Migration Season

By the standards of the Yucatán peninsula, the female Ruby-throated hummingbird is a plain jane among hundreds of species that roam the jungle. Her heart is the size of a pencil eraser and beats approximately 1,260 times a minute. At the start of migration season she has only one goal in mind – she has to almost double her body weight, in order to survive a treacherous trip across the gulf of Mexico.

By the standards of the United States government, The Black-haired Mexican filmmaker (that’s me) is but one among thousands of immigration cases that come through a pipeline of the United States Citizen and Immigration Service (USCIS). At the start of migration season, she has but one goal in mind: build a strong enough case to survive the gauntlet of work-visa processing.

Like the Ruby-throated hummingbird, I too have a laundry list of things to do before I can ready to make a big trip, and they fill me with such foreboding that just writing them down here makes my anxiety bubble up and catch at the pit of my stomach. I have never really talked about my immigration experience so plainly as I have recently, and I think there’s a common factor between this particular instance and why I’m ready to face this head-on. Birding.

Before I lose you entirely, let me lay down the basic difference between birding, and birdwatching. They each have their own merits, but birdwatching is largely sedentary. Think of your Nana watching the sparrows on the feeder. The mere act of watching brings her joy and for the birdwatcher, that’s enough. Birding is a little bit more…unhinged. The casual birder is just an obsessive birder who’s a liar. Birding in and of itself is the activity that surrounds looking for and identifying as many birds as you can in a given area, and even a given time. The extreme birder can be known to take part in “Big Days” where they search for the most bird species they can find and identify in a single day. The ultimate obsessive birder embarks on a Big Year, which is the attempt to see as many unique species as you can within the lower 48 during a single calendar year. It’s an easy thing to get sucked into if you like animals and the outdoors, because it plays like a worldwide scavenger hunt.

The first time I went out birding, I had just gotten my first serious guidebook and my grandfather’s binoculars for Christmas. I convinced my brother and sister-in-law to come with me, and since they are weirdos in their own right, there we all were: boot clad, wrapped in scarves and ready for whatever it is we were about to do. It almost felt like induction into a cult: “Come join me. Untold wonders await us.” But by the end of the day-trip, we were busy speeding in our van and recklessly chasing down hawks down dirt roads, accidentally trespassing, and knee-deep in snow trying to figure out if we were looking at a House Finch or a Purple Finch (it’s harder than you think). Near the end of the day on our way home, I realized I hadn’t just found a new hobby, I’d also found joy.

There are hundred of types of hummingbirds that nest in the American tropics. More than a dozen nest in the western United States, but if you’re looking at a hummingbird nesting east of the Great Plains, you’re looking at a Ruby-throated. The Ruby-throated hummingbird beats its wings more than 50 times per second and some may migrate from Canada all the way to Costa Rica. Almost all of them leave North America in the Fall. Some may cross Gulf of Mexico, making a journey in featureless blackness, but many go around, concentrating along Texas coast.

My own journey through American immigration is a bastion of privilege compared to thousands of humans who make arduous and sometimes futile journeys in order to make it home to family already abroad, or make sure that they are safe from the crumbling social structure and escalating violence of many cities. A dramatic uptick in unaccompanied child migration from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras has occurred since 2014 —with more than 50,000 Central American minors intercepted at the U.S.-Mexico border during the first 11 months of 2014, up from 10,146 two years earlier. The poem “Home” by Warsan Shire comes to mind: “no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear, saying – leave, run away from me now, i don’t know what i’ve become but i know that anywhere is safer than here.”

That migration, the one we make for necessity, seems like some of the most natural to me. The Ruby-throated hummingbird doesn’t choose to migrate North in a nonstop 900-mile journey across the Gulf of Mexico towards the eastern United States. The Ruby-throated understands its own limitations and that of its environment. It knows, in its tiny pencil-eraser-sized gut, that the best chance for her family is to breed in the Eastern Seaboard, so she goes. It’s not fun, and it’s definitely not easy, there is no guarantee that she’ll make it, but she knows if she doesn’t go, she won’t survive.

My own migration is less for the preservation of the species and more for the common reason a lot of immigrants travel North to the United States. With my skill-set, my hard work and my drive, I think I have a chance to make a life and a name for myself. Documentary filmmaking doesn’t really carry the same glamour as other parts of the film industry, but if there is somewhere where folks are looking to support people like me, it’s America.

Suddenly, my migrating instinct faced a tough adversary: bureaucracy. The USCIS is a supremely ineffective office. Underpaid, understaffed and overwhelmed, every day they take people’s lives in their hands and make sure enough boxes are checked for approval. When you’re a filmmaker, as opposed to, say, a factory worker, you have to make it very clear to an office full of folks who don’t know anything about film, that you are a legitimate influence in your workforce. You have to explain to them why it is that film isn’t a 9-5 gig with benefits, 220 work days and a set time for vacation. As of this week, my 6-month journey into the maw of immigration services has reached its final stage.

Like our Ruby-throated, I am so close to completing my journey. I have been away from the United States, my home, my life, not to mention my girlfriend for just about six months. There is one more leg to my journey and it’s the hardest one: I need to submit my case for approval and have a face-to-face interview with an immigration officer, and I am terrified. I’ve been flying through this process with single-minded determination. The Ruby-throated and I are coasting over open ocean and our journey is almost complete, but just like her, I’m weary of inclement weather. One misstep for me or one unforseen tropical storm for her and we’re done for.

I identify with birds so plainly. Their family structure, their teaching habits, their tenacity. Having “left the nest” pretty early in my life for boarding school, I’ve often found myself self-teaching a lot of hard fought lessons. I learned to maneuver heartbreak, depression, anxiety and frustration in a trial by fire. I learned to cope with the loss of a great friend, and I learned to rely on myself and myself alone.

Since I’ve been away, I’ve watched the start and end of migration season and looking for all the different species that have gone all the way to the States, lived a life and come back, I’ve both identified and envied the freedom of soaring over a border unencumbered. So, this is what the immigration process does: it makes you feel alone. It reduces you to a few pages and it expects you to be the exact person they want you to be. There are no gestures of kindness, there is no empathy, there’s just a cold, empty form that’s holding your future ransom in exchange for your personal information. So instead of dwelling on the inevitable, I bird.

In the past six months I’ve been stranded back in Mexico, I’ve seen over 35 new species, and I’ve clocked the regular visitors to my parent’s backyard. In a few weeks I’m looking to get out of here, and just like Ruby, there’s a million things to do before we have to take flight.

FRIDAY OPEN THREAD: I’m a Non-Resident Alien, and So Can You!

Hi. Have you had enough water lately? You probably have, but you should still drink some. Go ahead and get it. I’ll wait.

Hi, again. Where are you right now? I am in my childhood bedroom sitting amidst an amalgamation of middle school bulletin boards, pictures of high school friends, a kickass The Clash poster, and a giant gorilla stuffed animal that used to belong to my brother but now just kind of chills with me. My parents live about two hours north of Mexico City in, what I have come to think of as the Newark of Mexico. It’s got pretty poor urban development, it’s tremendously industrial, and when anyone asks where you’re from you say The City. It’s pretty silly.

I’m back here to renew my work visa so that I can keep working in the U.S. (yay, America?), and so I can keep living my life as I have made it. I don’t technically have to renew it until mid-January, but guess what happens around mid-January? That’s right! My entire future and job security become precariously balanced on the clarity and judgement of a group of people who don’t seem to think I am a person! Oh, and I turn 27.

Honestly, I’m just bummed to have to leave my life in New York in a type of suspended animation, ya know? I just started seeing a very sweet girl that teaches me about all kinds of things, my girlfriend is still working til Christmas (Hey girl! You’re working so hard, I’m so proud of you!) and I super really hope that she’s watering the plants. Thai and purple basil, y’all.

But enough about me. I honestly just want to hear about you, because I have a consular appointment on Monday and if I keep thinking about it, I’ll start chewing my nails, which (go, me!) I just recently stopped doing. What are y’all doing nowadays? You look fabulous, by the way. Are you going anywhere for the holidays? Are you allowed to travel because the consulate hasn’t seized your passport? Do you have any new interests that you’ve been developing? Have you learned anything new? Are you busy texting with a new cutie? Did you go out on a date with your honey?

WAIT. Do you like birds?? I love birds. It feels like coming out all over again when I say that I go birding, because the only people that go birding are your retired neighbors, and they never seems that happy to go in the first place. Here’s the thing though, birding is awesome. It’s like a worldwide scavenger hunt, and it literally never ends.

Here’s one of my favorite pictures I have ever taken:

Tell me things. I’m ready. I am a sponge ready to soak up all your awesome. Get in here.

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How To Post A Photo In The Comments:

Find a photo on the web, right click (on a Mac, control+click), hit “Copy Image URL” and then…
code it in to your comment like so:

<img src=”http://imagelink.jpg”>

If you need to upload the photo you love from your computer, try using imgur. To learn more about posting photos, check out Ali’s step-by-step guide.

How To Post A Video In The Comments, Too:

Find a video on YouTube or Vimeo or WHATEVER and click “embed.” Copy that code, paste it, you’re good to go!

FRIDAY OPEN THREAD: I Might Be Violating New York City’s Fire Code

¡Buenos días, tardes y noches queridas Straddlers! It’s your elusive writer friend, Isabel, and I am here to host my first ever Friday Open Thread. Just as I wrote that, a clap of thunder rattled my windows, so it seems like everyone is excited for this.

I feel like I know all y’all from our communal tenancy of Autostraddle dot com’s warm embrace and, while that should make me feel more at ease, it’s sort of given this whole thing the air of trying to impress your older sister’s impossibly cool friends.

I know everyone is all-consumed by the Olympic craze, myself included, but I can’t give any insight or analysis on most sports so I’ll let you crazy kids get into that in the comments. For me, the Olympics have mostly been the background noise to a very strange week of challenges and accomplishments. Two in particular. This week was the first official week of my newly non-monogamous relationship and my very awesome girlfriend just went on her first date. Please, please, hold your applause. Everything is good and everyone is happy, and we talk about everything so often, my apartment has feelings oozing from the baseboards. (If anyone has any tips on how to get my earnestness and vulnerability off of the carpet please let me know.)

My second trial and triumph comes at the hands of The City of New York, who decided that my awesome tomatoes and zucchini plants couldn’t stay on the fire escape. The official citation said something about “fire hazards” and “safety concerns,” but I digress. New York thought it had seen the last of me, but little does it know that my queerness comes with a tool belt, and that tool belt has a bunch of carabiners on it. So guess who is the proud owner of a (probably illegal) hanging garden? This kid.

Admittedly, the move was a little rough on them, but they’re getting better. Don’t you worry.

Have any outstanding challenges or accomplishments from your week? Have you qualified for the women’s 200×4 relay race only to be cut last minute, missing an opportunity to win an Olympic Gold Medal? Are you harboring a Gatsby-esque unrequitable love for Katie Ledecky or the entirety of the USWNT? Have you actually met anyone on OKCupid who was actually there for “new friends”? Is “new friends” just code for casual sex? Is anyone else in a non-monogamous relationship who can help this kid out with some advice? DID YOU REGISTER FOR A-CAMP MIDWEST?

I want to know everything there is to know about you weirdos, so let’s all do our absolute best, give it our all, and leave it all out on the court, er, comments. Ready? BREAK!

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How To Post A Photo In The Comments:

Find a photo on the web, right click (on a Mac, control+click), hit “Copy Image URL” and then…
code it in to your comment like so:

<img src=”http://imagelink.jpg”>

If you need to upload the photo you love from your computer, try using imgur. To learn more about posting photos, check out Ali’s step-by-step guide.

How To Post A Video In The Comments, Too:

Find a video on YouTube or Vimeo or WHATEVER and click “embed.” Copy that code, paste it, you’re good to go!

“Orange Is The New Black” 405 Review: “We’ll Always Have Baltimore”

This season of Orange Is the New Black has really tried to deal with the “big issues.” After a couple of seasons of villains, in-jokes and inmate politics, season four seems to have stepped back into its grown-up pants and started tackling social commentary with inconsistent grace. Episode five, “We’ll Always Have Baltimore,” opens with a mention of how feminine hygiene products are deemed “inessential” while the line at medical snakes down and around the hallway. Without the benefit of a cold open, episode five tries to stuff as many themes as possible within the opening scene: MCC’s corporate practices are inhumane; overcrowding has reached a breaking point, making the inmates violent. There is nothing worse than not having enough tampons when you’re on your period. In general, “We’ll Always Have Baltimore” tries (and fails) to weave far too many of its storylines into the same episode.

(Mey Rude also wants you to know the dinosaur information in this episode is at least a year behind the scientific community. When Angie yells “Brontosaurus Rex!” she is corrected by a nameless inmate that it’s “just Brontosaurus, period.” See what they did there? She goes on to mention that now they are calling it the Apatosaurus, saying her son is super into dinosaurs. Actually, though, Brontosaurus’ celebrity status was reclaimed in late 2015.)

In an attempt to consolidate this hydra of an episode, let’s just say that the overcrowding theme of the season is still going strong and sets up a good backdrop for Piper’s re-emerging storyline. This episode also tries to blend in a couple of C-storylines for humor, letting us watch Taystee “hold down the fort” in Caputo’s office, which just turns into a non-linear montage of her attempting to Google her friends (lol at “Sideboobrulez”) and gives us a roundabout way back into the Judy King storyline. We also get a fun role reversal bit where Morello and Suzanne have turned janitorial duty into a detective search for the shower-pooper (“Shower Pooper strikes again!”).

This episode is also filled with the most spectacular tampon commentary ever seen on television. From the oft repeated “borrowing a tampon” joke, to the menstrual cup display at CorrectiCon, to the saving grace of Maritza’s close-call with the guards, the menstrual narrations covers it like a quality overnight heavy-flow maxi pad. The menstrual cup display probably speaks the loudest to this episode because we, as the audience, understand that the solution to this issue (which at the end of the day ends up being a women’s health issue), can be corrected with a “one-time expenditure” that could severely impact a woman’s quality of life. Caputo, however, completely unaware of the reality of actually being a woman, doesn’t even consider the possibility of switching from pads to cups and instead looks at the heavy-duty metal cage display and thinks, “You know, we could really use some of this stuff.” His character, like most others in this show, is so painfully un-self-aware that he really does see himself as a benevolent face in the harsh world of corrections.

I thought CorrectiCon was a masterful way of exploring the capitalism that is driving the Litchfield machine without having to stick us in yet another board room. In my notes I gave the Hufflepuff writers ten points for that one, except I swiftly revoked the ten points (plus five more) because of the addition of Danny’s protest during Linda’s panel. Danny says what we were all thinking: “This is a disgusting display of how industry dollars are spent” and sets himself up as the righteous person Caputo wishes himself to be. But the outburst totally undercuts the creepy subtext of the whole conference and uncovers the concept as something the writers didn’t trust the audience to figure out on their own, even with the heavy-handed examples like the prison slop ice-cream, the novelty handcuffs and the Shanks for the Memories: A History of Prison Weapons panel.

I really wish that Maritza’s flashback had come in a different episode because against CorrectiCon’s social commentary, the tampon debacle, Piper’s story and everything else going on in this episode, Maritza’s background as a con-artist falls a little flat. Don’t get me wrong, I am all about watching Diane Guerrero’s doe-eyed, fast-thinking confidence, but it doesn’t really let us know much more about her than we already did. Sure, watching her speed away in a Ferrari was delightful, but her flashback just felt like a reaffirmation of something we were busy learning about her in Litchfield already: she is smarter than she looks and she’s quick in a crisis. I would go as far as to say that we learned more about Marritza from one line she had in the kitchen in the season one finale. She’s talking about her daughter being at some “marimacha collective” her cousin is a part of, but she’s not worried that they’ll turn her gay. The tenderness in Diane Guerrero’s delivery of that single line speaks volumes to the lack of substance she was given with the con-artist storyline, which at the end of the episode just feels like yet another vehicle (heh) to further the notion that CO Humphrey is a creep.

Tying this mess up at the end with a nice racial-commentary-bow is Piper’s latest storyline, which has taken root in the slow-burn of her character development. Piper has grown slightly more pragmatic in her time at Litchfield, but she’s still an amateur strategists who doesn’t have the forethought or tactics for a true manipulation of the system. Never is her naïveté more apparent than when she unwittingly starts a white supremacy movement. Her “Community Carers” task force doesn’t last more than a few minutes after she describes their mission as going against a “shadowy presence” (racist) with the goal of keeping the prison “pure” (racist) and “clean” (racist). It spins disgustingly out of her hands with chants of “White lives matter!” and a glance at a Confederate flag tattoo, as a chilling rendition of “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” from Cabaret sweeps us into the credits.

The Audience Is Everyone: An Evening with Ellen Page’s Tallulah and Women in Film

feature image via Tallulah the movie the blog

You know the sound of the soft murmur of a restaurant? It has that low-ish register of people’s melodic conversations and polite pauses? Now imagine that sound, turn the pitch up by a fifth, and that’s the sound of a screening room about 80% women. That was the dull roar of the small screening of Tallulah at the DGA Theatre. It was put on by Sundance, the Kering group and Variety with the intent of bringing women filmmakers together. Which it did. You could hear the difference from outside the theatre.

Tallulah, for those of you who don’t know, is Ellen Page’s latest cinematic release, co-starring alongside Allison Janney in their first on-screen reunion since Juno. The film follows wandering vagabond Tallulah (Page), who ends up in New York City, in a heap of trouble, when a rich housewife (Tammy Blanchard) unexpectedly ropes her into taking care of her toddler. The film was the directorial debut of Sian Heder, whom you might know as a writer for Orange is the New Black. Page delivers a nuanced and powerful performance counterpointed by Allison Janney’s powerhouse portrayal of the complicated societal middle-ground between being a wife, a mother and a middle-aged woman. The film is creative, intimate, funny and poignant. Also, Uzo Aduba is in it and is magical, as always, in a subtle kind of way.

The film was swiftly followed by a discussion panel with producers Heather Rae, Alix Madigan and Lydia Dean Pilcher, and for the moment I am choosing to ignore that a white man was chosen to moderate this panel on the empowerment of women in film. We’ll get to him a little later. It was encouraging to see women, and powerful women at that, talk about how “making a movie is like moving a mountain,” because that’s exactly what it feels like most of the time, if you replace “making a movie” with “living” and “moving a mountain” with “life as a woman.”

I love discussions that are mostly women because they really tend to cut down on a lot of that Hollywood coded language we’re so used to hearing. I’m so done with hearing about “creative decisions” to excuse bad or thoughtless casting, or “not viable” to hide the fact that the studio thinks not enough people want to hear what you have to say – mainly because that room of straight white men don’t want to hear what you have to say.

The panel started with the stark admission that Tallulah took 7 years to produce after Sian Heder wrote the script 10 years ago. I was reminded of the stories flying around about how long Carol took to make (15 years, for those of you keeping score at home).

“It was absolutely all down to the financing,” producer Heather Rae said dryly. “Nobody wanted to finance it because it was a story about women. That was openly said.”

So how do you break into a business that is already so ingrained in the very culture that is preventing any upward growth of creativity, diversity and opportunity? It seems to be a global question. Even though the consensus is that – worldwide – cinema is facing a renaissance, the international film market is still a struggling enterprise. If you go visit a movie theatre in Brazil, or Mexico, or Italy or South Africa, the likelihood that you’ll see a film locally produced is very low. Most likely, you’ll be looking at a marquee that reads just as bleakly as the ones in the US (incidentally, I think they’re making another Paul Blart), because Hollywood is undeniably generating most of the world’s cinematic content.

“Just try and make your movie,” says Rae. “Except free yourself from the expectation that it’ll happen exactly as you picture it.”

“For me it was a learning experience,” said The Namesake producer, Lydia Dean Pilcher. “I had to learn the hard way that studios will not take the same risk on the career of a woman as they will [on] that of a young man. But you have to produce the work anyway.[…] Until we diversify the system all the way through, we are going to have trouble breaking through it.”

This brings me back to the moderator. I’m not sure who the genius at Variety was who decided that it would be a crackerjack plan to have a dude be the moderator of the panel intended to empower women, but there he was. I knew there was going to be at least something to report back when the first comment of the panel was pointing out this exact irony. It was almost poetic to be looking at the visual representation of the very issue these women were discussing. Almost.

I’m not gonna lie, this was not one of those major breakthrough moments. I was encouraged to see a theatre full of women in film (#womeninfilm) but it was definitely a very white panel speaking to a very white audience. So, nice try everyone, but ultimately, partial credit.

Tallulah was at the right place at the right time this festival season, and was promptly scooped up by Netflix a week before it premiered at Sundance in January. The producers chalk it up to the versatility of the film, but also to the new way that Netflix is interacting with its audience. Audiences have garnered new power in terms of telling producers what they will and will not watch, basically in real time, so data-driven companies like Netflix have taken hold of this data and will take more “risks” regarding its content. (Also, and I’m not sure if this bears noting, but Netflix also doesn’t share any of this data with its content producers. It mostly just buys its content and keeps its ratings internal, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“The notion that stories about women are ‘niche’ acquisitions is based entirely on myth. There is quantifiable data that proves the exact opposite,” said Rae. “Netflix looked at this film and asked itself, ‘who do we think the audience is?’

“Women 35 and over?” asked the moderator. (Ugh, this moderator.)

“I mean, sure,” shot back Rae, “but also everyone. Everyone who likes a good story. Everyone who likes Ellen Page.” (That’s you.)

The more I look at film trends over these past social media-soaked years, the more I see the same pattern emerging. The films that end up doing well and making an impact are those that treat their characters with enough care to make them complex, treat their audience with enough respect to make the story engaging and compelling. But most of all, the films that really stand the test of time are those that ask themselves, “is this my story to tell?” In the case of Tallulah, Sian Heder takes her time to explore the meaning of motherhood related to personhood, and the way human connection and relationships keep us grounded. It’s a fun note that Heder actually gave birth while the film was being produced, and in fact her daughter is featured as the film’s baby from time to time.

“Authenticity is what is going to drive these movies,” concluded Dean-Pilchard, while thunderous applause punctuated the panel.

Tallulah premieres on Netflix and in select theatres across the country on July 29th.

Let Me Google That For You, Pt. 4

feature image via shutterstock

Someday, when sentient machines lord over humanity and we become overrun by all-knowing, omniscient artificial intelligence, we’ll look back at Google and reminisce over the simplicity of an era where you could search the internet like a newborn deer, blinking innocently in the daylight and wobbling on fragile legs. Our thoughts will be interrupted by the machine assigned to oversee our bitcoin mining and we’ll stare into the never-ending night. “Those were the glory days,” we’ll say to ourselves. “If only we had Googled more and better,” we’ll sigh. So today – in the final installment of this series – I am going to answer, without any browsing activity bias, the top 5 googled queries beginning with, “Should I –,”

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Should I upgrade to Windows 10?

I am strictly a Mac user, but I have done a bunch of digging to see whether if I hypothetically owned a PC I would hypothetically want to upgrade to Windows 10, and the answer seems to be a categorical yes. One immediate benefit is the new, flashy Cortana feature that allows you to perform any and all web searches, control your media and a ton of other cool stuff straight from your toolbar. It can also pair with your Android or iPhone. Also, it’s free! Sort of. If you are upgrading from Windows XP (because you’re a grandpa) or Windows Vista you have to pay for the upgrade, but if you want to upgrade from 7 or 8, your device should already be displaying a prompt for you to upgrade that sucker post haste. They have also made it fairly simple to downgrade again, so you’re not stuck forever.

My Windows-using friends (whom I imagine as mole-people freshly emerged from the New York City subway tunnels with a new lease on life) have told me that in comparison to the crap storm that was Windows 8, Windows 10 really stepped up and ironed out a ton of bugs, built in the fixes and added a ton of features that you’ll actually want to use.

Yes, you should upgrade.

Should I stay or should I go?

The Clash’s 1982 hit “Should I Stay or Should I Go” outlines the importance of communication when one or both of you are asking yourselves about the longevity of the relationship. Clearly, in the line “Don’t you know which clothes even fit me?” the protagonist is implying that they are not being heard and that their partner doesn’t take an interest anymore. Further, the narrator extends a plea to better communicate in the line “come on and let me know.” However, everything becomes clear when the song itself defines “going” as indicative of “trouble,” yet staying as indicative of “double.” So, as per the advice of The Clash, if you are being ignored, unheard and lack communication in your relationship, you should cut the amount of trouble in half and get the heck outta there.

Should I text him?

No.

Should I remove it?

I have seen enough medical procedurals to know that if the “it” in question is an arrow, a knife, a pencil, a pen, a letter opener or a massive metal rod impaling you from behind, the answer is a resounding no. Don’t remove it. However, if you are actually referring to a tattoo on your wrist that you got with your girlfriend at the time, whom you now refer to as “Not-So-Serious Sarah,” and looking at that stupid minimalist arrow makes you cringe daily, then yes, remove that overpriced monstrosity immediately.

Should I quit my job?

There are only two reasons I can think of why someone would google this question. The first is that they are already so fed up and ready to leave said job that they are just looking for the validation of a stranger or outside source to confirm their choice so they can feel secure in their decision. I will provide that right now:

Yes, quit your job.

The second reason is that someone is bored, tired and is searching for an article to convince them to change their life in a major way and the job is just one possible avenue, which might not be necessarily recommended given the state of the economy. Kind of like the time I spent an entire day researching how to transfer colleges because there was a blizzard in Syracuse in late May: the reason felt valid, but it might not have been the best use of my time. So, to that wary vagabond I say, DO NOT quit your job.

You should though, expand your outside interests and open a Dream bank account online, like the ones they have at Barclays. It has no minimum deposit and if you don’t touch it for a good long while, while adding a spare buck here and there from your marginally satisfying job, you can make bank and go on a month-long walking tour of France, meet the love of your life and spent the rest of your years eating cheese. Boom.

Let Me Google That For You, Pt. 3

I am a firm believer that the Google search-bar autocomplete is society’s most accurate insight into the human condition. At its very essence, the Google search-bar autocomplete knows us better than we know ourselves, and stands stalwart and true while we fumble through life Googling even the most simple of queries. So today I am going to answer, without any browsing activity bias, the top 5 googled queries beginning with, “When will I –,”

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When will it snow?

To predict upcoming snowfall meteorologists consider a variety of factors, most prominently barometric pressure, humidity, temperature and wind direction. For a more layman’s understanding and practical tools to predict weather there are two basic elements to consider: wind and water. The latter, in the form of clouds.

I went to a super outdoorsy boarding school in Colorado and survived a week-long school trip into the open prairies in the middle of March. Nobody died, but an unforeseen snowstorm ensured everything that could go wrong would go wrong. So, I speak of predicting weather patterns with the authority of having survived a bear-less version of The Revenant when I was 15 years old. Also, I barfed on the teacher, so there’s that.

The first thing to consider when predicting snow is the direction of two types of wind: the local winds and the weather winds. Local winds are shaped by the immediate terrain. Think of the difference between a sea breeze that will come inland and kick towards the coast as the day gets warmer and the winds on hills and mountains where cold air (because of its density) slides down the slopes. Once you take notice of the average local winds, you can begin to study the weather winds. Stand with your back towards the lower wind and then look up; here is where the clouds come in. Look for the highest clouds you can see and note if they are moving left to right, right to left, or in the same direction as the wind hitting your back. Now you can make your prediction.

Left to right: warm air is on the way and so is some bad weather.
Right to left: cold air is advancing and your weather situation might actually improve.
Same direction: things will probably stay the same.

It’s a common myth that temperatures must be below freezing for snow to fall. In fact a temperature of 2ºC (35ºF) or below is all the atmosphere needs, given the right amount of moisture – in case you were wondering.

When will I die?

This is a massively un-Google-able question, unless you are a fictional lesbian character and the actress playing you was contractually obliged to another show on AMC. Then, you’re gonna die in episode 7.

When will I see you again?

I’m going to go ahead and assume that the “you” in this question refers to Wiz Khalifa.

In the recent and not-actually-classic hit song “See You Again (feat. Charlie Pluth)” rapper, nay poet, Wiz Khalifa states, “Damn, who knew? All the planes we flew, good things we’ve been through, that I’ll be standing right here talking to you.” The verse implies that you might see Khalifa only after you both have flown some planes and been through good things.

He continues, “But something told me that it wouldn’t last, [I] had to switch up, look at things different, see the bigger picture. Those were the days, hard work forever pays. Now I see you in a better place (see you in a better place).” Clearly, Khalifa is reflecting on the ephemeral nature of human existence and the relativity of human consciousness and concludes that honest labor has both moral and monetary benefits. He confirms, through a play on words, that these benefits will both, allow him to see you on a regular basis, as well as in a better light in regards to your virtue and integrity. Does that answer your question?

When will I get married?

Unfortunately, because of the disparity in same-sex marriage laws and general human rights around the world, there are very few statistics on queer people getting married. However, if we are going on a simple census of men vs women worldwide, there is significant evidence that the distinguishing factor in marital age is a country’s income, with people in developed countries marrying later (women always an average of 3 years younger than men across the board). Studies show that developing countries, mainly those in between the tropics, are more likely to be in the lower end of the age scale. Senegal, Chad, Mali, Nigeria, Angola, Sudan, Congo, Cameroon, Madagascar and India, as well as Colombia, Paraguay and Mexico are listed with a median marital age of 21 – outliers notwithstanding. Meanwhile, the United States, United Kingdom, most of the EU, the Nordic countries, South Africa, Australia, Chile and Brazil are listed as having a median marital age of 26 – 34.

However, I would personally like to answer this question with a timeless refrain from Shakira: whenever, wherever.

When will it rain?

Please refer to the previous explanation on how to predict snow and other inclement weather. Also, find yourself a friend who once had a busted knee or hip; in the movies those guys always know when it’s about to rain. If you find that a lot of people ask you for the forecast, it seems that you are that friend. Congratulations and sorry about your hip.

The reigning theory here is that fragile joints (caused by age or injury) are more sensitive to the change that a decrease in barometric pressure, that is the atmosphere’s density, causes to the fluid between the joints themselves. Usually swelling and pain accompany a change in atmospheric pressure, creating a sort of human barometer.

Let Me Google That For You Pt. 2

The internet has become a far less polite place since that fateful day when the Mailer Daemon murdered Jeeves in cold blood. So, in an effort to breathe a little civility into this lawless land, I have done the research and saved you the keystrokes on what – according to Google algorithms and statistics – you’ve always wondered, wonder presently, or might wonder sometime in the future.

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What happens when we die?

Depends on who you ask.

What happens when you tell Siri 112?

Siri is very good at her job (except when she’s not) and if you say “112″ she calls emergency services 5 seconds later. This is useful information because of general safety and all, but it’s also very useful if you, like me, have seen every episode of Law and Order: SVU and are paranoid that someone is going to break into your home while you are blow drying your hair and dump a bucket of water on you.

Think about it. It’s the perfect crime.

What happens when you stop smoking?

The first thing that happens is your heart rate normalizes. The longer you don’t smoke the better your blood-oxygen levels become and the lower your blood pressure gets. You start to regain a sharper sense of taste and smell, and within three days your system will be nicotine free. The side effects of withdrawal will most likely start within the first 24 hours. You will feel an increase in anxiety, tension and frustration. It is also common to experience drowsiness or trouble sleeping, as well as an increased appetite. Once you are nicotine free, the headaches, nausea and emotional effects of withdrawal will become more pronounced. Within three weeks you should have little to no withdrawal symptoms (everyone is different after all) but you will definitely have decreased your risk of heart attack and lung cancer. 15 years after you stop smoking, studies show, you will have about the same risk of heart disease as a non-smoker.

On the downside, you can’t use your prized, and absurdly long, Cruella De Ville-style cigarette holder anymore. Bummer.

What happens when you sneeze?

The physical process of sneezing is a pretty simple concept. The nerve endings in your nose are especially sensitive and will send a message to your brain when they sense something foreign in your nose or nasal passage. Your brain then closes your throat, contracts your chest and closes your eyes and mouth all at once and, just as quickly, tells those muscles to relax; forcing air, mucus and saliva out of your nose and mouth. The hope is that the force behind all that air will clear out your nose of the foreign invader. There is no conclusive scientific study on why certain people sneeze in batches of two or three, or a million if you’re my father. However, there is conclusive science that says (for a ton of people wondering, apparently) that your eyes do not pop out if you happen to sneeze with them open, and also, your heart absolutely does not stop for any amount of time. That would be crazy.

What happens when you smoke weed?

Depends on who you ask.

Let Me Google That For You, Pt. 1

I am a firm believer that the Google search-bar autocomplete is society’s most accurate insight into the human condition. So today I am going to answer, without any browsing activity bias, the top 5 googled queries beginning with, “how do I –,”

The internet has become a far less polite place since that fateful day when the Mailer Daemon murdered Jeeves in cold blood. So, in an effort to breathe a little civility into this lawless land, I have done the research and saved you the keystrokes on what – according to Google algorithms and statistics – you’ve always wondered, wonder presently, or might wonder sometime in the future.

How do I get home?

Asking all of Google how to get home feels a little bit like shouting into the void and at this rate you might as well just start asking strangers on the street. But don’t do that because wow that’s dangerous.

I guess this question all depends on your definition of home. If we start with the famous, “home is where the heart is,” it makes this simple because that means your literal chest cavity, which you carry with you everywhere. So, good for you, you’re home already. I’ve also heard that “home is where you hang your hat,” so that means you can just set up shop anywhere with a hat-rack. Again, easy. And possibly illegal.

Personally I consider home anywhere you can open the fridge for no reason. So, take a minute and think about where you do that the most, and then punch that address into Google Maps, you animal.

How do I look?

The eye is a complicated and sensitive organ located in your head, with a similar structure to a camera lens. Your eye has an expanding and contracting capability that allows you to focus on things that are near and far to your face. Light filters through your cornea into your pupil through the lens of your eye and strikes the rods and cones located at the very back. These light-sensitive cells receive the light and convert it to an electrical signal that gets relayed to your brain, and your brain translates the signal into the images you are looking at.

Also, you look great. So fresh. Go out and take the world by storm. Maybe get an asymmetrical haircut, those are cool.

How do I love thee?

“How Do I Love Thee?,” or “Sonnet 43,” is a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, a 19th Century romantic British poet. In the poem she enumerates the way she loves her husband, and it’s the most John-Cusack-holds-up-a-boombox poem ever. EBB was a great poet and not a great feminist, but she did cast a wide net of influence all through literature. Even though she thought that women’s intelligence was inferior to men’s, her poem “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship” provided the meter for Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” which in turn gave us one of the greatest Gilmore Girls episodes to date, “A Tale of Poes and Fire.” It’s the one where The Independence Inn hosts the gathering of the Edgar Allan Poe society, but a fire at the Inn relocates the Poes to the homes of the people of Stars Hollow. So, to answer your question, how do I love thee? I love thee as much as Paris loves Rory.

How do I live?

This question can be answered in two ways.

First, the origin of life on Earth has a fair amount of theories floating out there. The widely accepted theory of evolution proposes that life has evolved over eons and suggests that life could have evolved naturally from inanimate matter. Discoveries in Western Australia suggest that life could have existed on Earth as early as 3.8 billion years ago which places a date on roughly when life came about on Earth but not exactly how it came to do so. There are scientists who agree with the theory of evolution but propose that life arrived on Earth itself through meteorites carrying the already evolving building blocks of larger organisms. Other scientists argue that the arrival of organic matter seems unnecessary since Earth was probably home to plenty of these building materials already. The first living cells were probably very basic and simple organic structures that eventually evolved into the vastly more complex RNA that ruled the chain of organisms until the much more efficient DNA took its place and precipitated the eventual existence of humanity. It’s important to note that the jury is still out in the science community to the precise origins of life and most researchers use the plural “origins” to suggest that life probably originated from more than one place and probably more than once.

Second, in the LeAnn Rimes 1997 hit single “How do I Live?” Rimes poses a series of queries adjunct to the title question. In the song, she places the listener into a scenario where she is currently alive with the potential to be left by a current lover. The parameters of the experiment suggest that if she is left, “There’d be no sun in [her] sky / There would be no love in [her] life / There’d be no world left for [her].” We can only conclude that the recipe for life, according to Rimes, is sunlight, love and worlds.

How do I get a passport?

The passport application process is vastly different in any country you are applying. Basically, no one in the world has an actual right to a passport, so they are considered property of the state that can be issued and revoked at the mercy of immigration and the government. Every government is different so every application process varies. In the U.S., for instance, you can apply through the Post Office, as long as you do it in a timely fashion, because the Post Office. I can speak to personal experience and tell you that when you apply for a passport in Mexico it’s an awesome and stressful experience that requires taking pictures in a variety of sizes and formats that you don’t end up using anyway because they don’t require you to provide those anymore, but no one has updated the website.

You’re going to try and make the appointment at your local consulate until you realize that there are no available appointments that allow you to get your passport before your intended departure date. You’ll start to look at appointment times of consulates in neighboring cities and if the consulate is in Guadalajara, for instance, you have to figure out how to convince your dad to drive you all the way there for a 2-hour appointment because you don’t have a car. He’ll make you go the day before and stay the night at cheap hotel that’s both cold and humid. Your hair will be frizzy for the picture.

Grandma’s House on Memory Lane

In 1995, while we packed up our small Mexico City apartment, my mom explained to me that we were moving to my grandmother’s house. It was the late afternoon, I was still in my pajamas and I sat on the rug in the living room next to the coffee table, picking at the uneven corner where I had busted my head open when I learned how to walk. She said that my grandma was old and we were moving so we could help her. She wasn’t looking at me, she was putting books in boxes and taking down frames from the wall. She told me that old people sometimes need help from their kids and their grandkids, and to stop picking at the table, you’re making a mess.

My grandma’s house sat on the corner of Galileo and Homer Street. Galileo, who found perspective in the massive expanse of space; and Homer, who found that teaching propels ideas through time. My grandma’s house sat on the corner of two of history’s greatest minds.

I learned a lot of new things from living in that house. I learned that since my grandmother had Alzheimer’s, it was alright that she forgot our names and her own. I learned that taking care of her made my mom very tired and if we ever saw she was napping, even during the day, we had to let her sleep. At first, I played in my grandmother’s room a lot because they said she liked the company, but I liked the carpet and all the picture frames on her dresser. My brother told me that Alzheimer’s makes you forget how to do a lot of things, like eat and walk. He explained to me, matter-of-factly, that it was very important for someone to be there with grandma all the time, which is why a nurse lived at our house some nights. He told me it wasn’t weird and that I shouldn’t worry. I wasn’t worried. I was jealous that she got to share a room with someone, because I was six and I hated my room because it was haunted – but that’s a story for another time.

I have this sense, that if my life were a TV show, I was somehow recast between season six and season nine. I recall names and places but hardly any events. As an adult, I wrestle with the stupid irony of having watched my grandmother live out her Alzheimer’s and not remembering anything about it. Things come and go, but some of them are just stories my parents have told me over the years. Weirdly, the most vivid recollection I have is falling down the stairs, head first, too early on a Saturday morning. I remember falling in three small thuds and that I didn’t cry. That stairwell is still where I fall when I have that one dream that wakes you up with a start. You know the one.

This is what I know: Alzheimer’s Disease is a neurodegenerative disease that is incurable, unpreventable and (just like America’s insistence on the Imperial System of Measurement) remains mostly a mystery. It’s believed that the risk is closely related to the presence of a variant in your APOE gene, a gene that encodes the protein called apolipoprotein E, a cholesterol carrier that is found in the brain and other organs. There are three variants in this gene: E2, E3 and E4. E3 is super common, tons of people have it and it does pretty much nothing – like iPhoto. If your genes have an E4 variant, congratulations, it’s believed you have a 49-68% chance of developing Alzheimer’s. E2, on the other hand, has been shown to protect against Alzheimer’s in some people. You go, E2.

It turns out, in this age of Instagrams and underfunded space exploration, you can get tested for the variants in your APOE gene. I know this for a fact because I purchased a genetic testing kit from the fine folks at 23andMe. It comes with a handy plastic vial, a biohazard bag and prepaid(!) postage. The vial lets you send about half an ounce of your saliva to their labs where they can break down the genetic sequences of your DNA, break down the variants in your 23 chromosomes and send you more than 60 genetic reports on all the shenanigans that is going on in your body.

I ordered the kit a little while after making the enormous mistake of going to see Still Alice in theatres last year. The mistake wasn’t so much seeing the movie itself, but going to see it on date night with my girlfriend. Fia says that from one moment to the next holding my hand in the theatre turned into a different kind of holding. She watched the movie but also watched me, while the popcorn sat there uneaten and tears ran down my face. I didn’t even get to enjoy the whole Kristen Stewart-ness of the film because I was busy flipping through my childhood memories and seeing what I could remember of my grandmother’s own mental unraveling. I had nothing. I was empty.

I left the theatre in a haze. Fia led me to the bus, and back home, and quietly into bed while I told her the only thing I could focus on while leaving the theatre was an orange Looney Tunes backpack that I had around that time. It had a million pockets, perfect for stashing fruit snacks and other contraband. And then, it all tumbled out at once. At first I wasn’t sure where it was going. I told her that I had this vague recollection of realizing how bad things were getting, and suddenly I was in the midst of a verbal mudslide that yielded the clearest mental picture I have of my grandmother’s face. I know for a fact that someone picked us up from school one day, probably my dad, and said we had to go pick up grandma at the hospital. I remember sitting with the bag on my lap in rush-hour traffic. I remember hearing in the car that grandma fell down the stairs – that her body had forgotten how to walk – and she fell, face first, down the wide steps. I know for certain that we turned the corner, saw them in the exam room and when I saw the purple and yellow and green bruises all across her nose and cheekbones – I let out a small scream, covered my eyes and looked away. I can picture the look in her eyes being a combination of embarrassment and confusion but I have no way of knowing if that’s real.

I ordered the testing kit right in time for Christmas.

I’d read about genetic testing before. My brother is diabetic, the first in our family, so my ophthalmologist is constantly bugging me to get tested. It’s this little dance we do, where I sit in the chair, he asks me about the results, I tell him I haven’t done it yet and he lets out a small disappointed sigh. He sighs like a favorite uncle would sigh, Uncle Dr. Chen. He gives me a pamphlet and I read it carefully right before I throw it in the garbage.

No, not really.

I recycle.

I kept reading about 23andMe because they have both excellent marketing and a solid amount of online buzz. I browsed through the site when I knew I would be alone. It felt a little dangerous, but I wasn’t sure why. I mentioned getting tested for Alzheimer’s to my brother when we were in the car, casually (I think) like I was asking for a friend. He had also gotten a genetic testing kit for Christmas, but it was the National Geographic kind that tells you how much Neanderthal you have in you, or something like that. I told him 23andMe has a vastly more detailed analysis and he could also help contribute to genetic research by providing a sample. Remember, I was being “casual.” He told me he wasn’t interested in knowing anything more specific, especially about Alzheimer’s. He said that the brain is so delicate but so powerful that he’d be more afraid of the power of suggestion than any E4 marker on his chromosomes. His testing kit came in a manly black and yellow box and a cotton swab that looked like a toothbrush. He sent it back out almost immediately.

Meanwhile, I sat in front of a very friendly white box with a colorful abstract logo. “Welcome to you,” it said on the side, and that’s when things got weird. I didn’t open the box for a week. I stashed it in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, where I keep the quasi-complete scarf I’m pretending to knit for Fia (sorry dude!). I started reading about the service, finding different debates on the news and in science blogs about the unreliability of testing services run by private companies. I read about a whole showdown the company had with the FDA because people had been receiving results and making drastic medical decisions. I spent days having an internal debate about learning something so important, but then also knowing that it lies within a significant margin of error. The box was still in the drawer, welcoming me to me, and mocking the $200 I’d spent on a plastic tube and a ziplock.

I’ve always been a talker. It gets me in trouble. But, one of my most favorite pastimes is talking at my mom while her hands are busy. My mother is an extremely crafty person, so when she’s focused, sketching, sewing, bookbinding, whatever, it’s like I have a ready-made audience. She knows exactly when to “mmhmm,” and “oh, really” and she’s especially good at the “No me digas!” I’ll walk behind her, and follow her from one room to the other, from her desk to her studio, to her closet, and she just lets me talk.

At first I wasn’t sure what I had said that made her go all quiet, or quieter than usual. I had been rambling about how genetic sequencing is crazy, and all the new things we’ve learned and diseases we could avoid. I talked about Orphan Black. I talked about Dolly the sheep. We talked about Dolly the Parton. I talked about how I read that one article about parents genetically curating their offspring. I talked about how, if I were ever to have a family, I think I’d avoid passing down my genetics entirely – that I’d make a phenomenal father-figure. That’s when her hands went still. She still wasn’t looking at me, but I knew I had her full attention.

And then the question came – I knew it was coming the second I brought it up. The worst part about this is that I was joking. It’s not like I was trying to have this super in-depth conversation about progeny at 10pm, with my dad snoozing next to us in front of the TV. Yet here we were, me sitting on the edge of the couch, her leaning back – dad asleep and unaware – empty wine glasses on the coffee table. This conversation, I remember perfectly.

“Is it because you are afraid of –?”

“What?” I was feeling mean and defensive, I wanted to make her say it. “Afraid of what?”

“Is it because you’re afraid of passing down the Alzheimer’s?”

I know there are two ways this conversation could have gone. It’s gotten better over the years but generally, when I know I’m in for a long feelings-heavy bout, I have two modes: the aloof and the indignant. I went with indignant. Blame the wine.

I replay this in my head, over and over since it happened. I could have been gentle, I could have been kind, I could have understood that my mom has these reservations about her own genetics. But there I was, the product of her own DNA, genes, love and raising, throwing it back in her face. The tears had welled up in her eyes when I was finished telling her that if I had the means of avoiding passing down the disease any further, I would. She told me she felt guilty for giving us all this doubt, and said she’s always afraid of ending up like her mother. She doesn’t want us to go through what she went through, and the irony persists, that her fear of losing herself and her memories has made it impossible to forget every single day of watching her own mother devolve.

We talked a little about the age and time of we are living in now. We discussed how I could have the opportunity to screen for these diseases and try to avoid them, but the weird feeling we get when we talk about that. I thought about the box. We talked a little longer about that over-romanticized serendipity of life. We talked about how people look for themselves in their children.

I am not a religious person and I don’t necessarily consider myself a particularly spiritual person either — so none of those things factored into this reasoning. But I do believe in science, and I take notice of the impeccable yet messy nature of evolution and I think: if I have evolved to a certain degree to be able to choose or not choose the genes that I am passing down, how does that make me different than the birds of paradise with their hilarious hopping, or different than the bighorn sheep butting heads? Aren’t we all cogs in the weird natural selection clock? How is my choice to not pass down these hereditary question marks a bad thing? Why do I feel so weird about it?

“Well, you don’t actually know if you have them or not,” my mom said. “None of us know.”

I went home, opened the box, made sure I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for 30 minutes, and mustered up enough spit for fill the vial. I salivated for over 10 minutes – like an idiot – for science. I closed up the drool tube, sealed it in the plastic bag, placed it in the provided envelope and it was ready to send. Except it’s still living in the drawer.

This is what I know: that house, on the corner of Galileo and Homer, was where I learned to read and write in English. I spent a lot of time at school doing homework, tuning out of our home life. I was fluent when we moved away. When I was 14 I went to a small boarding school in Colorado, went to college, studied abroad and met Fia at a warehouse Halloween party in Prague. We live in a small apartment with piles of books and no shelves. Once, after listening to an hour-long story about an orange backpack, she told me she loved my brain.

My grandmother’s name was Alicia, she had three kids and 15 years later she had my mom. She developed Alzheimer’s in her old age and, because of her perfectionism and her constant need to please others, it took them years to diagnose her. In 1998, she died one morning because her body forgot how to breathe. They told us at a McDonald’s after school, and I remember I felt relief.

Babelfish: An Investigation Into Queer & Lesbian Slang Around the World

feature image via shutterstock

The babelfish is a curious little fish described in Douglas Adams’ six-book trilogy, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The idea behind it is that if you are a hitchhiker across many galaxies you can stick one in your ear you are able to understand anything said to you in any language. You know, science. If you can’t seem to get your hands on one, and are busy checking out the lesbian scene in Germany, Italy, Spain, Mexico or Japan here are a few words to help you along the way.

It took me a long time to verify that the following terms were actually used as casual slang, but the lines get a little blurred when I started to consider how words sometimes (especially reclaimed and empowered slang) evolve from oppressive language and slurs. No words included in this guide are intended to hurt, trigger or insult anyone, but are more a study about how far we, as a community, have come. Also, from what I can gather, trans and bi are both widely understood terms nowadays, but if you have any other turns of phrase from your queer corner of the Earth, leave them in the comments!

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German

Adamstocher

(pronounced adams-toh-her)

Definition: Yup, this gem literally translates to Adams Daughter. (As in the Addams Family.)

Many think this particular turn of phrase started off as a derogatory term in the 60s, and was used to point out people that “looked like lesbians,” but has since been adopted and is now used casually as a descriptor for all lesbians to use – kind of like calling someone a “friend of Dorothy.” And I mean, who wouldn’t want to be Wednesday Addams?

Example:

“How about the cute girl at the bar? Is she an adamstocher?”

Bubi

(boo-bee)

Definition: Literally German for “little boy,” but slang tells us that bubi is a cute, diminutive version of saying someone is butch.

Incidentally, the german for butch is simply, butsch. Makes sense, since parts of English are clearly rooted in Germanic.

Example:

“That Ellen DeGeneres Gap Kids line is a bubi paradise.”

Büchsenmasseuse

(books-en-mah-ssuh-zeh)
Definition: Literally translates into “bush masseuse.” Admittedly not the classiest of terms, but still quality slang.

The origin of this word is easy to determine, and the crassness of the meaning can be misinterpreted easily. Context is so very important in language and turn of phrase, as we all know, so we should probably be careful about how we use this one.

Example:

“How long have you known you were a büchsenmasseuse?”
“Since the 4th season of Buffy.”

Hüftenwackler

(hoof-ten-vahk-ler)

Definition: Calling someone a hüftenwackler is essentially calling them a “hip jiggler.” Just another general term for calling someone a lesbian.

The best out of all the Shakira-inspired monikers, I’m told this is a very neutral term, but it’s not used everywhere. It seems that most of the hüftenwacklers are confined to Berlin and Cologne.

Example:

“Who’s that hüftenwackler talking to Carol?”

“Oh, that’s Therese.”

Jubelhure

(you-bell-hoo-reh)

Definition: A jubelhure is a lesbian who is no stranger to a good party. In other words, she can often be seen “pulling up to the club with her ceiling missing” (which someone said to me once, and it took me way too long to realize it just means 2Chainz was driving a convertible). Don’t expect a quiet afternoon at a quaint Munich coffee house with this girl. She’s probably still recovering from the night before.

This word is a derivation of jubel frau, proper German for “cheering woman,” it makes sense how the more colloquial version took to mean “party girl.” No one is sure how it got monopolized by the lesbians though.

Example:

“I’m so hungover, I went on a date with a jubelhure and poured myself into bed at 6am.”

Tiefseeforscherin

(teef-see-four-share-in)

Definition: I punched it into Google translate and it means, wait for it, “deep sea researcher.” Obviously, this term is embedded in innuendo and refers to a woman that likes to go down on other women.

I’m not sure how this one originated, but I’ll take any nickname that makes it sound like I went to grad school for something awesome while simultaneously implying that I am a fan of “researching” the “deep sea.” Also, whomever is writing that Little Mermaid slashfic (in German), you’re welcome.

Example:

“It’s not-very-subtly implied that Ursula is a tiefseeforscherin.”

Kesser Vater

(kess-er vah-ter)

Definition: If we break down the translation, kess is an adjective that can translate into “saucy” and vater means “father.” Yep. Saucy father. It’s akin to the Latino-used papi or “daddy.” Some might associate the term with the more universal “butch,” but really, it means so much more than that.

The kesser vater has a long underground history of awesome dapper women and is used pretty widely in Germany today. To break it down simply, before the label became popular the “kesser vater movement” began in Berlin and Cologne around the early 1930s (most likely as an import from the United States) filling nightclubs, burlesques, bars and the back streets with women in coattails, ties and tophats. They owned their masculine swagger, their gait, and carved out a place for themselves in the queer community. The movement dropped out of the public eye, and then reemerged sometime in the mid 50s – where mentions of it started appearing in underground newspapers. For the term’s origin, some point to Rotwelsch (also known as Gaunersprache), an old-school Yiddish-derived slang used by thieves, vagrants, and those on the outskirts of society, but nobody knows for sure.

The origin of the term, and the journey towards its relatively newfound popularity, really illustrates how marginalized the LGBTQ+ community used to be and how far it’s come. Now, the term and can be found throughout numerous publications without significant explanation, or even abbreviated as KV, signaling the cultural understanding of the expression. Dr. Jody Skinner, a German linguist, mentions in her PhD thesis that the traditional use for kesser vater has a heavy implication of a woman occupying the traditional role of a man, and specifies that the typical kesser vater is commonly seen in “masculine garb” with a “trophy girlfriend” (whatever that means).

Example:

“Marlene Dietrich wearing a top hat and tails is the epitome of the kesser vater.”

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Italian

Giro

(jee-roh)

Definition: Giro literally means circle or round. In its slang form it means a place (be it a bar, club, hotel etc.) that is LGBTQ+ friendly.

As far as I can tell, this term is meant to imply that a specific bar or club is “the queer scene.” The implication of a circle, like an inner circle, makes me think it was originally intended to let people know of places on the DL, but has recently become more widely used.

Example:

“Rome’s hottest new giro is Thighs, an all-new hotspot that answers the question ‘WHAT?!'”

Lalla

(la-la)

Definition: Just a straight-up word used to say “lesbian” and its origin is kind of amazing.

In 1996, Italy’s first lesbian online forum (Lista Lesbica Italiana) was born. There were approximately 900 members and they all kept in touch through a massive listserve and various chat forums hosted on the site (we’re talking Geocities here). Through the years, the abbreviation “LLI” (pronounced Le-Li) became so widely popular in the lesbian community that it evolved and became a brand new word in and of itself. It’s basically Italian Straddlers, you guys!

Example:

“It’s a truth universally acknowledged that every lalla loves to hate The L-Word.”

Sgallettata

(sga-leh-tata)

Definition: In formal Italian, describing someone as sgallettata implies that they are vibrant and bold. In Tuscan dialect, however, it means a person is “wobbly.”

Probably intended to mean queer, and it’s often used to describe the young or inexperienced people within the LGBTQ+ community.

Example:

“Jenny’s girlfriend is a sgallettata, she just came out last month.”

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Spanish (Spain)

Bollera

(bo-yeh-rah)

Definition: Bollera comes from the now-defunct “büeyera,” or, “woman who plows the land using oxen,” but now just means a woman who is queer. It can also be used to describe genderqueer people.

Notice that a lot of these words are derived from women taking on roles previously only held by men, and they are initially used to ridicule or belittle anyone who chooses to live outside heteronormativity. Regardless, the more progressive LGBTQ+ Spanish society of today has reclaimed this term, and uses it casually.

Example:

“This study* shows that 80% of attendees at this Sleater-Kinney concert are bolleras.”

*fake, non-existent study

Tortillera

Definition: Don’t be fooled by the #TacoTuesday implications here. Tortillera is actually derived from the Spanish “tuerto,” meaning “twisted” or “not straight.” Get it?

Originally intended for homosexuals in general, at the turn of the century, it was a vulgar way of calling someone queer. Over time it’s been redirected specifically towards lesbians, and some still consider it somewhat derogatory. Careful around this one.

Example:

“Is it too much to ask that everybody on TV be a tortillera?”

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Spanish (Mexico)

Lencha

(len-cha)

Definition: Lesbian.

As a lencha myself, I have particular affinity towards this label – mainly because I like the way it sounds – but most importantly because the fabled origin of lencha, comes from one of Mexico’s first female comedians. Maria Elena Velasco, known to her friends and family as “Lencha” (which is what you call Elenas in Mexico, like Williams are Bills) was an actor, screenwriter, singer/songwriter, producer and one of the first and few famous Mexican female directors.

While not a lesbian herself, Lencha Velasco was best known for her portrayal of La India Maria, where she played a stereotypical indigenous woman who had a filthy mouth and tons of sass. For a while, lencha was an insult hurled at strong women and “bossy” ladies. Again, like many a  label before it, lencha was soon understood to mean “lesbian,” but more importantly, it meant “powerful-lesbian,” which is literally THE BEST pretend insult anyone has made up. Today, lencha is very commonplace, very neutral and used all across Mexico. Unfortunately, most think it’s a direct derivation of “lesbiana” and Maria Elena Velasco’s legacy is largely forgotten.

Example:

“Carmen de la Pica Morales is my all-time favorite lencha.”

Levis

(lee-vice)

Definition: Pronounced just like the jeans brand but in a Mexican accent, and obviously in reference to those deviant women who… wear jeans, levis is a euphemism that I’ve only encountered when young people are telling old people that a person is a lesbian.

The term is a very uncreative derivation of lesbiana and the last time I heard this was a couple of months ago, when my cousin was trying to explain to my grandma that the two women holding hands in the plaza were probably together romantically. In Mexico, especially in the smaller towns and villages, women holding hands isn’t much cause for concern, in fact it’s usually a safety measure. So, the easiest way to differentiate is to imply that those women “wear pants.” A lot.

Example*:

Cousin: “No Abue, those women are levis. They’re together.”

Abue: “Ay, ay, ay.”

*true story.

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Japanese

百合族 or Yurizoku
(shaa-ku-go-zo-koo)

Definition: Meaning “tribe of lilies,” yurizoku is the most elegant, literature-based lesbian euphemism.

The term appears in manga, anime and other japanese literature, but the precise origin is unknown.

Example:

“Are you part of the yurizoku or do you just like flannel?”

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Researching this article, I came across pages and pages of slurs, insults and words rooted in hate and fear. It took me days and days to sift through piles of what-people-meant-to-says and you-have-to-understands. I finally came across words that communities had lifted from the mud, dusted off, polished up and presented to ourselves again with new meaning. It sort of felt like someone buying a gift for themselves just for the satisfaction of unwrapping it. It’s a bittersweet feeling.

Anyone who grew up gay, or queer, or just different can tell you that society can be a jumble and a tumble of of insults and euphemisms, and people trying to make themselves feel better by making someone else feel worse. We tell ourselves that the words intended to harm us say more about the person saying them than whomever they are trying to put down. But, now I know that words are small time machines that take us across societies and time periods and fill in the gaps of who we were back then and how far we have come. For me, it was hard to separate the hatred rooted in some of these words, until I realized that by taking them back an entire community could move forward. I realized our language carries some heavy baggage and it’s just as bent and battered as we are.

15 Useful Phrases To Yell At Thanksgiving Football

feature image via shutterstock

One of the first real dates my girlfriend ever took me on was watching Sunday football at her local Dolphins bar in DC. In an attempt to impress her, I grabbed what little sports jargon I knew, downed a beer at 1 pm and proceeded to make a fool of myself. Many games later, I still don’t know that much about sports but I’ve learned a few tricks of the trade.

Thanksgiving football has a couple of basics: two games are always hosted by the Dallas Cowboys and the Detroit Lions, and then there’s the third game that everyone pretends to watch but actually sleeps through. I have traveled to the darkness of bro-infested dive bars and have emerged stronger and armed with 15 generic football phrases to say if you, like me, have limited sports knowledge.

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1. “Come on, Ref! Let ’em play.”

First out of the gate is the most simple yet useful phrase in your arsenal. So much of football is waiting, which is a good thing because it means you can refer back to this guide as often as Geico advertises, but it also means the game drags on for three hours while the refs stop the play for whatever reason. Yelling at the refs is absolutely zero risk, since everyone in the room will agree, like when you suggest fast-forwarding through all the Caputo scenes on OITNB.

2. “Here comes the laundry…”

All you need to pull this off is pay attention to the score bar and be sure to say it immediately after you see the word FLAG. I coasted through an entire football season on this trick alone. For this phrase to be effective make sure your tone has a hint of exasperation, because either your team messed up or the other one did, and now they have to stop the play and this game will last even longer. (You can also use this opportunity to yell at the refs, see #1)

3. “First down, first down.”

Football fans will argue that this one is obvious, and too simple, and my god this is Thanksgiving in the United States of America and everyone knows what a first down is. But when you are facing a room of Republican aunts and uncles, a soft clap when that massive CGI arrow flashes on the field can be the difference between a day of mindless cheering or leaving an opening for someone to ask you why you don’t have a boyfriend yet. You can say this as often as you like.

4. “Just throw the ball!”

Make sure your team is on offense before you let loose with this handy phrase. Sure it’s simple, but it’s key to keep this cheering as mindless as possible. Look out for the quarterback and count to three, then it’s fair game. (Saying “thank you” dramatically when they finally do throw the ball is just gravy.)

5. “Somebody flinched.”

A surefire way to sound like an insider, bust this puppy out when you see the players line up and then see them stand up again. Usually this massive anticlimax means someone did something illegal before the play got going, or someone had a “false start.” This is only to be used once per game, and you will appear to have a scrupulous eye for detail.

6. “Looks like Swiss cheese out there…”

Pull this one out when you’re ready to join varsity heckling because it requires paying a little bit more attention. “Swiss cheese” applies when someone gets through the line really easily or through a lot of “holes,” get it? You’ll see the quarterback getting hit right away by lots of guys, or if someone is carrying the ball very easily through the line/pileup. If you want to get creative, any hole-based analogy works great here: colanders, sieves, Louis Sachar.

7. “You had ONE job.”

This is my favorite thing to yell at the screen, because nothing is more fun than pointing out the incompetence of an athlete trying his best while you are getting ready to exceed the average daily human calorie intake by 300%. Oh, America, you wonderful broken nation, long may you reign. Say this when anyone misses a catch or fumbles the ball.

Tip: You’ll see plenty of opportunities here, but none will resonate more than saying this if the kicker misses a field goal.

8. “Plug those holes.”

All the same “Swiss cheese” rules apply here, except you have the luxury of saying this before, during, and after the play. For added flair, shake your head knowingly. Be careful with this one though, one too many repetitions could reveal your faux-fan tactics.

9. “It’s all about clock management.”

Save this gem for the “two minute warning” text you’ll see next to the score bar. It will happen either close to the end of the half, or close to the end of the game. When I started watching football with my girlfriend I thought that the two minute warning was an actual warning against how much time was left in the game, but time is meaningless in football. Sit back, discreetly roll your eyes and enjoy the next 25 minutes of play.

10. “Bring out the chain!”

Keep an eye on those CGI lines on the field. When someone gets taken down super, extra close to the furthest line (the first down) they bring out a LITERAL CHAIN to measure the distance. This game is ridiculous.

11. “Was the knee down?! Was the knee down?!”

If a player gets taken down on, or very near, the end zone while you frantically ask if their knee was down, you’ve officially fooled everyone. Pack it up and go grab another beer. Your work here is done.

12. “We can win this thing with the defense.”

Low-risk and low-reward. Commenting on the defense is the football equivalent of commenting on the weather. Use this one if you are suffering from too many long silences or you suddenly find yourself sitting alone with your girlfriend’s dad/brother/uncle or any stray family member that you barely know.

Tip: Under no circumstances are you to say, “How ‘bout them Cowboys,” or your cover will be blown.

13. “Where’s the protection?!”

Summon all the indignation you can muster and pretend you are shouting down a Planned Parenthood opposer. Apply liberally every time your team’s quarterback gets sacked/wrecked/hit hella hard. I should really start calling this the Trojan, since it’s 98% effective.

14. “Should they go for two?”

Your team just scored a touchdown, but are still behind. Tension is running high and you can’t justify getting another drink before dinner. Pose this question to the room and be ready for some strategy talk. Just as an aside, you are referring to a “two-point conversion” where the team has just scored and instead of just kicking for a one point conversion, they will attempt to complete a play into the endzone. Be forewarned, pretending to care inevitably leads to actual caring, so you only have yourself to blame for all of that Miami Dolphins gear you’ll spend over $200 on.

15. “Here we go, rookie.”

Memorize the rookie’s number, and say it every time he’s doing something, anything. Even with a little research, this little phrase is high-risk but high-reward. So, since this is a full-service cheat-sheet here are a few numbers you can keep in mind depending on which game you’re watching.

Cowboys: 71, 94, 95,31,53
Panthers: 34,9,17,29, 55,54
Eagles: 17, 35, 32
Lions: 21, 46, 28, 43
Bears: 38,58, 37, 39, 91
Packers: 86, 46, 36, 7, 88, 23

Bonus: “Texas forever.”