blacklivesmatter

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.

Photo Bomb

/ Christina Holzhauser / Leave a comment

There’s something that’s been on my mind since it happened to me on Saturday:

I was at my hometown bar when someone I know but don’t really know started telling me about her cousin ( a girl) and her girlfriend. I didn’t ask, by the way, but I sat and listened as she shouted over the music that they live in another state and the girlfriend is a real bitch and do I want to see a picture of her cousin? I don’t care, so I say, “uhhh.” But, it’s too late. She’s scrolled to a picture of this girl. She awaits my response. So, I say, “okay.”

Maybe thirty minutes later I’m dancing with Cyrus and I see my mom trying to take a picture. I can see that it’s not her phone, but I don’t think a lot about it. Of course, I just flip her off because I am me.

Not too long after, I’m talking with my aunt, and I turn to say something to Cyrus. I see this massive phone right in my face, held by the person I know but don’t know. I say, “what the fuck are you doing?” She says, “I’m taking your picture.” Rudely, I ask, “why!?” And she says, “Don’t be hateful. I just want a picture of you.” Again I ask why. This time, she instructs me to stand up, smile, and she takes a selfie.

Queer people: You KNOW what this was about and why it bothers me.

NOT queer people: You can sit with this one and think on it until you find the answer.

Just a few weeks ago, I had to explain to someone I’ve known for many years what a micro-aggression is after this person revealed that they aren’t really an ally and can’t decide if they want to be. No. I didn’t have to explain. I chose to. I chose, once again in my fucking life, to educate someone.

I have been an out queer now for 24 years. The first year, I was out in Callaway County, Missouri. I think (correct me if I’m wrong) I was the first queer person to come out in my high school. You’ve all read or heard about that year by now, so I won’t repeat it. It was bad.

But, at the time, I had a very special thing going for me: Youth. I was excited to discover gayness and learn all the terms and wear rainbows and pink triangles. I was happy to have found that I wasn’t alone. I had the time to explain to you that, no, no one is “the man” in the relationship. I was so hopeful, friends, that because I was so blessed to be from such a small community, everyone would realize I was still just the same person they loved previously. That wasn’t the case.

It’s still not the case.

After 24 years of explaining to you and you and you that I am just a human person like everyone else, I am exhausted. I can no longer expend this energy to help you understand. It’s not really my job in the first place.

This photo incident got me really worked up. The thing is, I’ve been me for so long, I no longer think about how I look or how others look at me. I have short hair, I don’t wear dresses, and now I don’t have any boobs. I’m androgynous as fuck. And I look good. And I forget that people out there might be somehow upset or excited by this….this non-gendered expression. Some people, with large phones, might even see me as a spectacle…one they can just secretly photograph.

As I’ve been relaying this Photo Incident story to friends, one queer friend asked, “are there really people out there who’ve never considered their gender and sexuality?” And, I bet some of you reading this haven’t. You haven’t needed to in order to justify your own existence. You’ve never had to convince people that your relationship is just as valid as theirs. That your intimate relationships are not their business just like theirs aren’t yours. What a privilege to never have anyone ask you intrusive questions about your sex life, to assume things about how you feel toward your partners, and for someone to feel totally comfortable asking you about what parts you do and do not have.

There are an infinite number of genders and sexualities and ways to have intimate relationships with other age-appropriate human beings.

I once posted a meme that said, “to choose to be visually queer is to choose your happiness over your safety.”

Today I said to two “straight passing” queer friends, “my androgyny is a burden on me.” People see me and make a lot of assumptions about who I am. And they base their interactions on those assumptions. If I wanted to, I could grow my hair, swish my hips, and learn to contour my make-up. Boom. I’m not queer-looking. And maybe people would treat me differently.

-Of course, when I write about these things, I’m never just talking about the LGBTQIA+ community, I’m talking about other minorities, too. Those who face different prejudices and have been forced to educate others since the day they were born.-

I come out to someone, somehow, every single day of my life. I live in a world built for cisgender straight people for cisgender straight people, which means I’m bombarded by micro-aggressions every single day. Sometimes, a Jeep full of frat boys call me a fag as they speed by me. Sometimes, people refer to my very serious partner of many, many years as my “friend.”

And sometimes, well, they just want me to shut-up and hold still so they can take my picture.

Venmo: @molepoet

Why I Sit, Part II.

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

The last time I sat while the national anthem played was at Erika’s volleyball game just a few weeks ago. I was the only one. Dad was behind me, back a few rows of those middle school gym bleachers. I could feel his eyes on me. He didn’t say anything when it was done.

Beside me was Gaby, my Venezuelan, now American citizen girlfriend. She always stands, she told me. I asked if she felt that she had to. Yes. Yes, of course she does. She has an accent, you see. I can’t even imagine what people might say to or about a woman with a Venezuelan accent not standing for the anthem.

I’m privileged; I’m white. I talk like you do. I can code switch, too, between city and country folk. So I am positive that, even though you might delete me from social media, hatefully share my writing, or make snide comments on my post, you won’t kill me for who I am.

But you will do your best to shame me.

***

Last year on the Fourth of July, as Gaby and I sat in her yard on a blanket and watched the fireworks, I asked her if she knew the history of the Star Spangled Banner. I told her. How the fireworks represent the bombs exploding, the line about our flag still being there. I was touched and a little teary. Though I am not always proud of my country, I am still an American. I still find myself occasionally getting teary-eyed about the promises our constitution made, about the ideal of what our country is supposed to be. Land of the free. All that. Sometimes I actually buy into it. When I hear stories about refugees fleeing here and feeling so welcomed, so free to do as they please, I cry. How beautiful our country is. And for some people, we are still seen as a place of refuge, a wonderful land of opportunity. And this is what we claim for ourselves, but then, when people are actually in need, we talk about banning them based on a religion we find threatening because it is not a majority here. Which is totally the opposite of who we claim to be. When people who are brown risk their lives to cross deserts and rivers to reap the benefits (which we boast repeatedly) of this nation (whose arbitrary borders have crossed and recrossed theirs) we call them names and tell them to go back to where they came from.

Because a country is just that: a piece of land with a made-up border. Maps are constantly changing, you know. The lines may move, but the people remain.

 

I am told I should stand for the pledge of allegiance and place my hand over my heart. I am told to say, ” I pledge allegiance/to the flag/of the United States of America/and to the republic for which it stands/one nation/under God/with liberty and justice for all.

Amen.

Let’s break it down.

I was told, at the age of 6, to pledge allegiance to an object, but to not have any false idols before me. Do you know how many rules there are when it comes to a piece of cloth? Lots.

I am told, still, to pledge allegiance to “one nation, under God.” Being an atheist, this is silly. Being an American, I cringe because I was under the impression we have separation of church and state.

I am told that I must rise for the anthem and the flag to pay tribute to those who have fought for my right to choose to stand or sit down or sneeze. I am shamed into honoring those who have come before me. So, I should know where I come from, all the sacrifices that have gotten me to where I am today. Okay. I will respect and learn from this country’s history. I won’t forget all that have come before.

But my black brothers and sisters are told to forget all that has happened. The slaves were freed, get over it already. Jim Crow. Civil Rights. That’s all in the past. Let’s think about the future. Everyone is totally equal in this great country of ours; that’s what our white, male, Christian ancestors fought for. Equality.

I am a queer woman. I make 22% less, on average, than the white men in charge of this country. And it wasn’t until last year that I was granted the constitutional right to marry whomever I pleased. Can you imagine being told by your family and government that you were full of sin and didn’t deserve what others deserve, that you were disgusting, that your partner couldn’t have health insurance, that you are not the parent of your own child? What a shame that would be.

Black women earn 15% less than white women. So. That’s 63 cents on the dollar to a white man. Equality.

And black men, well, stay tuned, gentle reader.

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Why I Sit, Part I.

/ Christina Holzhauser / 2 Comments

Since Facebook didn’t really exist in 2001, maybe you don’t know that I worked at a guest ranch in northern California. Guest is really just another name for “dude” ranch. That means, of course, people with money pay to come feel like they live out in the middle of the woods. I regaled them with stories of eating squirrel and taught them how to ride horses and shoot a 12 gauge.

I loved it; I loved living in the mountains, far away from everyone. I loved being able to smell sweaty horses and leather late into the night. I loved sitting by the creek flecked with gold bits and listening to the water.

But most of all, I loved talking to all of the people that visited and worked there. What was strange about the workers was that they were mostly foreign. I don’t know how, exactly, but there was an exchange program that got the ranch beautiful people from England, Germany, Poland, Holland, and as far away as Australia and New Zealand. I fell in love with all of them, but a few especially. Our nights were spent around the campfire, drinking local beers, smoking whatever, and telling tales of the silly guests and Sasquatch. I lived and worked there for a total of 15 months.

Again, this was 2001. I was in a hotel in San Francisco with a Polish woman, waking up from a strange night, when she pointed to the t.v. to show me the news. I saw planes flying into buildings. She seemed devastated. I listened closely, something about the World Trade Center. I had no idea what that was. To me, New York was a place I saw in movies. I had no concept of its actual existence. It was a dreamscape, unreal, far away. She was crying and I was watching her cry. I didn’t understand.

What I could understand on the news was that America was under attack. That there might be more planes and more bombs in major cities, so I hauled ass back to the ranch, six hours north, to where I was safe by the fire with my non American friends.

And we talked. And I learned. And it was there, just days earlier that I said angrily that Bush was and asshole and he was going to get us blown up. And dammit if he didn’t.

After that, plane tickets were cheap. I paid 450 dollars for a round trip to Germany. I spent weeks there and some time in Holland and Poland.

***

It wasn’t until the next summer at the Siskiyou Fair in Yreka California that I experienced something that forever changed me.  It was the night of the Rodeo and all I could focus on was getting and keeping her attention. The national anthem started playing, so I stood and put my hand on my heart. She stayed seated and looked at me like I was some kind of freak. “Stand up,” I said, incredibly offended. “Why,” she said, “it’s not my country.”

No one, in my life, had ever remained seated for the national anthem. I didn’t know how to react. Should I immediately cut this person out of my life? But. She had a point. She wasn’t American. If I went to New Zealand and was forced to stand for their anthem, wouldn’t I feel a bit weird? So I told her, if  I were with her, in her country, I’d stand. Then I learned that most countries don’t do that. Like. None. And how strange it was for her to see us all stand and singing along, ” O’er the land of the free/and the home of the brave”  And what did it mean, anyway? It was in that moment, at the rodeo, that I felt, for the first time, how absurd it was. I’d experienced something like this just a few years earlier, in church. Everyone was saying the words, but no one seemed to listen to what they were saying. And then there’s the pledge I had to recite every day in school, “One nation, under God….”

I sat back down. What was I even saying? Why were we one of the only countries to be so proud of our flag and anthems? It was like…brainwashing.

Later in the week, she and I watched the Fourth of July fireworks together. “It’s so American, ” she said. And it was. I was so American.

In many ways, I am still very American.

That was 15 years ago. I haven’t risen to my feet for a pledge or national anthem since then. Of course, I’m no NFL player. The last time I sat in protest was at Erika’s volleyball game, in a middle school gym, just a few weeks ago.

I was the only one sitting quietly as the song rang out through the tinny speakers.

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My White Son

/ Christina Holzhauser / 1 Comment

It happened on Saturday,  somewhere between first and second base, the top of the second inning. I peered out among Cyrus’ t-ball team and realized he was the only white boy. I looked out among those tiny hats and tiny cleats, among the six year olds. And I saw another coach on our team: a black man. And I saw his beautiful black son, with his six year old sized ball pants, his genuine smile and love of the game. I saw a small black child and realized that child would grow up to be a black man. I looked at his dad again. I started to cry. I wondered what this man would have to teach his son that I would never have to teach mine. I wondered at what it meant to raise a black man in this country.

And then I thought, for the first time, of my own responsibility; I have a white man to raise. At what age do these two teammates become something other than just children?

  *    *   *

My parents tell a story of when I was about three years old. One night they decided to open a magazine and start pointing to people and naming them. I vaguely remember this night. They pointed to white people. They pointed to black people. They pointed to Asian people. Not too long after, we found ourselves in KFC. A couple walked in with a kid. I jumped up, stuck my head over the booth, pointed, and screamed, “Black baby!”

When they tell this story, they recall the extreme embarrassment. When I ask why they decided to show me the magazine, they can never quite remember the reason. I suppose, growing up in such an isolated community, they wanted me to know that there were more people in the world, people who didn’t necessarily look like me. That couple was quite possibly the first black people I ever saw.

 *   *   *

Cyrus has never been shown the magazine, so to speak. I don’t have any plans to point at people and give them names. I am lucky that he hasn’t grown up in a tiny, conservative white town. His friends and classmates come from everywhere and are sometimes differently-abled.

This doesn’t mean that I’m naively saying, “I don’t see color.” I see color and racism everywhere, since I grew up around it.  I want him to have a deep understanding of this country’s history. I want him to acknowledge his own privilege. I want him to speak out. I want him to do good. I want him to be good.

In order to do that, I have to make sure I’m setting a good example. I know it is my responsibility to be active in the community. I know it is my responsibility to listen. I know it is my responsibility to speak up, when it is my turn.

Now it might be my turn.

White people: You have seen and heard a million racist things in your lifetime already. You know it happens. You know you’ve been complicit in it by turning your back or laughing. How can you possibly think that this racism hasn’t touched every aspect of the lives of non white people in this country? Shut.the.fuck.up. And listen to people of color. Really fucking listen to the narratives of your friends, neighbors, and, most likely, strangers. People are dying just for being. Do the right thing. Your children are watching.

People of Color: I see you. I hear you. I’m listening to everything. I’m angry. Really fucking angry. I am, at the same time, paralyzed and more motivated than ever. I acknowledge my privilege. I vow to do my best to make this world a better place for all of our kids.

I am raising a straight white man. And I am scared as hell.

 

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