what else do you like about the singing?

that it's all poetry. which no one really pays attention to. but we're singing some of the oldest, loveliest spiritual poetry that the world's ever had.

yeah! i know those songs, but not how they translate. the melodies are what get me. how do they translate?

the translations are always... joyous. it's always about how there is nothing simpler to do but sing poetry and feel good. easiest thing in the world to be washed over with faith and beauty.
and that's when we get hit with very complex emotions. it's what we do with those emotions. feel good but don't over indulge. allow yourself forgiveness but don't see yourself as blameless.

did you just come up with that?

yeah. you'd think i were a writer or something.

write that down.

i DID.

Why I rise #OneBillionRising

This morning I rise, not in my own home, but in the home of good people... great friends, who welcomed me and helped me feel safe. Good friends who did not tell me that I should have left my situation sooner, but only showed gratefulness that I was able to leave.

I rise because there are so many women who are afraid to leave. It can be complicated and scary. There might not be any place to go. So I rise because I want the world to learn that we need to make safe spaces. We have to let women know that they can get OUT, they can LEAVE. We have to let women know that they have a right to save their lives. Above all we have to let women know that we are here to help them. We are here to love them.

This morning I rise with a book by my bed, a book in my bag, and books in boxes. I am fortunate enough to have lead a life in which I was gifted literacy.

I rise because there are societies in the world that have put a limitation on the education of their young girls. These societies are afraid of girls and women who have knowledge about the world. Educated women can and WILL demand being treated fairly. These women will rise. They will demand to rule their own bodies. They will demand to further their education. They will demand that their sons be raised in environments that do not encourage the violation of women. They will demand that their daughters be given every opportunity to live safe and happy lives. I rise because I want more women to rise.

This morning I rise on Valentine's day without a love in my life. Correction, this morning I rise with a love for myself in my life.

I rise because the preconception that romance HAPPENS pisses me off. Young women in this country (and others) are cultivated to subject themselves to wait for something. Romance vs. Respect. I'll take respect, thank you.

This morning I rise, ready to walk on an earth that does some really whack things to women.

I rise because on this planet, there are societies that slice the clitoris off of young girls. Denying a woman her sexuality so she will recognize sex as an obligation should be a crime.

I rise because in my country legislators want to give rapists the right to parent their violently sired children. Seriously?!

I rise because in my city a woman was abducted and assaulted only a few blocks from where I work.

I rise because I've been hit, slammed against a wall, whipped with a wire and coerced. I have been date raped, verbally abused, and emotionally manipulated. I have had people read my mail, destroy my poetry, and help themselves to my on line chat sessions with friends. I have been violated physically, emotionally and socially.

And I'm still here. Still strong. Always ready to take the world on.

I rise because of the strength of the Comfort Women. Because My Vagina IS my Village. Because Woman to stop the Violence against Woman (we MUST stop the violence against ourselves). Because I'm in my Short Skirt today and any day I like. Because I am the Woman who Loves to Make Vaginas Happy.

I rise because of Norma, Elodia, Annie, Sunny, Ellie and Kirrah. I rise for Ariel, Rose, Allyson, Melissa Amanda, Sofia, Dani, Katie, Emily, Tamar (your recent love note really made my day), Anne and Renee. For all of the Veteran Vaginas that I have known.

I rise for Virginia.

I rise for Bryan, Jake and Joe! You gentlemen fill my heart! I rise for Brannden, Elias, Ace and David John. I rise for the man that never hurt me. I rise because no man ever should have hurt me.

I rise because there is a lot of love in my life. You are all my loves. And I'm glad you are rising with me. I rise because there is still love to be had.

The world needs to know about MORE THAN ONE BILLION WOMEN... are hurt, are hurting, have been hurt.

Today we should rise and create a world where they are loved.

Evacuation

“The things you think about, times like these.”

The books. Cannot be replaced.

But for some odd reason you leave behind the box of books signed by their poets. You've met these poets. You are sure that if you requested a signature on a new copy, you would receive. You could dedicate some of your time tracking them down at readings. Reminding them of the first time you bought this book. Tell them why you need this book again.The sword will boom to your chest that again and always, "Imagine the Angels of Bread."

Books that can not be left behind.

• Anything that has to do with the sisterhood of bees.
• “The Source” as presented and grandly dedicated by your accidental fountain.
• Similarly gifted Siddur...
• With love and respect, all books regarding God will not be abandoned despite present circumstances.
• Complete works of William Shakespeare (you are suddenly surprised by your miraculous allegiance to the Bard. Despite your many academic frays.)
• Complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer (you are very not surprised by this)
• A handmade book your niece authored. Subject, “Our Family.” In which even pets make an appearance.

The pets come with you. Dedication. You will not be moved on this.

Despite accusations you did not take wine or cologne.

Everyone knows you hate cologne.

Everyone knows you love wine. But would never steal it.

You bought your own.

You're not as worried about clothes as you thought you would be.

But worried about the good muffin pan. The perfect pans for challah. A brand new cook book.

With your hands in your hair you realize you will not leave without the honey. Honey from Home. Honey from Israel. And on hands and knees you find it. Tuck it away safe for when you can bake again. Create from the heart. 

And if you never go back, at least you grabbed the new bottle of fair trade shea. The work of women cooperatives can not go to waste.

The bed is safe. But your desk is not.

Every poet has to create priorities.

Rest. The honey will be here.

Maybe halfway to feeling like this is Home

A month (or two?) ago I met with the Cantor of Touro to discuss my nervousness about joining the choir. It started with the fact that I chickened out on what was supposed to be my first performance with the choir on Erev Rosh Hashanah. I'd sheepishly admitted to my Rabbi that my stage fright was induced by the hundreds of people that show up for High Holy Days. Seriously. A lot of people. More people than I've seen at temple since Jazz Fest Shabbat. And I was supposed to sing in front of everyone? In Hebrew?

Yeah. No. Even if I was just one little voice in the crowd. I was too emotionally overwhelmed.

In hind sight I don't know that I was any better off not singing with the choir I'd been rehearsing with for weeks. Mainly because the congregation plays the old switch-a-roo with the prayer book. On Erev Rosh Hashanah we read from another book. Not the one I read at home, the one that I'd been holding most Friday nights for the past few months. An older prayer book. One without any transliteration.

Fun. The rabbi suggested I speak to the cantor about the incident. Good idea, speak to the person that actually directs me in choir about the momentary freak out.

I let the cantor know that I felt silly at having stage fright. I mean, seriously Naomi? The same girl that has performed in The Vagina Monlogues for the last half decade caught a case of stage fright? Utterly lame. He assures me that these things happen, and that he doesn't doubt I will be doing just fine in choir soon enough.

We end up talking more about everything else that is going on in my life than the actual event. Where am I from. Why I am Jewish. Why I moved here. What I do. What I really want to do. Timeline for when I'd like to learn Hebrew. How I am adjusting to New Orleans.

How am I adjusting to New Orleans?

I am facing my one year anniversary here. And I can say this. This city has the potential to make someone feel loved and welcome. New Orleans can revitalize your sense of adventure. It can make you feel brave. However, New Orleans has it's own sense of time, and you can easily get sucked into it. And while I love (LOVE) the local mentality, the New Orleanian attitude that you aren't “local enough” can be a tough pill to swallow. I might have moved anywhere on the planet and could have created a pro/con list of things I've learned from my adopted city in the first year. Every place has it's own personality. It's own charms.

New Orleans will charm the fucking shit out of you. It's like a cavalier date that shows up twenty minutes late, but with a bouquet of locally purchased flora to present with a sugary whispered smile around the word, “Lagniappe.”

Yes I miss home. And in the face of some of life's most recent defeats, it is sometimes tempting to want to retreat back to a familiar space.

But the cantor had very good advice for me. “Give it two years.”

Tried to stay silent

Last presidential election I was very vocal, very active and very passionate.

With this current election I was just as passionate but without the stamina of my younger self.

Last presidential election I was an intern for a pro-choice organization (which has since, apparently, lost it's funding in the state of NM). I was just coming out of a major depression, just beginning to feel optimistic about the financial risk of earning a college degree, just living with my parents again and generally just trying as hard as I could to grasp onto some hope.

Generically I could say I had been looking for some change.

I was in a new space with an assault of distractions that I could not delegate away this year. Having years ago learned (ish) to deal with depression, attained a degree since, and living on my own (and then not)-- Change had happened. Had been happening. In a universe that offers no constancy I had learned to make fewer plans and hope for the best.

So this year I had not taken my opinion and hopes to the streets which might be why I was so nervous. What if my ounces of efforts in a sea of campaigning in the community is what would cost me my comfort and safety in this nation?

A hope for the best turned to a sigh of relief for my values.

And I never mean to impose my values on others.

I live in a country that is, with more hard work, moving towards marriage equality. Ideally, I'll get married one day. But I don't think I could do so happily when I know that people I love (and people in my nation) were being deprived of the same emotional, spiritual, and LAWFUL bliss. How can any American fall in love, look their love in the eyes and say “I do.” when so many others are being denied that preciously elemental moment?

Think about how your heart would swell in that moment.

And how so many hearts are breaking and waiting to feel the same.

I live in a country that, with little effort, is going to protect the reproductive rights of women. As a woman who has suffered a miscarriage, had an illegal abortion as well as having experience with the legal and medical aspects of abortion... I can honestly say, from all ends of a spectrum... there is no singular circumstance that can dictate right from wrong when it comes to these choices. Legitimacy can not be defined by “God's” intent.

I do not believe that God ever intended for me to be raped when I was young. I believe that I came across a person that did not intend to act humanely towards me. I do not believe that God ever intended for me to lose a child that I intended to keep. Or that I was being punished for the mistakes I'd made. I believe that environment and biology created a situation in which prevented me from carrying to term. I do not believe that God no longer loves me because I could not (and elected to NOT) have children with men who did not love me. I think God, for whatever “God” is, doesn't really give a flip about that sort of thing but if “God” did care... it wouldn't be unforgiving. I think God would say something like, “Good call. Because having a child with someone who does not love you/ respect you and/or likes to punch you in the face/ emotionally abuse you... is not what I intended.”

Obviously the reproductive choice thing is a HUGE issue for me. Even as I get older. And especially because I'm older and faced with the reproductive challenges of being exposed to the wrong type of HPV.

Which brings me to another thing.

Stop slut shaming young women over an HPV vaccine. SERIOUSLY. On any occasion that science is capable of staving off a plague of STI... just stop making it about how no one has any business having sex and start making it about how everyone has a communal obligation to protect themselves and others. Stop lying about the numbers. Stop lying about saving yourself for someone that is coming along. And stop lying about how it's “not that big of a deal.”

It is a really big deal.

Universal healthcare? A big deal. Totally worth it when we calculate how much we're wasting on treating those with preventable problems that have turned south... or terminal. Or, you know, the emotional calculation of how many men, women and CHILDREN go without treatment because of an unbearable cost to families.

You can start to see why I'd been silent. No one wants to hear this from me on a daily basis.

Decriminalizing a basic drug that is contributing to violence in a national neighbor? Also a big deal. The American need to consume an “illegal” substance has devastated the sociological stability of a nation. No. A few nations. Americans lack the dignity to accept responsibility for their addiction to consumption.

Not just to drugs. We also like to criminalize women and men in the sex trade, despite the fact that their actions are often coerced. We let the johns off with a slap to the wrist without offering any sort of rehabilitation for prostitutes. It's in and out of the “corrections” system for them.

I can go on like this. Forever.

We like to shield ourselves with personal “values” without taking into account that.... the singular value does not serve the masses.

Our quality of life can't be improved by trying to cater to one set of ideals and circumstance.

Pre-H-day assessment

I don't know when Halloween became a chore for me.

After years at Club Dedo things threatened to become a bit lack-luster in the costume department. It was difficult to top the atmosphere, drink to wait time ratio, social satisfaction departments. Maybe it was the make-outable DJ's. Maybe it was the bartenders willingness to put up with my shit as well as pour candle wax over me when things were slow. Maybe it was the goth drama. Maybe it was "love you even if you're too loud" vibe I caught... Maybe it was in my head.

For a few years I became the Hostess with the Mostest for a Halloween shindigs that encompassed all of my social circles. Tip of the hat to my parents for havin' a place with lots of room, a tree house, a hot-tub AND a fire pit. I could throw a party that included Vagina Veterans, Rotaractors, Japanese exchange students, my family, co-workers, ex-best-friends, new best friends, and friends of friends of friends.

It didn't matter because we had enough hot dogs and marshmallows for everyone.

But at one point I lost control of Halloween celebration. I might be able to trace it back to being engaged to a man that refused to dress up.Think again. Another story.

Obviously that ended badly and I tried to move VERY FAR away. Only that fell through... only a year later... only a week before Halloween. Giving me no time to arrange for a Martha Stewart level Halloween Party .

Instead I made pumpkin-pineapple-ginger eggrolls and lit up a campfire. At the last minute I let people know there was food and fire to be had.

The ones that I love the most, they were there. The ones I would love deeply showed up by accident.

It was a good Halloween. My last great one.

Now New Orleans had to make up for the lost time and the great memories.

What NOLA does not have? My baby brother, my nephews and niece. Just Dance. My Vaginas. A hot tub in my backyard.

What NOLA does have? Frenchman Street. With Christina at The Revival Outpost inspiring my costume.  Friends visiting from out of town. I can't wait to see V.!

A great job.

A snoring boyfriend.

Things will balance out.

PB and C mini muffins

Yields: 42 mini muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp kosher salt
3 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 cup goat milk

1 tsp vanilla extract
1large egg, beaten
3/4 cup carob chips

Preheat oven to 350°. Combine the flour, cinnamon, baking powder, and salt in a large mixing bowl. In a separate medium sized bowl, whisk together the butter, sugar, peanut butter, vanilla extract, egg and milk. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and stir just until combined; fold in the carob chips.
Coat a nonstick muffin pan with a mist of olive oil from your awesome PC oil misting thing. Fill each of muffin cup about half full with batter. Bake 15ish minutes or until bottoms of muffins are golden but the tops are oddly not. Make sure they are baked all the way through... by eating one. Try to let it cool first. But you know... don't stress about that step.
Bring to your favorite deli and feed your meat slinging, bagel slicing deli boys.
Maybe undress the man you are dating with your eyes.