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!
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
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.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
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:
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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.
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!
-----
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.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
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.
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.
-----
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.
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.
-----
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.
Monday, February 29, 2016
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.)
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.
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.)
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| 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.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
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.
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).
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.
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. |
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:
-----
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.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
BIRTHDAY!
I love birthdays. Especially mine. I have some seriously grand adventures on my birthday, often involving acrobatic things like trampolines and/or trapezes.
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.
 |
| 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.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Pa Kelly
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| 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.
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