A West Indian in Crown Heights

It means a lot of things to be West Indian. As the class-privileged American born daughter of a West Indian mother who came to the United States at the age of 19, frustrated because her mother had used her “college education fund” to save their house, I think that I have a very different perspective on the matter than my non-West Indian friends. At the age of 25, I intentionally chose to live in gentrifying Crown Heights. As I made this decision as a relatively wealthy transplant, in an era when the neighborhood is on the radar of several young, urban, professionals, who would never have deigned to travel here as recently as five years ago, I have done so as part of gentrification. However, as a first generation Guyanese American, moving to Crown Heights is a far more layered experience than it is for my non-West Indian gentrifying peers.

My family has a diverse history in their neighborhood. My grandmother lived here in the 1950s, when she left her young daughter with trusted family friends and distant relatives, and came here to learn the trade of hairdressing. She then took her hard earned skills and rose from the impoverished orphaned eldest of five children to the foremost hairdresser in Guyana in the era of bee-hives and flips. My grandmother was an astute, hard working, graceful, self-made businesswoman, but while my mother grew up better off than her peers in shacks, they remained relatively poor, and in the end, my grandmother had to utilize her daughter’s education fund to save her business and her home.

My mother, who was brilliant and hard working in and of herself, having graduated high school at the age of 16, completed her Bachelors at the University of Guyana in three years, paying her own way by working for the university. She then took it upon herself to immigrate to the United States. She moved here at a time when the political climate in Guyana was particularly hostile to intelligent minds and she came in good company with many of the most brilliant minds of her generation. She lived in several less than perfect basements and rooms for rent, and in the mid-seventies, around my age, she lived in Crown Heights, about three blocks from where I currently live. She survived the violence surrounding the great black out, several burglaries, and eventually traveled to the United Kingdom to build a relationship with her father who left to try the family’s fortune there when she was a toddler. (Sidenote: in the 1950s, my grandmother had the balls to tell her husband that she refused to move to a foreign country and struggle with their young daughter, when she was perfectly capable of bringing her up comfortably in Guyana.) While in England, my mother completed her CPA, and returned to her job at the United Nations in New York, using her new qualification to advance a pay grade. She lived in an incredibly crappy studio apartment with a crock pot in Tudor City, until she intentionally got pregnant, at the age of 34, and chose to live in the uniquely diverse middle class part of Flatbush now known to gentrifiers as Ditmas Park.

The choices of my grandmother allowed my mother a Middle Class upbringing and the choices of my mother allowed me to grow up wanting for nothing. To me, this experience of hard work and advancement is part of my West Indian heritage. To be sure, there are several West Indians who remain poor, both abroad and in their own countries, and not everyone who is poor is poor because they haven’t tried to advance, but useless as I’ve proven to be, I cannot and will not shun my class privilege. It is my mother’s hard earned legacy.

Likewise, while the process of gentrification is particularly difficult for the people who are ousted, I will note two things. Firstly, my mother and her peers, left Guyana for the United States with little more than their airfare, wits, and will. They largely settled in Crown Heights upon arrival. They were the immigrants you see scurrying about Nostrand, picking up cow foot and oxtail at West Indian grocers, riding the 3 train to practical administrative jobs in this and that. My mother’s friends worked hard, advanced, and left. They are almost exclusively homeowners now with real estate ranging from Canarsie to Jamaica Estates and Jamaica Estates to the Upper East Side. As is the case with everyone, the recession has tried some of their wits, but they, for the most part, chose to leave Crown Heights years ago.

My mother chose to raise me outside of Crown Heights. Actually, my mother chose to raise me as far away from the Crown Heights of my youth as she possibly could, and she had very real reasons for doing so. A while ago, riding the 3 train, I overheard mothers bragging about how hard their elementary school daughters were. They were bragging about how their children were popping off on each other and this and that. They took pride in raising bullies. The culture of violence they are a part of is something that I would have invariably had to deal with had my mother chosen to raise me in Crown Heights. Another day, a teenager killed herself on the 4 line, and I overheard very different mothers talking about how they had to raise their children to be tough, but humble. Again, that is part of the reality of raising children, pretty much anywhere, but listening to mothers in Crown Heights, with children in schools in Crown Heights, it’s incredibly clear to me that my mother chose not to raise me in Crown Heights for a reason. Likewise, one of my neighbors, who will soon be written off as a victim of gentrification for leaving my building, explained to me that the reason that she dresses very much like a homeless person is because she is saving every penny she can to ensure that her daughter’s education is covered. She’s Ethiopian, but the pattern holds.

Ultimately, many immigrant mothers will do everything in their power to ensure that their children have access to as many opportunities as possible. If that means dressing like a homeless person, or jumping ship when their neighborhood gets written up in New York Magazine, that is just what they’re going to do. My mother opted to spend the bulk of my childhood working in the field with the United Nations Development Program. The pay was far better, the cost of living was low, and as such, she was able to send me to some of the best schools in the world, allowing me to graduate from New York University, free of debt. An unfortunate side effect of this education was that I grew up, primarily in boarding schools, feeling totally distant from my roots. I wasn’t exactly raised by wolves, but I was largely raised by well-intentioned white people who did not really understand my experience at all, and as such, I didn’t really fully understand the shades of my experience either. Totally ironically, this is what has brought me back to Crown Heights.

So, here I am, a Crown Heights gentrifier, with an army of gentrifying queer friends and acquaintances as neighbors, my family settled in South Africa, and West Indian comfort food and African hair braiding salons at my corner. Contrary to popular belief, I am actually not white. It does mean something distinct for me to live here, and as things are evolving, the unique blend of queers and West Indian delicacies are probably the closest thing I will ever have to a neighborhood that feels mine.

Garageland

I love a good party. Last night I went on an adventure in Garageland with my post punk loving friends, Teezal and Steph. I wasn't aware of what "post punk" entailed, but I was incredibly bored and hadn't been to a truly amazingly spun party since I attended DJ Saratonin & DJ Samantha Ronson's invasion of Mr. Black over a month ago. I was starved for a good time and feeling kind of funky (in a bad way) so in an effort to abandon said toxic mindset I rallied the troops and set off for the Room in Hollywood where DJ Kim Anh, of Boobytrap/Saint Le Roq fame, was spinning. We arrived in Hollywood close to midnight and were somewhat disheartened to find a fairly empty venue with excellent music (albeit not Kim at the decks) and a scruffy looking band setting up. We almost immediately made for the doorway in search of another plan for the evening.

We wandered the Cahuenga strip, stopped in at the Velvet Margarita, shunned the Burgundy room, and eventually wandered into the Piano Bar, which appeared to be hopping with chill looking people, decent tunes, and a thrilling amount of lesbians (three?). All was fine until the band started BLASTING music so awful that it immediately reminded me of the French Quarter in New Orleans, which I believe is what it was in fact it's intention. We chugged our drinks and headed back to see if Garageland had picked up a little. On our second arrival, we were disheartened to find that the scruffy looking band setting up at Garageland were in fact a slightly better version of the guys at the Piano Bar. We would have left then, but we spotted Kim Anh waiting at the decks. I had another drink and Teezal went on an exploratory mission to learn when Kim would begin her set.

It would only be fair to say that by the time that Kim began her set, I was on my third Jack & Coke for the evening and well hammered. However, in spite of the rose tinted cloud that said level of inebriation tends to cast over any experience, I soberly reflect on the rest of the evening without a shadow of a doubt and dub her a total master. The moment that the band hit their final note and Kim cued in her intro the night took an overwhelming turn for the better. A flood of good spirited party goers flooded the establishment and a killer dance party ensued with a bona-fide hipster dance circle. We screamed the chorus of Psycho Killer at each other, gleefully hopping up and down, and had a cracking good time until the band from earlier took it upon themselves to cut off Kim Anh's set. At this point I was standing next to her and directly asked her if they just did what I thought they did. Somewhat dejected, she acknowledged that they in fact did and she was well confused. However, with total grace, she went out for a cigarette as my friends and I began to leave the establishment. When we reached the doorway, the band stopped and the Smiths called us back in. I have no idea who this final DJ was, but he was good times, and the night was saved. Kim joined us in yet another killer dance party which affirmed my enthusiasm for life and we parted ways, psyched to reunite again at Booby Trap this Wednesday.

I could not have lived last night better if I tried.

Scattered Thoughts as New Year’s Lingers & Haunts

The year 2010 started well for me. I attended my favorite dance party, That’s My Jam, in Brooklyn and spent the bulk of my evening dancing in a fantastic sandwich between two adorable creatures, making out, and listening to one of my favorite DJs, Tikka Masala, spin. The crowd was the exact antidote I needed to what in the past year has become my LA existence. It was diverse, chocked with queers of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities and everyone seemed there to have no holds barred fun. It was everything I dreamed and hoped it would be in the three hundred and sixty five days which preceded it, as I trolled in and out of various West Hollywood & Long Beach “lesbian” parties, bitching and moaning about the oppressive conservatism that dominates the Los Angeles women’s party scene. This isn’t to say that in the innumerable parties I’ve attended in Los Angeles, I haven’t had a worthwhile moment…

No, it really is, I’m sorry Los Angeles, you really are growing unbearable, which is awkward because I have a lease and at least one faux-wife threatens to “hunt me down and destroy me” should I ever choose to leave here (i.e. her). In the past few months, two of my favorite parties, Booby Trap and Work It have moved from weekly staples, to monthly treats, leaving only the Betty to rely upon for a weekly dance party fun fix with a dance floor packed with at least a couple of hipster bois for eye candy if nothing else (if you can get past the Real L Word’s awkward reality TV production set up, a nuisance with which I’m still calculating my exact degree of irritation). There are numerous other parties and bars, but rare indeed is the time I’ve left Truck Stop, Panty Raid, Girlbar, Platinum, and the like remotely satisfied. This is all a matter of personal taste, and surely for many girls these parties are top of the heap. However, I’ve tired of familiar faces, remote drama, the abundance of unreasonable heels, shaved legs, models and entertainment professional types, and steep well drink prices in this scene to end all scenes. Rather than making enemies ripping into the parties that sustain me, I here choose to return to the initial and far less warring anxiety at the heart of this blog.

I had a great New Year’s Eve. I drank hard, danced hard, and went home with an amazing person with whom I had a really wonderful morning and the whole experience left me mighty optimistic about life in general. I’ve really searched far and wide within about a 30 mile radius of Los Angeles proper and I’ve come to the conclusion that girls just don’t come out that way here. Thus, I’m not really interested in girls who live here and thus, living in Los Angeles is stunting my growth. I would love to see said girl again, but said frustration is beside the point. I need quality sex. It’s good for me. I need to live somewhere there are girls I can connect with on that level, both seriously and casually. The bulk of the time I go out in Los Angeles, I fail to even do a double take and this is a real problem. I honestly feel kind of dead over here.

Drab nights and awkward mornings have taken their toll on me. This town really has some awesome DJs, but the crowd’s often a total bore, more concerned with image than living in the moment and a legitimate good time. My friends compliment this experience downing copious amounts of alcohol to sustain their interest in leaving the house, with talk of shoes rather than queer politics, aesthetics rather than heart. They’ve proved great friends to me, but they tend to misunderstand me, and while I understand their misstep in reasoning, I am neither Dane Cook nor a failed Shane McCutcheon. I enjoy relationships, but find monogamy limiting, crushing, and challenging, hate games, and would rather admit that I like sex and have it, than subject a total stranger to a series of dates to evaluate their worth. Generally speaking, it takes no such theatre to determine whether it’s a good idea or not to sleep with someone. In deviating from the mainstream here, I am an evolving queer in dire need of a supporting community, which I have yet to find in Hell-A. Ultimately, I feel that I’ve pawned my vag (and subsequently my heart and soul) for a walk-in closet, medium sized semi-private bathroom, back yard, terrace, reasonable rent and a central neighborhood and this trade has almost entirely worn on me. There is more to life and I've embraced it as much as I can, but the void is increasingly unacceptable. Sex matters and this town is a total bust for me.

The New Closet: Hug a Republican Today

I recently got into an all out, blow out, bitch of a fight with my one of my faux-wives, Rachel. She is a borderline quarter century year old gender & sexual queer with a fervent distaste for all labels (including queer). She hails from a somewhat infamous part of this nation, now familiarly known to all in my age bracket as “the OC”. She lives there with her parents. They all voted for John McCain and would do so again. They proudly identify as Republicans, go to church, and watch Fox News. They respect Rush Limbaugh and would characterize Barack Obama as a socialist. I may not agree with them about much, but I’d like to have it on record that I believe them to be neither fascists nor assholes.

Our fight was spurred by a segment of the Chelsea Handler show where Chelsea and her panel of liberal toolsperts took it upon themselves to take various cracks at Sarah Palin. Watching this, Rachel got extremely emotional and her eyes teared up. I mocked her, as that’s what I generally do when people get all emotional and shit about Sarah Palin. She broke down and rehashed how the evil queers of Seattle ostracized her for her politics, wrote her beloved parents off as Nazis, and pretty much berated her to the core. I cannot take the blame for said people’s bully tactics, but I will admit the following, rare is the moment that I’ve treated the Republican party with respect and an open mind.

I’ve always been a radically leftist thinker, well preceding any interest in actual politics, as evinced by various early papers and diary entries. The move from mysteriously feeling a need to stand up for gay people at the age of eight or nine to voting for John Kerry in 2004, with great reservations as I deemed him overly conservative was a somewhat easy progression. Given my education, my socio-economic class, my global upbringing, and the color of my skin, I came out exactly as planned (until recently (hello vag)) and I rarely if ever had to encounter any dissent. I went from a New England Prep School to New York University and could until this year count the amount of registered Republicans I associated with on a single hand. There were a few more around, but they were a major minority and without actively seeking them out, four years could pass at either educational institution without a clash of politics.

The situation was so awful at my high school that my senior year the powers that be took it upon themselves to pay a Republican congressman to come in and speak at an assembly designed to promote tolerance of conservatives. When they started to pull people with colorful Mohawks from the Q&A line, it became glaringly apparent that it was not going well. It was around this time that I took it upon myself to join the debate club; college applications were due. There I discovered the secret hub where conservatives within our student body congregated.

While they were still radically outnumbered, this club forced us all to consider alternative points of view, and it was there that I was confronted with the shocking fact that conservatives, especially of the breed found in New England Prep Schools, or major cities in red states, are often better informed than their liberal peers. It’s an easy thing to sit in New York City and write Rush Limbaugh off as a bigot, or, to sit in Texas and write Obama off as a socialist, but to cross these borders with a varying political opinion calls for a heightened level of political awareness and compelling evidence to support every claim you make. There was a certain stamina among this group that came out that night in Rachel— a stamina akin to that of a fat kid in an 80s flick with a back-brace forced into a locker.

The truth is that were any of the cracks Chelsea Handler put forth said by Rush Limbaugh about Hilary Clinton, various news sources would race in demanding an apology and innumerable calls to kick the man off the air would sound. The truth is that this is a part of the reason that far less incendiary conservatives, like Rachel, continue to respect Rush Limbaugh and even enjoy his brazen lack of concern for “political correctness”. The truth is that political correctness only really applies in the mainstream to those on the left. She may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, she may have a somewhat odious perspective promoting abstinence-only education that has clearly failed her own family, but does this really justify the myriad misogynistic cracks she’s had to bear in the last year from various people in the media instructing her to lay back and spread her legs? 2008 proved a hypocritical year for many in the press as they made the awkward switch from defending Hilary Clinton against claims that her sex made her unfit for office to comparisons of Sarah Palin to Barbie. To me, this shift registered as weird. To Rachel, it was just another day at the bottom of the shit heap.

The truth is that the Republican party is an acceptable target for a lot of base criticism. This is not to infer that it’s right about anything, but they are certainly unfairly represented. Better arguments could be heard about their positions in the mainstream press. Rachel Maddow, for better or for worse, has been sweet enough to dedicate a fair amount of air time to calling attention to this issue. The Republican party is experiencing a major void with regard to leadership. It’s fun to watch, but ultimately very sad and very bad for the country. I would not have the Reverend Al Sharpton speak for me and it’s unfair to Rachel that the loudest voices supposedly speaking for her are those of the likes of Sarah Palin and Ann Coulter. It’s just plain wrong for news crews to pick out the dumbest, most racist, most homophobic, least reasoned people at tea-bagging rallies to feature out of the crowd. It makes a mockery of the idea of debate. Rachel Maddow has called many a time for a worthy adversary and I’m pleased to have found one in Rachel (my “wife”), a Republican with whom I can reason, respectfully disagree, and relate.

With this I say: I love you and I humbly apologize for locking your belligerent drunk ass out on my balcony.

This Year Started Oh Too Well

I've been trying to wrap my head around girls in Los Angeles for a decent amount of time now. At first, I assumed that it was just the venues I'd found, but a year later, with various mildly entertaining parties shutting down or cutting down their nights from weekly to monthly, I'm absolutely certain that I'm familiar with the entire lesbian scene all the way from Los Angeles to Long Beach. There are numerous fun nights to be found if LESBIANS are what you're into, but for raging QUEERS like myself, the past year has marked the shift from dwindling to non-existent shared spaces. What you may ask is the difference between myself (a brooklyn queer) and the Los Angeles variation of lesbo? Well, above all else, I would have to say sex positivity, brain function, and above all else, a majorly reduced lack of concern for my hair and L word identification. The closest person I found to my own sexual politics in Hell-A (theoretically at least) was a person who on our first meeting/date noted that were she in San Francisco, she'd identify as "queer", but as she was at the time in Los Angeles, it would perhaps make more sense to leave it at the fact that she just "was". Well, enough LA, I don't just want people who are, I want people who are queer. I'm here. I'm queer. Go fuck yourself.

Gender Trouble: What makes a butch anyway?

It would seem that every time I talk to a femme, my friend's disregard my incredibly painful attempt to connect with a person that I'm attracted to on the basis of my alleged preference for extremely dyke-y butch girls. They may be right, but how important can a hair cut and boy clothes really be? What really makes a butch anyway? Is it a matter of visuals? Hair? Wife beaters? Cargo shorts? Comfortable shoes? Or, is it an approach to relationships? Does opening car doors make the butch? Paying for dinner? Taking on a "traditionally" masculine role? Is there a hint of misogyny to it? Does one have to have an intense need to prove that she is hard, tough, or in control to be a real butch? Is a butch defined by a socially identifiable as masculine urge to fuck and run? It would seem to me that very few, if any, females I know meet the bulk of this criteria.

I joined the Butch Femme Social Club of Los Angeles for a moment and at our first meeting, the founder of the group introduced herself and explained to us what she felt it meant to be a butch. Her version of butch-ness was the least sexy thing that I've heard in my entire life. She was extremely proud of the fact that she had managed to purchase an idyllic house in the valley with a white picket fence (where she intended to raise a family). She yearned to shower her future wife with roses. The little known fact about her, that you'd hardly guess on first sight (unless you've dated a series of butch women), was that she really looked forward to carrying a child one day. Her one redeeming quality was the fact that she rode a motorcycle, but she ruined even that by clarifying that she only rode it on city streets as she perceived highways as "too dangerous". Swoon. Her definition of butchness is deeply rooted in a commitment to the 1950s ideal of the nuclear family, with her enacting the MAN role, with the sole twist of popping at least one baby from her own uterus. If that is what makes a butch, then no, I am NOT attracted to butch women.

My friend Ana is a lesser example of the same thing. She too looks the part of the butch, though, I suppose less theatrically (no leather, no motorcycle). I often liken her to Homer Simpson and rub her belly as I'm inappropriate, but the simile falls short in so much as that a huge part of what she wants is to be very successful, very wealthy, and have a woman who she can impress (and control) through the merit of her material gains. She has strong ideas about how women should present themselves, act, and what they should and should not be able to speak of in her 'masculine' presence. Suffice it to say: Do not ask Ana for a tampon. Again, if this is what makes the butch? I say "No, thank you."

I've only really been incredibly serious about two females. They did not, to my knowledge, think of me as property, or a subject in their kingdom. They did however look awfully funny in skirts. I burdened #1 in a period when she was a relatively new lesbian. She identified a little creepily with Shane on the L Word and used this logic to treat me like shit. We had a whole lot of this:

Every time she fucked me over, she explained that she was "like a guy". I'm not sure if all men would be pleased to hear this sentiment, but the bottom line is that she had intense Daddy issues which fell more in line with Tommy Walker from Brothers and Sisters than they did with Drew Barrymore's formative years. She liked beer, college football, sexual escapades with strangers, Antiflag, and Guitar Hero. She wrote stories primarily from the male perspective and she did so very convincingly. She expressed a minor discomfort with her biological identity as a female, and yet really wanted to carry a child. She also loved stuffed animals, never left the house without gobs of make up, and looked pretty damn fucking sexy in lace and a pink & white striped shirt from J. Crew. Per traditional butch duties, I drove, carried the groceries,  painted her room,  paid for most dinners, and  drove to her house in the middle of the night to rescue her from a cockroach. I enjoyed doing all of these things. I may have joked that she was my boyfriend on occasion, but she could have just as easily returned the same sentiment. 

Mr. J also looked awfully amusing in female clothes. However, where #1 argued that she was in fact like a boy, Mr. J, also identifiable as my former Jentleman, was distinctly female in the way that she approached our "relationship". Indeed in calling her by names such as Mr. J and/or Jentleman, I was very much kidding. I guess that the dynamic of our insanity was in terms of butch/femme a closer match to Diana Cage & Professor Crandall's relatively modern approach to butch/femme wherein the 1950s ideal is turned on it's head by both involves being switches in the bedroom and/or a butch bottom and a femme top. However, I failed to live up to this ideal the moment I discovered that while extraordinarily active in the bedroom, and very much a fan of control, I'd rather catch than pitch, so to speak. It also drove me absolutely out of my mind to be driven, and I felt like a total bum when she treated me (& my merry men) cover to a drinking establishment. I was alright with the car door opening & ceremony, but anywhere that actual control was sacrificed, I felt extraordinarily uncomfortable. Thus, I suppose that was the closest thing I've experienced to a traditional butch/femme relationship and I was not a fan.

Thus, perhaps, for me butch best ends with a haircut, wifebeater, and genderplay in terms of terminology rather than actual action. I have an undeniable thing for girls who do boy better. I like wifebeaters, cargo shorts, man jackets, andro t-shirts, ripped jeans, converses, and short hair. However, I know at least two females who adamantly disagree that this alone is the formation of a butch. Where do tomboys end and butches begin? Could I be perceived as a butch bottom given the 'masculine' role that I seem inclined to take in any relationship? What of women who are sirred more often than they are mammed and yet at the same time whine like no other about the pains of romance? 

If the traditional girl role is to present herself physically in a way that attracts mates, and what will attract the most mates in any lesbian community is a wifebeater, boy pants, and a short haircut, then does any girl in a wifebeater become a butch, or are these girls the ultimate, well, girl, a strange lesbian hybrid of a girly girl who only thinks about boys. If not every girl who wears the uniform warrants the title, then what makes the title. If butch is more of an approach to dating than it is a physical identity, then am I in fact, kind of butch? Can I be a butch in that adorable blue dress with the polka dots I recently acquired? 

All The Things She Said

It’s sexy to be sober sometimes. To be Quiet. To Listen. To Touch people who don’t want to be touched. Be felt (by the evasive). Being attentive is a fetish unto itself. Braving the depths of the toxic.

I love what some may call damaged girls, complicated girls, and sometimes it would seem those who reject even that label, sometimes, often.

I like girls who can make me wriggle without meeting me. Without touching me. Without knowing me. Girls who appreciate the power of words.

Reading is sexy.

Writing is sexy.

Talking is sexy.

Doing is secondary.

Do not get me wrong. Booze is great. Dancing is great. Partying is great, but it’s child’s play. Foreplay for real relationships. Diversion. Delicious desperation.

All the things she said.

My spotlight serves as a trigger for anything and everything she said to me. I remember passages, words, in brief combinations, which lead back to treasured moments.

How marvelous it was to fuck in the abstract—a woman I didn’t even know to dream up for myself. A gentle voice attached to any person I could imagine for it. Love in text, words, the subtle tones of a voice coming forcefully, gently, and yes often literally, through my receiver. Comforting. Imagining a world in which we could be our best, in the vague “some day”. Luscious. Two damaged people, complementing each other’s mess, perfectly.

I love women.

Better women who use verbs.

Writhing. Missing. Yearning. Gripping.

Adjectives.

Hot.

Nouns.

Fingers. Clit.

What was that about you sheets, honey?

I love you so much. Let’s live in a heavenly state of delusion together, forever.

You’re insane, but I wouldn’t dream of running from you. It’s inevitable, but not yet. Today, I’m wet, hopped up on your texts, and ready to hear you breathe.

Dictionaries are heavy, so I use plain language, simple innocent words.

She overcompensates, but I forgive her what usually irritates me because she is so damn hot. It’s really hot. She cares. She knows things. She’s sharing her time with me. Her thoughts. Her fears. I eat it up. This is what I live for.

She. She is three women and a "person" thus far, but does it even matter? They dance in my head.

I cherish them.

I really enjoy walking around San Francisco.