If you don't like the way I drive, get off the sidewalk.

I flunked Driver's Ed in high school.

My contribution to the school's literary journal that year was an essay about how I made my driving instructor cry. An exaggeration, of course, but hey, it got me published.

I drove for a while in high school, but after I put a hole in the gas tank -- backing out of the garage -- I had had enough.

So I drove less and less, and ended up not driving at all. By the time I stopped drinking, I was afraid to start the car, much less put it into drive.

I didn't start driving again until I had been sober for almost a year. I had moved to Albuquerque to take care of my mom, and it was either drive or starve. But then we moved to Boston, where it seemed wisest to let my husband take back the wheel. Because, you know, Boston. Eventually I did learn to drive, but my knack for fucking things up meant I didn't always have a car.

Now I have a better understanding of why learning to drive was such a nightmare,  and if my parents had known what I know now, I probably never would have learned to drive.

But drive I do. I've driven on a snowy mountain road at night in the middle of a blizzard. I've driven on I-285 during rush hour. I even drove in Boston once when I accidentally poked my husband's eye out and had to drive him to the hospital.  (Yeah, I really did that.)

Anyway, I drive, and after decades of practice, it's mostly second nature. And because I can drive, I don't have to wait for someone to pick me up from work. I can stay ten minutes late and my ride doesn't get pissed off. I can run to the store any time I want. I can take a drive down an inviting road just because.

After having spent so many years depending on others for rides, it's hard to overstate how liberating it is to drive.

Okay, so I occasionally try to put diesel in the gas tank, and sometimes I drive away with the gas pump still in the car, and if I get distracted I make mistakes, which is why you should drive when we go somewhere together.

But I drive. I drive.

And that right there is a bona fide fucking miracle of sobriety.

A TERF by any other name...

You may have heard by now that J.K.  Rowling has a problem with trans women. That's a big disappointment, since she has generally been a supporter of the queer community.

Sometime last year I was having lunch with a lesbian meetup group and someone mentioned that a trans woman had asked to join. "How cool!" I thought. "No way!" said the others. A civilized argument ensued, and I was most definitely in the minority.

Thus was my first introduction to terfdom. TERF, for those who don't know, stands for trans-exclusionary radical feminist. Basically, a terf believes that trans women are not real women and therefore should be excluded from women's spaces. It's rumored that terfs killed the venerated Michigan Womyn's Festival rather than admit trans women.

The idea, at least according to my lunch companions, is that trans women can't  possibly know what it's like to be a woman, because they were raised as men. They don't know, for example, what it feels like to feel unsafe in a bathroom when a man enters.

Wait, what? I call bullshit.

First, I'm pretty sure a trans woman feels a lot less safe in a public bathroom than the average cis woman. And that's probably true whether she's in the men's room or the women's room.

Second, no one can know the experiences  of another. So if women's spaces are only for women with shared experiences, which experiences are we talking about? Because a white woman has experienced a very different life from a woman of color. A wealthy woman has not experienced life as a woman in poverty. If you insist on experience as a basis for inclusion, then you are destined to be in a group all by yourself, my friend.

In any event, the whole "experience" argument is pretense. This became clear when some of the women at lunch said perhaps a trans woman could be included in the group if she has had surgery.

I'm sorry, what on earth does that have to do with common experience?

The bottom line is this: terfs are transphobic. Their beliefs may be sincere, but that doesn't make them any more palatable.

Now, at this point I should address the whole language thing. Many women object to the word "terf " They consider it to be a slur. They prefer "gender critical." In other words, they are demanding politically correct nomenclature.

Sorry, but bigots don't get to play snowflake.  And they don't get to obfuscate their agenda by cloaking it in softer, gentler words.

Not racists. Not misogynists. Not Nazis.

And not terfs.

Deleted.

So for the past few days I've been working on a very compelling post, all about how I'm more messed up and pitiful than you are.  Turns out it was just me being terminally unique.

So I'm trashing that one and posting this instead.  After all, who am I to deny you the opportunity to be messed up and pitiful, too?

Still, it's a bummer because it was really well written.

I love you all.

Our president. Unhinged. As usual.

So elequent:

 "You have cheapened the importance of the very ugly word, impeachment."

Yesterday, President Trump sent Nancy Pelosi a six-page screed on the impeachment "coup." It was typical Donald Trump, complete with references to his "perfect" phone call with Zelensky, his "landslide" victory in 2016, the firing of James Comey as "one of our country's best decisions," and the piteous cry that the Salem witch trials provided more due process.

The New York Times fact-checked the letter and found numerous misleading statements and out-and-out falsehoods. Knock me over with a feather!

Given the number of Capitalized Words in the Letter, the number of Explanation Marks!, and the level of hyperbole, I'm betting that the Donald composed this letter himself, although it was no doubt checked for grammar and spelling by someone who actually knows the language. I wonder how long he had to sit on the toilet to dictate it.

The really bad people in the world tend to self-destruct eventually. This guy will self-destruct as well. But how much more damage will he do before he implodes?

Moving. The Drama.

Prelude

No, I'm not moving. I wrote this years ago but never posted it. It's still my basic playbook for When Stuff Happens.

Chapter One

I need a new place to live, and I need it fast. Okay, well, I can do this. One foot. Then the other. Let’s see what happens. It could be great!

Chapter Two

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t do this. I can’t do it. I am not strong enough. If I can’t fucking move my finger to dial the phone, how the hell am I going to move a family? Fuck it. It’s over. We’ll have to live under a bridge, And I’ll keep everything I own in a shopping cart – no, wait, I’ll need two. One for my kid. One for me. I hope we can find a bridge in her school district. FUCK.

Chapter Three

Okay. I’ve got two weeks. As my mother used to say, pick up the bobby pin, wash the dish. Just keep moving. Just keep calling. Just keep doing the next right thing, and when I can’t figure out what that is, do the next thing right. Call the phone numbers in the ads. Talk to strangers. Tell them the truth. Ask the hard questions. Do you take pets? Do you care that I have bad credit? Be willing to hear the hard truth; better to know right now. Visit the houses that survive the inquisition. Let the Universe do its thing. Keep an open mind. Keep an open mind. Keep an open mind.

Chapter Four

I’ve made a decision. It feels right. I hope it’s right. What if it’s not? Shut up and pack. Just keep packing. Change over the utilities. Forward the mail. Reserve a truck. All these fucking details. I wish I could do this more gracefully.

Chapter Five

I am in moving hell, I think to myself. But that’s just for effect. The truth is, I’m really in moving heaven: I have some stuff worth moving. I have lots of help. I have a truck. I even have someone who knows how to drive a truck, thank God. I am in charge of this project. For better or worse, it is proceeding, and I am moving forward. 

I am moving forward. Oh, my God. I am moving forward.

Of all my fears – and there have been many – my greatest, my most intractable, has been the fear of moving forward. And here I am. I’m doing it.

Chapter Six

I think it's going to be okay after all. 

Elections Have Consequences.

For those of you who so despised Hillary Clinton that you sat out the 2016 election;

For those of you who decided Clinton's politics weren't pure enough for you, so you voted for a third-party candidate: 

Here are just a few of the stories in the New York Times over the last two days:

• Barr Dives Into the Culture Wars, and Social Conservatives Rejoice 
• Despite Warnings, Trump Moves to Expand Migrant Family Detention
• Trump Brings 2 Officers He Cleared of War Crimes Onstage at Fund-Raiser
• Trump Cripples W.T.O. as Trade War Rages
• For Trump, Instinct After Florida Killings Is Simple: Protect Saudis

This is on you. But so is the solution.

Mask, meet face.

Patience, please. Being diagnosed as autistic was a game-changer. I've got some processing to do and, well, I have this blog, so… yeah. 

I'm thinking today about masking. The act of trying to look normal. Every human being does it, of course. In the autism community it’s a big thing, and it’s generally considered unhealthy. 

And I am very, very good at it. 

As I recalibrate my self-esteem post-diagnosis, I have to ask: Where does the masking leave off and where do I begin? And how much of that mask do I really want to lose? 

See, I like that smiling is second nature to me now, even though I had to consciously train myself to do it. I like that I’ve mostly overcome my fear of driving. I like that I managed to get through law school. These things never would have happened if I hadn't masked my brains out.

On the other hand, all that masking is exhausting, and it doesn’t always work. Yeah, I masked my way through Harvard, but then I tanked as a lawyer because I tried to fake it and I failed. 

And as I've mentioned before, it’s not just the big stuff. It’s anything that’s new to me. All the small, new things that arise every single day, constantly, relentlessly, unless I confine myself to bed, which isn’t terribly practical, or fun.

I guess what I’m asking is this: Does it make my world bigger or smaller if I admit to you that I need help figuring out how to take the train across town? I mean, I’ll figure it out on my own eventually, I always do.  But I’ll arrive completely spent emotionally and physically. And I’ll tell you the trip was fine, because it couldn't have been as hard as it felt. 

In other words, I’ll lie to you. Just like I’ve been doing my entire life. And I'll barely notice that I'm doing it, because masking has become such a part of me. 

But here's the thing: because I masked, I finally did make it across town to get to you, and that's a very good thing. And I didn't have to let on, and next time, it probably won't be so hard.

So I wonder: Is it better to keep what's hidden, hidden?

The Subversive Librarian humbly takes her place on the throne.

So, here's something I never thought I'd say:

I am the Snow Queen. 

My boss's exact words. And me, raised in Phoenix!

Growing up, I saw snow exactly once a year when we would drive up to Flagstaff to play in it. One year my brother and I built a snow lady. She fell over because she was too top-heavy. But I digress.

When I moved from Phoenix to Chicago with my dad, we saw all this white stuff on the ground as the plane was approaching the city. My father assured me that it couldn't possibly be snow.

It was snow.

A few weeks later I walked half a mile through a blizzard to get to the mall for holiday shopping because I didn't know it was a blizzard.

And now, here in the wilds of rural upstate New York, with all of its wind and cold and its 131 inches of annual snowfall, I am the official, designated, honest-to-God Snow Queen.

My royal duties are appropriately light. I am the authority on whether we open or close in bad weather, based on who's willing to risk their lives to come in. And then I let people know, via two brief emails. Piece of cake, albeit frozen.

I am the Snow Queen. My boss says all I need is a tiara. I am patiently waiting.

On college finals and life in general

It's time for my bi-annual email to our library student workers. Since I'm actively blogging these days, and since now I'm a student myself, I'm posting it (again) here as well.   

I want to convey my thanks to the students who have done such great work for the Library. I'd also like to offer some advice. (Hey. I'm a mother. It's what I do.) 

As you head into finals, I know that you are facing a lot of pressure: pressure to study, pressure to get good grades, pressure to handle schoolwork and career and family, pressure to know everything!

Now, I’m not about to tell you to blow off your exams. But please keep things in perspective. Your grades are important, but they are not nearly as important as holding a child, watching a sunset, or counting your blessings. By the time the Hale-Bopp Comet comes around again (in about 2,400 years), no one will care if you got a C in English 101, or if you ranked last instead of first. Indeed, in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter whether you graduate at all.

What does matter – and what actually might matter in 2,400 years – is how you live your life. Not after you graduate, but today. Did you hug your loved ones? Did you treat yourself and others with dignity? Did you play fair? Did you take time out to listen to the people you care about? When things got so rough you couldn’t help yourself, did you give others the honor of helping you? Did you pass that favor on when things eased up? Did you do your reasonable best?

Many years ago I lost one of my students to suicide. Melissa was so loved that if she had just said one word – help – dozens of friends and family members would have been at her side instantly. Sadly, she never said a word to anyone.

Please don’t let life get so hard that it seems unbearable. And if it does, please – please – tell someone you need help.

Let college take your time and your energy. But don’t let it take your heart.