Caitlin Song Sings the Blues

18 May, 2011

It is raining this morning which is a double disappointment. Partially so because of how bad traffic is when it rains, (if you so much as THINK of spitting on the road drivers freak out and drive either two miles an hour or two hundred) but more important lately because of how awesome my hair looks today and the fact that the umbrella is in the car on the wrong side of a torrential downpour. Surprisingly, my hair stays nicely coiffed despite the mad dash to the car through the typhoon; not surprisingly, traffic isn’t pleasant. The drive in is two and a half hours, but I still manage to pull in early.

Today is testing. The most fall-asleep-by-the-open-window-and-accidentally-defenestrate-yourself boring testing. It’s the reading FAST test which is so riddled with errors that it becomes a hazard to dedicated instructors everywhere. Thankfully this is the last county/state/federally sponsored required academic assessment I have to proctor this school term.

After the test D tells N he likes her package and I end up sending him to the office. Thirteen years old and it is already ingrained in him that it’s okay to talk to or about another person that way. It makes me sick, yet worse is still in store for me today.

Second mod is a good class for discussion. Today we talked a little more about me and they seized the opportunity to ask questions. The most common of which was: do you prefer being Mister or Miss? (Definitely Miss! So, friends, please, start referring to me as such. I find the use of the male pronoun in reference to me disturbing.) then we spend the rest if the period reading and discussing Golding‘s ::Lord if the Flies:: and making a real life connection between the island stranded boys a some terrible behavior that went down on the most recent field trip. The kids perform nimble mental acrobatics and really delve into the topic. Today they make me proud.

Third and fifth mods are pleasant, but sulking from having to do testing.

Here’s the crap part of the day. The dark storm that D’s comment foreshadowed. Kids in the hallway have started calling me “Booty Warrior.” I have to ask a class what it means. Turns out that’s the name of a character from a tv show. The character is a rapist and a pedophile, which is a ridiculous comparison and an offensive concept for a character. I am livid when I learn this but hold my tongue. I have sent an email to my principal, the employee relations head, and my union rep. I accept that people will call me fag, faggot, queer, homo, bitch, dyke, whore, tranny, and freak, but I draw the line here. The oh-so-conspicuous way popular media and bigoted bystanders cast us in the roles of victims of violence, perpetrators of violence, or both upsets me beyond belief. This will not continue.

Meanwhile new and old friends continue to write and message their support and encouragement. I am so thankful for these people and the gift they are. Without them this journey would be more pain than excitement; they keep me light and functioning. I dedicate this entry to each of you—if only typing all your names with one finger on a tiny touch screen wasn’t such a pain in the ass—in honor of everything you do for me.  Yes, I mean you!

Thus goes a dog’s day in the life of your friendly neighborhood bitch.

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