Mommy, Why is that Man Kissing Another Man?

My cousin, who has a 4-year-old daughter, recently asked me for advice on how to answer the question, "Mommy, why is that man kissing another man?" 

In light of recent achievements in the gay rights movement, such as New York State finally legalizing gay marriage, I feel I must address this topic here. 

That my cousin's daughter lives in a world where two men are now comfortable kissing each other in public is not something I take for granted. I did not grow up in such a world. I did not see two people of the same gender kissing each other until I got to college. Where I grew up, it was okay to use the word "gay" to describe variations of weak or undesirable behavior. Making fun of boys or girls who did not fit their gender's stereotypes was a normal occurrence. At best, a teacher might interfere if she or he overheard something disrespectful, but the emphasis was usually on avoiding conflict rather than raising awareness about intolerance and bigotry. My psyche still registers "relationship" as something that happens between a man and a woman, and I have to actually make an effort to expand my own allegedly open-minded awareness. 

My own parents were not exemplary in their vision and (mis)understanding of homosexuality. When my mother explained it to me, she did it the way most Catholic Brazilian mothers do: Homosexuality was an abnormality that caused a great deal of suffering and it would be a terrible, terrible thing if my brother or I turned out to be gay. My father, too, did not think twice before making offensive remarks about gay people, unknowingly sending us the message that it was okay to see them as lesser than straight people. 

During my time at Graded, my high school, I did not know any openly gay students. In health class, I was taught about birth control and STD prevention, but the subject of sexuality and sexual options  that were not heterosexual were barely touched upon. If I had ever wondered about my sexuality, I would not have had a single person I felt comfortable talking to about it. When, after I had already graduated, a close friend of mine came out while still in high school, I was astounded by her bravery. I never felt Graded, or any high school for that matter, was a safe environment for gay people. 

When I got to Sarah Lawrence, the parameters of my reality changed completely. First, I learned that homosexuality was not abnormal, disgusting, or sinful. Second, I learned that there were very serious injustices against gay people, ranging from the kind of prejudice I had been raised in, to much bigger issues, where they were legally made to believe they were not entitled to the same rights as heterosexual people. As I befriended, lived with, and loved many gay people while I was there, I saw gay rights as human rights, and I felt their outrage and pain as my own. 

I used to think that when someone used the words, “fag,” “fruit,” “dike,” or other such atrocities, that it wasn’t my place to tell them not to. I certainly didn't think it was my place to get angry at them. I didn’t give much thought to “don’t ask, don’t tell,” or to the fact that two people who loved each other could not get married if they were of the same gender. Sarah Lawrence changed me. New York changed me. I know now that not only is it my place to correct offenders and to stand up to prejudice and injustice; it is my responsibility as a human being to do so. Inaction is a form of allowance and encouragement, and that is no longer acceptable to me. 

So when my cousin asked for my advice, I told her she had a big responsibility in her hands. What she tells her daughter is just as important as what a state’s law tells its citizens. The same place where prejudice is birthed is also where it is prevented. It may be a long time before a Disney movie tells a love story between two people of the same sex, and it may be a long time before a gay person is elected president of the United States, but raising children to see homosexuality as being just as normal as heterosexuality is a battle we can win today.  

What would I tell my child? 

Love is love. It manifests in all forms, between all people. Desire is desire. It does not belong only to people of opposite sexes. Be true to yourself, and always respect others. Intolerance is a weapon of ignorance that weakens the heart and limits the mind. In this life, we must stand for something, and I stand for a world where everyone is free to love whoever they love and safe to be exactly who they are. 

Click here for a list of gay rights organizations around the world.

7 years ago

While looking under my bed today for a lost sock, I found a box of old diaries. I opened one of them right on a page that was written exactly seven years ago. It was my last night at home before I left for New York. I didn't know that it would be the last time my parent's house ever really felt like home, and that I wasn't just going off to college, I was going off to the next part of my life and the person I would become. I didn't know how hard that first year in college would be, and how well I would get to know loneliness and longing.

August 24th, 2003

Hi Beth, (I name my diaries)

Well, yesterday I went to Ibiza (a club in Sao Paulo) with G* and I got drunk and I kissed F* and then today I had a hang-over, and so last night was fun and not that fun at the same time. Tonight is my "last" night, tomorrow I'm off to college, wow. We just had dinner at the Outback. I'm not ready to leave Sa yet Beth. And my room.... so much... But I'm excited about college. Real excited! I'm nervous about having roommates and all that. I also talked to B* today. He's so nice. And he likes me a lot Beth. And J* wrote me an email. But I'm still into T*, who's stopped emailing me, and dealing with the end of things with R*, who's still contacting me every day. How confusing. And my friends are still kind of mad at me and siding with R*, which is messed up. I can't wait to leave it all behind. Will there be any boys at Sarah Lawrence? Like, datable boys? I'm so in love with my tattoo. I can't believe I got a tattoo. I'm glad I have a tattoo as I go to college. I'm currently obsessed with Cyndi Lauper and American Dreams. I miss Spain. Europe was so fun. Well, I'm tired and I wanna sleep a lot... Good bye Brasil, college here I come!

Good night,

La

Throughout the next couple of years, I would find datable boys at Sarah Lawrence, I would forget about most of the boys mentioned, I would get three more tattoos, I would stop watching television, I would miss home terribly, I would make many new friends, I would miss my old friends, I would drink a lot, I would travel to Europe a few more times, and I would make New York my home.

Me, in college, with my long hair dyed orange at the tips, writing poetry on the grass.

The Long Skirt

I'm one of those people who can't throw anything away. I keep things I most definitely don't need, forever. It drives my mother crazy and drastically limits my closet space. The thing is, I don't enjoy buying new things, so most of the things I have were given to me, and therefore I have some sort of attachment to them. And, as an actress, I just like to keep things so that I can refer to them when I need material for my work.

One of those things is a long green skirt. It's made of a thin cotton and it wraps around my waist and ruffles just slightly in the bottom. It's very poetic and hippie-ish and old-fashioned. It's 7 years old now, and faded and hard to wear, but I still have it. I got it when I was 17, in Spain, on my first back-packing trip through Europe with my friends Marina and Gabi. I had just graduated high-school and, for the most part, wore whatever fashion magazines told me to (see blog post The Doctrine of Vanity on January 16th, 2010, for more on that). My friend Marina had been going through her free-spirited phase for a while now, so this wasn't her first long skirt or "hippie" item, but it was mine. I don't remember why I decided to try it on, but I do remember the feeling I had when I wrapped that delicate cloth around me. I had never really worn anything like that before. There was nothing gripping at my stomach, tucking my tummy in, or shaping my butt, or grabbing at my crotch, or restricting my knee joint. I instantly felt supremely feminine- and not in a mini-skirt-worn-for guys-to-look-at-my-legs kind of way, but rather a feeling-womanly-for-me-and-only-me kind of way, which was extremely empowering and new.

Wearing something for my own pleasure, without worrying about what guys, or even girls, would think? I seriously couldn't remember if I had ever known what that was like.

The skirt was slightly overpriced (80 euros for a piece of green cloth that wraps around you!), but I bought it without hesitation. It became my absolutely favorite thing to wear. And I wore it so much. When I got back from Europe, I wore it because it reminded me of the feeling of freedom and independence that I had gotten to know and love during that trip. Then, when I went to Sarah Lawrence, I wore it on my first day of school. I wore it the first time I went to central park by myself on that first fall away from home. I wore it to my first Women's Studies class. I wore it to my first rehearsal of The Vagina Monologues. I wore it, essentially, all through college, and it became part of my memory of special times. It was the first of many long skirts I would own in college. It became my signature look: long flowy skirt, flip flops or sandals, no bras, long hair dyed red at the tips, and ray-ban sunglasses. I guess I thought I was in the 1970's, but all of us at Sarah Lawrence did, so it was okay.

And then, when I graduated from Sarah Lawrence, I put all my long skirts away in a bag. I was no longer living in the woods/suburbs with 800 powerful, free-spirited women, I was going back to city-life, and my skirt was no longer appropriate. The freedom and openness I felt when wearing it weren't exactly safe for a big city. I learned that when you have an open and sensitive heart, you have to be really careful in urban cities- you have to protect yourself. If you're too vulnerable, you might get hurt. And I wanted to be taken seriously as an adult now, so I had to dress like one. It was time to go back to pants and shorter skirts that made me feel integrated, in control, and slightly closed off from myself- which was my way of becoming an adult now living in New York. My skirts went off to some mysterious corner of my closet and I transitioned into city clothes fairly seamlessly.

I tried to wear one of my long skirts again one day, not long ago, and immediately felt the relief of having all that space and freedom in my body. As soon as I had that much space, I wanted more space. I wanted to put on shoes that didn't restrict my feet or the space between my toes, I wanted to wear a shirt with gentle built-in support so I didn't have a bra rigidly holding my breasts into place, and I wanted to let my hair out of it's controlled pony-tail. But that would have been too much. I wore the skirt, but put on tights and boots and a blazer and kept my hair up. I went out in the city and felt normal. This was a manageable way to wear my skirt. But before I could get to happy, the skirt let me know it didn't want to be worn anymore. It kept coming undone and falling apart on my slippery tights. New York City wind kept messing it up and making it fly open. I was having a hard time walking at my usual city pace. It just didn't fit. And it wasn't really me anymore. It was, but it wasn't. I had the feeling that it might still be me, but in a different setting, some day. I went home, took it off, and put it back in the bag.

But I won't get rid of them, especially my long green one. Not even if my mom offered me a Prada bag in exchange for it. I can't let go of it. And I like having it around, looking at it sometimes, letting it remind me of womanhood, power, strength, independence, and freedom. It makes me happy and I worship that.

I know that it was a big deal when women started wearing pants. They are practical, after all, and they signified a huge leap for women's independence and equal rights. I know there's power in that too. And there's power in mini-skirts as well, for a woman's flirtatious sensuality can be really beautiful and empowering. But for me, nothing feels quite as unbinding and holy as a long skirt, especially if made with a light fabric and not at all gripping in the waist. I love the musicality of it, the sweetness and inviting yet mature femininity of it.

And there's hope yet that I'll come back to my long skirts. When I meditate and envision my entelechy- my realized potential, my future self in ideal circumstances- she is very happy and free. She lives somewhere near nature, where it's safe and spacious. Her inner peace and warm heart are tangible. She is very connected to her womanhood and femininity. And she is always, to my complete delight, wearing a long skirt.

Pictures of me at Sarah Lawrence, 2003-2006, with my long skirts...

The Pain of Others

I had a unique, if not unsettling, experience with loss (change doesn't seem like the right word here) of identity when I moved to the United States. I was 18 and I had lived in Sao Paulo, Brazil, all my life. I had attended the same school for 14 years- Graded- a school for the wealthy elite of Sao Paulo, which means it was predominately white and, as we used to joke, a "bubble" all of its own. And all my life I had identified as "white". I checked the box "Caucasian/White" in my college applications. I never even considered, for a moment, that in another country, in the eyes of others, I was not "white" at all.
Words like "racial minority", "person of color", "white privilege" and "passing" were not part of my vocabulary. Of course I was aware of racism, of prejudice, of the horrors of white supremacy and the constant struggle of non-white people to fit in to a society whose history rejected and oppressed them. And while I acknowledged those issues as human problems, I always thought that I would never truly be able to empathize with people who suffered from racism because, well, I was white. I believed it would be offensive for me, a white girl, to say that I really understood racism on a personal level. Racism was, to me, the pain of others. I didn't exactly see this as a disadvantage ("white guilt" doesn't seem to exist in Brazil), I simply took it as one of the cards I was dealt at birth. I was white. This was not just an understanding (or a misunderstanding, as some of my college friends would see it), this was my identity, my truth, my root.
So you can imagine how confused I was when a college friend of mine, who was black (that is how she preferred to be called, I hope I'm not offending anyone by not using a more politically correct term), asked me how I felt as a person of color- an international one, nonetheless- at Sarah Lawrence, also a predominately white school. I was so confused that I don't think I even answered her properly, I said something like, I have no idea, and dismissed the subject. It perplexed me- but I thought maybe she was just confused. Then, not long after, in a conversation about racism with a white friend of mine I started saying something along the lines of, "Because I'm white..." and she interrupted me, saying, "But you're not white." Well, now I wasn't just confused, I was getting angry. My reaction to her blunt statement shames me now, but I have to forgive myself for not knowing any better at the time. I was starting to sense that those people (Americans) did not want me to be white, and I thought it was because they thought I wasn't American. Well, I argued, I was an American. Legally, I was an American Citizen (my father has American Citizenship), and for all intents and purposes, I could consider myself an American if I wanted to- I spoke the English language better than most of the Americans I had met in fact, and I had been thoroughly educated in American History and Culture. Moreover, I lived there, legally, and was attending higher academia as an American. So why couldn't I say I was white? I wasn't trying to prove or deny anything, I was just trying to identify myself the only way I knew how.
It was my friend's turn to be confused and on edge now. She had absolutely no idea why her stating the fact that I was not white had offended me. She started to say, apologetically but still perplexed, "Well, I guess you can pass for white, but you're not actually white..." and I interrupted her, "Pass for white??? What does that even mean???" That was a truly new idea to me. People passing for white? Was she really accusing me of wanting to be white, but not really being white? And did people actually do that, so much so that there was a term for it?? Like most people who have never been and never thought they would be considered a racial minority, I didn't quite grasp why someone would want to pass for a race that was not their own. My friend tried yet again to explain, "Well, you can say you're a Latina, a Hispanic maybe, or a Person of Color, and you might even feel white or dress white or sometimes look white, but you're not white."
The questions burned through my mind at the speed of lightning. My vision started to blur. My heart was racing and I was experiencing so many different feelings that I'm not sure anything I said from that point on was even coherent. In fact I think I sat in paralysis for quite a while, my friend not knowing what the hell was wrong with me. I didn't know it at the time, but my body was physically manifesting the experience of undergoing what was about to be one of the great Paradigm Shifts of my life.
It would be a long road from there. There would be extensive conversations with people of different races, with people from different countries, with teachers, with counselors, with my family, and with myself. There would be a lot of reading and writing. There would be loss of friendships. There would be long heated arguments in college kitchens with friends of vastly different backgrounds. All of it as I tried to understand how, for most of my life, I had been given one identity, and then suddenly, in a different country, that very identity, with all of its privileges and prejudices, could be taken away from me.

I need to explain here that one of the reasons my experience was so unique was because I was at Sarah Lawrence, which is historically known as a boiling pot for political and civil activism, and these topics were not taken lightly at all. In addition, Sarah Lawrence is next to Bronxville, a very upper-class, and very white, small conservative Westchester city, where a "person of color" easily stood out. The kids at Sarah Lawrence said Bronxville was a scary place, the kind of place you imagine secret KKK meetings still took place, but for me it was no different than what I had known all of my life: a bunch of rich white people who lived in their own little bubble, and if anyone knew what they were really like, they'd laugh to have ever felt threatened by them.

One particular argument on one particular night in my second year in college sticks out in my memory. I was living in the multi-cultural house and there were a bunch of people in the kitchen one night, most of whom were not white, all of whom were activists for racial equality. And they started saying pretty horrible things about a white boy who up until then everyone in that room had called a friend, and whom I'll call Edgar here to protect his privacy. Edgar had apparently said something about how he had never done laundry before going to college, which gave away his wealthy background, and they had presented him with their lecture on white privilege, to which he didn't seem to respond in the "right" manner (which I think would have been to apologize for being white and ignorant of his privilege). So now they were in the kitchen outraged, calling him all sorts of names and saying they no longer considered him a friend. I wasn't looking to start trouble, I just wanted to understand something, when I said, "How come you guys don't get mad at me and lecture me on white privilege?" The agitated room went silent. One of them finally said, "You're not white, Larissa. Not here. It's different." To which I responded, and until this day I still don't know where my courage and clarity at that moment came from, "No, it's not. Where I come from I am white. I am just as much of an ignorant spoiled white brat as Edgar. The only reason you are 'forgiving' me for it is because in your eyes I'm not white, but my background is the same as his, and if you think about it, I am no different, the only thing that's different is your perspective of me. I never washed a spoon before I came to college, just like Edgar never did his own laundry. The reason I never washed a spoon is the same as his, because I thrived on my white privilege unknowingly. So you should be lecturing me on white privilege and ending your friendship with me too." No one knew what to say to that. We discussed it for hours, but no one was really able to respond to the problem I had just presented them with. They understood what I was saying, they had attached a profile to me when they met me: Not White, therefore it was okay for me to have money, because I would never be able to take advantage of any white privileges, and since I was a person of color, I must have struggled with racism throughout my life. When they learned that they were mistaken, they didn't really know what to do- it was an entirely new issue.
A new set of questions would present itself. Could they be friends with someone who was a person of color in their country but did not - could not- identify with their struggles and pains (or at least not at that point)? They thought they could, but in the end, sadly, I lost most of those friends. They wanted me to be as angry as they were at white people, and I wasn't. They didn't want me to present the perspective of a white person, and they certainly didn't want me defending rich white people. I tried, I really did, to understand them then and salvage those friendships. But they were young and they were angry (rightfully so, I would later understand their worlds), and they were not looking for mere friendships, they were looking for allies. And I wasn't willing or even capable of being one.

I have now lived in the United States for seven years and see things that I didn't see then. I noticed, for example, that when I went into a store like Prada or Chanel, I was often followed, or at least watched, by a security guard. I thought it was because I was young, and maybe in some instances it was, until I went with my mom and the same thing happened. I started paying attention, and when I noticed that none of the white women and men in these stores were ever followed or watched, I started to feel a chill crawl up my spine. The same sort of thing happened if I went to a fancy restaurant- the treatment seemed different. These little things that I had once thought either didn't exist or existed only in the minds of paranoid people turned out to be very real, and very cruel.
I grew up thinking I would never personally experience racism. No one taught me how to handle it. I wasn't prepared. And when, as a young woman fully capable of understanding exactly what was happening, I actually felt it, right there on my own skin, it seemed like the world as I had always known it had been a complete farse. How would I ever find anything beautiful again in this world where people were capable of treating others as inferior to themselves because of the color of their skin?
The parameters of my reality have changed a lot because of this experience, and I am grateful for it. When I see or hear about people of color being treated differently than white people I identify with their pain, because it could be me. What I had always thought I was safe from is now something I deal with constantly. When Barack Obama was elected president, I was elated that history was forever changed, and now every black child in America would grow up thinking they can be president one day if they want to- a thought I probably wouldn't have had seven years ago. I notice now when campaigns and ads use mostly white people, or only white people, and I am aware of how often (or should I say how rarely?) people of color are cast in leading roles. The list goes on and on, unfortunately.

Knowing what I know now is beyond measurable value, because there is no greater lesson in life than empathy, I think, and my absolutely unique experience expanded my vision of the world and my understanding of humanity, leaving me with a truth I'll share with you here. I carry it daily in my heart and on the surface of my skin, and maybe some of you do too...

The pain of others is our pain as well, and if we think it is not, life will teach us otherwise.

Naked

I always felt comfortable dressing and undressing in front of other women- be it in the locker room in my high-school or at a fitting room in Bloomingdale's. Perhaps because my mother always changed in front of me, it was my understanding, for most of my life, that women can be naked around other women comfortably and shamelessly.
Then I went to college in the United States. Sarah Lawrence College, to be precise. One of the most liberal, actively feminist colleges in the world. I lived in a house-dorm with 27 people, 21 of which were women, I shared a room with two women, and a bathroom with five. I had been in the room with my new roommates for about an hour, and I needed to change my clothes since it was a hot day and I was sweating in what I was wearing. Of course I am not reckless and naive- I made sure to close the curtains and the door so that any passerby's (of the opposite sex) wouldn't look up and suddenly see a half-naked 18-year-old airing out her armpits. It would never have crossed my mind to go into the bathroom, lock both doors, take my clothes with me, and come out dressed in them so as to avoid being naked in front of my new female housemates. I took off my shirt and stood in front of my dresser topless- deciding what to wear (and enjoying not wearing clothes for a few minutes in that stuffy room). I picked a shirt that had a built-in-bra, so I took off my bra and turned around- only to find both my roommates frozen in place, staring at me. Or rather, at my bare chest. Of course staring is not something that shocks me. Even girls who change in front of each other their whole lives at school still stare at each other from time to time- usually comparing body parts. Nudity is always compelling, even when one is completely used to it. But this was not that kind of staring. One of my roommates- who I later learned was a virgin- was staring at me with pure, utter, unmistakable embarrassment. As if she were the one who was naked and had just realized she had a donkey tattooed on her left breast. The other one- who later became a dear friend- was staring with what I felt was a question mark, as if I wondering if I didn't know where the bathroom was.
Their stares were quickly masked and they each found something to busy themselves with, although their eyes couldn't help but occasionally glance over at me- the strange creature who had invaded their privacy and imposed upon them so much flesh. I did not apologize for my actions, nor did I stop doing it. I put on my shirt, and when I decided I wanted to wear a different one, I stripped yet again.
After a few weeks, my roommate who became my friend started shamelessly changing in front of us as well. But the virgin roommate never even showed us her bra. She would pile up her clothes, lock herself in the bathroom and come out completely dressed. Once, when she was in a hurry, I think she forgot her bra or put on the wrong one, she grabbed the one she needed to wear and was on her way back to the bathroom when, to her horror, someone was already in there, and so I eagerly awaited as I thought I'd finally see her break through her armor of timidity. She did no such thing. With the skills of an acrobatic athlete, she changed her bra in the room without taking off her shirt or even showing her belly button. She left without saying good-bye, and I sat on my bed for about an hour, wondering how the hell society managed to do that to women.
In fact- it did not take me long to learn that most American women do not undress in front of each other, and that it would almost always shock them when I did.
I was taken completely off-guard one day when one of my college friends referred to me as someone who is completely comfortable with her body. I asked her where she got such an insane idea, and she answered, "Well you have no problem being naked in front of people." I quickly answered, "Women. I have no problem being naked in front of women. Because we have the same body parts! Because you're not looking at me and judging how fuckable I am when you see me naked!" She was silent for a while- as though it had not occurred to her that I might not be comfortable at all with my body, or that when a man is present I am completely aware of exactly how much skin is uncovered. I'm not sure my point made sense to her, and she asked yet another question, "But aren't you afraid of how judgmental women are?" This time I didn't know what to say. I thought about it for a while. Whenever I saw a woman with stretchmarks or cellulite or in-grown hairs I usually felt relieved that other women also had those things, and felt a kind of unspoken companionship blossom. Yes, when I was a teenager I had rivals, and would try to find imperfections in them so as to make myself feel better, but it was not something I obsessed over or was even proud of. I told my friend this and she seemed surprised, if not skeptical. How could a woman not instantly and constantly judge another woman- especially when seeing her naked? My heart broke as I started to realize that women judging each other was, for most, considered second nature.
I thought about all of this extensively, and have not come up with solutions or answers, but I recently invented a game. I usually play it on the subway. It's a simple game- it's like people watching and energy shifting combined. I look around at women and find one thing about each one that is completely beautiful to me. It does not have to be physical, it can be about their energy or an action they take. Her hair, her hands, the way she's holding her son's hand, her attention to her purse, her shoulders, her elegance, her grace....
It usually puts me in a much better mood- and it tends to have a very strong karmic force. On days when I play this game, I am often given a lot of compliments, usually from other women. And when I share the game with other women, they are often delighted, and want to know what I find beautiful about them. It is different from fishing for compliments or kissing up to someone, I think, because it only works if it comes from an honest place, and it is not intended to serve the ego, but rather to guide women away from judging one another, and towards admiration and respect for each other. Try it- I think you'll be surprised.