Salon.com > My Tiny Hypocrisy

My affirmative action fail

Sat, 06 Aug 2011 20:01:00 +0000

I do not look black. I know this to be true not just because I own a mirror, but also because others often tell me when I reveal my mixed race heritage. People seem compelled to comment as if blackness, were it real, would have left a more visible mark.

I am a television writer in Hollywood, and when I told my agent that my father is black and my mother is Jewish, he said, "You mean the man you call your father."

"Yes, well, I call him my father because he is my father."

"Your biological father?"

"Yes. As far as I know."

But it wasn't long before my agent saw this autobiographical detail as a possible opportunity. "How do you feel about me using that when I pitch you?"

I recalled this conversation as we were coming up on staffing season, the few months each spring when writers are hired to work on TV shows for the fall. It's always been a cutthroat time, but particularly so these days, with staffs on scripted shows smaller since the writer's strike three years ago, and the boom in reality TV continuing unabated. With experienced staff writers flooding the market, there's only a few coveted slots for newbie writers to catch a break -- and often those are diversity positions.

The minivan I swore we’d never buy

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:30:00 +0000

It was out there, in my driveway, a big box on wheels.

"Don't you want to see it?" my husband asked.

"No."

"It's blue."

"I see that."

It was very blue, our new minivan. I turned away from the window, wondering if this was it -- the final death blow to my youth. At the same time, I felt a small thrill of anticipation. Maybe the minivan would be the entree I needed to break into the seemingly insulated mommy circles in my area. Because despite years of bravado, claiming that motherhood wouldn't change me, I secretly wanted in.

My sophomore year of high school came back in a rush, and I remembered my science teacher standing in front of the class to casually announce that everyone needed to pair off into groups of two for a project. I watched with mounting horror as my friends quickly shuffled their chairs around, forming groups with subtle looks and beckoning hand gestures. Within seconds, I was deserted in a tangle of abandoned chairs and awkwardly angled desks. I gazed around the room and snagged the eye of another forgotten soul -- the biggest nerd in the class. It actually turned out pretty well, being paired with that boy; we got an A on the project while my friends (the traitors) did poorly. But I never forgot that snub. And that longing to belong followed me into adulthood. Into parenthood -- even when the available groups no longer appealed to me.

I don’t support the bookstores I love

Tue, 12 Jul 2011 01:01:00 +0000

A TV commercial I saw recently sums up a lot of what is wrong with modern life. In it, a lovely young woman tells a man of her own age that she's going to a bookstore to pick up a copy of some sensational new bestseller. She asks the young man if he'd like to come along to the bookstore with her. The man turns down her offer saying, in effect, "No thanks. I've got a Kindle [or perhaps it was a Nook]. I can download the book right now and begin reading it in seconds."

The ad aims to show how this e-reader can improve your life, but this guy looks like he's losing out. If I were a single man in my twenties and a hot young woman asked me to accompany her to a bookstore, I'd leap at the opportunity, even if I had no desire to purchase a book. Bookstores are generally acknowledged as enjoyable places to hang out. That's why the characters in romantic comedies ("You've Got Mail," "Dan In Real Life," "Notting Hill," etc.) are often seen together in bookstores. And so, as the commercial ended, I fumed to my wife about the manifold evils of a society that encourages people to use electronic devices in order to avoid such things as intercourse with other human beings who are actively seeking one's companionship. And yet, there was an element of hypocrisy in my ranting and raving.

Why I don’t celebrate gay pride

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 15:01:00 +0000

I've always felt conflicted about the idea of "gay pride." The standard definition of pride is "a feeling or deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements."

Being gay is something else. I didn't "become" a lesbian; it's not some goal that I achieved. I've known I was attracted to other women since the moment I hit puberty. The only difference, compared to the experience of my heterosexual peers, was that I found myself as the one girl who liked other girls when every girl I knew liked boys. This made me question my feelings and led to years of confusion because, like every adolescent, I wanted to be like everyone else. But I never did anything to become a lesbian. I just always was.

So why do my fellow gays gather each June to parade through the streets singing YMCA on floats filled with women dressed in chaps and men dressed as Cher to celebrate something they couldn't help being in the first place?

I’m a fat admirer who lost weight

Mon, 20 Jun 2011 21:20:00 +0000

In the past few years, I've come out as a female fat admirer in my online and real life interactions. I have loudly and proudly acknowledged my unabashed attraction to bigger body types, both male and female. I have spoken to friends, acquaintances and even total strangers, and found out that there are women out there like me -- and many men as well -- who appreciate a fuller body. Personally, I love a man with a beer belly or a woman with a whole lot of booty. I like big arms and ample breasts and chubby cheeks.

I'm attracted to fat people. And I've gone from being quiet about it to being very vocal, from stating my preferences without hesitation to correcting language and attitudes that are harmful and hurtful.

I've also gone from a size 14 to a size 6.

I'd like to say it was for health reasons. That it was an unintended side effect of living in one of the healthiest and most active states in the nation. That it was because of my health problems, or the medications I take. But that would be a lie.

When I stole a handicapped parking spot

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 19:01:00 +0000

I admit it, I can get kind of righteous. I have confronted smokers who flick their cigarettes to the ground by picking up the butt and haughtily returning it to them, declaring, "I think you dropped something." I have raised a modest ruckus or two when someone cuts in front of another in a checkout line. I will return junk mail with a "Refused -- return to sender" scribbled on it, and though I know it does little good, I just don't want to be the one to throw it in a landfill.

I mean, if I don't straighten out the world, who will?

It happened that I lived with my parents for a few months during a transition in my adult life. At the time, mother had arthritic knees and knee replacement surgery was imminent. For years I'd watched as the pain in her legs grew worse and downright debilitating. It got to the point that even the most minor outing turned into an expedition that required judicious planning.

She finally broke down and got a handicapped parking card. Even a few yards made a lot of difference when she was trying to get somewhere, and being able to rely on convenient parking gave her a greater sense of independence and control of her life.

I faked activist zeal for my boyfriend

Thu, 02 Jun 2011 00:20:00 +0000

"The people united will never be defeated. El pueblo unida jamás será vencido." -- Frederic Rzewski

In 1985 I was a "rojita," or so I was called. My boyfriend, let's call him "Doug," and I were activists, volunteers for CISPES, the Committee in Solidarity With the People of El Salvador; we met at the Marxist School (aka, "Four Parts of the Movement") Chorus in Manhattan. We were both students at Hunter College; actually Doug had encouraged me to return to school after I'd taken a few years off while living in Vermont. Doug organized a program at school focusing on the plight of minority Hungarians living in Ceausescu's Romania. The main speaker was a Hungarian who had suffered repression under his regime. Old Hungarian villages had been bulldozed and many Romanians were forcibly moved to Transylvania to dilute the Hungarian population. It was said that the Romanian-Hungarian border was harder to cross than the Berlin Wall; Hungarians who visited family in Romania were held up for days to make sure they were not transporting Hungarian books or music. Hungarian children were not allowed to speak their language in school and were punished for doing so. Doug took this to heart, having a Romanian grandma, "Bubby," who lived on the Lower East Side and made us wonderful blintzes and other specialty foods.

The one place I won’t donate to charity

Wed, 01 Jun 2011 23:01:00 +0000

Once the weather gets warm, chipper fundraisers with messenger bags and wide smiles become a constant source of ire for many hustling New Yorkers. Despite being a self-proclaimed do-gooder who volunteers for a variety of causes, I'm among the harried masses: I can't stand getting asked to donate money on the street.

For the past few months, two earnest folks from Children International have reclaimed their spot near my office. From there, they try to melt the hearts of Financial District white collars with tales of abandoned children in places like Africa and India. These paid representatives chase pedestrians at busy crossroads to convince people to make yearly commitments to their cause. Whenever I encounter their type, near the Raging Bull or by Union Square or at some unsuspecting location, it becomes a dance of hide and seek that involves avoiding eye contact and using street carts and fellow pedestrians as barriers. I often pretend to listen to my iPod or pace myself so I pass them when they are already immersed in their spiels with other passersby. But the guilt I feel after dodging these personable 20-something idealists is draining. The fact that I was once in their well-worn shoes doesn't help.

Am I pushing my son to be straight?

Tue, 31 May 2011 21:20:00 +0000

Ask me about politics, and within two minutes' time, you'll peg me as the most bleeding heart liberal you've ever met. And I wear that badge with pride. Many of the big rights issues of our time -- equality for women, African-Americans, the disabled -- have ostensibly been won. So I'm left to rage against the injustices our gay brothers and sisters face. What makes this easy is my sincere affinity for the culture: the show tunes, the raunchy jokes, the endless grooming, Fire Island, Barbra Streisand and now Lady Gaga. I'm with you, even if I'm not, you know, with you.

When my son was born, we raised him on the folk music of the '60s. When Jacob went from taking tiny first steps to dancing in the kitchen with me, I loved it. His natural affinity for dance left me brazenly bragging, "If he wants to take ballet, I would gladly support him." My liberal husband flinched slightly but he accepted it. We both knew ballet doesn't make somebody gay. Sexual orientation is born, not made.

As he got older, Jacob expressed no interest in ballet. At 6, he's busy playing sports, making friends. And he's an affectionate child, physically demonstrative with me, his grandparents, his sister and his friends. Especially his friend Max. They are best buds, and I've watched them grow together with affection. Yet, there are times when I physically remove them from each other.

Is it OK for a vegetarian to wear leather?

Fri, 27 May 2011 20:01:00 +0000

When I was 8, I became a vegetarian. A zealous vegetarian. The kind of vegetarian who at 10 forced herself to vomit an accidental bite of hot dog and spent hours lecturing her friends' parents on why they should stop eating meat.

As time wore on, my righteous crusade was met with practical challenges. When I'd moo at a friend taking a bite of a hamburger or rail against the cruelty of factory farms or drone on about how terrible cattle-rearing was for the environment, variations of the same question would arise: "Um, Emily, what do you think those shoes are made of?" And then I'd dodge the issue or just flat-out lie ("Um, they're pleather," my 12-year-old self would say. "I don't buy leather").

But in reality my shoes were leather and that wasn't the worst of it. I indulged in an entire hobby where I regularly used and consumed leather goods: horseback riding. I owned beautiful black leather show boots that went up to my knee; I rode on a soft chestnut leather saddle; my hands held braided leather reins that connected to a leather bridle. And I had my justifications: The boots were used; the saddle and bridle were more comfortable for the horse (OK, that one was a stretch even back when). But the truth was I not only tolerated the various leather equipment, I liked it. I loved the way it looked, the way it felt, the way it smelled. To this day the distinct aroma of leather tack brings back fond adolescent memories of galloping and grooming horses. I had no problem immediately labeling meat as an animal corpse, but with cowhide I quickly mastered the art of disassociation.