bigtips
His shower of gifts is more like a monsoon
by M.T. "the Big Tipper" Martone
Pink ribbons. I've historically felt a little cynical about the publicity around breast cancer research and fundraising in the lesbian community. This is probably because I felt like gay men were told that they weren't doing anything for the women who were doing so much work around AIDS issues, so in the name of "equal time,” someone cast about and said, "A lot of lesbians have breasts. And a bunch of them don't bear children and that increases their risk of breast cancer. Yeah, that's it. Let's do breast cancer as the lesbian AIDS."
So we got our own color of ribbon, and they became a cultural imperative, nestled in with the flock of other satin loops on the lapels of the caring.
That sounds mean, doesn't it. But you know what? When I was doing AIDS activism, I wasn't stupid. I didn't think or expect that any person at those vigils and die-ins would have my back when something came knocking on my door. It was my choice to do that particular work at that particular time, and I was
significantly motivated by the outrageous levels of homophobia that piggybacked on everything to do with AIDS. Ultimately, we tend to choose work that affects us. I was no martyr, because the hatred directly affected me, and the organizing educated and strengthened me.
So, it was interesting to me to be heading off for my first baseline mammogram. I tend to think I'm going to die (Irish family— enough said), and have headed off to many HIV tests with my heart in my shoes from fear, so I wondered if I was going to feel panicked.
They told me I'd get my results immediately if there was a problem, so at least I wouldn't have to wait too long for shitty news. I stuffed down the freaky feelings, and reminded myself that every day I have a slight feeling that I might get smacked by a bus, and it hasn't happened yet. I'd just have to go through this event, get the bill of health, and they'd have a nice baseline to use for future screenings.
I donned the cotton robe, slapped the girls on the plate, and got squished and immortalized. When I got a call early the next morning telling me that I had something suspicious show up, I was surprised. They wanted me to come in ASAP for further screening, and it was Friday, so how about Monday?
That was a weekend that I spent contemplating my mortality with more immediacy than I ever had before. I didn't talk about it very much, because I figured I had the rest of my life to talk about whatever was actually going on, so I'd wait for the facts.
Monday, crept up, and I reported back to the hospital where I proceeded to be ultrasounded within an inch of my life. There was a lump, but they couldn't figure out what it was, and it was so tiny, that they basically slapped my ass and told me to show up in another six months to see if anything has changed. I was relieved, but not as much as I would have liked.
I still don't feel like I've been wrong to question the run to ribbon up. I don't feel like the possibility of getting breast cancer sets me up for an extra helping of hatred, and while I may worry about my health, I don't fear for my public safety. Breast cancer is not what AIDS was 15 years ago. So for now, my work and energy continue on in ribbonless veins.
Dear Mary,
How do I tell my boyfriend that he just doesn't get it? He is the kind of person who prides himself on remembering littler things that people say, and presenting them with presents or articles or something that references that thing that the person once mentioned.
He's told me straight out that he likes for people to know that he pays attention to them, but it's almost unbearable. First of all, he rarely gets it right. I said, maybe one time, that I liked some Whitney Houston song, and then for Christmas he gave
BIG TIPS
me a Mariah Carey CD. Whatever!
I feel kind of like I'm being watched too much, and I have to be careful about saying I like anything, because three months after a trip to the zoo I'm going to find an elephant in the garage with a bow around its neck. He's gotten me kitchen appliances that I don't need because maybe they make a kind of sandwich I had once said I enjoyed.
It kills me extra, because there are things
I do need that I don't have. I don't need five pairs of boxer shorts with fruit on them. I need rent money. I need a new couch. I need my car paid off.
He does this to all of his friends, too. and I watch it happening. Right before a holiday he goes into overdrive, hunting through stores with these long, elaborate lists of obscure things for more people than would ever even send him a card. It makes him so happy that I want to kill him sometimes, just looking at me with a dorky excited smile as he gives me some more crap.
Dear Present Danger,
Gift Me a Break
My brother, I'm hearing more than frus.tration with presents. If his smile is giving you the killing feeling, you need to let him know what's going on with you now. He sounds like he's probably a real sweetie who's kind of compulsive and insecure about people's affection for him. It's probably the compulsive nature of his gifting, and his insecurity that are torturing you as much as the actual crap.
I'd just tell him that his giving style is paining me. But if that's too hard, tell him that you're stripping down your life, and love gestures of affection, but you don't want to get any more stuff from anyone for a while.
Then if an occasion is coming up, and there's something you'd really like, get in a preemptive strike, early. A month or more ahead of time, let him know that you could really use a new dictionary, or coke spoon, or whatever, and that's all you want. He'll either be able to comply, or not, and you'll either wring his neck, or not. But if there are enough other things you like about him, maybe he'll be able to hold back when forced, and see that it's not the torrent of stuff that you like, it's him.
Burning questions? Contact me at the Chronicle, attention Big Tips, P.O. Box 5426, Cleveland 44101, or fax to 216-631-1052, or e-mail to martone@drizzle.com.
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