Love and/or Sex

The following is based on actual conversations.

Peter: Do you want to get married?

Kathy: No, not right now.

P: No, I don't mean right now, I mean eventually. Ever. Do you ever want to get married?

K: To you?

P: Yeah, why not?

K: (giggly, sheepish) Well . . . What about your physical attraction to men?

P: I'm thinking that if I can give up men, then you'd be doing almost the same thing if you married me.

K: What about sex?

P: Well, if you talk to married couples , those who have been together a long time, sex always seems to become nonexistent anyway. So I'm thinking, why don't we get married and just skip to that part?

K: (laughing) I am not giving up sex! I'm only 23, and I haven't had that much sex yet, to begin with.

P: So, we wait until we're older, when sex becomes less of a priority, and we get married so that we can always be together.

K: I'm not saying that I live for sex. I just think that marriage makes sex important, makes it substantial. Do you know what I'm trying to say?

P: Yeah, I think I do. Most people have it the other way around, thinking that sex makes marriage important. I would never confuse it that way with you.

K: Could you . . . Could you feel for a woman? Get everything in proper working order for what's considered . . . regular marital relations?

P: I definitely want to have kids, so I've thought about it a lot. Yeah, I think I could.

K: Why don't we consummate our love right now? Come on!

P: (laughing, nervous) Because I'm not ready yet!

K: Kiss me.

Peter looks at her

K: Kiss me. You don't have to do me. Just kiss me.

Old Guy

Going back to school at age 38 was a positive experience. Any worries about not being able to blend in with students almost half my age were soon put to rest. And the cheerleader/sorority types embraced me as one of their own, probably because the major of Gender Studies was inevitably a gay-friendly environment.

"Omigod!" Kirsten had exclaimed to me, while walking to class. "I was just talking about you with Deanna. She's in my sorority and we so love having you as a classmate!"
"Aww, you girls are so good for my ego," I replied. "Where were you when I was in high school?"
Kirsten hesitated before answering. "Um . . . we weren't born yet?"

It was a rhetorical question, BEOTCH!

Reluctant Trojan

Being admitted to USC as an undergraduate student a few years ago was definitely one of the better opportunities in my life. I was driven to attend every class meeting, turn in every assignment on time, and actually do the required reading in order not to waste the generous grant money that covered the majority of tuition.

But oh, what a burden for someone like me to be attending classes on that campus during two successful football seasons. As much as possible, I tried not to bring up USC in conversation, outside of school. If I did, most people would inevitably want to talk about the school's football team.

I have never paid attention to sports. Even in high school I probably would not have attended a single football game or basketball game if I hadn't been in band. At USC, I didn't even buy the student activities card that would've allowed me to get discount game tickets, a student perk people were always hoping to access from me.

And although I happily avoided the frenzy and mania of Trojan sports, there was still the school spirit, the obligatory, required school spirit. When Trojan newbies first register and attend orientation, they are taught to hold up the V-for-victory sign to other fellow Trojans and say, "Fight on!" And they make you do it, too, at orientation at least. I had joined a cult!

When people asked if I had attended any of the football games, a stock answer had naturally evolved:
"No, but I had a tap class with two of the cheerleaders. That's the closest that I ever got to the football atmosphere at school."

Halfway to Awareness

Being of mixed race has usually meant that I get to experience the best of both worlds. Part of my own plastic bubble world is that I have never really experienced open prejudice or discrimination, either here in America or in Japan. Being a whore for attention, I've always enjoyed the fact that people found my mixed background to be something of a novelty.

I'm lucky that my ethnic identity has mostly worked to my advantage. But it has also contributed to my lack of awareness. I have always taken for granted that I will never know what it's like to be completely Caucasian, no matter how 'white' I felt while growing up, or how 'white' I was treated.
But I will also never fully comprehend the experience of being 100% Asian American.

I'm still surprised, now and then, by the things that bring me to increased awareness. An Asian American on television--I wish I could remember who, now--was saying how people would sometimes marvel at how well he spoke English, despite the fact that he was born in the U.S. (or was it in the U.K., a line from "Cut Sleeve Boys?")
This was something I had never experienced. Domestic Partner told me that, as an ABJ (American Born Japanese), this was something he had been through several times, and he had always found it a little frustrating and a bit racist.

Yes, Domestic Partner is Japanese American, for those of you who don't know yet.
That's something else I take for granted, the fact that most people assume that I am paired up with a Caucasian man. Many people are still surprised when they find out that my guy is also Asian American.

The thing is, it doesn't bother me. Maybe it should. That way of thinking can perpetuate the stereotype of all of us rice-eating, slanty-eyed types wanting to be coupled with the Aryan ideal. It's twisted, but I understand it. I used to want to be with little blonde, blue-eyed girls (who never wanted me back!) while growing up. And then I wanted to be with blonde, blue-eyed surfer boys from about the age of 19.
But only for a while.

Being accepted by a white significant other helps to carry over and further reinforce acceptance by white society in general, at least, in some minds.

Maybe I have it all backwards. In Japan, Domestic Partner would be looked at as the one paired up with a whitey.

Mmmmm. "Sticky Rice."

Aunt Pat, Roller Coaster Woman

I know some fun people in life, and my Aunt Pat is one of the most fun.
She took me on my first roller coaster ride when I was five years old. Actually, it was a kiddie-coaster at Santa's Village, in the San Bernardino mountains. I was terrified, and she held me close in a secure hug, during the whole ride.

Aunt Pat took my siblings and me to Magic Mountain park in Valencia, several times as we were growing up. She would ride on every roller coaster with us, such as Colossus and the Revolution. She continued to ride with us as we became teenagers and young adults.

Aunt Pat is now in her sixties, and just as outgoing and active as ever, although it's been a while since any of us were last on a roller coaster. She did ride through all of the water flumes at Soak City, last year, with me and my tween-age niece.

I asked her if she might want to be cremated, when her time comes. I wasn't trying to be intentionally morbid.
"I was thinking of taking a portion of your ashes on a roller coaster," I told her. "I would let your ashes fly once we started speeding down the first incline."
Aunt Pat laughed. She loved the idea.
"Just make sure you're sitting in the very last seat," she replied. "I wouldn't want to be scattered into some one's eyes."

Grateful and Guilty?

I live in a dream world. My 'Simple Kind of Life' is good, and I almost feel guilty about it, sometimes.

Perspective is a funny thing, funny in that it is strange, mostly because it is so relative.

I met with two good friends this week. One has recently started dealing with an eating disorder. The other had dealt with cancer recently, and several resulting surgeries.
And the list goes on, as I'm sure it does for most people, if not in their own lives, then in their closest satellite relationships.
Someone close to me has been dealing with infertility. Another close friend is sandwiched between a young child with frightening health problems and an ailing step-parent.

And what problems do I complain about? I have to let go of my '94 Saturn because it has gone beyond piece-of-crap status. I don't know how much longer my scooter will hold out, and then--gasp!--I might have to ride the bus to work and back.

In other words, I have no right to complain.

About anything.

So, this is my prayer, and it has been for quite some time, now:

God, please help me not to waste my space on this planet. Please help me to be of some use to others, in realistic ways, both tangible and intangible.

Many people have been very kind to me, my entire life. I don't always remember that, especially when I'm wasting time feeling sorry for myself. I try to practice remembering more often, because it helps me to be kind to other people.

"Life is not fair. But sometimes, life is not fair in your favor."
~ Peter Varvel

Scooter Meditation

Now I lay me down to sleep
My peace of mind I pray to keep
And though I dream before I rise
Still vague the vision of three eyes

Now I risk life on the road
On daily scooter rides, light load
My constant prayer: to stay alive
And in one piece safely arrive

My chatty self, even when praying
May miss what Universe is saying
So help me still the inner clatter
I need to listen, hear what matters

I'm grateful that I've lived past forty
So far, Great Times! I thank you, Lordy
But if I die before age fifty
I'm grateful, still--my life's been n . . . wondrous