How to rise above an unseen glass ceiling?

I beat myself up, to beat him to the blow.
Setting expectations low.
I feel myself seething.
How many questions can you ask
in these timed trials, tribulations
and trepidations
Even when you don’t care
for yourself
except
on principle.
Principal.
Principles.
Disciples.
Desponds.
Devoted followers. But what if the person who is supposed to oversee, sees only what they want to see –
not you?
Rising to the top
is not
an option
when you were at odds to begin with,
stacked,
but not in your favour;
despite ticking all the boxes:
marginal
female
oppressed
depressing, yes.

Voiceless? Victim? No.
‘She could not do more.’

‘She could do no more.’

‘She could not do it.’ (he surmised, deciding). Point one of three, fingers at me.
Even you know this. Can you bear this with patience?
Can you wait it out, without outing yourself?
Absenting yourself from this running
running,
ruining,
exhausting. Depleted.
In a box I’d beat this,
beat all the odds –
even myself. Boxed in.

Rings around these rose coloured glasses. Outmatched. Revealed.

Putting makeup on bruises I thought had long since healed.
But there are voices, opponents, I can’t dance around, skirting the issue-
the questions I feel swimming up my thighs,
into the tastefully unmentioned areas of gender and sex;
I am the problem-
the problem, child.
Sorting out yours,
theirs,
and raising them.
Hell, I’ve raised myself
in a system that didn’t know I existed
until I screamed present
demanding a seat at the table,
raised at one where I was always taught that it was okay to ask for more.
You don’t appreciate this. You twist
these pleas,
making pleasant plans into present pains;
uneasy.
I don’t know which ghost I’m dancing with;
my own anger
at past fences
unmended; or a host of unanswered doubts,

and sign posts upended.

I wave goodbye to myself, when you walk by.

Reaching to connect, shut out, chin lifted. Struggling, sweating to make meaning and to hear myself move. Gifted –

but I have an audience of none. Audience of one. If only. Wanting to be seen.

You buy no tickets. You shut it down slow. You are a closed house. Lights out. The disempowerment show.

I got my own box
to hoist myself up –
to see over that equity fence;
lenses rosy
in my glasses,  teeth set with purpose and intent, on
your house, transparent
so close to breaking
me down
so many times. So many times –
I’m tougher than I look
but not that tough.
I break sometimes
and you see weakness,
but I’m brave just to be here
knocking at your door,
still looking for your approval
even though I’m sick with wanting
sick that I feel like this,
needing a word,

when mine are the ones that ring loudest, in my head,
calling you out,
like I can’t in real time
because shattered glass
makes for dangerous learning
and this is your house.

Tweet

sometimes I hear the things that are happening around me and it just has to put a smile on your face. My wife recently started tweeting. Today she says, “I have 53 followers, but one of them is the producer of Game of Thrones. Another is Brooke Burke. Oh… And The Book of Negroes. How did this happen?!” 

She sure has quality over quantity. 

I love her. 

Update: The More Things Change… The Worse They Get

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Case in Point: This dumb, dumb new law (and the host of others) passing in the USA. The one that celebrities are cancelling shows for and companies are halting plans to build in various states on the account of…new laws. New shitty laws.

“Bruce Springsteen pulls out of North Carolina concert over anti-LGBT law. ‘Some things are more important than a rock show’ Springsteen says as band joins notable businesses in condemning controversial discriminatory law.” Go Bruce!

More here.

Another article explains how celebs taking a stand against said shitty laws are actually deploying ‘bullying’ tactics. These people clearly need to go back to high school and be a gay teen to know what actual bullying and actual discrimination looks like. In the article,

“North Carolina Republican congressman Mark Walker said that it was “disappointing” to hear about Springsteen’s much-celebrated decision. “Bruce is known to be on the radical left and he’s got every right to be so,” said Walker, “but I consider this a bully tactic. It’s like when a kid gets upset and says he’s going to take his ball and go home.”

Umm. Isn’t that called good parenting?  When someone treats you poorly, you take your gear and you tell them to stuff it. That just sounds logical, not at all like bullying; if they want to play with YOUR ball, maybe they shouldn’t discriminate against you. Do we really expect someone to LEAVE their ball so the goons can keep playing with it, even if they’re… goons?

In even wilder news, we just realized that our province has a terrible legal reality that will/could affect us. The article below covers the details of this law really eloquently. It’s a bit terrifying to realize what you DON’T know about your own legal system. Because we know our donor (my brother), if my wife carries and has our baby, conceived OF by us, together, married spouses, planned, relentlessly pursued and hoped for, I will not be the legal parent. Because we know the donor, HE will be the legal parent. Despite the fact that more time, care and effort has gone into planning our wee one than many (*not all) straight couples who find themselves pregnant. Despite the fact that many heterosexual couples don’t have to prove or even state doubts about paternity. They say who it is. Fact or no. This is based on the assumption that he COULD have fathered the child. It seems to be a ‘to the best of my knowledge’ scenario. Unless there is major cause for pause… he gets to be the father, even if he didn’t carry the baby.

However, for us, I would need to legally adopt the child I dreamed up, planned, drove to appointment after appointment, experienced miscarriages waiting for; after caring for my spouse, marrying her, supporting her, taking care of her and eventually their well-being, having my paycheque support and stating, intentionally, a desire to parent… I have to stand in front of a judge and have that person decide that I can be my child’s parent.

Puke.

God forbid anything happened to my wife. My brother might be the person who could help me take our/his child from the hospital… as discussed by the author of the article below. What a horrific nightmare. It’s the next phase of that heart-breaking film If These Walls Could Talk

Are these really the things our government and legal system should be spending time policing?  The article explains the case and uses the author’s own experience (as a lawyer) to detail the sad reality of the current law.

There is a current petition to amend it. I’m going to print it out. And get signatures. And write about it. But seriously. How can two people who want so badly to be parents, who are intelligent, thoughtful, committed people, be less deserving of a shot at raising kids than any random person who happens to get pregnant, just by virtue of our vaginas?  It is baffling.

And finally, A’s mom is coming … from Jamaica. Just the right set of circumstances to send us on another round of sad/mad/bad feelings when all the emotions of past events get dredged up each time she comes to stay… with A’s sister. And her beautiful family. Which we found out about two days ago. Which has been planned… definitely longer than for two days.

Gonal?

So we’re thigh deep in our birth journey… again. Or ankle deep. Where does it start?

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We have had three miscarriages (maybe two, but the two positive pregnancy tests and then a negative blood test… so no dice) and now, for the first time, we are upping our game and trying some hormone assistance. So the doctor prescribed Gonal F.

We’ve done everything naturally up until this point. So far, we had no indication that there were any infertility issues, just the absence of a ‘natural’ penis in our relationship.

What is Gonal F like? Well, we know it’s different for everyone. If you like unpredictable, extreme side effects. It’s fun. No, seriously. My wife was prescribed the lowest dose (75), to start, and we were told to do injections for three days, after which we’d monitor the hormone levels. Know what? I thought the hard part would be the pulling your skin into a bunch and injecting yourself (herself) at 90 degrees with a needle. Yeah, that was fun and required some talking through. However, the highlight of the experience was the onset of a huge rush of hormones… with my wife who is highly susceptible to hormones, drugs and side effects of any kind. So, the symptoms were something like a UTI on steroids… feeling like you have to pee non-stop, then the burning sensation. Feeling very out of control. Not sleeping all night. Two more days of this?

At about 7 am, one litre of water and some cranberry juice-later… she crawled into bed. Poor gal.

By the time she woke up and called the clinic, it was closed (at noon).

So we called a lesbian friend who had been on a number of meds during her egg harvesting… She, it turns out, had taken Gonal F for a month. We were treated to a story we’d never heard before. Which is why she will remain anonymous. Apparently Gonal F made her feel like she was losing her mind. On one occasion she was so inconsolable and angry that she took off to a park, and her wife later found her, holding a tree branch and crying in the forest. Super.

According to her, the feelings of pregnancy hormone rushes are even worse on this drug. ‘Every woman reacts differently’ is a really cautious way of mentioning none of this. Happy Day 1!