Rape Whistle

Freshman year of college.  I am on campus, dressed in ridiculously oversized green pants, a black nightie and a cardigan full of holes.  My hair is in ponytails and littered with colorful plastic barrettes.  Ok, do we all understand 18 year old Dresden now?  Great.  Let's move on.

My Dad brought me to school despite the fact that I hated him at the time.  I guess he thought it might be a bonding occasion for us.  In truth, I was desperate to get rid of him so I could smoke 1,000 cigarettes.

My school--we'll just call it The University of Dirty Hippies--was tucked gently into the woods, surrounded by tall, strong evergreen trees and lush, green grass.  When I visited as a junior in high school, I knew immediately that I wanted to go there.  For years I had thought of college as a place where I would stage crazy protests, maybe purchase a bullhorn and call my parents from jail.  Dreadlocked boys and girls sat in groups, strumming guitars, having Food Not Bombs meetings and asking people to save the whales.

Yes, I thought.  This is where I shall live out my dream of being born in time to be 18 in 1969. 


But first there was business to attend to.  I had to check in and get my dorm room key.  A smiley white woman beamed up at me from behind a card table.

"Hi!  What's your name?"
"Dresden Jones."
"Can you spell that?"
"D-R-E-S-D-E-N."
"Oh, here you are.  You're in B dorm, room 204.  I'm Colleen, your resident assistant.  Welcome to UDH!"
"Thanks."
"Here is your orientation package, your room keys and your rape whistle."

The whistle was added like the cherry on a sundae, set lovingly on top of the giant green folder meant to orientate me.  It was small and metal, wrapped in plastic.  I stared at it and then looked at her.
"What...what's this?"
Her giant smile never wavered.  "It's your rape whistle.  It's to keep you safe on campus."
I still didn't get it.  My father, standing next to me, chuckled.
"I feel better already", he said sarcastically.

Hours later, after my father was finally gone (I literally sat and watched him through the window until he disappeared and then lit a cigarette), my roommates and I discussed the rape whistle at length. I was living in a 2 bedroom, 4-person dorm room.  Stephanie was my friend from high school whom I had requested to live with; she and I shared a room.  Nelly was in the other room.  Nelly was gorgeous and when I first met her, I thought I was doomed to live with a cheerleader.  Turns out that angelic looking platinum blonde was more like a biker than a supermodel.  And I mean that in the best, most awesome way ever.

"So...you're supposed to blow this fucking thing if you're, like, being attacked?"  Stephanie had a flair for swearing.  90% of the sentences she uttered back then had the word "fuck" or "shit" in them.  This is fine, except when you're at the Golden Vally Perkins at 8am on a Sunday after an all night rave and Stephanie says to the waitress, "This orange juice tastes like a big fucking piece of candy."

None of us understood the concept of the rape whistle.  Say you're being attacked by a violent rapist who jumps out from the woods (which were all around us).  As you're realizing what's happening to you and in full panic mode, you're supposed to have the sense to dig through your purse for the rape whistle you were issued at orientation and blow it?  Or let's say you're hanging out with a guy who you met at a party, who seemed nice and, yeah, you'd like to make out with him a little in his dorm room.  If he gets crazy suddenly and starts forcing himself on you, do you ask him to hold on so you can get your rape whistle?  Some advised that you wear the rape whistle around your neck, so it would always be easily accessible.  In other words, always be ready for rape.  It's going to happen and you've got the whistle to prove it.   This concept was stunning to me.  And goddamn hilarious.

The rape whistle became an accessory for fun.  Stephanie would put it in her mouth, lie on her side and say, "Who am I?" Then she'd blow into the whistle listlessly, her eyes half closed.

"Kate Winselt in Titanic!"  I'd scream.  Then we'd laugh our asses off and eat kettle chips.  Because we were high.

One particularly boring night, some friends and I decided to go break beer bottles against a wall.  Each time a bottle was successfully smashed, we'd all blow our rape whistles.  Stephanie and I were hanging out with a bunch of boys and she decided we could telepathically communicate with each other, only I didn't know this.  She kept looking at me weird but I just assumed she was stoned or drunk...or both.  Finally she took out her rape whistle and blew it as hard as she could.  
"Goddamn Dresden!  Do you have a tampon?!"

My best weapon against rape was actually my umbrella.  It was western Washington state, so it was always raining.  And walking home late from the library was sort of scary--we were in the woods.  There were creepy drug addicted homeless people on campus all the time because UDH was where everyone bought their drugs.  I would hold my umbrella like a bat until I could see the lights of the dorms.  I didn't truly believe that I would ever be raped because I believed that rape was a crazy Lifetime movie event that only happened to Meredith Baxter Birney and Tracy Gold.  The most stunning part of going away to college is finding out all the stuff you didn't know.

At the end of that school year, a report was released letting us all know that the rape whistles had failed to do their jobs: there had been 8 sexual assaults on campus, and those are just the ones that were reported.  I know a lot has changed since...back then...and I pray that colleges have discontinued phoning it in with something as ridiculous as a rape whistle and are instead educating their students about sexual assault.  But I'd like to thank the rape whistle for hours of entertainment during that weird, painful, fun, confusing year.  I wish I still had it.

No Food for You Part 1

So I'm doing this crazy weight loss thing.  We'll call it No Food For You.  Because initially, that's kind of what it is.  But chugging 64 oz of Crystal Light water helps.

I'm supposed to keep a food journal, which is funny because I'm not actually eating food.  So I decided to journal as if I'm at sea.

(to be read in a calm English accented voice, with corncob pipe in hand) The water is calm and crystal clear.  There's a sense of glee in the air as my crew--First Mate and Second Mate-- board the ship and prepare for our adventure.  They're committed now, no backing out.  Our provisions are scarce and must be rationed accordingly.  As the sun rises in the West, my First Mate is strong and agile, eager to get our journey started.  Second Mate is thankfully quiet; I must admit I'm not looking forward to her negative endless criticism.  No...today I feel a sure sense of optimism and energy; as we pull away from the dock, First Mate is at the helm and has selected an appropriate soundtrack: "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want."  The brisk morning wind strokes my face as the waters lick the belly of our ship, SS Something's Got to Give.  

The Biters

Not many people can say they were the Pre-School Ho but guess what?  I can.  Ok, I’m not going to lie: most of pre-school is a giant blur.  I mean, I was 4.  I can hardly remember two weeks ago, let alone 30 years.  But there are a few parts of pre-school that I remember:

1. They served macaroni and cheese a lot.
2. There was a “bad” class.  All the biters were in that class.
3. The third-grader who came to pre-school to help out in the afternoons used to take me in the closet and kiss me.

Scandal!  (Incidentally, according to Microsoft Word’s Translate feature, “scandal” is “scandal” in French.  I suspect this is incorrect.)  Well it’s not like he sold me into slavery or brought his little friends with him to have a go at it.  Clearly he was experiencing some male...stuff...and given that I was a 4 year old who was the size of an 8 year old, I guess he figured I was fair game.  I didn’t see anything wrong with any of it.  Being in the closet was fine and he would put his little lips against mine for half a second a few times.  Not a big deal. 

Unless we got caught.

I recall this happening several times.  The teacher would whip the closet door open, shedding light on our tryst, and yell at us.  Then I would get in trouble.

I would get in trouble.  Me.  The one who was 4. 

My punishment?  I had to have lunch and/or snack time with The Biters.  This was truly a punishment because I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced a little kid who bites but it’s rather vicious.  Like little snakes, they were, just waiting to strike for any bullshit reason.  There was a little blonde one named Colleen who always had snot-nose and eyed me like I was a teething ring.  I would sit across from her, with one eye on my macaroni and cheese and the other on her pointy little shark teeth.  Inevitably, she would strike and then I would cry.  Biters are the worst kids on the planet.  Every kid tries the biting thing but it’s considered very low class and parents nip that shit in the bud immediately upon first strike.  My 16 month old niece is starting to bite but, by God, she will not be a Biter.  If she is, I’m sure my brother and his wife will send her to a farm somewhere, with the other heathens. 

I don’t know if my pre-school teacher, who was clearly a genius, ever told my mother that I was making out with an 8 year old in the closet but I certainly hope that woman isn’t working in law enforcement.  I also don’t know if the skeevy 8 year old got into trouble or if his parents were informed that he was kissing a 4 year old.  Perhaps he’s a registered sex offender or a happily married tax accountant who has little memory of the brown girl he used to befoul.   Colleen, no doubt, went on to become America’s first Republican candidate who based her entire campaign on a return to the Mesoamerican traditions of human sacrifice and cannibalism. 

Fat Camp Part Eye Vee: What's Happening to My Body, Jesus?"

I got boobs early.  Like real, real early.  Legend has it that at age 6, I was abruptly forbidden from playing shirtless football with the neighborhood boys.  My poor mother, a lifelong A cup, watched in horror as my tits grew and grew.  There seemed to be no end to their magnificence.  Of course, I didn’t realize the raw power they held until I was 22.  No, seriously.  22.  That’s when I understood that I needed to dress them up and take them out on the town.  It’s been a big breast party ever since.

At 12, however, they were a burden.  Running was difficult, if not impossible.  People routinely bumped into my boobs when reaching for the salt or trying to hand me objects.  Daily I stuffed these ridiculous mounds of flesh into cheap, white bras that provided no real benefit; they just strapped them down.  Then my boobs and I went into the world, totally oblivious.

Fat Camp was a Big Boob Bonanza but even by fat girl standards, I had a healthy set of jugs.  I was also completely and totally innocent.  Like wide-eyed innocent, didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’, as all 12 year olds should be.  There were two categories of boys:  my brother and my father.  My brother and all his friends were mean and dumb.  My father was old.  As far as I was concerned, there was no other kind of boy.

Many years later, I choose a college based on its academic reputation and location.  Turns out, that college also had an alarmingly low number of males.  Because of the imbalance, dudes who would never get laid in the real world got laid at that school.  I imagine Fat Camp was a similar situation.  Keep in mind, the age of the fat campers was 12 to 17.  There was definitely some fat teenage sex happening.  And remember, I was tall and busty—no one knew I was only 12.  Except Marni, who figured it out when my father sent me a care package that included a book called “What’s Happening to My Body.”  Jesus.  (OMG I wonder if there's a book called "What's Happening to My Body, Jesus?")

I really only remember two boys from that summer: Will and Mike.  Will was tall and pale and not even really fat.  Pudgy, maybe.  But not to the point where his parents needed to send him away to deal with it.  Will was Mr. Personality.  All the girls liked him; they giggled in his presence, cocked their head to the side and twirled their hair.  He made the rounds, doing God only knows what with as many girls as he could.  I know he got around to Marni, who was totally the Fat Camp Hot Chick.  Since Marni and I were friends, I found myself hanging out with Will more than I would have liked. 

I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was.  I’d never seen such skinny pale legs in my life.  He had a bad haircut and his neck was in desperate need of a shave.  He also had acne, which was totally disgusting. ( I was blessed with amazing skin...until I turned 26.  Then all hell broke loose).  Will also wasn’t very interesting.  His jokes weren’t funny, he would have rather burped the alphabet than read a book and he swore a lot.  And not “damn” and “shit.” He said “fuck” all the time.  That was the mother of all swears.  I once got fined $20 for saying “fuck” in front of my sister.  I’m totally fucking serious.

One evening during Movie Night, I sat beside Will and Marni, bored because we were watching The Dark Crystal again.  I hate that goddamned movie and I blame Fat Camp.  Suddenly, and without warning, Will turned to me and said, “You gotta let me feel your tits before they get small.”

Let me put this in perspective: he may as well have said to me, “Tonight I’m going to murder you while you’re sleeping.”  My reaction was one of shock and fear.  Why would I ever let him feel my breasts?  Not just him, but anyone?  Marni was giggling, and in hindsight, I understand that she was giggling because if she had a normal reaction, Will would consider that difficult and dump her.  But at the time, I thought that she too had lost her mind.  I mumbled something about having to pee and got out of there.

For days afterwards, Will would casually remind me that he needed to feel me up.  For some reason, everyone thought this was hilarious.  I had felt my own boobs and there was nothing special about them.  I finally asked Molly why Will wanted to feel me up so bad.  She looked at me like I was nuts and said, “Because he’s a boy.”  When I didn’t say anything in response, she eyed me closely.

“Are you a virgin?” She asked.

I’m 12, I wanted to say.  Of course I’m a virgin.  But I just nodded.

“Holy shit!” Molly said.  “I lost it when I was 13!”

Years later, I saw the movie Little Darlings and cried when Kristy McNichol had her tragic first time with Matt Dillon in the ramshackle boathouse.  No one’s supposed to go out like that.  But in the moment, I started to think I was weird or something.  Was I supposed to let Will feel my boobs?

And then there was Mike.  Mike was a tall, big lumbering 15 year old who hung out with all of us but was pretty quiet.  I didn’t think much of him; after all, he was also a boy.  The only thing I knew about him was that he was from Minneapolis, like I was.  Mike wasn’t as gross as Will but he still thought things like farting were funny.  Molly was after Mike on day 1.  He seemed perplexed by her advances and although she told tales of hot, sweaty make-out sessions in the woods, I suspected she was lying.

 

One night, we had a Fat Camp Dance.  That was the same night Marni taught me how to shave my legs.  I wore a pink and white skirt with a white blouse.  Chase, one of the counselors, had organized the dance.  There were card tables set up with healthy snacks and sugar-free punch.  At first, we all stood in our groups, whispering and giggling and no one was dancing. 

“Come on, everyone!” Chase shouted.  “It’s a dance!  Do you know how many calories you burn dancing?”

Chase started us off with INXS and by the time Bon Jovi was played, I had finally grown tired of running my hand up and down my amazingly smooth calves and started dancing.  Eventually, the first slow song of the night came on.  Everyone cleared the floor, except Will and whoever he was into that night, and Molly dragged an awkward Mike on to the dance floor.  As the night wore on, I started to feel bad about not having anyone to slow dance with, which was weird because I had never felt that way before.  When Chase played “She’s Like the Wind”, someone tapped me on my shoulder.  I turned around.  Mike stood in front of me, staring at his shoes.

“Wanna dance?” He mumbled.

I looked around for Molly and didn’t see her.  I shrugged.  “Ok.”

I can easily say it was the most uncomfortable 3 minutes of my life.  Mike put his hands on my lower back and I put my hands on his shoulders.  Then we rocked back and forth while Patrick Swayze crooned about looking in the mirror and seeing a young old man with only a dream.  (What the hell does that even mean?)  We didn’t say a word to each other the whole time.  I had never been this close to a boy and it was kind of nice...kind of.  I didn’t know what to do with my body or my face, so I just swayed.  When the song was over, Mike let go of me and smiled.  Then he asked if I wanted to go on a walk.  Again, I shrugged.  “Ok.”

I don’t remember what we talked about on our walk but I do remember when he suggested we sit under a tree.  Then he pointed out a bat in the sky.  As I looked up, he kissed me.  But I mean, he kissed me.  It was wet and sloppy and I was totally grossed out.  When I was a little kid in pre-school, one of the after-school helpers (who was 8) used to take me in the closet and kiss me.  But by “kiss”, I mean he would press his lips against mine super fast and that was it.  This was totally different.  He thrust his tongue into my mouth and wriggled it around.  I felt like he was trying to swallow my head.  When he finally stopped, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared at him.  What the hell was that?  What did you just do to my face?  After a long silence, Mike finally spoke.

“I can’t believe school starts in a month.” 

“Yeah.”

 “What school do you go to?” He asked.

“Sandburg”, I replied. 

Mike turned to look at me.  “Sandburg Junior High?”

“Yeah.”

Mike’s eyes got really wide.  “What grade?" he asked

Shit.  "7th."

Mike and I never talked again and that's really ok because I don't know what other people's first kisses were like but that was terrible.  The following day, Mike clung to Molly like she was his mother and did so until the end of camp.  I never let Will feel my boobs but he stopped asking, which I suspect was a result of a conversation that started off with, "Um...did you know Dresden is only 12?"  I returned to the real world much wiser and much more convinced that boys were disgusting.  And still with giant, giant knockers.

Cuz those wouldn't have been clean.

Sometimes I throw stuff into the hamper even though it's not dirty.  Mostly I just do that to get it out of my damn way.  This morning, being that it's Friday, I wanted to wear my big comfy hoodie and after much searching, I found it in the hamper.  I inspected it closely, smelled all pertinent areas and decided it was clean.  Then while I was driving to work, it suddenly occurred to me that I should probably check the hood for panties.

Fat Camp Part III: Mean (Fat) Girls

In the movies, they'd have you believe that Mean Girls are always skinny bitches with lots and lots of hair.  In most American high schools, this is probably true.  But at Fat Camp, all bets are off.

Fat Mean Girls are the worst kind of Mean Girls in the whole world because they're pissed. They've spent the entire school year being made fun of, not having one single date and hanging out with their evil, plotting gay male friends.  So when thrust into the world of Fat Camp, where everyone is equal, they're ready for action.  They've spent 9 months building The Bitch and by God, they're going to take it out on someone.

The first Fat Mean Girl I met at Fat Camp was my roommate.  Her name was Candace and the first thing I noticed about her was that she had several large bald patches on her head.  Also, she was wearing a fur coat in July in Wisconsin.  Believe it or not, I was a different kind of girl back then; I still trusted people and had ambitions to save the world.  So my hilarious cynicism and biting wit had yet to come forth.  In my mind, I was thinking, "What's....happening up there?"  But I didn't say it.  I just shyly introduced myself.

"You're probably wondering what's wrong with my hair", she said.
"What?  No, I didn't even...."
"Yeah well, I was at a slumber party and my friends played a joke on me because I was the first one to fall asleep.  My friends are really crazy."
I nodded and smiled.  I didn't have the heart to tell her that friends put your bra in the freezer when you fall asleep first at a slumber party.  Friends don't shave your fucking head.
Candace then proceeded to tell me how much this place sucked and there were mice and centipedes everywhere and she was having a really hard time without her maid.  If this were to happen to me now, I would walk out of the room and demand a new roommate the second I saw the fur coat.  But at 12, I was a willing participant in ridiculous.

Needless to say, no one liked Candace.  She was rude, unintelligent and bitchy.  I wouldn't be surprised if Candace had lived in a trailer park somewhere for most of her life and then her mother's boyfriend won the lottery and bought her a fur coat.  In other words, she'd attend the débutante ball  but she might clip her toenails during dinner.  But overall,  I really think it was her hair.  If someone did that to me, I would cut the rest of the shit off.  But Candace didn't.  She had three large bald patches and the rest of it was long, straggly and mousy brown.  It was simply uncomfortable.

Because I was tall and chesty and everyone assumed I was 15, I started hanging out exclusively with the 15-17 year olds.  This is when I met the Ultimate Fat Mean Girls:  Marni, Molly and Tanesha.  Marni was from Chicago, had a manicure and I assumed she was wealthy because not only did she have a phone in her room, she had her own phone line.  Molly was also from Chicago but a completely different part of town.  She had red frizzy hair and freckles and told me she was in a gang whose initiation involved her giving blow jobs to 10 different guys in one night.  I don't even think I knew what that meant when I was 12.  Tanesha was from Milwaukee; she was black and she was the ring leader.  If you crossed Tanesha, Fat Camp would quickly become a nightmare.

Despite being Fat Mean Girls, they had their qualities:  Marni taught me how to shave my legs and always said I had such pretty eyes.  Molly showed me gang signs and told me that if I ever came to her 'hood in Chitown, she would have my back.  Tanesha was my protector.  I think she was me as a confused little mixed girl who needed a black female influence.

Tanesha and Candace did not get along but that was no surprise.  Mostly, they just traded insults; Tanesha stated that obvious about Candace's hair and Candace made vaguely racist remarks about Tanesha being ghetto.  But at some point, an event occurred; one that I cannot actually remember.  It was something that sent Tanesha over the edge of fury.  She decided we were going to destroy Candace's stuff.  Molly and Marni were in complete agreement.  I was a little concerned.  But in an effort to remain an ally rather than a target, I agreed to let them know when Candace was gone so they could do their damage.  And they did.  But they did it in ways she wouldn't immediately recognize.  They burned and poked holes in the bottoms of all her bottles: shampoo, conditioner, lotion, etc.  They cut crucial buttons off her blouses.  They cut the crotch out of all her jeans.  I stood there and watched these fat, angry girls destroy my roommates stuff and the whole time, I wavered between being caught in the mob mentality and thinking it was the most calculated, cold thing anyone had ever done.   It was like a frenzied festival of hate.

Needless to say, Candace started to discover that something was terribly wrong, like when she picked up her shampoo bottle and the contents came spilling out all over the place.  Initially, she blamed me.  I maintained that I didn't do anything, which wasn't a lie; I never touched her stuff.  Eventually, the camp directors, a weird Jewish couple from New Jersey, called me into their office.  Joyce and Harry.  These two people had never seen an extra pound in their lives, which made their directorship of Fat Camp suspect to say the least.  I caved immediately and told them everything.  Why? Because I wasn't going to take the fall for anyone.  My own Mean Girl survival instincts kicked in, I guess.  When I emerged from their office, Tanesha, Marni and Molly stood there, waiting.  I admitted that I'd told the truth.  Tanesha started doing her thing, calling me stupid, saying she couldn't believe I'd ratted her out and that she was going to get me.  Marni and Molly just stood there and I could tell they weren't so sure; I knew they actually liked me and weren't interested in waging a Fat Mean Girls war with me.  So I looked Tanesha in the eye and said, "Tanesha...they thought I did it.  And I didn't do it.  You did."

I don't truly know what happened in that moment but it was like all it took was for someone to remind her that she had orchestrated this cruel, unnecessary operation and she couldn't argue with that.  No one even got into trouble for this, ultimately.  I think Tanesha, Marni and Molly had to apologize to Candace, who cried and wore her fur coat to the meeting.  And we all remained friends, with one hand on our pistols.  But you know what?  Fat girls, skinny girls...they all have terrible relationships when they're teenagers.  Things are great until some stupid boy inserts himself into the friendship or someone spends a little less time with you and a little more time with someone you don't particularly like.  Any number of things can derail teenage girl's friendships.  And we don't get much better as we get older, do we?

I don't know what happened to any of the Fat Mean Girls.  We wrote letters for a while after camp and then we didn't.  I assume they went back to school and back to being The Fat Girl and plotting next summer's revenge.

Urine Sample

Instructions for women on how to give a urine sample:
1.  Sit as far back on the toilet as you can.
2.  Using two fingers, part the labia.  Keep the labia parted until the sample is collected.
3.  Using moist towelettes, wipe from front to back several times to ensure a clean catch.
4.  Urinate a small amount into the toilet.  Without breaking the stream, place the specimen cup into the stream to collect the sample.
5.  Replace specimen lid and secure tightly.

What really happens
1.  Sit on the toilet, sighing a lot and wishing you were anywhere else.
2.  Read instructions and laugh.
3.  Open one of those wet nap thingys and sorta wipe it around down there.
4.  Come at it from a multitude of uncomfortable angles.  Look at the instructions again and scoot your ass back on the toilet.  Realize this makes no difference at all and just get the damn cup in there.  Mutter a lot; things like, "Are you fucking kidding me?"  and "This is ridiculous."
5.  Seriously consider placing cup on the floor and squatting over it.
6.  Silently wish you were a dude, just for right now.
7.  Ok, now...piss all over your hand.  That's right, allllll over it.  Really get it nice and covered in pee.
8.  As you pee on your hand, move the cup around, attempting to figure out where the best placement is as it seems that someone has installed a sprinkler down there.
9.  Pull the cup out.  Realize that you've managed to get about 1/2 an inch of urine actually in the cup.
10.  Say something like, "Oh goddamit" and be totally grossed out, as there is pee everywhere.
11.  After finishing your business, you must now basically clean the bathroom.  There is urine on the seat and the floor.
12.  Attempt to clean the outside of the specimen cup but get mad and decide you don't care.  They're just lab technicians.  
13.  Place cup in that little revolving door and spin it around.  Listen for just a minute to see if they talk about your pee-covered cup.
14.  Leave and never tell anyone about this.

Ooooooooh Sir....Oh Sir.

Every now and then, I reach a new level of crazy when it comes to ignorance.  What happens next is I start writing letters.


In 1987, Oprah did her show live from Williamson, West Virginia.  The community was up in arms because a gay HIV+ man had jumped into a swimming pool.  He didn't jump in and masturbate or jump in with his partner and have anal sex.  He didn't jump in and open up his veins, screaming, "Now all y'all got this fuckin' disease!"  He simply jumped in the pool.


YES, I understand that in 1987, HIV/AIDS was new and people were scared.  But the reaction of the community was more than over-the-top.  So much so that Oprah Winfrey took herself to perhaps one of the scariest places for any kind of outsider and filmed an incredibly revealing show that highlighted the hatred, ignorance and out-of-control mob mentality. This so-called "Christian community"  had zero compassion that day for a young man who had come home basically to die.  Many people that day said horrible things to Mike and horrendous things about gays and people living with HIV.  Oprah invited some of those people back on her Sept 15, 2010 show and asked them if they regretted the things they said 23 years earlier.  ALL of them expressed sorrow and regret for how they treated Mike Sisco and his family...except one.  Jerry Waters, who, according to one website I read is a "Rush Limbaugh wanna-be", maintained his position.  FYI: his position in 1987 was to scream at Mike Sisco, "I'm disgusted by you and I'm disgusted by your lifestyle!"  Then he went on to have an ill-advised argument with a PhD in communicable diseases on THE MEDICAL FACTS.  Actually, the good doctor had facts.  Mr. Waters just interrupted a whole bunch.  He did say that he wishes he hadn't been so "passionate" about it But when asked by Oprah if he felt he owed an apology to Mike's sisters, who were there, he said, "I'm sorry for your loss."  Oh Mr. Waters...you, my friend, deserve a poorly crafted angry letter written by my shaking hands.


Hello Mr. Waters;

I would like to congratulate you on proving to the United States that it's really YOU and people as ignorant and hateful as you who should be quarantined.  Your embarrassing appearance on Oprah in 1987, where you screamed like a crazy person about how Mike Sisco, a gay HIV+ man, disgusted you, was championed only by your appearance on her show TODAY.  Your refusal to apologize for your disgusting comments is one of the saddest things I have ever witnessed.  People like you, Mr. Waters, are the reason people hate Americans.  Furthermore, I'd like you to consider where ignorance comes from.  Make no mistake, sir, you are indeed ignorant.  Ignorance comes from FEAR.  You are afraid of what you do not understand.  And, quite frankly, in this age of information, it's simply pathetic to continue to be uneducated about HIV and the gay community.  But...I would like to thank you for showing your true, hateful colors.  When we can identify bigots, it makes it that much easier to fight against you.  I'm pretty sure your need to be there in 1987 and "defend the community of Williamson" had more to do with your ambitions as a right-wing "personality."     According to what I've read about you on the internet, that plan has failed.  I hope it was worth it.  I really do.

Again, thank you for making yourself and West Virginia look like a pile of backwards hicks.  I'm sure you're a "man of God" and I gotta tell you:  GOD does not support people like you.  I think you're all in for a rude awakening.

Dresden Quinn Jones

This is What Y'all Need to Do When I Die

I don't need to write a will because, well, let's face it:  None of y'all bitches get any of my shit!

So instead, here are instructions on what to do once my body is discovered on some toilet somewhere in Eastern Europe.

1.  Remove body from toilet.
2.  Clean that shit up.
3.  Fly me back to Minnesota.
4.  Dress me in something yellow and place me gently in my bed.  My mother would be thrilled to find that I finally took her suggestion and wore yellow.
5.  Place a well used copy of Race Matters by Cornell West in my hands.  My father will be proud.
6.  Hire someone to play a doctor.  Have him say "She went peacefully...natural causes.  In fact, we're pretty sure she died of happiness."
7.  When the questions start, deny, deny, deny.
8.  No open casket; in fact, don't put me in any coffin but let the people think I'm in there. 
9. Play "All By Myself" on a boombox.  Not an iPod or a CD player.  Play a tape on a boombox.
10.  Cremate my remains.  Ooooh that's sad.  Now stop crying, you've got some travelling to do.
11.  Organize a completely pointless, drug and alcohol fueled vacation to someplace exotic and expensive.  Tell everyone I wanted my ashes scattered there.  "There" being wherever you are going.  I don't give a shit.
12.  Party harder than you ever have in your whole lives.  At least one traveler must break down sobbing, hugging the urn holding my ashes, screaming, "Whhhhy???  WHY?!"  Also, someone must awkwardly suggest that everyone mix a spoonful of my ashes into a cocktail so I'll always be with you.  And, ok, you must sojourn with me at least once during the trip.  A sojourn to the nearest mall is acceptable.
13.  Remember in horror in the cab to the airport that you've left my ashes in the hotel room.
14.  Go get me.
15.  Take me back to Minnesota.
16.  Scatter my ashes into Lake Superior.  Then sit quietly on the beach while children frolick and play in the lake waters.  Laugh quietly thinking about how gross that is.

If I Was Barack Obama

I would answer every question at every press conference by throwing my hands in the air and declaring, "By the power of Grayskull...I...have...THE POWWWWWEEEEERRRRRR!"

You brought me the joy of apples

I hate funerals.  I guess no one likes them but I hate them so much, if we could do away with them altogether, that would be great.  Super fantastic.  Utterly amazing.

The first funeral  I ever went to was for a 3 year old child.  I walked in and saw the open casket at the other end of the room.  I became suddenly and irrationally terrified.  The concept of an open casket felt very wrong to me. I respect every family's traditions and needs but it made it hard to breathe.  I swear it took me 20 minutes to walk to his casket and peer down at him.  The only comfort I had was that it didn't look like him, so I determined it wasn't him.

There are two worst parts to any funeral: selecting what to wear and leaving the grave site.  I'm not going for style here, people.  I'm upset, I'm pissed off and I have a lot of black clothing.  And yet somehow, I find myself doing my hair and putting on make-up.  Why?  What is the point?  Leaving the grave site is awful; it's gut wrenching, knee buckling horrible.  In fact, I'm often one of the last people to leave a grave site because I feel bad leaving my friend there to be buried.  I feel like I should stay and talk you through it.  I feel like I just want to hold you one more time.

Today, 4 years ago, you left us.  I remember your father calling me, I remember sitting on my brother's front porch and I remember getting extremely wasted and walking home from the bar alone, crying.  But I remember the day you were buried even more.

It was hot and I chose a shawl.  I don't think I said a word on the drive down.  Open casket.  Fuck.  I didn't get too close to you because I didn't want to see what someone else's interpretation of you looked like.  I wanted to remember you the last time I saw you looking like you: in the bathroom, at The Red Dragon, winter 2005.  You were looking at yourself in the mirror with this gentle smile on your face.  You had been through chemo and radiation and had miraculously escaped with all your hair.  You were always so delicate and thin but goddamn you were tough.  I asked you how you were feeling.  Some of the other people we were with didn't yet know that you had cancer but I did.  You arranged your brown hair, turned to me and smiled and said, "Good."  I felt confident; if you felt good, then everything was going to be ok.  But when I think about it now, I think perhaps you knew, even then, that you weren't going to make it.

I don't know what to say about your funeral; it was hard, sad, it hurt, I sobbed, I felt empty.  But as we drove back to the city, we passed an apple orchard on 169.  To this day, we have no idea what it's called; we just know that if we get on 169 and drive south, past Jordan, we'll hit it.  We decided to turn around and get some apples.  Maybe something sweet to remind us that life isn't all bitter.

The apple orchard itself has never been visited by me; it's the store that fascinates me.  It's totally bizarre, dreamed up by some German guy circa 1940, complete with polka music.  I sometimes wonder if they have secret meetings in the basement.  One half of the store is all weird candy that you can't find anyplace else.  The rest is freshly baked apple pies, apple strudel, apple bread, apple butter, jams, salsas, and an assortment of frozen apple seasoned meats and, of course, mountains of every kind of apple you can imagine, freshly picked from the orchard.

We go there every year.  The temperature begins to dip and I spot a few yellowed leaves on the trees and I know it's time to go get some apples.  Going to The Apple Place is fun and exciting--it's like our change of seasons road trip.  I can't help but remember you on the drive--some sadness creeps in but mostly I remember all the good times we had.  I remember cutting your hair and making hashbrowns in our apartment in Olympia.  I remember going to sleep in the room we shared and always saying goodnight to each other.  I remember how proud I was when you told me you were getting your RN degree at Columbia.  But every single time we pull into that parking lot, I start to cry.  Quietly and without drama; I'm just crying because I've lost you.  I've lost you and all I have is the goddamn Apple Place and Sonic Youth and some pictures.  I cry for a few minutes and then I buy apples.  Then I return to my life, which is emptier now than it used to be.

I love you so much.  I'll never stop loving you.  I try to be a better person for you.  I hope you know that.

Mom finds my pot.

This is an actual phone call that occurred in 1994 or 1995 between myself and my mother.

Ring, ring.

Me:  Hello?
Mom:  Dresden?  It's your mother. (This is how my mother always identified herself when she called me at college.  She always sounded mad, no matter what she was calling about.)
Me:  Hey Mom.
Mom:  How are you?
Me (sighing):  Fine, what's up?
Mom:  Well, you know, I'm cleaning the house, getting ready to sell it. 
Me: (distracted by the giant bong being passed by me):  Uh huh.
Mom:  I'm going through your room, putting things in boxes.
Me:  'Kay.
Mom:  Do you want to keep all these vinyl records?
Me:  Yes, for sure.
Mom:  How about all these back issues of Spin magazine?
Me:  You can toss them.  Oh but keep the one with that has Kurt and Courtney and their daughter on the cover.
Mom:  Who? 
Me:  Forget it, just...keep them all.
Mom:  Ok.  And what would you like me to do with your grass?
Me:  My what?
Mom: Your grass.
Me:  Like...the lawn?  What the hell are you talking about?
Mom:  I'm talking about the bag of grass that I found underneath all your old clothes in your dresser drawer.
(The longest pause in the history of pauses happens here.  Grass...in my dresser...what the fuck...oh my God...Oh my God...they called weed "grass" in the 60s...oh my God...she means weed...she found my weed...oh my God...wait....I'm 1500 miles away.)
Me:  Um...you can throw it away...?
Mom:  Ok.  I'll do that.
Me:  Ok.
(pause)
Mom:  Bye.
(Click)

I'm tryin hard to reach you.

When I was a little kid, I had a lot of nightmares.  It's an active imagination not a response to abuse or everyday trauma.  My mother would always come to my room if she heard me crying or calling for her.  After calming me down, she would tell me that if I was still scared, I should pray to Jehovah.

But she wouldn't just say it; she would say it while pointing to the corner of my bedroom ceiling.  For many years, I thought God lived in my room.  In the corner of my ceiling.

What's he doing up there, I wondered.  I couldn't see anything or anyone up there but after she'd leave, I'd talk to the ceiling. 

"Jehovah...um...please don't, um, make me have any more bad dreams, ok?  Also, I don't like all the centipedes in our basement.  They are really, really scary.  My brother is a real buttwipe and could you, um, make him be nicer?  Or maybe send him away.  That might be easier.  Just for a little while."  And then, the line  I had been taught over and over: "I ask you through you son, Christ Jesus.  Amen."  But it came out more like, "Iaskyouthroughyoursonchrissjesusamen."   

Then I'd stare at the ceiling for a long time. 

My image of God was very adult and tidy.  He only existed from the shoulders down, wore a white button up shirt and a black tie.  He had brown hair that was parted on the side.  He was usually smiling but his face wasn't clear; it was like a muddy collage of all the middle aged white men I'd seen.  God was definitely white.  Everyone was white.  When I finally saw the status quo Christian representation of God, with a long white beard, robes and sandals, I was totally confused.  Wasn't God someone we were supposed to be able to talk to?  I wouldn't talk to some crazy old man in robes.  I was taught not to.  Wasn't everyone?

I had no earthly idea what Jesus looked like.  My mother used to say her brother looked like Jesus.  My uncle Mark had long dark hair and a beard, wore glasses and played the guitar.  I liked him, so I was comfortable with that image. 

Insatiably curious about everything, I routinely followed my mother around and asked her a million questions.  We were Jehovah's Witnesses and I had been told that "any minute now", Armageddon would happen and if we knew The Truth, we would survive and live forever on a paradise Earth.  I needed to know exactly what that meant.

"Will it still hurt when you comb my hair in the New System?  Will I be able to go to college?  Are my friends going to make it through Armageddon?  Will there be centipedes in the New System?"

No one could give me answers to my questions in terms I could understand.  Around 15, I discovered the joy of doing things I wasn't supposed to do.  There was no way I could reconcile my need to do naughty things with God.  So, in a very dramatic moment, I told my mother that  I was no longer a Jehovah's Witness and religion was stupid and I wasn't going to eat meat anymore.  It was a very dramatic moment indeed; I think I even ran out of the house in my combat boots, jumped in the back seat of my friends Citation and went to smoke weed in the woods in Plymouth.  

But when I take all that other stuff out of the equation--my parents and their choices for me and our family; what "the elders" told me to do; what Bible told me to do--then there's just me, a kid, talking to God, who I believed lived in the corner of my bedroom ceiling, asking him to comfort me.  Isn't that what the core of what God is supposed to be about?  I'm genuinely asking; I have no answers.  I have no idea what I believe.  But I do believe that the concept of God has been desecrated, dishonored, muted and muddied by man.  That's the part I can't deal with.  If I say I have a relationship with God, it needs to be on someone else's terms.   Why? 

Buddha said, "Never believe anything that doesn't jive with who you are."  It goes against everything I am and everything I believe to qualify who is a saint and who is a sinner based on archaic rules that make no sense to me and that I cannot reconcile my soul with.  No way.  Can't do it.

Call me a skeptic, tell me I'm lost, tell me I have no faith.  But here's the thing: if I choose to, I can call my God anytime, into the corner of any room and it would be enough.