In a story I wrote recently, I revised the phrase “as American as apple pie and baseball.” To better reflect Americans’ lackluster sentiment about baseball and the most fashionable tenet of our contemporary political culture, I coined the phrase, “as American as apple pie and the war on terrorism.” But the MoveOn political action committee, which is supporting war on terrorism opponent John Kerry’s run for the White House, is attempting to change the face of America, and in the process, restore the old similes used to characterize American identity in this election year.
That is, MoveOn.org is sponsoring bake sales across the country this Saturday in an effort to distinguish the fundraising tactics of the Democrats (little money raised the old-fashioned way) and those of Republicans (big money). Sure, there is something a bit humorous about this fundraising strategy. I’ll admit that it reminds me a bit of the kids in student council holding bake sales to raise money for various projects in middle school. But why did we quit holding bake sales once we came of a certain age and develop more “sophisticated” fundraising strategies? Many, whose parents would no longer do the baking for them, didn’t have the time or interest to learn how to become Betty Crocker. But I suspect that much of the reason we outgrow bake sales as a fundraising strategy is the minimal amount of profit compared to the amount of time it takes to bake and stand around selling our products. That being said, you’re probably thinking, “and that’s exactly why this is a waste of time for raising funds to help Kerry defeat an extremely well-funded Bush campaign …”
But I’m not sure that that is the case. When I received the email about the MoveOn Bake Sale yesterday afternoon, I skeptically checked to see if there were any bake sales in my area. There were none. I then checked again a few minutes later and 10 bake sales within 10 miles of my zip code had been organized. Some of them already had close to 40 volunteers for baking and selling. Some are scheduled for individuals’ homes; one is scheduled to be held at a local grocery store; another is scheduled to be held at one of the largest and most popular book stores in the city; and one is scheduled to be held at a popular restaurant. And there will likely be hundreds more like these held across the country. At the end of the day when the profits are totaled, I suspect that these bake sales will raise more than those we held in middle school. But even if they don’t, I don’t think fundraising itself is actually the point.
Rather the purpose seems to be to restore a spirit of innovation and entrepreneurship to Americans regardless of whether they’re CEOs or people who are just barely getting by in today’s economy. And in the process, the bake sales serve to forge a sense of local community among bake sale volunteers and like-minded customers at any given bake sale. And by scheduling these bake sales to occur on the same day across the country, this project unifies Americans committed to unseating Bush and alters the sense of hopelessness that many have in the face of the corporate stronghold on the political process. Is this a winning strategy? Only time will tell with regard to the presidential election. But as a strategy to bring communities together and change the face of America one apple pie at a time, it seems like a promising project.
On a related note, I encourage you to check out the National Women’s Law Center report on the setbacks to women’s rights in the U.S. during the past three-and-a-half years. You may be aware of some of the setbacks, but due to a dearth of media coverage on the subject, some of the findings just might blow your mind (as they did mine).
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“Diversity, like gout, is a rich people’s problem.”
A facile understanding of the meaning of diversity is troubling, as is the oversimplification of the issue of equality into a stark dichotomy of race and wealth.
Walter Benn Michaels, professor of English at the University of Illinois-Chicago, declares in The New York Times that in their quest to increase the wealth of “cultural identities” in their student bodies, colleges and universities obscure the question of socio-economic diversity. Michaels claims:
Diversity, like gout, is a rich people’s problem. And it is also a rich people’s solution. For as long as we’re committed to thinking of difference as something that should be respected, we don’t have to worry about it as something that should be eliminated.
Michaels does make a valid point that socio-economic diversity is vital to creating a vibrant, fair, and stimulating educational environment. However, framing the issue of diversity in such stark and, if we were to believe Michaels, mutually exclusive terms — race or wealth — is abysmally unproductive. We — and certainly Michaels — must expand our understanding of what constitutes diversity without compromising our commitment to furthering, in concrete terms, the wealth of diversity in institutions of higher education. Absent of diversity — in its physical manifestations, its socio-economic context, and in diversity of opinion – even the best-intentioned education can only create a myopic world view that leaves students ill-equipped to respond to the needs of an increasingly multicultural society. Whittling down the concept of diversity to one of either race or socio-economic status is at best an anemic understanding of diversity.
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“How will the Americans explain to the world the joint Shiite-Sunni intifada?”
The United States is now embroiled in an escalating hell of its own making; hundreds of Iraqi civilians are reported dead in Fallujah, the US-appointed Iraqi Governing Council is apparently livid that it was not consulted by the United States prior to the U.S. program to “pacify” Fallujah, and President Bush and the Coalition Provisional Authority have created a united front of resistance against the US-led occupation.
While it is unclear whether the current cease-fire will produce a peaceful agreement, it is evident that Paul Bremer and the CPA instigated a disastrously violent chain of events when the CPA temporarily shut down al-Hawzah, a weekly newspaper run by Muqtada al-Sadr, a radical Shiite cleric in Iraq. In choking off a legitimate forum for political discourse by shutting down al-Hawzah, the CPA further angered, frustrated, and insulted a large number of Iraqis; frustration led to protests which, in turn, led to the current orgy of violence.
Abdel Hady Abu Taleb, a journalist, demanded in Egypt’s state-owned Al-Akhbar newspaper, “How will the Americans explain to the world the joint Shiite-Sunni intifada?” How indeed will President Bush and the Coalition Provisional Authority explain to the world and to the families of the dead how the alleged victory in Iraq has disintegrated into an angry bloodbath? And what is to become of Iraq, given that President Bush is adamantly insisting on June 30 as the date on which the CPA will hand over power to a local Iraqi government?
Juan Cole, Professor of History at the University of Michigan and author of Sacred Space and Holy War, which examines the history of Shiite Islam in Iraq, Iran, and the Persian Gulf, stated on April 10, 2004:
This looks to me like an incipient collapse of the US government of Iraq. Beyond the IGC, the bureaucracy is protesting. Many government workers in the ministries are on strike and refusing to show up for work, according to ash-Sharq al-Awsat. Without Iraqis willing to serve in the Iraqi government, the US would be forced to rule the country militarily and by main force. Its legitimacy appears to be dwindling fast.
Muqtada al-Sadr’s Friday prayers sermon, read by one of his aids at the Great Mosque of Kufa, sounds both increasingly prescient and like a clearly articulated battle-cry:
“I direct my words at my enemy, Bush … If your justification for the war on Iraq was Saddam and his weapons of mass destruction, then these issues are past, and you are now making war on the entire Iraqi people. I advise you to withdraw immediately from Iraq, otherwise you will lose the elections for which you are now campaigning, and you will lose your own people, and other peoples, as well … America is not confronting a popular resistance, but rather a genuine revolution.”
President Bush and the CPA, though lethally allergic to the idea of an Islamic society, need to reconsider what the new Iraq will look like, and they must reconcile themselves to the fact that it may be clerics — unlike the secular Baathist regime — who become the leading voices in a new Iraq.
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Body art
I’ve always found it peculiar how people tend to praise statues and paintings of “healthy” — even plump — female subjects for their beauty, and yet beyond the museums, these same people deem women whose body forms are similar to those artforms unattractive, fat, or a slew of other adjectives. How is it, I wondered, that we concoct this disjuncture between what we consider beautiful art and what we consider beautiful in the world around us (not that this isn’t art in some ways)?
Apparently, the residents of a small town in Tennessee are attempting to do away with this disjuncture. But now I’m left wondering whether it is best to acknowlege that we should be able to distinguish our opinions on bodies in art from our opinions on bodies in “the real world.”
In response to complaints about the classical-style, nude female statues at G & L Garden Center, the center covered the statues with two-piece sarongs. Apparently, doing so doesn’t just conceal the art. It also adds another layer to the art as the clothes alter the representation that people see and think about. Now many customers try to peek underneath the sarongs — which almost seems to suggest that people consider the statues to be no different than human bodies. Which, of course, begs the question: why do we continue to differentiate between artistic representations of the human body and the body itself?
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Unearthed!
When I was perusing the Internet yesterday, something caught my eye. I don’t recall the exact phrase used on the BUST magazine homepage, but the terms “Lynne Cheney,” “erotic,” and “bisexual” were definitely in the mix. Both intrigued and skeptical, I clicked on the link, which took me to the following story:
Marcia Ellen Beevre
is BellaOnline’s Gay Lesbian HostSisters — A Book By Lynne Cheney
If you look around hard enough on the Web you find some humorous stuff. Everyone knows that our Vice President, Dick Cheney, has a lesbian daughter, Mary, about whom he rarely speaks openly even though the poor girl has to work for his re-election committee. But did you know that Dick’s wife Lynne, wrote a sizzling western novel called “Sisters” which is filled with hot, steamy stuff like lesbian love, prostitution and rape, and supports a sweeping pro-feminist agenda?
The protagonist, Sophie Dymond, is obviously bisexual as she makes love to her deceased sister’s former boyfriend (outside of marriage I might add), and doesn’t shy away from sex with women either.
Some excerpts:
The women who embraced in the wagon were Adam and Eve crossing a dark cathedral stage — no, Eve and Eve, loving one another as they would not be able to once they ate of the fruit and knew themselves as they truly were. She felt curiously moved, curiously envious of them. She had never to this moment thought Eden a particularly attractive paradise, based as it was on naiveté, but she saw that the women in the cart had a passionate, loving intimacy forever closed to her. How strong it made them. What comfort it gave.
The young woman was heavily powdered, but quite attractive, a curvesome creature, rounded at bosom and cheek. When she smiled, even her teeth seemed puffed and rounded, like tiny ivory pillows.
Let us go away together, away from the anger and imperatives of men. We shall find ourselves a secluded bower where they dare not venture. There will be only the two of us, and we shall linger through long afternoons of sweet retirement. In the evenings I shall read to you while you work your cross-stitch in the firelight. And then we shall go to bed, our bed, my dearest girl.
“Sisters” was penned in 1981. It’s hard to find a copy today, but Amazon says they will give it a shot for you if you want a copy. It’s been said the Repubos are buying them up to keep the 2nd lady from having to admit to this embarrassment. The Canadian publisher was going to issue a second printing this year, but when the Mrs. got wind of it she called it to a screeching halt.
Like most of the indiscretions of the Bush administration that they don’t want you to know about, “Sisters” will be kept from public scrutiny wherever possible. Odd. Don’t they think we know that Repubos enjoy sex too? Even lesbian sex? Like most women, thoughts about gay sex have obviously crossed this author’s mind.
So apparently, Lynne Cheney can write, and apparently, over 20 years ago, she published an erotic book. And we’re supposed to care … Not that I can deny my own intrigue. After all, I did click on the link, though the link title was not nearly descriptive enough for me to know that the article would merely offer a look at Cheney’s past.
Sure, I suppose that the fact that Cheney penned this book draws into question the Bush administration’s sexual agenda. It does demonstrate that, yes, people from all walks of life think about sex — and all varieties of sex, at that. But does it prove that she supports same-sex marriages or actually engaging in some seemingly taboo practices? Not necessarily. Is one’s fictional writing always equivalent to the writer’s version of reality?
Whatever the case is, I find both this story about Cheney’s book and the attempts by Cheney and Republicans to hide her authorship of Sisters from the public’s knowledge to be symptomatic of “politics as usual.” Of course, Cheney has a past. Strom Thurmond had a child with a black woman. Bill Clinton smoked pot. President Bush was a wildchild and an alcoholic until he “saw the light” on his 40th birthday. He may have even gone AWOL during his time in the service. Newt Gingrich had an affair. Hillary Rodham Clinton used to be a Republican during the 1960s, and many a politician has reversed his or her stance on certain policies. Guess what? Each and every one of us has a few skeletons I’m sure we’d prefer that the entire world not find out about.
Is this productive politically? I think not. Instead of unearthing tales about each other’s distant pasts, perhaps it’s more fruitful for the media, politicians, and people like us to acknowledge that people do change. None of us are born into the person we’ll be at the age of 60. Rather, the experiences that we have throughout our lives allow us to accumulate knowledge, form opinions, learn new things, have new experiences, and alter those opinions and perspectives.
So perhaps instead of simply noting that certain political figures have pasts that contradict what they preach, we should ask why they changed. What experiences did people like Lynne Cheney have that caused them to alter their beliefs? How is Bush able to justify sending thousands of young men and women to Iraq when he went AWOL during his military stint? What was it that caused Bush to “see the light” and find God when he turned 40?
We may not like the answers we learn; we may not agree with what those politicians did in the past or are advocating in the present. But by questioning the causes of these so-called flip-flops, perhaps we can begin to understand the similarities between political leaders and ourselves and make better, more informed policies based on the changes and reversals that enlightenment produces. Maybe then we could finally begin to do politics based on leadership abilities, life experience, and knowledge rather than mudslinging about one’s past, which almost no one in the political spectrum is immune to. At least not if they’re human.
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Musings of a political discontent
I’m writing this while listening to Air America Radio’s broadcast of Condoleezza Rice’s testimony before the 9/11 Commission. I write and erase multiple attempts to confront this spectacle. I feel a dis-ease deep down inside of me, yet I am unable to give voice to this nausea. In despair, I wonder what I, as a concerned citizen, can say when Rice’s defense has already been over-covered and spun well before she spoke a word in defense of the Bush administration’s actions prior to 9/11. The one bit of knowledge that I am confident about is that each side is already lining up, eager to gain capital from this media event. Frustrated at the attempt to pierce the veil of secrecy or misdirection or noise, I try to think about whether it is possible in an age of cynicism to retain trust in our public servants.
This is doubly distressing for me because, at the same time, I am developing a writing course designed to facilitate student engagement with the upcoming presidential elections. How can I expect my students to make meaning out of the swirl of data when I am devoting large parts of my life to informing myself about current events without clear results? I lack certainty! I am often confused! I know my reflective doubt is supposed to be a good sign in that I am avoiding the dogmatic certainty that often leads to abuses, but can radical doubt be the foundation for critical engagement? Academia has skillfully prepared me to question all texts and positions. Grasping my hammer tightly, I eagerly assault all sacred idols and social illusions, leaving the mess for others to clean up. Perhaps in this time of secrecy and lies it is time to think about a reconstructive ethics?
Still stumped, I have to return to the basics. What is it I see as a problem in our society? What plagues my own thoughts? What would I like my students to learn? What ideas can frame the beginning questions that might allow the imagining of new possibilities? This nausea that pervades my being initiates a radical need to return to the etymological roots (rad-) of the words that might jumpstart my stalled intellect.
A framing concern for me — personally and professionally — is ecology as the study of the interconnectedness of beings in environmental systems of all types. The root “eco-” originates from the Greek word oikos, which referred to an understanding of home, household, or more fully, our habitus. Ecology, then, is the study or understanding (take that apart — the foundations of the ground below us that support our current position) of the world which we inhabit and the attempt to derive new meanings from the interconnectedness and interrelationships of life. The need for ecological awareness seem obvious to me, but the word has unfortunately been paired in an oppositional relationship to another dominating term — “economics.” While ecology derives its conjunctive meaning from logos (knowledge), economics draws its conjunctive power from nomos (law). We have then in contemporary society a dualistic division of the concerns of these two important and powerful words. The study, knowledge, and understanding of our environments vs. the control, regulation, and management of those environments.
Might a reconstructive ethics start here in a rapprochement of these two essential concepts for understanding the increasingly interrelated and interconnected global system? Would the breaking down of these artificial barriers between these two major concerns of life allow for a fuller understanding of how we might restore a sense of justice, rights, and responsibilites? No longer would it simply be an issue of ecology against economics, or the market before our environment, or a separation of the human from nature.
Still, Rice drones on in the background as our public servants take turns grilling her. Glaringly absent from our current politics is any concern about rebuilding or restructuring our world. Instead, it is always a matter of attacking, retributio,n or punishment. We must isolate, preempt, and sterilize. We must be on guard, vigilant, and controlling. When will we begin to think about the foundations of our thought and ask if, in our origins, there may be flaws that infect our questions and proposals, stalling our efforts before they start and distorting the results beforehand?
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American stereotype
William Hung is hoping to bang his way up the charts with his debut album, which was released yesterday.
The castoff from American Idol has been transformed into a pop icon despite a lack of singing talent.
Is it just his boyish charm and innocence that have captivated America? SFGate.com columnist Emil Guillermo says it’s the perpetuation of racial stereotypes that has catapulted Hung to the tune of more than 120,000 hits on a Google search.
Most anyone who watched Hung on Idol or downloaded the performance of “She Bangs” on the Internet knows he can’t sing or dance. Guillermo offers a plausible explanation for the William Hung phenomenon: Mainstream America likes to make people of color the butt of its jokes, and Hung fits the classic stereotype of the ineffectual Asian American male.
Hung has guts that go against the image he evokes in some people, and from all accounts, he’s a bright guy.
It’s just absurd to think that if Hung actually did have talent, he probably wouldn’t have a record deal, given the aversion of music labels and Hollywood to Asian Americans, particularly males.
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Radical enough?
Last week, I went to the New York premiere of an independent documentary that had taken three years of effort by three pro-Palestinian activists. Putting aside my admiration for the dedication of the filmmakers, I left the event with a feeling I sometimes have when in the presence of politicians. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and feel the need to get out of there.
The film, titled “Until when …,” drew dozens of supporters, many of whom had to stand in the back of the room to watch the 76-minute documentary. The film featured interviews with the various members of four Palestinian families living in a refugee camp in the occupied West Bank. The filmmakers, director Dahna Abourahme and producers Annemarie Jacir and Suzy Salamy, originally conceived the film to examine the “right to return” concept. But the film also spent much time exploring the everyday lives of the families through interviews about their daily struggles. At times, the film was touching, at other times predictable.
Now I’ll get to what induced the eye rolling. During the discussion after the showing, a man asked why the film’s English subtitles said “Israeli” instead of “Jew” when the film’s subjects said, “Yahoud” (In Arabic, Yahoud means Jew. But the decision to use Israeli seemed to come from catering to an American audience, who might see the usage of the term Jew as anti-Semitic).
The man who asked the question said that “we” aren’t the ones who should be defensive. Presumably, “they” — as in the Israelis — should be forced to defend themselves. It seemed to me what this man really wanted to know was this: Just how activist are these filmmakers? Just how truly Palestinian are they? He wanted to question their political credibility. He seemed to want to know: Are these filmmakers radical enough to have membership in the Palestinian cause?
The three filmmakers had, presumably, not adhered to the rules of activism. The rules, of course, state that all forces should be marshaled for the purpose of defeating the opponent. Show no weakness; leave no gaps. His type of thinking, like that of propagandists, is a plague on diplomacy. But it raises an interesting question: Should a film like this have as its priority being political or just being art?
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Separated by the chasm of language
Reportage is a function of market and readership, and while this is a natural development, there is certainly something unnerving about opening CNN.com and finding that the front page headline is not about the disastrous developments in Iraq, a reminder that we are living through the 10th anniversary of the Rwandan genocide, an update on Haiti or any other consequential piece of news, but rather, “UConn beats Georgia Tech for NCAA hoops crown.”
We are often separated from a variety of ideas, news, facts and opinions by the simple fact of the chasm of language. As a vehicle to help readers distance themselves from their solipsistic worldview that is circumscribed by language, The BBC Monitoring’s site culls reportage from various news media and translates the information from up to 100 languages into English. Today, one portion of the site conveniently gathers snippets and headlines from Arabic language newspapers pertaining to the confrontation in Iraq between the supporters of Muqtada al-Sadr, a Shia cleric, and coalition forces.
If this great ether of the Internet can provide more than easy pornography and free music, let it be the opportunity to see the world through a different cultural, religious, intellectual and emotional lens.
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Love in a time of conflict

Love and conflict go together. Passion creates arguments. Enchanted April is rainy, at least in my neighborhood.
Of course it doesn’t have to be that way. In this month’s issue on the conflicts that arise from coupling, you’ll also find a country girl and city boy who surprisingly meld in reader Annie Murphy’s personal story Where metro and manure become one, a 70-year-old pair of lovebirds in Kathrin Spirk’s photo essay, and arranged matches that have survived the transfer to America in Radhika Sharma’s piece Outsourcing marriage.
But as leftist reader Tania Boghossian found out, coupling also leads to complications, both personal and political. Her essay Left/right love details a disastrous affair with a staunch Republican. Later this month, on April 19th, Henry Belanger explores the unhealthy tendencies of the President’s “Healthy Marriage” initiative, while Adam Lovingood shares photos of ecstatic but controversial gay newlyweds in San Francisco.
Our columnists share their own unique take on the current political battleground. Benoit Denizet-Lewis marks his ITF debut by unearthing the tape of a late-night conversation between John Kerry and Al Gore while Afi Scruggs heralds a new civil rights movement and reexamines the old one. Cartoonist Tak Toyoshima begs the question, “Why can’t all of us American immigrants just love each other?”
Alas, love and harmony are not the bedfellows we’d like them to be. At least not in this day and age, when the nuance and complexity of relationships has been exchanged for self-help guides that help men get girls quickly. While editor Laura Nathan’s attempts to sabotage one such guide went unappreciated by the author, ITFers can enjoy the irony.
So enjoy our Enchanted/Haunted April of Love. And don’t forget to take our Readers’ Survey to let us know your views on relationships: straight, conflicted, or otherwise.
Nicole Leistikow
Managing Editor
Baltimore
Coming in May: Our special issue commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Brown vs. Board of Education decision
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Nipping democracy in the bud in Iraq
When the Coalition Provisional Authority last week temporarily shut down al-Hawzah, a weekly newspaper run by Muqtada al-Sadr, a radical Shiite cleric in Iraq, I wondered if Paul Bremer was effectively driving those hungry for political dialogue increasingly towards religious centers. Apparently he was.
Supporters of Muqtada al-Sadr today clashed with coalition forces in Najaf and Sadr City, a Shia enclave on the outskirts of Baghdad. It is possible and probably true that Muqtada al-Sadr’s followers would have engaged in violent conflicts with coalition forces regardless of whether Bremer had shut down al-Hawzah. However, it is certainly worth recognizing that it was only last week that al-Sadr’s newspaper was closed by Bremer and the Coalition Provisional Authority, and that the CPA’s rationale for closing the weekly newspaper was that it contained articles designed to provoke instability and incite violence against the coalition forces.
In silencing a potential forum for political discourse, Bremer has certainly failed to stem violence against coalition forces, and he has arguably driven those who desire a political voice even further toward religious centers and violence. My aim is not to question the importance or impact of these religious centers, nor I am equating violence with religious centers. Rather, I want to underscore the idea that by silencing a newspaper — a medium that America ostensibly values as crucial to political discourse and the dissemination of ideas — the coalition provisional authority is chocking off an avenue for democratically acceptable political involvement.
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Left/right love
Beyond Pennsylvania Avenue and the polling booths, Republicans and Democrats are finding innovative ways to bridge the political divide. But they still have miles to go before they can sleep together peacefully.

I swore I would never date a Republican. Ever. Then I met Miles. Alcohol and its logic-impairing effects were undeniably contributing factors. We met at some soirée in San Francisco’s Mission District, which served as a veritable breeding ground of multiculturalism before the dotcom explosion rocked the ‘hood into gentrification. It was during the rein of the first Bush administration, and with all of the glory and trauma of the Gulf War still a sore wound in my mind, it seemed unlikely that I would bond with someone so radically opposed to my progressive ideology.
But I did.
Three dry martinis into the evening I met Miles, a disarray of limbs and a blur of khaki and plaid. With a full head of wavy, auburn hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and alabaster skin, he appeared too straight, too conservative, too damn uptight for my taste. Oddly enough, Miles turned out to be a good kisser. A great kisser. A most supreme kisser with a killer physique to match. What he lacked in aesthetic appeal, he made up for with animal magnetism. He possessed that rare combination of child-like wonder and wanton virility that made me want to rip off his starch-white Polo button-down shirts with my bare hands.
He tried to convince me that he wasn’t like the rest of his ilk. Sure, he shared many neoconservative views, but he was definitely not racist, sexist, or homophobic. This, however, begged the question: why then are you a Republican?
And just because someone is a flag-waving, family-values, NRA-lovin’, pro-prayer-in-schools, three-strikes-you’re-out, say-NO-to-drugs-abortion-and-porno, capital-driven political aficionado doesn’t necessarily mean you should avoid dating them. You have to keep an open mind and put your tolerant liberal theories into practice for a change, I told myself. Opposites attract. Look at Maria and Arnold, an ill-conceived convergence of brains and muscle, a couple who have remained happily married despite their political rivalry and his roving hands.
I tried. God knows I tried.
At first I desperately tried to overlook certain things, but slowly they began to fester in my head, causing what I feared to be a brain hemorrhage. When he attempted to regale me with diabolical sentiments such as “if it weren’t for Rush Limbaugh,” or lauded Ronald Reagan for his trickle-down economic policy in public, or lambasted “fat, lazy welfare mothers” for milking the system dry, I could feel the blood rush straight to my cortex. At moments like this, I would cringe my face into a spasm and walk to the nearest wall and hammer my head against it. Hard.
The fact that we met during a hell-ridden recession that left both of us out of work and flat broke didn’t help. Poverty, our common denominator, was the source of our bonding and dissension. Who’d pick up the tab was the terminal sore spot of our dates. Usually we’d end up splitting it in half, but more often than not I picked up the bill for no other reason than to avoid a scene. To my dismay, he was able to attend dinner parties, cocktail parties, pool parties, backyard parties, football parties, campaign parties, office parties, and rooftop parties without spending a dime. I held anti-party-parties. Parties where no one showed up — except me and a bottle of wine. I drank to forget him.
But it didn’t work.
At the time, I lived with three guys from Italy in a flat where the blow, the booze, and the women revolved through the front door 24/7. The first time Miles came over for a house party, I found myself avoiding him at every turn. I orbited the room in chronic circles, veering off into the crowd, dodging in and out of conversations, making small talk with complete strangers. Off in the distance I heard Miles’ voice rise: “Bunch of fucking illegal immigrants can’t even speak English …” I knew he was referring to my roommates. When Giovanni turned to me with a questioning look that said, “Where did you find this fucking whack job,” I did the first thing that came to mind. I ran. Down the hall, out the door, up the hill, and into the first place I spotted with lights on — an Irish pub. There I lingered, sunk deep in the dark recesses of the tavern until last call, and then stumbled home only to find the place completely empty except for a note on the refrigerator that simply read: “Dump him.”
But I didn’t.
While I spent my days as a Food Not Bombs volunteer doling out bread and soup to the lines of homeless snaking around the Civic Center, Miles would trek downtown in a three-piece suit to the swanky offices of the Republican Party. What he did there I never knew — and never cared to ask. When we met at night, both tired yet filled with an unwavering and often vying sense of purpose, most of our time was comprised of political discussions — which somehow led to sex. Miles rendered the brain an erogenous zone. It constituted mental masturbation: verbal intercourse as a form of foreplay. Tax cuts made him horny. Defense spending kicked his testosterone production into overdrive. For Miles, sex and politics were mutually combustible, and I often wondered whether he was tempted to jerk off whenever politicians debated issues like they do at the Republican National Convention. As a proponent of hand-and-mouth probing, I seldom found myself hot after analyzing Third World debt or the trade deficit. Occasionally, I marveled at his ability to get me so riled up that I would collapse on my back, screaming my lungs out, and kicking my legs in the air. Miles, ever the opportunist, would pounce on top and attempt to dazzle me with his latest trick. And it often worked.
Miles turned out to be pathologically ambivalent. Outside of the sack, I couldn’t tell if he even had a pulse. Void of an interior landscape, he averted his eyes, clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and didn’t so much as even glance in my direction to meet my unrelenting glare whenever I brought up a topic remotely related to emotions. Seven beers later, he would gradually begin to respond, grasping at words, pausing between breaths, staring at the door, where long periods of silence filled the void while the shape of thoughts were still breeding in his mind. What an idiot, I thought; what a goddamn piece of work. Say something. Anything.
Nothing.
He sits in silence, jaw clenched, arms folded across chest.
If we couldn’t talk about politics or anything remotely related to matters of the heart, there was only one thing left to do. Around 12:30 a.m., we return to his over-priced, under-furnished, rat-sized studio in the Marina. We’re sprawled out on a florescent orange beanbag couch, some fleabag relic left over from the tacky 70s Partridge Family décor, watching Saturday Night Live in a drunken stupor. He crawls on top and soon we lie naked, tongues licking skin, mouths forming sounds, hands touching the most intimate parts of our being. Here, the lines blur, and there are no boundaries between us. We kiss, and our bodies entwine in a wordless conversation, a place where an unspoken language gives birth to a whole new territory. And, somehow, even this is not enough to keep our passion alive.
We knew that we were headed nowhere, that we were traversing a hopeless trajectory. We will forever remain a half-read novel, with good dialogue but a weak plot whose ending we predict in advance without enduring a painstaking read of its final pages. Cut to the last chapter. Hurry. Read the last sentence, and then close the book. This how this story will end.
I will always be longing. For Miles, for San Francisco, for the years that passed like clouds racing through the sky, for the days when love seemed so close I could taste it in the air. I will always wish we could have conquered a bold new land, carved our names in it, and erased the borders with our own two hands. I will always be hoping for a new ending.
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