Good ol Boys of the Moose Lodge

Maybe these blogs will become the book they say I should write. I think my friend Jamie could turn it into a screenplay, and Sandra Bullock would be totally smashing in my role. She'd add some real flair to the scene with the Board of the Moose Lodge.

If you’re reading this, and you’re one of the millions of silent sufferers who think there’s something wrong with you, that you’re broken, and that nothing good in your life will ever last, please know you’re not alone, and that really and truly, it’s not you. 

I woke up with a headache this morning, resigned to some less than useful thoughts. They sounded something like this: I’ve done it again, I’ve broken it. Nothing lasts. I always do something that pisses people off and causes them to reject me. 

I also heard the voice of my ex-boyfriend (he’s an ex for a reason) who told my best friend, "Corey doesn't march to the beat of a different drummer, she marches to the beat of the wrong drummer".

Obviously I wasn’t fully awake. The peanut gallery knew this and was taking advantage of the moment.

Who’s the peanut gallery? They’re the voices from the past who blame the victim for the bad things that happened. I call them the peanut gallery because that’s where they sit, way up in the rafters, in the nose-bleed seats.

It wasn’t always like this. They used to be front and center in my skull, running the show, deciding what I should think and feel, and how I should react. They condemned me when things went wrong, even if I wasn't in the room when they happened. They told me that no one really liked me. They said not to trust or rely on anyone because they were just being nice and it wouldn’t last. I’d find a way to break it. 

So why do I still allow them a place in my head? Because.  At one time, they were part of my own unconscious strategy to stay safe. They said what they said because they were pushing me to seek my own perfection. 

From their twisted perspective, it was when (not if) I achieved perfection, that I would be safe. There’s a mind-fuck for you.

I can’t abandon them though, anymore than they could abandon me back when. They really did do their best to shield me, and they know me better than anyone on this planet. 

Plus, I’m a grown-up and I like to make informed decisions. 

I will sometimes consult with the peanut gallery. If they’re in agreement with a decision I’m making, I know I’d better take some more time to think before I act.

So, they sit up there watching, as any loyal soldier would, guarding the perimeter in case they're needed. Sometimes they’ll holler down, “Hey, we see you’re in a situation, we’re happy to come down and fuck that up for you!” 

Uhhhh. No thanks. 

They lack discipline when I take big risks.  They get all freaky and anxious, which is why they were all yammering at me this morning before I could open my eyes.

Damn voices! (heehee)

Shooing them back up to the rafters, (after thanking them for trying to help) I asked myself, did I REALLY break something?

I did. And. I didn’t. I mean, I did, but wasn’t this situation already broken, and if i broke it, wasn't that because I stood up for myself? 

Isn’t the Moose Lodge, and its man cave (or is that caveman?) mentality, actually a relic that's survived beyond its time? 

What was once a charitable organization has, in too many cases, disintegrated into a closed-minded, exclusionary, good ol boys drinking club, who's skeletons have come out of the closet in recent years, revealing pedophiles, racists, and a place where women are still segregated from the men. 

Of course,  the women of the Moose don’t seem to mind being the kitchen help while the old white guys make all the “important” decisions behind closed doors. 

That’s right. I forgot to mention the committee. When I went before the Board on Tuesday night, they were behind closed doors. I was told to wait outside until the men were ready for me. (like they will EVER be ready for me.)

The butterflies in my stomach did a few loop-de-loops when I was escorted in. They were lined up at the far end of the room behind a long row of tables, ten old white guys, eyes already bright and shiny from a few pre-board meeting cocktails. 

Facing that long row of men, was a single chair. 

(Maybe Sharon Stone in a short, white dress should actually play in this role).

I made light of it, said, oh, this must be the hot seat, but inside I was thinking of all the women’s history classes, and of fire, and burning, and witch trials. 

I thought of the women who've stood before lines of men like these for thousands of years, awaiting judgment to be passed, and of the women who still do. 

I thought of the women who’ve been charged with being the cause of their own sexual harassment, and of the batterers who've never seen the inside of a courtroom because "she asked for it" and no arrest was made. 

And I remembered the judge who told the rape victim "there’s no way you were raped because the jeans you had on were too tight for [him] to remove without your help".

When I sat down, all of these women sat with me. I wasn’t alone. When I was speaking on my behalf, I was also speaking for them. 

I was speaking for all of the ancestors who suffered silently because they didn't live in a time when they could speak for themselves. 

I was speaking for the legacy of each of us, men and women, all the recipients of the pain and dysfunction handed down through centuries of generations. 

I read my letter before the Men of the Moose, but it wasn't only to them that I was speaking.

In defense of those Moose Men, they were kind and greeted me warmly. I've even kind of hung out with a few of them, and know them to be decent people. I realize their kindness that night was due to them already having made their decision. This tribunal was a mere formality.

I am a catalyst. 

I wrote those words for the first time when I was 12 years old. I have heard others say this about themselves and I usually doubt their understanding of what it truly means. 

How did I know what it meant when I was so young?  It doesn’t really matter because I see the results around me, and I always have. 

I speak up. I expose what has been silently agreed upon by others to keep hidden. I shine the light where the darkness has been promised immanent domain. 

I point my finger at the Emperor and say, he’s got no clothes.

It's not something I can turn on and off, and it's not always pleasant (like now for instance) because the Emperor prefers to believe he hasn't been exposed. 

My response to the opinions expressed by the peanut gallery to me this morning?

I get to choose. 

I don’t have to intentionally continue to put myself into situations that don’t reflect my sensibilities, expecting they’ll accept me as I am, then be all shocked and awed when I’m rejected. 

The truth of the matter is, I’d have to regress in my own evolution to fit into some of the places I’ve tried to belong. 

That may go double for the Moose Lodge of Petaluma, California.

On that note, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite poems:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It is not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission
to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Marianne Williamson

P.S. Does anyone know how I can get hold of Sharon Stone? <3