

Anyway. We played the game. Three times. And there were only three of us here tonight. And we’re 1/3 of the way through the challenge. There’s meaning here somewhere. I don’t know what it means.

*just now Gaby says, “I kinda wanna play that game again.”*

I’ve just asked Gaby what she has to say after 1/3 of our journey. She admits that she still wants the t.v. right before bed. She wants her show. Just a little bit. Just a little. She can quit any time.

I miss being able to see your posts immediately on facebook. When I post this, it publishes automatically to facebook and twitter. I have to wait until the next morning, when I’m waiting for my work computer to turn on, to see what people might’ve said.

Erika misses watching t.v., too. What she means by that is lying in her bed and watching Netflix on her laptop. Just now we asked if she liked playing the board game. She says she does, but says we can do that any time. When I suggested Gaby might be playing on her phone during the game without our challenge Erika said, “now the cards are her phone.”

Sometimes the thirteen year old yells about not having internet. Sometimes the thirteen year old is wise beyond her years.

See, there’s that number 3 again. I knew it meant something.

Going Dark: Days 4 & 5

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

I didn’t write yesterday because there wasn’t much to say. We were busy with work and home stuff. Then we went to bed.

Tonight was about the same. Erika had volleyball practice, so Gaby took her and Cyrus while I went to the gym for an hour. Then we came home, made dinner while listening to Ziggy Stardust (Cyrus’s request: Mom, are you sad David Bowie died?). And then it was already 8:30. Cyrus and I read some Captain Underpants while Gaby finished up some loaves of bread.

He’s in bed. We’re in bed. The cats are settling down. It’s pretty much our bed time.

This is the time we might want to cheat. The tv is looking at us. We could turn on some netflix and no one would know; Cyrus is asleep. Erika is at her dad’s this weekend. It would be so easy. Except all of the discussion of what to watch. And, as you know, by the time it’s decided, it’s time for bed.

I’m not sure what the weekend holds, as it will be our first without the screens.

So fat this doesn’t seem like much of a challenge. But. It’s only day 5.

I’m curious if any of you have considered your own screen habits.

Today’s difficulty: very easy until maybe right now.

Going Dark

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

The idea started when I had a hankerin’ to google that show, “1900 House.”  It aired on PBS some time around the turn of the century. I mean, the 21st century. It’s a reality show where a family in London is selected and put into a period house where they must live for 3 months without modern technology; the house is completely set-up with antiques, including the wall paper and gas lights; they send and receive mail 3 times a day; the women wear corsets, even to do house work; they have a budget and must buy only locally produced food from the butcher (who makes house calls), and they have to use a cook stove to make their food. I think I saw the show originally when I was living in a basement apartment in Houston, making grilled cheese in a toaster and eating angel hair pasta with butter. What I liked about the show is the challenge. And. How much it reminds me of the stories I hear from both sides of my family. Mom grew up without running water on a farm far away from town. Dad didn’t have running water until, well, I can’t remember, maybe they got it when he was in his early teens. They both grew up with an outhouse. They both grew up killing their own animals and helping out around the farm or house.

I suppose I’ve lived back in time already, in ways some people my age have not. I have helped hunt and process the carcasses of animals my family would come to eat. I grew up with just one television station (until Dad bought a satellite dish). I used a rotary phone and had to make sure our neighbors weren’t on the party line before I dialed out. And, in a move which horrified my parents, I lived in small cabin in Fairbanks with no running water and an outhouse for several years.

I don’t have some romanticized idea about “country living” or “living off the land.”  I know it’s hard. I know it sucks. I’ve seen the look in my mom’s eyes when she is asked about her childhood. I moved to Fairbanks to get away from what I knew, that’s true, but it wasn’t with the same stars in my eyes that some others had there. One woman, someone with money from a large city, thought this was how she was going to commune with nature or have some more authentic human experience than what she’d had growing up.  When I lived in Houston and worked at an upscale camping store, my coworkers were shocked I didn’t hike or camp much, seeing as how I was from the country. All I could say was, you know, when you’re from the middle of nowhere, you don’t really feel a need to get more into the middle of nowhere. I walked through the woods all the time.  It wasn’t until I lived in such a huge city for a few years that I understood the urge to run screaming from the concrete and into the woods where no one could see me.

Did I mention there are other shows? Like, Frontier House, Colonial House, Plymouth House, Texas Ranch House, and there’s a newer one on PBS, called, like, Victorian Slum House. I have no idea who would sign up to be a part of that experiment.

I’m telling you all of this because, while I was watching, I was wondering if I could live without modern advances. I mean. Of course I could. I have. I’m capable of doing a lot. But the more important question is, can I live without some of them in a world where everyone uses them? Gaby and I discussed all of this (she was stoked about the idea), shared a google doc, and made a plan. Will eliminating the internet from our house help with Cyrus’s video game addiction or Erika’s need to have Netflix playing at all times? Will I read more or play the guitar? What will Gaby do without the video calls with her family? Will our family become closer or just ignore each other while reading books? We’re going to test it. I should mention, though, that Gaby and I are the only ones excited about it. Erika, who is 13, is certainly opposed.

In preparation for our 30 days of darkness, I’ve purchased an 8 dollar phone and added a landline. I wanted to get a rotary phone, but Mom didn’t have one lying around, and they cost about 60 dollars now. So far, Erika has screamed from upstairs, “How do you even dial a number?” and “How do you hang up?” HAHAHAHAHAHA. (Still taking donations for a rotary phone if you have one). How am I supposed to text my friends about sleepovers!? she shouts. Pick up the phone, we say, and make a call.

I bought jacks, marbles, pick up sticks, and a new family board game called Karuba.

The rules are this:

-no cell phones used in the house (Gaby needs hers for clients. I need mine for Chef Gaby)

-no internet (except when I get to blog to you about our experiences and Erika for homework which will be monitored at the kitchen table.)

-no tv. (I’m changing the netflix password, too. eeeeevvvvviiillll)

-no video games (basically, no screens)

-We can listen to the radio, but no streaming music. We have a record player and cd player.

-We will write letters. (This is how I corresponded with my first girlfriend; there was no internet. This is how Gaby grew up in the Andes. There was only one phone in her neighborhood that everyone had to share)

-We will talk on the phone.

-Our diet will focus on eating locally raised meats and veggies as much as possible and whole grains. Any breads, pastas, or snacks will be made from scratch. (like cheez-its, fig bars, cereal)

-Make an effort to minimize the stuff we have. We already kind of hate stuff, but we’ll keep donating.

 

All of this begins tomorrow. It’s no 1900 House, but maybe more like…1949 house.

What am I hoping to experience, you might ask. I want Cyrus to learn to play independently; he has wonderful toys and books that he won’t touch unless someone is engaged with him. For myself, I need to learn how to be quiet and still. I don’t do that very well. Maybe I’ll listen to music I forgot I had. Maybe I’ll read a book because all of the children will be reading, too.

Maybe we’ll all lose our minds. Maybe we’ll all find ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

Death by a Thousand Cuts

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

I’ve been trying to count the number of times Cyrus has been in the hospital, or the ER in the past year. The number starts at 4 and goes as high as, I don’t know, 12. This doesn’t include the major surgery he had last August and the three procedures leading up to a perforated esophagus. So, in the past two years, that’s, what…nearly 20 hospital visits. And that doesn’t include regular appointments he has with therapists.

Last week he broke his arm, again, the fourth break since last October. Today he had a follow-up appointment to make sure everything was in place. Hey. Guess what. It wasn’t. So, Cyrus has to get a pin inserted into his radius, the length of it. That means general anesthesia. A new cast for four weeks. And he’ll have to go through it again in a year when the pin is removed.

Alone, this is not a huge deal. Two broken bones is not a huge deal. Three really isn’t either, I guess. Four seems like a bit. But for me, and for Cyrus, of course, these four broken bones are added onto 7 years of procedures and white coats. Of a beginning so traumatic, I’m still recovering.  So is he, though I don’t know if he understands.

And, as always, just when things start to seem okay, when maybe I feel like he’s going to catch up with his peers and not break anything else or finally start eating, something happens. He falls. He gets something stuck in his esophagus. He’s put into more special ed classes because he can’t write really well because he broke his dominant hand twice because no one knows why.

Gaby said tonight that living with Cyrus was like constantly building a house of straw, piece by piece, only to have it blown over with the smallest breath.

I describe his situation as death by a thousand cuts.

I describe my own mental health the same way.

This is where I’ll mention that this is the third time he’s broken his arm at school. And this is the time where I’m finally suspicious. I’ve been fighting with the school and the district for a week to see a copy of his accident reports; I’ll spare you the narrative,  but I’ll say this: no one knows the protocol for getting copies, the person in charge is out because he daughter got married, this woman is a CFO?, I’ll have to file a written request, It won’t be ready in time for the meeting scheduled at school, but hey, I can read over the shoulder of the principal when I get to the meeting, the adult who is supposed to always be by his side was not, somehow some adults wrote the report but I can’t know who they are, his bully might’ve been there when it happened. The school is willing to do anything to help poor, poor Cyrus and why does his bones break so easily (there’s obviously something wrong with him)? You should wrap him in bubble wrap. ha.ha.ha.

All of this has taken a toll on Cyrus. He is either shaking in fear when he sees a white coat, or he is explaining all the steps that will happen, naming all the equipment and acting like it’s no big deal. The last time in the ER when the doctor asked if he knew why he was there he sighed and said, “I broke my arm again,” while continuing to play on the iPad.

My amazing and supportive partner, Gaby, who has lived with him for a little over a year has gone from optimistic and unaffected to crying right along with me when something else happens.

All I want is for Cyrus to be okay, for a whole year. Just a year without anything major would be an improvement.

Last week as I drove Cyrus to school, we were listening to his playlist. O Fortuna was playing and I’m not even lying. He was looking out the window, into the fog and rain, his bright yellow casted arm held with his other hand. Just the night before he’d mentioned that he didn’t have any friends at school, that his teacher is mean, that his bully bothered him again. And here was this kid, his blonde hair a mess, just sitting calmly while I drove him to a place where no one likes him, where he breaks his bones, where he is forced to navigate the world as we all had to. He wasn’t crying or screaming. He just seemed to accept his fate.

 

There are days when all of Cyrus’s past just rushes over me and I have an anxiety attack. There are days when I’m capable of forgetting everything. Here, let me mix some metaphors: Some of the days you’ve known me, the straw house has just been blown over. Most days you see me, we’re rebuilding, piece by fragile piece. I guess I’m telling you because I need you to understand that if you see me not really functioning, if I can’t show up to the planned event, if I just put on my headphones,  I have reasons. A thousand of them. Or. One. Just one reason.

That should be enough.

 

 

Responding to the Friend Request from a Middle School Boyfriend

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

I see your face there, requesting my friendship. You have the same look in your eyes as when you requested other, more intimate things from me. You look much older now, though, a lot like your dad.

Your profile pic has one of those  waving American flag filters and the words, “I stand” written across it. This is one clue that already makes me wary to hit the “confirm” button. It seems on this important issue, we don’t agree at all: Why I Sit, Part I. and Why I Sit, Part II.  If you read those, it might be enough to change your mind about wanting to be my friend. Hell, even if you don’t read those, the title should give you a very important hint.

I’m sure you know that I’m a lesbian; it was a small town, and I came out just a year after you graduated high school. That must’ve been around the last time I saw you: 1997.  I don’t think I’m wrong when I say you’ve voted against me for probably the past two decades. What you might not know is that my partner is a Spanish-speaking immigrant. Let that sink in, buddy. Okay. Maybe I’m incorrectly assuming a whole lot about you from that one profile picture.

So,  enough about why you don’t want to really be my friend,  I want to tell you why I can’t be yours.

There’s a very good reason I will not be accepting your friend request. You see, I did some thinking a while back: Getting Trumped. If you look closely, you might find yourself in there somewhere. Of course, that’s assuming you recognize the situation. Let me repeat it. You’re #1. As in, the first time I remember a man sexually assaulting me.  Here it is in case you don’t have time to read the full piece about the Cheeto-faced leader of the free world grabbing women’s pussies and bragging about it and how it affected women:

#1

Though I honestly can’t remember if this is the first time [someone sexually assaulted me], I do remember it vividly. I remember it because I was old enough to almost understand. I was 13. And he was my boyfriend. It was on the bus on our way to a track meet. He was a track star in our tiny school. He could climb the rope in gym, upside down. We sat in those green plasticy leather seats. He put his hand on my leg, my knee. That I enjoyed. Or, at least, didn’t mind. But his buddies were in the seat in front of us. They turned around and peered over. And there were only guys behind us, too. I was trapped against the window. His hand kept moving down and closer. I asked him to stop. I told him to stop. But those guys in the seat ahead were watching and he had something to prove. And they kept saying, “C’mon, he’s your boyfriend!” And I kept saying no, download (1)politely. I didn’t want to be uncool. I also didn’t want his hands anywhere near me. But he did. I mean, my pants were on and everything, so I wasn’t sure if it counted for something I should tell someone. He just kept his hand there for a moment and wiggled a finger. I felt like puking. I broke up with him not long after that.

***

Maybe I mis-remembered breaking up with you. Now that I think about it, I think you broke up with me, and you sent someone to tell me (as middle schoolers do) right before I got on the bus, and I think the reason was because I didn’t put-out. Whatever the fuck that means when you’re in 8th grade. I think the reason I remember it as me breaking up with you is because I felt so relieved. Maybe I just wanted to come out the hero in this story.

Besides that incident, there were many times in the hallways of slamming lockers, where you’d try to kiss me and I’d tell you that I didn’t want to because I didn’t want people looking at me and it made me uncomfortable and you’d try to convince me and you’d do it anyway and stick your tongue in my mouth. I remember how you smelled and the jeans you wore. I remember that some of your guy friends saw and would say shit like, “Way to go, dude.”

I figure by now in this explanation of why I won’t accept your friend request you’re pretty pissed. That’s fine. Maybe you are saying, like, she’s a fucking dyke, anyway, that’s why she wasn’t into it. Or maybe give me a break, I was a kid and didn’t know any better.  Well, believe it or not, I “dated” quite a few guys in my teenage years. Almost all of them treated me with respect. There were teenage boys who were kind and listened when I said no. And here’s a weird thing, I feel like I have to thank them for being good and respectful. I feel like it’s unusual that they would behave appropriately.

How fucking horrible.

That I should applaud young men for being decent.

Maybe, too, you’re thinking, like why didn’t you say anything or break up with me? Good question. You see, society taught me that guys will be the aggressor and if I don’t accept sometimes, I lose them. And it’s bad to lose a man. And, wait, I think you broke up with me because, what was the reason again? Oh, right. Because I didn’t “put-out.”  But maybe it was more like, I didn’t accept your aggression.

Now it’s 24 years later and I’d like to go back to help young Christina in her time of need.

When I relive that moment, I imagine I punch you square in the face. All of my friends are watching this time. You don’t really cry until you get home later in the evening.

It didn’t hurt as much as it scared you, but you feel so humiliated, so powerless.