We're all in this together

Sometimes (lately, very often), it feels like the world is just unfixable. There's so much wrong, so much injustice and corruption, and we just keep screwing over the only planet we've got. There's so much anger and hate and mistrust, and a lot of time that baffles me, because we all have so much more in common than we don't. We're all doing our best on this big spinning ball of rock. We make mistakes. Our lives are short. We love. If we're smart, we remember to say so.

I never got around to going to my mailbox yesterday, so I stopped this morning on the way to work. There was a lovely card from Stella that made my day. She thanked me for reaching out to let her know I was thinking of her, because I know what it's like to miss your mom, and she does, too. On my way home from work tonight, I stopped to get today's mail. There was a lovely card from Ian, thanking me for reaching out to make sure he knows I'm thinking of him during what I can only imagine being the hardest kind of loss. I walked in my front door thinking how lucky I am to have good humans in my life who take the time to send notes like that and then Lazlo (the much more reserved of my two cats) gave me two nose boops. (I went for three, but that was being greedy. He turned his head and walked away. Then sauntered into the kitchen and meowed in front of his food dish.)

The thing about all of these things is connection. Whether you're telling somebody you know what it's like to miss having a mom. Or sending random emojis by text just to keep in touch. Or sending a card to thank somebody for reaching into the dark and reminding you that you're not alone. Or rubbing your nose on someone's face to get more food. (That probably only works for cats.) It's our connections to each other that make our lives bearable.

We're all in this together and so much that's wrong in the world could be made a little better if we fought really hard to remember that.

"Try to leap / You shoud try to reach / Into highest air / You're almost there / As long as you know / We miss you"

 - Agent Fresco, "Eyes of a Cloud Catcher"

Dear Dad,

You would have been 75 on Sunday. (You never would have heard the end of the old man jokes then.) It's so hard to believe it's been four and a half years since I have heard you say my name in that way no one else does (lingering just a bit on the first A) or your cartoony laugh. I've been thinking of you a lot lately, of a way to honor your memory when we scatter your ashes this weekend. And I think maybe the best way is to honor the gifts you gave me.

I used to write Mom letters after she died, but I don't think I ever did that with you. Things between us were never as easy as they were between you and Danielle or Bonnie. Mom once said she thought it was because I reminded you so much of yourself, because I looked most like you and was "moody" like you. Maybe I was a moody (even broody) kid. I feel things deeply, and I don't think that's a bad thing. It's only bad when you try to keep it all locked up until you finally explode at whoever happens to be nearby. (Maybe I still do that once in a while, but I have worked really hard not to.)

You used to liken yourself to Peter Pan. People often comment on my "child-like wonder," and I happen to think it's one of my best qualities. So, thank you for that. Thank you for my diverse taste in music, too. (I do not thank you for my crappy sinuses. Not at all.)

I know a lot of things in your life were hard, and many things didn't turn out the way you wanted. But I also know that you did your best, and you never gave up. (Thank you for that, too.)

I miss you, Dad, and I hope with all my heart that you are at peace.

Hope and Wonder

I just started re-reading Carter Beats the Devil, which has been my favorite book for 17 years. (I hate doing math like that.) It's my favorite largely because of these two quotes, which ring a bell deep inside me every time I read them:

"Charles was unsure of what to do next -- he wanted more badly than ever to be taken over by genuine wonder."

and

"What I mean is, the world is an awful place, isn't it? Magic makes it less awful for a moment or two. ...If I can shake the world off a man's shoulders, I feel better."

I haven't written here in a while, for a lot of reasons, but I've been thinking about writing a Hope and Wonder post for almost as long. Hope and Wonder are the two things at the core of my being that sustain me when things are at their worst. That thing people have called strength? Confidence? Bravery? Nope. It's all Hope and Wonder. It's why I love the books and movies and sculptures that I do. Why some nights I just look up at the sky and marvel at the stars. (As Van Gogh put it: "For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.")

A few months ago, I was telling my writing partner about an experience I'd had back in May. My friend Mary asked me if I wanted to go to see Robert Moody's last show as director of the Portland Symphony Orchestra, and I said I would. It was a good show and then there was a Q&A with him afterward. Toward the end, he was talking about how he'd thought he'd have two more shows, but then his dad died and so he had to miss the second-to-last one. And then he started talking about connection. It seemed interesting to me that all that was happening on the anniversary of my dad's death. In the car on the way home, I was listening to a mix of Icelandic bands and Agent Fresco's "Eyes of a Cloudcatcher" came on -- the lead singer, Arnor Dan, wrote it about his dad dying of cancer. I was by the farm where I pick up my CSA and the stars and moon were so bright and clear in the sky, and I just started crying -- not out of sadness or even catharsis, but just being moved by feeling that connectedness that Robert Moody had talked about. So, I went home and I wrote a little note to him saying all of that and that I was grateful to have had that experience and sent it to him c/o the PSO.

Em's response included this passage that I thought was so beautiful, I made a painting of it and sent it to her:

But. There's the moon, isn't there? And sometimes it's clear and bright and we're all made of the same molecules, so really, even when I feel awful, I'm the moon staring at the moon. I'm bright and clear. If just for a moment.

I am the moon. For Emily.

And there it is again, those bells that ring so deep inside. THAT is why I GISH.

This is my fourth year GISHing. This year, I took the week off. I'm not sure I accomplished more than I have in the years when I could only take a day off during the week, but I think being on vacation this week allowed me an opportunity to reflect more during the hunt.

I got to appreciate spending time with friends -- caroling on a beach in stupidly hot weather, getting full of glitter while jumping on a trampoline, getting awakened in the dark of morning to "Eye of the Tiger" and SO.MANY.GIGGLES, handing out water in even MORE stupidly hot weather, having a giggle fest with a large group of skater friends, meeting a former co-worker at the local library to teach her adorable kids about cost-benefit analysis, setting aside my GISH-work to sit on the floor and play with my friends' kids (and that moment when her daughter crawled into my lap and asked me to read to her!). And there were GISH-adjacent things, too: Sending an email to a friend of a friend, thanking him for doing his thankless job (and the nice reply I received); writing notes to tell people I love them and am thinking of them, and sending them off with fun stamps. The whole time, I couldn't help feeling so grateful that I know so many good, kind people who are willing to be silly with me. 

And that brings me to the part where the world is an awful place. It is. And we keep making the same mistakes over and over. There are *children* in concentration camps in the United States right now. The Rohingya people are being decimated this very moment. And those are just two of the starkest examples.

During a 100-day period in 1994, between 500,000 and a million Rwandans were murdered. One survivor (who took in six orphans from the genocide) inspired a fundraising effort for this year's GISH. In four days, my friends and family raised $1,000. THAT is magic. The world is still an awful place, but that kind of magic makes me feel better. It makes me hope that we can all choose to be better, to do better.

I have been running around all week, getting projects done around the house, completing GISH tasks, getting awakened at 4:30 in the morning.... I'm tired and achy and not at my best to return to work on Monday. So, I've scheduled a day of self-care tomorrow. As I was thinking about it, I thought "Self-Care Sunday" should be a thing. Maybe I'll make it a thing from now on. (It seems like a brilliant idea, given how crazy things are at work these days and the need for some extra fortification before any work week.)

So, here's my takeaway from this year's GISH: Just be as kind as you can be, to as many as you can be, including yourself. You'll be amazed at what it makes you feel. (Hope. And wonder.)

People like us (or why I cried when I heard the presidential election results)

I never met any of my great grandparents, but I heard stories about the ones on Mom’s side when I was growing up. It was only just before he died that my mom learned her father had been adopted. But it makes sense, given what I know of the people who raised him:

She was the daughter of immigrants from Germany. A dancer at the Hippodrome Theater and painter of landscapes and still lives. He came to the U.S. from Ireland as a child. Grew up to be a stunt jockey (think diving horses off platforms in Atlantic City) and an electrician. He became vice president of the International Alliance of Theatrical and Stage Employees.

They adopted four children who were in no way related to them, including my grandfather. His biological mother was a 14-year-old girl who worked as a housekeeper; her parents were from Sweden and Ireland.

The people who raised my grandfather also fostered other kids, took in stray dogs. During the Great Depression, they kept a pot of soup on the lawn for anyone who needed it.

And even though they died years before I was born, I learned so much from those stories as a kid. That you do what you can to help people. That art in its various forms is important. That we are stronger together and have to fight for what’s right.

We had big family dinners at my grandparents’ house for all the major holidays, but also just random Sundays throughout my childhood. The grownups were talking politics at one of these dinners when I was in elementary school. I asked what the difference was between Republicans and Democrats. Someone (I can’t remember who) explained it this way: “Republicans are rich people. Democrats are people like us.”

People like us: My grandpa followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming an electrician for the likes of the Ed Sullivan Show and CBS Evening News. He fought in the navy in World War II. Grandma, whose mother was the daughter of Italian immigrants and whose father came to the U.S. from Italy, worked in factories her whole adult life, from making bras and parts for spaceships to working an assembly line for a pharmaceutical company.

People like us: My parents met working in a book warehouse. He did two tours with the Air Force in Vietnam and had a degree to work as a mechanic on airplanes. He destroyed his body working in warehouses well past the age of retirement, being laid off from the last two companies when they closed their warehouses due to overseas competition. Mom got so injured from her days packing orders in warehouses that a government program paid for her to get a two-year degree in psychology. She wanted to help people and got a job working with people with intellectual and behavioral disabilities, helping them hold down jobs and be independent. But then a man slammed into the back of her car when she was driving me to school one morning and afterward she was declared totally and permanently disabled. She supported us on monthly social security checks and payments from a private disability company, a benefit from that job. (I am quite familiar with disconnection and foreclosure notices and know what it’s like to have nothing but ice cubes and wilted lettuce in the fridge. But we never lost the house, and I know I’m lucky to never have lived in a shelter or on the street.)

People like us: I’ve been working since I was 15 years-old. Every job I’ve ever taken has had some component of community service at its core. My first two years of college were completely subsidized by federal and state grants because we had such a low household income. I was the first person in my immediate family to get a bachelor’s degree, and I’m the only one with a master’s degree. I pursued degrees in writing, because it’s the passion at the core of my being, even though those degrees have done nothing to advance my career, and I still have about 15 years of student loan payments ahead of me.

People like us: I recognize that I’m more fortunate than many, less fortunate than some. When Mom got cancer, we were lucky she was already on disability and had Medicare to pay 80% of those insane medical bills. And when she died, we were even luckier that the health systems wrote off the bad debt, that my sisters and I weren’t saddled with paying those remaining costs. Mom left behind a house in need of some repair, a car, and a small life insurance policy that wouldn’t even pay out enough to have her cremated. Dad left even less behind when he died. But my grandparents managed to save a lot through the union and left us enough that I was able to buy my own home less than two months ago, that I have been able to visit Iceland three times in the past two years. It’s also been enough to allow me to be very generous with my charitable contributions for the past two years.

People like us: I have always believed that small acts of kindness and goodness matter. That they make a difference. I want to live in a world where everyone can feel safe to be who they are, where we help who we can when we can. I’ve benefited from others’ generosity and hard work, and I will keep doing my best to pay it forward.

I'm not much for speechifying, but if I were...

I'd start with thank you (please tell me I remembered to say thank you at some point between "I'm not much for speechifying" and "Let's have cake" tonight).

Thank you to everyone who came out to celebrate my tenth derbyversary (especially those who traveled quite far). To everyone who wanted to come and couldn't make it. To everyone who has played a part my derby life over the last decade.

Tonight, I got to sprint to FM Belfast's "Par Avion," which I have wanted to do since I first heard the song almost two years ago.

I got to skate around in a rainbow cape (because when someone gifts you a cape, you HAVE TO wear it...and maybe should never take it off).

I got to eat an incredible vegan cake that came decorated WITH A TUTU.

I got to skate with friends who don't always skate and friends who strapped on their skates for the first time in years because they wanted to celebrate with me.

I got to watch Cherry and Chickadee do interpretive dance to a song from Buffy the Vampire Slayer that I have always loved.
 
And I think I grinned the entire two hours. There were SO MANY hugs and beautiful, thoughtful cards and gifts. And I felt so incredibly loved. (Which I recognize as a blessing and a privilege.)

As I was cleaning up and putting things in my car, I accidentally released the balloons Renee (who was there at the start of my derby adventure) brought. I didn't realize until they were well out of my reach. So I stood there in the cold night air, just watching them float away. There was something truly beautiful in that quiet moment alone in the parking lot at Happy Wheels. It felt like letting go of stuff I hadn't even known I'd been carrying. All that was left was this profound sense of peace and joy. (And, let me tell you, there were times in this past decade that I thought I would never feel either of those things. I recognize that as a blessing and a privilege, too.)

This blessed, privileged, and very tired girl is going to bed feeling incredibly content. Let's do it again in another ten years!

A whole flood of epiphanies

I've been having all these epiphanies lately, and I'm seeing connections between them, so this is an attempt at figuring them out.

I did pretty well in school without putting a ton of effort into it. I could memorize things (dates, facts, formulas, grammar rules), and I was good at picking things up just by watching someone else do it (math, music, stuff on computers). I was pretty good at creative expression (art and especially writing). Where I had trouble was theory (this is why I hated science and didn't do as well in calculus as I had in algebra, geometry, and trig). It was especially problematic in college when I'd sit in classes like Intro to Cultural Studies and not understand anything I was reading or the professor was saying. I had similar trouble with the literary theory part of my MFA program. I just didn't get it. But I wanted to. I described it as "the big, gaping hole in my brain" – I'd keep trying to go around the hole and maybe eventually I'd find a bridge to get me to the other side.

I've always been an introvert, and generally people make me nervous. (In large groups, they make me downright anxious.) I am often literal in how I speak and how I interpret other people's speech, which can cause confusion and hilarity. (This is especially true when I speak facetiously and people who are used to my literality* don’t realize I’m joking.) I avoid small talk, because I think it's a waste of time – I'd rather have a real conversation or just enjoy the silence.

And then there's the lying thing. When I was a kid, I used to embellish the truth a lot. I don't know if that was part of the writer in me, a kid phase, or what. I almost never lie now. I hate how it feels. But it's not just obvious lies. It's also things like this: When I go to lunch, I've taken to saying, "I'll be back, pending Standard Disclaimers." The Standard Disclaimers being things like abduction by aliens, natural disasters, etc. Because I intend to come back after lunch, and it's most likely going to happen, but I can't say with 100% certainty that it will. And it feels like lying to just say, "I'll be back," when there is a chance – however minuscule – that I might not be. (I'm also terrible at lying anyway. Even a stranger can read the look on my face and know what I'm thinking most of the time.)

That doesn't mean I can't keep a secret. I'm actually really good at that. I'm good at telling partial or shallow truths to keep people from getting at the deeper ones without having to say anything untrue. (Maybe I'm part faerie.)

All of these things combined can lead to a lot of awkwardness, to the point where I've even wondered if I might fall somewhere on the Autism spectrum. A mentor I used to trust a lot once (while he was angry with me) said, "You suck at people stuff." While I recognize that he may not have completely meant it and that he was intentionally trying to hurt me, it stung because there was at least some ring of truth to it.

But I also know it wasn't the whole truth, because sometimes I am pretty good at people stuff. At the very least, I know there are people who love me in spite of my awkwardness.

A recent dinner with a friend who is completing her PsyD helped me realize that my squishy heart and my analytical brain just don't seem to connect all that much.

She was telling me about an exercise she had completed where people would be assigned an emotion and have to pantomime it to their group, who would have to identify the emotion based on body language alone. They weren't things like "happy" or "sad" but things like "shame" and "unworthy." I asked how in the world you would demonstrate those, and she showed me. I immediately felt the right emotion, but I don't think that I would have been able to actually name it if I'd been part of that exercise.

It had never occurred to me before that while I often experience emotions on a really deep level, I also often have no clue how to name them and explain them to people until I've had a really long time to sit and process them. I realized, though, that a mentor noticed it in my writing years ago. She called it "crucial scene avoidance." I was good at writing what happened, but I avoided the emotional impact/processing that came later.

I think it's because I'm good at compartmentalizing information and being objective about the things I see and experience vs. my emotional reaction to them. I think I feel like the emotions are mine (and mine to figure out) but the thoughts are things I'm willing to share (because they are less personal).

But that loops me back to the part where I want – I need – to understand things. Not things like how a computer works or engineering or medicine or politics or the stock market. Mostly people. I don't get why they say things and do things and how they feel, especially when it's not how I would react to the same thing. (Like, I feel reasonably sure I can predict how I will react to a problem I need to solve. I might get frustrated by the precipitating circumstances, but I will move past that to solve the problem in the most efficient way I can. I recognize that this is not how a lot of people function. I've worked with lots of people who can't get past the frustration part. Or they just expect someone else to swoop in and fix it for them. And I don't understand why we react so differently. Maybe we could work better together if I did.)

I think this is why I read so much – why I write – because it's all about trying to understand myself and others.

I saw my first therapist when I was in my mid-20s, and one of the things I struggled with the most at that time was that I felt like I wasn't a good person. It took so much effort, and I worked so hard, but I never felt like I was good enough. My therapist pointed out that if I was a bad person, I probably wouldn't put any effort into being good.

In the years since, I've wondered what any of that means anyway. Graham Greene turns the whole concept of good on its head in The Quiet American, where he shows that the innocent and the well-intended may sometimes cause more harm than the apathetic and malicious.

I've learned enough about myself to know that while I sometimes hurt people and cause harm, I do not have a malicious bone in my body. I care about trying to make the world a kinder, gentler place in whatever small ways I can (through my writing, through my actions toward the people in my life, through the choices I make about the products I consume and how I do that, through the work I do, and all the little projects I take on).

Last night I was thinking about the things I've done in the last year to be kinder to myself, to others, to the planet. The phrase that popped into my head when I thought about it was, "I want to live gently." But that didn't feel quite right. My life is full of color and noise and movement, and I (mostly) like it that way. When I thought about it some more, I came up with this: I want to interact with this planet and the beings on it as gently as possible.

But I guess it goes deeper, because it's also this: I want to understand them – and me – as much as I can.

And this, friends, is why I over-contextualize pretty much everything.


* Apparently, literalness is a word, but it just sounds clunkier than literality, so I'm using that instead. 

Why I'm going vegan after almost 27 years as an ovo-lacto vegetarian

I don’t know if all little kids do this, but when I was a tiny human, I would always ask what my food was made out of. If someone said, “Pork,” I’d press for the animal.

One night when I was in first grade, we had fish sticks for dinner. I started crying, thinking my meal could be made out of my goldfish’s cousin. “It’s a totally different type of fish!” my mom said. Didn’t matter. I never ate another fish stick.

It should have come as little to no surprise that I stopped eating all meat three years later. My grandparents had brought two live lobsters back from the Jersey shore and my mom had a friend boil them in the kitchen (she couldn’t bare to do it herself). I’d said I’d never eat meat again if she ate them, and I haven’t.

I was never particularly fond of meat anyway. Being a vegetarian never felt like a struggle for me (except maybe when eating out when I was a kid -- but things have come a long way since then).

I don’t think I ever wore anything with real fur (Mom didn’t like the idea of fur) and I stopped wearing leather around the time I stopped eating meat. I don’t buy products made by companies that test on animals (except in rare circumstances where I forget to check the label!)

But for the last quarter-century, I still ate eggs and dairy. I tried to buy local. Only cage-free eggs. Stuff like that. I rationalized that I depended too much on dairy products in my diet to give them up completely. That going full vegan would be too hard, that I wouldn’t know how to get all my nutrients, that it would be expensive.

But then I was presented with an opportunity to learn how to be a vegan in a sustainable, healthy way. And I’m doing it.

Some people have asked why. The answer is simple: Because it’s the right thing for me. I don’t have any medical conditions that would keep me from being a vegan. And while there may be some foods I’ll miss, I can’t say that that is more important to me than the suffering another being would have to endure for it.

Do I think my choice as a single human will have a particularly large impact? Maybe not. But that’s like saying you don’t want to vote because one person doesn’t matter.

Ultimately, we all have to have our own standards and decide what we can and can't live with. I can live with being a vegan, and I think I'll feel happier and more at peace as a result.

Luck and magic

The last five glitter bricks.

It's 3/3 and I like that synchronicity. It makes me think of luck and magic and possibility.

I recently wrote about making your own magic. It was a friend I met through derby who originally put the idea of glitter bricks in my head, and the vast majority of the ones I gifted to people have ended up in derby homes.

I'm hitting the road tomorrow to start my amazing birthday weekend, so this is probably going to be my last post about Maine Roller Derby's Capital Campaign. The goal is to raise $400,000 by 3/7 (the day after I turn 37 -- MORE synchronicity!) and we can only do that with help from lots and lots of people. You don't have to give a lot, but please consider giving something if you want to help sustain the personal, athletic, and professional development of women in southern Maine; maintain a supportive athletic community for LGBT and other athletes who face discrimination in other sporting ventures; and sustain roller skating, a physical activity that promotes healthy lifestyles in people of diverse backgrounds, in southern Maine.

Help us make magic happen. Read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online here.
 

Thankfulness

Back in 2013, View Grind'er and I agreed that we would post blogs every day for the month of November about things we were thankful for.

I wrote two separate posts about roller derby -- one on November 6 and another on November 10. Here they are together, with slight edits:

This one's so obvious, it feels like cheating to post it.

I am one of two (A-Block is the other) founding members of Maine Roller Derby who is still active with the league. I played for a couple of years, and for a thousand good reasons decided to become a ref a little more than five years ago.

Derby has given me so many things: A sport that turns me into a crazy super-fan (so I can finally understand what that's like). A way to physically push myself that has made me much more open to testing my limits and trying new things (see all the discussion about the Mountain Raid and wanting to do it again). An excuse to own and wear so many tutus. And the socks! But most of all, it's given me this collection of incredible humans.

One-third of my partners in awesome are people I met through derby. (Misadventure Canada was planned for me by someone I met once at a bout we reffed together; the partner in awesome for the trip was a fellow official; and during the trip, we met up with my derby wife.)

Ten out of the 26 red notebook conspirators and eight out of 13 postal ninja project participants are people I know from derby.

In June, I officiated the wedding of a friend who was a founding league member with me. Later this month, I'll go see Catching Fire -- just like we planned when we first learned the Hunger Games series was being made into movies -- with A-Block. In June, when the movie version of The Fault in Our Stars comes out, I'll have a whole group of derby people to go with me. (In fact, nearly every nerdfighter I know is someone from derby.)

Saturday, an old derby friend is going to make me up all pretty, and then I'm going to go to the Derby Lite party, where I will step out of my comfort zone by attending a ginormous party full of people and participating in my first cheerleader pyramid. Why? Because I adore this little community.

I'm thankful for all of them. For the people who cheer me on and make me feel like I can do anything. For the people who are in it with me and stick by me, whether it's a matter of staffing a bout or completing a crazy obstacle race on a mountain or making it through the challenges we set ourselves for this month. For the people who are so kind and thoughtful and willing to share their knowledge, their time, and to show thanks when I do the same.

I'm thankful for the derby wife I said I never wanted and the derby kid who calls me "Mom" (and the incredibly unexpected way it makes me feel when she says it).

I'm thankful for friends who have shown time and again that I can count on them to be there when I need them and to be up for having fun (even when my idea of fun is a little -- or even a lot -- strange).

***

It's 1:30 a.m. and I've been home from the Derby Lite birthday party for about an hour.

The party where I was honored to be voted Ms. Chutzpah, along with my classmate Dishy.

The party where I participated in my first ever cheerleader pyramid, which was even more fun than I expected.

The party where I had great conversations with people I really, truly like (not just polite pretending).

And even though it's possibly cheating to be writing about derby (again! and so soon!) and to call it a post for today when today is less than two hours old, I think it's shout-from-the-rooftops-important to say how much of an impact roller skating has had on my life.

And not just derby, but Derby Lite. I had no idea what I was getting into when I signed up for this fitness class. But it's such an incredible way to get myself in shape, keep myself healthy (especially for a girl who is predisposed to a MUCH higher risk of heart disease and diabetes). And the people! I have met so many incredible people from less than two years of Derby Lite. I've also gotten to keep in touch with people who used to be part of my regular derby world and left for one reason or another.

Tonight (well, I guess technically it's "this morning"), I'm going to sleep easy after a fabulous celebration with fabulous people. I can't think of anything better to celebrate in this blog today. And the best part? I've got Derby Lite class in 15 hours!

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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating to preserve it as a place for people to skate for years to come. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

Uncle Bob

Bob is not actually my uncle, but he may as well be. We met when I started working at the Times Herald-Record when I was 15. He was a veteran business reporter who made up songs in his spare time ("Momma Got Divorced on Christmas" was always my favorite), and I was a high school sophomore who didn't even have a learner's permit yet. My mom drove me the half-hour to and from work after school, where I would take down fire calls and get the price of eggs from a toll-free hotline and make photocopies and clip files and once in a while even do some research.

Babies born the day Bob and I met are not only older than I was when I met him, but recently old enough to legally drink. Weird.

This is Bob and the first picture he ever sold at a recent gallery show.

So, he's Uncle Bob and has been for many years now. He and his wife used to visit friends in Maine, and they would often visit me while they were in town. They came to one of my first scrimmage practices. They came to the game I skated in against the Hudson Valley Horrors. And since they moved to Maine a few years ago, Uncle Bob has been a fixture at our games. He comes to watch when I ref and when I sit at a score table holding up points. We once even got to watch a game together.

Uncle Bob is almost 80, and the folding chairs we rent for our games at Happy Wheels are not particularly comfortable. This past Christmas, I bought him a folding chair with a plush, padded seat. It is super soft and squishy. I bring it to all of our games now. People always laugh when they see me walking around with it, and then I explain. "It's for my Uncle Bob. He's almost 80 and he comes to almost all of our games, so he should at least get a comfy place to sit."

If my league can come up with the down payment to purchase Happy Wheels, I expect I'll be dragging that fluffy chair around for years to come. And I couldn't be happier about it.

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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

My wife and kid

I am not now and never have been married (although I have officiated two weddings, with two more scheduled for this year).

But I've had a wife since 2008. That's when The Rehabiliskater presented me with a ring shaped like a roller skate that she had made out of clay and asked me to be her Derby Wife. I typically translate this for people outside of the derby world as "best friend on skates."

I wrote an ode to her in 2010, just before her first attempt at retirement. (If you know Rehab, you know she's back to skating. And officiating. And she's also just started a small business. While going for her doctorate. The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.)

At some point in 2012, Zeldangerous posted something on Facebook about late-night baking (this is not a euphemism). Rehab and I have both been known to randomly decide to make cookies or bread or some other such thing right before bed (or when we should be sleeping). Rehab suggested that this shared trait was a reason that we should adopt Zelda. And that's how I got my kid.

(People have asked if Zelda is actually my child. I am only 11 years older than she is! No, we are not related by blood.)

Wife, kid, and me at Zelda's first bout, Happy Wheels, December 2012.

I have been single for a long time, and I sometimes wonder if I will ever have a family of my own (in the traditional sense). But then I realize that I already have one (in a really not traditional sense), and maybe that's enough. It has seen me through some really hard times and brought me ridiculous amounts of joy and amusement.

Rehab was a Partner in Awesome, a Red Notebook Conspirator, and has been a frequent adventure buddy. Zelda and her boyfriend (a fellow official) accompanied me on my trip to see the first sunrise of 2014 at the easternmost point in the U.S. They've both been postal ninjas with me.

I met my wife and my kid at Happy Wheels. We've spent countless hours there together over the years. Our league is trying to buy the rink before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. We have until March 7 to come up with the down payment.

Every little bit helps. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

Sisters

While people often use the word "sisters" metaphorically when talking about roller derby, I want to talk about my actual biological sisters today.

Roller derby doesn't particularly interest either of my sisters.

Big Sis Kelly lived in Tennessee when I first got involved with roller derby. When she found out about the broken ankle that earned my name -- and that I intended to come back and put wheels on my feet as soon as a doctor cleared me -- she made me promise I would quit if I ever got another serious injury.

Big Sis Kelly, back in the day.

I will never forget how we got lost in Newark, NJ, for more than an hour trying to find the venue for a Garden State Rollergirls game when she came up to visit shortly after I started playing roller derby. (We ended up finding it...about two jams before half-time.)

Li'l Sis Kelly came with Dad to the game I played in against the Hudson Valley Horrors, and she accompanied me to the championship games of WFTDA Eastern Regionals in 2010 (that's what they were called then).

Lil Sis Kelly came to watch my second game. Hyde Park Roller Magic, 2008.

Both Sisters Kelly parked in a rather sketchy part of Yonkers to attend a doubleheader I officiated a couple of years ago. (Big Sis says she doesn't think I should officiate there again because of the venue's location.)

And then they both came to watch a doubleheader at home a couple of years ago when they came up to Maine to visit for Labor Day weekend.

My sisters may not totally get the rules or strategies, but they know roller derby is important to me. Their willingness to be there, to support this thing that means so much to me, is one of the most meaningful signs of their love they could give to me. Well, that and when they get in a photo booth with me:

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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

BIRTHDAY!

I love birthdays. Especially mine. I have some seriously grand adventures on my birthday, often involving acrobatic things like trampolines and/or trapezes.

From my 31st birthday, which I call the "Birthday of Awesome."

This year's birthday adventure is going to involve a sensory deprivation tank, a scavenger hunt, and a concert by my favorite band.

If you've been following my posts recently, you're probably wondering what the hell this has to do with roller derby. The answer: Not much.

Except this: If you are inclined to give me any sort of birthday present, I ask you to consider donating to Maine Roller Derby's Capital Campaign so that my league can purchase the rink where we skate (and I take Derby Lite classes) before it goes up for sale on the open market.

We need to raise enough money for the down payment by March 7 (the day after my birthday). That's a lot of money in a small amount of time. But every gift -- large or small -- helps get us closer to that goal. You can make a tax-deductible donation online here.

Pa Kelly

My dad got a real kick out of seeing me play roller derby.

My dad and I had a kind of complicated relationship. We couldn't always find ways to talk to each other or things to talk about. (My mom used to say it was because I was so much like him. She may have had a point.)

He was living in Tennessee when I first found roller derby, but he came up for a visit to see me play in my second game. It is one of few times I can say for sure that I felt like he was proud of me, and that means a lot.

Almost two years ago, I was on my way to my Power Hour Derby Lite class when I got a call from my sister. Dad had collapsed in the kitchen. She didn't know much, because she was on her way home from work herself. She said she'd call me when she knew more. I knew I'd be in for a trip home to New York the next morning, so I pulled over to turn around and wait for more information. But then I reconsidered. Skating my face off for an hour would at least distract me from the anxiety of waiting and worrying, so I went to class.

That hour of skating helped keep me sane and together, so that when my sister called later that night to say that Dad had died (that I'd missed my chance to say goodbye, that I'd missed my chance to say so many things), I was at least capable of driving home.

Once there, I saw a notification that my BFRef had posted pictures to the Mini Graceless Tumblr. Even amid the shock and pain of losing the only parent I had left, it made me smile. I messaged my friend to tell him so and to thank him. He spent the next hour just chatting with me, reminding me that there are good people who care about me. If you think that sounds like a small thing, you are very, very wrong.

When I came back to Power Hour the next week, several of my classmates hugged me before warmups. When our instructor found out why, she offered another big hug. It may seem obvious for people to reach out in comfort when a friend is grieving, especially a loss as big as a parent, but having been down this road a few times, I know that grief is a weird thing that makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Not everyone is able to offer support.

Skating has been a tremendous outlet for all of the grief and regret I've had to carry since my dad died (and Mom, too). I don't know where I'd be without it. Likewise, I can't imagine living my life as an adult orphan without the love of my skating community.

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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

Ma Kelly

My mom and me, a couple of years before I discovered roller derby.

Maine Roller Derby was about 15 months old the afternoon I got a call from my sister while I was at work. She never called me during the day, so I knew something was very wrong. Mom was at the emergency room and the doctors there had (correctly) determined that she had a mass on her lung that they thought (incorrectly) was pressing on her heart. I remember saying "Okay" a lot during that phone call, telling my sister I would leave for New York as soon as I could. I started crying when I pulled my boss out of a meeting to tell him I had to go and why. I went home, packed up my pets, and emailed several people from the league to let them know what was going on. I still had a suitcase full of merch from our last fundraiser in my apartment. I told them where I left the spare key, so someone could come get it. Then I drove the 300 miles back to the house I'd grown up in.

My mom never got to see me play roller derby, even though the second of the three games I played in was a mere 40-minute drive from her house. (It was a year later, and she was very weak then. She wouldn't have been able to sit so long.) And even though I think my fascination with derby surprised her, she did seem to enjoy it and the impact it had on me.

My mom took this picture at the park across the street from her house shortly before we found out about her lung cancer.

My mom fought lung cancer for two and a half years. In that time, I transitioned from playing to reffing, changed employers, moved an hour north. I made that long drive to New York often.

I have only ever missed three of Maine Roller Derby's home games in the history of the league. One while I was helping to care for Mom a couple of weeks before she died, the second just days afterward. (The third was for my writing partner's wedding.)

My mom's death was the single most difficult and painful experience of my life. Skating helped. My derby family helped -- in fact, many of them went on to be Partners in Awesome*.

And although my mom never got to see me participate in roller derby, never got to skate with me, Box o'Ma did.

Me and Box o'Ma skating the Green Belt trail in South Portland.

Box o'Ma at WFTDA Eastern Regionals, 2010.

Me and Box o'Ma at Happy Wheels, the rink my league is trying to buy before it goes up for sale on the open market.

It's been almost six and a half years since my mom died. I think I probably would have found a way through my grief even without roller derby, but it would have been a lot harder and lonelier.


* I call all the people who helped with the Misadventures of Box o'Ma my Partners in Awesome, because they were so much more than "partners in crime."


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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

Fun and fitness!

I never regretted my decision to become a roller derby ref instead of a player. There's no question that reffing was a better fit for me in pretty much every way. Except for this: I really did love to skate hard and figure out new things on my wheels. When you officiate, you don't always have the opportunity to focus on your skating skills.

But then something amazing happened. A retired skater started offering Derby Lite classes at the rink where my league does most of its skating. Derby Lite's tagline is "Roller Skating for Fun and Fitness" and it couldn't be more true. I. Love. It. It's all the things I missed about playing roller derby (endurance and skills and just a chance to skate more) and none of the things I didn't like (hitting people). 

Derby Lite is the reason I can transition to the left, skate backwards with any kind of speed or confidence, cross-over backwards, and plow stop instead of the "plow slow-down" I did for years. And I love endurance drills. I love sprinting. (I hate running. Always have. But I love to SKATE FAST with a minimum of obstacles in my way.)

(c) Brianne Seekins Photography. This is me participating in my first-ever cheerleader pyramid to celebrate Derby Lite's 6th birthday in 2013.

I am willing to drive more than two hours round trip to spend one hour on my skates at Derby Lite. I am willing to get up an hour early so I can get out of work early enough to make it to class on time. When I've considered other jobs or major life changes that might make me move somewhere else, I look to see if there's a nearby city that offers Derby Lite. Most places have roller derby leagues, but not that many have skating for fun and fitness. Public open skates just don't cut it.

Derby Lite has also expanded my derby family. As with roller derby, I have met so many incredible humans through Derby Lite. Roller skating can be a difficult and humbling experience. Trying to do anything with eight wheels on your feet is going to take practice. The retired skater who brought Derby Lite to us often says, "If you're moving, you're perfect." (A motto that I carry with me when I'm struggling off my skates, too.)

I can't imagine what my life -- who I -- would be like without roller derby. But I also can't imagine either without Derby Lite.


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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating (including Derby Lite!) before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

That time Hank Green wore my tutu and that other time Ruth of All Evil and I found Aerofighters at a rink in Rhode Island

In the world of roller derby in northern New England, I'm kind of known for my tutus. All three doll likenesses of me wear them:

So, when John Green tweeted that he was looking for a tutu for the first stop on the Tour de Nerdfighting back in 2012, Ruth of All Evil made sure I saw it:

@graceless880, GET ON THIS. RT @realjohngreen: does anyone coming to the show tonight in Wellesley, MA have a tutu that would fit, say, me?

— Ruth of All Evil (@ruthofallevil) January 10, 2012

Which led to this exchange:

@graceless880 AWESOME! THANKS! Tell the people at the bookstore that YOU HAVE THE TUTUS.

— John Green (@johngreen) January 10, 2012

 ...And then this happened:

I have photographic proof of @hankgreen wearing @graceless880's tutu. Thanks for a great show, Hank & @realjohngreen! pic.twitter.com/X2uvy06u

— Ruth of All Evil (@ruthofallevil) January 11, 2012

Interestingly, the person who would go on to be my BFRef was also at this event, but we barely knew each other at the time. 

A little more than a year later, Ruth of All Evil and I were in southern Rhode Island to officiate a game between Maine Roller Derby's Port Authorities and the Rhode Island Riveters. Evil came running up to me, "Graceless, they have nerdfighters!" 

I looked at her uncomprehendingly. "...Someone's wearing a Pizza John shirt?"

And then she pointed out the game at the far edge of the rink, which led to this:

.@graceless880 and I found #nerdfighters in a roller rink in Rhode Island! Roller derby refs love @realjohngreen pic.twitter.com/wTerPJdPmO

— Ruth of All Evil (@ruthofallevil) March 24, 2013

When another official received his Pizza John shirt in the mail in December, he posted a picture of it to my Facebook timeline because he knows I am a die-hard nerdfighter even though I don't think we've ever had a conversation about it.

Nerdfighteria -- like roller derby -- is a huge part of who I am, a huge part of what got me through losing my mom six and a half years ago and then my dad almost two years ago. That rink in Rhode Island with the Aerofighters game closed last year, and several rinks in my state are closing or have closed down already. As of June, the Portland Happy Wheels -- which is home to three roller derby leagues, a skating fitness class, and more than 30,000 people who skate at public events -- will be one of only three remaining rinks in the state. It would be devastating to our community if we lost this facility.

Maine Roller Derby, a certified nonprofit, is trying to raise enough money for a down payment to purchase Happy Wheels before it is sold on the open market.

We hope that other nerdfighters will help us meet our goals:

• To sustain the personal, athletic, and professional development of women in southern Maine;
• To maintain a supportive athletic community for LGBT and other athletes who face discrimination in other sporting ventures; and
• To sustain roller skating, a physical activity that promotes healthy lifestyles in people of diverse backgrounds, in southern Maine.

You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online here.

That time I was semi-stalked at Bubba's Sulky Lounge because of Neil Gaiman

Way back in the beginning of time when I played roller derby, I would always sign up to be in charge of merch at fundraisers because I don't like talking to strangers, but I'm willing to take someone's money and hand them something they want in exchange. I used to get bored, so I'd bring a book.

I was reading Good Omens at the second-ever Lucky Lass Throwdown eight years ago when some guy came up to the table and said, "So, you like Neil Gaiman?" It was the beginning of an incredibly awkward evening where he kept coming on to me, and I kept turning him down. Eventually, he asked for a picture together (which was especially weird since another skater took the picture with her phone and he didn't know her, so there was no way he was going to get it).

When I got home that night, I wrote Neil Gaiman a letter about how it was all his fault this guy semi-stalked me, complete with a copy of the picture and footnotes. I made sure to tell him this all happened at Bubba's Sulky Lounge, because it's one of those names that makes for good storytelling and had the bonus of being fact.

Three months later, I got a postcard back with a note from Neil himself:

Why, yes, I do keep this postcard matted and framed on my library wall. It's from NEIL GAIMAN -- who happens to be my favorite writer -- for crying out loud.

On the back was a note from Neil's assistant Cat (not the one who eventually went on to play roller derby) asking how much it would cost to sponsor a roller derby team. At the time, my very new league wasn't good at following up on offers of sponsorship from the assistants of amazingly talented writers.

Our league has grown and changed a lot in the last eight years -- recently becoming a non-profit, continuing to raise our all-star team up in its international rankings, adding two home teams, talking seriously about developing a youth league, and more.

Unfortunately, our league also faces a huge challenge right now. We need to raise money for a down payment to purchase the rink where we skate or risk it being sold on the open market. Historically, when that has happened with other rinks in our state, they end up closing or being repurposed. As of June, the Portland Happy Wheels -- which is home to three roller derby leagues, a skating fitness class, and more than 30,000 people who skate at public events -- will be one of only three remaining rinks in the state. It would be devastating to our community if we lost this facility.

Neil, you considered sponsoring one of our teams eight years ago. Might you consider sponsoring skating in Southern Maine now? My league-mates would love to talk with you in more depth about this opportunity and how you might be able to help us keep this vibrant, empowering community alive. You can contact them at trip@mainerollerderby.com or visit our website here.

Ten. Years.

I count the day I broke my ankle -- March 28, 2006 -- as my derbyversary. Do the math. That's ten years coming up next month.

(Because I like contextualizing things like this: Graceless Kelly is old enough to be in fourth grade now. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?)

I acted as team manager for nine games before I played in my first (of three) games. I have now officiated 174 games, plus a whole lot of scrimmages. I was Maine Roller Derby's first-ever Skater of the Month. I was NERDerby's first-ever Raging Zebra. I've been recognized as MVP Ref, Mama Zebra, and Ms. Chutzpah for Derby Lite's 2013 intermediate class. I had a song written about me. And three different people have made doll likenesses of me (one of whom has been to Montreal, Ft. Lauderdale, Germany, and Iceland).

Derby has brought so many good people into my life -- and I've managed to hold onto quite a few of them. People who helped me have adventures with my mom's ashes, who helped me fill a red Moleskine notebook with magic, people who have helped me be a better skater, official, and human.

In the last decade I've gone from mid-20s to mid-30s. Lost several pets, my last two grandparents, and both of my parents. I've moved and changed jobs a couple of times. Visited Iceland (I even got to ref a practice for Roller Derby Iceland!). Read hundreds of books, and written a couple, too. Had my heart broken in so many ways, but always managed to put it back together (mostly with help and thanks in no small part to strapping eight wheels to my feet). Conquered fears and had so many adventures.

And four weeks from now, I'm going to celebrate. I've rented Happy Wheels for two hours. I'm going to do a bunch of skating, and I'm going to eat cake. It's going to be glorious. I'm inviting most everyone who has positively impacted my derby life in some way (playing, officiating, and/or skating Derby Lite). I can hardly wait.

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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and make a tax-deductible donation online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.

Reffing isn't a second choice for me

Every time I see this flyer, all I can think is, "Oh, dear. That's my butt." I mean, it's well-covered, but still. It's a weird thing to have your butt on a flyer.

I've been a roller derby official for more than seven years. I've reffed 125 games on skates and almost 50 off, which isn't a ton for that span of time, but considering my dislike for tournaments and devoting too much of my life to derby travel, that's not so bad.

When I first found roller derby, I wasn't aware of a single female official. I spent two years working my butt off learning how to play roller derby. I wasn't particularly fast or agile, and although I have a competitive streak, I found that I wasn't particularly aggressive either. I didn't really like hitting people. I thought maybe it was just because they were people I knew, that once I scrimmaged against strangers it would be different. But it wasn't. I liked the skating part but not much else.

There are so many reasons I decided to stop playing roller derby and become a ref. More than I could count on all my fingers and all my toes. I am sure there were some people who thought then (and maybe still think now) that I became a ref because I wasn't very good at playing roller derby. Officiating is often treated as the back up plan for people who, for whatever reason, can't commit to playing. But it wasn't like that for me. It's the right choice I just happened to take a circuitous route to get to.

I love being a roller derby official. It appeals to my analytical brain, my sense of fairness and order. It's hard and constantly changing. The various positions (on and off skates) require a tremendous range of skills and talents.

But it's no easy gig. There's a lot of pressure to do your job (whatever it happens to be) well, to ensure fairness. We talk a lot about safety, but usually we're just recognizing when something unsafe has happened and trying to get people to cool off and refocus before it escalates.

Being a female official adds an extra layer of complication. It can be hard to get skaters and other officials to recognize your authority. (Oddly, my height has also played into that. I'm 5'5", but apparently that's pretty short in the world of roller derby officials. I have never been patted on the head, but I know at least one official who has and I've definitely experienced metaphorical head patting.)

And officials get injuries, too. I've collided with plenty of skaters and other refs; one incident a few years ago led to a concussion. I managed to stretch out a tendon in my neck/shoulder area last year that caused an incredible amount of pain and kept me from reffing on skates for 11 months.

But I'm back to reffing on skates at least part-time now, and I don't see myself giving any of it up any time soon. My league is holding a recruitment event for officials this Monday (see above flyer for details!), and I'm excited at the prospect of gaining some new people on our crew.
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Roller derby has been a huge part of my life for the last decade. My league is trying to buy the rink where I do most of my skating before it goes out on the open market, because a regular buyer would likely repurpose the space. You can read more about the Capital Campaign and donate online (every little bit helps!) here.

There's a very short timeline to raise the money the league needs for the down payment. The deadline is 3/7, the day after I turn 37. I see some magic and luck in that. To help do my part, I'm going to write about the tremendous influence derby has had on my life until we hit the deadline.