Prisms

Feature Article for The Next Family

By: Mark Hagland

My name is Mark. I am 51 years old. (GULP!) I am a member of the first wave of Korean adoptees.  I came to the U.S. in 1961 at the age of eight months and was raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin by parents of Norwegian and German ethnic heritage. I’ve been very active in the KAAN Conference, an annual conference focused on Korean adoption. KAAN is truly unique, and over time its leaders (among which I am now one) are looking to expand its scope to include those outside just Korean adoption. (Certainly, anyone with interest or involvement in transracial and/or international adoption is very welcome.) Our annual conference this year will be held in Albany, New York in July. So there’s one slice —my Korean adoptee slice.

Here are a few more:

I attended the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and, after receiving my B.A. in English, came to Chicago to get my master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern. I’ve been a professional journalist since 1982 and in the health care publishing field for 23 years as a reporter, editor, author, and speaker. Journalist -another slice!

I came out as a gay man while a freshman in college, and have been socially open for a number of years. I’m blessed to have a wonderful life-partner of over 26 years. Another slice!

Eleven years ago, I volunteered to be a co-parent with a female, unmarried friend. I now have a wonderful ten-year-old daughter, who lives with her mother. Another slice!

In choosing to become a parent, which has been one of the great blessings in my life, I knew that my identity as a gay man would change, and it absolutely did.  Nearly two years ago, I became involved in a wonderful group called Gay Dads Chicago, and have gotten to know a number of other gay dads locally. But even in that group, I’m in an extreme minority with regard to the way in which I became a father. Most in the group married, had children, and discovered they were gay later on. Which basically describes how things have worked out for me my whole life: I’ve always been the only asterisked person in any group I’ve been in.

Certainly, growing up as an Asian-American, transracial adoptee in the Milwaukee, Wisconsin of the 1960s and 1970s was a marginalizing experience, despite having wonderful parents and a loving family. As I like to say, I grew up feeling like a Martian and then when I finally became part of the huge actively participating Korean adoptee and transracial adoptee community at age 40, it was like happening upon a convention of Martians in spaceships!

So… how many Asian-Americans do you know who are partnered gay men, biological fathers, Korean adoptees, and journalists, all rolled into one? Sometimes I feel as though I have more prisms going than a world-class crystal paperweight collection. And it can get very confusing for many people, because they keep getting reminded (hopefully gently) as they get to know me how complex my identities and perspectives are. It reminds me of a comment I read in an interview in an LGBT newspaper years ago. An African-American gay activist was being interviewed about her sense of identity; she was black, female, and gay. And she was asked, which are you first? Black, female, or lesbian? And naturally, she said, well, it’s not like I can go out my door and leave any one of my identities behind! That’s exactly how I feel, too, of course. Being Asian, being an Asian-American, being an adult transracial adoptee, being a gay man, being a parent—they are all me!

There is a richness in having so many prisms through which one sees the world. Often, being the only person of color in a gay male gathering, or the only gay person among an Asian group, or the only parent among a gay social gathering, or the only gay person among a bunch of parents, or the only adoptee among a gathering of adoptive parents (and on and on) offers me unique perspectives.

Isn’t that part of what makes life so rich, anyway—that we can all share our individual experiences with one another, and be made the richer for doing so, and for our mutual support?

Constructing a Family

By Lauren Jankowski

Recently I led a discussion in my Gender and Culture class on a chapter from “Families We Choose” by Kath Weston.  The chapter was entitled “Exiles from Kinship” and it was about how the Bay Area gay and lesbian community began constructing their own families in the 80s.  These created families challenged the common definition of “family”, particularly the anthropological definition.  Up until that point, anthropology defined kinships almost solely on biological ties.  This overly simplistic definition overlooked the fact that family is not a purely biological construct, not entirely.  Rather, family -even kinship -is a lot more fluid than we realize.

As an adoptee, I find that I don’t put as much stock in the importance of blood ties.  Throughout my life, I have constructed many different families.  I have noticed other adoptees often do the same thing, sometimes without even realizing it.  I grew up with a large Italian family, emphasis on large.  Everyone was an aunt or uncle, regardless of whether they were related by blood or not.  Along with my parents’ siblings, there were a number of family friends that my brother and I referred to as “aunt” or “uncle”.  Their children were our cousins.

As I grew up, I began to find my personality, beliefs, and goals were completely different.  My family is very child-centric to the point of being old-fashioned.  Every birth is celebrated and every woman is expected to settle down with a nice man.  Holidays and gatherings are filled with discussions of whose child did/accomplished what, along with the normal sports talk and economy complaints (with the occasional chat about television).  Being a natural bookworm with an independent streak, I found this environment to be stifling.  When I decided very late in high school to marry myself to my work and lead a life without romantic attachments (I decided long ago that having a family was just not for me), this was met with “Well, you’ll feel differently when you meet the right man and have children of your own.”

While I do love my family, I realized that I needed a new support system.  So I turned to college and friends, creating my own eclectic group of individuals that I adore and admire for different reasons.  Some began from a mutual love of the written word.  Others shared my love of really great stories and myths.  Some share my desire to live a completely independent life.  Others are people that I find to be fascinating, either due to their personality or because they showed me a new way to think about the world.  Still others are accepting and offer me the intellectual conversations that I so love and crave.  The one thing that this created family shares is that everyone in it accepts me as is, even when I’m at my worst, and treats me as an equal.

In 1991, Kath Weston wrote that we need to move past our rigid biological definition of kinship and explore alternative families, ones that aren’t necessarily based on the biological model.  When I recently visited The Cradle again, Gabby told me about an annual picnic that is held for adoptive and biological families.  The kids wear two different nametags: one with the name given by the biological parent(s) and the second given by their adoptive family.  As I write this, I think about how my definition of family has changed as I’ve grown and matured.

As a society, we need to accept that there are different kinds of families and kinships.  Not all of them revolve around biological ties.  In the grand scheme of things, biology is probably a lot less important than most people think.  In my mind, I have two families, both of whom I love dearly and would do anything for.  I do not favor one over the other and would never choose between them.  In my book, they are equal.  I’d be very surprised if I were alone in feeling this way.

Journey to the Center of the Uterus

By: Kathleen Puls Andrade

The first words of advice I received about ensuring conception were from a reporter who was reviewing a show I was doing at the time. We had hit it off over the phone and we started talking about fertility issues. Her advice? Put my legs over my head after having sex. Wow! Apparently it was pretty easy! So, off I went to have some sex and some “me time” with a pillow under my butt and my legs hiked up into the air. A half hour later, I put my legs down and hoped for the best. We had to do it again…and again…and yes, again. They say it’s fun trying, but honestly, it wasn’t. It became a chore and my poor husband. He was a trooper! I’d push him down and say, “Get it up! Right now!” Not as easy as it sounds.

Nothing.

So, I did it again…and again…and a few more times until we realized that this wasn’t exactly working. So, off to the gyne we went. Well, I went. There wasn’t a whole lot my husband could do…other than watch…which would be weird. Anyway! I went and my gyne ended up prescribing Clomid, which I took for about three months. Nada. It might have made me a little nutty but I really can’t remember. It’s been a while. I do remember wanting to lash out at various people but it might have been the progesterone suppositories. Meh. Same difference. And going to this particular gyne wasn’t fun. I don’t know what it was but the staff really made me feel like I was a pain. I really didn’t want to continue with that hospital so looked for somewhere else to go. It was time, anyway.

Actually, it was time to go to the big leagues…the show…the Majors. It was time to do the turkey baster. The first real IVF doctor we had was an enigma. She was nice enough but I couldn’t call her a people person. Still, she was the head of the program so we thought she’d be pretty good. The first order was for the hysterosalpingogram, or HSG. I’m sure that you’ve heard of that one. You know, when they insert a balloon into your uterus, inflate it, and listen to you swear…out loud…loudly. It was just a little uncomfortable. But she barely acknowledged that. I think I had more sympathy from the Intern. And don’t believe the hype. One or two Advil will not suffice.

But, there was good news! My fallopian tubes were not blocked! Although she did mention that I had a small uterus. I’ve since learned that I have an “infantile uterus”. The size of a baby’s, apparently. An outdated term but apt. But I guess it could still hold a baby. They do stretch after all.

So, on to the Intrauterine Insemination. I had three. My husband had the most important role in this step: masturbating into a cup. The nurse called him in for his first “session”. We were pretty new to this so I asked, “Should I come too?” She said, in her dry Chicago way, “You shouldn’t have to.” Ugh. How embarrassing! But, he was successful, albeit not entirely stimulated by the surroundings. I guess that’s what the copious amount of porn is for. That room is sterile! Ooh…bad choice of words?

The IUIs went smoothly, with the exception of one. The IVF nurse had a hard time getting the catheter with the sperm into my uterus. The doc breezed in, adjusted the speculum, slid the catheter in, and breezed out…with barely a word to me. I saw her in the hallway some time after the procedure. I waved, said “Hi Dr. So and So”…and she didn’t recognize me. I think she only recognizes her patients by their vaginas. I was one of those vaginas.

On to the Bigs.

The Clomid and the IUIs didn’t work. We had to move on to In Vitro Fertilization. By this time I’d been pretty well entrenched in Fertilityland and when one cycle ended, I couldn’t wait for the next one to begin. It began to feel like an addiction…an addiction to the process. I had had polyps removed, scar tissue removed, estrogen suppositories, Viagra suppositories, shots with giant needles, knots on my butt, and I couldn’t wait for it to begin again. And it was to a certain extent. There was always one more thing to try, one more procedure, one more chance. And the hormone roller coaster was starting to get to me too. But, all in the name of building a family! So, onward and upward.

My old IVF doc left the program. Seemed as though she had a little burnout going on. But the new guy was a pretty nice guy, all business, but a nice guy. I tried everything I could to get him to laugh at my silliness but he didn’t crack. He was professional to a fault, which bothered me and comforted me all at once. And he tried just about everything he could think of to get me pregnant. He finally showed his personal side to me while doing a water sonogram. (He put water in the uterus to find out what’s going on in there.) I mentioned to him that I had just gotten back from Mexico, where it was really humid…like I’m sure it was, down there. Ha! Not really. He starts talking about his own disastrous trip to Mexico…in my uterus! I just did not know how to take this! What do I say? What do I do? I was thrilled that he finally opened up to me. I felt we were bonding over my narrow cervix. I had had issues with the narrowness of my cervix before and it seemed to be worse this time. He ended up shaving it to make the insertion of the embryos go a lot smoother.

Oh yeah…that time with the embryos.

If I didn’t know any better I’d swear they were messing with me. I was going in for the embryo transfer. You know, after you do the egg extraction and they fertilize the eggs with your husband’s washed sperm? Again, his one and only job, a very important job, is to masturbate and give them sperm to wash. Nice! So, we went in and they got me all doped up on Valium and put me on the table with the stirrups and inserted the speculum (my favorite part!) and started with the catheter. He raised the table. He lowered the table. He asked me to move my hips up, down, and around. Nothing. That catheter wasn’t going in any further than it wanted to. Must have been a sign. He called in the ultrasound tech to help guide the catheter. Legs up, hips down, a little to the left, a little to the right…all of this through a Valium haze. The embryologist was giving me sympathetic looks while everyone else was trying to figure out why this wasn’t working. My husband was trying to comfort me by kissing my hand, wiping my forehead and telling me that it’ll be over soon. After a few more attempts, the embryologist pointed me out to Dr. S. Tears were silently running down my cheeks as I was trying not to say, “For the love of God, please stop poking my cervix!!”

He stopped…

…put the bed back to its original position

…and apologized.

And then somehow he managed to figure out how to get those potential babies into my uterus.

Oh yes, there was one time when I did get pregnant! I think it was the time after the cervix-poking incident. Or the time before…it’s been a while so I’m not entirely sure anymore.
We did the whole shebang and Donna, the flat-voiced IVF nurse, called me and told me that my numbers were up! The numbers are what we “IVFers” live by. They’re supposed to double every other day and mine had doubled! I had to go in for an ultrasound and a follow-up blood test to monitor my numbers and, of course, the worst part is the wait. It’s really interesting how you just know when there’s something happening in there and I could definitely sense that something was in there. So, I went to shop for new computer speakers and was at the customer service desk when Donna called with the results. And that’s when she told me that my numbers were down. “So, that means I’m not pregnant anymore?” She confirmed that this was indeed the case and how sorry she was and that I could call for a follow-up if I wanted to.

So, I got another pair of speakers. And then went out to my car and started it up to go home and broke down in tears. That, as they say, was that.

Eventually, after trying two donor egg cycles, I realized that I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to get some help to discover this. One of the most valuable things I learned is that no one will tell you when to stop. There’s always something else you can do to try and get pregnant but you have to figure out what you can and cannot take –physically, spiritually, and mentally.

It didn’t work out for us. And we decided we didn’t want to adopt. And, it’s ok with us. Not perfect, but it’s ok. We have several nieces and nephews and they’ve become our kids…that we can hand back. Ha!

I’ve mourned over and over and I just can’t mourn anymore. I have to move on and be happy with the way things are. I think my husband still has some mourning to do but we’re doing ok. We love each other. We appreciate each other and we laugh so much, which is so important. I believe that humor is the great healer and we’ve found so much to laugh about in our experiences.

Now we just have to convince our nieces and nephews to take care of us in our old age. Ha!
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To read more about Kathleen visit her site 

Surviving the Nightmare

By: Lauren Jankowski

This is one of the most difficult things I have ever written, but I felt it important to write. I believe it is a situation that many adoptees either fear or feel alone in experiencing. I was able to write it because there are people in my life who love me just the way I am and I am forever indebted to them for that. I would particularly like to thank Julie, Marco, Alex, Catherine, Robyn, and Professors Bolyanatz and Voss. They have had a profound impact on my life and writing, for which I remain forever grateful.

Normal. That was all I ever wanted.

I have often heard that many adopted children fantasize about being the sons or daughters of royalty or celebrities. Someone important, someone famous. I never held these kinds of high aspirations as I knew how exceedingly unlikely it was.

Me? I just wanted normal. I wanted the medical records to be accurate, as they told me I had nothing to worry about. No medications, disorders, diseases (psychiatric or otherwise), clean bill. Nothing to worry about.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

A little more than a year ago, my natural curiosity led to my world being turned upside down. I opened my records in the hopes of finding my mystery half-sister. Unfortunately, there was nothing in my records about her but there was another name: my biological mother’s. What happened next happened within a matter of days. A general internet search turned up a mug shot and brief criminal record. A neighbor, who was an accomplished investigative journalist, and my trusted mentor, turned up a lengthy and colorful record. An accurate medical history emerged and it was not pretty.

Bipolar paranoid schizophrenic with a history of suicide attempts and violence towards animals. Was on heavy medication, which she often didn’t take. Her mother, afflicted by the same disease, needed to be taken care of and could not live on her own as she was a danger to herself and others.

How I wish I could write that I reacted to this news with stoicism and grace. That it did not affect me in the slightest and just rolled off my back.

I cannot because I did not.

I started out fairly okay and was more annoyed than anything. Nothing changed drastically.

Until the following week, when my mentor and I had a very nasty falling out. The man that I had trusted implicitly, who had been a teacher and friend, suddenly wanted nothing to do with me. Though our falling out had nothing to do with the revelation about my biological family, the proximity of the two events linked them in my mind. Suddenly, it felt like there was a neon sign over my head declaring that I was the offspring of an animal-slaughtering nutcase. “Look! It’s the daughter of a crazy person!”

I began to isolate myself, particularly from my animal-loving friends. When attending a vegan festival in Chicago, I found myself hiding. I suddenly felt like I no longer had a place in that world. I stopped writing for fear it would somehow trip the crazy switch that had to be lurking in my brain. Schizophrenia suddenly started popping up everywhere and it was always tied to violence, murders, and suicides.

My mind, which had at one time been a safe haven and a source of pleasure, had now become an enemy. A ticking time bomb that I could not defuse. I was doomed.

Thankfully, the same curiosity that had led to this crisis proved to be a saving grace. Being a writer, I have always had the need to learn. I enjoy it, flexing my intellectual and creative muscles. In the midst of this nightmare, I decided to take a course in Abnormal Psychology. I wanted to learn all I could about the mysterious disease of the mind. This monster called Schizophrenia, which means “split mind” in Greek.

The first day of class, I sat in the front row. I was in a daze and only half-listened to the professor talk about the syllabus. He was interesting and approachable. I give him a lot of credit. I doubt many professors could have graciously handled a brand-new student coming up to them after class, on the verge of tears, sobbing, “I just found out my biological mother and grandmother are batshit insane! Am I going to be too?!” (Yes, those were basically my exact words.)

He smiled and gently explained how unlikely that was. I was already in my mid-twenties and I had never shown any signs of schizophrenia. Miraculously this brief exchange made me feel a little better. I started to see things clearly once again. Nobody was treating me any differently. My friends were still my friends. I was not untouchable and nobody saw me as the daughter of the crazy woman, the potential future schizophrenic.

I was still me. Just me.

Eventually, I transferred to an out-of-state college. I wanted to finish my undergraduate degree and I wanted to be away from home. There were too many unpleasant memories there and it no longer felt like home. Once I arrived on campus, those old fears were suddenly stirred up again. I was one of the oldest students on campus and I was the daughter of an insane person. Even though I knew no one would know, I still felt isolated and alone.

On top of these fears, I was still communicating with someone that consistently made me feel small, dumb, and less than human. No matter how much my friends told me to cut off communication, I could not bring myself to do so. Perhaps I was trying to hold on to some small part of my identity from that time before I knew anything about my biological relatives. A time when I lived in blissful ignorance.

I lucked out. I took a course in Classical Mythology and rediscovered my passion for stories. The intellectual conversations gradually brought me out of my shell and I was once again reminded that life went on. I could still connect with others. I was not going to be stigmatized and my genes did not define me.

My biological mother was not me and I did not have to suffer for her mistakes.

Since then, I completed my first semester (my junior year) at college. I ended the toxic relationship that left me feeling sub-human and made healthier connections with new friends while holding my old ones close. Over the summer, I achieved a life goal and went to Europe for the first time. To my great surprise, the self-consciousness about my biological background was not as strong as it had once been.

As I journeyed through Greece, Italy, Germany, Spain, France, and other countries, I felt freedom rushing through my veins. I was in awe of the beauty that surrounded me. I was no longer numb to the world and still had the ability to enjoy myself. I was finally learning how to be my own person instead of defining myself based on genetics. For the first time, I was someone other than what people projected on me.

I am not doomed by my genes. I am not defined by my biological background.

A friend of mine asked me some time ago why I did not give my biological mother any leniency. She was, after all, not well. Surely her illness deserves some consideration.

I do not believe it does. Perhaps that is harsh, but the fact is that she knows she is sick and she made the decision to lie about it twice. She put herself over the health of her two daughters and I find that to be unforgivable. I am grateful that she realized that she could not provide for me (or my half sister) and made the selfless decision to give us up. However, that does not excuse her selfish act of concealing her medical history. One selfless decision does not give one a free ride.

At least I know most of the medical history now. It frequently leads to some snarky responses to doctor inquiries about medical history. “Well, I don’t think there’s a history of that, but I can’t know for sure. My biological mother fabricated most of her medical history, you see.”

Sometimes this gets a laugh out of the doctor. Other times the response is a horrified look. I have not decided which is the more amusing response.

So I came out of the nightmare a stronger and better person. I closed that chapter of my life and opened another one.

My name is Lauren.

I am an adoptee. An Irish/Cherokee/German mutt, we think.

I am a writer, an aspiring novelist who has completed four novels, a novella, and a number of short stories.

I am a feminist, a liberal, a vegan, and an animal rights activist.

I am interested in the field of Classics, particularly in myths.

I am graduating from college this year.

I am my own woman, in love with life.

It is very nice to meet you.

SlutWalks

By: Lauren Jankowski

According to RAINN: Each year, there are about 213,000 victims of sexual assault.

Recently, hundreds of people marched the streets of Chicago in protest of the victim-blaming that women are burdened with when it comes to the issue of rape and sexual violence. The protest was in response to a Toronto police officer stating that women could avoid being victimized if they avoided dressing like sluts. Almost immediately, there was a feminist backlash in the form of marches held across the globe. These marches are called “SlutWalks” and they are quite the spectacle.

Sitting in my local train station on a hot summer day, I started to feel woefully overdressed. I had heard that there was a possibility of rain, so I threw on some incredibly tight jeans and a black t-shirt with the words “I ♥ [heart] Female Orgasm” across the chest, the most risqué outfit I could come up with that wouldn’t risk too much sunburn. It was my first feminist protest. I have signed numerous petitions on a variety of issues, but I had never experienced a real honest-to-goodness protest firsthand before. That’s kind of sad considering that I attend college in Wisconsin. Needless to say, I was feeling quite excited.

Upon boarding the train, I reflected on the natural tendency to feel nervous whenever heading into the city by myself. I grew up in a family that held old-fashioned values and as a result, whenever I go on excursions on my own, there’s an instinctual wariness. Being a woman and being alone in the city is synonymous with fear. I can still vividly remember my parents commenting on the “shady” areas in the city –the places, were I to be on my own, to be avoided at all costs. As the train rumbled down the tracks, I started to really appreciate the point of these marches. Why should women feel fear when men do not?

I’ve often thought about the power of language when it comes to our development, starting from the time we’re children and continuing into adulthood. As someone who makes a living through writing, I’ve always been keenly aware of the power of language. Throughout the march, the message was continually reiterated: there are no sex-positive words for women indicating an obvious patriarchal bias in language. As a result, women are seen as less, as “the other”. Until this bias is addressed, we will continue to live in a world where rape is sadly commonplace.

But the question remains: can we reclaim derogatory words and reinvent them to be positive, perhaps even empowering?

This was the question I thought of as I stepped off the train and onto the crowded platform. The day was positively sweltering. I caught a glimpse of orange and the glisten of glitter. The sight of the word “slut” in huge black letters has never been so inviting. A group of four girls was only a short way ahead of me and I caught up with them, asking if I could follow them to the march. Much to my relief, they readily agreed.

When we reached the plaza where the march was to begin, I was heartened by the diversity that greeted us. People of all genders, ethnicities, ages, and orientations stood about in the blistering heat. Men held signs of solidarity, declaring that real men didn’t rape. Women were dressed in all sorts of clothes: from conservative to nearly nude. Women on roller blades skated around, handing out fliers to the next roller derby. All of us gathered together, prepared to take a stand against victim-blaming and sexual violence.

There was a rainbow of signs, each proclaiming a different and important statement. Some women carried signs identifying themselves as survivors and I saw at least one who had written “survivor” across her chest in large black letters. A young blonde girl, no more than eight years old, carried a neon green sign that said, “Go ahead. Call me one. I dare you.”

As I stood in a huge sea of people, I began to think about my own experience with victim-blaming. When I was a senior in high school, a sophomore was raped at a party. The entire school, and the community, only asked one question: what was a 16-year-old doing at a party? The narrative immediately turned the blame on her. She shouldn’t have been drinking. It was consensual but she was afraid of getting in trouble so she cried rape. She was asking for it.

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t think to speak up against this kind of thinking. She was a nameless, faceless individual. It didn’t concern me so I remained quiet. Standing in that sea of people, I felt somewhat guilty for this silence. At the time, I could only think of getting out of high school and into college. I decided that I would march for that nameless girl in my high school, even though I never knew her personally.

The heat seemed to climb even higher and I began to sweat even before we started walking. Glancing around at the incredibly provocative outfits (one woman came in nothing more than a thong and some very skillfully placed decorative tape), my earlier worry about being overdressed was confirmed. (Though I had no shortage of compliments on the t-shirt.) A few people handed out fliers for various things: the socialists of Chicago, the women from the Roller Derby, a group for the rights of prostitutes. Every group had a unique take on feminism, but women’s equality was the unifying theme.

Then we began walking down Randolph Avenue. I soon got separated from the girls that I had followed, due to my fiddling with my camera. Thankfully, the march was large enough that I was able to fit in nicely in the middle of it. The brief spots of shade were just as hot as the sunlit stretches. The march started attracting attention immediately. Faces peered out of windows, people paused to see what was going on, cell phones were held up to capture the march. It wasn’t too long before the marchers began callbacks.

“Hey-hey, ho-ho, sexual violence has got to go!”

“Hey-hey, ho-ho, yes means yes and no means no!”

“Rape is bullshit!”

At one point, we crossed paths with another group that was marching for breast cancer. We continued on down Michigan Avenue. I glanced to the side when I heard loud cheers and watched as a bus driver gave high-fives to a group of energetic marchers. In the places where traffic was blocked off, we got enthusiastic honks. I choose to believe they were in solidarity rather than annoyance at the inconvenience.

We turned onto Clark Street, the home stretch. By this time, everyone was sweating (I probably more than most), but our energy was not dimmed. We continued shouting. Those carrying signs waved them about excitedly. I found myself smiling, despite the humidity and sweltering heat.

As the march came to an end at Daly Plaza, most of the participants made a beeline for the fountain. They started setting up for the speakers at the huge abstract statue in the middle of the plaza. Music was blasted as they continued to set up. I somehow reunited with the girls that I had followed originally. After a bit, they had to leave and asked if I wanted to go with them. Feeling somewhat lightheaded, likely due to the heat and my forgetting to bring any water, I eagerly took them up on their offer and we hailed a cab.

As the cab pulled away from the Daly Plaza, I looked out the window at the gathering that braved the heat and humidity to make a stand against violence. A rainbow of people still stood around together, cheering and dancing. It was a beautiful sight that I’ll remember for many years to come.

There was no news coverage. The only mention of the protest in the papers was an editorial written by someone who had completely missed the point of the march. There was a blurb online, but that was about it. The march was captured in numerous pictures that can be found online, taken by the marchers themselves.

My disappointment in this stems from the fact that it was an important event for an issue that is frequently dismissed until it affects someone personally. We are living in a culture where rape is often blamed on the victim. We are living in a world where daughters need to be taught that there are dangerous people that will try to violate them. A woman who is raped is someone’s daughter, someone’s friend. Somebody’s wife, lover, child, sister, aunt, niece, possibly even mother.

As women, we are brought into a world where our language is skewed against us. We will all encounter derogatory terms like “bitch”, “whore”, “slut”, and others. They will sting and hurt like hell, but we will have to ignore it because that is all we really can do. But until we find a way to reclaim the language, we will continue to be confronted with issues like sexual violence and other inequalities.

Personally, I hope that the SlutWalks catch on. I hope they are held yearly. I will march in each and every one until victim-blaming is a thing of the past. Hopefully, this was the first step in the much more important process of eradicating sexual violence.

Almost Almost Famous: A Single Mom’s Story of Getting Her Family Without Mr. Right

By: Bridget Straub

Here’s how my life was supposed to play out: I would sell my first book at nineteen, fall in love with the musician love of my life by twenty-two, and have the first of our six children by the time I was twenty-six. We’d probably live in a big old craftsman-style house and travel every summer.

Now, for the reality. None of that has come to pass. Here’s what really happened:

When I was eighteen, my older sister and I moved from our hometown of Oakland down to Los Angeles, specifically the San Fernando Valley. We had come down several times before to attend various concerts, lured in by the stories printed in Rolling Stone and Creem magazines. It was a lot like Almost Famous, only we didn’t have the nerve or even the desire to be actual groupies. For us, it was about the music and the adventure.

I had dropped out of high school the year before over creative differences with a teacher (he said I hadn’t tried hard enough on a painting and I reasoned that he couldn’t possibly know how hard I’d tried), and joined my sister in her childcare business. We subsidized our move to LA with the money we had made, and quickly began taking care of kids down here as well.

I wrote my first novel, 4U2NYT, right on schedule and my sister began pursuing her passion, photography. I got an agent and developed a crush on a cute Italian bag boy at a nearby grocery store. Life was progressing, if not exactly as planned, close enough, or so it seemed. However, the crush went nowhere and the agent said he did have publisher interested in the book, but first I would have to change everything about it. Still young and foolish, I righteously took my book and went home! I grew depressed, as did my sister who, although getting a lot of praise for her photography, was not making enough money for us to give up childcare in exchange for the life of struggling artists. We decided a road trip was in order, and drove cross-country to see Bruce Springsteen, who was doing a series of shows in Philadelphia. Best trip of our lives. We came back inspired and ready to embrace our future.

All that time I had been looking around, waiting for Mr. Right to come along, but after seeing a program on artificial insemination I thought, “you know, if he doesn’t hurry up and show, I may have to get started on those six kids without him.” This was so long ago that it was deemed dangerous to be pregnant after thirty-five, and, wanting a large family, I was feeling old by twenty-six. Crazy. Within the year I started looking into A.I. as a serious option, found a doctor and a fertility clinic, and decided to go for it, with the full support of my sister.

It was surreal. At that time, you sat in an office going through a binder containing short profiles of possible donors. It was like catalog shopping. Because of my fondness for Italian boys, I chose what looked and sounded like the ideal match –not that there were actual pictures or anything. This was all to be anonymous. I think it was something like $200 a try, so I was thrilled when I got pregnant the very first time.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stick and I had the longest miscarriage in history. It went on for weeks. I was left drained and depressed while the rest of my family, who had been only reluctantly supportive up to this point, told me it wasn’t meant to be, and that I should put this all behind me. But I wasn’t about to give up and I spent the next year trying to get pregnant again.

It worked.

During that time, my eldest sister moved to LA with her actor husband and discovered that she was pregnant, too. This brought the two of us much closer, which has been wonderful. I kind of idolized her growing up, but, being the big kid, she just thought of my brother, our youngest sister, and me as the little kids.

My son was born a few months before my twenty-ninth birthday, just six weeks after my niece. When my sister had to go back to work, my other sister and I gladly agreed to watch my niece, which meant she and my son were practically raised as twins for the first few years of their lives. I continued to write, although with two babies to care for it was difficult, and I alternated between trying to get published and finding other ways to make money. For a while I designed and sold hand painted clothing, frames, step stools, etc. My second niece was born two years after my son and up until they all started school we took care of her, too.

Now in all this time you might note that Mr. Right had not shown up. In fact, I was having trouble even finding Mr. He’ll Do Until Mr. Right Comes Along. The circle I was hanging with consisted of young couples with kids in the same age range as my son. So most of the guys I met were married. Not a lot of dating options in that, but I remained optimistic that the right man would come along.

Years passed with very few prospects, and I began to joke that my poor husband-to-be must have conked his head somewhere in Europe and was wandering aimlessly, lost and confused. As my son got older, I began to accept that Mr. Right might never show up. I had looked around and seen enough unsatisfied and divorced couples to know that I was not the sort to settle for anything less than a truly deep connection with someone.

I blame –and credit –my mom for my stubborn determination. She was widowed when I was only seven, but always said my dad was the love of her life. Later as her friends pressured her to find a father figure for her five kids, she married my stepfather and for the rest of her life alternated between fighting and a resigned acceptance of what was best for all of us. The truth is that, at least for me, it was a hard thing to watch. As a result, I came to the conclusion that I would rather forgo marriage than end up in the same boat. But I would not forgo having more children, so it was back to the sperm bank.

It was still weird. I was given printouts instead of a binder to flip through, but the process was pretty much the same. I chose another Italian donor with features similar to that of the previous donor. My first daughter was born eleven and a half years after my son, who fell in love with her right from the start. Knowing that my daughter would benefit from a sibling closer in age, my second daughter was born two years later. Our family was now complete. As much as I would have liked to have gone for the original six, as anyone knows, kids don’t come cheap. I’ve definitely bitten off all that I can chew.

As for dealing with the fact that my kids don’t have a father, it has surprisingly never been the issue I feared it would be. I always felt that should any of them feel awkward or conflicted about it, it would help to have siblings with a shared experience. None of my kids’ donors are the same, and yet they have many of the same characteristics. At twenty-five, thirteen, and eleven, I could count on one hand the number of times one of my kids has brought it up.

Happily, single parenthood has lost the stigma that it once had. My kids have never had to defend themselves against the fact that ours is not a traditional family, and I’ve had an easy time explaining to them that not all families are alike. I’m sure it helps that we live in LA, but there’s even common ground within my own family. Out of five kids, three are married and two are not. My sister who has not married continues to live with us and is, for all intents and purposes, a second parent to my children. My eldest sister is the conventional one, still married and with two daughters. My brother married a woman who already had three children and then they had a son together. He also later adopted her three kids. Finally, my youngest sister and her husband have one son who came to them through adoption.

There have been times when I would have given anything to have a husband’s help in raising my kids, particularly through my son’s more turbulent teen years. But it’s like the saying at my daughters’ preschool: “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.” I live by those words, and, while also encouraging my kids to reach for the stars, I know that anything is possible, and so have raised them to do the same.

Find out more about Bridget Straub at bridgetstraub.com

AIDS at Thirty – Owning Your Life

By: Charlene Strong

Putting one’s experiences on paper can bring a light that has not been considered before.  This is just one of those moments. My editor-in-chief asked me to speak on a part of my life that has rarely been shared with anyone.

Now is a time to share. I lost my father over 15 years ago and it was the catalyst for dealing with my personal homophobia and pain.

I was holding my dad when he died, his once handsome face was being ravaged with the very visible cancer that literally ate at him with a very cruel suffering, the likes of which I hope to never witness again.

When I laid him back in his bed for the first time since he was admitted a month earlier, the machines were all turned off, the quiet a gift.  The calmness that came over me was strange, just an hour before I was screaming into a towel in the bathroom begging for the suffering to stop.  Was it that someone heard that scream and silenced the struggle?  I removed his St. Christopher Medal to give to my mom. As I sat quietly in the room with him until the funeral home came to receive his body, I felt clarity of needing to make some changes in my life.  I felt at that moment that I was moving through life without any life.  I was onto my second marriage and my husband was nice enough, but by writing that assessment I knew my days were numbered on this one.

I rushed into this marriage after much heartache.  My first marriage was a sad and damaging moment in my life.  I married a very handsome young man when both of us were far too young to know who we were.  Had we spent time in the same city while engaged perhaps we would have figured it out.  That’s really just conjecture, so we married.

Shortly into our marriage the intimacy stopped and the more I pushed the farther he pulled into his own world.  I would sit up wondering if he were ever coming home and calling the state patrol to see if there was a truck in a wreck that matched the description of his truck.  When he would arrive home he would often be bedraggled and not in the mood for explanations which only fueled our arguments.

Read more here!