Professor J's Place

October 11 is National Coming Out Day. For years, I’ve made a joke of this on social media. “Hey, friends, guess what?” Or, “Surprise!” There’s a sort of forgetting when you’ve been “out” for nearly 2/3 of your life. But I have recently reawakened to a powerful truth. Coming out, even today, is risking your life.   A few years ago, I was working in a summer program for high school students, and a boy came to class with his face bruised and swollen. An adolescent fight? No. Gay bashing by other young people? No. His father beat him because he was gay. His father . Other teenagers become homeless, hence the need for homeless shelters dedicated to the care of LGBTQIA+ youth. Drug addiction is rampant among LGBTQIA+ as a result of this violence, shame, and isolation. And last but most important, dozens of transwomen, gay men, and lesbians are maimed and murdered each year. In such an environment you may wonder, why come out? First, it is hard to be two people—to show one...

My darling friend Bluebird at Bluebird Blvd. was writing about poetry recently. It's something she often does, bless her heart. It got me thinking, as her posts are wont to do, and I wrote to her about the first poem I memorized. We decided it would be fun for both of us to write about the poems of our childhoods, so that's what we're doing today!   This is the book I grew up with. First published in 1959, The Golden Treasury of Poetry was compiled for an audience of children, but not once did it talk down to its audience. With delightful illustrations by Joan Walsh Anglund and poems that ranged from the ridiculous to the sublime, this book was my introduction to the joy and music in language. When I teach poetry, which I seldom do, I talk about how we are hard wired for poetry. What do children like to read and have read to them? Poetry! It's the heart beat, I think. The rhythm in our blood.   I, like most children was first attracted to poems that rhyme....

“She is survived by her three sons and her partner of thirty years,” the papers said. Sometimes the braver periodicals even named her, this partner . partner? Did they own a bakery together?             A curio shop? Partner is too small a word          pedestrian          business-like. I used to like the word. And what shall we call ourselves? Lover at best is dated Girlfriend dismissive, trivial We are life partners, I would whisper in her ear, family. For this lesbian poet who risked life and art and all to name her love This warrior who did not fear the wrath of publishers or critics or scholars or college administrators To hear it now, and often without a name or gender, evokes      the closet Undrape! You are not guilty to me, nor stale, nor discarded* Nor invisible. For ...

I was looking at love poems today because, well, just because (she says with a wry smile). Here's one I love. What are some of the love poems that move you? Share them with me, will you? I Ask The Impossible Ana Castillo I ask the impossible: love me forever. Love me when all desire is gone. Love me with the single mindedness of a monk. When the world in its entirety, and all that you hold sacred advise you against it: love me still more. When rage fills you and has no name: love me. When each step from your door to your job tires you-- love me; and from job to home again, love me, love me. Love me when you're bored-- when every woman you see is more beautiful than the last, or more pathetic, love me as you always have: not as admirer or judge, but with the compassion you save for yourself in your solitude. Love me as you relish your loneliness, the anticipation of your death, mysteries of the flesh, as it tears and mends. Love me as your most treasured c...

Life is good these days. The other day, I had this rush of love--and I realized it was from me to me.  All these years I've heard that you must love yourself. All these years I've thought it one of those things that people just said. And here I am--loving myself. I am being creative again. I am starting to look at the world as a series of images, a series of poems. I haven't thought that way in a long time, and it's good to be back home.

My mother died in February of 2004. I got a full time job at my alma mater shortly after that, and I know how much she would have enjoyed being a part of that transition. One day, I was walking on campus and I came across a beautiful sight at one of the streams. I thought, "Oh, Mom would love this. I have to come back with my camera and take a picture so she can see it." I knew right away how crazy that sounded. Indeed, I refrained from going back with a camera (something I'll always regret). But that was the beginning of a thought pattern that has become familiar to me. And shortly after that, I began to take pictures for Mamma. This is actually a picture I took for her while she was alive. She loved West Texas and Big Bend national park in particular, and I knew this scene would thrill her. I guess I've been doing this all of my life--taking pictures of things that make me think of her--documenting my journeys for her. Mamma always wanted to travel in the Southwest-...

I heart Vermont . And this time it WASN'T "activist judges;" it was the legislature! Yea Vermont!

I heart Iowa .

Heidi and her granddog Heidi is the kind of woman who makes you love women. We met when we were both undergraduate English majors in the 1990's--we were both "returning students." Heidi is one of those people who collect strays. All the strange little people in the English and Political Science departments buzzed around her like flies on a hot day. It was a little off-putting,to tell the truth. Heidi was one of the three smartest students in the department. We were all returning students--all odd ducks. And we weren't friends. Finally, one spring semester we were all in the same class. Fiction. Heidi and I were assigned to do a presentation and lead the class discussion on The Damnation of Theron Ware . Our professor later admitted that she thought we would both hate the novel and the process of working together. It was quite the opposite. We met one Saturday morning at 8:00 am at the IHop near the campus. We both loved the novel! We sat and talked until 2:00 about th...

I n 1995, I spent ten glorious days in San Francisco, walking through the neighborhoods, eating falafels, visiting City Lights bookstore, and glorying in the environment. There were two highlights of my trip. One day, after visiting Coit Tower and those marvelous murals, I walked down an improbable street that is really a stair case, and saw the infamous Parrots of Telegraph Hill . And, I was there when Jerry Garcia died. Why was that significant? Because the hippies came to San Francisco from every corner of the world. They drove their VW Microbuses to the Haight, and there were impromptu altars on three of the four corners of Haight-Ashbury (there was no shrine in front of The Gap). I remember walking the streets with my friend Lisa (who was ten years younger than I and who had never heard of The Grateful Dead) and I told her that this day, this time, was the closest I could ever come to experiencing the summer of love . I was a tad too young to experience the San Francisco of t...

Then comes doing our level best to destroy the family. Susan and I sat cross-legged on our bed last night and swore our undying love for one another. No witnesses, no music, no officials; just two happy gals staring into one another's eyes. I am very happy. It's funny, wearing this ring has made me a little self-conscious; I spent the day feeling like I had a neon sign on my forehead that said, "Look at my finger!" My office mate Mark said he felt the same way after he got married. Symbols are powerful things for English majors. Now if only I could claim her on my health insurance. "We learn to love by loving." Iris Murdoch