Acceptance of Who I Am

So... I was shot-gunning a cigarette with a gay guy named Joe as we were sitting in a local bar that was popular in the gay community, and I was quite relaxed. I have always been comfortable with gay people. I would later learn that for a portion of my young life I was “gender fluid” ... Neither of the labels of “boy” or “girl” seemed right to me then, though I identify as female (she/her) now. It wasn’t something I struggled with or anything. As I sat there in the bar surrounded by people I barely knew (most not at all), it was the first time in years that I felt like I was in my element. I wasn’t even drunk (yet) but I was very much enjoying my cold beverages and the new people I was meeting. I just felt free. Joe was a friend of a friend, and he and I hit it off and were engaged in light conversation. At some point, I mentioned that I have always been comfortable with gay people and that I didn’t understand why other people had such a problem with it. He smiled and said, “It’s because you are a person who has spent their life wanting to be accepted for who you are, so you automatically accept others as they are.” I hadn’t thought of it that way. I wasn’t even fully aware of the fact that I desired acceptance. I have always just been unapologetically “me”. I was a product of my upbringing. My parents had always delivered a message of love for others. They were missionaries. I found it fascinating that I was raised in a community in which many members vilified the very people who accepted me based solely on who I am. Being a multiracial child in the 80’s was tricky depending on the country you lived in. I grew up in the Caribbean and fit right in with the other kids and race wasn’t something that came up that I was aware of. I was just me, without the influences of American views on whether I was black enough, or not white enough (and that is two very different things coming from the people on both ends of the color spectrum). I was a teen the first time I was asked if I considered myself black or white. Quite frankly, I wasn’t aware States for a year, was segregated - Seemingly by choice. I split the difference and sat with the weirdos... mostly because they were the most interesting people who fit in everywhere and nowhere. In hindsight I realize that they were like me in that regard. As time went on, I would learn that the race thing mattered to a lot of people, but it is only recently that it has come to matter to me...but not in the same way it does to other people. I have slowly over time come to be aware of how deep racism runs in society. I’m appalled, saddened and stunned by the scope of it. I was ignorant of how far we HAVEN’T come. I find myself in a unique position of being an outsider and insider at the same time. I’m learning... and what I learn, I apply and freely pass along. The father of my daughter is a white man. His family hated me for my skin color, and eventually he did too. When we divorced, he and his family told my daughter, who looks white, to never let anyone know she is part black. She’s is an adult now and declares her ethnicity with pride. She’s learning right along with me and we are exploring what it means to be ALL that we are, together. She is also pansexual and has autism. The beauty of it is that we are living in a time where it is getting safer to be our authentic selves with most people. Aside from being multiracial, a mom, and a daughter, I am also a wife, a mentor, and a connoisseur of pimple popping videos. Yep! I said it! It turns out everyone is looking for acceptance. It’s universal when it comes right down to it, so, let your freak flags fly! I grew up straddling two races, two cultures, two social groups... and for a time, two realities -what I thought the world was supposed to be, and the way the world actually is. And that’s ok. I learned that I don’t have to be one or the other in order to be me... I met Joe in 1999, and he was living in the closet for the most part because he was a 6th grade school teacher... in Oklahoma. He knew a lot about acceptance. I never saw him again, but still claim him as a friend and I mark that night as the time when I became a conscious ally for civil rights for EVERYONE. “And the powerful play goes on that we may contribute a verse.” My verse begins with, “Hello. I’m Abanna Cheshire, and I am a Blended American... and totally mental.”

My Dad and Me

I was born a mama’s girl. My mom and I had always been close (for the most part). My Dad is another story. I always tried to establish that same connection with my dad. Don’t get me wrong. He loves me and we have a great relationship, but I was always reaching for the same kind of bond that I had with my mom. My dad taught me all kinds of things. When I was 8 years old, I asked him to show me how to play basketball, which is his favorite sport. He gladly took me to the basketball court several days a week after his morning jog. It didn’t take me long to learn the mechanics of shooting the ball, and dribbling took some work, but I got there too. He was so pleased with me, and I relished his praise. I have mentioned before that my parents were missionaries. For a couple of years we lived on the little island of Dominica. My father was a church planter... starting new churches was his specialty. There was a little village a couple of hours away from our home called Boetica. My mom, sister and I didn’t like making the trip there each week. It was hot, humid and a long ride. My dad was soon making the trips by himself. Over time, I started feeling bad about him going alone, so I volunteered to go with him sometimes. He was thrilled and I was getting my dad all to myself for a few hours. I didn’t like the trip, but I liked the company. One Sunday, my dad and I were invited to lunch after church by a church member and his family. My dad gladly accepted. My father, knowing what a picky eater I am, quietly told me that we would be guests in their home and refusing their food would be insulting and in poor taste (no pun intended). He told me to eat what was put in front of me without complaint. I said, “Okay” and braced myself for something like fish heads or something equally scary. When we sat down for the meal, I thought I was ready for anything. But what appeared on the table was beyond my imagination. There were tiny little fish, just a little bit bigger than a grain of rice, called titiwi... which means “tiny fish”. There were thousands of them... I could see their little tiny eyes, which looked like specks of black pepper...they looked like maggots with eyes. I took one look, turned to my father and said as quietly and firmly as I could, “DADDY! I AM NOT GOING TO EAT THAT!” My dad loves telling that story now. He thinks it’s hilarious. My memory of it isn’t laced with laughter however. I remember the look on his face...My dad gave me a look that I will never forget. It was a combination of embarrassment and anger. On the way home he chastised me for insulting our hosts, being a snob and an “ugly American”. I never went on another one of those trips with him again. He doesn’t remember that part. I was heartbroken that I had disappointed him and I figured the best way to keep that from happening again was to keep my distance. But it didn’t stop my craving to be close to him. I found myself hanging on my father’s every word, especially when he was talking directly to me. I harvested his wisdom every chance I got. I talk about my dad a lot when I am discussing my recovery, because those words that meant so much back then, have given me a new understanding of things now. This has led me to a realization... I had exactly the right relationship with my dad. It was how it was supposed to be. You see, if I’d had the tighter bond with him, like the one I had with my mother, I wouldn’t have hung on his every word. I wouldn’t have absorbed the wisdom and reason he bestowed on me. It would have just been words. On a few occasions my dad’s words have saved my life, some friendships and my sanity. My relationship with him is solid now. I take great pleasure in telling him how things he said to me in my youth, have shaped my present life. When I share my story of recovery, I mention him a lot, and always in a good way. My dad is the wisest man that I know. He taught me common sense, reason and to not be afraid to go for things that can make my life better. He is forever a peacemaker and jokester... but more than anything else, he is a great father. His father was absent from his life, so the only father he knew was God. I used to get so annoyed when he disciplined me by preaching to me. Now I know that he was leaning on the words of the only Father he knew. He didn’t have to be there for us. He could have walked out at any time. I can honestly say that even though he made mistakes with me, at no point did he set out to deliberately hurt me. Everything he did, right or wrong, was done with love and good intentions. He went above and beyond when it came to “dad duty”. He would babysit my dolls for me so I could go out and play. Sometimes I would come home to find them all lined up on the couch, watching tv or they would be tucked in for a nap. He taught me to ride my bike, how to play tennis, and spent countless hours at poolside throwing coins into the pool for me to dive for. He taught me life lessons as well... when I went through my first breakup, I was crushed and cried for days. Finally, my dad sat me down and said, “Look, you lived happily without him before, and you can live happily without him now.” That little morsel cut my mourning period over lost relationships way down. He also taught me that you can’t hold everyone in a death grip and expect them to stay. He used our parakeet as an example. When we wanted to take him out of his cage, if we just grabbed him, he’d fight like crazy to be free. But, if we just stuck our finger out and let him step onto it, he would happily stay there for a long time. Dad also said that “there is a fine line between hugging someone and suffocating them.” It took me a while to see how a lot of his words of wisdom applied to me in my life, but I am seeing it more and more as time goes by. My dad and I are pretty close now, and I still hang on to his words. Much more often than not, the man is giving us pearls. Everyone knows about the long term romance I had with suicide. It was my father’s words coming through that gave me a tiny bit of hope, and eventually led to my longevity in the recovery process. He simply said, what if you give up right before things get good? He’s right. Some people have their father's looks, or abilities. I got my father's longevity, humor, and hopefully his wisdom. He’s retired now, but he still casts the odd pearl when it is needed. And while he didn't always give me what I wanted, he definitely gave me what I needed. The best thing he ever told me? "Never let anyone treat you like you are anything less than a child of God".

More Art From Erik J

The Amazing Art of Erik J

Erik J is a 21 year old Swedish Photographer...and his work is BRILLIANT

Clogs For Cows!! - The Next Phase Of The Fashion Revolution

Horses get shoes, but cows don't. Why? What is it about horses that make them worthy but not the noble moo-cow? That's right, I said NOBLE, and I meant it!!! They quietly go about their day, munching on grass, and chilling out, not doing much to anyone. They supply us with milk, making magnificent foods possible, like cheese, yogurt, and ice cream. They supply us with meat... GREAT meat. Steaks and brisket can be nothing less than a succulent gift of unfathomable proportions. And leather... belts, shoes, coats. They give themselves over to us completely and don't put up much of a fight about it. Cows love us. Yes, they do. Look at all that they give to us...their entire selves are sacrificed so that we may enjoy their beefy goodness, and they do so freely in utter obedience to their religious beliefs.

According to their holy book “The Book Of The Divine Bovine” the sacrifices they make to serve mankind assure their place in Bovinia (Moo-Cow Heaven).
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“And thou shalt surrender thyselves up, and shall be the centerpiece of the blessed people's celebrations upon the fourth day of the seventh month of each year.” - II Bovines: 12.5

“For upon mankind's celebrations of fortune, thou shalt be sources of succulent joy, and thou shalt warm their bodies and adorn their feet in beauty and wrap their mid-sections in grand style. Thou shalt encompass their necks and wrists with cool hipness, and be much praised upon the earth.” - Leatherians: 8.4

All of this ... and we don't even give them shoes? It's a travesty! A TRAVESTY I SAY!!!

I wish I could pretend to be shocked by our thoughtlessness and disregard for these self-less, sacrificial animals, but given that we have yet to give the chicken it's propers, I can't even pretend that this behavior of ours comes as a surprise. But whether we are amazed or not is moooooot at best. The time for shock is past. It is time for action. And so begins the next great movement in animal rights... Clogs For Cows!

Clogs are the ideal fashion accessory for the gentle moo-cow. Easy to put on and take off, and there are plenty of fashionable options since clogs can be carved and shaped into almost any trendy form. No need to nail them into place...which is just barbaric...but that's another issue for another time.

Just think of it... our bovinesque friends wearing a nice pair of clogs...or even the uber-thick flip flops with a nice flower on the top. Give the cows that sense of flash and flare that they so richly deserve! How can you be still as the bearers of our grandest attire, sweetest meat and dairy goodness are left out in the cold (or absurd heat, depending on the season) with bare hooves and no evidence of their fashion sense. For heaven's sake people, THEY EVEN GIVE US THEIR CHILDREN FOR VEAL! IS A PAIR OF $10 CLOGS SO MUCH TO ASK??? If you do think it is too much to ask, then you, my friend, are chock full of bovine fecal matter.

Socks for Turtles! The Fashion Uprising Begins!

 by Abanna Cheshire

A perfectly brief but reasonable dissertation on why turtles should be required to wear socks...

In a nutshell...it's because of their distinct disregard of the importance of pedicures, which is why their feet are so ugly....
There is an aesthetically unpleasing factor in regards to the feet our friends, the turtles, due to their inability to utilize nail clippers. which is why they hide in their shells. This is the primary issue at the core of the turtle population's mass inferiority complex, and why they never leave their houses...they just carry them wherever they go. They are downright agoraphobic because of it. They live in a state of fear and shame, under an umbrella of ridicule. A colleague pointed out to me that their little portable houses don't even come close to covering their feet while in transit! As a result, their shame is perpetuated.

I'm taking up their cause and campaigning for socks for turtles! I shall not rest until every turtle has his or her choice of knee socks, ankle socks, or those footies with the little pom-pom balls on the backs!!!

WHAT DO WE WANT?!? SOCKS FOR TURTLES!! WHEN DO WE WANT 'EM?!? NOW!!!!

NOTE: Fishnets and pantyhose will not be accepted as a compromise seeing as they do nothing to fix the problem since you can see through them. Plus the turtles would look tacky and/or cheap in them. I patently refuse to launch the careers of a bunch to turtle sluts.

In the immortal words of Patrick Henry (or someone like that) "GIVE THE TURTLES SOCKS, OR GIVE THEM DEATH!!"...Editor's note: this mantra was not very popular with the turtle population at large and therefore it has never really caught on. However, the sub-conscious manifestation of this is apparent in the repeated attempts at suicide by wandering around on back roads and highways trying to get run over.

The Turtle Fashion Diva has spoken! And throughout the land, with God as my witness, I swear that the turtles shall NEVER be barefoot again!!! At the very least, we should supply these poor creatures with tubes of foot cream and some nail polish.

The heartbreak continues... Here is an update on our cause!

I am proud to say that our cause is gaining ground (so to speak). black socks with a red ruffle...do you see how proudly and boldly our beloved turtle friend steps out into the world with his newfound confidence!?!
SCORE ONE FOR THE FASHION UPRISING!!!! That's one small pair of socks for turtles, one giant footie for the animal kingdom!!!!

COMING SOON...The Dust Bunny Liberation Front: A Call To Arms!