If I took it hard that all my dreams were crushed at A Christmas Carol, my mom took it harder. When I found out Tim Curry would be starring in Monty Python’s Broadway adaptation of Holy Grail (which I had been following for its own merit, because duh), Mom jumped at the chance to try again. We were going to do it right this time, she said. She was going to get us a hotel room in New York City, and we would wait at the stage door before the show. I was going to meet him, come Hell or high water. When Mom called to get tickets, she said the words “best seat in the house.” The operator replied: “Okay, we won’t have those until April XX.” “That’s my birthday,” Mom said. “Let’s do it.” A month or so before the show, I found out through the BroadwayWorld forums that everyone was going nuts over seat A101. They just wouldn’t say why. I hadn’t taken any interest in the actual numbers on our seats, but now of course I asked. Mom confirmed: we had a ticket to that seat. (more…)
Right, so the moment with the ballet guy was awful. I liked girly theatre boys, and so did they. Damn.
I tried to like other boys. I had dated this one boy in early teenhood with whom I bonded over the musical stylings of Meat Loaf. That was almost like theatre. Almost. Not really. Nope. Not at all. The motorcycle factored in too heavily, and would lead my beau down the sordid, masculine path of trucks and guns and bars.
Then I dated a girl. I didn’t premeditate that happening; we fell into it, “practicing” for our future boyfriends, and it turned out that we liked it. The physical part of it. But, as we never discussed it outside of the moment, the arrangement was the opposite of permanent. It was, and then it wasn’t anymore.
But I had two pieces of valuable data: I liked boys who liked boys, and I liked girls who liked boys. Thus, I logically concluded that I should become a boy.
Now that my eyes had been opened, I searched for Tim Curry in other places than that one VHS tape. I learned that I had known him before, in IT and Home Alone 2. He is often so well-hidden in his work and, more, he was always turning up in places I didn’t expect. He did voice-overs for video games and cartoon characters. He read out audio books. He had done a lot, and I perused the body of his work so much that I had most of it memorized; when I would go out to the stores with my mother, I would look for titles in which I knew he’d had a hand.
I even bought the Miss Piggy cookbook for the recipe he had in it: lemon chicken with thyme. Mom and I made it once, together. It was delicious.
Meanwhile, Mom had explained to me that Rocky Horror had a huge following, that people dressed up and shouted out clever or crude things between the lines of the actors. She told me about people throwing rice, hot dogs, and confetti. She promised to take me.
I remember, it was the first time I’d ever eaten Bugles. I thought they were both great and gross, and had been shoveling them into my face ever since Mom called my friend N and me up to the living room. “I want to show you this movie,” she said. It was a musical.
N thought it would be like Cats and was reticent. This was after I wrote a “script” for Cats 2: the Memory Lives Again and forced N to perform it with me while Mom taped us. Thus, out of sympathy for N, I made a great show of reluctance and tried to get us out of watching the new movie.
But Mom wouldn’t take no for an answer. This was nothing like Cats, she said – this was rock n’ roll. “It’s called The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
I frowned. “Is it scary?”
Mom made a face. “Nooo?”
If you’re wondering how it is I ended up in a throuple with two metrosexual, bisexual men — that part is all my fault. Certain disapproving parties prefer to believe that I have been entrapped, or tricked, so as to allow two gay men to conduct their gay business under my naive (and thus approving) nose while I provide them with love, support, and a beard (if I may). This is not true, and before we go further with this silly post let’s get that much straight: seriously, I’m here because I put myself here.
But free will does not mean you exist in a vacuum, as a philosophy professor of mine would be happy to tell you. You have choices, yes, but the set of these is limited by what has come before you, and what can possibly come after. How ELSE did I get here? Yes, I wanted this. But why?
It’s that cat’s fault, up there in the fancy Leotard. (See what I did there? Leotard. I’ll wait.)
Sometimes I’m crafty!
Check out this tutorial I wrote for Offbeat Bride!
Better late than never (At least this didn’t take nine years to pull-off!), what follows is a short list of the things about being in a throuple for which I am especially thankful (in no particular order).
It’s been quiet around here, I know.
I haven’t said too, too much as yet about having cerebral palsy or what was involved in going from the way I used to be to the way I am now, owing a great deal to timing: for a bit there, most of the people coming here were very, very interested in my throuple marriage. On that subject, I intend to publish a post tomorrow about the perks for which I am grateful within my polyamorous marriage. Sort of in the holiday spirit, if a little late. I’ve been preoccupied.
Or, I should say, I have been stressed and anxious to agonizing, painful distraction.
Cerebral palsy is brain damage. It varies in severity and affectation so much because the places, and sizes, of damage vary too. Mine is spastic diplegic — both my legs are affected. Those aren’t the only places I’m hindered, as I have learned through living with this body, but “spastic diplegic” is an easy short-hand to direct attention to the worst of it.
It’s funny, but my brain — the higher, thinking part of it (the part that works) — is the part of me of which I’m most proud. Thinking, reasoning, articulating — these come easiest to me, and always have. My mother used to say to me: “People with CP are brilliant minds trapped in broken bodies.” I think that’s apt.
I was always great at test-taking, by which I mean the pen-and-paper kind. I never had anxiety about them, and I almost always got exemplary grades. Then, along came the challenge of driving.
I had had many corrective surgeries by then, so that my physical situation was a lot different than it had been when I was a child. (Other girls had time to watch their breasts grow; all I had time for was watching my progress at physical therapy. When all that was over, then I noticed that my body had changed in other ways. Only then. But that shock is another post.) No matter the improvements however, it was not enough… Driving was a real challenge for me.
I remember one day, my mother and I were talking about my woes regarding driving and, more specifically, the driving test.
“Well,” I said, “I mean… I have cerebral palsy.”
To which she replied: “No you don’t. You’re cured.”
This remark confounded me. I love my mother very much. She has done everything, everything in her power to understand, support, love and nurture me. I don’t begrudge her misunderstanding, because she doesn’t live in my body like I do. The truth is, though, that no matter how many modifications are made to my legs, I will never be cured. Or fixed. The disability is in my brain.
Looking at the moment now, I understand where we misunderstood each other, both at the same time. She thought I was talking about not being able to drive — that I was saying, for example, that because of my legs I couldn’t work the pedals, or because of my brain that I was incapable. In that case, her response was right on and good; it was as if she were saying, “You go, girl; you’re not missing anything other drivers have, not anymore!”
And I wasn’t old enough then, at sixteen or whatever, to articulate what I really felt. I had the words — I always have words — but not the courage to own as legitimate my own feelings or challenges. Now I do. What I felt then was an anxiety about driving, and about being evaluated for the same, that wrecked my body. What does everyone know about palsy?
Any hands up?
It makes you shake, baby. And not in the good way. For me (and for all?) anxiety compounds the issue, and the only other option is extreme rigor. Driving, my hands locked to the wheel in a paralysis of panic, to fight the trembling. My leg muscles were tense, my back was sore. I got out of the car from my hour with an instructor with a terrible migraine. Every. Single. Time. It didn’t seem like it would ever be a feasible reality, me driving. Why? Because all of these things still happened inside me even when everyone on the outside of me said that I was a wonderful driver, and that I was sure to pass my test. As far as performance, I was GREAT. But it was killing me. I hated it. I hated everyone who was “putting me through it,” for a time. I remember my father bought me all things car-related for my birthday that year, and I felt like he was mocking me (because I had tried to explain my trouble to him many times by then). I cried after he left.
My test date came. I went into it begrudgingly. I was even more panicky because this was for real, the big time — a TEST, and tests I hate to fail, nerd that I am. I failed, and all I had to show at the end of it was another whopping migraine. I cried. I felt like a huge failure. I refused a re-test, thinking myself unfit for the adult world. I assumed I would live my life dependent on the mercy and timetable of others, because I couldn’t face up to the awfulness of this thing. And no one around me was willing to agree with me that maybe, just maybe, my CP made it harder for me. I had gotten the impression that folks thought I was making a huge deal of nothing, so I hid in my shell, called myself an idiot, and shut way, way down.
I lived as a dependent, non-driver ever after (about 9 years). I met my now-legal husband. We married. He had no problem being my transportation, never pushed me, never questioned the validity of the pain I could recall too easily. I did other things for him, he said, and he could do this for me. I have my master’s degree because of that man’s goodness, his commitment to that promise. He saw that I got to classes even when they met two hours from where we lived at the time. It makes me tear up just thinking about it. He never complained, not once.
Not once, for goodness’ sake…
Things got simpler yet when we linked up with other husband. Now we were a network of helping each other, seeing that all were fed and well and loved and, in my case, transported in a timely fashion. We built what we lovingly call a tiny artist’s commune between the three of us. We made an effort to be positive, to be open and honest, and to be receptive to what one another had to say. We wanted to understand, not to shut each other down.
And one day I said that I would like to try driving again, if they would help me. My stipulations were that they had to be patient, and understand that this was the hardest thing I would probably ever have to do. They had to listen when I said I couldn’t do anymore on a particular drive, so that there were no bad, deterrent experiences. And they had to refrain from making long-term goals for me… at least out loud. Of course, they said.
So we started. Parking lots. I was rusty. I almost hit a dumpster and I couldn’t park to save my life. A few weeks later, I mastered pull-ins and turning again, and took to the back roads. I started changing lanes in panic mode. I started changing lanes out of panic mode. I noticed other drivers making bad moves, and anticipated them. I got on the highway. A lot. I waited all the while for the return of the migraines, the hyper-tension, but it never came. I was practicing with people who loved me, and who knew that this was hard for me, instead of curt and impatient strangers.
My mom found out I was trying again and, in her infinite joy and generosity, bought me a car. Three weeks ago, I took the second driver’s test of my life. The husbands came with me (other husband with a Rarity figurine on his knee, brought along for luck). They held one of my hands each while we waited for my name to be called. When I came back crying, because I had failed, they took me to breakfast anyway and we talked it all through. I had a good long cry in the car on other husband’s shoulder.
Then I drove us home. I wasn’t giving up this time. I had made a new test date, for three weeks later. For today. It made me a huge stress ball for Thanksgiving, and — as I said at the beginning — impeded my ability to embark on creative anything (though I did make a dessert, and read other husband a good chunk of Tess of the D’Urbervilles while he cooked.) I cried in panic and self-hate and restlessness when I couldn’t sleep last night. I wished the test was behind me even as I wished it would never happen.
I was with legal husband only when I went today, as other husband had some Man of Honor duties to do for an engaged lady friend. I came back into the DMV crying, yet again. But this time legal husband cried, too, and then I got my picture taken by a guy who looked like Santa Claus.
This is like being able to see Queen WITH Freddie Mercury, or Rocky Horror with Tim Curry. JCM is 51 — this is likely the last time he’ll don the wigs and heels. If you love Hedwig and the Angry Inch, consider seeing it played by the man who wrote it, and performed it first.
I remember watching the film for the first time, mostly because the back of the DVD case said something about it being like Rocky Horror. It’s not. They both have men in make-up in them and they’re both rock n’ roll musicals — that’s as far as any responsible, critical comparison can go. I, being a very big Rocky Horror fan, was defensive. I was thirteen or so, and all I could grasp was a film unfairly riding the popularity of my much-beloved cult favorite.
When I got older, I understood that the comparison to RHPS was a marketing technique and nothing more. Hedwig was not trying to be a newer, or better, Rocky Horror. Hedwig was, and is, it’s own very different thing.
Dr. Frank N. Furter is a man who accepts himself as he is — as a (“sweet”) transvestite. His struggle is in facing a society that is repressed and, thus, cannot accept him; he works to bring that society along with him on his journey. Hedwig is a woman who was pushed into becoming what she is, and the break was not a clean one (hence the “angry inch”). Her struggle is in accepting who she is without society’s approval, finding self-love and permission from within instead of chasing the approval of others.
They’re opposite stories, if we step back. One acted, the other was acted upon. The one doesn’t care what people think, and the other cares too much. The one is a loner. The other is alone.
Hedwig and the Angry Inch is, in many ways, more responsible in its message than Rocky Horror. It’s campy, but only on the surface — just because campy is (unfortunately) what we call it when dudes wear make-up and sing rock songs about sleeping with other guys. The circumstances are not campy — they’re not funny at all. We’re not expected to accept, and look past, things like murder-by-pickaxe or cannibalism (as we are in Rocky, because whatever, camp, right?). Hedwig is a human being, and we can love her/him as such and not be kidding.
I love Rocky Horror. It’s my favorite-favorite. Don’t dream it, be it — by all means. But I love Hedwig, too, and for deeper, darker reasons. So I’ll be there when John Cameron Mitchell puts on some make-up and turns up the eight-track.
I had an epiphany this week. It was as I was reading a less-than-nice comment about the wedding, which has gotten a lot of attention through Offbeat Bride. The epiphany was this: the people who are angry about polyamory are, often, really just defensive of monogamy. And more, I completely, totally get it. In fact, I’m on their side. Hear me out.