Where I Come From.

It never fails that when you ride in a car with my grandparents, you’re privy to bickering that has endured for as long as I can possibly remember. Utterances of, “Backseat driver!” from my grandfather, and “Frank, slow down, the kids are in the car!” as my nana grabs the handlebar above her head can and should be expected. It is not nasty fighting. It is hilarious. It is anchored in affection. It is a part of the script that they have written together over more than fifty years of marriage.

My grandparents met at a dance social in the fifties. He is first generation Italian. She is Irish. My grandmother claims he spilled Coke on her, but he contests that particular memory. Personally, I’m in Nana’s camp because, really, how endearing is that? However they came together, they met and fell in love, although both of their parents weren’t enthusiastic about the Irish/Italian part of the whole thing. They married in 1957.

In 1958 my grandmother had my mother, the first of five children. Those five children married and had eight children of their own. On their fiftieth wedding anniversary, my grandfather stood at the party we threw for them, raised his glass and said, “Fifty years ago this morning, my mother came to me as I got ready and told me, ‘Frank, you don’t have to do this.’ Looking around at all of you, I’m very glad I didn’t listen to her.”  I once asked my nana what it takes to make a marriage last successfully for so long and she said to me, “When you want to leave, don’t!” At the time, I thought it was funny, but in hindsight, like so much of her advice to me, it resonates.

I spent much of my childhood in my grandmother’s kitchen, stirring lovely smelling things and absorbing knowledge almost as fast as I inhaled her cookies. I could make marinara from scratch by age eight. Nana told me more than once that she wanted me to learn these things NOT so that I could cook for a husband, but for myself. She wanted me to learn to be independent and strong on my own—to be my own advocate. She’s opinionated and won’t hesitate to tell you her views on everything from Sex and the City(“Mr. Big really isn’t good looking outside of that character, you know. I saw him on Law and Order and he isn’t very attractive. I think it’s the mystery.”), to great literature and World War II.

My grandmother and I share a love of Scrabble. It’s our thing together–my grandfather isn’t big on it. My grandmother once joked, “If only he’d play Scrabble with me, this would be a perfect marriage.” Now that she is in Florida for the winter, we play “Words with Friends,” which often leads to hilarious and occasionally confusing troubleshooting text messages and phone calls.

She was right. I was also in a different game.  HA!

The alerts that she’s played a word keep me feeling connected to her- she and my grandfather are my touchstones. They’ve been married fifty-five years on my 29th birthday  and they are the glue that holds our family together.

I visited them when they came home over the holidays, and I sat at their kitchen table, as I have done so many thousands of times in my 29 years. I remembered the time that I sat watching them cook together and my grandfather told me, “When I met nana, she was 100 pounds soaking wet!” My grandmother playfully swatted him and declared indignantly, “I was not! I was 102!” He patted her affectionately on the butt and gave her a quick kiss. I remembered the times I snuck up behind the kitchen sink when one of them was doing dishes and squeezed the sprayer while the faucet was running. There have been countless games of gin with my grandfather, mancala with nana, art projects, dinners, celebrations… it’s all there. There are so many things that seemed so inconsequential at the time, but now seem poignant and important pieces of our family history and my own.  And nana and I?  We played Scrabble face-to-face.

I don’t believe in resolutions.  I believe in constantly seeking self-awareness, enjoying the world around you, and waking up each day and deciding what sort of person you want to be, just as you make your to-do list of tasks to complete, and I believe in being grateful every single day.  It’s entirely too easy to take things in our lives for granted.  This year, I’m aiming to wake up each day and give thanks for the important things–even Words with Friends games.

When I grow up…

I’ll be 29 in a few weeks (and no, this isn’t my fifth time turning 29. I really am 29. I swear.). Crap, I’m getting older. I’ve actually started contorting my eyes a little when I pose for pictures because I’m convinced they look old and squinty. ***shrug*** I don’t know. Maybe I need new glasses (God, I hope that’s it.). I digress.


So, back to the fact that I’m closing in on thirty with what feels like warp speed. I do NOT think 30 is old. I am not afraid of turning 30. I can only hope I age as phenomenally as this kick ass lady.

But, at this point, a gal starts to think a little more about where she is in her life. If you asked my little cousins, they’d tell you that above all, I.AM.HUSBANDLESS and somehow, this translates to, “You loser! Go work someplace with men so you can get a date.” True story. My cousin Madeline suggested that I go work in a “car shop place” so I can meet a man. She’s twelve.

Now, since they’re all pretty small children, I’ll take that opinion with a grain of salt. As I’ve told my mother (“What do you mean, you don’t want a wedding shower when you get married?!??!”…”Um…shouldn’t I have a groom first?”), a husband is pretty low on my priority list of what it will take to make me feel accomplished. I love my job and the people I work with now, but it’s not what I want to do with the rest of my life. What makes me happy is creating things. But, how the heck does one parlay this into a career? Let’s hope my Master’s program can help me answer that…

Since there’s such a huge age difference between me and my cousins, it’s particularly interesting to watch them grow up in this era and see how their visions of the future take shape. My cousin Mia told me last week she wants to be a news anchor. My cousin Sarah is a bit more non-specific– basically, she wants to rule the world as a hipper Martha Stewart.

I don’t remember everything I wanted to be…I do know one of many things I wanted to be was Kristi Yamaguchi. Er, an ice skater, not a different ethnicity.

Evidence. This fifth grade project…the assignment: Who would you have dinner with if you could pick one person?

Oh, but wait for it. It gets so much better.
That's right, folks. My fifth grade self was going to order an Olympic figure skater a bacon burger and curly fries at Chili's. Awesome.
 
But what the heck would we wear?? You can see where “The Babysitter's Club's” very own Claudia Kishi of whacko fashion fame influenced me in this next one.
I'll spare you the interview. I'm still recovering from that outfit description.

You know, when I was preparing myself to be the next Kristi, no one told me that a girl who is 5’9 and has more than her fair share of cleavage probably isn’t going to defy the laws of physics and become the next Olympic gold medalist (Seriously, I met Tara Lipinski once and I could have put her in my pocket. I looked like Paul Bunyan next to her.). Despite that, Ice skating was and still is one of my great joys in life. I think that's why we have dreams- in striving for them, however unrealistic or unlikely they may be, there is still happiness to be found in the effort to explore and/or make them happen.


As I struggle to figure out what the heck I want to do with my life, I have to stop questioning the choices I’ve made up to this point. I am where I am. Now, if I want to be someplace different and take all of my talents and make them into something that will sustain me monetarily as much as spiritually, I better get cracking.

As kids, we’re asked what we want to be and we’re told that it’s within our reach if we just want it enough and work hard enough. As adults I think most of us struggle with being certain of what we want and then struggle with getting to where we want to be—we’re told we can do it, but most of us aren’t told how unless we enter a career with a stringently prescribed course of study.

Let’s get real. Life isn’t the same as when our parents and their parents grew up. Now, the focus isn’t JUST, “Get a stable job so you can support your family!” In our generation of yuppies, hipsters and helicopter parenting, success has been somewhat redefined. Sure, financial worth is still a huge part of it, but now, people are encouraged to and search for careers that they’ll be happy in, or feel fulfilled doing.

College is no longer a guarantee that you will find a job, let alone a job doing something you’ll love. Interestingly, while we’re talking about job security, let’s talk about the fact that people don’t stay in a company just because they’re loyal and if they work there for 35 years they’ll be rewarded. When people are unhappy, they look for a new job.

So, as I approach my thirtieth year, maybe THIS will be the one where I finally decide what I want to be when I grow up. Welcome to the life of a woman with a liberal arts education (ok, I’m halfway through my Master’s, but still). In a world with so many possibilities that are constantly expanding, I think I’m ok with still trying to figure it out.

 

Why I am Going to Hell.

Ah, fall. How I loathe thee. I may be the only native New Englander who hates the fall season. I like football and the fact that ski season is coming, but that’s about it. The days are shorter, the leaves fall off the trees and leave them barren and depressing, and you can’t get a parking space in this city to save your life (college students). But, I’m determined to make this fall a good one and part of that is laughing a lot (Ok, and drinking Harpoon Pumpkin Cider. But we won’t spread that around).

So, I’ve talked before about getting away with crazy stuff when your parents are deaf. How about when one of them is deaf AND blind? That’s right, kids. I’m going there. My dad, on top of being deaf, was blind in the last couple of years of his life due to diabetes complications. This, of course, meant that he didn’t really get out much, and when he did, it was mostly for Doctor’s appointments, or to visit the Lighthouse for the blind, where he was learning Morse Code.

This didn’t mean he didn’t still have his pride, however. Like any ladies man (and lordy, was he ever one of these), he took a lot of pride in his appearance, including his hair (of which he had pretty little). One fateful afternoon during one of our visits, he turned to me, sliding his hands through his thinning crop and asked me the question that strikes fear in my heart to this day: “Will you give me a trim?”

Let me iterate a couple of key points here. First, this was before a burgeoning crop of tutorials on Youtube. I was flying blind. There was nobody carefully explaining each step to me on grainy video in their basement. Second, you think my microwave fire setting record is bad?? Arguably, my track record with hair and hair cutting is worse. I once accidentally cut a chunk of hair from my own head (incidentally, I also burned one, but that’s a whole other story), and as my dad probably forgot- I balded (this needs to be a verb) pretty much every Barbie I ever owned.

You know the deal. You start out thinking you’ll do a “super easy” asymmetrical bob. You chop it and you just need to take off a TEEEEENY bit more on one side…and so it goes. Before you know it, Barbie looks like she’s either slowly becoming a porcupine, or in the first stages of a hair transplant, with short prickly hair sticking out of the holes in her head.

So, there I was, contemplating his request, when my grandfather ever so helpfully piped up, “I have some haircutting scissors!” How was I to refuse? How hard could it be to cut the short hair of a man with not much hair? I wrote (tracing letters of each word) on my dad’s back, “Y-E-S-I-C-A-N.” He was grinning and so clearly happy that you’d think I was Vidal Sassoon. I prepared him and went to work. Keeping my hand steady, I cut in a straight line- from one side of his head to the other. Putting down the scissors and stepping back, I took in my handiwork.

He looked like Shemp.

He put his hands in his hair and said, “This feels great!”

Horrified, I did the only thing a girl can do when she has accidentally given her 48 year-old blind father a bowl haircut.

“L-O-O-K-S-G-O-O-D”

He grinned. I stood there paralyzed. He ran his hands through his hair again. I shuddered.

“W-A-N-T-T-O-C-L-E-A-N-I-T-U-P-A-L-I-T-T-L-E”

He nodded agreeably and I went back to work. Using an upward motion, I hacked away at the very clear…hem-like affect? (for lack of a better phrase) I had created. It was like trying to blend a sculptural hedge. I sighed with relief when the distinct bowl shape started to disappear… Until I realized it had a pretty clear zig-zagging pattern. ***cue Barbie flashbacks***After the time when I was three and I left a butterfly barrette in his hair after playing hairdresser and he went to CVS for something, I don’t know why he thought that was a good idea.

In the end, it didn’t turn out so badly, I suppose. My grandfather thought it was an improvement, anyway. Then again, his eyesight and sense of style was questionable, at best. My dad was happy, though. And me? Well, obviously, I’m probably going straight to hell for lying to a blind man.

Holy crap. Did you just say I’m normal?!?

I first met my friend Ali about six years ago.  Ali is the volunteer manager for a Leadership Conference I participate in.  I marched right up to her at the end of the volunteer session and said, “I’m Jenny.  I’m deaf, just so you know.  I probably shouldn’t be on registration.”  The next year I told her, “Oh yeah. I’m the deaf one, remember?”  This was not the first or second time I made this bold declaration.  Eight years ago, before even applying to my job, I went to my now boss and said, “I’m deaf.  I don’t want to waste your time with an interview if you feel that this will be a problem.”  She later told me that it was my forthrightness and boldness that tipped the scales in my favor.

I do this all the time.  Mumbling store clerk?  Mumbling Waitress? Trouble on the phone when the other person has it on speaker?  “Oh, I’m deaf.  Can you please speak up?” I even do it at parties when I’m introduced to someone new.  “Just a heads up- I’m deaf so please look at me when you talk.”  Somehow, it’s become no big deal to me to divulge this information.

I spent so much time as a kid feeling like my hearing loss was something to be ashamed of.  It set me apart.  It made me different.  It meant I was “disabled”- I freaking HATE that word.  It made me work harder to be better, be smarter, be the best at everything.  This has made me strive to overachieve- and I do.  In the fourth grade, the kids in class called me “the walking dictionary.”  I’ve always had something to prove.  I hid my hearing loss as best I could.  After all, I was plenty attuned to the looks my mother got or the problems that she faced just walking out the door on a daily basis.  But me?  I was a chameleon. I could blend.

As is wont to happen, the older I got (and ironically as I lost more hearing), the less I really gave a crap what other people thought about me and I accepted that my hearing loss was a part of me and that it really didn’t matter.  It seemed that I was being blasé about it and just mentioning it as an, “oh, heads up!” sort of way made it no big deal.

This morning, Ali (I’m now her second in command) and I were attending a breakfast leadership seminar led by none other than the enigmatic Vernice Armour, the first African American female fighter pilot.  Vernice asked us to take a minute and jot down our goals/aspirations, etc.  So, I wrote the usual “Open my own fabric design company,” and “Start a small business branding consultation firm (er…I also wrote, “STOP PROCRASTINATING.”).’”  The last thing I wrote? “I want to be an example for others like me, be an advocate and work to bridge the gap between the deaf and hearing world.”

Ali (such a snoop!  Kidding, Ali. ;) ) saw what I wrote and at the break she asked me about it- about this gap and why I felt that I had to bridge it.   She went on to say that she always found it interesting that I label myself so quickly, especially when it’s something so invisible.  She pointed out that technically, i’m moderately hard of hearing and that I could probably just tell people that I was sometimes have a little trouble and might need to ask them to repeat themselves.  She was genuinely curious- she wasn’t being judgmental or negative.

I told her that it felt like something people should know so that they’d know why if I didn’t respond.  I went on to say that on some level, perhaps it’s also about me saying, “See?  The stigma isn’t always right!”  So many people I know have never come across someone my age with a hearing loss.  I’m an anomaly.  I’m their first live impression.  All they know is what they’ve heard or seen on TV, etc.  That stuff? Not always good.  Hell- the school curriculum probably still teaches kids that Helen Keller was called, “deaf and dumb.”  When I’ve told people I’ve had countless, “Are you kidding?!” reactions.  I’ve been accused of lying.  I’ve gotten, “Wow!  You’re not what I expected!”

Then Ali said a few things that blew my mind.  She pointed out that by labeling myself (it didn’t even really hit me that I was labeling myself!)when people would otherwise not know meant that I was setting myself apart right off the bat.  She told me that she doesn’t see me as different and that to her, I sometimes just need things repeated.  That was when she dropped the bomb- “To me, you’re normal!”  I’m pretty sure my eyes were huge at that point.  I don’t think i’ve ever considered myself normal- not as a child of profoundly deaf parents and certainly not as a hard of hearing person.  But, what if I am?  What if I’ve been limiting myself by defining myself in such a way? What if I’ve been using that as a default setting so I can “check out?”  What if I stopped answering the question “What is it like to be deaf/hard of hearing” and starting answering the question, “What does it mean to be me?”  My hearing loss is a very small part of who I am.  It is not the sum of my parts.  Maybe I am normal?  Relatively speaking, of course.

I will always be an advocate for deaf and hard of hearing people.  How can I not be?  I will continue to  make jokes about my hearing mishaps- it makes ME laugh as much as it makes other people laugh.  I will continue to share my experiences here.  I am not now and will never again be ashamed of my hearing loss.  But darnit, this is food for thought.

Why even the small stuff can and should be unforgettable.

I won’t offer some trite “sorry I’ve been M.I.A.” crap, because, well, it’s been a great summer and I’m not sorry.  Nor am I so conceited that I think anyone’s been chomping at the bit for me to post again.  I am at my best when I write because I want to. Not just to put something up.  So, without fanfare, let’s proceed.

There are some stories that become legendary- that we tell over and over, perhaps embellishing them a bit over the years and taking liberties. Sure, I remember that when I was in first grade, I bit a kid (Totally justified! Maybe. Not.). I remember when my friend Adam told me he spit in my apple juice (LIAR!) and made me throw up in the school cafeteria when I took a sip and saw bubbles that looked like spit bubbles (tres humiliating). Yeah, first grade was a rough year for me. *****cue Barbara singing “Memories.”***

On a random note: I'm glad she kept her nose. Jennifer Gray should've taken a hint from Babs.

On a random note: I’m glad she kept her nose. Jennifer Gray should’ve learned from Babs.

Legends aside, there are those little, lesser known and sometimes never acknowledged again moments that happen day-to-day and while no less meaningful, can so easily fade into the background and be forgotten. Our lives are made up of sequences of single minutes- some more vivid in our minds than others, but altogether, the sum of our existence.

Someone I admire deeply has a philosophy about appreciating every single minute you are given, no matter what. She says (while giving tirelessly of herself) that our lives are finite and our time is too special to squander- it’s the most valuable thing we have. I find myself wanting to live by these words, especially when I find myself wishing away days when I have something to look forward to on the weekend, when the work day just won’t end, or I stand in a particularly long express line, noting that the person in front of me appears to be stocking up for a nuclear Armageddon. Then I think to myself- it will never be August 29, 2013 at 4:30 (or whatever) ever again in the history of the world. It seems so silly, but it helps me slow down and appreciate it a bit more.

image

So, as I went into the New Year, I didn’t really make resolutions. New Year’s resolutions make me insane- I like to do things no matter what time of year it is, but I decided that I wanted a way to remember the day-to-day stuff. I’m talking about the things that make my days a little brighter- both big AND small. I reasoned that in the grand scheme of how I experience joy, laughter, something profound, or simple enjoyment, it doesn’t matter how significant or insignificant seeming something actually is- who cares what it is if it makes you happy?

image

So, I started the memory jar. Not a new idea, I know. I’m not claiming I’m the genius behind it. Anyway, I trekked to West Elm for a suitable vessel, I gathered up what felt like a meeeellion paint chips (when you’re smuggling them out of Lowe’s and Home Depot in stacks, it feels like a million, trust me), some gel pens (don’t do this- they smudge. Get a sharpie pen- there. I just saved you about fifteen bucks.), and “the jar” was born.

image

A fun outing? Something crazy/funny/ridiculous/monumental happens? “That goes in the jar!” It’s actually become a mark of pride when someone gets in the jar (don’t worry, GG- you’ll get in!). Major kudos to my dear friend Pauline, who simply DOMINATES. Also making appearances: concert tickets, museum tickets, fortunes from fortune cookies, a couple of especially meaningful cards, confetti from the Pops Fourth of July Rehearsal, and a few other little trinkets.

MoMA ticket, Mumford and Sons Ticket, cards...and a little  recounting of an embarrassing ski incident...

MoMA ticket, Mumford and Sons Ticket, cards…and a little
recounting of an embarrassing ski incident…

I can’t always keep up with things. I have a running list in a mini notebook waiting for transfer to the paint chips, but it’s really fun to look back and see what’s happened over the year, look at the little things that I would have otherwise forgotten, relive it, remember where I was and laugh. The time it takes is well worth it to make those little moments unforgettable and reminds me to appreciate and reflect on things I may have otherwise forgotten or taken for granted. Well, that, and many of my friends have DIRTY senses of humor.

Scenes from the Fourth of July

First, I’ll acknowledge that things are looking a leeeetle bit different around here.  I’m still tweaking things and will eventually design my own background, but I’m hoping that these changes will make reading my blog just a little easier on the eyes for you guys.  Please do feel free to let me know what you think (Even if you hate it- tell me!  I’m not a delicate flower and your feedback is helpful).

So, I’m actually cheating a little with this whole, “Images from the Fourth of July” business.  Yesterday, I was lucky enough to get to attend the Boston Pops rehearsal for the Fourth of July and lo and behold, I had tickets for front row seats!  Every year, the Boston Pops performs, accompanied by various celebrity guests, at the Hatchshell on the Charles River.  This year is the fortieth anniversary of the tradition.  I suppose you could say that the birthplace of America likes its traditions.

Boston pops screen

Evidence!  The only thing between us and that stage?  A guardrail and some concrete.  Primo seating!

Evidence! The only thing between us and that stage? A guardrail and some concrete. Primo seating!  You can see the Hatchshell really well.

The Pops run through the concert just as if it was the “real” Fourth (short a couple of songs), do the sing-a-long, and Keith Lockhart, our beloved conductor, charms the hell out of all of us (how many symphony conductors do you know of who will playfully step back towards the crowd and do a jig while continuing to conduct over their shoulders?).

Keith Lockhart dances a jig while the Pops perform "I'm  Shipping up to Boston" by none other than the Dropkick Murphy's (who just so happen to be a Boston band)

Keith Lockhart dances a jig while the Pops perform “I’m Shipping up to Boston” by none other than the Dropkick Murphy’s (who just so happen to be a Boston band)

This is our first HUGE event since the Marathon, so you can bet emotions were high and somehow, it seemed just a little more meaningful to be a part of the tradition this year.  So, happy Fourth of July and here are my pictures from the 3rd (and then some)!

America Strong keith pops

From top right: Ayla Brown, Ellis Hall (first and only performer ever signed to Ray Charles' record label), Howie Day, and Susan Tedeschi

From top right: Ayla Brown, Ellis Hall (first and only performer ever signed to Ray Charles’ record label), Howie Day, and Susan Tedeschi

Here's the stage all lit up- complete with the Tanglewood Chorus

Here’s the stage all lit up- complete with the Tanglewood Chorus

SURPRISE!  The flag came down and the confetti cannons rang out.

SURPRISE! The flag came down and the confetti cannons rang out.

We knew we weren’t getting the crazy fireworks display and the cannons they shot during the 1812 Overture (which is GLORIOUS and usually the background for the fireworks) were more “give you a freakin’ heart attack if you weren’t watching the TV screen and didn’t know it was coming” than fun, so it was a pretty cool surprise, when the confetti rained down!

confetti over the crowdDespite the fact that I was fishing confetti out of my dress when I FINALLY got home, it was incredibly worth it.  It was way less insane than it will no doubt be for the real thing, but the spirit of the occasion was still very much present!

As for today, the actual Fourth of July?  I picked a whole bunch of these with my mom:

Black and red raspberries!

Black and red raspberries!

So, I’m going to scrub the stains off my knees (yes, I knelt down in some that had fallen on the ground- classic Jenny move), figure out what the heck to do with them, and eat some veggie burgers. Tomorrow kicks off a busy weekend of celebrating with friends. Happy Fourth of July!

On Equality.

civil rights

Noun
The rights of citizens to political and social freedom and equality.

I think most of us hear “civil rights” and think Martin Luther King, marches on Washington, sit-ins at the Woolworth counter, and countless other images of the 60′s.  We think of race, and perhaps class and gender.  When learning about the Civil Rights Movement in elementary school, I was taught that separate but equal was an outdated and prejudiced idea. I was taught that all Americans are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and that this country was founded on the ideal that we are all are created equal. I said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning, along with the rest of the schoolchildren in this country, declaring “with liberty and justice for all” before I started my day.

Then I grew up and realized that as much as we are all probably taught that these struggles for civil rights are a part of our history, they are very very much a part of our present.  I understood the meaning behind that Pledge of Allegiance I said so mindlessly every morning for more than a decade, with my hand over my heart.  I learned that the American brand of equality is conditional.  

Growing up in a household with deaf parents, the motto was: accept everyone.  One of the most valuable things my mother instilled from an early age was the importance of tolerance and equality. She continually reminded us to treat everyone the same, because we are all people.  It’s such a simple message, but it’s a powerful one.

I went to an all- women’s college.  I work for it presently.  I have many friends and colleagues who are gay and lesbian.  I am incredibly proud to live in Massachusetts, where we have been granting gay marriages since 2004- the first state to do so in this country.

doma-dead

As far as I am concerned, there is more than one civil rights movement.  Today we watched one of those play out in what will surely go down in history as a pivotal point in the fight for LGBT equality.  When I read that DOMA is dead, I cried.  It’s progress.  It’s progress that should’ve been made long ago.  It strikes down a despicable legacy of discrimination known as the “Defense of Marriage Act,” signed by a President who had about as much respect for his marriage as I do for Scientology (read: ZILCH.).

The Supreme Court decision today gets the federal government OUT of people’s bedrooms.  It tells children of gay couples that their parents are not weird or wrong to love each other and that the family they’ve forged is just as valuable and meaningful as the one with a mom and dad.  It tells gay and lesbian couples that their relationships will no longer be considered unworthy of the same protections and respect by the country in which they probably pay taxes, vote, and contribute to society.  It means that loving couples can express their commitment to each other in the same way that I can.  It means that they can enjoy the same legal and financial protections as heterosexual couples.

If there is ONE thing I have learned in life it’s that you cannot choose who you love.  Gay or straight- doesn’t matter.  You love who you love. So, a hearty thank you to the five Supreme Court Justices who decided that we will no longer SELECTIVELY grant our citizens the rights to life, liberty and equality (to the remaining four- I say, “HA. Nice try. And Clarence Thomas of the Anita Hill scandal- I can’t say I’m surprised.”).  It’s a huge step in the right direction in an ongoing fight.

DOMA-is-Unconstitutional-Featured

It’s been a banner day for Civil Rights today.  Thanks to the incredible fortitude and bravery of Wendy Davis in Texas (of all places!), women there will go to bed tonight knowing they’ll wake up on more days of NOT being told what they can and can’t do with their bodies.

This fourth of July, there is so much to be thankful for.  I’m proud to live in this country today- slowly, but surely, we are working towards making the words “liberty and justice for all” ring true.