If one more co-worker tries to be competitive with me regarding the amount of sleep I didn’t get, or how much of my personal life I’ve sacrificed in the name of Work, I will scream. The lack of humanity in these kinds of exchanges is unbelievable. I don’t have a problem with working my ass off–it’s not that–it’s the encouragement of what is, essentially, an unhealthy lifestyle and the competition to be the most masochistic.
Arrrgh.
Lauren & Sara, mural on Massachusetts Ave
Since moving back to Buffalo, in mid-March, I’ve acquired quite the collection of guy friends. Previously, the close, male friends in my life were more often than not ex-boyfriends or former lovers but now I’ve got a lot of men in my life with whom I’ve never been sexual or romantic. It’s good–not that it was bad before–and a change that I appreciate.
However, I’ve been craving women.
My college had a 3:1 ratio of women over men. Factor in my English major and women studies’ minor, and I easily had classes that were entirely female or contained less than four men. Since I graduated, the adjustment to a more normal ratio of the sexes has been slow; the adjustment to the ratio in the political business has been difficult. Where are the ladies? Why am I one of three in a room of 15 people? In work, in play, I’m missing the space created by women in a room together.
This weekend my dear friend Lauren, whom I met on the farm, visited Buffalo with her girlfriend, Sara. We ate food, drank beer, sang songs, talked politics, and laughed loud enough to welcome stares. It was wonderful. I talked with them over our diner breakfast about my lack of women-friends in Buffalo, about the general transition from the college bubble to a world where folks have a different education than me, and the significance of it all. They told me about another friend of theirs, one they were visiting after me, who said she was excited for their visit because she needed to be around people who menstruate.
I totally understand.
Stephen wrote me recently, saying something to the effect of, “What’s with the constant back and forth: I hate my job, I like my job, I’m quitting, What I’m doing is kinda neat, I hate my job.”
As the date of the primary approaches, I’m both full of dread and a sense of empowerment. It’s confusing. This business I’m working in–politics–gets so ugly at times that throwing in the towel in a fit of disgust seems like the most reasonable action. But then I have a conversation with one of my allies, and another conversation, and another, and I talk it out until I feel comfortable. Until I am reminded of oh yeah, this is why I’m here. This process, these people.
When I worked on the farm, in its educational program, the visiting kids would always be obsessed with the bull. The first summer at Hawthorne Valley, he was a giant named Leroy. The second summer, and that following fall, it was Odysseus:
Photo by my friend Zeb Millett.
During our Thursday lunch, when the herdsman would eat with us and answer questions from that week’s group of kids, the bull was the center of the conversation. They wanted to know about why there was only one bull, how old he was, if it was true that he gets angry if he sees red (not true), why he was so dangerous, and on and on. One of my favorite questions though came from a fourth-grader named Lucas. He asked Farmer Dan, with quite a bit of sincerity, if Odysseus ever had to defend the herd from wild coyotes or a lone wolf. I almost choked on my organic apple juice.
Anyway, check out the farm in yesterday’s New York Times.
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Just found out about being a potential fetus incubator via feministing.
Also, my dear friend Stephen felt inclined to tell me about this giant Mongoose called a “Foussa.” Apparently it eats lemur monkeys. He then emailed me an image of the animal for effect.
