I suppose it must come as some surprise given the state of things when last we saw each other. But it’s become clear to me that a crew requires two men to function. One to tell them w h a t to do and another to tell them w h y they should want to do it.In Mr. Gates’ absence, the latter role was unfilled. And I thought I could fill it.
How the fuck did you manage that?
I tried to tell you once, I’m a hard man not to like. And at the end of the day, and all else being equal, liked is just as good as feared.
So I used to have a Russian friend who had a pretty thick accent and like a lot of Russians tended to eschew articles. She would say things like “Get in car.” And stuff.
Well one day this asshole who had been kind of tagging along with us asks her why she talks like that because it makes her sound dumb and I still remember her response word for word.
“Me? Dumb? Maybe in America you have to say get in THE car because you are so stupid that people might just get in random car, but in Russia we don’t need to say that. We just fucking know because we are not stupid.”
One time I was proof reading a paper for a Russian student. As I was correcting her paper with her, the many mistakes in her grammar started weighing on her. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, almost sobbing,
“In Russian I am so intelligent and clear. In English I am like [an] idiot”
Respect to anyone trying to master a foreign language. I get so sad thinking about that student.
This is a painting of Jacek Malczewski called simply ‘Death’ and it’s my favourite personification of death in any medium.
She’s not creepy or scary, or sexy, or abstract. She is this thick woman with worn hands, dressed as normal, with a non-stylised scythe and pins in her hair: like a farmer’s wife that just came form the field and rests against the wall, catching some sun. She is not creeping about the dying one holding her scythe over their head, she is just there, calmly waiting her turn.
This painting always fills me with peace and optimism when I think about death. She is just there, outside the window, in no hurry at all, sensible and down to earth. I can live with that.
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To clarify, I’m not a wlw. I’m a mlm. But this story is wlw related, and I hope it can make people feel better about themselves, especially those who took a while to come to terms with themselves.
I came out as gay when I was 16. The reception was varied. My mom’s side generally accepted me in a lukewarm way where you can tell deep down they’re kinda not ok with it, but are trying to be nice. My dad’s side of the family rejected me pretty harshly. So, as you can imagine, I felt pretty alone.
I live in the US while my maternal grandma lives in Canada. We go to visit her shortly after I came out, and she eventually became aware of my sexuality from the hushed whispers. There’s a stereotype that older folk aren’t too accepting of the LGBT community, so I was nervous given she was 71… but I was wrong. She accepted me. Not only that, but she seemed to genuinely accept me. I didn’t get the vibe of lingering discomfort (and I’m very intuitive with that sort of thing). It was a relief.
She ended up getting an email address, and we’d keep touch via email. We’d talk about the typical stuff: school, work, friends. But she also asked me about my love life, seeming genuinely interested. It didn’t seem unnatural to her that I’d be pursuing boys instead of girls. She was the first to hear about my first boyfriend, and by far the most supportive of it.
Fast forward 2 years. I’m 18. I was about to go into college (somewhere more liberal, for my own sake). I had been in a relationship for almost a year now. Things were going pretty well. I was still in touch with my grandma. Then one day, she asked if she can vent about something. I said of course.
Her email was long. She talks about how she was never really attracted to my grandfather (he died when they were 65 of a heart attack). She considered him her best friend, and she missed him dearly as a friend, but nothing more. She admitted that she considered it a relief when the two grew older and the once flaming hot passion cooled down to a mere sizzle.
She told me how she was into women her entire life, though she denied it for a while. She reminisced about repressed crushes on ex best friends, finding female celebrities attractive and denying it, basically a lot of stuff that seems pretty typical of the stories of lesbians in denial.
She told me that it felt too late to be a lesbian. She was 73, had been married to a man, never was into women, and “past her prime.” I could only imagine how painful it was to have denied such a major part of herself for so long. When I came out at 16, I couldn’t imagine waiting another day, let alone so many decades.
I can’t pretend like my response was perfect and insightful. I was still a dumb 18 year old. But I did my best to assure her otherwise, and that she may as well live the rest of her life the way she wants to. I forget exactly what I said, but she thanked me and we moved on, talking about my upcoming college or something. The details escape me.
Fast forward another 5 years, to the present. If anything, her love life is going better than mine. She found a partner (also on a similar boat – in her 70’s, once married to a now dead man, denied her true sexuality), and she’s been with her for 2 years. I finally got the chance to meet her a year ago and they’re so cute together and it’s the happiest I’ve ever seen my grandma.