Shivaun Nestor's Open Salon Blog

Mea Culpa and No, I Am Not Flouncing Post

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 22:08:47 -0400

Hi All!

I know it's been a long time since I've posted. No, I promise that I didn't flounce. I have just had so much going on in my life that has precluded posting.

Family visits / obligations / losses, my cat became very sick and was diagnosed with kidney disease and is now on dialysis, due to family obligations & illness, gained a great deal of weight last year and had poor health indicators @ my last Dr. visit, so am trying to get healthy and down to my normal weight again (my metabolism is so slow, that means 2 hour+ of exercise daily for me + lots of cooking so that I can control my calorie intake) and things are taking off with a special project at work which will keep me running until the winter holidays.

I am not complaining, despite all, life is full - just a little too full at the moment, even if generally joyful despite the challenges. I am coming and reading when I can, even when I'm not commenting and promise to be back sometime after the winter holidays.

Thank you all for understanding.
With love and respect, Shivaun

President Obama on DADT “Love is Worth Fighting For” UPDATED

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 10:06:42 -0400

Dear Mr. President,

As June comes to a close and San Franciscans finish celebrating Pride, I want to thank you for officially declaring June LGBT Pride month. I also want to thank you for celebrating the 40th anniversary of Stonewall yesterday with a commemorative reception today, June 29, 2009. I now hope that on the morning of Lieutenant Dan Choi’s trial for "moral and professional dereliction" under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” you will make good on your campaign promise to repeal this policy. While it is too late to make a difference to the 265 servicemembers who have been discharged since you took office, it is not too late for Lt. Choi.

“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” (DADT) has been harmful not only to patriotic LGBT servicemen and women like Lietenant Choi, but to the United States. By the start of 2009, U.S. armed forces had lost over 13,000 troops to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” more than the equivalent of an Army division. Of these, like Lt. Choi who is an Arabic translator, over 700 possessed mission critical skills. As you stated during your campaign in an interview with The Advocate, “….we’re spending large sums of money to kick highly qualified gays or lesbians out of our military... That doesn’t make us more safe, and what I want are members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff who are making decisions based on what strengthens our military and what is going to make us safer, not ideology.”

Why, when you confirmed the harm that DADT does to our country’s military readiness during your campaign, are you “stonewalling” now? While, as you argue, it is up to Congress to repeal DADT, researchers at the Michael D. Palm Center have already provided you with a framework for moving towards repeal. As President you have "the authority to issue an executive order halting the operation of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell.’” In other words, you you could stop these losses with the stroke of a pen! Congress would have no choice but to finally follow suit.

Despite your words yesterday, your administration recently expressed concern that repealing DADT might impact military readiness. You are already familiar with the extensive body of research conducted on this issue. Why don’t the following findings allay your concerns?

In his book, “UNFRIENDLY FIRE: How the Gay Ban Undermines the Military and Weakens America” (2009, St. Martins Press), researcher Nathaniel Frank clearly documents that the policy was “created out of prejudice, not cause.”
As early as 1993, a report by the conservative Rand Corporation determined that allowing LGBT military personnel to serve openly will not compromise unit cohesion, recruiting, retention or morale.
Israel allows LGBT citizens to serve openly in the military, as do all 23 of our NATO allies with the exception of Turkey. None of these countries’ armed forces have been compromised by allowing LGBT soldiers to serve openly.

Certainly, you already have a great deal on your plate. I understand why you might not want to derail an ambitious agenda regarding the economy, health care, and the environment by taking on controversial issues so early in your first term in office. However, a majority of U.S. citizens already supports an end to the DADT, as does a significant proportion of the U.S. military:

In a 2007 Washington Post-ABC News poll, 75% of Americans stated openly gay people should be allowed to serve in the U.S. military, including 64% of Republican respondents.
A 2006 Zogby International poll of military members found that 72% of respondents who had experience with gays or lesbians in their unit said that the presence of gay or lesbian unit members had either no impact or a positive impact on their personal morale, while 67% said as much for overall unit morale.
In 2008, 104 retired Generals and Admirals, including General John M. Shalikashvili, Former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, called for an end to DADT.

Mr. President, as someone who came of age during the silencing days of the pre-Stonewall era, I thrilled when you spoke so directly to LGBT concerns during your Presidential campaign. You stated that you would seek an end to DOMA. You committed yourself to repealing “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” You came out unequivocally in support of broad domestic partnership rights.

Like many other LGBT Californians, rather than to campaign against Proposition 8, I gave up my weekends and used my own funds to canvass for you in Nevada. I did this because I believed that we could not risk eight more years of Republican political hegemony and that you would right the wrongs of the previous eight years of Bush Administration abuses. I put country over personal/group interest in full faith that you were the staunch ally of our community that you claimed to be.

Now, along with so many others in my community, I ask that you show the same faith in the U.S. military and the American people. Make good on your promise to repeal DADT now, before Lt. Choi and others like him are discharged. Allow those estimated 65,000 patriotic LGBT servicewomen and men to remain in uniform openly and without fear, not only for their own good, but for the good of our country.

To quote, Lt. Choi, “Love is worth fighting for.”

UPDATE, 7/1/09 @ 4:15PM PDT:

The results of the verdict are in. Lt. Choi is being fired from the military for refusing to lie about who he loves. However, the fight continues - we need to take this to congress, which has the ability to repeal the policy. How to do this? Here are three actions:

1. Sign the Courage Campaign petition to Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, urging the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

2. Contact your congressional representatives and urge them to pass H.R. 1283, the 2009 Military Readiness Act sponsored by Rep. Ellen Tauscher [D-CA10]. (Feel free to use any elements of the above letter, no credit necessary!) To learn more about political advocacy, read wakingupslowly's very excellent recent "how to" post on how to influence the health care debate.

3. Contact the White House (again, feel free to use any or all elements of the above letter) and thank them for supporting the repeal of DADT. Public pressure is having an affect - according to a new press release from the Palm Center, Gates Plan May be Beginning of the End of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, "In the wake of yesterday’s unexpected Pentagon announcement about gays in the military, experts say the 'don’t ask, don’t tell' policy may be on the brink of irreversible change that would speed up its demise. After speaking with President Obama last week, Defense Secretary Robert Gates has asked military lawyers to explore how to modify enforcement of the policy in ways that are 'more flexible until the law is changed.' " Click here to read the full press release.

The Ache of Memory (OS Father's Day Contest)

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 13:06:27 -0400

Once upon a time, he strode into a room, shoulders broad, chest out and spine straight, gaze outward. He carried himself with purpose. Although it was a struggle for him to maintain his weight, he always looked trim in his perfectly tailored suits. Upon first glance he seemed at least 5 inches taller than his 5 feet, 6 inches. When engaged in conversation, he was so focused that he could make others feel as though they were the only people in the world who mattered.

Now I am thirteen and he is different. His shoulders are stooped and shrunken rather than broad, his chest curves inward. When someone outside of the family speaks to him, his brow wrinkles, his mouth turns down, and his pupils dart from side to side as if trying to locate something. Occasionally, his face lights up. He haltingly says a name or makes a reference, looking at his fellow conversationalist with bright, childlike expectancy. “Did I get it right,” his eyes seem to ask?

Once a day, he takes a tour of the neighborhood, the same round trip encompassing the same four long blocks each time. Before he goes out, he gingerly sets a little porkpie army hat on his head. He doesn’t so much walk as shuffle, going slowly and keeping his feet close to the ground. His hands stay in one of two positions, either crossed tightly against his chest or held stiffly and barely moving at his sides. The younger kids in the neighborhood follow him. Sometimes, when they think that no adults are watching, they pelt him with gravel. When my little sister is close by, they add taunts, “No brain father! No brain father!” My sister cries, but my father pays no visible notice.

Once flat, my father’s stomach now falls over his belt and pulls his worn burgundy cardigan out to absurd proportions. This is because, forgetting that he has eaten, he makes fifteen to twenty trips to the refrigerator everyday. As he grips the icebox handle, his eyes shift slyly from left to right and back again. If someone else is in the vicinity, he grabs the water jug. When he thinks that no one is looking, he grabs whatever is closest – a piece of fruit, a slice of lunchmeat, the rare pastry. If someone happens upon him during one of these raids, he quickly closes the door and stuffs into a pants pocket whatever he hasn’t yet stuffed into his mouth.

After I turn sixteen, he supplants his refrigerator hunts with surreptitious forays to my car, where he steals cigarette butts from the ashtray. He smokes them despite the fact that he must fight for his every breath. Always labored, his breathing has its own odd rhythm: rattle, rasp, cough, rattle, and rasp.

When not walking around the block, sneaking out to my car, or foraging for food, he sits in his favorite chair. It is low, with mission style wood arms and deep leather cushions. He makes grunting noises as he struggles to bend his legs and back into it. There, he falls asleep to the ever-present sounds of the TV, double chin resting against his chest, head slightly bobbing, lips flapping with wheezy snores.

Or he reads the newspaper. He folds it carefully, and lays it in his lap. His eyes squint, following the movement of his right forefinger as it traces lines of text. Listen carefully and one hears him whisper the words that he is reading Listen very carefully and one realizes that he has become trapped in a single paragraph, reading it over 20 times in a day. As he reads, the fingers of his left hand work over his scalp, picking at small scabs. Upon releasing one from the skin, he flicks it onto the carpet. This habit has created a quilt pattern on top of his head, one of small red and brown patches surrounded by unruly hair gone prematurely grey.
___________________________________

One of my earliest and most persistent memories was that of my mother pounding my father’s back in order to loosen the phlegm in his lungs. Why? My father had early onset emphysema or “Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease” (COPD). My father’s doctor postulated that the disease’s early onset was due to my father’s WWII service as a high flyer bomber, for the cabins were not properly pressurized.

When I was thirteen, both of my father’s lungs collapsed and he went into a coma. While skilled doctors and a strong heart kept him alive, he woke up with permanent brain damage. The part of his mind that was destroyed was responsible for recording new memories. Afterwards, he could recall what he’d been – a writer for CBS Playhouse, a member of the team that established the Dallas Theatre Center, a copyrighter and owner of an advertising firm. However, he could not remember reading the newspaper only two minutes before. For a man who made his living with his mind, could there have been a crueler form of dementia?

Because it made breathing such a tortured experience, my father’s emphysema brought with it personality changes - nervousness and frustration that deepened to depression and sudden anger as the disease progressed. Father’s Days, indeed all holidays, were fraught with anxiety because we never knew if he would “blow." Yet despite his ill temper, my father was my world. If my sister was my mother’s daughter, I was Daddy’s Little Girl. I knew with certainty that he loved me unconditionally. Family taboos made his illness impossible to talk about, but I silently mourned his early mental and emotional departure from my life. I often wondered what he would have become, what he would have produced had he not suffered from this illness.

After “getting sick," my father occasionally stops at his old typewriter during the course of his daily rounds. My mother has moved it from his home office to the dining room table in hopes that writing will bring him back to himself.

As he steps to the machine, he touches it tentatively and then draws back. He repeats these actions several times. Finally, he sits, his eyes darting back and forth over the keys in the same way that they do when he mets an old acquaintance. Hands shaking, he slowly puts in a piece of paper, working carefully so that the sheet goes in straight. He raises his fingers to the keys and strikes. Without hesitancy, his fingertips begin to play.

Long after my father passes, my mother gives me a copy of his last typings. The first entry begins, “This is going to be called, ‘Anatomy of Memory.’ It will be a series of essays about my experiences in meeting people and how they react when I say, ‘I’m sorry, but an illness has damaged my brain, and I have trouble remembering. Do I know you?’ You’ve got to admit, it’s a rather individual way of looking at the world.”

One of the entries on the last page reads:
“today i have done nothing of any great importance
“and tomorrow i’ll do more of the same”

LATE OPEN CALL: Holiday Hats (and More) for Joan

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 13:06:45 -0400

I know, this is late, late, late. But I have an excuse. Right before I joined OS, Joan put out an open call asking for a new hat for her OS Avatar. When I went to the OS Birthday Bash, there was mention of the hat contest. So when I met Joan, I committed to proffering my own. But it took me a while to find decent examples of the paintings and photos I was seeking, and then longer to complete the Photoshopping.

Joan, I hope that I am not too late to participate. And if I am, I hope that you will still enjoy them! (P.S., sorry again for spilling your glass of wine at the OS Anniversary Party - typed with sheepish grin on face.)

JOAN AS ABIGAIL ADAMS
For Patriotic Holidays
(Comment 1: It just seemed fitting to me.
Comment 2: I couldn't stop at just a hat...)

Version 1: Joan as Abigail in EveryWoman Revolutionary Farm Garb

Version 2: Joan as Laura Linney as Abigail Adams
(I apologize to HBO ahead of time as I suspect there are copyright issues, but what woman wouldn't enjoy seeing her head atop Laura Linney's amazing neck - and oh, I am counting the wig as a "headpiece".)

Version 3: My Favorite - Joan in Classic Abigail Garb
(Note: clearly, there are no copyright issues with this one.)

JOAN WALSH AS ROSIE THE RIVETER
For Labor Day and May Day, perhaps?

JOAN IN AN ELEANOR ROOSEVELT HAT
A Historical and Yet Down-Home, Everyday Sort of Look

AND FINALLY! A SUMMER SUN BONNET
(Joan, you asked for an Easter Bonnet, but it's clearly time
for something a little more summery!)

Invasion (Fiction)

Fri, 5 Jun 2009 18:06:28 -0400

He embarks at the last (or first) stop on the line, near Baker Beach. Weighed down by a large, frayed knapsack, he must drag his thin body up the steps. When he reaches the landing, he twists sideways to make room for the heavy bags that he carries in both hands. A mismatched collection of cloth, plastic and paper, the sacks rattle and bang with his movements.

The man steadies himself on a handrail and sets down the contents of his right hand. He searches his front pants pocket to pull out a handful of pennies, nickles and dimes. The driver, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, glares as he puts coin after coin in the slot. The man carefully places the few remaining cents back into his pocket, then picks up each bag individually. He arranges their handles so as to prevent them from digging into his skin. Then he rights himself.

The man's eyes scans the six passengers who boarded before him. All sit at the front, belying their tourist status by wearing shorts despite the foggy summer afternoon. Moving onward, his gaze lands on a three-seat bench at the very back. He stakes out his territory, and starts towards it.

As the man nears his fellow passengers, they wrinkle their noses. A pungent concoction of dried sweat and musty unwashed clothes tinged with the acidity of urine, his odor has weight and heft. It is intensified by the scent of his bundles, which hint of rich earth, rotting leaves, and the woods abutting the nearby Seacliff neighborhood.

Suddenly, the bus lurches. Losing balance, the man drops the parcels in his left hand and falls against a plump, middle-aged woman. As the vehicle comes to an abrupt stop, the woman’s equally plump and middle-aged companion uses the momentum to protectively push the man away. The man rights himself, bracing his body against the rail that runs along the top of the couple’s seat. He falls again. As he gets up a second time, his matted brown dreadlocks leave two blades of dried grass against the woman’s heaving bosom.

With all eyes on him, the man turns to glare at the driver. Quickly, he bends down to reclaim the spilled contents of his sacks – a soggy convenience store sandwich, a completed Rubik’s Cube with a missing square, a tattered paperback version of Ovid’s “Metamorphosis.” Pulling himself together, he looks straight ahead and continues towards his destination. His fellow passengers look away from him as he walks by. Their shoulders tense as he nears, then relax as it it becomes clear that he will be sitting further down.

The man's movements slow once he reaches his three-person bench. He unwraps the handles wound around his hands and arranges the bags artfully on the two seats towards the furthest end. Then he carefully takes off his knapsack, so as not to untie any of the ropes that are holding it together. Sitting in the empty seat nearest the door, he places the pack between his legs.

As the bus starts up again, his craggy, rigid features soften. He grins slightly as he looks at his belongings, positioned so as to take up the whole bench. As the bus fills, people move towards the seats on which the bags rest, then back off once they get a whiff.

A group of teenage boys boards through the back door and almost breaks this pattern. Sporting gym bags, backpacks and a cacophony of sound, they move into the man's space. Using hand signals, the leader of the group dares another member to take one of the man’s seats. As the challenged boy approaches, the man’s left arm shoots out to land over the middle of his pile. His hand, framed by soiled denim cuffs and the dirty edge of a wrinkled grey jacket, forms a fist around some of the bag handles. His eyes narrow and he locks the boy's gaze. The boy backs off, pinching his nose and firing off a series of face-saving invectives as he turns away.

Settling back, the man relaxes his grip on his belongings. He manages to stay in this state through two stops. Then, she arrives. Impeccably dressed in a perfectly pressed, worsted wool olive suit, she carries a black leather briefcase, a large olive tote and a tired expression. Young and fit, she moves with grace and confidence. Stepping into the man’s carefully arranged space, she commands, “Move your bags. I want to sit.”

The man doesn't move. A minute passes, after which she softly insists, “Sir, you have an empty seat. I wish to sit." Impervious to the odors, she begins to move the man’s parcels with her free hand. He quickly scooches the tail end of his property towards himself. She sits before he has entirely emptied the seat. Her briefcase lands on one of the man’s bags, making a crunching noise as it hits.

The man narrows his eyes with the same intensity that scared off the teens. However, instead of adjusting her briefcase, the woman takes a large hardback out of her tote, opens it to a marked page and begins to read. The man adjusts the bags closest to her, releasing a small whirlwind of odors. She continues to move her pupils back and forth over the text. He leans into her, twisting his head to make out the book’s title, “The Law of Success In Sixteen Lessons by Napoleon Hill (Complete, Unabridged).” As he does so, a coil of his unwashed hair grazes her knee. She adjusts her skirt while keeping her gaze glued to the pages in front of her.

The man sits back, but continues to stare at the woman so intently that he almost misses his stop. When he recognizes where he is, he rises quickly, puts his backpack on lopsidedly and grabs his bags, jerking the last one from underneath the woman’s briefcase. The surrounding passengers move away as he rushes to the door. Even now, the woman pays no notice.

“Back door,” he cries out! His shouted words echo up the line of bus passengers, until the door finally reopens. Adjusting his burdens and standing tall, he climbs down the steps and walks off. The edges of his lips curl up in a slight smile as people in the surrounding crowd wrinkle their noses and part the way for him.

EDITED very slightly at 6:23 PM PDT in order to correct some typos and some poor word choices. The content remains the same.