Making room for difference ...

\/ Free Palestine .. [ Free Gazza ] .. \/
Originally uploaded by →♥ мσηч ηϊςє «-- Łџ

I saw a movie tonight called "Amreeka" -- it was about a Palestinian mother and her son who gain the opportunity to go to America and they move in with her sister's family in Illinois, in hopes to find all of the things that are written above on the fingers in the photo ... a new LIFE; to be FREED; to find PEACE; to maintain their DIGNITY; to have a place to truly call HOME.

It was a powerful and tender and touching movie that also felt like a very REAL portrayal of how people who are different are treated, particularly in this country, when there are assumptions made about them based on heresay, stereotypes, myths and out and out falsehoods.

As a woman, as a lesbian, as a person adopted and as an alcoholic, I've experienced what it is like to be on the receiving end of others' intolerance for difference. I understand now that it always, always boils down to fear. What is unknown about another is to be feared about another and the ways in which people shield themselves from experiencing that fear is to project things onto the other so that it makes it easy to dislike, loathe and hate them.

Historically, women were not necessarily a feared or hated group, but rather we were considered a threat (and may still be) to those institutions and settings and groups which are patriarchal. I could kick the ball just as far if not farther than most of the boys in 1st grade at recess when we played kickball. For some of them, I was the target for name-calling because my ability was perceived as a threat; for others, I was the 1st one they chose for their team because I was seen as an asset. It is a matter of perspective. And sometimes it's about what do you stand to gain or win if you can let go of your disdain and fear of difference.

As a lesbian, I am still the recipient (often indirectly and on a larger scale) of people's fear which manifests as hatred. There are parts of this country -- hell, even parts of my own city and state -- where it is unsafe for me to disclose that I am a homosexual. Just under 40 years ago, my orientation would've been labeled as a psychiatric diagnosis. I recall very painfully how much I feared to even let fully into my consciousness what I understood at a very early age to be the fact that I liked girls in the ways that other girls liked boys. And that the word lesbian was something you NEVER wanted associated with yourself or you would surely be the subject of incessant mockery, teasing not to mention having the other girls in the locker room showers treat you as an outcast. This is how many of us developed internalized homophobia -- the terror of how your dirty little secret will ruin you should it ever be leaked out. So, in order to "conceal it" fully, you engage in outwardly homophobic, hateful projections that you hurl freely at potential suspects. One such person was my field hockey coach and gym teacher, Miss G. I was one of the worst offenders, often spreading rumors and leading the troops in treating her like a leper when she got too close to any of us. She is someone I surely owe an amends to, should ever our paths cross. This internalized homophobia is what kept many of us, like myself, in deep hiding, denying the truth of ourselves as something that was vile and disgraceful. It was the thing about myself that I wanted to exile, to "kill off" with alcohol. With enough booze, I could convince myself that I was heterosexual and that men were appealing. And that I was an acceptable human being. It is this level of self-hatred, fueled by societal hatred, that results in high numbers of young teens grappling with their sexual orientation to commit suicide. To live the truth of your life is too painful to bear, so instead the only option is to end your life. I am deeply grateful that alcohol did not lead me down that road.

Being adopted in the early 60's was not yet "cool". While many of my friends were accepting of the fact that I was adopted, it would only be much later in life that I would come to a place of resentment, hurt, and deep wounding because of perceiving that I was abandoned, discarded, unloved and unwanted. This is the lot in life that many people who are adopted take on as their sad story. My kabbalistic healer has done tremendous work with me to understand and to accept what aspects were missing during this time period that would result in such wounding, like entering the world without consistent "forms" , such as a mother's touch or breast to nurse. The work in this area for me has helped me to understand that not having roots beneath me at the start of my journey would find me panicking and fearful of anything that closely resembled that same void of not being able to connect to something or someone.

Lastly, the shame of having to acknowledge that I was powerless over alcohol and that my life became unmanageable. In the rooms, many people speak about how long it took them to put down the drink because they never saw themselves as the stereotypical drunk (i.e. bum on street drinking out of a paper bag variety). The label "alcoholic" had (and still does) very stigmatizing associations. It was not until returning to the rooms of AA this year that I actually have used the label "alcoholic" for myself, because that is how you introduce yourself each and everytime you share in a meeting. My early years of sobriety found me hiding in the back of the room, not sharing, and then ducking out before the meeting was over. All the years out of the rooms, I identified as a "recovering person". It was this mindset that highlighted my own intolerance for difference. I didn't want to be "like those people". I referred to AA as a cult. As a bunch of whiners who got off telling war stories. Another phobia that became internalized and then externalized in derogatory comments projected onto innocent, good folk just trying to get sober one day at a time.

While I cannot tout that I tolerate all difference, all of the time, I am certainly learning how to make room. First and foremost, within myself for myself. As I do this, I make room for others.