Meaningfully Exposed to Poverty

The world has felt like a lot lately. Most recently it’s felt very intense, however for the last year things have increasingly gone from hard to increasingly harder, and it’s been getting to this point slowly and steadily for as long as I can seem to remember. There are reasons. Many reasons. Some are environmental, health related (international, national, and individual), some reasons are personal, definitely many are driven politically, and certainly the crux of most of these things are economical. Payment for the promises of yesterday have come due today, and we do not live in the same world we grew up in.

How intensely one feels the weight of the world on their shoulders is inherently uneven depending on how you’ve been cared for within and by society during your lifetime. The landscape concerning such things is always changing, yet still remains largely the same. I take these things for granted, “just the way things are, so get used to them”. Recently I’ve seen more and more articles published, and media discussions pop up concerning subjects that seem so blatant, so obvious, so “old news”, that I’ve found myself pausing to reflect on the state of the “haves” and the “have nots”.

We live in different realities from the ground up. The shape of information I’ve always assumed we shared (at least superficially) seems to be less solid and less comprehensive than I’ve believed it to be in the past. What’s been promised, what’s distinctly never been promised, and how one’s grown to become more or less resilient due to their personal expectations for the future (on some level, “what one believes they’re owed by society”), is a collision of textures woven into what comprises community. The differences in these textures are becoming increasingly more apparent as the weave gets tighter. Lately I find myself observing class and wealth differences (even within even my own bubble communities) as much more pronounced than I’ve regarded in the past. This seems more important to understand now than it ever has before. Maybe this is because people who had brighter futures in their younger years are becoming disillusioned at an increasing rate (sometimes for the first time in their lives), about who they are to become, and what rights they actually have in order to live out or attain those inner success stories.

It boils down to the practical understanding one has about the hardships of poverty, and for how long one has considered themselves stuck within that framework, especially as more and more of the population joins this rank. The acknowledgment about whether or not one believes they have the right to attain (or even has a real opportunity to grow beyond) means equivalent or better than the circumstances of how they were raised, is a missing part of conversations we seem to be having today. Discussing more deeply, bringing to light clearly, this missing component would do a lot for our understanding of how we could be working within society for social reform.

Do we wonder what the experiences of others are when we mourn our own (perceived or real) decline? I believe understanding the struggles of others—even and especially those one does not identify with on multiple levels—is a saving grace which can benefit everyone. Especially in this day of the widening wealth gap, rising gig economy, and disappearance of job benefits and future securities.

A great example of this is: for the first time in my decades as an out queer person, I am hearing more gay men calling out and speaking to the privilege of maleness and cis identity within LGBT spaces effecting accessibility, economic mobility, politics, security, family building, and other community realities. Lesbians and transpeople who mix with gay men and their spaces have always known this and have been stringently aware of these deficits of equality since forever, but we’re now more clearly able to have meaningful conversations with gay men (especially white gay men) as they feel their own privileges decline in the current economy and political climate. They are, perhaps, more sensitive to the hardships of others within their own circles, which brings potential equity to a wider circle as the problem solving of these issues begins to unfold.

My generation, the tail end of Gen-X, was the first in recent history to understand and experience the coming-of-age reality that we would not exceed, nor even meet, our parents’ wealth in terms of household income or longterm financial security. I happened to grow up very poor, and have remained so throughout my adulthood. I’m sure for this reason alone I chuckle at headlines which point out that “corporations are buying up all the real estate and driving up housing costs for everyone, thereby pushing more and more people out of their potential for middle class mobility”, as if it’s a new concept or not exactly how things are done nowadays and have been done for what feels like my entire lifetime (though it hasn’t, actually, been that long). To me, poor folk have never been in a position to buy into the middle class without middle class support/help/”handouts”/investment along the way. This concept seems to be “news” to many people these days, something they hadn’t considered before or haven’t noticed happening in the past 30-40 years, steadily becoming more of an everyday reality and effecting higher percentages of the population.

I mean, how is wealth supposed to reach the majority of citizens when the only people taking home increased profits from business are the CEOs of big businesseswhich are fewer and fewer people as our capitalist society becomes increasingly driven by monopolies? Make no mistake: our system is a pyramid scheme, and by definition it’s unsustainable outside of committing to grosser and grosser acts of over population for all eternity in order to raise the slave class multitudes which support those living higher up. The minimum wage is less and less a livable one, and our “employment rates” are reflective of the number of people working gigs (which aren’t sustainable), rather than indicating gainful employment in a meaningful and supportive capacity. Speaking with my mother recently, as her perspective reaches further back than mine, she can recall the time before where this was not how things were done. There was, only a couple generations ago, a time where the country and businesses themselves provided for people instead of corporate interests. Credit cards were not how citizens gained credit not very long ago, and loans were available to individuals who needed homes (albeit white cis males predominantly). Savings accounts helped people save money and even paid reasonable rates to the account holder, since that money is used by banks, as it sits in the account, as the bank sees fit for its investments. Full time jobs used to offer comprehensive healthcare including dental, pensions for retirement, and an array of benefits which are rare these days if offered anywhere anymore (albeit to white cis males predominantly).

All I want is to have a reasonable amount of space to build the living museum I envision and desire to create. Space enough to teach classes in, space to utilize for a meaningful living. I don’t think I’ll ever be in a position to buy a space though, and rents are impossible to afford when it’s square footage and accessibility one’s in need of.

I guess this is all to say that paying closer attention to the realities of our ever increasingly marginalized and poor populations is more than your civic duty, it’s key to everyone’s survival. Look around. Most of us are struggling, and some are struggling epically more than others. I endure forms of marginalization which directly effect my potential for economic productivity, and also privileges (whiteness especially) which give me opportunities (networks) not everyone has access to. This too protects me to a certain degree from forms of active and inbuilt oppression which further ravage individuals economically and personally.

The more sensitive I am to these subtleties in privilege and oppression, and the more I understand how the system actively works for and against individuals based on an array of identity realities, the easier it is to help others in need and to find ways to help myself. I want to be a reasonable part of community, which means I want to rise as I also help those around me rise. I fundamentally believe we must gather together collectively in order to be strong enough to traverse the landscape of our current, persistent, and ever widening capitalist tragedy that is the train wreck of today—effecting us all politically and privately. The more points of intersection with oppression I struggle with, the harder it is to accomplish anything (even on a daily basis). By design this keeps the marginalized person down. An increase of community members I’m surrounded by who understand this helps make up some of the difference between us, and the better off we all become in time. It will take a mass decision (especially by those who feel as though “they do not have what they are owed”), to give instead of only practicing taking. This is what must shift in order for us all to have and to survive meaningfully.

The struggle of today is that too many people are clinging to a story of “their rights”, and less to the observation of growing percentages of people in radical decline, joining the ranks of those whom they never considered as having those same rights to begin with.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

This writing takes time, research, and consideration. It is my art.
Please help me pay rent: join Patreon, offer Support or email me directly. Thank you

Memories of Swimming Naked

When we were children there was this game that was played. 4th grade. I was in a new school, new town, with new “friends”. Football, drugs, and church summed up this new place. At least one Minister was known for indiscretions. Maybe with kids. I don’t know what those parents payed attention too, just the stories children told. Still, it seemed the churchgoers weren’t listening.

This school system’s rival was two towns over. These cities might have been like your own hometown. If you’re older than 35 and female, was always one of the boys even though you enjoyed dresses, and if you were from a rural area too you may already be familiar with some of this story…

The game was boys against girls. It was kind of like tag (or training for future drunken assault). Boys chased girls around the schoolyard and captured them, dragging them into boy-jail against the fence. A few of them kept guard so you couldn’t get away. It was supposed to be sexy (I think?). Forth grade hormones were kicking in, and we were all starting to be scrambled up by the simplest, awkwardest things. For example, Kirk Cameron was a poster you could get through The Reading Club and everyone had him.

I wasn’t turned on during this recess game though, I was terrified. I didn’t want to be owned by a boy, put in his jail, and told I couldn’t leave to spend my recess how I wanted.

Maybe it was the ethics of 1987 imprinting on my young mind, but that year I also had dreams of getting breast implants. Dolly Parton was pictured in lace in a magazine being passed around the classroom to smirks and stares as we learned about the vas deferens and fallopian tubes. It’s too bad they never told us they’re the same things, just in different bodies…

During that game I’d sit on the tar, knees to my chest, arms clenched by my sides when a boy caught my eye and start running towards me. On the basketball court, which rarely saw basketball played, I’d tighten all of my muscles as hard as I could, clenching my jaw and squeezing closed my eyes. I made myself heavy and dense. I willed my body to be immoveable. Unpickupable. Sheer intention through physical lockdown was my ritual. After plenty of tries, by the end of our time, I proved too big a hassle, and would be left alone. Uncaptured.

I was a boulder in a dress.

No fun.

Next recess I’d find other friends, always girls at that age. I still wasn’t safe from the games I didn’t like that they played, but at least I liked them enough to engage.

This is to say that I was a child. I taught myself these things, ’cause it seemed the teachers weren’t listening.

I was stranded further out each time I stood with my gut against the grain. I was mocked and bullied or beat because this kid had a crush on me, or that kid had a crush on them, and I was too oblivious and awkward, too weird to understand the mating rituals of teenagers and their often violent endings.

A couple grades later added male teachers to the list of people trying to look down my dress or up my skirt. Boys learned to sneak glimpses loitering by the girl’s bathroom entrance. It was Freshman year. I went to the mandatory (because I was in marching band) football pep rally. There I witnessed our rival team’s mascot being burned in a raging bonfire while drunken townsfolk cheered. I went home early with a stomachache, not understanding this type of revelry. That school district was hell, and the sports fans definitely weren’t listening.

###

The mascot burned that night was of high school number two that I went to. Sophomore year. I joined Latin Club, and went to their social to meet people. During potluck lunch they learned I had come from enemy territory. By the end of the social I’d been sold at highest price to bidders. You see, new club members were considered merchandise for a mock Roman slave auction fundraising activity. The following day at school I was charged with doing whatever my new “owner”, a popular Senior, desired. So in 1993 I sang on cafeteria tabletops, crawled on my knees to Math, and other less palatable things. The entire school was complicit, so “it was ok”, and I was excused for my sore knee’d lateness to class.

At this same school I was assaulted by my gym teacher while sitting on the bleachers waiting to play my trombone for pep band at “the game”. He continued to harass me during gym class after a meeting between my parents and the Principle didn’t change anything. No, the authorities were not listening.

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School number three was a smaller more artsy school, nestled directly between the prior two. There was no football team, instead Soccer ruled their day. They had an intramural hockey team captained by a few kids who became my friends—they were Jazz Band geeks too. They had named their hockey team “the Scrodominators”, and I’d met most of them over the summer in community theater. They started a battle-of-the-bands ensemble, so I joined and played trombone and back-up sang to Weezer’s “Undone”. We won, and were given a performance slot at the bandstand during our town’s yearly Summer Holiday. We wore peach and green tie-dyed t-shirts, newly silk screened, to unabashedly announce our group’s name to the city: “The Fuzzy Apricots”. (We thought we were pretty funny.)

This pack of boys who caused mischief were my crew. Senior year they even came to my ballet classes and learned choreography for a recital or talent show or something… I was kind of an honorary “one of them”, often serving as the bridge to the girl’s group who hung out with us too. On nights when I felt the blood stirring restless in my veins, I’d call the guys to get invited out. We’d skate on a nearby pond, hike around private property exploring abandoned quarries, or play hockey in the road in front of my house until the police (having little else to do), would pull up in the middle of my epically empty street and threaten county jail for our “illegal street activity” which was “impeding the (nonexistent) flow of traffic”. I literally and metaphorically lived on the wrong side of the tracks, but my friends had parents who were lawyers. We were lucky, and most of us were white in this tiny city with only one flashing yellow light.

Summer nights after Senior year were filled with breaking into the ironically named “Yacht Club”. Ironic because it was on a small lake where the townsfolk kept their canoes and a sunfish or two locked away. After midnight we’d go naked swimming—everyone knew the combination on that gate. Ravenous by 2am we’d hit up Dunkin’s, the only 24/7 joint within an hour’s drive, and then maybe grab a cigar from someone’s house to share while playing overtly flirtatious rounds of Mao in a barn attic down the street from my house until dawn.

We were drunk on each other.

On daring to play and make up games.

Fed by hormones and creativity.

In my teenage years my friends and I were busted up by local cops while lovemaking in the forest, on beaches, and in fields. You see, country is country, and under a black sky filled with billions of stars, smoking shitty 1990’s New England weed on the javelin mats out by the high school track, or on a lake in some friend’s no electric no plumbing summer shack, or in the attic bedroom where our whole Senior class almost got mono, that was pretty much what there was to do. With nothing but time and youth on our side, we were searching out the Deities of pleasure. Pleasure was the only thing we knew of to get us out (funny how I long for that mundane and gorgeous land today).

I wanted to move to the city and be an artist.

For college I ended up in Boston.

The rest is history.

###

What I’m saying is that artists have been the only folks even remotely safe for me to explore with, well the artists and the queers. Dominant culture still scares and never ceases to surprise me. How does one survive, so shut down and seemingly full of hatred? How does one not see misogyny, racism, rampant queerphobia, transphobia, and other oppressions—they’re established and practiced cornerstones of our severely limiting and dangerous patriarchy?

It is 2019.

Online I read, typed out over and again: someone begging for understanding of violent rapists or those who overtly undermine the bodies and rights of people who contend with pregnancy; the chalking up of this burned cross or that dead trans woman of color to sticking out “inappropriately”; adamant red-faced tales describing border detainees as “illegal” versions of humanity; not to mention politically manipulative redistricting defined as “permissible” constitutionally.

I live in a neighborhood full of people with skin different colors than my own, yet our bank accounts are probably quite the same. I’ve empathy, though I’ll never know firsthand my neighbor’s specific struggles or feel the exact grief in someone else’s bones for what they’ve lived through and had passed down as trauma generationally. We don’t have the same privileges in this society, and so we live together suspicious sometimes… until we’re not. Sometimes all you can do is sit in your car or drive, stereo loud enough to beat down repression before it catches up.

My experiences aren’t dire compared to many of my neighbors’ when that repression takes the form of cops.

According to politicians and people of means, we’re meant to be caged like animals for daring to survive.

Those with power are actively choosing the behavior of never listening.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

This writing takes time, research, and consideration. It is my art.
Please help me pay rent: join Patreon, offer Support or email me directly. Thank you

Connections

Photo by Jonathan Beckley

There are days I need to be quiet. Hours of nothing. Stillness. Rumbling within. Mouth glued shut around my impending vocal boom. There are days I need not to move.
~Creature/Karin Webb

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A new acquaintance on Fetlife asked me about being ftm today. They said they had a theory about why there’s an 8:1 ratio of trans women to transmen (I number I hadn’t heard before). They thought it might have something to do with societal privilege and how it’s less acceptable in our culture to be a feminine man vs. a masculine woman. He is getting at something there, of course it’s not the whole story. Here are a couple of other things I think:

Patriarchal society is always more interested in what happens to what it perceives as male bodies, than what it perceives as female bodies. How that plays out can be deconstructed in a number of ways.

There’s an economy in place meant to keep men from a full experience of their bodies, their emotions, their sensuality, and their femininity in order to control their physical strength. Men are rewarded economically for “being men” and aligning themselves with macho values.

Trans reality flies in the face of that economic hierarchy and people who have been vested with “membership to the club” face a lot of violence when eschewing privilege by honoring their identities. Adversely, people who have never been rewarded or welcomed into the club, those who have been neglected or maligned since birth, can more easily pass under society’s radar when not adhering to the rules. Being a butch woman is more socially acceptable than being a feminine man.

When you’re part of a minority class, assigned at birth, it’s hard to want to claim space in the class of your oppressor even when you feel you belong to it. You often understand more nuances concerning the reality of privilege because you’ve grown up experiencing it from the oppressed end. Identifying as “butch” rather than “trans” can sometimes be enough for survival, or may feel more accessible to someone who already has to survive on other levels in their lives (economic, racial, sexual, etc.). This may be one reason it appears there is a disparity in the number of trans men vs. that of trans women.

Dominant society’s interest in AMAB bodies far exceeds its interest in AFAB bodies, and shines a spotlight and throws money there. AFAB bodies are not invested in socially or monetarily, they can sometimes more easily disappear.

Connected to this phenomenon, take a look at lesbian and gay cultures, and you’ll see the same imbalance magnified. Most major cities will have at least one (usually more) dedicated gay male spaces that run 24/7 as gay male spaces, in effort to proudly serve that community — which also may benefit trans women, yet historically much less so welcome trans men. In these same cities there might be one or two lesbian “nights” around town on a weekly or even monthly basis. This speaks extremely loudly to the economic divide which is reinforced when 2 privileged people in relationship (gay men) are funding their community vs. two underprivileged people in relationship (lesbian women), who are often unable to fund or network to the same extent for theirs. Here we see the cis gay and lesbian communities mirroring dominant culture and even exacerbating a gendered resource divide.

###

On Wednesday evening I hosted the first (I hope) meetup of people who identify somewhere within queer, trans, kinky, sex worker, sex worker friendly, POC, people with disabilities, and politically active. We talked about a number of things — our needs and desires as individuals, what actions we’d like to see happen around us or navigate making happen ourselves, what’s already going on in RI, Switter, sex worker strikes, stripper unionization, poverty, women’s work, what it’s like to strip in different parts of the country, how artists fund their art, how race and gender and disability and poverty intersect with all of these notions, how struggle can make you more informed about a lot of issues, the differences and overlaps between chosen work, survival work, and victimization…

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Recently a conversation about the history behind the terms Womanism and Feminism came up. It was a good one to be having.

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On Wednesday morning Trump signed FOSTA into lawYou can sign this petition to overturn FOSTA, I hope you do.

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A friend recently mentioned I should make t-shirts which say:

Sex Work is
Women’s work
POC’s work
Trans work
Work for People with Disabilities
& Poor People’s work

Sex Worker Rights are Human Rights
Support Sex Workers
Decriminalize

###

From shit we rise.
It’s starting to feel like Spring…

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

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~Thank you.

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