Wedding Belles

Yesterday I went to my friends Christine and Hannah's wedding out in Kingston. It was a beautiful occasion. Lovely weather, fantastic food, the ceremony was touching, personal moving.

I first met Christine in college. We lived in the same house. I had just returned from a three year hiatus to finish my last two years, Christine (Christie, as I've always known her) was a senior. We hit it off immediately. Without getting into the particulars, (because they aren't relevant to the post, really), Christine went to bat for me and stood up for me when she saw that someone in a position of authority treated me unfairly. In short, she wrote a letter to Important-type people, and pointed out a wrong. I didn't know she had done this until a few years ago. I should have known, though. Christine is a fiercely loyal and loving friend.

Bea, Ingrid, Mr. E and I all attended the wedding. We sat at the table with a group of women that Christine befriended when she came out for the second time. We all joked that she has terrible taste in men, and as it's always best for one to be true to herself, we're happy and relieved she finally found her true love. As much as I hate the winters here, and the fact that New England isn't my first choice of a where I'd live, I love that in Massachusetts, two people who love each other can get married, even if they're the same gender. Bea and Ingrid didn't ask any confused questions about two women getting married. Ingrid loves weddings, because she gets to dress up, dance, play with flowers, and eat delicious food (I think once she drops the hula girl astronaut aspirations, she may well seek a career in professional party planning, culinary arts, fine food critique, etc.) I don't think she really noticed, at least not how I might have noticed when I was her age or Bea's age. Is it possible that marriage equality will be the norm for my kids? Insha'allah.

During the ceremony, the minister praised Christine and Hannah for their bravery and boldness that they would make their union so public. Massachusetts exists somewhat in an equality utopia that hasn't spread to the rest of the country, nor has it spread to all aspects of attributes that makes us humans unique and different. We're making progress, though. Homophobia still exists, even in the happy Valley and beyond its borders.

I wonder how many generations it will be before the minister can drop the bravery and boldness piece of the ceremony. Mr. E and I got married 31 years after the Supreme Court's landmark decision in the Loving v. Virginia case. We didn't feel particularly brave or bold for marrying people not of our race. On the other hand, while interracial marriage is more common racism is alive and doing very well, thanks for asking.

Putting on my optimist's smile and a cliche on my tongue. The best way to destroy hate is with love.

What's the second best? Being comfortable with our differences, and that means to acknowledge them. We aren't ready for colorblindness. We aren't ready to say, "it's no big deal that two men or two women can marry". It's a big deal, and not because it should be a big deal when anyone decides to marry. Being married is part of one's identity. I am a wife, mother, African American, person of faith, gamer, homeowner, woman. My identity depends on my own definition as well as my relationships with people.

I look forward to many visits with Christine and Hannah. I am so happy for them. What a privilege it is to be part of their loving circle of friends and family.

Hello Ingrid, Goodbye Kaya

Ingrid will be 2 years old on Febrary 5th. Holy cow! Every year, around my kids' birthdays, I get nostalgic about their entrance into the world.
I wrote this when Ingrid was 4 months old. I barely remember any of this except the part about euthanizing my dog. If the birth sounds easy, well, it was. Empowering, too. No interventions, in the comfort of my own home, with my family there.
Remember: Chris=Primo="the husband".
This is a happy birth story, but if you are not comfortable with discussions about pregnancy, childbirth, and the normal bodily functions that occur during childbirth, you shouldn't read this. On second thought, maybe you should. There's a little bit of sexual innuendo, too, as Ingrid was born in the same bed we made her, so prudes be warned. One of the nice things about homebirths is that in the midst of all the discomfort of labor, you may be reminded of the pleasure of conception. Unless you conceived on a beach, and hence you may be reminded of the discomfort of the sand in your butt at conception.

We took no photographs of the birth, and even if we had, they wouldn't be posted on the internet.

Ingrid Solveig was born at 5:51 pm, Feb 5, 2005. She was 8 lbs 10oz. On Feb 4, 2005, at about 6:30, we had our sweet rottie Kaya (aka Snuffer) euthanized. She was about 10 1/2 yo. That whole week I could tell that Kaya was going down hill. She had lost a lot of weight, was not eating, was shitting on the kitchen floor, and she was very weak and in pain. She was no longer responding to steroids (for an enlarged spleen). Because she was so old we decided not to put her through invasive tests of treatments, but to let her pass peacefully. I had not expected her condition to change so quickly. On Friday I took the day off and made an appointment with the vet. I told the vet that I was about to have a baby and needed to take care of my dog before I could have the baby. The soonest they could take us was that night. So Kaya and I hung out in the house together all day. She laid by the door in the hallway, I tried to feed her pain meds and treats, and talked to her. I thanked her for putting up with us all this time.

We dropped Bea off at her friend Sam’s house. My sister in law Randi came with us. She is the greatest dog lover I know, and I was happy to have her with us. The vet took us last, so Randi and I waited in the car with the Snuffer. When it was time her, Chris carried her into the exam room, she snapped at the vet (one last time). Randi, Chris and I petted her and talked to her as the vet gave her the injection. She went very quickly. After she stopped breathing the only thing you could hear in the room was me bawling. Chris asked Randi to escort me out of the room. On the way home we talked about Kaya’s antics, how she helped Chris and me get together, how gentle she was with Bea. She was a wonderful dog, and I’m glad we had a chance to be her human companions. I wish I’d had her euthanized sooner so that she didn’t suffer, and that we could have done it at home—like our new baby's birth….

On the way home, I started getting serious gassy heartburn. We ordered some Chinese food, and I had some dragon maki, and sesame shrimp. I admit I'd been eating sushi and rare red meat all throughout my pregnancy, contrary to the advice of my midwives. But for some reason I had cravings for freshly killed and hardly cooked meat the whole time I was pregnant. My fondest pregnancy memories revolve around all the good food I ate, and my last pregnant meal was a no different, even though I was terribly uncomfortable, crampy, and gassy.

Chris had to go back to work for a bit. Bea went to sleep early, Randi went home to take care of her dog. I laid on the couch and watched a documentary on the British Royal Family until I fell asleep. Around 9 or so my father in law called to see if we had put Kaya to sleep. Yup. I was so tired and crampy, I couldn’t really talk to him.

I took a bath to help the crampiness. I figured something was happening, the cramps weren’t feeling like Braxton-Hicks anymore, but they were nothing to call a midwife about. They went away after the bath, and stayed up late surfing the web and thinking about Kaya.

At 5 in the morning, I woke up to more crampy mild contractions. I went back to sleep to see if they’d go away. Chris asked if I was going to have the baby soon, I said, “probably this weekend.” At 7 I got up again, and there was my mucous plug and a little blood in my morning pee. I couldn’t go back to sleep, as much as I would have liked to have slept in one last time, I was too excited. I called the midwife who lived closest to us. She told me to count the contractions and call her back in 1/2 an hour, which I did. I reported that they were about 5 minutes apart, but not strong. She said to call back in a couple of hours. So I ate breakfast and started to clean the house a bit. I called her at the appropriate time, the contractions were still nothing I couldn’t clean through, but were 5 minutes apart. She had the apprentice midwife Patti come over and check me. At about 11 am I was 3 cm but not too effaced. So she went home to get her gear, and she called Jharna, the midwife, to report. I went back to cleaning (talk about a nesting instinct). I tried to watch my favorite tv show Buffy the Vampire Slayer at noon, but it was too distracting and I didn’t like the vibe. So I turned off the tv, listened to music, vacuumed the floor. Sometime around 12:30 or so I took a bath. Jharna came over, gave me a quick check, listened to the baby's heartbeat. The bath was very relaxing. I had programmed a “birthing music” playlist on iTunes a few days earlier, and I just listened to music and soaked. I was spot on knowing what I would want to hear while in labor: blue grass, English and Irish folk music (I was really into the song "Pretty Polly" for some reason), Neil Young, the Cocteau Twins, Blind Faith, Thin Lizzy, John Renbourne, Pentangle…

Sometime while I bathed, Bea hopped in the tub with me, and was very mellow for once! I told her I was taking a quiet bath, and would not be able to talk while I was having a contraction. She stayed for maybe 45 minutes, before I had to ask Chris to redirect her. My mother in law took her outside to make a snowman.

I got out of the tub and put on my Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. All I wanted to do was walk walk walk walk. I walked up the stairs, down the stairs, up into the nice cold attic. Chris and I just walked around and listened to folk music and bluegrass. At some point I tried to lay down and quickly puked. No more laying down. I stopped walking and just rocked my hips, dancing through the contractions. Jharna said Ingrid’s head was not quite in my pelvis, and she had me walk up and down the stairs some more.. So I danced and walked, danced and walked.

When I tried to get on all fours, Ingrid heart rate decelerated, so that was out. When I got too tired to walk or stand, I leaned up against Chris, propped up against our Liberator ramp. I thought it was funny that this pillow we used for "making babies" was best used to give birth on. And then I realized that the sounds I was making and the sensations I had were much like, well, making the babies. I was so happy to be home in my bed, having my baby at that moment, although I would have liked not to have given birth sitting and laying on my back.

I got up again to dance, and I had to pee, but I didn’t want to walk to the bathroom. Thankfully we had put some plastic down on the bedroom floor, and I, um, peed on the floor. (I just wanted to dance—rock my hips) I was starting to get the urge to push! Oh the pressure! Apparently the bag of waters was just in front of Ingrid’s head. Jharna suggested putting a pin hole in it, but she wanted to wait for Kristen, the other midwife to arrive. Fine with me. So when Kristen arrived probably 20 minutes later (I wasn't paying attention to time), Jharna poked a tiny hole in my bag of waters, and…. I thought I peed on myself. My bag didn’t break, and there was just a trickle. But the pressure was lifted, and I really wanted to push.

I don’t know how long I pushed, let alone how long I was in the tub, or how long I walked around. At some point when I was walking around I looked at the clock and it was 5:00. I estimate I pushed maybe 20 minutes, 30 minutes tops. I had much more of a burning sensation while pushing than I did with Bea. But when Jharna told me to stop while she helped Ingrid’s head on my perineum, I listened (last time I pushed when the midwife said to stop and I ended up with a tiny tear). Jharna was very adamant about my stopping. But Lord did it burn. It felt like someone scratching me from the inside on her way down the birth canal.

When she crowned, I felt her mushy little head. I wish I’d had a mirror. My mother in law, Chris, the midwives, and Bea were all there. Bea got a little freaked out and left until Ingrid was completely out. Ingrid came out with a couple of good pushes (once I had the green light). Her apgars were 9 (hands and feet a little blue) then 10. And she was born with a nuchal hand (which is why Jharna told me to stop pushing for a sec I think). I had a few skid marks, and Ingrid scratched me with her little fingernails (so she clawed her way out?). I cheered! No tears. I could live with skid marks. She was born with a head full of brown hair (which turned blonde within 5 months), blue eyes (which have stayed blue, unlike her sister's, whose eyes turned gray then green and are now hazel), and a little hemorrhage on her eye. She weighed in at 8 lbs 10 oz., nearly a full pound bigger than her sister. And of course she was absolutely beautiful. My mother in law cut the cord. Ingrid was a little slow to nurse, but she latched on like a pro within a couple of hours, and hasn't let up since.

After all the picture taking, telephoning, and oohing and ahhing subsided, I ate a little dinner and put my Ziggy Stardust shirt back on. I don't remember taking it off, but I guess it came off. After everyone left, Bea, Ingrid, Chris and I all snuggled in bed to “sleep”. Chris and I just stared at her. I kept up the vigil when he went to sleep.

We had picked out her name long before we actually met her. As with Bea, it was a name Chris and I both liked. We compromised on Solveig ("SOOL-vay") for a middle name. I wanted it as the first name. But I got the first name for Bea (Amelia. Chris liked Beatrice. If you know her, you know she is most certainly a Bea or Beatrice.) One of us had vetoed names like Judith, Alice, Miriam, Aurelia (also vetoed for Bea), and Ingemar. We knew we were having a girl (I didn't care about the surprise of finding out at birth), so Jesse, Jedediah, Joshua, James, Sean, Jacob, and Primo were all out. We now have a dog named Jed and a cat named James.

I could have written my birth story before she was born, it seemed to go exactly as I had wanted, although I would have liked for Kaya to have met Ingrid. Kaya was her

North American Registry of Midwives
More Homebirth stories
Midwives Alliance of North America
The Midwife and Homebirth
Massachusetts Midwives Alliance

Bad Girl!

On Sunday I went under the needle for another two hours. I've known the Jeremy, the tattoo artist, for almost 6 years. We first met in an Anatomy and Physiology class that I was taking for nursing school and he was taking to get licensed to practice tattooing in Massachusetts legally. He's still the only legally working tattoo artist in Franklin County, MA, as far as he can tell. Anyway, I adore Jeremy outside of his tattooing skills. He's funny, gregarious, generous, a good confidante, and an all-around decent fellow who is fun to hang out with (and always good for a boost of positive body image!). Unfortunately we don't get to hang out very often, so a regularly scheduled tattooing appointment has the added bonus of catching up with a dear friend, and talking about stuff that we may not generally feel comfortable talking about with other people. We talked a whole lot about sex and relationships. It's like going to a hair salon!

While he worked and we chatted, I flipped through a tattoo book called 1000 Tattoos. Occasionally we even talked about tattoos and piercing. Both of us are not into facial piercings except nose piercings, and to some degree piercings in general. Admittedly, I've had both nostrils and my septum pierced at various times (and would do it again), my tongue was pierced for about 9 years, I got my ears pierced when I was 5, and I had my navel pierced when I was 20 and took it out 6 years later. They're still not my thing, but I appreciate them on other people to a degree. And it's not something tattoo aficionados admit very often. It's like not liking someone who should be your best friend, who probably is your best friend or close cousin. You see each other at the same places all the time, people think you look alike, have similar tastes in art, etc, but for some inexplicable reason, you don't care for that person. You appreciate their finer qualities and that there are things you share in common, but you're just not into them. Jeremy's not into facial tattoos, while I find them incredibly fascinating, unnerving, attractive, and often beautiful. We talked about how I'd like to have my arm tattoo extended to my forearm, and mostly finished in the next 18 months (Koi, a peony on my elbow, more waves, cherry blossoms, skulls...)

While Jeremy worked on a particularly painful spot, I focused on the book in my lap. I just happened to have it opened to a pictured of a beautiful and beautifully tattooed woman ca. 1920. I love photographs of early twentieth century heavily tattooed people, circus folk, Asian, Polynesian and other "ethnographically" tattooed (facial tattoos!), military, and most especially women. I can only imagine what it must have been like for a woman in the 1920's who just liked tattoos on her even if she was the painted lady in the circus. What compelled her to get tattooed? I'm sure the reasons are pretty much what they'd be nowadays, which is why the unnamed woman's face made for a good focusing image.

Even nowadays, but perhaps less so in our Happy Uber-liberal Valley, women with big tattoos are viewed as biker chicks, loose women, or otherwise ladies of some ill repute. On a personal level, I've experienced this. When I lived in Memphis about 15 years ago, a total stranger in a shoe store, who at first asked me on a date (I said no), told me that if I was his girlfriend, and he discovered I had a big dragon tattoo on my back, he'd dump me then and there. He then went on to tell me that it would probably be hard for me to find a nice man who wasn't a gangsta or biker dude. I told him that I I've had no problems finding nice men (I just didn't pick them at the time), that I'm better off without someone who would be so shallow as to dump me for having a tattoo, as it was my body, after all, and that clearly he and I were not going to be going on a date and I wasn't going to buy any shoes from him. Lastly, I told him I didn't judge him for not having any tattoos, so God bless him, sad little man. The fact that a total stranger felt he had some right of ownership over me is silly enough not to go there. But if I got that feedback from one person, I'm sure there are at least 10 or more people out there who are thinking it, (even if I didn't refuse to go on a date with them). Like my parents. Or my boss, who once said she "hated" tattoos. I don't think she had noticed mine yet, and I don't keep them all covered up at work. She can hate them if she wants. They didn't come up in my horrible performance review.

So this morning I asked Primo if he thought I looked like a biker chick, or a loose woman, or a bad-ass woman, or any other tattooed woman stereotype. "No" he said. "You smile too much." He's mentioned I have more of a hippie librarian look. He then went on to admit that he didn't believe those tattooed women stereotypes, and never did. Oh well. Primo again proved himself to be the most wonderful and princely husband I know he is, even though we were mad at each other all weekend. Peacemaking is so fun...But I digress. The shoe salesman was wrong on so many levels.

How much of the stereotype do I internalize? Well, I have a whole wardrobe devoted to tattoo concealing, even in summer. I'd be willing to not wear a bathing suit ever again if I had a really beautiful, but maybe disturbing tattoo because I wouldn't want to be judged, especially around my children. If anything I suppose I struggle with the idea of tattoos being symbols of rebellion, of wanting to be different. There are many other things about me that make me different. Being an ethnic minority in an ethnically homogeneous area of the country makes one stand out even in a business suit. Looking different is par for the course. As far as being rebellious, if not being a sheeple makes me a rebel, then so be it. I don't cover out of shame. I cover because sometimes communication is easier when people aren't distracted by how long your hair is, or all the color on your arms. And I am happier not covering them up.

So I'm not a bad girl after all. Well, I feel much better now that I've confirmed that.

There are lots of women out there with big tattoos. Yay. There are very few African American women with big tattoos (which makes me feel a little special, a little different in a nice way), and very very few African American women tattoo artists. The most prominent one is Jacci Gresham. The one time I was unable to recover from being starstruck, and thus couldn't even talk was when I stopped by Jacci's booth at a tattoo convention in Memphis. Sigh.

Revolting Bodies: The Monster Beauty of Tattooed Women
An All-African American Owned and Operated Tattoo Shop Pinz-n-Needlez has a female tattoo artist who's a Sister!
And another one
And another one
A really intense facial tattoo. It's not beautiful, but I can't look away.

Oooh! Almost forgot. The Klezmatics album Wonder Wheel is the best records I've heard all year. It's a collection of never recorded Woody Guthrie lyrics set to some incredible music. Bea and Ingrid both love it, and there are no songs that I have to skip over because of the language or content. Bea and I had an interesting and difficult conversation about war, why I hate the President, and how innocent people (like babies) die in wars--all prompted by listening to "Come When I Call You".

It Feels Like the Tip of Your Nose

This happens at every turning of the year: I start to freak out that I'm not living to my fullest potential, that I'm making a mess of my life and thus of my children's lives, that I'm not following my bliss enough, that I'm getting deeper into a rut that will become harder to get out as I get older. It's stupid and fruitless to worry that maybe I should have studied harder in school, or that I should have majored in Economics or Chemistry, or that I should have gone to Carnegie Mellon instead of Smith, or that I should have applied to nursing school after graduation like I wanted to, or that I should have been more disciplined about fiction writing in college. I should have slayed the dragon when he showed up on my porch, and it's no excuse that my knife wasn't sharp enough. I should keep my knives sharper. It never ends.

So here I am focusing on the fact that I don't love what I do for a paycheck, and there's not any real future in it. But the reality is our finances are structured in such a way that I need to bring home a pay check or we could lose our house and I couldn't put food on the table. Ideally my work for pay would be something I love. But the things I love don't pay very much, or they require that I quit my job to get a piece of paper to prove I'm worthy of doing what I love, or I shy away from them because people whose opinions I respect have discouraged me from pursuing the knowledge. It's really a combination of all of the above, except I probably wouldn't have to quit my job if I were to pursue what I really ,truly, honestly love.

Let's revisit nursing school for a sec, because it was so close to what I really want to do. I get a little defensive when I think about the fact that I never finished, and why I don't regret not finishing. I started nursing school with the idea that I would eventually become a nurse-midwife. Then I fell in love with psych nursing at the same time I fell out of love with being a CNM or L and D nurse. Did I really want to be a nurse? Yes and no. Going to nursing school seemed like a great idea at the time, and I think I would have made a damn good psych nurse, but it's not totally what I want to do.

I've been entertaining going to graduate school in psychology or to teach biology. Do I really want to be a psychologist or a teacher? Yes and no. And I'd probably be pretty good at either, too. But again, it's not the whole vocational enchilada.

I have a BA in Religion and Biblical Literature. I've entertained the notion of going to divinity school to be a pastoral counselor or a minister. Do I really want to be a minister? Abso-freakin-lutely not. Pastoral counselor, perhaps, but...

When I think about it without worrying about what other people would think, and without worrying about whether I'd make money, or any of the other insecurities I can conjure, I really want to be, and have wanted to be for many years, a midwife. Not a nurse-midwife, but a traditional midwife who comes to your house, and helps you give birth to your baby, who counsels you, consoles you, teaches you about your body and your baby and your family. A teacher, a nurse (in the traditional sense), a counselor, and a little bit of a minister. It's a totally illogical endeavor with regard to money and certification, but when I see myself doing what I love, I see myself catching babies and teaching women how to find their cervices, among other things, too many to list here. Maybe another post.

In reality, I will finish my game, and I'll teach the dog how to walk on a leash, and I may even start running. Those are easy goals. But the resolution I should have made was to stop worrying about what other people think of how I should follow my bliss (to quote a bumper sticker commonly found on Subarus around here), and to go ahead and follow it. Why is that so hard? One thing that scares me that I won't get the approval from people whose approval I've sought in the past, namely my mainstream, academically decorated mom and practical in all matters future and money father. Primo may say, "why don't you become a teacher?" but he'll get why, and if he won't he'll still be supportive in his own way. He's a little like my dad. Others may say, "why don't you go back to nursing school?" Because it's not what I wholly want to be. My approval-seeking has lead to point-proving in the past, which does nothing beneficial for me.

I should do it before I'm talked out of it again (by myself or other people).

What feels like the tip of your nose?

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

The Good : My mom had the cardiac catheterization done, and everything went well.
The Bad (but not so bad): She does have some blockage in her arteries, but she won't need really bypass surgery, or an angioplasty, just drugs. She said she's also going to work harder at keeping her blood pressure down, and will try to lose some weight. Good for mom.
I just noticed I look just like my mom in the picture to the left. Same facial expression and everything... Not a bad thing, just an observation.
The Ugly: Speaking of weight loss and exercise (okay, I didn't talk about exercise yet, but I saw a theme and I ran with it), I noticed some very interesting dynamics in the Nautilus Room at the Y yesterday. There appears to be a self segregation between the men and the women. If there are more men in the weight room, the women all go do the cardio machines, and vice versa. I never really noticed this until yesterday when I was doing the Nautilus machines and there were two men (among many men, mostly regulars) there who were grunting really loudly. Loud enough for me to crank up the iPod (Grateful Dead, "Tennessee Jed" to start). It was distracting. I just wanted to yell "get a freakin' room!" So you can imagine what it sounded like, if you're not one to hang out in fitness centers. The husband tells me this is a fairly common thing, and on the list of rules in the free weight room it says something like "No Loud Grunting". I also looked around to see if there was anyone else with a visible WTF or amused look on his face. Nope, just me, and I was the only woman there. Then I looked into the cardio room, and there was not a single man in there. I wasn't about to change my workout and join the herd, so I just tried to ignore the grunters, and then did a quickie cardio. (Later that night I had a funny dream about self segregation, which would only really be funny to someone else in the dream, so I won't share. Sorry.)
I am now fascinated with this phenomenon. I've never really heard women grunt like that while working out. I don't grunt loudly while working out, even when I up my weight level. I made crazy primal grunty sounds when I was giving birth to my kids, but can we really equate birthing a baby to lifting weights? I'm not convinced that the workout grunting is necessary. Amusing and somewhat disturbing, perhaps, but not necessary. There's a time and place for grunting, and working out in a public place may not be it. I don't think my being the only woman in the weight room had any impact on the volume or frequency of the grunting, as no other men joined in. Now that would have been really odd and distrubing. I would have gone to the cardio room, and joined the ladies if I suddenly found myself in a room full of loudly grunting, sweaty, middle aged (and a few adolescent) men. I shudder to think.

Anyone out there, please share. What's the workout grunt all about?
Here's more information about No Grunting Policies in gyms. I really feel bad for the guy who was kicked out of the gym for grunting. OTOH, the sign said "No Grunting".

Thoughts on "Gaming like a Girl"

Here's what I think gaming like a girl means, in reference to blog entry linked above. I meant to write this a long time ago, but I couldn't get my thoughts together. Then today, I was picking up Ingrid, and it came to me. I still can't vouch for conhesiveness, as it is late and I'm very tired but wired due to post migraine insomnia.
First, "Gaming like a girl" is really "Gaming like a woman". (I went to a women's college, not a girl's school, thank you very much.) Just as boys can run like girls, men can play like women.
When gaming like a woman, your character doesn't have to be a woman. Your character doesn't have to be a bitch goddess. Add more dimensions than that. Your character isn't necessarily frilly or cute, but if she is, these are played as strengths or benign features, not weaknesses or ways to manipulate (unless your character is manipulative by nature, not by virtue of being a woman). Your character doesn't have to be a woman (or a feminine man.)

Your character might most likely delve into themes of body image, domestic abuse, children, sex, control and power over one's body and faculty, pregnancy, blood, finding work with a family to care for, breasts, perceived whore vs. virtuous woman, being as strong as a man, but still just considered a bitch, all in a manner that reflects how these issues affect women IRL. These themes come to mind immediately, I'm sure there are others (Anyone who reads my blog?)

So I consciously played a character like a woman the last time I played Dogs in the Vineyard. Her name was Polly, as in Polly, Pretty Polly. She was that very one [Theme of domestic violence]. But after Sweet William buried her, she jumped out of the grave, and went to the steward (Willie was going to be a Dog). Polly took Sweet Willie's place at Bridal Falls. She didn't have much else left for her in the town, since she had a fast repuation that was so shameful to a fine upstanding Dog candidate like William, that he'd try to do her in. [whore? nope, she was virtuous at the time, but a victim of small town gossip] She was a little bitter about it, but she had tried to let go of her anger about the whole stabbing through the heart and her heart's blood flowing, being thrown into a grave and the dirt thrown over her thing. She preferred a knife to a gun [blood], she liked fashionable clothes that walked a fine line between Faithful modesty and Eastern whorishness [whore vs. virtue], she was a chain smoker who offered tobacco as an ice breaker, and she had a very foul mouth (That was just me. Since I've had kids, I've really worked hard to hold my sailor's tongue. I took the oppurtunity to cuss to my heart's content.) She also had poor people skills (would insult them to their face, then apologize, then do it again.), and she really disliked children [Because being a woman doesn't make one a natural mother!] She ministered to prostitutes (converted one, too!) without passing judgement. And she was once a midwife apprentice, which gave her an in with the prostitutes (free cervical/vaginal exams! Whoopee!). [body stuff]
Over the course of the game, it came to pass that Polly often relied on other's perception of what a "lady" was and how one conducts oneself around a lady. She avoided getting arrested by insisting that the deputies wait behind her closed door as she got dressed. She believed that spouses shouldn't withhold sex from each other (nor force one to have sex, or to marry). She had no interest in marriage. [power].

I tried not to play her as an stereotypical rpg strong woman. She was strong in some areas, and very weak in others. She was not terribly soft, not hardened, although being stabbed and buried alive could have easily made her hard. I imagined that she liked to sing. She was not conniving or sneaky. And she was definitely not a bitch goddess. Cranky at times, yes, and quite human.

And then there are breasts. If one plays like a woman, your breasts enter every scene with you, and generally before you enter the room. Especially if you're like me, and you've breastfed 2 kids, suffered through sore nipples, thrush, gravity, and the cruel joke of gaining 2 cup sizes when you're already too busty to buy bras at Victoria's Secret. My breasts and my hair have lives all their own. There was a funny scene in a playtest of a game Emily's working on called "Sign in, Stranger", where my character was a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader (can't get any strong girlier than that!). She was sitting around with a bunch of guys, and one woman she had determined to be so "manly" she needed a makeover [a little catty, but not a bitch goddess], and breast and penis jokes came up. I played her getting very uncomfortable, and saying so. Another character made the comment that she was a "real lady". Yes! Real ladies don't sit around and let the conversation make them uncomfortable.

In the next game we play, I will be interested to see where my character goes. One theme that popped up early in creating her was pregnancy, still birth, and child loss. She has a baby born still and her granny tells her how to get a demon that will give her live babies (and all the joy that's involved in making them), but those babies keep disappearing. The demon offers the coldly comforting assurance that they can have another one. It's a common comment made to real women who've had children die. It's a cruel assurance, so there it is, said by a demon with demonic sincerity.

It is an issue that can tear a person apart, male or female; but a woman whose baby dies in utero has an experience and view that only a woman can have. I was not a worrier when I was pregnant. I don't dwell on worst case scenarios. But when I was nearing the end of both pregnancies, every morning I would poke at my belly to wake up my babies. And sometimes those 2-3 minutes before they would start to kick would be very very long 2-3 minutes. I so enjoy playing my darkest fears.