Pleasure Notes

by Sharons Web/flickr

An amazing event happened yesterday as I was waiting in line at the post office. A man in front of me started dancing. He had on headphones. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, at least not for Hollywood. But he wasn’t just nodding to the tunes. He was FULL OUT GROOVING. And everyone else in line immediately averted their eyes, glanced nervously at each other and took a step back, including me.

And then, I was struck by a thought.

Why are we all reacting with a combination of fear, embarrassment and pity? Why are we assuming he must be some homeless dude off his meds?

Why does this man’s joyful dancing terrify us so, and make us so uncomfortable?

WHY AREN’T WE ALL DANCING WHILE WAITING IN LINE? Seems like a damn good use of our time…

If there had been any kids under the age of 5 in that line, I’ll bet they would have joined that man.

***

In the moment, as I looked around at the group of “adults” in which I found myself, I felt a little sad for all of us, for the exuberance and self-confidence we’d lost, for the self-consciousness and inhibition we’d somehow acquired.

I wished for a camera, to capture this man’s freedom. But then I caught sight of a woman ahead of me who was slyly attempting to record the line dancer with her iPhone.

She had a smirk on her face.

I wondered where her little video would surface, and with what kind of commentary. I had a sinking feeling the sentiment attached to the image would not be one of celebration but rather one of ridicule.

The man caught sight of her as well. His face suddenly sagged. He appeared to visibly shrink. He stopped moving. The music continued in his headphones but he became one of us, one of the expressionless adults standing in line.

It made me want to cry, to scream, to apologize, to encourage him to dance again, to dance in defiance myself.

But I did nothing.

And then a postal worker called out, “Next!” and the line moved forward and we all lost a chance for… something.

But I’m adding DANCING IN LINE to my list of intentions.

Would you have the courage to dance in line?

What was my best trip in 2009?

Is it possible for a trip to be the best and the worst at once? It seems so.

I went to Ireland this year, you see. I have red hair, and a wee bit o’ Gaelic blood, and I’ve always wanted to go. And so I put my wish out there. On a sigh. Or, actually, in the middle of a rant among girlfriends. I said, “I’m about to turn 40, my life sucks, I haven’t traveled in years – cause unless it requires a passport, it doesn’t count, and I really wish I could go to Ireland!”

I say things like that on a fairly regular basis.

But on this one day in March, a very dear friend in the midst of all these fabulous girlfriends, actually paid attention. With an impulsive “I’ll go with you” and a wave of her wand – or, actually, a few thousand hotel points – she made it happen.

Before I could take a breath, but just in time for me to dismiss her impulsiveness, she’d bought her airline ticket.

And so, I bought mine.

And we went.

Eight days. Driving back roads as much as possible. Laughing and singing and drinking our way through Kilkenny, Waterford, Cork, Kerry and Shannon before returning to the amazing city of Dublin for a final few days of pub crawling and rugby viewing.

It was green. Very, very green.

The beer was good. Very, very good.

The people were friendly. Very, very– well, not that friendly, but really nice.

And I felt like I was able to breathe again, after months of suffocation.

I was born to travel. I love doing it more than doing almost anything else you can imagine. I hold strongly the belief that if more people picked up a passport rather than a gun, we would obtain peace. I spent my 20s living out of a suitcase. And when too much time has passed between one trip and the next, I miss the freedom, challenge and adventure of travel like an amputee misses her limb.

This trip was stupendous. Even when my friend tripped over a curb our last day and sprained her ankle, thereby putting the kabosh on our much anticipated literary pub crawl. We simply shrugged off the change in plans, as one becomes adept at doing while traveling, and lounged in the hotel room debating the highlights of the proceeding week.

Neither of us had any way of knowing that seven days later, she would be dead of complications stemming from that damned sprained ankle.

I am left with beautiful pictures. Bittersweet memories. An unshakable passion for travel. And complete confusion. I still wade through a shitload of emotions with the weight of molasses. I struggle to reconcile the joy of the trip with the devastation of its aftermath, to retain the hope I rediscovered for myself in the midst of despairing grief for… everything.

There are seven stages of grief, I’ve been told. I thought they would come in a brief, orderly fashion, like months of the year. I was wrong.

And now, I just really wish I could go to some forgotten island in Greece and let the sun and the sand and the sea dissolve all the pain that comes with life. But then again, if I’ve learned one thing this year, it is definitely… be careful what you wish for.

If you’re still reading this, you may be wondering where the hell the positive, pleasurable spin is in all this. After all, this was supposed to be one of the BEST moments of 2009, right? Here’s what I can give you or, perhaps more importantly, give myself…

I spent eight intense, incredibly memorable, very personal days with an amazing woman who gave me more gifts with her friendship than I will likely have time to pay forward.

I journeyed through a greater spectrum of the human experience as a result of this trip than ever before.

And I’ve now been to Ireland.

I can recommend it.

About a month ago, I wrote about a Sudanese woman named Lubna, whose story I came across while reading Nicholas Kristof’s blog. Her trial was today. She did not win. She did not lose. She is now at a crossroads. As I sit here in my jeans and cleavage revealing tank top, I wonder what direction I would take in her position, secretly considering how I very likely would never have had the courage to be at this crossroads in the first place. Let me explain…

A few months ago, Lubna went to a cafe. She was wearing pants. She was arrested. Other women were arrested too. The other women accepted their punishment. Lubna did not. In the past month, Lubna has attempted to raise awareness about the punishment and, more importantly, about the law itself – a barbaric misinterpretation of Koranic Law resulting in Sudanese policy that women can not wear pants in public.

And Lubna has been successful, both in Sudan and abroad. She wants the law changed. Others agree. Her courage has inspired theirs. They showed up at her trial today, to lend her their support. Some of the women even wore pants (and were promptly arrested). Faced with so much attention, the judge decided to fine Lubna rather than force physical punishment on her.

And this is the moment.

This is the moment in which most people would see a straight road to freedom, accept the ruling, and run. For Lubna, however, this moment is her crossroads. She is refusing to pay the fine. She risks imprisonment, and potentially worse physical punishment than the initial charge conveyed, but standing by her charge that the law itself should be invalidated.

This has never been about Lubna not wanting to get hurt. She wants to change the system. And, as much as the idea that a woman could be brutally punished for wearing pants shocks me, the idea that one individual could have the courage to suddenly stand against the status quo, with a rallying cry of “NO MORE,” awes me.

Lubna isn’t the first person to do this. She isn’t even the first woman. And, I hope, she won’t be the last. I just wonder what mixture of nurture and nature made it so that she is one of the select few who step so far out of their comfort zone that they attempt to change the world for the rest of us, and enter the annals of history.

I do not think I am this kind of person. Perhaps I am, but I have yet to be tested. It’s possible. It is more likely, however, that I am one of the many who would have just accepted the flogging. I could easily have been the one to pee my pants in fear. Or, hell, I probably wouldn’t have worn pants in the first place. Fear is a powerful thing.

Thank god there are people out there, like Lubna, who remind me that, while fear may indeed by powerful, it isn’t ALL POWERFUL. It can be overcome.

There is a march in Washington, D.C. on October 10 that is dear to my heart. I will not be able to attend, but perhaps, given this advance notice, you may choose to go. It is a gathering of like-minded people, of all persuasions, who believe that the fight for equal rights didn’t end in 1865 or 1920 or 1964 or 1973. It is a National Equality March.

Designed by Shepard Fairey

Rachel, from Mom in Real Life, puts it very eloquently:

“We are not marching for gay marriage, we are not marching to hate on the Bible, we are marching to get federal rights for all of America’s citizens. We are marching so that a person who fights and risks their life for their country should be able to carry a picture of their partner in the uniform. We are marching so that when a gay man gets beaten and tied to a fence post to die, it is considered a hate crime. We are marching so that a good teacher will not lose her job because she loves another woman. We are marching so that a senior citizen can honor the wishes of their partner of 50 years when they get seriously ill and be allowed to stay by their bedside to provide comfort.”

You can find the rest of what she has to say at mominreallife.com. It is worth a read.

Now, you may wonder why I’m bringing this up. After all, still having to fight for equal rights isn’t exactly the most pleasurable of subjects. But here’s the thing. I believe that love is pleasurable. I believe that companionship is pleasurable. I believe that freedom of choice is pleasurable. In fact, I KNOW all this, because people who came before me ensured that, as a white, single, heterosexual, educated woman in 2009, I can act on my beliefs and experience the benefits of acting on them. Hallelujah!

How could I possible wish anything less for anyone else, anywhere?

So, while I won’t be able to hit the pavement in D.C., I will certainly be there in spirit.

Let me know your thoughts on this subject, whatever they may be. And do tell me if you’re spending the second weekend in October heading toward the west lawn of the Capitol. I’ll be cheering from the long state on the other coast, the one that has given the innocent number 8 a very bad name.

I just bought a new pair of jeans last night. I will save you from having to relive the hours upon hours in which I tried on yards upon yards of boot cut and straight-legged denim, in which I stared at my own butt hoping it would turn into more of an apple than a pancake and in which I vainly attempted to instantaneously grow a few – say 5 – inches taller. Suffice it to say, I finally surmounted all obstacles and added one more pair of jeans to my inventory. Now, this would have been an unremarkable event in my life, if not for the fact that I saw Nicholas Kristof’s story about Lubna Hussein in today’s New York Times. Lubna is a woman who lives in Sudan, a woman who is on trial for wearing pants. After reading about her “crime” and the punishment of 40 lashes she may receive for committing it, my dilemma over finding the perfect pair of jeans falls into a very different light.

I love my pants, particularly my jeans. I appreciate dresses and skirts, too. However, I must pause a moment and, with a sigh of relief, acknowledge how happy I am to live in a country where I can choose what, where, when and how I want to wear what I wear.

I cannot imagine what it must be like to live under laws such as those enforced in Sudan, and many other countries, where fear of women and their bodies results in rules such as the one which Lubna is accused of breaking.

I wish Lubna much luck with her trial, and thank her for her courage and conviction. I will follow this story and wish for a positive outcome. I am simply grateful that I am not in her shoes. Or her pants.